Overlord

1

The man in the rumpled three-piece suit waited in front of Warden Hal Jennings’s desk. He stood with his battered briefcase clutched in both hands and was using it as if it were a talisman of some sort as he waited for his ruse to either pass muster, or for his deception to be found out. If he was found out it would be nothing more than an embarrassing episode and predicament he would eventually talk his way out of.

He watched the warden’s eyes as he read the letter. Without looking up at the man in the light blue suit, horn-rimmed glasses, and thinning red hair, the warden — who had been running the federal side of Leavenworth — placed his hand on his phone and picked up the receiver.

“Annie, connect me with the FBI field office in Topeka, I need a name run … Yes, tell Special Agent-in-charge Klinemann it’s for me, right. Thank you.”

The visitor in the blue suit smiled as the warden hung up the phone.

“Precautionary. It’s not that we don’t trust you … it’s more like—”

“It’s that you don’t trust me.” The man in the rumpled suit smiled.

The warden smiled and then relaxed. “Yeah, something like that. More or less. I was giving you a chance to back out of here without getting arrested if you’re lying to me. Trying to see this man you believe is here, if that man existed, could get you placed right next to him in an available cell, or worse.”

“Oh, the man exists. That’s what we do in our business, Warden Jennings — we make sure we have precise information.”

The phone buzzed and the warden picked up the receiver just as the door opened to the office and a large prison guard stepped in. He stood at the door with his eyes on the warden’s visitor. The speaker button was pushed and the phone was placed back into the cradle. Jennings wanted this man to hear his report firsthand from the secretary outside.

“Go ahead, Annie.”

“His credentials check out. Hiram Vickers, federal employee number 397-12-0989. Departmental information is unavailable but he is a confirmed employee at the Langley, Virginia headquarters facility.”

“Thank you, Annie, that’s enough. We just needed to match his identification with his story.”

The visitor watched the warden end his call and slide Vickers’s CIA identification back to him across the large desk.

“You will speak to Prisoner 275698 on his one-hour exercise period. If he refuses to speak to you that is his prerogative. The only men and women that have direct contact with him are corporate types or weapons theorists in which he has an obligation to speak to according to presidential order, and right now those orders do not include you. I am doing this as a favor to a sister agency. Any deviation from speech or any attempt to touch Prisoner 275698, and you will be shot without warning from the tower. If he refuses to speak with you there will be no comment, no persuasive banter. You will turn away from the exercise yard and exit where a guard will escort you from the facility. Are you clear on the rules?”

“Yes, very clear. I believe the man will wish to speak with me.” The visitor reached for his identification and placed it in his suit jacket.

“Then you have one hour. The guard will escort you to the exercise yard.”

The visitor smiled and nodded his head and turned away.

“Mr. Vickers,” the warden said, bringing the tall man to a stop before he reached the open door being held in place by the large guard.

“Remember, the prisoner you are meeting has no name, has no dossier; in general, he has no life inside or outside these walls. According to special order he does not even exist. If you attempt anything out of the range of description that I have outlined to you, you will be arrested and you will not leave here.”

“One of your special rules, I take it?”

“No, Mr. Vickers, not my rule at all but someone else’s. It’s another name that you may be familiar with — he’s called the commander-in-chief.”

Vickers smiled. “Yes, so I understand. But he is also a lame duck president who seems to have pissed a lot of people off.” Vickers smiled as he started to turn around but stopped and eyed the warden. “And he is also a president you may not want to align yourself so closely with in the near future. Tossing his name around will only make those men and women in power remember your name, Warden.”

The warden watched the arrogant man turn and leave his office with a smug air about him. The not-so-veiled threat hung in the air as the door closed. The man who had been in the federal prison system for thirty-one years wanted to go after the arrogant little bastard and slap him around, and for the life of him he didn’t understand why. His thoughts were interrupted by his door opening after a soft knock. It was his secretary.

“I’m stepping out for lunch, would you care for anything?” the small bespectacled woman asked.

“No, just let me know in an hour when our friend here is done speaking with our guest. I want to make sure he and our prisoner are still in place afterward.”

Annie nodded and left. She made her way downstairs and instead of heading for the lounge area staffed for the management end of Leavenworth, she went right and headed for the small area on the grass where men and women usually ate their lunches on fine days such as this. She didn’t have to look around as she sat. Lunch for most was after the noon hour, so she found herself sitting alone. She smiled and nodded her head at two passing guards and then easily brought the cell phone to her ear. She punched a preselected number — one she had never had to use before.

“Yes, this is Annie Kline in Kansas. Is this Mr. Jones?”

She waited only a moment until a voice answered at the other end.

“Yes, Mr. Jones, this is Annie at Leavenworth. We’ve had a visitor for our special guest that was not on the official rolls of authorized visitors. Yes, his name is Hiram Vickers, CIA. Yes, sir … yes, sir, one-hour visit. Before you hang up, Mr. Jones, this man won’t be in any sort of trouble, will he, because of my actions?”

She waited as a man she had never met explained the realities of life to her from afar.

“Yes, sir, the fifty thousand dollars will come in very handy, but I don’t wish to get into trouble. I’m just telling you about a visit to an unnamed prisoner. Yes, I will forward a copy of his ID to you at your office after the warden goes home for the evening. Thank you.” She ended the call and then looked up at the imposing structure of USP Leavenworth — and wondered if her small act as informant would go unnoticed in an ever-worrisome world.

The visitor was passed through no less than five security checks on his way to the meeting. Each set of guards eyed him as if he had requested to visit Charlie Manson. The man’s prison number drew looks of distaste from each and every man or woman he came across. He soon found himself standing in an enclosed concrete area with high walls and fences. There was no view of the grounds outside those walls and the only evident threat was a guard tower with a uniformed man watching him with a slung Ruger Mini-14 on his back. The eyes of the guard never left the visitor.

Hiram Vickers saw the man in the orange jumpsuit standing and looking at nothing in particular other than the blue sky. Then the prisoner lowered his head and started walking the line around the walls. Vickers watched him for a moment and then approached. He was minus his old briefcase, as it never made it past the first checkpoint.

“Beautiful day for a walk.”

The tall, extremely thin man with black hair just kept his gait without looking up at Vickers.

“I don’t conduct corporate inquiries out here, so go fuck yourself.”

The man kept walking and Vickers moved to pace him.

“Saucy for a Harvard graduate — I think prison has jaded you into being something other than you are.” Vickers chuckled as the man kept walking. “I’m corporate, but not the corporate type you believe me to be. My company is a bit smaller and based in Virginia.”

Vickers could see that the man, although he kept walking, became interested: his breath noticeably caught momentarily with a hitch as if the prisoner was trying to stifle a hiccup.

“I used to have many close friends in Virginia.” He stopped and looked at the visitor for the first time. He examined the man as if he were looking at some new and strange breed of bug. “But like most, the rats ran for cover when the exterminator arrived.” He gave the man a dirty look and then continued his walk to nowhere.

“And that is the very subject I am here to see you about. It’s not the rats I’m interested in, it’s the exterminator I want to meet.”

The prisoner laughed but kept his stride even and nonstop. “If you mention the name of that particular exterminator you could find yourself my roommate here”—the tall man gestured about him at the thick walls of Leavenworth prison—“in the Club Med of the plains.” The man in the orange jumpsuit laughed and shook his head at the strange and badly dressed man walking beside him.

Vickers matched the laugh with his own chuckle. “Actually, it’s the field men I want, not their boss.”

Prisoner 275698 stopped walking and stared at the slight man in the rumpled blue suit.

“Don’t those people at Langley give you a clothing allowance?”

Vickers, although the insult caught him off guard, ignored the comment because as a matter of fact he didn’t get a clothing allowance from the cheap bastards in Virginia.

“To be more precise, Prisoner 275698, I need several of those names — and one in particular.”

“Why me? I’ve been illegally locked up here since 2006. Why should I assist the people who helped put me here — stabbed me in the back, let’s say. Why?”

“Because the man who signed your life away is having difficulty hanging onto his power.”

“Look, the president who put me away is long out of office, but his replacement still holds the key and he’s not going to give it up.” The prisoner smiled. “It seems I am not the most popular figure going in the corporate world these days.”

Hiram Vickers stopped walking and became deathly serious as he watched the man’s back.

“Things change — they can change very quickly, I think. The president doesn’t need another problem on his hands with the budget he just turned in. The draft board thing isn’t going over too well either. I think you may have some very understanding ears turned your way in the next few months, and that, my friend, is the why portion of your question. I can get you out of here and back into the fight that’s coming, and along the way maybe we can work together and settle a few old scores.”

The prisoner laughed. “You have made an enemy, I think, and whoever it is scares the hell out of you.”

Vickers didn’t return the laugh as he started walking again. He stopped and looked to the blue Kansas sky.

“My enemies are your enemies. Deal with the devil to get what it is you want most.”

“Go ahead,” the federal prisoner said. He started to walk around his exercise yard once more.

“The desert, the high desert — need I say more?”

The prisoner looked up at the guard tower where the large officer’s eyes never left the two men strolling casually in the yard.

“I don’t know what it is you’re talking about.”

Vickers stopped cold in his tracks and chanced reaching for the prisoner’s arm, an action that drew the immediate attention of the armed guard, who shook his head at Vickers.

“The people I seek are in the high desert — or should I say, under it?”

“Again, I don’t know what it is you speak of.”

Exasperated, Vickers nearly reached out and slapped the man but remembered the very lethal looking Mini-14 the guard had on his back.

“Well, I thought I could count on a patriot such as yourself to want to get the hell out of here”—he gestured around him at the exercise yard—“and get into the fight that is surely coming at us.”

“What’s happened?” the man asked, suddenly becoming interested.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re no longer kept in the loop on Operation Magic, are you, Mr. Charles Hendrix II?”

Hendrix wasn’t surprised at all that this man mentioned what in this prison was unmentionable: his name.

“They deserve the fate they created for themselves. Nonetheless, Mr. Vickers, you have my attention.”

“Good, that’s a start. Now, the name of the man who really put you here, who is it?” The two men commenced walking once more.

“He’s dead … does that surprise you that I know this? Even I still have sources, my friend; my attorneys are not what they seem sometimes.”

“The name, Hendrix,” Vickers hissed.

“Lee, Garrison Lee. He’s quite an old enemy of my family — an enemy since 1947. But as I said, he’s dead and I curse the ground that particular Boy Scout is buried in.”

“Garrison Lee, the former U.S. senator?”

“One and the same.” Hendrix smiled and looked at his guest. “He was a little bit more than the history books will ever reveal.”

“We’ll discuss that at length later, after you’re a free man. Now, what is the other name I need?”

“Compton, Niles. He’s attached to the National Archives and works in that facility you mentioned underneath the desert in Las Vegas.”

“Yes, I know, underneath Nellis Air Force Base. Niles Compton, huh?”

“Dr. Niles Compton, yes. And do not, and I mean it, try to match wits with the man. He could outthink you in his sleep.”

“A lot of people, much to their regret, thought the same thing about me, Mr. Hendrix.”

Hendrix smiled down at the rumpled man. “Is that right? Well, this man has the muscle of the federal government backing him, and he hangs around with some very salty people.”

“It’s one of those salty people I am seeking. Collins, Jack, colonel, United States Army. Ring a bell?”

“Outside of his famous appearance in front of the senate oversight committee when he threw his commander and several high-ranking politicos underneath the proverbial bus, no. I take it he’s running the Group’s security for Compton. God knows military men are only good for little else.”

Hendrix saw the disappointment in Vickers’s face and knew he had the man. “I do have a name that will lead you to this colonel you want so badly.”

“Who?”

“Well, at the time of my arrest he was a commander in the Navy.” Hendrix’s eyes narrowed to slits. “That is one arrogant son of a bitch I wouldn’t mind seeing…” He looked around. “Gone. His name is Carl Everett, a Navy SEAL.”

To Vickers it felt as if he had a chance at getting his life back after reaching a starting point.

“Now, quid pro quo, Hiram. I need a name myself, and it could be a name that interests you and your bosses far more than the ones you asked about. But before I tell you the name I want, tell me: Why do you need to find this Colonel Collins, especially with the shit storm getting ready to engulf the entire world?”

“I have to find him and kill him”—he looked over at the taller Hendrix—“before he finds and kills me.” Once more Vickers looked away. “I may have inadvertently killed his sister.”

This made the man formerly known as Charles Hendrix II purse his lips and shake his head.

“I can understand your consternation, especially since this Group buried in the desert is the favorite of every president of the United States since Woodrow Wilson. And they protect this Group, Mr. CIA man — and I mean protect it.” He chuckled at Vickers and his little problem that made his own worry seem insignificant. “Yes, I guess you had better find this Collins, because if I remember correctly from my reports on him he seems to be a bit of a stone. Cold. Killer.” Hendrix emphasized each of the last three words.

“Thanks for that little bit of info, Hendrix. Now, who is it you want me to find for you?”

“You’ll find him in the desert also, just not the same desert as this mysterious Event Group. And believe me, this is a person who would be of much interest to not only your people, but many, many, others with names you cannot even afford to pronounce.”

“The name, Hendrix, the name.”

“He’s got a moniker that is a little off, but you should have no problem tracking him down with the right leads at your disposal.”

“Please,” he said sarcastically, “I can find anyone, anywhere.” He smiled as the guards were opening the exercise yard. Hendrix’s time in the sun was up for the day. “After all, I found you, and you were buried by secret orders of the president.”

“Touché, find me you did.”

“The name of the man?” Vickers insisted.

Hendrix stopped at the open gate and turned to face Vickers. “He’s not a man at all. I will explain to you in no uncertain terms that this name is one of the more valuable in the entire history of this planet.”

Hendrix saw the confused look on the CIA man’s face.

“I’m giddy with anticipation,” Vickers finally voiced.

“The name is Mahjtic, or as his friends underneath Nellis call him — the Matchstick Man.”

The blond man in the overly large swivel chair spun around and hung up the phone. He kept his fingers on the receiver and tapped out a gentle beat as he thought. He was well-dressed, wearing a black sport coat with a simple white shirt underneath. His blond hair had grown out over his collar and his face had been unshaven for the past seven months. He pursed his lips, still tapping the phone when the alarm bell pinged on his fax machine. Annie was far faster than he gave the Kansas woman credit for. She had been easy to turn and for this man it came easily and naturally. “After all,” he had told her when he gave her an advance of ten thousand dollars, “it’s not like you’re giving out the names of good guys here.” The justification was that he was searching for the killer of a dear friend and he thought that anyone visiting U.S. Federal Prisoner 275698 could lead him to that killer. It gave the single mother a chance at excitement in her life, and if she was caught sending him information, well, that was just the way the world worked, in his opinion.

Colonel Henri Farbeaux stood while whistling and made his way to the large credenza by the wall and waited for the fax to finish. When it did he lifted the pages and looked at the face that had been sent to him from a cell phone straight from Leavenworth penitentiary. He looked from the features of the redheaded man to his name. The moniker seemed somewhat familiar to Farbeaux, but for the life of him he couldn’t place the face. He examined the name once more and seemed to remember meeting this man somewhere in the past. And then it struck him that he was liaison between the Centauris Corporation and the Central Intelligence Agency — their Games and Theory Department if he remembered correctly, which made sense because when he had met this man he himself had been a contract player for Centauris and their infamous invention, the Black Teams.

“I should have known,” Henri said. He took the sheets of paper back to his desk and sat down to study the man and his information.

Henri didn’t look up from the fax for a full forty minutes as he thought out his options. He smiled, laid the papers down, and then turned to look out the window. He turned and started typing commands into his computer. The screen was soon showing the tri-color national flag of France and Henri knew the DGSE — General Directorate for External Security — for the French nation had not changed his password. He shook his head, not knowing if he still had friends at the agency or if they were just that slow in their security department.

In thirty minutes Col. Henri Farbeaux had every piece of information on Hiram Vickers the French government had, and as he was beginning to notice it was quite a bit. Finally he printed out a better picture of the CIA agent and stared at it.

“Hello again, Mr. Vickers.”

The four Aérospatiale Gazelle helicopters flew low over the volcanic terrain. They had traveled 1,900 miles from Algiers, being refueled twice on their way to the desolate oasis. The four French-and-British-made helicopters were flying in tight formation after being alerted to a disturbance by, of all entities, the U.S. National Aeronautics and Space Administration. NASA had placed an emergency call through to the Algerian military warning them of a highly unusual weather formation that had sprung up without warning in the region of mountainous terrain where there should be no weather systems at all other than the blazing sun — and a storm forming in or around the mountains was unheard of in the month of June. There was not a history of severe thunder and rainstorms in the entire northern portion of the Sahara such as Talmud. And the storm images taken by NASA declared this to be the mother of storms that came and went in only ten minutes’ time.

Talmud Oasis had been a viable source of water for the past five thousand years and was used by men traveling the barren wastes for more than half of that time. The French Foreign Legion made the site famous in many a tale of the Algerian wars. The oasis was home to just under thirty-three men and women who cared for the site and were paid monthly and supplied food by the Algerian government.

The lead helicopter made a slow turn to the north and then the pilot brought the Gazelle to three hundred feet and cleared a small rise. The view that greeted him was shocking at the very least. The spot where the oasis used to be, along with the small grouping of houses, was gone. Not only was the area featureless, there was a thousand-foot-diameter hole in the ground where it had once stood. It looked as if a giant manhole cover had been lifted and tossed aside. The edges of the hole were nearly a perfect circle where the small oasis and village had stood for over two thousand years. The action could have been done by laser cutting, it was that precise.

All four pilots and their emergency teams could see where the storm had washed out most of the sand dunes that used to line and surround the oasis. Even as they flew lower they could see small rivers that had accumulated in that very serious ten minutes of weather. Then they saw what looked like scorch marks on the sides of the small volcanic hillsides, accompanied by glass that shone brightly in the afternoon sun. They estimated that at least one square mile of sand had been blasted into glass by some form of searing heat.

The lead pilot in the first Gazelle hovered over the remains of the prehistoric oasis and made the radio call.

How he would explain this was beyond the language skills of any man he knew of. The world had just pushed the oasis off the face of the earth, not very scientific but he knew that was what he would say to his superiors.

Talmud was just gone.

The president sat with his wife and two daughters and ate a quiet lunch inside the private residence of the White House. The two girls, eleven and eight, talked about the plans they had made for their summer vacation, which just started two days before. Their mother laughed and spoke as her eyes drifted to her husband, who seemed to be listening, but she knew him too well. He was looking, smiling, and even nodding his head at the right times as the girls spoke excitedly, but his mind was a million miles away. The first lady of the United States, as well as most Americans, had been watching her husband slowly commit political suicide, and the sad thing was it was something he had to do.

“Sweetheart?”

The smile slowly left the president’s face when his thoughts were interrupted. Evidently he had been asked a question that a nod of his head would not cover.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, drifted there for a minute,” he said, looking first at his wife and then at the two girls, who were just looking at him.

“They asked if you were going to make time to go to Disney World with us?” the first lady asked as her eyes met the president’s.

The president finally broke his spell and looked from his wife to the two waiting girls.

“Well, of course I am. The world can just go ahead and miss me for two days.”

The two girls laughed and clapped and then stood and ran around the table and hugged and kissed him. He returned the love as the girls broke their hold on him and then exited the private dining room. The first lady noticed his eyes following the girls and the sadness that seemed to be behind those eyes every time he saw his daughters.

