"We got our care package thirty-two minutes ago," Falkirk said. "We'll be sending it along in twenty minutes."

Remington nodded. If the new Marine Wing departed Wasp in twenty minutes, they would arrive at the border at 0330 hours, thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled final retreat from the border.

"That's good to hear," Remington said.

"We've just got to hope that everybody's timetable matches up."

"The Syrians are more than likely just getting set up for the morning," Remington said. "And we may have more to fear from the Russians. We're still at DEFCON 2, and that care package you're sending is big enough to attract attention." Or to trigger an attack all by itself, the Ranger captain knew. But they had no choice. Without the reinforcements, they wouldn't stand a chance of holding out against the Syrians when they decided to invade Turkey.

And that invasion was definitely coming. All that remained to be seen was how far into Turkey they came before they were stopped. It was possible that the combined forces of Rangers, Turkish army, and U.N. troops wouldn't be able to hold Sanliurfa. They also wouldn't be able to make Diyarbakir City before being overtaken. A number of the mountain roads were out from the SCUDs that morning.

Yesterday, Remington told himself harshly. Keep it straight.

One of the other sat-phones he had beeped for attention.

'I have a call coming in," Remington said.

"I'll hold," Falkirk said. "I want to go over the backup LZs we're building in."

"I'll be right back." Remington tapped the mute function on the computer, then answered the sat-phone.

"Captain?" a man said.

"Go, Spotter," Remington said.

Spotter was Nick Perrin, a young lieutenant skilled in urban undercover ops. Perrin was the kind of guy who could walk into a neighborhood, scope out the streets, and let his commanding officer know where potential targets were without ever being noticed.

When CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody had left the command post three hours ago, Remington already had Perrin and his team of hardcases en route to Sanliurfa. Cody had maintained an interest in the missing undercover CIA agent Goose and his team had rescued from the PKK terrorists yesterday morning before the SCUD attack.

"We found the Soupman easy," Perrin said. Soupman was their tag for the CIA chief. "Followed him without him knowing. Just like you wanted, sir. He went to an address, a hotel here in the city, stayed inside for a couple minutes, then left."

"Where is he?"

"We've still got him in sight, sir."

"What about the address?"

"That's where it gets interesting."

"I'm listening," Remington said.

Perrin paused a moment, and Remington knew the man was smoking. That was bad news. Perrin only smoked when he got tense.

"I went into the hotel, sir. Took a look around on the QT. There were two bodies in there."

"Who were they?"

"Don't know. We took digital pictures. Either they weren't carrying any ID, or whoever killed them took it when he or she or they left."

"You don't know anything about that room?"

"I didn't want to press outside our operating parameters on the mission, sir," Perrin said. "Asking questions, drawing attention to ourselves, those were definitely out."

Remington's mind raced. Alexander Cody had come out of nowhere with an agent who may have been responsible for triggering the Syrian attack. The Ranger captain wanted to know more about the man.

"Find out who was in the room, Spotter," Remington ordered.

"Yes, sir. How far do you want me to push it?"

Remington thought about that. Cody had an in with Nicolae Carpathia, who had just recently been elected president of his country, a man who was fabulously wealthy, and who looked to be on the fast track to becoming a player in world politics if his announced upcoming visit to the United Nations was any indication. Cody was also operating a loose leash on the man that could have been responsible for igniting the Syrian-Turkey confrontation.

And that man had chosen deliberately to run and hide during the confusion that had taken place at Glitter City. It remained to be seen if undercover agent Icarus had disappeared when all the other people had vanished.

"Push it all the way, Spotter," Remington said.

Perrin hesitated just a moment. Both of them knew that when Remington set him free, someone might die. There had been deaths in the past, enemies who had posed a potential threat to Rangers or had escaped justice in other conflicts.

"Yes, sir," Perrin said.

"Get back to me as soon as you know something." Curiosity ate at Remington. He treasured secrets. Secrets held power. He couldn't help wondering what Cody was hiding.

"Yes, sir," Perrin responded.

Remington broke the connection and turned his attention back to Falkirk on the computer link.

Wasp's captain was looking away when the video feed came back on. He talked with someone off-screen briefly, then tapped the key to open the audio. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Remington said. "The LZs."

"Right." Falkirk looked distracted.

"Is something wrong?"

