"Yes, in fact here comes my dinner partner right now."

Peggy Stealey came walking across the bar in high-heel shoes, chic black pants, and a sapphire blouse. She held a gla.s.s of chardonnay in one hand and her purse in the other. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that called attention to her high cheekbones and aqua blue eyes. Practically every guy in the place stopped what he was doing and watched her move across the room.

Holmes extended his hands and placed them on her cheeks, as Stealey pursed her lips and offered them to the chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Holmes gave her mouth a quick peck and then turned to make sure his guest had met everyone. She had, on at least three other occasions, but it didn't bother her that Holmes didn't remember. It was his nature to bring people together as part of the Pat Holmes festival of life. He befriended everyone from the busboys to the president. Holmes loved people and they loved him back.

The hostess led them to Holmes's usual table. It offered just enough privacy while still affording the chairman a good view of the restaurant. Along the way Holmes slapped backs, shook hands, said h.e.l.lo to a few of the wait staff, and introduced Stealey to several lobbyists.

The man did not know how to have a bad time. People were drawn to him. There were some, for sure, who disagreed with his party of choice and thought him a bit gluttonous, but his champions far outweighed his detractors. Holmes was a breath of fresh air for a party that was desperately in need of new ideas and new leadership. Unfortunately, that was not why he'd been pegged to oversee the upcoming national election. First, and foremost, running the DNC was about raising money, and Holmes had both New York and L.A. covered. Secondly, it was about settling disputes and ma.s.saging egos, and there were no bigger egos than the ones on Capitol Hill. Holmes knew how to make people feel valuable. Lastly, the job involved kicking some a.s.s, and although Holmes was a pretty level-headed guy, he was results-oriented and if you didn't get him what he wanted he showed you the door.

Holmes sat down and looked at Stealey's nearly finished gla.s.s of wine. "Am I late?"

"No. It was a long day, and I needed a drink, so I got here a little early."

"Nothing wrong with that." Holmes loved to imbibe. On cue a waiter showed up at the table with the chairman's usual; a lowball gla.s.s filled with ice, Belvedere vodka, and three olives. Holmes thanked the man graciously and then raised his gla.s.s. Stealey followed suit. "To you and your continued success."

"And to a successful national campaign this year," added Stealey.

Holmes rolled his eyes and took a big gulp of the smooth Belvedere. This year was a presidential election. In addition to that, one third of the Senate was up for reelection, as well as the entire House of Representatives and a handful of key democratic governors. Fortunately, he had already hit all of their financial targets. Unfortunately, the Republicans had raised more money than they'd projected, so now he had to go back around and start asking the unions and the big hitters for further contributions.

"Aren't things going as well as you'd like?" asked Stealey.

Holmes took another sip of vodka and tried to think of the most positive way to put it. "Our opponents keep raising the bar on fund-raising but*that's not the problem."

"What is?"

Holmes looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "The party hacks are driving me nuts. They would rather sit around and p.i.s.s and moan than go out and do something about it."

With a knowing nod Stealey said, "They've never worked in the private sector."

Holmes pointed at her and said, "Bingo. They have this trench warfare mentality, and they're deathly afraid of change or new ideas. All they want to do is kiss the unions' a.s.ses and beg me for more money."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, the other side is the same way. They've both been running off the same playbook for a hundred years."

"Except we have more fun, right?" Holmes recited the party's line and held up his drink.

Stealey laughed. "Correct."

The wine steward approached the table with his extensive list, but before he could open it, Holmes stopped him. Looking at his guest he asked, "Are you going to stick with white or have some red?"

"I'll drink red with my meal."

"Good. George," he said to the wine steward, "You know what I like. Why don't you go ahead and select something on the lighter side." The man gave a half bow and retreated.

When the two of them were alone, Holmes leaned in and asked, "Let's get business out of the way. Why did you suggest we have dinner tonight?"

Stealey gave him a coy smile. "Do I have to have a reason to want to have dinner with a handsome, fabulously wealthy, powerful man?"

Holmes's response was a mix of primal grunt and laughter. "Oh, Peggy, you know I'd screw your brains out in a New York minute, but we both also know you're a d.i.c.k tease. So unless you've decided that tonight's the night we consummate this little friendship, let's just keep our attention above the table."

"That won't be any fun." She gave him a pouty look.

"Seriously, I can't afford another set of sore b.a.l.l.s from all your games. I've got too much to do tomorrow."

