Admiral Maxwell made him a chief on the spot. Thats when he was COMAIRPAC. Anyway, he left the service and got married, went into the commercial diving businessthe demolitions side; hes an expert with explosives, too. But his wife got killed in a car accident down in Mississippi. Thats when things started going bad for him. Met a new girl, but she was kidnapped and murdered by a local drug ringseems she was a mule for them before they met. Our former SEAL decided to go big-game hunting on his own hook. Did pretty well, but the police got a line on him. Anyway, Admiral Maxwell was OP-03 by then. He caught a rumble, too. He knew James Greer from the old days, and one thing led to another. We decided that Mr. Clark had some talents we needed. So the Agency helped stage his death in a boating accident. We changed his namenew identity, the whole thing, and now he works for us.

How Its not hard. His service records are just gone. Same thing we did with the SHOWBOAT people. His fingerprints in the FBI file were changedthat was back when Hoover still ran things and, well, there were ways. He died and got himself reborn as John Clark.

Whats he done since? Cutter asked, enjoying the conspiratorial aspects of this.

Mainly hes an instructor down at The Farm. Every so often we have a special job that requires his special talents, Ritter explained. Hes the guy who went on the beach to get Gerasimovs wife and daughter, for example.

Oh. And this all started because of a drug thing?

Thats right. He has a special, dark place in his heart for druggies. Hates the bastards. Its about the only thing hes not professional about.

Not pro I dont mean it that way. Hell enjoy doing this job. It wont affect how he does it, but he will enjoy it. I dont want you to misunderstand me. Clark is a very capable field officer. Hes got great instincts, and hes got brains. He knows how to plan it, and he knows how to run it.

So whats his plan?

Youll love it. Ritter opened his portfolio and started taking papers out. Most of them, Cutter saw, were overhead imagerysatellite photographs.

Lieutenant Jackson?

Good morning, sir, Tim said to the new battalion operations officer after cracking off a book-perfect salute. The S-3 was walking the battalion area, getting himself introduced.

Ive heard some pretty good things about you. That was always something that a new second lieutenant wanted to hear. And I met one of your squad leaders.

Which one, sir?

Chavez, I think.

Oh, you just in from Fort Benning, Major?

No, I was an instructor at the Jungle Warfare School, down in Panama.

What was Chavez doing down there? Lieutenant Jackson wondered.

Killing me, the major replied with a grin. All your people that good?

He was my best squad leader. Thats funny, they were supposed to send him off to be a drill sergeant.

Thats the Army for you. Im going out with Bravo Company tomorrow night for the exercise down at Hunter-Liggett. Just thought Id let you know.

Glad to have you along, sir, Tim Jackson told the Major. It wasnt strictly true, of course. He was still learning how to be a leader of men, and oversight made him uncomfortable, though he knew that it was something hed have to learn to live with. He was also puzzled by the news on Chavez, and made a mental note to have Sergeant Mitchell check that out. After all, Ding was still one of his men.

Clark. That was how he answered the phone. And this one came in on his business line.

Its a Go. Be here at ten tomorrow morning.

Right. Clark replaced the phone.

When? Sandy asked.

Tomorrow.

How long?

A couple of weeks. Not as long as a month. Probably, he didnt add.

Is it Dangerous? John Clark smiled at his wife. Honey, if I do my job right, no, its not dangerous.

Why is it, Sandra Burns Clark wondered, that Im the one with gray hair?

Thats because I cant go into the hair parlor and have it fixed. You can.

Its about the drug people, isnt it?

You know I cant talk about that. It would just get you worried anyway, and theres no real reason to worry, he lied to his wife. Clark did a lot of that. She knew it, of course, and for the most part she wanted to be lied to. But not this time.

Clark returned his attention to the television. Inwardly he smiled. He hadnt gone after druggies for a long, long time, and hed never tried to go this far up the ladderback then he hadnt known how, hadnt had the right information. Now he had everything he needed for the job. Including presidential authorization. There were advantages to working for the Agency.

Cortez surveyed the airfieldwhat was left of itwith a mixture of satisfaction and anger. Neither the police nor the army had come to visit yet, though eventually they would. Whoever had been here, he saw, had done a thorough, professional job.

So what am I supposed to think? he asked himself. Did the Americans send some of their Green Berets in? This was the last of five airstrips that hed examined today, moved about by a helicopter. Though not a forensic detective by training, he had been thoroughly schooled in booby traps and knew exactly what to look for. Exactly what he would have done.

The two guards whod been here, as at the other sites, were simply gone. That surely meant that they were dead, of course, but the only real knowledge he had was that they were gone. Perhaps he was supposed to think that they had set the explosives, but they were simple peasants in the pay of the Cartel, untrained ruffians who probably hadnt even patrolled around the area to make certain that . . .

Follow me. He left the helicopter with one of his assistants in trail. This one was a former police officer who did have some rudimentary intelligence; at least he knew how to follow simple orders.