"Just got a disturbing communique on an away op I've got in play."

Remington's senses sharpened. "How will it affect us?" Anything that was going to cause fallout on his Rangers was within his domain.

"This doesn't affect you," Falkirk said. "I was hoping I'd found a way to roll the DEFCON 2 back."

Remington shook his head. "Something like that, you'd need an act of God."

"I know," Falkirk said. "An act of God is what I thought I had in play."

United States of America The Pentagon, Washington D.C.

Local Time 6:42 P.M.

Delroy Harte sat outside General David Marsden's office and felt the enormity of the mission he'd agreed to carry out for Captain Falkirk.

The fact that the Pentagon was up and running at nearly seven o'clock in the evening when it normally shut down at three-thirty in the afternoon was a prime indicator of how bad things were in the United States. Luckily, the trip in had prepared him for it. Abandoned and wrecked cars surrounded Dulles International. Bulldozers were still at work scraping smashed planes and jets away to free up more runways as the nation slowly reclaimed the air. This time, though, Delroy was certain people would be even less likely to trust air travel.

At 1:21 A.M., when the disappearances had taken place, there hadn't been many flights in the air above Washington, but a hefty assortment of the ones that had been in a holding pattern above, taking off from, or landing at Dulles had come down spectacularly all around the city. The falling passenger jets at the airport had taken out hangars and other jets being serviced and fueled. According to the local news reports, fires had burned at the airport most of the night because emergency services had been even harder hit by the mysterious personnel depletion than the mean averages in the population as a whole so far indicated.

The Pentagon halls stayed busy, and while he waited, Delroy watched the people hustle through. Many messages were still being carried by hand throughout the building because not all of the phone lines were operational again. According to a pamphlet Delroy had found in the seat he'd been shown to by the young Marine lance corporal who had been assigned to him upon his entrance to the heavily secured building, the Pentagon had over one hundred thousand miles of phone lines. He had no idea how many miles weren't working.

Thinking about phone lines made Delroy think again of calling his wife. Or ex-wife, as the case might be. She would have gotten in touch with him if she were going to end their marriage. Then again, he had stopped returning her calls and letters a long time ago. She didn't owe him much courtesy after everything he hadn't done, everything he hadn't said, everything he hadn't listened to her say.

Delroy held his hat in his hands. He was jet-lagged and worn.

And empty, he thought bitterly. The nightmare-he'd almost convinced himself that was what it had been even though he could still feel the man's scaly hand pressed against his face-had beaten down most of whatever belief he had saved up while aboard Wasp. He thought about the way he had faced Donaldson while the Marine colonel had pressed his sidearm into his face. He had been so arrogant, so sure of himself. He didn't feel that way now.

Delroy rubbed at his face. He'd shaved with the toiletries he'd been provided after landing, and he'd put on a fresh uniform that Falkirk had requisitioned. It fit him like it had been made for him. As tall as he was, he'd always had to have his pants altered. While he'd been living at home, his wife had taken care of that. The last few years he'd had the ship launderer take care of it for him.

He glanced up at the two young Marines standing outside General Marsden's door. "I'm going to stretch my legs. I've been on a plane for the last fourteen and a half hours."

"Yes, sir," the lance corporal replied. "Please remain within our sight, Chaplain. If you're found in the building without an escort, you'll be locked down."

Delroy nodded. "I'm not going far. Just to the window there and back." He walked slowly, missing the feel of Wasp's deck under his feet. He wished he were there now. Then he felt guilty for that wish because he knew it was only because he wanted to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds.

He stood at the window and looked out. Darkness had fallen over the city. Evening still fell early in March. But the night was held at bay by the lights around the city. Searchlights strobed the sky and the light pollution washed away the stars.

Frantic voices whispered up and down the hallways. The pamphlet also said that the corridors measured seventeen and one-half miles long. Yet the farthest distance between any two places in the five-sided building could be easily walked in seven minutes.

The pamphlet was a font of information.

And what do you know? Delroy examined his reflection in the dark glass of the window. The crisp white uniform stood out sharply in the glass and looked like it held a bluish tint. His face, though, was another matter. How had he gotten so old, so worn and used up? He'd never seen that kind of age in his father's face. He had outlived his father, and he had outlived his son.