She reached out for his hand. "I've been very up front with you. Sleeping with men in this town can be very dangerous. Women's careers have a way of petering out, so to speak, right after the man has his last o.r.g.a.s.m."

Holmes squeezed her hand and then quickly let go. "That's fine. I'm not that hard up that I'm going to beg for it. Either we sleep with each other, or we don't, but no more jerking my chain."

Stealey acted as if her next words were heartfelt, but they weren't. She'd used the same excuse hundreds of times to keep men at bay, but also keep them interested. "I'm very attracted to you, it's just that there's someone else right now, and it's kind of complicated."

"Anyone I know?"

"No. He doesn't travel in your circles."

Holmes grinned. "One of those gun-toting G-men you've been working with?"

"I would prefer not to talk about it."

"That's fine." In truth, Holmes thought Stealey was a bit of a nutbag, but he was too far into this game to lose interest, even if he was trying to act like he didn't care. He'd sealed more business deals by getting up and walking away from the table than by any other tactic. Stealey would come around sooner or later, and until then, she offered great insights into how Washington worked and what was going on at the Justice Department.

"So back to my question. What's on your mind?"

She frowned and shook her head. "That d.a.m.n Patriot Act."

"What about it?" asked Holmes.

"I know you like to joke that the only reason you became a Democrat is that they have more fun, but you need to be more aware of the issues that affect the base."

"And you think the Patriot Act is one of them?"

"Yes," Stealey answered forcefully.

Holmes, unconvinced, rolled his eyes.

"Pat, I'm serious. This entire war on terror has been blown out of proportion. A gang of ragtag militants got lucky, and now we've picked a fight with half the d.a.m.n world to prove that we're not going to take it, and in the process we're c.r.a.pping all over our Bill of Rights. It doesn't matter if its the Republicans who dreamed this thing up, we're the ones who are defending it."

He took a sip of Belvedere. "I'd say you're simplifying it just a bit."

"Am I?" she asked sarcastically. "You're way up here, Pat." Stealey put her hand above her head. "I'm down in the trenches. I hear what the foot soldiers at the Justice Department are saying. I see the briefs that are filed on a daily basis challenging the const.i.tutionality of that deeply flawed piece of legislation. I see the fear in the eyes of the people who are going to have to go before the Supreme Court and defend it."

"And how," asked Holmes a bit underwhelmed, "is this going to affect the election?"

"You don't want any bad press the last four months before the election, and that is exactly when these challenges are going to go before the court."

"Peggy, I know you're pa.s.sionate about this, but the majority of the voting public could give a rat's a.s.s if some suspected terrorist doesn't get read his Miranda rights and is denied a lawyer."

"But the base does."

Holmes had learned the hard way that the base of his party meant the 10 percent who were so far to the left they were completely out of touch with the values of the vast majority of middle America. If they had it their way, they would lead the party right over the edge of a cliff and into the great abyss of fanatical liberalism.

"What are they going to do*go vote for whoever the Republicans put up?"

"No, they just won't vote, and you know what happens if the base doesn't turn out."

He had to reluctantly admit that she was right. It was an unnerving reality of his job. Holmes was a pro-business Democrat, and if he had it his way he'd jettison the crazy lefties and send them packing to the Green Party, but that was an untenable solution.

He shook his head. "You're ruining a perfectly good evening and we're only five minutes into it."

Stealey remained intense. "I'm telling you right now the activists who are steering these challenges over the const.i.tutionality of that stupid piece of legislation are going to time this so they get maximum exposure. They're going to beat this drum all the way up to the election. And you and I both know who's going to take the hit."

"Hayes?"

"No," Stealey frowned. "He may eventually, but it's going to start with my boss AG Stokes*and I'm not going to sit back and let it happen." As a not so subtle threat she added, "and neither will he."

Holmes was slowly beginning to see that he might have a problem on his hands. Attorney General Martin Stokes was a rising star in the Democratic Party. There was even talk of having the president dump his worthless vice president and replace him on the ticket with Stokes. The man came from big money, and like Holmes he was pro-business and pro-defense. He was the type of man who could neutralize the Republicans.

"Peggy, I'm not going to say I agree with you on this, but you've at least piqued my interest." He looked down into his gla.s.s and snagged an olive. Holmes popped it in his mouth and said, "Knowing you as well as I do, I a.s.sume you have a plan of action."