If I wanted to keep watch of a place like this . . . Id think about cover, and Id think about the wind, and Id think about a quick escape. . . .

One thing about military people was that they were predictable.

Theyd want a place from which they could watch the length of the airstrip, and also keep an eye on the refueling shack. That meant one of two corners, Cortez judged, and he walked off toward the northwest one. He spent a half hour prowling the bushes in silence with a confused man behind him.

Here is where they were, Flix said to himself. The dirt just behind the mound of dirt was smoothed down. Men had lain there. There was also the imprint from the bipod of a machine gun.

He couldnt tell how long theyd watched the strip, but he suspected that here was the explanation for the disappearing aircraft. Americans? If so, what agency did they work for? CIA? DEA? Some special-operations group from the military, perhaps?

And why were they pulled out?

And why had they made their departure so obvious?

What if the guards were not dead? What if the Americans had bought them off?

Cortez stood and brushed the mud off his trousers. They were sending a message. Of course. After the murder of their FBI Directorhe hadnt had time to talk to el jefe about that act of lunacy yetthey wanted to send a message so that such things were not to be repeated.

That the Americans had done anything at all was unusual, of course. After all, kidnapping and/or killing American citizens was about the safest thing any international terrorist could do. The CIA had allowed one of their station chiefs to be tortured to death in Lebanonand done nothing. All those Marines blown upand the Americans had done nothing. Except for the occasional attempt at sending a message. The Americans were fools. Theyd tried to send messages to the North Vietnamese for nearly ten years, and failed, and still they hadnt learned better. So this time, instead of doing nothing at all, theyd done something that was less useful than nothing. To have so much power and have so little appreciation of it, Cortez thought. Not like the Russians. When some of their people had been kidnapped in Lebanon, the KGBs First Directorate men had snatched their own hostages off the street and returned themone version said headless, another with more intimate parts removedimmediately after which the missing Russians had been returned with something akin to an apology. For all their crudeness, the Russians understood how the game was played. They were predictable, and played by all the classic rules of clandestine behavior so that their enemies knew what would not be tolerated. They were serious. And they were taken seriously.

Unlike the Americans. As much as he warned his employer to be wary of them, Cortez was sure that they wouldnt answer even something as outrageous as the murder of senior officials of their government.

That was too bad, Cortez told himself. He could have made it work for him.

Good evening, boss, Ryan said as he took his seat.

Hi, Jack. Admiral Greer smiled as much as he could. How do you like the new job?

Well, Im keeping your chair warm.

Its your chair now, son, the DDI pointed out. Even if I do get out of here, I think its time to retire.

Jack didnt like the way he pronounced the word if.

I dont think Im ready yet, sir.

Nobodys ever ready. Hell, when I was still a naval officer, about the time I actually learned how to do the job, it was time to leave. Thats the way life is, Jack.

Ryan thought that one over as he surveyed the room. Admiral Greer was getting his nourishment through clear plastic tubes. A blue-green gadget that looked like a splint kept the needles in his arm, but he could see where previous IV lines had infiltrated and left ugly bruises. That was always a bad sign. Next to the IV bottle was a smaller one, piggybacked with the D5W. That was the medication he was being given, the chemotherapy. It was a fancy name for poison, and poison was exactly what it was, a biocide that was supposed to kill the cancer a little faster than it killed the patient. He didnt know what this one was, some acronym or other that designated a compound developed at the National Institutes of Health instead of the Armys Chemical Warfare Center. Or maybe, Jack thought, they cooperated on such concoctions. Certainly Greer looked as though he were the victim of some dreadful, vicious experiment.

But that wasnt true. The best people in the field were doing everything they knew to keep him alive. And failing. Ryan had never seen his boss so thin. It seemed that every time he camenever less than three times per weekhed lost additional weight. His eyes burned with defiant energy, but the light at the end of this painful tunnel was not recovery. He knew it. So did Jack. There was only one thing he could do to ease the pain. And this he did. Jack opened his briefcase and took out some documents.

You want to look these over. Ryan handed them over.

They nearly tangled on the IV lines, and Greer grumbled his annoyance at the plastic spaghetti.

Youre leaving for Belgium tomorrow night, right?

Yes, sir.

Give my regards to Rudi and Franz from the BND. And watch the local beer, son.

Ryan laughed. Yes, sir.

Admiral Greer scanned through the first folder. The Hungarians are still at it, I see.

They got the word to cool it down, and they have, but the underlying problem isnt going to go away. I think its in the interests of everyone concerned that they should cool it. Our friend Gerasimov has given us some tips on how to get word to a few people ourselves.

Greer nearly laughed at that. It figures. How is the former KGB Director adapting to life in America?

Not as well as his daughter is. Turns out that she always wanted a nose job. Well, she got her wish. Jack grinned. Last time I saw her she was working on a tan. She restarts college next fall. The wife is still a little antsy, and Gerasimov is still cooperating. We havent figured out what to do with him when were finished, though.