“That bad?” she asked as she placed her napkin on her empty plate.

The president took a deep breath as the waitstaff came in and cleared the table. As the last man placed coffee in front of the most powerful couple in the world and left, the president looked at his wife.

“The idiots are not going to pass the bill.”

“I know this may sound traitorous to you, but even I would be throwing a fit if I didn’t know why you wanted the draft lottery instated.”

Again the deep breath. “I’ve explained to the senate and the house why we need the draft lottery ready to go. Why I need to extend enlistments and why I have placed retirement of any military man or woman on hold for the foreseeable future.”

“All of the house and senate?”

The president gave the first lady a bemused look. “Only the few that matter, the leaders of both parties.” He shook his head and sipped at his after-lunch coffee. “In other words, every enemy I have on both sides is tearing me apart in the papers.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you informed the world just what is really happening. I would want to know.”

“Like most American wives and mothers, you probably would have had a sense that something wasn’t right in the world. But being mere senators and representatives they’re a little slower on the uptake.”

“How are the branches of service taking the retirement and discharge freeze?”

“The staff at the Pentagon is fielding hate mail from their own soldiers, airmen, and sailors on a scale they have never seen.”

“You cannot stick to your timetable. The American people are beginning to think that either you’re militarily taking over this country or worse, you’ve gone completely mad. You have to tell them something. If your soldiers are listening to rumors they’re going to react in a negative way. You were a top soldier at one time and you didn’t like it.”

“I think I fit both scenarios at the moment — mad and a tyrant.” The president drank his coffee and then saw his Secret Service guard nod his head. The president stood and tossed the napkin on the table.

The first lady stood and paced to the president’s side of the table. She hugged him as he slid his relaxed tie up to its proper place under his chin.

“What is Niles saying?” she whispered in his ear as she kissed his cheek.

“Basically the same thing as you, and he’s just as big a nag.” He smiled and then regardless of his guards picked his wife up and hugged her.

“I think between your wife and the smartest man on the continent you should have a clear idea on what to say to the American people.”

The president finally lowered her and then straightened his coat just as the slight thump of turning rotors was heard coming from the White House lawn.

“Ooh, Daddy, that’s a Blackbird!” his younger daughter said as she had sprung from her chair and ran for the window.

“As a matter of fact, that’s just who I’m going to speak to right now,” the president said. He glanced only slightly toward his daughter, who was staring with wide eyes at the descending helicopter. “It’s a Black Hawk baby, not a Blackbird.”

The first lady turned his face back toward her own.

“Now don’t make him mad. Start off by calling him Niles and not ‘baldy,’ it puts him on the defensive.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not even supposed to know about him or what he does.”

“Then maybe you should have picked another person to be your best man at our wedding.”

“That, my dear, I should have done. That way I would have only one conscience to deal with.” He gave the first lady a quick wink.

“Such is life with the president.”

He smiled as walked to the door.

“What life?”

The president made his way to the administration wing of the White House. Most of the staff, visitors, and Secret Service men and women saw the same man they had been seeing on a daily basis for almost five years. He was always smiling, always confident. On his way into the Oval Office he nodded his head at his assistant and then nodded toward the door and she affirmed with a knowing look that his guest was inside waiting. His assistant knew almost immediately that the president was off limits for the next hour. However …

“Mr. President, House Speaker Camden has been waiting since 11:45. He does not have an appointment nor is he scheduled.” Senator and Speaker of the House, Giles Camden of Florida, stood up and got the president’s attention by placing his hands on his hips and glaring at him.

The president stopped and with no one seeing his face he rolled his eyes, but by the time he turned to face the senior Republican from Florida his customary smile was in place. The hawk from Florida was waiting and his hand wasn’t out. Even the president’s security detail disliked the man immensely.

“Mr. Speaker, this is a surprise, I wasn’t aware we had a meeting this afternoon.”

“Mr. President, my constituents as well as my colleagues are stupefied as to this draft lottery proposal you have been allowing to leak from your office.” The senator looked around to make sure that the ears inside the reception area were all tuned into his voice. “And keeping young men and women ensconced in military service when their obligations have been fulfilled to the utmost standards of the American military, well, sir, that’s just a little too much dictatorship and not enough democratic process.”

The president lost his smile as he stepped closer to the man from Florida who admiringly stood his ground against the formidable size of the former Army three-star general.

“One thing I don’t need from you, Senator Camden, is a lesson on my soldiers, airmen, and seamen, and how well they have fulfilled their duties in the global war on terror. I am well aware of it.” The president leaned over as far as he could and took the senator’s right hand in his own and shook slowly as he spoke low. “You of all people should know better than to listen to rumors. I have not made any such declarations, at least on an official basis, about either a draft proposal or freezing discharges.”

“Then perhaps the president can explain it to an old Southern gentleman the difference between rumor and fact”—he smiled—“as you see it, of course.”

The president released Camden’s hand and was tempted to wipe it on his pants leg, but smiled instead and then looked at his watch.

“If you don’t know the difference between the two by now, Mr. Speaker, I would never have the time to explain it to you. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

Speaker of the House Camden watched, stunned, as the president turned and walked away. The tension inside the reception area was cold and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. He noticed the Secret Service agent gesturing with his hand toward the nearest exit. Camden grimaced and then angrily looked down to where his own assistant was waiting and gestured for her to follow.

In the corridor he turned fuming to his female assistant. “I want CIA Director Harlan Easterbrook to meet me for dinner. And be sure he brings our good friend Dan Peachtree with him.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean the director is squarely in the president’s camp on this issue”—the assistant corrected herself—“the rumored issue.”

“What goddamn issue? According to the president there is no issue, just an ugly rumor!” he hissed loudly and started getting looks from men and women lining the outer hallway waiting to see the man in the Oval Office. “Easterbrook knows who it is that controls the budget for his agency and I want Daniel Peachtree there to back us. Even Easterbrook can’t argue with his own AD of Operations on how screwed up this thing has become. Aliens, my ass! The president put one over on us four years ago with those damnable images of deep space and the so-called saucers. But where are they? We keep spending billions and what for?” He looked with wide eyes at his assistant. “I want details on what the president is up to and I want to be updated on Chinese and Russian military buildups. Hell, even the damn Brits have upped their naval budget by 100 percent as they are falling for the same crap the president did. And I want a full report on that little bald shit that the president bases all of his decisions on. National Archives, my ass!”

“On the foreign front I’m afraid, according to their governments, they also refuse to comment on rumors on their military. Now about this Niles Compton, Easterbrook and even our man Peachtree have no intel on Compton other than his educational background, which is of course extensive.”

“If Easterbrook doesn’t explain things to me far more clearly than they have been, I’m going to leak everything I have to the public and then let the president explain that.”

His assistant looked around and nervously leaned into her boss.

“Before you start making that kind of threat maybe we better get a better hold on the situation? After all, he is a lame duck president who doesn’t have a successor in any shape, form, or fashion unless you consider the spineless vice president, and Easterbrook will be looking for a job in two years.”

“I see. You’re saying a far more subtle approach is warranted?”

“It’s far better than the other rumors I’ve been hearing.” She again glanced at the faces now turned away from the two visitors.

The Speaker of the House stopped before reaching the outer door and faced the young assistant. “What, there are new rumors?”

“That two like-minded senators and backers of yours have just announced their sudden retirements.”

“Yes, Hastings and Schaller, Vermont and Texas respectively. Hastings is citing a pending divorce and Schaller is claiming health issues at age thirty-two.”

“Yes, well, some are saying after meeting with the president five weeks ago and them asking rather forcefully about those very rumors that you just mentioned, they suddenly announced their decisions on retiring the very next day.”

“Your point?” he asked, getting angry.

“My point is most people on the Hill are saying the president threatened them.”

“How do you mean?”

She didn’t respond but just looked into the older man’s face. He slowly but surely caught her ominous drift.

“Then that makes meeting with CIA Director Easterbrook and our friend Peachtree essential.” He turned and made his way to the door. “And remember, we can toss around threats also and Daniel Peachtree has just the man to issue those threats.”

The assistant exhaled deeply as she pictured the little creep across the river at CIA. “I can’t stomach that little bastard and I wish you would not be associated with him in any way. That Hiram Vickers reminds me of some slinking pedophile the way he looks at people.” She shivered at the thought of the little black operations guru over at Langley. “And one more thing, sir, what makes you think it wasn’t Director Easterbrook who backed up the president’s threat?” she mumbled as she raced to catch up with her boss.

House Speaker Camden only froze for a second at the door as he slightly turned and answered her.

“That will be Dan Peachtree’s problem, as he stands to gain the most from … complications in the chain of command at Langley.”

As the Secret Service agent held the door open for the president, the chief executive paused a moment, took a deep breath, nodded at the agent, and tried to confidently stride into the Oval Office. The president saw his friend immediately. Director Niles Compton was at the window behind the Lincoln desk, looking out onto Pennsylvania Avenue and the five thousand men and women protesting in the street. The placards were offensive to say the least and were saying that the U.S. was on a road to dictatorship. Niles Compton knew his friend was anything but dictatorial. Being a military man from the time he was in college, the president was always terrified of being labeled right wing when actually he thought as many generals do when they got to a certain age: that military power is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands — and even sometimes in the right ones. Niles Compton knew the problem could be in no more capable hands than those of his old friend.

“I’m really surprised you’re not out there with them protesting my supposed and rumored military moves.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t be protesting if they knew the whole truth,” Niles Compton said as he turned away from the window to face the president.

The president didn’t respond as he stood before his own desk. He gestured for Niles to move.

“Unless you want this screwed up job, do you mind if I sit at my own desk, baldy?”

Niles smiled and then moved. He kept his hands in his pockets as he paced to the front of the room. The president looked momentarily out of the window, then allowed the lace curtain to fall back into place as he turned and sat.

“My so-called good friends in the senate are starting to jump ship. The briefing I gave them four years ago is starting to wear off and now they’re running for cover. The key people I needed on the hawk side of things have completely flown the coop. My friends on the other end of the spectrum are now feeling the heat because of these rumors and the fact we haven’t even had one sighting of anything from space other than our own junk falling from the sky.”

Niles finally turned and faced the president as he sat in one of the double-facing couches. He opened his old briefcase and removed a file. “In one brief moment of time many years ago you asked me how I would handle it. I told you.”

“You didn’t understand the American psyche then as now. So, may I explain it again for you, Mr. Wizard?” The president saw his friend wasn’t going to respond so he quickly continued before he could. “Singly this nation is built of brilliant and smart citizens capable of immense kindness and compassion and a simple vision of the future. My people are smart, Niles. Oh, not like an egghead like you, but smart enough to know the situation and understand it when it’s explained to them. But go to the collective mind of those very same citizens and that’s where we run into trouble, and you know that. Collectively we can be the most frightened nation on this planet if things aren’t explained to the extreme point they can be.”

“Tell them everything now or call a press conference and deny all the military rumors as a lie, and then stop allowing the military to sway you into this supposed draft lottery. Come clean about everything from Roswell, to the incident with the destroyer in the Arizona desert, and even the moon landings from years ago. Everything.” Niles shook his head and then looked at his friend. “And what is this about keeping men and women in the military after their service is complete — is that one true?”

The president was silent as he turned his head away from the man he had known since college. Niles Compton was the director of the utmost darkened agency in the federal government. Their existence was known only to a few and answered only to the president of the United States since the time of Lincoln unofficially, and Woodrow Wilson by law. Department 5656, or what was known to a few outsiders as the Event Group, had a mission to uncover the truth about the shared history of the world, as the understanding of the past secured the future. Department 5656 advised the presidency of any correlation between past events and those currently unfolding in the present so he could make a calculated judgment on how to handle any repeat of that history.

“Yes, it’s true, Niles. I can’t fight a war if my military is stripped down to nothing because of a false sense of security after the war on terror.”

“Then explain why to the people of the country and of the world. For Christ’s sake we’re getting ready to watch the Chinese start killing themselves over their military expenditures. The same is happening in France, Russia, Germany, and England. We are the ones scaring the world, not them.” Compton pointed toward the high ceiling of the Oval Office and what he knew was the complete future of darkness beyond the high clouds.

“Why haven’t they moved on us, Niles? They’ve been sitting out there ten million light-years from Earth just waiting. I get new images from the Hubble every other day in my security briefing and they haven’t moved a light-year in any direction, they just sit there. This is why I have supporters jumping off what they now think of as a rudderless ship.”

“Our asset in the Arizona desert reports that the Grays are more than likely here already. They’ll strike when they see an opportunity to do so. Thus your military buildup could be a never-ending nightmare in the terms of time. When they come we have to fight them with the weapons we have already developed and the men and women trained to fight them. Not with new recruits or angry veterans.”

The president shook his head and abruptly stood; in so doing he pushed his large chair back hard enough for it to strike the wall.

“Niles, you and Garrison Lee came up with the plan for Operation Overlord. For the first aspect of that plan to come off I need warships and aircraft. To support our allies if the Grays strike at them first I need to get my army overseas, and for that I need control of the oceans. And I need enough men and equipment left over to secure our cities and train another army as fast as possible for our defenses here. For this I need experienced soldiers, and in order to have that I have to stop them from leaving their respective branches of service. I also need every aircraft we have mothballed in the desert and every obsolete warship in the navy yards at Philadelphia.”

“Then tell the people that,” Niles said, getting angry for the first time in the presence of the president. Compton watched as his friend turned and snatched the lace curtain back again to gaze at those very same citizens protesting the rumors that were running rampant. “But one thing you and the others are refusing to grasp — and you had better start facing it — is that the combined military strength of the entire planet may not last five days against a full-scale onslaught from the Grays.

“That’s why we have Overlord. If we can hold off an offensive strike until Overlord can come on line we have a chance, at least according to our little green friend out in Chato’s Crawl.”

“And you know damn good and well that Matchstick explained that part two of Overlord depends entirely on getting our hands on a power plant from a downed saucer.” The president released the curtain and turned to face Niles. “Your Group’s not confident at this point of possibly finding another crashed saucer?”

Niles opened the folder and pulled out his report.

“We have chased down every UFO report going back as far as the biblical Ezekiel. Outside of the two Roswell incidents we only have rumors of other incidents where a vehicle was recovered with an intact engine.”

“So it’s just as Matchstick says, then?” The president thought of the small alien who had been in U.S. custody since the Arizona incident in 2006.

“We’ll have to place a priority on getting our hands on a power plant when hostilities start … if we can knock the damn saucers out of the sky, that is.”

The president looked a little put out by Niles’s comment. “I believe your Mr. Ryan brought one down in the Pacific, if I remember correctly, with just a Phoenix missile. I think if he can do it we can at least get a few of the bastards for Matchstick to play with.”

“Touché,” Niles said as he slipped the report on the saucer search away. “We actually may have chance at getting at one early in any conflict. Then it’s just a matter of time constraints if we can literally get Overlord off the ground.”

The president raised his brows as he waited for any welcome news.

“Matchstick says they cannot come through their travel wormholes in any large force. Their energy is limited. A few saucers at a time, maybe five or six, and then the Grays have to recharge before they can continue sending their forces through from that extreme distance away. But if they punch us hard enough in the opening rounds their energy problems will be moot. As Matchstick says, it takes the power of an entire planet to produce the energy needed to produce a time-warp wormhole.”

The president slapped the top of his desk. “And that is exactly why I want my forces at full potential, Niles. Now, is Matchstick sure that this power that creates the wormholes is limited in scope?”

“Yes. As you know, the home planet of the Grays is dying. Their forces are growing old and their energy is used to maintain their fleet in space. They have stripped their home world in order to attack us. That is why there is a delay, as they wait for an opening that will be devastating to us.”

The president saw the concerned look briefly cross his friend’s face. “What is it?”

“In the briefings with Matchstick and Gus, they both get extremely quiet when we talk about the Grays’ home world. It seems something has been concerning the little green guy for a few years, but we at the Group cannot explain it, nor will he discuss it.”

The president held Niles in his sight and then lowered his head in near despair.

“God, I pray he’s not hiding anything from us.”

At 1.7 miles beneath Nellis Air Force Base, the Event Group complex was at its usual brisk pace. Thirteen field teams were crawling through deserts, mountains, and oceans searching for a historical record of downed alien aircraft in ancient times. The push to find an intact alien power plant had stripped the Event Group of most of their divisions and military security personnel, so much so that gate number two inside the Gold City Pawn Shop had been closed due to the lack of viable military personnel to secure the Las Vegas entrance. And with so many scientists and historians in the field the complex was near empty.

The man in charge of complex security on a temporary basis was First Lieutenant Will Mendenhall. Naval Commander Jason Ryan officially outranked the lieutenant but the naval aviator stepped aside due to Will’s advanced training in black operations. Both men were standing inside the computer center with Pete Golding, the man responsible for the supercomputer Europa. They stood in front of Pete’s personal Europa terminal, and it was Golding who gestured angrily at the six-foot monitor.

“Look, there it is again. What in the hell are he and Gus Tilly working on that’s using so much computer time? I have people searching for ancient saucer wreckage and sometimes they can’t even log in as Matchstick has usurped the Europa system. Niles and I gave him complete access to the computers but even that wasn’t enough. Our green friend is locking out my own teams.”

“Have you called out to Arizona to ask Matchstick why he needs so much computer time?” Will looked over at a bored Jason Ryan, who just shrugged his shoulders.

“Gus won’t say. He says that Matchstick isn’t communicating with him about this suddenly urgent project he’s working on outside of the saucer power plant search. Gus also says Matchstick isn’t sleeping and barely eating, and Gus is afraid he’s going to get sick.”

“What does the director have to say about this?” Ryan offered. “I mean, the last I heard Matchstick has total control of Europa whenever he wants it, so why is this upsetting you to the point you’re whining like a schoolgirl?”

“The director doesn’t know,” Pete said as he turned off his monitor and the view of the computer center out in Arizona. They watched the small green alien known as Mahjtic as the monitor faded to nothing. The Group called him the Matchstick Man, as Gus Tilly had been calling him since the old prospector saved the life of the small being after it had crashed in the Arizona desert.

“Well, I would suggest bringing Virginia in on this and get a jump-start on getting some answers while Dr. Compton is in Washington,” Will said as he straightened and stretched his back. Pete nodded and started to reach for the phone on his desk, but Will and Jason stopped him by clearing their throats at the same moment.

Pete Golding finally thought he knew what the two military men wanted. He nodded his head and then released the phone. He turned and spoke softly into the extended microphone, and the large monitor above them came to life with a live picture of a giant ice cave. The video was stark as the lights of a surveillance camera glared off the crystalline blue ice.

“Europa managed to break into the British security cameras in the Antarctic. As you can see the ice has been excavated quite extensively in the area of the find. After the initial discovery of the wreckage and the finding of Captain Everett’s wristwatch with his and Colonel Collins’s DNA upon it, the site has yielded little else.”

Three months before they had been informed that a watch had been discovered inside the wreckage of an unknown type of aerial vehicle of Earth origin, no craft like it was now in existence. The plum in that little information was the fact that the British Antarctica expedition that discovered the wreckage found the artifacts under more than a mile of ice. And the kicker to that statement was the fact that the ice it was buried in was more than two hundred thousand years old. Thus they were now in the state they were in three weeks before with Captain Everett in retirement and Colonel Jack Collins suspended from all field operations as per presidential order.

