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  “Ten countries in less than a week. You must be whipped.”

  “I’ve forgotten how much traveling charges my batteries,” Martindale said. It was true. He didn’t look at all like a guy who had probably rung up a year’s worth of frequent-flier miles in less than a week. “I’m ready to head on out again — as long as I’m not neglecting my national and state party obligations.”

  “Don’t you worry about the state delegations. We’re coordinating all your appearances and fund-raisers,” Hitchcock said. “They know they have to be well organized and busting their butts before you’ll even consider setting foot in their districts, and it’s pumping up the candidates and the party committees to work extra hard to show us some impressive canvassing and donor numbers. They’re gearing up well, but they won’t be truly organized until the summer party convention. So we have a few months to go on the foreign-affairs track, and the press is lapping it up. Thorn is still nowhere to be seen on the radar screen, so the foreign-affairs field is all yours.”

  “I just can’t figure that guy out,” Martindale said, sipping his drink. “He’s smart, tough, energetic—”

  “He’s all that, all right — but only on whatever planet he’s really from,” Hitchcock said. “On this planet he’s a zero. Don’t worry about him right now. We have some other fish to fry.” He sat on the edge of his desk and looked seriously at the former president. William Hitchcock was young, very good-looking, and enormously wealthy, mostly from inheritances and an oil business that thrived on adversity. He was a newcomer in politics, but he attacked it with the same drive and take-no-prisoners attitude he applied to dealing with all problems in business — use every weapon in his arsenal to win.

  The former president was his newest and by far his most potent weapon. Kevin Martindale wanted badly to reenter politics. But his fiasco with his not-so-secret mercenary group known as the Night Stalkers made political contributions dry up quickly. Whispers around Washington said that the former president was financing and leading a group of ex-commandos called “the Night Stalkers” on vigilante and mercenary missions all around the world. But rather than being considered a Robin Hood with his band of merry thieves, Martindale and the Night Stalkers were considered homegrown American terrorists. Enter William Hitchcock. As a partner in an African oil cartel, Hitchcock had hired the Night Stalkers to investigate and stop a Libyan incursion into Egypt, and he saw firsthand the power, charisma, and energy Kevin Martindale possessed. Their goals meshed perfectly: William Hitchcock wanted political influence, and Kevin Martindale needed financial backing for another run at the White House.

  “What’s up?” Martindale asked.

  “A potential shit storm in Turkmenistan,” Hitchcock said.

  “Let me guess: The Russians are squawking that you’re moving too quickly, and they want you to give up some of your fields. No problem. After what my Night Stalkers did to Sen’kov’s plans in the Balkans, the Russians won’t give us any hassles.”

  “I wish it was the Russians! I’ve already got their payola money in the budget,” Hitchcock said. “We’ve got Taliban problems.”

  “Oh, shit, that’s not good,” Martindale exclaimed. “Threatening your pipelines?”

  “A small band of insurgents from Afghanistan kicking ass and taking names. They’re knocking down Turkmen army bases, capturing weapons, and recruiting followers faster and easier than the Pied Piper,” Hitchcock said. “Problem is, the Turkmen government isn’t doing anything to stop them. In fact, I think the government might secretly be supporting them.”

  “And the Russians would love to see the Taliban blow up some of your facilities.”

  “Exactly. We need to convince the Turkmen government to fight these Taliban bastards, but without involving the Russian army. I know that your administration negotiated the original deal with Niyazov for those oil leases. Can you go back to Ashkhabad and try to convince the government to turn these Taliban assholes away?”

  “That should be no problem,” Martindale said. “You realize that it might be in our best interests to make contact with the Taliban leaders themselves — grease their palms a little bit to keep them from just torching your pipelines?”

  “I was hoping to avoid that… but, yes, I’ll agree to it,” Hitchcock said. “The Turkmen think those Taliban insurgents won’t dare take on the regular-army bases at Chärjew — that they’ll just take over a few pumping stations in the east, collect some ransom money, and split. But these guys keep moving westward, and they’re growing in strength. If they take Chärjew, they could gain control of almost half our facilities in Turkmenistan.”