"I do," said Stealey confidently, "but it's not going to get us anywhere unless you can get the president to play ball."

Holmes had significant pull with the president, and he had to admit as of late he thought the pendulum was swinging a bit too far in favor of the law enforcement, defense, and intelligence communities. "Let me hear your idea and I'll see what I can do."

Ten.

PAKISTAN.

The two AH-64 Apache helicopters arrived on station one minute after the takedown. One began flying cover over the village while the other moved to secure the landing field. The two attack helicopters carried a combined total of 120 rockets, 16 h.e.l.l-fire missiles for hardened targets, and their eviscerating 30mm nose cannons. In addition to their firepower they were equipped with the most advanced navigation, weapons system, and electronic countermeasures of any helicopter in the world. They were General Harley's solution to not being able to use fixed-wing air cover.

A lone Pave Hawk helicopter, an advanced version of the Blackhawk, came through the mountain pa.s.s and sped over the city well out of RPG range, but still within shot of antiaircraft guns and shoulder-launched missiles. In the premission briefing, they'd been shown the reconnaissance photos of the truck-mounted antiaircraft guns, called technicals, and were also warned that there was a real chance the enemy might have surface-to-air missiles.

Having no desire to encounter either, the two pilots continued well past the town and banked hard to come back in and drop off their pay-load. As they descended toward the open field the pilot kept his focus on the patch of land that was punched into the advanced avionics computer, and the instruments that relayed his speed, alt.i.tude, and att.i.tude. The copilot scanned the horizon and kept a nervous eye on the missile warning system. Even though visibility was good the door gunners called out their descent and searched the landing area for any hostiles.

As the Pave Hawk landed on the open field, a ten-man Air Force Special Tactics Squadron kicked their hundred-pound packs from the troop compartment and hit the ground running. After sprinting a short distance and fanning out, the men hit the dirt, taking up their defensive positions while the Pave Hawk lifted off, struggling to gain alt.i.tude in the thin mountain air.

When the helicopter had reached a safe alt.i.tude, the squadron went to work. Retrieving their packs, four of the six men lumbered across the field to secure the main road and cut the phone line while the others consulted their handheld GPS computers and began laying out a precise grid of infrared strobes. Across the field, only a half mile away, they could hear the gun battle building, the cracks of rifle fire spurring them to complete their task as quickly as possible.

They weren't quite finished laying out the grid when they heard a rumbling in the distance. The noise continued to grow as if it was a herd of stampeding cattle headed up the valley. Then the ground started to shake. The six men quickly laid down the remaining strobes and headed off at a near full sprint to their rallying point where they were to set up an aid station and act as forward combat air controllers.

GENERAL HARLEY'S COMMAND-and-control bird arrived over the village and began circling at ten thousand feet. Rapp had his eyes closed and his hands cupped over his headset as he strained to hear the chatter between Sergeant Corrigan and his men. There was already conflicting reports as to whether they had two or three of the big honchos. Rapp would be ecstatic if they had nabbed all three, but if it turned out one of them was killed in the takedown and two of them were alive to be interrogated, he certainly wouldn't shed any tears.

They were barely five minutes into the op, and it was apparent from the movement below that the town had woken up. As they'd predicted, it was no sleepy mountain village. Rapp opened his eyes and looked at the image on the screen before him. A quarter of the moon was out and with the clear sky, the night-vision systems were providing relatively clear pictures. Sergeant Corrigan's position was in the center of the screen. Rapp could make out hostiles moving toward him from all four directions. The numbers weren't alarming yet, but it was still early. As long as the enemy didn't throw anything heavy at them, Corrigan and his team should have no trouble holding out until the reinforcements arrived.

Movement at the far left of the screen caught Rapp's attention. He still hadn't deciphered what it was when the mission's air commander sitting across from him spoke in an even but urgent voice.

"Raptor One, we have atechnical on the move approaching Team one's position*engage immediately."

ONEBLACKHAWKand six ma.s.sive, lumbering MH-47E Special Operations Aircraft made their way into the valley from a different direction than the initial strike force. Loaded down, the large helicopters were too vulnerable to risk flying directly over the village when they weren't sure what they were up against. The pilots had to fly an extra forty-two circuitous miles to reach the target, but none of them complained.