“Are the British going to allow American examination of the craft?” Jason asked before Will could in their never-ending competition to be first in everything.

“Thus far they think the turning over of the watch was enough. Until they have thoroughly examined the ship, or whatever it is, they won’t budge. It seems the fight to get the most technology is ongoing. But the strange thing is, Niles, Matchstick, and even Colonel Collins know what the British are up to under the ice but they are keeping it close to the vest.”

“Does it have something to do with these strange names floating around security, Overlord and such?” Mendenhall asked.

“Details of that operation will get anyone fired around here for even mentioning it. So, your guess is as good as mine.”

“Dr. Golding,” Europa announced, “Chato’s Crawl has requested restricted satellite weather data from the NASA mainframe.”

“Damn,” Pete hissed as he shook his head. “Name of asset requesting data stream?” he asked.

“Identification code: Magic.”

“Matchstick again?” Jason asked as his smile grew. “The little fella is working overtime, I guess.”

“But on what?” Pete asked. “When he requests military data from anywhere he is usually forthcoming about what he’s looking for. But now I make requests for verification as to why he wants that data, and he clams up.”

Will Mendenhall looked at the clock readout in blue numbers that was projected onto the white plastic wall of the computer center.

“Well, get Dr. Pollock to sign off on Matchstick’s request, and I think it’s time we pay our friend in the desert a visit. Pete, please keep up on the Antarctic surveillance.” Mendenhall hesitated and then faced Pete again. “Without stepping on toes and mentioning this Operation Overlord, whatever it may be.”

“Will do. Also, when you get out to Chato’s Crawl, ask Matchstick what is so important about Charlie’s cryptozoology department. He’s been spending an inordinate amount of time running through Crypto’s files and Charlie Ellenshaw hasn’t figured out a pattern to Matchstick’s research yet. If he’s interested in Crypto, he should ask Charlie directly; he could be more of a help.”

“Okay.” Mendenhall turned to Jason. “Feel like flying out to Arizona?”

“Sure, beats sitting here listening to Pete,” Jason said as he slapped Golding on the back. “But as a field team we need two more security people, buddy, and guess what? We’re fresh out of live bodies. Everyone we have in security is either in the field chasing down leads to crashed saucers or on security duty here. As you know, even with gate two shut down we’re still shorthanded.”

“I’ve got that covered. Since we need Charlie on this trip he’ll be listed in the field report as added security.”

Jason smiled as he knew right where Will was heading. “Besides Charlie, who’s they in that equation?”

Will started to walk up the stairs that led to the theater-style seating above the main floor.

“The last I heard, Antarctica was still way down south. I think Chato’s Crawl is safe enough for our intrepid Colonel Collins to join us.”

Jason Ryan looked at Pete.

“After finding Captain Everett’s watch in two-hundred-thousand-year-old ice I don’t find very much safe about anything.”

“I hear that.”

The knock sounded loudly on his door. His eyes never left the screen full of information that scrolled across his face inside the darkness of his private quarters. The eyes scanned a document he had stared at for hours on end. It was an image of the only scrap of evidence in the murder of a thirty-one-year-old CIA agent. The internal memorandum was of U.S. government origin and was known to be used by three of the top agencies in the country — the FBI, the National Security Agency, and the CIA. The memo directed the young agent to a meeting she never returned from. The key to the document was the small dash-dot system in the left-hand corner. Pete and Europa finally deciphered the code and broke it down to indicate the memo originated at the desk of someone at the CIA.

The subject of the memo was the very man looking at the image supplied by Europa. It was a memo listing his name and day and dates of where he was at. It was a tracking report from a bug that had been planted covertly on his person, and the memo was an order to the contracted satellite company doing the tracking — Cassini Space-Based Systems — by the person or persons responsible for the young agent’s and another female’s death. The eyes scanned the document one last time and then Jack Collins shut off the monitor and turned his unshaven face toward the steel door of his quarters — or as he had come to think of it, his prison.

“Come,” he said as he stood. He paced to the bathroom and splashed water on his face just as the door opened. Will Mendenhall stuck his head inside.

“Feel like getting the hell out of here for a while, Colonel?” Will asked as his eyes studied the usually immaculate quarters. His eyes fell on the empty Jack Daniels bottle and several glasses that lined his desk. The room was a mess and so unlike Collins that Will shook his head.

Jack came out of the bathroom drying his hands on a towel. When he was finished he allowed it to slip through his fingers and onto the carpeted floor.

“What is it, you busting me out?” Jack started to slip into an olive-drab-colored T-shirt over his bare chest.

“Something like that. We’re shorthanded on a routine detail and it should afford you to get a little air since it’s nowhere near the South Pole.”

Collins looked at Will for the longest time.

“Still nothing on the origins of Mr. Everett’s watch?”

Mendenhall’s silence was enough of an answer. Jack angrily slipped into a wrinkled white dress shirt and started buttoning it. As long as he was restricted to base because of this archeological find in Antarctica he could not get out of the complex to find the killer of the young CIA agent — his sister, Lynn Simpson Collins. He knew the watch had to have been discovered in the efforts to free the largest part of Operation Overlord from the ice, a fact he couldn’t share with Will or anyone else who wasn’t in on the planned response to a possible Gray invasion.

“Figure we could go out and see our little friend in the desert. It seems he’s up to deviltry and it’s freaking Doc Golding out.”

“What doesn’t freak Pete out?” Jack said, feeling better just by talking about normal things again. “Why not,” he finally said. “And by the way, you know that anything our green friend wants, he gets, so Pete should just calm down.”

Will held the door open for the colonel in silence.

“What’s the latest on McIntire?” Jack asked as he gathered his things.

“She’s still in Uzbekistan, checking on one of the target areas for the search.”

“The supposed Soviet saucer encounter in 1972?” Jack retrieved his sunglasses from the desk and made his way to the door.

“Yeah, looks like another dead end as no one wants to talk to our team or the Russians. Both we and the Ruskies aren’t real popular over there. She should be back in a few days. I think Dr. Compton has another search he wants her on.”

“Matchstick has no theories on Everett’s watch and the Antarctica thing?” Jack knew the link between Operation Overlord and the captain’s watch had to be connected, but without telling the top-most secret in the world to Pete and the others they were at a dead end.

“When asked, green boy just looks confused and then says there is no such science as time displacement, no matter what Albert Einstein says, and I guess he would know.”

“Why? Most of the scientists around here believe Einstein was one of them anyway,” Jack said, referring to Albert’s proclivity for being right about everything.

For Will it was good to see the colonel smile, even if it was only a moment of normalcy.

Jack turned to close his door and then hesitated.

“How is Captain Everett?”

“No word. It seems the captain may have found a home in Romania.”

Jack nodded and felt better that his friend was at least safe inside Romania.

“Well, shall we go hassle the Matchstick Man?” Collins asked as he gestured for Will to lead the way.

On the way down the corridor Will whistled the old tune the colonel had made him listen to six years before — the 1967 hit by the British rock band Status Quo: “Pictures of Matchstick Men.” It was a tune that was hauntingly similar in description to their little green alien friend — Mahjtic.

Niles waited on the president. The way his friend fidgeted about on the facing couch resembled a man trying to find a way to tell his buddy he had a terminal illness. Then the president stood and moved to his desk and used a small key to open one of the many drawers. He removed his own special file and went to the coffee table fronting the two couches, sat on the edge, and then slapped Niles on the knee with it.

“What is this?” Niles asked, refusing to touch it.

“Orders.”

Compton saw the president’s eyes as they locked on his own. Then his eyes moved to the emblem on the manila file as he saw it was from the Department of the Navy, and a cold chill ran through his body. Finally Niles reached out and accepted the folder.

“Before you open that I have this little problem to deal with and I want to do it in front of you so you can personally pass on what it was you witnessed.” The president reached into his suit jacket and brought out a large white envelope and opened it. Without comment the president tore the envelope and whatever was inside of it in two, then tossed the destroyed letter onto the tabletop and faced Compton once more.

“Okay, you have me more than curious. What was that about?”

The president shook his head and turned away, then stood and momentarily squeezed Niles’s shoulder. “That was me being a prick, my old friend.”

“We’ve always known that, but why admit to it now?” Compton quipped nervously as his eyes went to the torn-up envelope and whatever secret it held.

“When an officer in the United States military resigns, he resigns, no one says anything, it’s deemed personal, and is left alone.” The president walked toward his desk and then turned and faced Niles. “That was the resignation letter signed by Captain Everett — not accepted.”

Niles started to protest but his old friend held up a warning hand.

“No discussion on this matter will be tolerated or appreciated. It was hard enough interfering with a military man’s life, but in this case it had to be done.” The president paced toward a silent Compton. “You and General Lee once told me that hard choices were going to have to be made that would send thousands, maybe even millions of boys off to die, and no matter what happens the Overlord plan would have to be adhered to or we would lose to the Grays in no uncertain terms. The debriefing of Matchstick has explained in detail that this planet does not stand a chance of defending itself against an advanced race without Overlord. Lee said it, Matchstick has also said it, and you, my friend, concurred. Nothing interferes with the Overlord plans, especially the second section of that plan. Remember the report you turned in?”

Niles just nodded his head as he slowly opened the folder and saw the thin sheets of military flimsy. The orders were for Captain Carl Everett. He closed his eyes, then the offending file folder.

“Captain Everett has been reassigned to Overlord,” the president said. “I need him there and so do you. He’s worked closely with several of the engineers and one those engineers in particular. The captain was a part of your original plan four years ago, assigned to the same area of Overlord as this, the Antarctica discovery of his watch and the blood of he and Colonel Collins notwithstanding.”

“So no matter what it is we find that explains how Captain Everett’s wristwatch was discovered buried in two-hundred-thousand-year-old ice, we still send him out there knowing it could be his part in Overlord that gets him and Jack Collins killed?”

“That’s about the gist of it. We cannot alter the Overlord scenario by not having key people where they are supposed to be.”

“In other words, the captain is expendable?”

“Very much so — as expendable as the young boys I’m going to ask to trade their lives for fighting this war. Yes, Niles, we are all expendable.”

Niles placed the orders for Everett inside his briefcase. He wanted nothing more than for this meeting to come to a close so he could get outside and breathe where decisions that got people killed were nonexistent.

Before Niles stood the president surprised him and tossed another folder on the coffee table. This one was far thicker than the first. Niles took a deep breath and then looked over at a dejected president.

“Those are orders for Colonel Collins. They are a little more confidential. He is being transferred to Hawaii immediately, along with your young Lieutenant Mendenhall. That smart-ass Lieutenant Ryan will be going with Captain Everett to Houston.” The president took a breath and then slowly walked to the couch and sat next to his friend of thirty years. “Jack is now a part of USPACOM.”

“The United States Pacific Command — why there? His outline for Overlord never called for that.”

“I know, he was to stay with the scientific aspect of Overlord, but things have changed. I want Collins and Everett separated from each other as far apart as possible, and this, old friend, is the only thing I can think of to protect them.”

USPACOM was the largest military presence in the world and Niles knew the command would more than likely be at the forefront of any defense the world could establish against the Grays. The Pacific command encompasses about half the earth’s surface, stretching from the waters off the west coast of the U.S. to the border of India, and from Antarctica to the North Pole. There are few regions as culturally, socially, economically, and geopolitically diverse as the Pacific. The thirty-six nations that comprise the Asia-Pacific region are home to more than 50 percent of the world’s population, three thousand vastly differing languages, several of the world’s largest militaries, and five nations allied with the U.S. through mutual defense treaties. Two of the three largest economies are located in the Asia-Pacific along with ten of the fourteen smallest. This area of responsibility includes the most populous nation in the world, the largest democracy, and the largest Muslim-majority nation — India. That was followed quickly by the nation with a military the U.S. intelligence services had shockingly little information on — China.

“Niles, I’m afraid that isn’t all.” The president pulled a small sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Compton. “Take this memo back with you and post it for all of my military personnel to read. I will be taking and accepting all military transfer requests to either support roles or any combat command of their choosing. I am reassigning Treasury to assist in securing the Event facility. That and personnel too old for support or combat should be sufficient.”

“Why all of a sudden? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know already with that criminally controlled computer of yours, but I imagine Pete Golding and his accomplice in crime, Europa, have been busy looking for downed saucers.”

Niles was silent, not really wanting to joke about Pete Golding and Europa’s diligence at breaking into other computer systems the world over.

The president reached beside him and took yet another folder from the coffee table. It was large and when he pulled the contents free Niles could see it was an image from space. His heart froze momentarily.

“The Hubble?” Niles asked as he took the offered photo.

The president stood and paced away with his hands inside of his pockets. “No, that’s a KH-16 satellite image — CIA, actually. That is a shot of the Algerian desert. You notice anything?”

“Yes, it looks like about three miles of earth has been taken out like a plug.” Niles examined the picture more closely. He saw roads leading in and then out of the void, but inside there was nothing but subterranean geological formations and dirt. The roads led to nowhere other than the giant hole in the ground.

“That is what’s left of a large oasis that has stood for close to ten thousand years in the Hoggar Mountains of the central Sahara Desert — specifically, Algeria, in the Tropic of Cancer.”

“And you suspect the Grays?” Niles asked as he continued to examine the CIA spy satellite image.

“That is the consensus of NASA. There is nothing in the world capable of doing that — to reach down from the sky and snatch a billion tons of earth and rock and make it vanish like a shovelful of dirt tossed over someone’s shoulder.”

“When did this event happen?” Compton asked, angry that he hadn’t been told sooner.

“Six days ago.”

Now the president’s behavior became crystal clear to Niles Compton.

“Thus the push to build up the military is now escalated to priority one.”

“Yes, the Joint Chiefs believe we have already been hit by the Grays, but we have no evidence other than a destroyed watering hole in the middle of the desert. Hardly enough of an incentive to start the largest military buildup in world history, would you agree?”

As Niles examined the space-based image he wasn’t sure what it was he was looking at. Something wasn’t sitting right with the image. One thing he did know for sure, he was losing two top people and his world of science and fact was slowly starting to go up in flames — just as he knew the entire world soon be burning with that same fire.

The president nodded with satisfaction when he saw Niles hurriedly gathering his case and the orders for Jack and Carl.

The fire had been lit underneath the man that the president of the United States considered to be the smartest man in the world — Dr. Niles Compton.

2

The raven-haired woman stood silently just inside the doorway, leaning against the frame of the dilapidated house with the thatched roof. Her stance was relaxed and motionless with her arms crossed over her chest. She watched the large man in the distance as he sat at the base of the pass, staring out into the valley far below. The summer air had turned warm and the flowers inside the pass brought on a multitude of colors that usually brightened her mood — with the exception of the past week, when the flowers’ bright cheerfulness became lost amid an ever-increasing storm front she felt was sliding her way.

Captain Carl Everett seemed content, with the exception of his feelings when night started to descend upon the Patinas Pass. It was at those moments when his past life intruded upon the gentle and loving life he had chosen these past three months. The woman loved Carl and she knew her feelings were returned. But she also knew that very same love would eventually take the life right from the man she fell for. He was not a herder of sheep and he wasn’t a farmer and she would be a fool of the highest order to believe he would be content at that over the life he had led just a few months before. His spirit was drowning here in Romania and she knew it.

Anya Korvesky was alone in what was once a bustling village but was now empty, with the exception of a young couple who thought they could leave their pasts behind them and move on into a future that didn’t include killing and subterfuge. Anya didn’t miss her former life in the Mossad, but she knew Carl was slowly starting to break into pieces. He felt he’d left all of his responsibilities behind; it was eroding what happiness the two of them had found together. She knew the captain loved her dearly, but felt him slipping away in small increments.

“It used to be I could never have crept up behind you without you blowing my head off with a hidden gun.”

Anya slowly lost the smile as she heard the voice behind her. As she turned to face the man she cocked back the hammer on a nine-millimeter handgun and patted it on her bare leg. Her smile returned.

“I see you haven’t lost your trusting nature or your ability to smell a rat.”

The man was dressed in tan clothes and work boots. His bush hat looked ridiculously out of place, as did the large briefcase he carried in his right hand. The men he came with were spread out behind him and were watching the empty village with concern.

“I wouldn’t call you a rat necessarily, General, more like an unwanted pest.”

“Touché, Major, touché.”

Anya closed her eyes at the mention of her Mossad rank.

“As you well know, General Shamni, that is no longer my military rank. My name is now Korvesky, the same as yours.” She sniffed as if a bad odor had entered her nostrils. “Or so it used to be.”

General Avis Shamni — with his ridiculous safari clothes covering his large and rotund body — stood smiling at the brightest Mossad agent he had ever produced. He held out his hand while his eyes looked at the pistol in her hand. She lowered it and then refused the handshake.

“What do you want, Uncle?” She stepped to the old table that used to belong to her grandmother and set the pistol down. She turned and faced her onetime commander in the Mossad, Israel’s elite intelligence service.

“Actually,” he said as he lowered his hand, “what I have come about concerns your American friend.” He stepped up to the open doorway and saw Carl Everett just below the entrance to the pass mending a small fence. He turned back to face his niece. “And thus, indirectly, you.”

“Uncle, I am not returning to the Mossad. I don’t belong anymore, my place is here.”

“Here?” Shamni glanced around the former home of his his elder sister. “My dear, this place is now a part of history. It sits above a fiasco that was once going to be the Las Vegas of Romania, but now sits wrecked, its evil seed returning to the earth.” He looked down the mountain through the open wooden shutters of the window and saw the Edge of the World Hotel and Resort Casino lying in ruins far below. Closer were the remains of the tourist attraction, Dracula’s Castle, where only its foundation remained after it was destroyed three months before.

“It’s something of a home, General. Far more than Israel is.”

“Ah, I see.” The general opened up his briefcase and pulled out a photo of a man. He held it out to Anya, who tried her best to ignore the offering. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

Anya glanced out the window and saw that Carl had started his descent of the mountain, heading her way. Anya then turned and looked at the black and white photo without reaching for it. The man in the eight-by-ten was thin and looked to have a thinning head of hair. She smirked when she noticed the man was wearing sideburns that almost went to his jaw line.

“Not in the slightest. I’ve never seen him before.”

The general brought out another. “And this gentleman?”

Anya picked up the eight-by-ten and looked it over. This man did seem familiar to her but she couldn’t place him. The bright orange jumpsuit was a major clue; the man, whoever he was, was dressed in standard prison fashion. The general could see the face that stared back at her was familiar so he decided to help out her memory.

“That man once ran the largest arms manufacturing firm in the world. His company was into everything.”

Anya tapped the photo with her index finger. “The Centauris Corporation?”

“As the Americans say, bingo! Correct, that is Charles Hendrix II, CEO and chairman. Well, he was, now he’s just federal prisoner Hendrix.” Shamni smirked with a knowing twitch of his heavy moustache. “Secreted away federal prisoner, I should say. You see, Hendrix doesn’t really exist.”

“I take it you’ll explain this before Carl returns?”

“The man was divested of all corporate holdings, his bank accounts seized and his manufacturing divisions sold off, then he was locked away without trial and hidden away at Leavenworth penitentiary by none other than the president of the United States.”

Anya felt the tug of curiosity and then took hold of that old investigative feeling, but hid it away from the general. She handed the photo back to the general.

“Okay, I can see your hobby of photography still has a way to go on quality issues, but other than that, General, what does this have to do with me or Carl?”