  “No problem,” Martindale said confidently. “I’ll speak with Gurizev and find out what he has in mind. Knowing him the way I do, I’ll bet he’ll be crying to the Russians to stop the Taliban, but I know he’ll take help — and money — anywhere he can find it. But unless I miss my guess, we won’t have to rely on the Turkmen. Most Taliban raiding parties stay in the field just long enough to collect money for their tribes. We pay them enough, and they’ll be gone like a puff of smoke back to whatever caves they came from.”

  “So you’ll go to Turkmenistan, then?”

  Martindale looked a little apprehensive. “I’m not so sure that’ll do any good,” he said. “The Turkmen don’t like outsiders, especially Westerners, and they like their under-the-table deals done well beyond arm’s length. Besides, frankly, that place gives me the creeps. I’d rather go in with a pretty strong security advance team.”

  “No chance of Thorn providing anything like that,” Hitchcock pointed out. “What about your Night Stalkers?”

  Martindale took a pensive sip of his drink. “Disbanded. They got beat up pretty bad in Libya before they finally slapped down Zuwayy. Thorn offered to return their military rank and privileges to them, and they took it. But that’s exactly who I’d like to bring with me.” He nodded confidently at Hitchcock, trying to hide his feelings of dread. “Don’t worry. I’ll start the ball rolling from here — the threat of my coming to Turkmenistan should force Gurizev to cooperate. If necessary, I’ll go to Ashkhabad and explain the facts of life to him. As for the Taliban, just be prepared to offer them some ‘protection money,’ and they’ll leave your pipelines alone. Of course, the fact that we’re ‘forced’ to pay protection money will be another strike against Thorn. After all, what kind of president will Thomas Thorn be if he won’t send in troops to protect American economic interests overseas?”

  “You don’t think he would intervene, do you?”

  “I don’t see any evidence at all that he’s inclined to do so,” Martindale said. “But he’s got some tough advisers and military leaders working for him who could convince him otherwise. You never know with him. But I wouldn’t count on Thorn doing a damned thing. If we can convince Gurizev to send some troops in, and at the same time pay the Taliban fighters some protection money, I think your pipelines will be safe.”

  “Excellent,” Hitchcock said, the relief evident in his voice. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you, Kevin.”

  “Just be sure my campaign war chest stays topped off,” Martindale reminded him.

  “My pleasure… Mr. President,” Hitchcock said. “You won’t have to worry about money as long as you’re out there on TransCal’s behalf.”

  “Good,” Martindale said, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. The Secret Service agents immediately announced that their charge was on the move. “I’ll get started right away. Put an extra three million in the operations account — that should be more than enough.”

  “You got it. I’ll be sure your campaign account has a few extra million in there for your ‘consulting help’ on this as well,” Hitchcock said. He shook hands warmly with the former president. “It’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. President.” As they shook hands, Hitchcock added, “I’m still open to heading your reelection campaign, Kevin, and eventually running your White House staff.”

  “I know, Bill,” Martinda
le said. “But you don’t know the White House battleground well enough yet.”

  “TransCal has a hundred times more employees than the White House, and I run every aspect of the company,” Hitchcock said. “I can do the job. You’ve gotta give me the chance.”

  “I know you want this, Bill, but trust me, you’re not ready for the political spotlight yet,” Martindale said earnestly. “You can’t run the White House like a Fortune 500 company — the bureaucrats, the political hacks, and the press inside the Beltway will drive you to homicide in no time. You’re helping me now more than you know. Once we make it back to Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, I’ll bring you in on everything. But for now you’re more effective behind the scenes.”

  “Okay — for now, Kevin,” Hitchcock said, obviously disappointed. “But I want to assure you, I’m more than just deep pockets. Let me prove it to you. You won’t be sorry.”