The roar of their twin rotors and powerful turbine engines shook the entire valley and sent a clear signal to every person in the village that something bad was on its way. Thanks to the Air Force Special Tactics Squadron the landing area was lit up like a Christmas tree with infrared strobes that shone bright on the chopper's FLIR screens.

Two of the big choppers came in first and set down, their aft ramps already lowered. Within seconds a pair of Desert Patrol Vehicles (DPVs) eased their way down the ramps and tore across the b.u.mpy field in search of the road that led into the village. The low-slung vehicles were capable of speeds up to eighty mph and could be outfitted with an array of powerful weapons systems. Each carried a crew of three U.S. Navy SEALs; a driver, a vehicle commander, and a gunner who sat in an elevated position behind the other two men.

For tonight's mission the DPVs were armed with big.50-caliber machine guns, 40mm grenade launchers, 7.62mm machine guns, and two AT4 ant.i.tank missiles per vehicle. The storage compartments on the sides of the vehicles were packed with extra ammunition and could also be configured to carry stretchers if need be. The vehicles were a potent weapon in open terrain, but in an urban environment they were vulnerable. They lacked the armor that was needed to sit tight and sock it out with opposing forces, so tonight they would use hit-and-run tactics to keep the enemy off balance until the bulk of the force arrived.

As the Desert Patrol Vehicles disappeared into the night a pair of ATVs rolled down the ramps of the Chinooks pulling trailers laden with crates and other equipment. The drivers of each small off-road vehicle cleared the landing zone and headed off to set up the command post and several mortar positions. A dozen Rangers in heavy gear struggled to keep up as they hoofed it over the patchy ground.

The two Chinooks, with their loads delivered, cleared the landing area to make room for their sister ships that were already on approach. Four of the big dull-green transports came in, breaking their single-file formation as they lined up with their marked landing zones. As each bird touched down, Rangers streamed from the aft ramps, breaking off into different-sized groups and heading off to various rallying points. What looked like chaos to the uninitiated was actually a highly orchestrated battlefield deployment of a reinforced U.S. Army Ranger company.

They were the sledgehammer that General Harley intended to wield in routing the Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters from their mountain stronghold. The Rangers were part of the 75th Ranger Regiment, 2nd Battalion. The company had rotated into Afghanistan four months ago, and had already seen plenty of action.

They were trained to fight in every environment, climate, and terrain that could be thrown at them. They excelled at direct-action missions-seizing airfields or capturing key facilities or towns. Using mobile firepower, agility, and speed, they were trained to overwhelm numerically superior forces in short order, and that was exactly what General Harley planned on using them for.

Eleven.

Corrigan walked to the front of the house and poked his head past the splintered and mangled doorframe just in time to hear a bullet whistle past and slap into the side of the mud-brick house. The bearded Corrigan didn't even flinch. He turned in the direction the shot had come from and shouldered his rifle, but before he had the chance to fire, one of his men on the roof took care of the problem for him.

The amount of incoming fire was building steadily. So far none of his men had been hit, but if this kept up it was only a matter of time. He'd put four more shooters on the roof to bolster the two snipers and two light machine guns that were already in place, and all eight of them were busy. It was quickly becoming a target-rich environment, and inside one hundred yards, Delta shooters didn't miss very often, even when the targets were moving.

The potshots weren't what had Corrigan worried. Brave men with machine guns a.s.saulting a team of entrenched Delta Force shooters was little more than suicide, but these were battle-hardened soldiers who'd been in a state of perpetual war for two decades. It wouldn't take long for them to get organized and come up with a better strategy-a strategy that would probably involve bigger guns and rocket-propelled grenades.

The call came over the unit's internal radio link. "Cor, it's Lou*I think you'd better come back here and take a look at something."

Corrigan poked his head around the door frame and looked down the street through his AN/PVS-17 night sight. Two blocks away a tango came around the corner and took up position to fire an RPG. "Hold on a second, Lou."

Corrigan moved reflexively. The PEQ-2 laser designator mounted at the front of his weapon painted the man's chest with a bright red dot and Corrigan squeezed the trigger. The tango crumpled to the ground. Almost immediately, another man scrambled from the cover of the building and reached down to pick up the RPG. Corrigan painted the man's head, dropped him with a single shot, and then ducked back into the house.

"What's up, Lou?"

"I think I found something back here."

Corrigan edged his way up to one of the broken windows and took a quick look outside. He saw two men dart across the street about eighty yards away. One of them made it and the other didn't.