Shamni smiled and then cautiously sat in a rickety old chair. The chair creaked and groaned under his immense weight.

“You told me a story when you resigned your position in the Mossad. Maybe you should have kept your secret to yourself, but perhaps it was fortuitous that you did tell me. The story you relayed to me about your American captain and his friend, Colonel Jack Collins, and their search to find the murderer of a CIA asset — an asset that turned out to be the sister of Colonel Collins. It rang a bell, for some reason. Then I remembered a man buried deep inside Langley who specialized in dirty tricks. He led a group of men that searched out and confiscated new technologies intended for the eventual buildup of military forces the world over. This man restarted one of the more infamous groups in the history of American corporations — the Black Teams, more ominously known as the Men in Black. And the man that ran this desk at the CIA is this man.” Shamni once more pulled out the photo of the man in the ugly and outdated suit. “Hiram Vickers is his name. He works directly for, now get this, not the director of the CIA, but the assistant director of Operations, Daniel Peachtree.”

“I’ve read that Peachtree’s relationship with the president isn’t all that good. As I recall, he was against his appointment but it was pushed through anyway with the help of the Speaker of the House, Giles Camden.”

“I see you still know how to read a newspaper and remember briefing reports.” Shamni placed the photos of both men into the large envelope.

“As I asked before, what does this have to do with us?” she persisted, not allowing the Israeli general to go into one of his soliloquies about loyalty and how badly the service missed her. She knew how her uncle played the game — he was good at it and very experienced in getting just what was needed for the State of Israel any way he could.

“Okay, Major, we’ll get straight to the point, then. It is the opinion of intelligence and a few other departments inside Mossad that the man with the red hair is the entity responsible for the murder of the sister of Colonel Collins, and that this Charles Hendrix gave the CIA, Peachtree in particular, the operational standards and guidelines of his Centauris’s defunct Black Teams.”

“I suppose you have evidence to back up that rather broad statement?” she asked as she started to see Shamni’s game.

“Not one shred other than the fact we have people like you, Anya, that are the best in the world in analyzing enemies and allies alike and can put two and two together.” He smiled again. “Besides, it just so happens we have an asset inside Langley that says this Hiram Vickers is an ass of the first order and no one, and I mean no one, trusts him.”

“And you think that you can tell Carl this guesswork of yours and your wunderkind back in Tel Aviv and he’ll go running back to the good old USA, and I back to you and the Mossad — is that about the gist of it, Uncle?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Anya closed her eyes as she realized that this day was always meant to come. She opened her eyes and watched as Carl stopped at the front gate of the empty village of Patinas. She saw his face as he studied the Range Rover parked along the dirt road. He looked from the car and the driver who sat silently behind the wheel, then to the small house and the men surrounding it. He saw Anya and raised a brow; she must look distressed even from the distance he was standing.

“You know he’ll leave for a chance at assisting his friend Jack in finding the lowlife that killed his sister. He may even want to return after he does what needs doing,” Anya said with hope ringing her words.

General Shamni stood and paced to the window to let Carl see who was visiting. He placed a hand on his niece’s shoulder.

“If it were any other time in the history of the world I would say yes, he will return to you. But these are not times that were meant for joy and happiness. Israel needs all her children to come home for what’s heading our way.” He held a file in front of Anya and then turned to leave. “Perhaps you’ll show him the photos, perhaps you won’t.” He stopped but didn’t turn to face her. “Maybe you can trick him into staying. But the file I just handed to you is top secret and no more than two dozen people in the world know the code names in the contents. That, my dear niece, you can’t hide from him. We are just notifying Captain Everett a few weeks ahead of time, is all. Official orders will be delivered to him from the military attaché at the American embassy in Bucharest.”

Anya didn’t look at the file and she didn’t turn as the general approached the door.

“I will have an aircraft standing by to fly you home to Tel Aviv, as we have important work to do.” The general left.

Anya Korvesky took a deep breath as she saw Carl being approached by General Shamni. He watched as Carl smiled and took the general’s hand in his own. Pleasantries were exchanged but even then Carl was looking past the general’s shoulder to view Anya’s sad countenance. She quickly turned away and looked inside the folder. She felt the tears well up in her eyes as she saw that it was an absconded copy of a United States Department of the Navy letter. It was an official notice that his resignation was not accepted and that he was to report immediately to Houston, Texas, and the new Naval Warfare Center, permanently attached to something called Overlord. She closed the folder and sat heavily in one of the old chairs.

She felt Carl standing in the doorway. Without looking up she slid the large envelope across the wooden table. She placed her hands in her lap as if the envelope had a disgusting feel to it.

Carl ignored the envelope and instead of reaching for it when he approached he went to Anya and placed his large hands on her small shoulders and squeezed lightly. She reached a hand up and took a soft hold on his arm and then just sat that way.

“Carl, you have to sit down and we have to talk.”

“The general is recalling you to Tel Aviv, isn’t he?” he asked as he kept his hands on her shoulders. He looked at the envelope sitting on the table and that was when he saw the file folder in Anya’s free hand. He patted her lightly and then sat and just looked at the large yellow envelope.

“Yes,” Anya said as she found her eyes refused to take Carl in. “And I’m returning with him as soon as possible.”

Carl sat motionless while his eyes studied Anya’s face. Her refusal to look at him told him volumes.

“And you are to be recalled by your Department of the Navy,” she said, still not looking up as she laid the file on the table next to the yellow envelope. Finally her moist eyes rose to meet Carl’s. She slowly slid the file toward him and then looked away as he opened it and studied the stolen orders.

“Pretty damn industrious of Uncle General, isn’t it? I’m sure the U.S. Navy would like to learn how he got ahold of transit orders before the ink was even dry on them.”

Anya smiled at the naiveté that Carl showed sometimes, as he liked to believe everyone in the world was as aboveboard as himself and his friends in America. It was always amazing when she had to explain the hard truths to him.

“The same place your CIA gets their information, Carl, and you know that. Some little analyst with a cheap computer broke into another computer and got the orders before release.”

Carl shook his head as he closed the folder. “Yeah, I know about little analysts and their computers and what a pain in the ass they can be. Only the computer they use isn’t cheap.” He smiled, thinking about his old friend Pete Golding and his “girlfriend,” Europa, and then reached out to take Anya’s hand. “I guess someone in Washington needs to learn to read a resignation letter. I’m done with all of that.” He squeezed her hand. “Just as I hope you’re done with the Mossad.”

Anya released his hand abruptly and then stood so suddenly she knocked the chair over as she turned for the window. “Carl, I’m leaving for Tel Aviv and you’re going home before those orders take effect. You may have enough time before you have to report to Houston to do what needs to be done.”

“Time for what, and what needs to be done?” he asked as he finally reached for the yellow envelope. He saw Anya wasn’t going to answer so he opened it and pulled the two photos free along with the report that accompanied them. He saw immediately that the written report was butchered by long, black editing lines cutting off information not meant for Carl’s eyes. He read as he looked at both pictures. His brows rose when he recognized Charles Hendrix of the defunct Centauris Corporation. He looked at Anya, who was still facing toward the mountain outside. When Carl finished the analyst’s conclusions as to the collusion between Hendrix, Assistant Director of Operations Daniel Peachtree, and this Hiram Vickers, he became silent as his fingers closed around the likeness of Vickers. He studied the man’s face and didn’t notice when Anya turned and went to Everett and sat next to him. She forcefully removed his fingers from the photo and then closed both of her smaller ones over Carl’s.

“It’s time for you to go home, my handsome captain. Both our countries need us home.” She quickly released one of her hands and swiped at the tear that rolled down her right cheek. She hated herself for being a girl as she thought if it, but this was her life, her love that she was going to force away from her. “Your friend Jack needs you, and for the little bit of time you have left before your navy steals you, you can help him end this horrible thing that befell his sister. The general says we are running out of time — about what, he didn’t say, but I believe him when he says Israel needs all her children back home.” She smiled and leaned across and kissed Carl. “And so does America.” She smiled broadly as she pulled back after kissing him. “She needs all of her Captain Americas.”

Carl swallowed as he realized his time with Anya was at an end. It was because Carl knew just what the Mossad general was referring to when he mentioned they were all running out of time. It could only mean one thing, and that business had to with the Event Group’s small green secret in the desert. But it was the other that concerned him at the moment. The information he now held could only be delivered by hand to Jack, as he could never trust sending it through any other means. Yes, he knew he had to return to Nevada and he knew he had to help Jack before the real-world problems started burning the world to cinders. Carl lowered his head as he found he was unable to speak. Anya broke down and started to cry, then leaned into Everett and held him.

Deep in the Carpathian Mountains, the sad refrain of a wolf’s cry echoed across the windswept peaks.

On the gleaming coast of Jiyeh sat the refurbished resort hotel that was now the pride of all Lebanon. The hotel had faced destruction many times and was partially burned in the civil war of two decades before. Sitting twenty-seven kilometers south of Beirut, the resort rarely had empty rooms as festive life had slowly returned to the war torn nation.

On this Saturday tourists filled the spa and pool areas and crowded the many restaurants that served foods from all over the world. The resort was out to make Beirut the place to visit it had been thirty years before.

As the noon hour approached the sun was blotted out by a few clouds that seemed to approach the coast without being noticed by either the guests or the resort staff. As tourists were just starting to lie out on the white sandy beaches while others were heading inside for lunch, the clouds grew heavier and thicker. The guests shielded their eyes against the fading sunlight as they watched the strange clouds swirling right above the resort.

Suddenly thunder roared as more clouds joined the first group. These were darker and strangely enough were tinged with green and blue colored highlights that seemed to emanate from deep within the small storm. As sunbathers stood and started gathering towels and belongings, the wind picked up. It went from a calm five-mile-an-hour offshore breeze to a thunderous peppering of sand and seawater as the guests were pummeled by wind-sped debris.

The hotel staff waved the guests inside as small tendrils of blackness reached out from the clouds for the earth below. The motion increased and the image of a hurricane filled most with dread. The suddenness of the storm and its power had patrons running in fear.

The circling clouds sped up. The center started down, retracted, and then began to once more creep down from the sky. The few brave guests who braved the stinging sand and sea saw the very center of the storm as it slowly passed the main section of the resort. Eyes widened as they seemed to be looking into the very visage of an angry God. The blackness beyond the dead center of the storm was like the eye of a hurricane, only it was the blackness of space that lay far beyond the top of the clouds.

Suddenly a streak of bright green lightning reached out toward the beach. Running patrons were struck down by the moving electrical fire. More strikes hit the resort. Multicolored yellow, green, and blue streaks slammed the spa area, immediately killing all inside.

Men, women, and children screamed as the clouds suddenly slammed into the earth. Eyewitnesses miles away said it looked as if a dark and viscous liquid had been dumped on the resort. The swirling clouds, wind, and lightning completely engulfed the resort and the land and sea for two miles around. The speeding tornado made the image of the resort a memory.

The storm started to diminish — not slowly, but as suddenly as it had sprung up. As the clouds lifted, the survivors heard the roar and crash of the sea as it rushed in to replace the billions of gallons of seawater that had vanished as surely as the resort itself.

Water seeped into the giant hole that was once the location of the billion-dollar resort. The hotel, all of the outer buildings, and even part of the sea had disappeared — vanished into the tornado-like storm. A few palms fell over as half of their bulk had been stripped away and sent with wood, cement, water, and 4,800 men, women, and children. Water gushed from broken water mains that ended abruptly where the hotel once stood.

The strange phenomenon had sucked up over four square miles of beachfront and had vanished as if it had never been.

The UH-60 Black Hawk hovered one mile away and sent out her coded signal to the security team at the compound. An answering bleep in the pilot’s headset told him the code had been read and acknowledged — they were clear to enter the no-fly zone. As the large Black Hawk slowly started forward it was still being tracked by three missile batteries hidden inside the compound and surrounding terrain, ready to shoot down anything that came near to the darkest asset in the United States.

The helicopter rose to two hundred feet and swung slightly west; the compound came into view. The site had changed much in the past eight years since the incursion by the Grays during that horrid summer when so many American servicemen and women had lost their lives.

The large and brand-new two-story Victorian house was the dominating feature with the small tar-paper-roofed shack sitting next to it hidden in its shadows. As Jack Collins, Professor Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III, and Will Mendenhall watched from inside, they didn’t see any of the twenty-man security team they knew to be eyeing the Black Hawk’s approach. The pilot aimed for the very small helipad that was camouflaged by a cross of flowers from every angle except straight up. Jason Ryan eased the large Event Group bird down. Charlie started to move toward the open sliding door and was held back by Will.

“Wait, Doc, we don’t want to lose you now.” The lieutenant eased Ellenshaw back into his seat, then nodded through the doorway at the approaching man in the jeans and blue denim shirt, with a white cowboy hat that had seen far better days. The man waved his hand and then stepped up to the open doorway.

“Colonel, Lieutenant, good afternoon.” The man looked beyond the two officers and eyed the professor. “And Doc Ellenshaw.” He again nodded, held up a small black box, and extended it to Collins first. “Colonel, if you would squeeze the foam sides of the box, please.”

Jack took the Bio-Dynastic cell, squeezed it with his right hand — palm up — and handed it back to the cautious guard. The analyzer beeped twice, then a hidden green LED light glowed softly. Jack’s name appeared on the liquid crystal screen with his rank and picture. The DNA analyzer cleared Collins for entrance into the secretive compound. The guard nodded at Jack, peeled away the twin-foam-rubber grips, replaced those with two fresh ones, and handed it to Mendenhall. The process was repeated for him and Ellenshaw. The link to Europa had taken the moisture from their grips and processed it through the DNA autobase she had of every Event Group staff member.

“Thank you, sir.” The guard stepped back after checking Charlie’s vitals on the screen. He was having a hard time not laughing at the photo of the crazy, white-haired cryptozoologist and the silly look he had on his bespectacled face.

“Sergeant.” Jack stepped from the Black Hawk and then stretched. He scratched the itching beard he had yet to shave and then looked at the Marine. “Matchstick and Gus?”

“Well, Colonel, Gus is in the small house as usual. Matchstick is still held up down in the computer room in the big house.”

Will and Charlie stepped up beside Jack.

“How long has he been like this?” Will asked, trying to get a firsthand account of what had been happening the past few days.

“Five straight days and nights. We moved a small cot into the basement for the rare times the little guy lies down, and he takes all of his meals in there. The Europa link is running twenty-four hours a day. Not unusual in and of itself, but strange because he doesn’t want us looking over his shoulder.”

“Yes, we know, that’s why we’re here.” Mendenhall smiled when he saw the old man open the even older screen door to the small shack. Gus Tilly stepped off the rickety porch and halfheartedly waved at the visitors. He moved toward the group at a slow gait and Jack saw the age Gus had fended off for so long had finally managed to slow him up.

“Colonel, Will.” Gus held out his hand and shook the two officers’ hands. He stepped up and looked Ellenshaw over. “Professor,” he said, taking Charlie by the arm and ignoring his outstretched hand. “Your name is all over that damn research material Matchstick is porin’ over, and I need you to slow that boy down before he kills himself,” he said, half angry. “What is this about?”

Jack and Will watched the exchange just as confused as Ellenshaw.

“I know he’s been in Europa’s files from the Crypto department but he’s locked the file and we can’t get in. He’s classified all of his research with a security code.”

“A situation that should have been avoided,” Mendenhall mentioned as he broke into the conversation. “Pete Golding should not have given Matchstick clearance to secure his own research material or files.”

“Look, Niles has given over complete control of certain aspects of computer security directly to Matchstick…” Jack hesitated, not able to say too much. “While he does a special project.”

Jack stepped up. “Gus, are you all right?” he asked, looking at the thin, frail shape of the old prospector.

Tilly held a hand up and swished it through the air.

“Ah, gettin’ old, is all. The Group doc, that Gilliam woman, said it’s exhaustion. ’Fraid that little shit in there”—he pointed at the new house—“has me worried beyond reason with his strange behavior. He ain’t been to the mine in two weeks.”

They were interrupted by one of the civilian-attired guards as he came from the small garden hut that doubled as the main gate for the compound. He was carrying an armload of what looked like newspapers. Jack exchanged looks with Mendenhall as the guard stepped up to the four men.

“Sergeant, Matchstick’s daily reading material arrived about an hour ago. I’ve checked them all for bugs and they’re clean. Should I take them to him?” the guard asked the Marine sergeant.

Collins reached for them. “No, we’ll take them.”

“Tell him now’s not the time to hold back secrets from friends, so give the little green bastard a piece of your mind, Colonel,” the old man said with a mischievous grin on his whiskered face. “You seem to be the only human that intimidates him anymore. The way he looks at me is like he’s in disconnect … Sorta sad-like.”

A very tired Jack nodded his head and winked at Gus, then started toward the main house. All but the sergeant and guard followed. Charlie thought a moment and turned to Gus.

“Gus, why haven’t you two ever moved into the house the people of the United States built for you?”

Gus looked from Ellenshaw toward the large house. “All that place does is remind me about the many American boys and girls that lost their lives in order for us to have that monstrosity. Hell, the only reason Matchstick is in there now is because that damn Europa terminal wouldn’t fit into my old shack.” Gus’s gray eyes lingered for a brief moment longer on the Victorian house, then he abruptly turned and made his way back to the home he and a little green man from space had lived in happily since Gus had found the injured alien in the mountains eight years before.

Charlie frowned, then turned and caught up with Jack and Will.

“Gus is worried more than he’s letting on about why Matchstick is behaving the way he is,” he said as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.

Collins afforded the naive Ellenshaw a glance. “He’s old, Doc. Gus feels Matchstick is ignoring him because of this Gray problem. He’s lonely again, is all.”

Will Mendenhall stopped before reaching the wide wraparound porch of the white-painted house. “I take it all of this stuff we’re hearing about secret plans for the president is what’s keeping Matchstick away from Gus?”

“Maybe, but he always lets us know of what he needs. This latest is new behavior.”

Two guards greeted the three men and showed them into the basement by hidden elevator. The Europa connection required every inch of four-inch, bulletproof-glassed space. Jack looked inside once the elevator doors opened and saw the mess beyond the glass. Newspapers and books were spread everywhere. The four desks were overflowing with material. Of Matchstick there was no trace.

“Jesus,” Charlie said as he examined the interior of the closed off computer area, “what a mess.”

Jack saw a pile of newspapers move and then settle. It trembled once more and then stopped again. He quickly adjusted the newspapers in his arms and entered his security code at the station beside the door. The glass panel hissed as it slid open and the three men entered. Collins gave the papers and magazines to Mendenhall and stepped toward the large pile of papers. He brushed some of them away and looked down to see a sleeping Matchstick on the floor, covered in his research material and maps. The little green man was snoring lightly as his small chest heaved up and down. Jack saw the large eyes underneath the opposing lids as they worked back and forth rapidly and he knew Mahjtic was dreaming. Not for the first time Collins wondered what would a small green alien dream about? Home? His slave days amongst the Grays? He leaned down to a knee and lightly tapped Mahjtic on the T-shirt-covered belly. He smiled when he saw he was wearing a Star Wars shirt with the wise old Yoda holding up a finger. Jack shook his head and tapped Matchstick once more.

The black eyes sprang open in near panic. The small green alien looked at Collins and then recognition finally reached his very active brain. The alien smiled widely.