  “Thanks, William. You’re definitely on my short list. But unfortunately, no matter how much money you have, we can’t do it without the party’s support, and that means taking actions and formulating policies with which the party can build a strong nationwide platform — and we can’t start picking staff and appointees without the party’s input. Let’s keep our eyes on our plan and timetable. We maintain the momentum going in foreign affairs, energy policy, and the military; we stay in the media spotlight, and the party will be kissing our boots and agreeing to anything we want before you know it. They’ll be begging us to make you chief of the White House staff.”

  “Sounds good to me, Kevin. Sounds good to me.”

  They shook hands again. “Don’t worry about Turkmenistan, Bill. It’ll all be over in a couple days, and we’ll come out of it smelling just fine. It’s in the bag. Thorn will be sitting around cross-legged, confused, and clueless while we solve yet another brewing foreign crisis right under his nose.”

  “What if he or his administration is already doing something about Turkmenistan?” Hitchcock asked. “How do you know we’re in the lead on this problem?”

  Martindale shrugged and replied with a smile, “I’ll ask him. I’m the former president of the United States — I should be able to make some inquiries and get some briefings from his staff. Besides, Thorn believes in open government. He or his staff will tell me everything. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just send my spies into the White House and find out everything my own way.”

  BATTLE MOUNTAIN AIR RESERVE BASE, NEVADA

  Early that morning

  “With all due respect, Rebecca, this is the most harebrained stunt I’ve ever heard of,” Colonel John Long, operations-group commander of the 111th Bombardment Wing, snapped. He was standing out on the underground flight line of Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base with Rebecca Furness, Patrick McLanahan, Dean Grey, and the ground team, getting ready to brief the ground crew prior to their flight mission. Long and Major Samuel “Flamer” Pogue were to fly in the second EB-1C, parked beside Rebecca’s, as the alternate mission aircraft.

  “You’ve made your opinion plain to everyone, Long Dong,” Rebecca said quietly. “Keep it to yourself.”

  “It’s my job to point out potential policy mistakes by our senior officers,” Long retorted, raising his voice so everyone could hear and plainly refusing to take the hint, “and this is one perfect example. Completely untested, unverified, a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “We copy all, Colonel,” Patrick McLanahan interjected. He wanted to chew the guy out for voicing his opinion like that in front of the entire ground crew, but he didn’t want to quash debate, no matter how unprofessionally it was initiated. Instead he only glanced at Long, nodded, and said, “John, we’ve discussed this decision for two days now. We’ve staffed it up and down as best we could.”

  “General, we had no choice but to meet your arbitrary deadline,” Long insisted. “I’m concerned that you’re more concerned with dazzling your friends in the Pentagon and meeting a deadline than with crew safety, and I’m afraid this will end in a real disaster.”

  “You’ve made your view very clear,” Patrick said. “I’m taking full responsibility for this test. Your career won’t suffer if it fails.”

  “I’m concerned about this wing, not about my career.”

  “Then that will be a first,” Patrick said acidly. “Now, I strongly encourage you to keep your opinions to yourself unless asked directly for them. Is that understood, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir,” Long shot back. “Loud and clear, sir.”

  Rebecca and Patrick finished their Form 781 logbook review and crew briefing, then began a walk-around inspection of the aircraft. The forward bomb bay held a rotary launcher carrying four AIM-150 Anaconda long-range, radar-guided, air-to-air missiles and four AIM-120 medium-range, radar-guided missiles. The aft bomb bay held a rotary launcher with eight AGM-165 Longhorn TV- and imaging-infrared-guided attack missiles. The center bomb bay held two AGM-177 Wolverine attack missiles loaded into air-retrieval baskets. Patrick knew that the Wolverines’ bomb bays each held four AGM-211 mini-Maverick guided missiles.

  “I hate to say it, General, but Long is right — this is crazy,” Rebecca said to Patrick once they were out of earshot of the ground crew.

  “It’ll work fine,” Patrick said.

  “There is an army of engineers and test pilots at Edwards whose job it is to test stuff like this, Patrick,” she said. “Why don’t we let them do their damned jobs?”

  “Rebecca, if you feel so strongly about this, why are you going along?”