But it's not just the age, is it, Delroy? You never saw your father this old, but you also never saw him this false. Or this scared.

Fear ached within him, resonating through all six feet, six inches of his frame. He had never been so afraid. What had that nightmare aboard the Skytrain done? Had the nonexistent lieutenant been a figment of his own doubts, a result of the stress he was under, or a mental disorder that was only now manifesting itself?

Confronting Colonel Donaldson aboard Wasp wasn't the act of a sane man. No wonder the Marine colonel had been afraid. He wasn't afraid of God's wrath or the Antichrist; Donaldson had been afraid of a madman.

"Go home, Chaplain. " The rough voice echoed in Delroy's head. "Go home and live in misery the way you have for the last five years."

The words beat into Delroy, ringing against the immense emptiness he felt inside himself. He wanted out of there. Truly, he did. Falkirk was wrong: he wasn't the man for the job. He was just a deluded fool searching for some kind of meaning over the death of his son.

"Chaplain Harte."

At first, Delroy thought he was hearing the man's words again. Then he spotted the young Marine's reflection moving toward him in the window. He turned toward the Marine.

"Chaplain Harte," the Marine said. "General Marsden will see you now, sir.

"Thank you, Lance Corporal."

Delroy stepped into the general's spacious office and was escorted back to a conference room in the rear.

General Marsden wasn't the only general in the room. Two other men wore stars on their shoulders. All three of them sat at one end of the long conference table.

Coming to erect attention, Delroy fired off a salute at General Marsden. "General Marsden, sir. Navy Chaplain Delroy Harte of USS Wasp."

Marsden was in his late fifties. He had iron-gray hair and quick gray wolfs eyes. He was tall and solid, a big man with a jaw like a 1950s Buick bumper. He returned the salute. "At ease, Chaplain Harte."

"Thank you, sir." Delroy immediately took his hat off, tucked it under his arm, and spread his feet to assume parade rest.

"I'd like to present Generals Todd Cranston and Hubert Mayweather. They are also members of the joint chiefs." "A pleasure, sirs," Delroy said.

Todd Cranston looked like he was in his late thirties. Cranston had made a name for himself during the latest rash of Middle Eastern conflicts and had turned out to be a media darling. He was also a war hawk with a particular axe to grind regarding Russia. He was blond and rugged-looking. There was talk of a political career once he decided to step away from the military.

"Chaplain Harte," Cranston said.

Hubert Mayweather was older than Marsden, just starting to go to seed. But he remained attentive and had an undercurrent of menace that clung to him. His hair was light brown but gray at the temples. He nodded.

"General Cranston and General Ma eather will be assisting me with this matter this evening," Marsden said, "lending an ear and advice as I need it."

"Aye, sir," Delroy replied.

"You may sit, Chaplain."

"Thank you, sir." Delroy placed his hat on the table and sat a little uncomfortably at the other end of the conference table. The lines had been drawn on the battlefield. The chairs weren't designed for a man six and a half feet tall. He put his hands on the table, the left folded over the right. He tried not to show the tension he felt.

The two young Marines stood at the wall behind him.

Marsden flicked a glance at the Marines. "You'll excuse the extra manpower in the room, Chaplain. Things are, at best, chaotic at this time."

"I understand, sir."

"Captain Falkirk called in a big favor to get you an audience with me at this time, Chaplain."

"Aye, sir. Captain Falkirk wanted me to extend his appreciation, sir. Thank you for seeing me."

Marsden opened a manila folder in front of him. "This is a document Captain Falkirk e-mailed to me." He flipped through pages. "It's a summation of the events aboard Wasp and on the ground near the Turkish-Syrian border. After reading the captain's report, I can see that you would appreciate our situation here."

"Aye, sir."

"You lost men aboard Wasp?" Cranston asked.

"Aye, sir. And we lost Marines out in the field near the Turkish-Syrian border, sir."

"Soldiers that just vanished?" Cranston asked.

"Aye, sir. And crewmen."

Cranston pointed at the file Marsden had. "And there's nothing in that file that relates anything you might have seen or heard at the time of the disappearances?"

Delroy had read the file during the flight. It was a straight-ahead no-nonsense account of the crashed aircraft and the crewmen missing aboard Wasp. "No, sir."

"But you're here in regards to those unexplained disappearances?"