“Hi,” he said in his raspy voice as Collins helped him to his feet. Matchstick closed the small white terry-cloth bathrobe over the T-shirt and hugged Jack’s legs. Then he went to each, Charlie first and then Will, and repeated the process. The three men exchanged bemused looks.

“Here, I guess these are yours.” Mendenhall held out the pile of newspapers and magazines.

Matchstick’s mouth formed into a small O and then he took the offered newspapers and started going through them quickly, tossing first one, and then the next away onto the already paper-covered floor. Then his almond-shaped eyes widened as he found the one he wanted. He held it close to his giant eyes and studied the headlines. Jack, out of curiosity, leaned over and looked at which paper held the small alien’s attention. He looked up at Will and Charlie.

“The National Enquirer,” he said with a curious lilt to his voice. Matchstick dropped that one and then picked up the News of the World tabloid from Great Britain. He studied it and then with the gossip rag in his hand turned and went to a small table to sit and read. He completely ignored the three men as they followed.

Matchstick suddenly started pointing and tapping the newspaper violently, then angrily threw the tabloid away from him. He placed his large head in his arms as lowered his face onto the tabletop.

“Okay, Matchstick, what’s wrong?” Jack picked up the crumpled newspaper and examined the headline there.

ENTIRE RESORT REPORTED DESTROYED BY STRANGE HURRICANE, it said. Jack held out the front page and showed Will and Charlie.

“What are you working on, little guy?” Collins asked Matchstick as the small alien finally raised his head. “This have something to do with Overlord?”

Will and Charlie exchanged looks as that code name was heard once again. They knew better than to ask Jack what it was, but the name kept popping up from time to time.

Mahjtic didn’t answer as he stood and then walked toward the computer terminal. There was no voice synthesizer because Europa had a hard time understanding Matchstick’s English vocalizations, so he had to manually input all his requests through the antiquated keyboard, which the Green found immensely and frustratingly slow. He started tapping away with lightning speed with his long fingers.

The three men exchanged concerned looks as Matchstick completely ignored them. Jack’s eyes watched Mendenhall as he pulled away some Hot Pockets wrappers and boxes along with forty or fifty empty Jell-O cups, then lifted a file from the debris-strewn tabletop. Will held it up so Collins could see it clearer. It was a Europa printout of a White House security briefing as delivered by the president’s national security advisor. Jack took the report.

“Matchstick, you know your limits with Europa, don’t you? There was to be no, I repeat, no computer break-ins of any kind where the presidential chain of command is concerned, right? You have to go through channels, and that means Pete Golding.” Jack watched as his words seemed to have no effect. “Other than planning for Overlord, you still have limits. We can get anything you want, but we have to know why.” Jack turned and made sure his words weren’t overheard by Mendenhall or Ellenshaw.

Matchstick suddenly started shaking as if he had become cold; his slim fingers stopped typing on the keyboard. The small being grabbed one hand with the other to control the tremors. Matchstick closed his eyes, sending the side-sliding eyelids to close from the temple area of the head. This happened several times in rapid succession, then Matchstick slowed and opened his eyes wide as he slowly reached for Jack’s hand.

“Saucer?” was the only word he muttered in the soft and buzz-filled voice.

“No, we haven’t found anything.”

Matchstick still held Jack’s large hand as his head turned away in thought. Then he looked at the colonel once again, his dark, jet-black eyes intense. Collins hadn’t seen the small fella act this strangely since four years back, when he was having psychic nightmares about the events on the moon that led to the discovery of the alien and Martian technology that was recovered. Tech that eventually led to Garrison Lee and Niles Compton’s Operation Overlord plan. Only this episode looked to be worse.

“None … of the ancient … crash sites … yielded a power plant?” Matchstick stumbled with the words.

Only Jack knew any details about the Overlord plan, so Charlie and Will just listened. Part of the plan called for the acquisition of an alien-designed engine from one of the saucers, for what? Jack could only guess as neither Niles, Matchstick, the president, nor Senator Lee ever took him into their confidence on certain aspects of Overlord.

“No, but we’re still looking. We have several more leads to follow up on.” Collins saw the eyes close and the head shake. Matchstick’s hand slowly released Jack’s own and he decided to go easy on the green guy for a moment. “Sarah’s in Uzbekistan right now and she still has to file a report on the Russian claim of 1972.”

He saw Sarah’s name made the alien smile for the first time. He nodded his head as if knowing that Sarah was out looking for what they so desperately needed made his burden, whatever it was, far less than it was only a moment before.

“Sarah,” Mahjtic said, repeating the name of a woman the alien had always liked. Jack had noticed that she seemed to have that effect on the strangest of people. Henri Farbeaux flashed through his mind and stuck momentarily.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong. Will here says you’re not sleeping and working far too hard. Let us help with whatever it is. The saucer search isn’t what’s bothering you. You knew from the start it would be a long and maybe futile effort to find one. It’s something else.”

Matchstick looked as if he were thinking, then pushed some of the old newspapers aside to find what he was looking for. It was a yellow file folder with 5656 stamped upon the front. Jack looked over at Will and Charlie; they too noticed it was also marked CRYPTO SCIENCES. Charlie stepped forward, took the offered file, and opened it. He quickly scanned a report Charlie had filed himself more than ten years before for a class he instructed at the complex.

“Matchstick,” Charlie began, “you were supposed to be assisting us when your other duties allowed you to do so in the Captain Everett situation, and report on any theory of time travel you could possibly know about. Why are you delving into mass disappearances?” Charlie held the file up and Jack and Mendenhall saw the title of the report: WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO ROME’S NINTH LEGION?

Jack raised his brows and Will stepped up to the small desk, picked up another Crypto file from Charlie’s office, and opened it. He shook his head and then also held it up so Jack could read the heading of Ellenshaw’s conclusions as reported through Europa. This file was fifteen years old. ENTIRE CHINESE ARMY DIVISION VANISHES IN 1938.

“Do these have something to do with the research you were assigned on the possibilities of time travel and how Captain Everett’s watch could be found in ice two hundred thousand years old?” Charlie asked. Collins touched the front page of the newspaper. “Are the Grays responsible for this?”

Matchstick looked up into the face of the colonel and then his eyes narrowed. He shook his head in the negative, which threw Jack a curve.

“Okay, what do you suspect?” Jack asked.

Mahjtic stood and pushed away from his small desk, took Jack by the hand, and led him to the glass wall. Then Matchstick held up his long, thin arms for Collins to pick him up. Jack shook his head but lifted the small being into his arms and sat him on the window sill that looked out on the desert from the ground view of the basement. Jack didn’t care for the way Matchstick was acting. He looked out into the afternoon sun with his long fingers framing the sill.

“Someone … has … a working power … plant.” His obsidian-colored eyes blinked against the bright sunlight as he turned to face the colonel.

“Sarah and her discovery teams haven’t found one trace of any of the crash sites you sent her to. So I doubt anyone, anywhere has a working saucer engine.”

Matchstick sat on the protruding sill and then eyed Jack. “Someone on this … planet … has a working power plant, and they … are … creating … wormholes.” Matchstick hopped down from the window sill and landed at Jack’s feet, then pulled the National Enquirer from the desk to show him the big hole in the ground where the Lebanese resort site had been. “Wormhole effect when … tunnel strikes the … surface of … the … planet.”

“I’m not following your logic,” Jack said. Charlie and Will came closer as they too became interested in the theory the small alien was putting forth.

Matchstick went back to his desk and with the keyboard humming his long fingers flew across the keys. Soon Europa was online to answer their questions.

“Colonel Collins. It has been determined through debriefing that the technology of wormhole travel is complicated. When travel ends, the wormhole must not be in contact with the destination itself. The exit has to be situated no less than three thousand feet above the surface of target destination. If not, the destructive forces of the transit hole will produce catastrophic effects in the area where contact is made. By contacting the surface of target area the ground is pulled up and back into the wormhole.”

“But what about these old disappearances, Matchstick? What do they have to do with this wormhole effect? I mean, they happened so long ago it seems moot.” Charlie Ellenshaw raised his glasses to study the diagram of an animated wormhole that looked exactly like an upside-down hurricane formation ending in a faster-than-light-speed funnel cloud.

Collins looked at Ellenshaw and raised his eyebrows.

Europa answered for Matchstick when the alien typed his answer.

“It has been determined by the slave races of their home world that the wormhole effect is also a means of entering and exiting before IP contact is made. Exiting the wormhole before IP contact with the atmosphere of target area will whiplash the traveler inside to another time realm — thus the suspected experimentation with the alien power plant has affected the earth’s past in several key points.”

“Boy, you have really lost me now,” Mendenhall said.

Matchstick quickly typed in more commands.

“The suspected power plant in use must be in an experimental stage as the nation using it powers it up. While miniature wormholes have been initiated by suspected engine, the knowledge to control the wormhole has not been fail-safed or regulated. Experimentation is creating wormholes that are thus far uncontrollable.”

Again the three men exchanged looks of incredulity. Matchstick was getting frustrated. He typed in more commands and the Europa screen went to full illumination as an animated effect started. It was a wormhole as produced by Europa and her advanced graphics. The hurricane-like storm was spinning in a counterclockwise swirl. It would slink one way as a tornado would and then straighten. The animation showed the wormhole forming outside of Earth’s atmosphere, where it snaked across the screen like an undulating and angry snake. With a bright flash the end of the wormhole opened amid the violence of the storm in space and then a momentary funnel cloud formed. Several saucers flared out of the exit and into the atmosphere.

“This is … a wormhole as … the Grays … use it.” He tapped more commands. “This is what … is happening … now.”

On the screen the wormhole suddenly shot downward through the troposphere, then through the high cirrus clouds until the tunnel mouth slammed into the ground. In moments the wormhole started back up and everywhere — land mass, water, or mountain — the hole touched had gone back up with it.

“I see.” Charlie lowered his glasses back down to his nose and studied the screen further. “You’re saying whoever is experimenting with this power plant isn’t using it right?”

Matchstick closed his large eyes and then vigorously nodded his head so hard Jack thought it would fly from his shoulders.

“And the experiments have caused these mass disappearances throughout our history?” Collins asked as he pulled up one of the small chairs and sat next to Matchstick. He looked deeply into his eyes, wanting to understand why the small alien was so terrified. After all, if someone had an engine from a downed saucer it would allow Matchstick and Compton the tools they needed for Operation Overlord — whatever that was. “How are these experiments with a wormhole opening up rips in time?”

Matchstick typed more commands and then Europa tried her best to transcribe them.

“It has been determined that the wormholes are being shut down too soon after contact with the surface of the Earth, thus the victims, or area of the strike, are pulled upward into the exit hole. When power is shut down the affected traveler will exit the wormhole at a point where it wasn’t meant to go. As the traveler moves through the wormhole an exit can be found anywhere in time; if the exit appears before it hits space the subject will be tossed out. The time frame runs backward from the initial point of contact.”

“So you’re saying that the lower in the wormhole you are, the closer to real time. The higher you are the farther back in time you are?” Charlie asked as he went to a knee in front of Matchstick’s chair.

The alien nodded again, but he wasn’t sure if the humans grasped the science at all — after all, after a million years the Grays still didn’t completely understand it.

“Do you need the power plant from a saucer to create your own wormhole for Overlord?” Jack asked, knowing he was entering into very highly classified territory where Overlord was concerned.

Matchstick looked around, knowing that he was told how secure the Overlord plan was. But as he looked into the eyes of Colonel Collins he knew that if this man could not be trusted, there was no hope for this planet anyway. Mahjtic shook his head negatively once more.

“If they don’t shoot us for asking, what do you need the engine for?” Mendenhall asked ahead of Jack.

“The … power plant … gives off a … by-product … It … is like a … breeder reactor. I need not only the engine for power but … also … the spent fuel … from that engine.”

“Why?” Jack knew they were pushing their luck, as Matchstick knew the information was the most highly classified on the planet and he had been told by Niles Compton, General Garrison Lee, and the president of the United States not to mention Overlord to anyone — even the Event Group staff. Matchstick started twisting his fingers and rubbing his hands.

The small alien stood from his chair and then looked at Collins.

“Power, immense power in … the … spent … fuel of power plant. I … we … the Earth needs … this for Overlord.”

“Okay, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Mendenhall said.

“Yeah, we’re getting into the area of treason if the president or Niles knew what we were discussing,” Jack said, straightening up and looking at Matchstick. “Now, what happens if we don’t recover an old saucer for the power plant?”

“We … lose … the war in less than six days.”

Will looked at Jack. “You mean with all of Earth’s firepower we can’t win?”

Matchstick shook his head slowly. “We … will … be totally defeated.”

Mendenhall looked away as he heard the word for the first time: defeated.

The room was silent as the statement hung in the air. Collins took a deep breath and decided if he was going to hang for questioning Matchstick, he may as well go for broke in his treason.

“Matchstick.” Jack placed a hand on the alien’s head and then knelt so he could look into the strangest eyes in the universe. “I know the first part of Operation Overlord because I was in on the planning for troop movements and allied response … but the second part of the plan had been kept pretty close to the vest by the president, Garrison, and Niles. What is the real Overlord plan?”

Matchstick shook his head sadly and turned away from Jack.

“I … cannot … tell … you … Colonel.” He turned and tilted his head at Collins, then gave him a sad smile with the small mouth. “So many will … have … to be … sacrificed to even … get … to … the point of Overlord, that … it is best that … no one … knows.” The small alien looked up, sad. “Not even … the bestest … of friends.”

“Colonel, I think the little guy is saying that Overlord includes plans for people we know, and—,” Will started to say.

“Those people are expendable and they, or we, are not to know the details.” Collins patted Matchstick on the small shoulder and then turned away.

“Mahjtic … so sorry … Colonel Jack. But many, many, friends will not survive … even if … Overlord … works.”

Jack and Charlie heard the low moan escape from Will Mendenhall.

“I knew I should have joined the Coast Guard.”

“I think you may want to wait until Matchstick tells us why he’s in a near panic to find this outside of the Overlord considerations.”

Matchstick realized that Jack was starting to suspect that it was not just Overlord that was weighing so heavily on the small alien’s large brain.

“Well, little guy, is there something else you want to let us in on?” Mendenhall asked, far more worried than he had been.

Mahjtic turned away, shut off the Europa monitor, and sat heavily in his chair. He stared at the scattering of papers strewn wide and far. He then slowly looked from one expectant face to the other. The large eyes blinked, sending the double eyelids in from the temple side of his face. They rapidly opened and closed and then settled on the colonel.

“The use of … the … power … plant now operating will force … the Gray Masters into … attacking earlier than they … wanted when they … believe … the Earth … has wormhole … technology. We must find the … engine … and … remove … it … from … the … country that … is … using it.”

“What are you saying?” Charlie removed his glasses and wiped at them vigorously with one of the discarded newspapers.

Matchstick looked at the white-haired professor.

“The Grays are coming, Charlieeee.”

Assistant Director of Operations Daniel Peachtree sat before the appointed head of Central Intelligence, Harlan Easterbrook. He had been lambasted by the career law enforcement man for the past hour about a subject that had become a political mess for not only the director, but he himself: Hiram Vickers — special desk for “Dirty Tricks.” The euphemism meant Vickers collected technology intelligence from any nation he could gather the information on. The director just discovered Hiram had been doing far more than that.

“First the man runs a tail on a closed operative of the United States Army, and the army is a part of this country, the last that I heard, and like it or not I believe we need them to assist in the securing of this country.”

“The tail was just a test and was not meant to—,”

“I don’t care, Mr. Peachtree,” the director said, cutting his AD off at the knees before he could continue. “You happened to anger the man that appointed me to this very office, a man I owe everything to. The man you tagged is under presidential protection and is assigned to a highly classified position. And this is the man that was incidentally tagged for a test? I have never heard such bullshit in my life. And then this officer’s sister, a woman that worked in this very facility, is murdered along with another technician from Imaging and Tracking.” The director’s glare was murderous.

“Now wait, Harlan, there is nothing to that. Vickers won’t even wipe his nose without permission from me.” Peachtree began feeling very uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny of the director.

“Is that right, Mr. Peachtree? Does that mean you gave him authorization to bug and then tail this Colonel Collins? Did he inform you when he wiped his nose that time?” he asked angrily, tossing his fountain pen on his desk.

“I assure you that everything Vickers and his desk do to fulfill their task is completely aboveboard. Look at the technology he’s uncovered. He has been an asset we cannot lose with the trouble coming this way.”

“Well, I can damn well get along without that little weasel bastard!” Easterbrook’s voice rose to an uncomfortable level.

Peachtree started to say something but the director held up his right hand, staying the response to the insult of a division under the control operations director.

“I was informed that your Mr. Vickers paid a visit to USP Leavenworth to visit a prisoner with no official name or life. A man that it is forbidden to even know exists.”

“This I know nothing about,” Peachtree said in all honesty. “May I learn the name of this nonexistent prisoner?”

“Not if you want to keep your own freedom. Believe me, you don’t want to know. That subject, Mr. Peachtree, is so far above your pay-grade you would think that God himself issued the order that put this man away.”

Peachtree hated the silver-haired man sitting before him. He knew him to be, as himself, nothing more than a political appointee by men in the midst of a power struggle. The president of the United States, who appointed the director, and Speaker of the House Giles Camden, who pushed his own appointment through the hard way, were at extreme odds in the world of heavy-duty politics. His main job after the appointment Camden secured for him under Easterbrook was to keep close tabs on the director and his dealings with the president, whom Camden hated with a passion only reserved for the staunchest of political enemies.

“What do you want me to do — shut down Senator Camden’s pet project on technology gathering?”

“The Speaker of the House can appoint anyone to any project he wants, but not here. This ends today. I want the Technology Acquisitions desk shut down before too much light is pointed in our direction, as I don’t think you really know what your man Vickers has done. I believe he may or may not have informed you about all of his activities. And one more thing, if I hear that stupid phrase ‘dirty tricks’ around here one more time I’ll start firing people in a very public manner. Those days have to be over. We have got to stop making enemies here and overseas if the world is going to get through this crap, and we don’t need your Mr. Vickers creating enemies when we need everyone on the planet in the same damn huddle. Am I understood?”

“What do I do with Vickers?”

The CIA director leaned as far forward as his chair and desk would allow.

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Peachtree, you either find a way to get rid of him, or I just may drop a note to an interested party serving with the army about the last official person to see his sister alive only hours before she was murdered. We can go that route if you like.”

Peachtree stared silently at the director, as he didn’t trust his voice to stay at a calm decibel level. Instead of protesting or giving any credence to the rumors swirling around about Vickers’s involvement, which would eventually lead to him knowing the truth about young Lynn Simpson’s murder, he would just stall as long as he could to keep Speaker of the House Camden from knowing his man was being fired. He would have to hide Hiram Vickers so deep that no one would ever find him.

“Until I find a way to get Vickers out of here I’ll assign him to a post as far away as I can find.”

“You can bury your trash as far away as possible, Mr. Peachtree, but the stink may still linger.”

Peachtree stood and buttoned his jacket. The director raised his brow, wondering if the assistant director of Operations would try to sway his harsh decision on Vickers. He didn’t as he turned and left the director’s large office.

Peachtree went to his own office, which was directly connected to the assistant director of Intelligence and her staff. As he walked by the enemy camp — as he came to know it after the Simpson murder — many eyes followed him. He walked past his own assistant and into the seclusion of his inner sanctum. He immediately picked up his secure phone. Peachtree waited while the call was connected.