  “The same reason you’re going — because it’s our plan and our program, and we don’t put others in harm’s way unless we’re willing to take the lead and do it ourselves,” Rebecca replied. “Besides, they’re my planes, and if you crash one, it’s my ass. We have some skilled fliers in our unit, but they’re newborns compared to us. They’ve never been in a B-1 bomber that’s trying to kill them. But there are a dozen crewdogs at Edwards or Dreamland who would give a month’s pay to fly some test missions for us. Why don’t we just take the bird down there and let them do it?”

  “You know why — because no one at Edwards or anywhere else will waste one gallon of jet fuel or spare one man-hour to work this project without a fully authorized budget.”

  “Except me. Me and my budget are the expendable ones, right?”

  “I’ve given you lots of opportunities to back out of this project, Rebecca,” Patrick said. He stopped and looked at her seriously. “You and John Long seem to delight in busting my ass and branding me as the bad guy, the one that breaks the rules but gets away with it every time. Fair enough — I’ll accept that criticism. But both of you can put the brakes on this at any time with one phone call to General Magness at Eighth Air Force or General Craig at Air Reserve Forces Command. You haven’t done it. You’ve chewed me out in front of every officer on this base. Long steps right up to the brink of insubordination without even blinking. He’s done everything but put an ad in the Reno Gazette-Journal.

  “But you never made the call, and I think I know the reason: You’re hoping this works. Every new wing commander wants two things: for no one to screw up too badly, and to make a name for him- or herself in order to stand out above all the other commanders. In relative peacetime it’s even more important to shine. Long wants his first star so badly it hurts, and you can trade on your reputation as the first female combat pilot only so long.”

  “That’s not true, General,” Rebecca said — but her voice had no force, no authority behind it. She knew he was right.

  “We can debate this all day, but it won’t make any difference,” Patrick went on. “We have the skill and knowledge to make this work. But you’re the aircraft commander, the final authority. If you disagree, call a stop to it.” He waited, hands on hips. When she turned her flashlight up at the emergency landing gear blowdown bottle gauges, continuing the preflight, he nodded and said, “All right then, let’s do it.”

  They finished their walk-around inspection, then climbe
d the steep entry ladder behind the tall nose-gear strut and made their way to the cockpit. After preflighting his ejection seat and strapping himself in, Patrick quickly “built his nest,” then waited for the action to start.

  Rebecca joined him a few moments later. After strapping herself in, she pulled out her checklist, strapped it onto her right leg, flipped to the before apu start page, and began — then stopped herself. She ignored the checklist and sat back, crossing her arms on her chest in exasperation — and maybe a little bit of fear.

  “Pretty bizarre way to go to war,” she muttered.

  “Pretty bizarre way to go to war,” Dean “Zane” Grey muttered. He was seated at a metal desk inside the VC — virtual-cockpit — trailer, staring at two blank flat-panel LCD computer monitors. It was a tight squeeze inside the trailer. In the center of the interior were two seats in front of the metal desk; flanking them were two more seats with full computer keyboards, a trackball, and large flat-panel LCD monitors. On Daren Mace’s side, he had a “supercockpit” display — a twelve-by-twenty-four-inch full-color plasma screen on which he could call up thousands of pieces of data — everything from engine readouts to laser-radar images to satellite images — and display them on Windows- or Macintosh-like panes on the display. All other room inside the trailer was taken up by electronics racks, air-conditioning units, power supplies, and wiring. It was stuffy and confining, far worse than the real airplane ever was. It made Grey a little anxious — no, a lot anxious.

  “Well, this is very cool,” Zane said, “but I’m ready to get going. So where is everything? Flight controls? Gauges?”

  “Right here,” Daren Mace said. He handed Zane a thin, lightweight helmet resembling a bicyclist’s safety helmet, with an integrated headset and wraparound semitransparent visor encircling the front. Daren then handed him a pair of thin gloves. They all took seats. Putting on the helmets helped to kill the noise of electronics-cooling fans and air-conditioning compressors.