Tell Arthur to show him my old place up in Maine. Hell like the climate, and it ought to be easy to guard.

Ill pass that along.

How do you like being let in on all the Operations stuff? James Greer asked.

Well, what Ive seen is interesting enough, but theres still need-to-know to worry about.

Says who? the DDI asked in surprise.

Says the Judge, Jack replied. They have a couple of things poppin that they dont want me in on.

Oh, really? Greer was quiet for a moment. Jack, in case nobody ever told you, the Director, the Deputy Directorthey still havent refilled that slot, have they?and the directorate chiefs are cleared for everything. You are now a chief of directorate. There isnt anything you arent supposed to know. You have to know. You brief Congress.

Ryan waved it off. It wasnt important, really. Well, maybe the Judge doesnt see things that way and The DDI tried to sit up in bed. Listen up, son. What you just said is bullshit! You have to know, and you tell Arthur I said so. That need-to-know crap stops at the door to my office.

Yes, sir. Ill take care of that. Ryan didnt want his boss to get upset. He was only an acting chief of directorate, after all, and he was accustomed to being cut out of operational matters which, for the past six years, hed been quite content to leave to others. Jack wasnt ready to challenge the DCI on something like this. His responsibility for the Intelligence Directorates output to Congress, of course, was something he would make noise over.

Im not kidding, Jack.

Yes, sir. Ryan pointed to another folder. Hed fight that battle after he got back from Europe. Now, this development in South Africa is especially interesting and I want your opinion. . . .

Deliverymen.

CLARK WALKED OFF the United flight in San Diego and rented a car for the drive to the nearby naval base. It didnt take very long. He felt the usual pang of nostalgia when he saw the towering gray-blue hulls. Hed once been a part of this team, and though hed been young and foolish then, he remembered it fondly as a time in which things were simpler.

USS Ranger was a busy place. Clark parked his car at the far end of the area used by the enlisted crewmen and walked toward the quay, dodging around the trucks, cranes, and other items of mobile hardware that cycled in and out from their numerous tasks. The carrier was preparing to sail in another eight hours, and her thousands of sailors were on-loading all manner of supplies. Her flight deck was empty save for a single old F-4 Phantom fighter which no longer had any engines and was used for training new members of the flight-deck crew. The carriers air wing was scattered among three different naval air stations and would fly out after the carrier sailed. That fact spared the pilots of the wing from the tumult normal to a carriers departure. Except for one.

Clark walked up to the officers brow, guarded by a Marine corporal who had his name written down on his clipboard list of official visitors. The Marine checked off the line on his list and lifted the dock phone to make the call that was mandated by his instructions. Clark just kept going up the steps, entering the carrier at the hangar-deck level, then looking around for a way topside. Finding ones way around a carrier is not easy for the uninitiated, but if you kept going up you generally found the flight deck soon enough. This he did, heading for the forward starboard-side elevator. Standing there was an officer whose khaki collar bore the silver leaf of a Commander, USN. There was also a gold star over one shirt pocket that denoted command at sea. Clark was looking for the CO of a squadron of Grumman A-6E Intruder medium attack bombers.

Your name Jensen? he asked. Hed flown down early to make this appointment.

Thats right, sir. Roy Jensen. And you are Mr. Carlson?

Clark smiled. Something like that. He motioned to the officer to follow him forward. The flight deck here was idle. Most of the loading activity was aft. They walked toward the bow across the black no-skid decking material, little different from the blacktop on any country road. Both men had to talk loudly to be heard. There was plenty of noise from the dock, plus a fifteen-knot onshore wind. Several people could see the two men talking, but with all the activity on the carriers flight deck, there was little likelihood that anyone would notice. And you couldnt bug a flight deck. Clark handed over an envelope and let Jensen read its contents before taking it back. By this time they were nearly at the bow, standing between the two catapult tracks.

This for-real?

Thats right. Can you handle it?

Jensen thought for a moment, staring off into the naval base.

Sure. Whos going to be on the ground?

Not supposed to tell youbut its going to be me.

The battle groups not supposed to be going down there, you know Thats already been changed.

What about the weapons?

Theyre being loaded aboard Shasta tomorrow. Theyll be painted blue, and theyre light for I know. I did one of the drops a few weeks ago over at China Lake.

Your CAG will get the orders three days from now. But he wont know whats happening. Neither will anybody else. Well have a tech-rep flown aboard with the weapons. Hell baby-sit the mission from this side. Your BDA cassettes go to him. Nobody else sees them. Hes bringing his own set, and theyre color-coded with orange-and-purple tape so they dont get mixed up with anything else. You got a B/N you can trust to keep his mouth shut?

With these orders? Commander Jensen asked. No sweat.

Fair enough. The tech-rep will have the details when he gets aboard. He reports to the CAG first, but hell ask to see you. From there on its eyes-only. The CAGll know that its a quiet project. If he asks about it, just tell him its a Drop-Ex to evaluate a new weapon. Clark raised an eyebrow. It really is a Drop-Ex, isnt it?