“Vickers,” the voice said.

“Where are you?” Peachtree asked.

“I’m at the Pentagon.”

“What are you doing there? I would have thought you would want to stay away from the guys that wear uniforms as much as possible, especially since one of them wants to find and kill you.”

“Well, that’s what you think. I think I’ll find him first. Did you learn anything from the director?”

“Yes, I confirmed he’s a colonel and he’s in the army. The same thing we always knew.”

“Well, I have a lead from a very promising source.”

“Yes, and I suspect that is why we need to talk. That source you visited in Kansas doesn’t exist and it was reported to the president that you went to see this invisible man. Since he gave us the Kansas asset Black Teams he used to run for his corporate gains, it won’t be long before either the president or the FBI put two and two together and realize it was you who hit that secret archives facility in Nevada during that Ripper formula case. The director has ordered me to reassign you to another area of endeavor and then eventually fire you.”

“Number one, Daniel,” Vickers snidely said, making the name sound dirty, “the use of the Black Teams to secure advanced technology was a plan Senator Camden, yourself, and I agreed upon, so don’t even bother to threaten me on that point again. Secondly, as soon as I protect my own ass, Director Easterbrook can have my resignation.”

“I can’t give you the time it will take to find this man. I have to reassign you now or our dear director will know because now he’s watching things much too closely. With the president’s approval ratings plummeting over this military buildup we may be able to hide you in the periphery until he’s impeached.”

Vickers laughed in that irritating way he had that would set off the normally kind temperament of even the late Mother Teresa.

“And with you knowing what really happened to Lynn Simpson you feel comfortable stabbing me in the back and hiding me away?” He laughed again. “That’s the bravest thing I have ever heard, Daniel. I mean, if I’m gone from the CIA this colonel will only have one way to find me, and that’s through you.”

Peachtree didn’t like being threatened by Vickers. But he also realized that the man had the only ace in the deck up his sleeve — and that ace was Speaker of the House Camden, the man he owed his allegiance to. He was stuck and knew the only way out was to allow Vickers to track down this colonel and end the threat to their freedom because of the now-defunct Technology Acquisition department. The assistant director knew that this would be the only way he escaped this murderous mess intact.

“You have five days before I have to remove you from your desk. That’s all I can give you without the director frying my ass instead of just yours.”

“I may not even need that many days. I have a resignation letter in my hand that was filed with the Department of the Navy.”

“So, what does that do for you finding out who this army colonel is?”

“Let’s just say we may now have a stepping-stone to our army friend.”

“Okay, you have your five days, Vickers.”

“I need one thing from you to pay off my source that doesn’t officially exist.”

Peachtree exhaled in frustration and waited silently.

“I need you to get with our Mr. Speaker since he is in the know on most secret affairs, and ask him what he knows about a project called Magic. I need to know the name of that particular asset and where it is I can find her or him. That is the price my prisoner friend demanded. I just need that one thing from our benefactor and this one act will make his main enemy in life uncomfortable, to say the least.”

“And just what is that one thing, Mr. Vickers?”

“We need to know anything he has on a special project.” Vickers hesitated a moment as he thought about the name he was about to say aloud.

“Vickers, you are trying my patience.”

“We need to learn what the code word Matchstick Man means.”

3

Former Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was six hundred and ninety feet below the street level of the university. He stared through the two-foot-thick blast-proof glass walls into the chamber where the two hundred men and women who made up the Divine Prophet project crawled in and around the device in anticipation of the next round of tests. The ex-president narrowed his eyes as his aide approached and stood rigid next to his mentor. Ahmadinejad had been at the facility for almost a full year since the edict of the Iranian people that clearly indicated they wanted change and would not support the ex-president’s proxy for the position of president. The new president, Hassan Rouhani, would be a change that would bring on better relations with the West — the United States in particular — and that was not sitting well with the man who used to hold the Iranian presidency.

The device he was again looking at would guarantee no backward movement of the revolution with the election of the moderate, and he would need this device he had hidden away so many years before because it was suspected that the next act of the new president would be to start making overtures of recognition to the outlaw state of Israel. This could never, ever happen.

His aide cleared his throat and Ahmadinejad gave the man a look that almost made him freeze. The man’s beard had grown longer and his face was starting to show the extreme pressure he was under after the defeat of his man at the voting booths the year before. The lines in his face were growing deeper and far more ragged than they had been just the previous year. He raised his right brow, waiting for the aide to say something.

“Sir, the new president’s office has been trying to reach you for hours. The regime wishes to know the status of the project’s shutdown.”

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stared at the assistant for the longest minute of the young man’s life. The look was as if the ex-president was staring at some form of bug that had strayed onto his arm. The aide was relieved to get those haunted eyes off of him when General Hassan Yazdi stepped up to the glass. The general was silent as he looked inside the chamber. He placed his hands behind his back and looked at the young aide in the black suit. He nodded that he should leave the two men alone. The Iranian general remained silent as he stood next to the man who had made his career advancement possible and eventually placed him in charge of operation Divine Prophet. The very same man who had set the ex-president on this course of action in 1978 was now his subordinate who ran the project.

“Soon we will not be able to hide the continuance of this project from the new president. We short-circuited the entire power grid in the province last time the test was run for a full hour. The grid could not withstand the power of the device and our lines from the nuclear power plant at Cernan have yet to be repaired.” The general slightly turned to his left and watched the ex-president as he in turn spied closely the scientists and technicians preparing the Divine Prophet for another test. “They say they need another eighteen hours to find the short in the underground power lines.”

“We were very close this last time. The test was nearly flawless.”

“Close? Flawless? Is that what you call destroying an entire seaside resort and killing God knows how many people? If you call that close and flawless I have a hand grenade course you may want to instruct, old friend.”

Ahmadinejad smiled and then turned fully to face General Yazdi.

“Hand grenades get the job done also, General. I’m sure I need not remind you they kill just as efficiently as any weapon. This hand grenade kills in a wide swath but can also be a little indiscriminate, wouldn’t you say?”

He looked hard at the ex-president of Iran. “Too wide. And too indiscriminate.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. The next test will be closer and we should see the desired effects of the Divine Prophet.”

“You don’t seem worried that our new president has ordered this project of yours shut down?”

“Yes, I am well aware of that. Now, are you prepared to fulfill your promise to the revolution, General Yazdi — a promise you yourself coerced me into over thirty years ago?”

“Loyalists to the revolution swell our ranks. When we strike at the new president and his backward government he will not be able to withstand the army’s wishes, and he will resign to save Iranian lives. Every gaming scenario we have run predicts this fact.”

The ex-president placed a hand on the shoulder of the general and patted it twice.

“I have no fear the people will see our new president for what he really is, a new western patsy. But we will need every loyal man to our cause by our side.” He paused and looked at the general with his penetrating and cold eyes. “And they may have to make the supreme sacrifice when the world learns of our true intent.” He started walking slowly down the curving hallway.

The general grimaced and then turned to follow the man he had created the night he was taken from his student housing the night of the Khomeini revolution.

“Have you prepared for the inevitable military response from the West?” He placed his hands behind his back.

“Our forces are ready with three hundred strike aircraft and five divisions of troops, and that is just for the securing of the capital. I have another full division guarding our salvation here at the university. Project Divine Prophet will remain secure. But if this apparatus fails to do what we want fast enough to stun our enemies in its harshness, we may fail. In the case of an all-out invasion we will not be able to maintain a defense for more than sixteen hours before our enemies knock down anything and everything in this country with the power to generate light from a lightbulb. The securing of the nuclear power generating facilities is paramount.”

“Divine Prophet will be operational after our final test. When we strike the Sea of Galilee that will be the precursor to go with our real target.”

“If we fail to strike our main target you do realize that Tehran will be vaporized in a microsecond? This act of war will be met with vigorous nuclear retaliation.”

“How can our enemy push a button if he no longer exists in this dimension?”

“I pray to God you are right, old friend, or there won’t be an Iranian people to lead as we will all be nothing but ashes.”

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad turned and looked back through the thick glass at the power plant, the very engine of one enemy that would destroy an even more bitter and ancient foe, and one that would lead his nation into the light of the modern world to take its rightful place. He stopped and saw the round, alien engine with its many vents and steam ports through the thick glass windows as the technicians worked diligently getting the plant back online. As he watched the amazingly varied multicolored lights wrapped around its circumference blink on and off in a series of patterns he would never understand, he saw the glow of the fuel rods inside that made the glass viewing ports on the engine shimmer with magical hues not seen anywhere in the world. Only here in Iran would the righteous peoples triumph over the Zionist invaders to their south.

“After the strike of the Divine Prophet our enemies will not even have ashes to bury, my friend.”

The general saw the confidence in the man’s eyes, or was it something else — possibly something that bordered on obsessive insanity toward the one goal that kept the ex — Iranian leader awake at night.

“What of the new president?” the general asked, trying to cover all of his questions before being dismissed by the now very private Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

“It would take the new regime more than a year to find this hidden facility, and by then”—this time the smile was genuine—“his government will no longer be in existence.”

The general watched Ahmadinejad leave at a slow pace toward his room, where only a cot and a desk waited for the most powerful man inside Iran and most of the Middle East. The former head of Iranian intelligence watched the sadness of the scene, then frowned.

“I just pray that the existence you speak of extends to our cause.” He started to turn and then stopped. “And also to us.”

The military Learjet was cruising at 26,000 feet. The Israeli Air Force pilot relaxed and watched the European countryside far below vanish only to be replaced by the bleaker aspects as they neared their homeland. The small plane carried only two passengers.

General Shamni watched the woman as she stared at the white ceiling. She hadn’t uttered a word since their flight had lifted off from Romanian soil. He shook his head as he realized just how much of a son of a bitch he had become. He had used the dirtiest tricks in the book to get back one of his prized agents. He knew just how much Israel needed her children and this child was no exception. Anya Korvesky, again a major in the Mossad, had not said a word since she had watched Captain Carl Everett’s plane lift off an hour before their own aircraft. Shamni knew he had succeeded in breaking the young gypsy woman’s heart by pulling the mean trick that he had by using something that would drive a wedge between the American naval captain and the major — the attachment the man had with his past in the United States.

“Major, we have a dilemma at home. With this United Nations scare about extraterrestrial incursions running rampant, our friends in the world are starting to arm our old enemies with newer weapons — a lot of them.” He glanced at Major Korvesky but she made no indication that she was listening. “While we suspect that most of these weapons will be utilized against a real and not an imagined enemy like Israel, there are others that may seek to take advantage of the gifts of technology and strike at us.”

Anya remained silent and still as the general spoke seemingly to an empty seat.

“We are receiving very disturbing reports from our people inside of Iran. It seems they have redirected several power grids from major cities and provinces for what purposes we can only guess at. We suspect it has nothing to do with the reports of extraterrestrial invasion, as the Americans are also in the dark.”

“And this is the reason you have interfered in my life once again?” Anya said as she remained still. “I know Carl would have missed his home terribly, but I was willing to go anywhere to be with him. But you fed him the one piece of information that guaranteed that would never happen. You, Uncle, are a son of a bitch. Why should I risk my future and my happiness for pigs that act no differently than our enemies?” She finally looked at the military man.

He looked at her hard. “Sometimes we have to get into the gutter with those enemies, and you know that better than any agent that I have ever trained. Hell, you were better at this than I ever could be. We need you, Major, and we need to know what in the hell is happening inside the Iranian border. If we don’t get answers soon our prime minister will be forced to act against their power distribution centers.”

“You mean their nuclear facilities. That is what you people are fearful of, not the weapons being given to them for an alien invasion that will probably never happen. This is just an excuse to do what you have always wanted to do — destroy the Iranian ability to make nuclear weapons.”

The general gave the major a sincere look as he studied her angry features.

“If I cannot convince my smartest pupil, we have no hope of explaining our actions to the world if we do have to strike at the Iranian facilities.”

“You have to explain to the young people of our country why we have to be the policeman of the Middle East. If the Iranian nuclear question is so dangerous to us and the world why aren’t our friends and allies backing us in a unilateral attack?”

“Because they may not have the same intelligence we have on the situation.” He saw that she was about to throw her same old argument of sharing intel with other nations at him but he cut off the question with his raised hand. “We cannot prove a thing, but militarily speaking something is happening we cannot place our finger on. Military men are not being dispersed as their new president has ordered. Instead of keeping his many divisions on the border with Iraq as per their custom of late, the generals are spreading out divisions in very disturbing and unusual places.”

“Such as?” she asked, pretending that she wasn’t interested in the least. The general knew he had piqued her curiosity.

“Why place five divisions of their crack infantry in and around the capital without informing their new president of such a move? They have also disbursed many hundreds of their newest fighter jets to the south and we in Mossad believe those MiG-29s may be pointed directly at Israel’s throat.”

“The Americans, British, French, and Russians have been quiet on this?” she asked, finally sitting up in her seat.

“We don’t even know if they are interested at the moment due to their current political troubles over their military spending. Besides, the Americans are the ones leading the charge in the preparations for this supposed invasion of theirs.”

“You’re lying to me again, Uncle,” she said as she studied the man’s worried countenance. “You’re not telling me what else you have on the Iranians that is scaring you so badly.”

The general reached down, pulled out his small brown satchel, and placed it on his lap.

“What I am about to show you is highly classified. We stole it from the same source that gave us the information for your Captain Everett.” General Shamni pulled out a large photo. “This is from a KH-11 satellite flyover of the Lebanese coast sixteen hours ago.” He handed the photo to Anya.

“What is it I am looking at — a sea coast with nothing but sand and water?”

“You should know — you had an operational mission there three years ago. As I remember you eliminated a Lebanese national there for us.”

He could see Anya thinking as she studied the black and white recon photo. He saw her eyes widen as they roamed over the small bay area that wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Yes, that hole in the beach area there is where the Warwick Pangea Beach Resort used to sit.”

She sat up farther in her seat and looked more closely at the print.

“Impossible. There must have been an error in the GEO positioning the KH-11 used for her coordinates.”

“That was the initial position of our people in the analysis division, but the prime minister authorized an F-16 recon mission over the site.”

“And?” she asked when he paused.

“The resort was ripped from the sea and has vanished. The place is crawling with a United Nations contingency force and our fighter was lucky to get out before the Americans knew we were there.”

“What is the UN saying?”

“They’re not entertaining any ideas at the moment other than they believe the attacks from space have started. We have other beliefs.”

“And they are?” Anya asked as she again looked at the blank spot in the photo where one of the largest and most luxurious sea resorts in all of the Middle East used to sit. Now it was a torn-out cove of water with geysers of water from broken mains spewing forth their contribution to the mystery.

The Mossad general pulled out another piece of paper from his case after removing the space-based image from her fingers. He handed her a large computer printout.

“As you know we have kept our eyes open for any variance in the Iranian power output because they will need a massive spike to get their breeder reactor up and running. Well, we received a spike in consumption alright”—he paused and then tapped the white printout—“At the exact same moment it is believed the resort vanished into thin air.”

Anya looked at the numbers of the output from their three nuclear facilities used for power generation and saw that they had indeed spiked at the same moment it was suspected the attack had occurred.

“No, this is impossible. There is no way the Iranians would have anything near this capability. This would have to be related to the alien question everyone is so worried about.”

“Unless the Iranians have found the one thing the United Nations is searching the world for.”

“You forget, Uncle, I have been out of the military loop for a few months. You have to enlighten me.”

“Oh, yes, maybe I should have had your Captain Everett explain this part to you. The Americans and British are obsessed with finding an operating alien power plant for something they have dubbed Operation Overlord.”

“And why would Carl know anything about this?” Anya handed the printout back to Shamni.

He placed the paper back in with the highly classified photo.

“Because, my dear niece, your Mr. Everett was just assigned to the project, whatever it is.”

Anya stood so suddenly that it startled the general.

“And that is the real reason you brought me back to Mossad. So I can get the secret information about this Operation Overlord out of Carl once he learns about it!”

“Yes.” He looked away in real shame at his actions. “Also for the fact that we need the Americans and their allies to strike the killing blow in Iran and not us.”

“You’re willing to bet other lives on a strike but not our own?”

“Yes, only because we believe the Iranians have the alien technology. The Iranians are using the mass confusion around them over this alien event so they can strike without anyone getting the wiser on them. But we have.”

“You are the biggest son of a bitch I have ever known, Uncle. Tell the Americans, the British, and the Russians what you suspect, let them decide their own fates. We don’t have that right.”

The general looked out at the growing dark skies that signaled the oncoming night.

“If we don’t act soon our right to exist may be at an end.”

Jack Collins had shaved and changed into his blue jumpsuit. It was the first time he had been dressed for duty since Director Compton took him off the field evaluation teams and anything that took him off base. The separation of Captain Everett and himself was due to the finding of the captain’s wristwatch with Collins’s blood — a timepiece that had been buried over 200,000 years ago. The situation had been especially hard on Jack, who needed to be off base to find the killer of his sister, and that just wasn’t happening. He was even having a hard time facing his mother because he could see the question in her sad eyes: had there had been any break in her daughter’s case? There hadn’t. D.C.’s Metropolitan Police Department and the Virginia state police had yet to come up with any leads. Jack knew they wouldn’t find any because Lynn had been killed by one of her coworkers at the CIA.

A light knock sounded at the door and Jack turned to open it. Will Mendenhall stuck his head inside and immediately noticed the colonel’s private quarters had been cleaned and the colonel himself was looking like a colonel again.

“Colonel, the director has arrived and Gus and Matchstick are in the conference room.”

“Got it.” Jack smiled for the first time since the murder of Lynn. He took Will Mendenhall in. “Did the director come down on you for letting me out of my cage?”

Mendenhall looked behind him into the long and curving corridor to make sure there were no ears flapping about.

“Yes, sir, I’ve only got about half my ass at the moment,” he said as he jokingly reached behind himself and hissed.

“Well, that won’t be the last ass chewing you get.” He smiled even wider. “Especially when you have people like you, Ryan, and Mr. Ever…” Jack’s words trailed away at the mention of Captain Everett’s name. Collins just nodded and Will saw the face of a man who had lost a good friend.

“Nah, when I’m in charge, I’ll just recruit better people.” Will’s smile didn’t quite make it as he tried to keep the conversation light.

“The smart move would be not to be in charge at all and refuse all promotions.” Collins gestured for his lieutenant to lead the way.

The Event Group supervisory staff had gathered. The sixteen department heads were represented with the only absentee being the current head of the geology department: Army 1st Lieutenant Sarah McIntire, who was off in the Middle Eastern desert looking for something they all thought wasn’t there. Jack looked at the chair occupied by her second-in-command, Sam Parker, a geologist from the University of Texas. Mendenhall, who was still the acting security chief while Jack was being protected, sat beside Collins. Will knew Jack was used to seeing Everett in this particular chair.

Director Compton cleared his throat as the semiretired Alice Hamilton, whom Niles had called in for the briefing, came through the double doors. She jumped when Matchstick — who had been standing next to Gus Tilly — ran over and wrapped his long, thin arms around her thighs. He hugged her just as he had done with the security team when they had arrived at Chato’s Crawl earlier that morning. It was now seven at night and the little guy was still buzzing about the things he suspected were happening.

“Well, hello to you too, Matchstick.” Alice tossed her writing tablet and files on the conference table, then picked the alien up to smile at his large eyes.

“Alissssss,” Matchstick hissed. His right hand went to the eighty-seven-year-old’s cheek and his index finger caressed it.

Alice smiled and then kissed Matchstick on the cheek. Thus far Gus Tilly and Sarah McIntire were the only two people Matchstick allowed to kiss him. The rest, well, he figured a hug was good enough. Alice Hamilton saw that Mahjtic was wearing the smallest military blue jumpsuit she had ever seen. She looked at Will Mendenhall, who was watching them. She nodded her head, suspecting it was the young lieutenant who was responsible for outfitting the alien. She could see that Matchstick loved dressing like the soldiers. She gently placed him in his seat next to Gus, whom she patted on the shoulder lightly; then she leaned in and kissed his grizzled cheek. He swiped at the spot and shook his head. She smiled anyway and then took her accustomed chair next to the director, who sat opposite Virginia Pollock, Niles’s number two at the Group.

Matchstick pumped up his chair’s riser until his eyes were seen over the tabletop, and then he waited. It had been over six months since he had visited the complex and the small being knew he caused a stir with Event Group personnel every time he showed up. Mahjtic had been adopted by every human he had ever been introduced to.

“Okay, first off, welcome, Gus and Matchstick. It’s been too long,” Niles said as he stood and nodded at the old man. “I’m glad we could dig you out of that mine shaft for a while.”

“Well, I’m a little more comfortable since the first time I visited this place. Never liked the thought of all that unstable sand above your heads.” He looked around the large conference room. “But I guess if it hasn’t all caved in by now it’s not goin’ to.”

All the department heads nodded their approval of Gus’s claustrophobia, especially knowing he had spent most of his life in one cave or mine shaft after the other. He was just mad at being uprooted from his home and flown to Nevada.

Niles nodded in understanding as he moved right into the briefing.

“Before we get to the suspicions of Matchstick and the conclusions he’s drawn, let’s focus on current events that will lead into our friend’s speculation. Virginia, what is the disposition of the field teams assigned to finding Matchstick’s power plant?”

Virginia Pollock cleared her throat and then glanced at her notes. Niles could see she wasn’t really happy with what it was she had to report.

“Not good. All fourteen teams have come up with nothing.” She nodded her head at Matchstick, who was holding the hand of his best friend, Gus, and listening intently to every word. “I’m afraid none of the crash sites mentioned in Matchstick’s briefing of four years ago have been uncovered or even documented. The one crash site we had the highest hopes for was the area in which Sarah McIntire’s team in Azerbaijan covered fully, but even that led to a big fat zero.” She saw Matchstick lower his lightbulb-shaped head.

Niles sat into his chair and quickly made a decision. “Okay, double the teams and then cover the fourteen sites again. Use a fine-tooth comb, Virginia.”

“Niles, we’ll have to take some of our science department personnel to cover that order.”

“Then do it — we have to find a power plant from a downed saucer. Every attempt at getting the engines of the Roswell saucers operational has met with failure. Matchstick said that the fuel rods inside the engines have been drained fully. That, ladies and gentlemen, is that. The search for the original saucer from 1947 has turned up nothing. We suspect that the Centauris Corporation dismantled it and spread its parts to the winds. Our house guest in Leavenworth, Kansas, is not cooperating with us any longer, for what reason we do not know.”

“Maybe he should be reminded of his obligations to the country,” Will Mendenhall ventured. “I’ll go to Kansas and explain it to him personally if you want,” he said with a smirk.

“As much as I would like to see that, we haven’t the time.”

Mendenhall looked slightly disappointed at not being able to explain things directly to prisoner Charles Hendrix II, the former CEO of Centauris.

Niles nodded his head at the navy communication man sitting at the Europa terminal. On the sixty-five-inch-monitor in the middle of even more, smaller monitors, the satellite image of the event in Lebanon came into full view. “Okay, Charlie Ellenshaw has Matchstick’s report and his conclusions. Doctor?”

Charlie Ellenshaw cleared his throat and stood. He nodded his head at Gus and Mahjtic and then walked toward the large screen.

“What it all boils down to, Mr. Director, is the fact that Matchstick is a firm believer that this is not an extraterrestrial event, or a Gray assault. He thinks the disappearance of the resort is due to someone on this planet having an operational alien power plant.”

This started everyone talking at once. Niles held up his right hand for silence. He nodded at Ellenshaw to continue, but his eyes studied the small alien who was watching the startled faces around him.

Every monitor around the circular conference room illuminated with photos of events throughout history. On the main viewing screen was the shot of a barren plain in the north of Scotland.

“Mass disappearances throughout human history,” Charlie began. “Many here, after the Roswell event, will say that most vanishings, like this one in Scotland of Rome’s Ninth Legion, could be blamed on everything from E.T.”—he smiled at Matchstick, who looked confused as to the reference—“to earth eruptions that swallowed everything whole, to gravity fluctuation, meaning that gravity just gave way in a lot of these instances.”

Matchstick watched the faces of the group and was pleased to see that Charlie had gained their attention.

“Matchstick said many times in his two thousand hours of debriefing that one of the effects of forming a wormhole was a time displacement occurrence that will happen if a vehicle using the time warp exits before it reaches its targeted area. In other words, at a precise moment in the traveler’s itinerary the vehicle can jump from the wormhole and hit its target area of the planet but come out in a different time period from the target he was originally seeking. This is what Matchstick claims is happening. Someone on this world has an operational power plant and is experimenting with the wormhole effect, thus the mass disappearances throughout time are occurring. They don’t know what they have on their hands.”

“I suspect whoever has it may be attempting to use it as a weapon,” Jack said, offering a military solution.

“I agree on that point,” Charlie said as he moved to the next photo in line. “The United Nations science team investigating the resort area has found some unusual soil samples. The sand had turned to glass. Tremendous heat, and then nothing of the resort was left. I am beginning to think like Matchstick, that this was no accident. Someone targeted the wormhole for that area of the planet.”

“But how can Matchstick automatically eliminate the Grays? Can’t they be responsible as an opening prelude to an attack?” Virginia asked.

Everyone was taken back as Matchstick jumped upon the tabletop. He vigorously shook his head, then placed his hands over his small ear openings.

“As you can see, Virginia, he adamantly does not think it is the Grays,” Ellenshaw said as he tried to explain Matchstick’s severe reaction to the question.

“I don’t see how he can just reject the Gray theory out of hand; I mean, who would use that as a weapon against our own planet other than an attacking alien force?” Pete Golding asked Charlie.

“Because … the Grays … know … not the theory … of … time displacement.” Matchstick looked around to make sure everyone heard his raspy voice. They had.

“You mean to say that the Grays have had this wormhole technology for a million years and don’t know how it works?” Alice ventured.

Matchstick nodded his head yes vigorously as he started to pace the tabletop.

“Remember, everyone,” Charlie said, “the Grays are a master race of beings who depend solely on their slaves for technical work and teaching. They don’t know how their own technology works because the Greens have kept that little secret from them. And thank God they had the foresight to hide that little trick or we would have Grays bypassing our time frame and going after our far weaker ancestors in the past. Easy conquering of a world, wouldn’t you say?”

Matchstick finally relaxed when he saw the looks of the scientists around him. They were starting to understand.

“Charlie, have either you or Matchstick come up with a theory as to how this earthbound entity got their hands on an alien power plant without the rest of the world knowing it?” Niles asked.

“I’m afraid we haven’t — at least not yet. Pete and I will be working closely with Gus and Matchstick in the next few days to see if we can come up with something.”

Niles opened a folder and slid a paper across the table, where it landed at Mahjtic’s bare feet. Charlie picked up the printout and examined it. His eyes scanned the lines of numbers.

“Start there,” Niles said.

“What is this, Niles?” Ellenshaw enquired.

“That was forwarded through the president’s office. The Mossad repaid some of the favors they owe our government and sent this along as an interesting event in and of itself.”

“All I can see is that it’s an official energy output for a region inside. Of…” He looked at Niles and gave the paper to Matchstick, who also examined it. Charlie was unable to say anything in response to the report.

“That’s right, inside the Iranian border — the eastern region. Evidently the Mossad believes they are using massive power outlays for something, and frankly it’s making them nervous.”

“Nuclear weapons manufacture?” Jack Collins guessed.

“We honestly do not know, Colonel. This may be a coincidence or it may be just what you suggested, Jack, but one thing is clear from Matchstick’s briefing reports: it takes more power to start up an alien power plant than we could ever believe. And if they do have one and are using their energy production to get it going they will soon be manufacturing the very by-product that Matchstick needs for Overlord. Both the engine and the expended fuel that is produced by that power plant are essential to the Overlord plan.” Niles looked around at his staff. “And as Matchstick has said to the few men and women in the know about it, Overlord is the only hope for the planet, because everything we have weapons-wise will only delay the inevitable.”

Pete Golding stood and walked over to a monitor that had the area in question. The map of Iran was multishaded as it depicted the power consumption of each region under Iranian control. The highest output of energy came from the eastern region. The computer genius worked his index finger from the east to the north. He stabbed at the plastic screen, then went to the conference table and pulled out his field team briefing report. He shook his head.

“What is it?” Niles asked.

“The suspected saucer crash in 1972 in Russia — or the old Soviet Union. Look at its suspected track that the Russians have the UFO on before they fired on it.” Pete returned to the map and traced a red line with his fingertip all the way from Azerbaijan to the Iranian border. The trace line illuminated with Pete’s track. “I think we have found one of the crash sites.”

“Whose field team investigated that possibility?” Compton asked as his hopes were raised.

Will Mendenhall opened his security brief, then looked at Collins first before answering. It seemed the colonel was already aware of whose responsibility that investigation had been assigned to.

“Uh, that would be Sarah McIntire’s team, sir,” Will finally answered.

“What team is that in Israel?” the director asked.

“That is Commander Ryan’s team. They also came up with nothing,” Will said as he studied his field team rosters.

“Okay, transfer him and his people to McIntire’s team, get them added security, and then get them into Iran. If I have to supplement security with Special Forces from the president I’ll do it.” Niles exhaled loudly and then looked at his people. “Matchstick has informed Charlie that if this is the true case of Iran testing alien equipment they may have forced the Grays to an earlier attack scenario because they know what that power plant can do for us technology-wise.”

“Mr. Director, that area is not secure enough to send anyone in. The Iranians would capture and execute anyone they catch. Even with their new moderate president they are still far from trusting,” Mendenhall said. Jack was appreciative of his pointing out the danger facet to the director.

“Enough said. Contact the lieutenant and get her people moving. Set up a meet point for Ryan and his team to join her and then Will, I want you and security to come up with a plan to get them into the eastern region where someone thinks they have found lightning in a bottle. Okay, Matchstick and Gus will work closely with Pete, Virginia, Charlie, and Europa. We need to get a line on how to get that engine out of there if it’s there at all. I’ll brief the president.”

“Request permission to join the Iranian team.”

All eyes went to Jack as he stared directly at the director.

“Denied,” Niles said matter-of-factly. “This meeting is adjourned for now. Alice and Colonel Collins, please remain behind.”

As the Group members filed out of the conference room, Matchstick held Gus’s hand as he approached Jack. To the colonel it looked as if the small green being was empathizing with him over the danger Sarah McIntire was now facing. Jack just winked at the two as they turned and exited.

When the room was cleared Alice placed her writing tablet down, then went to go get coffee for the three of them. Niles slid two folders down to Jack’s end of the table. Collins looked them over and saw that one was stamped with the seal of the United States Army, and one of the U.S. Navy.

“What are these?” he asked, feeling his heart sink.

“Yours and Mr. Everett’s orders. You have been transferred by the president for work on the Overlord plan. You’re being moved to the Pacific area of responsibility. Captain Everett goes to Texas. The president has refused to accept the captain’s resignation.”

Jack remained silent, knowing that if anything in the Overlord plan called for him and Everett participating in the highly secretive plan, it was placed there by the man who was looking at him right now. Niles Compton and Matchstick, along with the late Garrison Lee and a few others in Britain, had come up with the extensive defensive plan called Overlord. He knew the director found the orders distasteful but was doing it anyway, even though Jack needed time to try and find his sister’s killer. He now knew that task might have to wait — a thought that he truly hated.

“You realize that anything we do with Carl could be sending him to his doom in Antarctica two hundred thousand years ago?” Collins asked, refusing to even open the folder to see his new orders. “And all of this time-displacement theory from our little green friend points to Carl running into one of those exact scenarios.”

“The plan calls for you being somewhere else, Jack, I’m sorry. The president insists we stick with every detail of Overlord, and that means you and Mr. Everett have to go no matter what may happen. Hopefully the captain’s duties in Houston will keep him far from Matchstick’s wormholes.”

“What else?” Jack asked as Alice placed a cup of coffee in front of him. She glanced his way and gave him a sad twitch of her lips. He saw that Niles couldn’t meet his eyes as the lie about Carl was uttered. He was used to taking orders and obeying them to the last detail, but to knowingly send a man he respected and liked on a possible suicide mission was not something he would ever knowingly do. If it was the last thing he ever did he would warn his friend of the danger that Niles, Matchstick, and the late Senator Lee was sending him to.

“Jack, as much as I want and need my military contingent the president needs them even more. You see the rioting and protests over the military budget the president is facing. There is even impeachment talk from the Speaker of the House. He needs his people and I can’t fault him. All military personnel will be reassigned to new duties for Overlord concerns and any other military contingency that may arise. I’m sorry.”

Jack cleared his throat as he needed to ask one last question of the director. “Lieutenant McIntire? Where will she be assigned?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I really do not know.”

Collins looked away for the briefest of moments. He was about to do something he swore he would never do — interfering with another military officer’s career.

“Dr. Compt—” Jack looked into the director’s eyes. “Niles, I want you to insist that Sarah be formally discharged. I want her to stay at Group as a civilian department head.”

“Jack, I—,”

Collins held up his hand. “Please. She would be volunteering for any dangerous, stupid assignment the army saw fit to send her on. Please, Niles, pull whatever strings you have to, but keep Sarah inside the complex when all of this comes down. I need this one thing, Niles.”

Compton looked from Jack to Alice. Jack looked her way for a brief second and then lowered his eyes.

Niles studied Jack, then pursed his lips and slowly nodded.

“I’ll insist we need her at Group, maybe we can do it without discharging her from the army. The president may accede to my wishes, but with everything that’s happening, I cannot promise anything, Jack.” Compton stood and with Alice in tow walked from the room.

Jack Collins was stunned. He looked at the folders and knew that things had changed forever. How would he ever inform Sarah they would be separated for the war that was coming?

Collins gathered up his orders and those of Captain Everett and started to rise when his cell phone chimed. He looked at the patch-through from Europa and his eyes narrowed. He stared at the brief text message that Europa had allowed through.

Jack’s lips became a long thin line etched with hatred. He saw the signature at the bottom and knew the information was true. The killer of his sister Lynn had been found. He glanced at the message and glanced at the signature once more.

Calling the small enclave of mud brick huts a village was a misleading statement, even by Azerbaijani standards. The five or six inhabitants tended herds and pastures that had long gone to seed a hundred years before the intrusion of the scientific teams from the United Nations. The few old men who remained watched as the invaders to their small mountain home packed up to leave after an exhausting six-week search for something that just wasn’t there. Every piece of modern equipment had been used but no sign of a crash had been detected in the mountainous region of the former Soviet Republic.

Sarah McIntire, barely recognizable as the scarf and hat covered most of her features, handed the last of the soil sample cases to the specialist in the back of the two-and-a-half-ton truck. She heard the Russian army sergeant curse as the weight of the case overbalanced him and he almost fell. Sarah wanted to laugh but was too tired to do so. She pulled the scarf down, shook her head, raised a water bottle to her dry lips, and drank. She looked around the rough terrain. Sometimes she swore she could smell the aroma of the sea in the high pass of the mountain. The Caspian Sea was only fifty-seven miles distant but she knew the smell was more wishful thinking than an actual aroma. She could not wait to get out of Azerbaijan. The saucer crash reported in 1972 just did not happen in this area, if at all. Matchstick had to be wrong about the location.

Most of the sixteen members of her team were made up of an international who’s who of geologists and crash specialists from all over the world, but Sarah still found herself far more comfortable around the Russian soldiers than she did the scientists. She smiled as she thought about it. Maybe it was only because as a soldier she could relate to the Russians wanting to be somewhere, anywhere, other than these godforsaken mountains in the middle of nowhere.

She was approached by a Russian lieutenant, who, like herself, was also a geologist. She thought about just how young a man he was and found it hard to believe the boy was a soldier at all.

“Lieutenant McIntire, we have company approaching from the south.”

Sarah heard the distinctive thump or rotors. She squinted her eyes against the sun, then placed her sunglasses on. She finally spied the chopper as it came in low over the small clearing between two large mountains.

“Thank you, Uri. Tell the scientists and men that we will be leaving within the hour.” She smiled at the young Russian.

The helicopter was a Russian navy bird, a Kamov Ka-27. At one time it was one of the most feared attack helicopters in the world, one that NATO always knew would be a threat in any conflict that would have arisen during the cold war between the two navies. Now it was relegated to scientific duties the Russian Navy conducted in the Caspian Sea. It could hold up to ten passengers and with its twin-boomed silhouette looked amazingly fragile. Sarah hated flying in the thing.

The helicopter slowly settled to the floor of the valley, making the few people still living there come to their doorways and curse the noise as their few goats and sheep ran off to the wilds of the mountain. The twin, counter-rotating rotors settled and the sliding door opened and out stepped a familiar shape. The man was small and dressed like Lawrence of Arabia, which was exactly the look he perpetuated around the international crew of searchers. Commander Jason Ryan, United States Navy, removed his scarf, shook out his bush hat, and smiled at Sarah.

“I find you in the strangest places.” He looked around the ancient village as he slapped away the dust raised by the helicopter. “Qonaqkend isn’t much to look at, is it?”

She laughed, as she never expected to see Ryan all the way out here. The last she knew from her briefing was that the naval aviator was searching for another saucer crash site somewhere in Afghanistan.

“Are you kidding? This is the garden spot of Qonaqkend. The Marriott has yet to begin construction on the resort they envision.”

Ryan removed his gloves and hugged his friend. He pulled away and then looked around again. “It’s still better than Afghanistan.”

“Nothing there either?” Sarah saw the weariness in Jason’s unshaved face.

“No, and I’m beginning to think that little green bastard has all his facts mixed up about reported crash areas of the past. I’m surely tired of this wild-goose chase.”

“Well,” Sarah said as she handed Ryan her water bottle, “I guess the goose chase has ended because we haven’t found a damn thing anywhere in the world. Time to go home, I guess.”

With a sad look Ryan pulled out a sheet of paper from his flight suit and handed it to Sarah. He shook his head without saying anything.

“You’re kidding,” she said as she reluctantly accepted the note. She opened it and read. “Damn, where in the hell is this, Leschenko?”

Ryan smiled as he watched the activity around him.

“The Leschenko is not a place, it’s a ship.” He turned and shook his head. “You ground-pounder types should at least know your major naval combatants in the world’s oceans.”

“Okay smart-ass, you can just—”

“It’s a Riga-class frigate of the Caspian Flotilla. She’s Russian and she’s out there.” He pointed toward the distant sea. “And she awaits your lovely face, Lieutenant.”

“What’s happening?” she asked as she folded the orders from Niles Compton and handed them back.

“I haven’t the vaguest notion, my dear. But your new friends here aren’t invited. They are to pack up and go home. It’s only us and your Lieutenant Uri … Uri…” Ryan patted his pockets looking for another note he had written.

“Lieutenant Uri Petrovich.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Well, we’re to report to the Leschenko to meet with a Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Krechenko, a Russian Army type.”

“Who in the hell is that?”

“The director wouldn’t say. We are to report to the frigate, where all will be explained.”

Sarah frowned at Ryan, knowing the navy man never settled for surprises. She could tell by that evil smirk of his that he had other information.

“Okay, Commander Dipshit, what did Europa tell you when you queried her on this colonel fella?”

Ryan’s features twisted in mock surprise. “Would I do that? I mean, that’s a criminal offense, getting Europa to search for something without Pete Golding knowing about it.”

“Okay, so you placed a call to Pete and since the good Dr. Golding always kisses your ass, you found something out.”

“Well, yes. But it doesn’t explain anything — in fact, it makes it far more mysterious than before.”

“Jason, come on!” she said, grabbing his coat collar.

“Our Russian lieutenant colonel is the commander of an assault unit operated by the Russian Army, the 106th Guards Division.” Ryan saw the blank look on Sarah’s face. “It’s the Russians’ most elite airborne division. It seems that two thousand of them have been transferred to the Caspian Flotilla. As a matter of coincidence most were transferred to the very same Riga-class frigate where we’re now headed.”

“Oh, shit,” Sarah said.

Ryan winked. “My sentiments exactly, Lieutenant McIntire.”

The president entered the Oval office with the thick file that had been sent over from the Event Group that morning. The briefing with the small green asset in Arizona had given them one hell of a pill to swallow and the president knew that pill could choke them all to death.

As he made his way to his large chair behind the Lincoln desk — nodding to acknowledge the five men who had been waiting for him — he paused momentarily by the window, tempted to glance out at the protesters who had grown in number even since that morning. There had been another leak to the press about information pertaining to the expenditures being mounted by the military. The president was close to crying “uncle” and telling the world what it desperately needed to know. He eyed the five men and motioned for them to sit. The faintest of protest calls entered the room from the outside.

“Gentlemen, we have a growing mess on our hands that can no longer be contained.” He opened the folder and scanned the front briefing page. Niles Compton had been direct and to the point with his old college buddy in explaining how important tracking down this possible lead was to the coming fight. He understood what the Overlord plan called for but to go to war over finding the engine they needed was the straw that would break this particular camel’s back.

The men facing him remained silent. Only the two military men in uniform actually knew about the orders the president had issued six hours before. Now they and the Russian president were in the know.

“If the power plant is found to be operational, as my sources say it is, we have to move decisively. After that I have to come clean to the American people.” The U.S. president again eyed his guests. “Especially if the mission we have planned fails and the Iranians take nuclear offense. Admiral, do we have any asset we can use in the Caspian area to support the Russians in the assault if it comes to that?”

Rear Admiral James Fuqua cleared his throat. “Mr. President, we have never had a dependable asset in the Caspian Sea. The Cold War has long been over and that was an area of responsibility we always hoped the Russians would take seriously when it came to a nuclear-armed Iran lurking at their belly.”

“Director Easterbrook?”

“Nothing, sir,” the silver-haired CIA director answered. “We will have two KH-11s in orbit over Iran, but not knowing when or even if the Russian assault happens we cannot guarantee eyes-on target. Viewing would be purely by chance. As for the human asset on the ground, we have nothing.”

The president took a deep breath and then looked at U.S. Marine Corps general Maxwell Caulfield, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“Max, please tell me you had luck with your counterpart in Moscow. Has he relented to allow at least one American Special Forces team in on the assault?”

“No luck, Mr. President,” Caulfield answered. “It seems some old Cold War jitters still persist on both sides.”

“So the only American assets we have are a navy lieutenant commander and an army first lieutenant?”

“Well,” the Marine general said with a small smile on his lips, “that’s more than we knew. Do you mind if I ask just who these officers are?” Caulfield suspected that although he might not know the men, he did have a suspicion where these two sprang from — that quirky little think tank situated under Nellis Air Force Base.

The president looked up from the file. “The naval officer was in Afghanistan and the lieutenant was in Azerbaijan. They were part of the power plant search. Hell, I guess we’re lucky the damn Russians allowed them in.”

“I suspect because whoever these two officers are they have an idea just what an alien spaceship engine looks like,” Harlan Easterbrook said with his silver right brow raised.

“If this alien power plant is found and the Iranians will not give it up peacefully, will they go to war to protect it?” The president ignored the remark about Event Group expertise, but stared at his CIA director.

“No,” Easterbrook said confidently. “The newly elected president, Rouhani, would never risk his government over something he may not even have control over.” Easterbrook opened his briefcase, then passed around a singular report. “We have made several enquiries since you informed us of this new information. As of fifteen days ago the city of Birjand, a pretty large city in eastern Iran, received a new citizen who’s taken up residence only two blocks from the University of Applied Science and Technology: the former president of Iran, our old friend, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

A chill went through the president’s body. The ex-president of Iran had been a thorn in the side of every U.S. president since Bill Clinton with his anti-western rhetoric and his outright hatred for the State of Israel. If he was in charge of this project, the president suspected that maybe far worse was happening in fundamentalist Iran than what they knew about.

“Jesus,” the president said. “Harlan, I need to know if the new Iranian president is backing this project if it is in existence.”

“Hassan Rouhani is a moderate cleric who is attempting to end the hostility between Iran and the West. Our intelligence analysis of his demeanor does not support him as the hardcase here. He’s trying desperately to heal old wounds and keep the peace with the more hardline clerics. No, sir, I am adamant in my belief this new president would not be a part of this — if this is really happening and they actually have a saucer engine.”

“Just look at the satellite photos of that damn resort that magically vanished, Harlan,” the president said angrily. “That should give you an idea about the validity of this event.”

“Yes, sir, I stand corrected,” Easterbrook said.

“Sidney, I need to speak with President Rouhani, ASAP. Can you arrange it please?”

Secretary of State Sidney Washburn nodded his head vigorously as he removed the cold pipe from his mouth. “Most definitely, Mr. President, and I concur one hundred percent that this is the way to go. He may even come in handy if the situation … well … worsens to the point that Ahmadinejad, if he is the culprit here, utilizes what we know the Iranians have been hiding in that nuclear closet of theirs.”

“Thanks, Sidney, give me an hour and then arrange the call. I’ll need you in the room with me as he may take some convincing. The last I knew Rouhani hadn’t been briefed on Magic and assuredly not on Overlord. The Russian president has to be conferenced in and I want to speak with him fifteen minutes before the Rouhani call. He has to kowtow to the Iranians if he doesn’t want a bunch of dead Russian boys out there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. President?”

The commander-in-chief looked up from writing his order to the secretary of state and into the eyes of the man he had very little respect for in the few meetings he had been involved in. No, you could say Assistant Director of Operations Daniel Peachtree was not a presidential favorite over at CIA. He knew whose man Peachtree was — Speaker of the House Giles Camden.

“The ever silent Mr. Peachtree, what can help you with?” The president leaned forward to complete his order.

Harlan Easterbrook cringed, knowing he had made a mistake in bringing the man to the White House. He also knew any operational questions would have had to have been directed at his operations man, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He waited to see what Peachtree had to ask.

“Sir, it would be most helpful if I could get briefed on this asset you keep referring to. If I’m to make a strategic evaluation, that would go a long way to—”

“That is none of your concern, Mr. Peachtree,” Easterbrook said before the president could do so himself.

“He’s right, Mr. Peachtree,” the president finally said with a withering look at the AD. “The Chato’s Crawl information is on a need-to-know basis, and you, sir, don’t need to know.” He smiled broadly for the first time in what seemed weeks. “Neither does the Speaker of the House.”

The room went silent as the other men wanted to shout that it was about time the president called a spade a spade — or, more accurately, a spook a spook.

“Okay gentlemen, let me have my talk with the Russians and Rouhani and see if we have a larger mess on our hands than we previously thought.”

As the five men stood it was Harlan Easterbrook who saw the two words that Daniel Peachtree had written in his notepad, but he didn’t think anything more of it at that moment.

Chato’s Crawl.

Peachtree closed his notebook and followed the others out of the Oval Office, a light but confident smile on his lips. The president had obviously not intended to say the name of the location aloud. A location that the assistant director of Operations at the CIA knew well.

Chato’s Crawl, Arizona, was where Harlan Vickers’s search for the mysterious asset would start.

4

Speaker of the House Giles Camden listened to the man he had pushed into his position at the CIA, Daniel Peachtree. His eyes kept flitting toward the man who sat in the high-backed chair next to him, Hiram Vickers, with apprehension as Vickers kept looking at his watch and his cell phone. Peachtree thought they had a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

“I don’t see how the president can get out of this one,” Camden said. “I mean, starting a war over this silly space engine? The American people would crucify him, and they will after he has to go public with the fact that we and the Russians are taking on the Iranians over a possible fairy tale.”

“I’m beginning to think that it may not be as big a fairy tale as you may think,” Vickers said. “Back in 2006 during another administration, the CIA filed some very strange reports on an incident in the Arizona desert. I’ve sent the reports to your e-mail and would like your opinion on them.”

Camden eyed the man and then cleared his throat.

“Mr. Peachtree has informed me of the president’s little slip about Chato’s Crawl and I did some snooping on my own. Yes, the CIA did make an attempt in 2006 to acquire that very same asset the president is leaning on so heavily, but was informed by the field commander at the site that the alien involved was killed during the event. Our predecessor never pursued it.”

“So this action in the desert actually did take place?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. And that in and of itself backs everything the president has deemed necessary for us to hear in order to get his military toys in order. Everything else regarding Operation Overlord is being guarded from the public and certain aspects of our government in a far more secure manner than even the Manhattan Project was in the forties. Yes, gentlemen, I believe there is something imminently bad happening and it’s scaring the hell out of not only our president, but the Russians, Chinese, French, and British. And when all of those military machines start getting scared other bad things are bound to happen.”

Vickers cleared his throat, knowing he was still in very deep and hot water where Peachtree and Camden were concerned, so he chose to speak only when it benefitted him. “Did the field reports from the company name the man that was in field command of the event in the desert in 2006?”

“You know it did, Mr. Vickers. The commander was a Colonel Sam Fielding, 101st Airborne Division, killed in action, same mission.” Camden watched Vickers for a moment and saw the disappointment on his face. He shook his head. “But I’m here to tell you Vickers that this, while maybe not your lucky day, may be a godsend for you … and us.”

Peachtree looked from Camden to his associate, who looked up expectantly.

“Yes, his name is all over the reports; even received a presidential citation — a citation that lists no unit or even his real military rank.”

Vickers began to smile. “Jack Collins.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, it seems we may have lucked out on this one. Now here is something you’re both not going to like.” Camden picked up a thin sheet of paper and handed it to Peachtree. “The man you used to formulate and reinstate the Black Teams for Mr. Vickers. Your Leavenworth asset?”

“You know what the code name means?” Vickers pushed in rudely with the question.

“It’s not a code name, young man. With a little arm twisting I finally got to the truth. The name you referenced, the Matchstick Man, is what the surviving alien is being called by this mysterious think tank the president uses. Real name is Mahjtic.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” Vickers said aloud. “Mahjtic, Magic, they can’t be that simple?”

“So simple the CIA and your good offices couldn’t connect the dots, and if you ever use the Lord’s name in vain again in my presence I’ll make sure you wind up counting Russian penguins in some far off, very bad locale. Am I clear?”

Vickers wanted to look at the Speaker of the House and flip him the bird but at that moment he thought that would not be a positive career move on his part. So he just nodded that he understood the threat.

“Now that you know just about what you need, Colonel Collins will not be touched or harmed in anyway.”

Both Peachtree and Vickers leaned forward in their chairs. Camden frowned and then held up a hand to stop the protests that were going to spring forth from the two CIA men.

“You two gentlemen have to stop and think. The blunder that Vickers here did by killing Collins’s sister is getting ready to come home to roost right here in this office — if I know your competence like I think I do.” Again he held up his hand when Peachtree wanted to exclude himself from the blunder that caused this whole mess. “Mr. Vickers, get one of your Black Teams together and gather as much intelligence on this Chato’s Crawl facility as you can. The president has been lying to the American people for nearly eight years about a battle in the American desert that may lead to this world being invaded by a hostile force.”

Peachtree relaxed when he saw where the Speaker of the House was going with his thoughts. Vickers, on the other hand, did not.

“As for your other man, this Captain Everett, he just landed right here in Washington, D.C. — possibly to reverse the presidential decision to revoke his naval resignation.” He looked at Vickers and smirked. “Or he’s coming here to see you, Mr. Vickers. If that is the case I would start my Arizona assignment as quickly as possible, because you know who else’s name is in those Arizona reports?”

“Captain Carl Everett,” Vickers stated flatly.

“That’s right, and I suspect he works in that same desert think tank that this Colonel Collins is assigned to along with that strange little bald man with glasses the president seems to lean on so much. Get to the desert, Mr. Vickers, with all haste and find out what you can to assist me in stopping this military spending insanity by the president, or guess what? You could have some very disturbing company coming your way. So don’t fail me, Mr. Vickers.”

Hiram Vickers had all of his power stripped from him and had been reduced to a field agent with the responsibility of a house cat. He decided that for the moment he would have to play their game. He stood, nodded at the two men, and left the office inside the gorgeous brownstone.

Camden watched him leave and then looked at Peachtree.

“That man is not to go to Arizona. I suspect that those two crazy bastards are coming after him, and if they get Vickers I’m afraid we will become exposed and brought into his foolish attempts at playing master spy. I want him elimin—” Camden stopped short of saying it. “Well, I guess I don’t have to voice that order to you of all people, do I, Daniel?”

“Vickers will be dealt with by one of his own Black Teams”—Peachtree looked at his wristwatch—“in just about thirty minutes. I’ve already warned all three Black Team leaders of the situation.”

“I don’t want particulars. The president seems to have ears everywhere.”

“You are not involved in this. Vickers has served his purpose. The technology he and his Black Teams came up with has made us quite a sum of money, thanks to the president buying up any and all war material for this fictitious fight.”

“Good, now let’s later discuss this so-called Russian invasion that’s brewing in Iran. If it succeeds, or even if it fails, I am going to crucify that sanctimonious son of a bitch in the White House, if it’s the last thing I do.”

Peachtree stood and buttoned his coat. “You don’t think Vickers would do anything on his own with that little green asset in Arizona, do you, if he makes it out of Washington?”

“Vickers doesn’t have the brains to screw me over, Daniel.”

As Vickers drove away through the quiet streets of Georgetown, he smiled. He had all three names and now he even had a location on where to start. He turned on his radio and started whistling a tune.

“Jack Collins, Carl Everett, and the Matchstick Man,” he mumbled to himself in the form of the song that was currently playing on his car’s radio. “All in all, not a bad meeting.”

Niles, Virginia Pollock, and Matchstick had been sequestered inside the conference room for the past twelve hours. The remains of their dinner were spread across the large conference table, as were the many field reports from their field teams across the globe and others from archeological digs in France, England, Germany, and Russia. These countries knew the importance of finding a downed saucer with a mostly working power plant. If the president could not talk the Iranian leader into surrendering the prize, its recovery would cost many Russian soldiers their lives, not to mention the lives of Jason Ryan and Sarah McIntire. Thus far he hadn’t been able to convince their foreign ministry to even allow the president to speak to Rouhani. Niles laid down the report from China and removed his glasses in frustration. He looked up at Virginia.

“What did General Electric have to say about their attempt to restart the Chato’s Crawl engines?”

“No luck whatsoever. They lost two of their technicians just providing a nuclear jump-start to the pieced-together power plant. The explosion nearly took out their New Jersey facility.”

Compton laid his glasses on the table and rubbed his eyes. He looked back up, into the dark eyes of Matchstick. The small being sat silently on an elevated chair and chewed on a pizza roll that the chefs in the cafeteria had made especially for their guest. The remains of Gus Tilly’s sandwich sat untouched beside Matchstick. Six and a half hours ago the old prospector had excused himself and, with the assistance of Dr. Denise Gilliam, had gone to the clinic to be checked out for exhaustion.

Matchstick chewed on another pizza roll but remained silent, occasionally looking at the empty seat beside him left by his friend Gus.

Niles placed his glasses back on his nose and then looked up as the double doors to the conference room opened. Alice Hamilton, wearing a new, fresh dress, entered. Compton looked at his watch and noticed the time was three in the morning.

“What are you doing up and out at this ungodly hour?” he asked.

Alice walked over and kissed Matchstick on his green and very bald head and then looked at Compton. Matchstick smiled up at the woman and offered her one of the cold pizza rolls, which she accepted and popped into her mouth. She smiled and then made a face of disgust but managed to swallow despite the cold taste of the pastry. She held up a file and then slid it down the table to Niles. She returned to the head of the table to sit at her customary spot to Niles’s left.

“Your pitch to the Joint Chiefs of Staff paid off,” she said as she nodded a greeting to Virginia. “Three of them already had his name at the top of their own lists.”

Compton opened the file folder and perused the list of names, concentrating on the one name at the top and the number of staff members who concurred with the name submitted by Niles and the president of the United States. He nodded and closed the file. He knew that only a very few select personnel in six governments knew who led the list. Alice reached into the pocket of her print dress and placed two small black boxes on the tabletop just out of reach of Compton. He raised his eyes and took in the eighty-seven-year-old woman.

“They just came in this afternoon. I took them to the jewelers in Las Vegas and had the backs engraved.”

Niles smiled for the first time in what seemed months and then looked at Virginia.

“In 1941, what did congress and the higher-ups in the army think about President Roosevelt’s and General George Marshall’s decision?”

Virginia Pollock smiled. “Not well at all. As a matter of fact there was a significant push to have Chief of Staff Marshall removed from his post. Most said he had become incompetent, and that his choice of field generals was a clear indication that the old man could not begin to handle a world war. They wanted him removed, Niles”—she smiled even wider—“just like the politicians will want your head when that name is presented to them.”

“Well, personally the sons of bitches can have my head if this plan fails.”

“That’s only because if you and the president fail with Operation Overlord, there won’t be anyone around to demand your heads,” Alice said in her businesslike manner.

Niles laughed. “That’s what he and I planned — the perfect crime.”

Matchstick was listening and was very curious about the small boxes at Niles’s fingertips. He stood on the chair and, like a small child, stepped onto the table with his mouth full of pizza rolls and retrieved one of the small boxes, turning it over with his long fingers. He looked at Niles and the director nodded that it was all right for Matchstick to open it. He did, and his obsidian-colored eyes widened and his mouth formed the shape of that familiar O he had a habit of doing when amazed. The two stars gleamed in the recessed lighting inside of the conference room. Matchstick reached down and snapped up the other satin-lined box and opened it. There, a pair of stars were shining and the O was there again on the mouth of the alien.

“You know this hasn’t been done officially since the beginning of World War Two,” Alice said as she watched the reaction of Matchstick to the boxed ranks inside of their gilded cases. “I think the last man who wore colonel’s eagles and was selected to be a brevet general was Dwight Eisenhower. Congress is going to shit wide and hard when they get wind of this.”

“This war may be well over before they even become aware of it,” Niles countered with a sad smile. “Especially if that power plant is not recovered.”

Matchstick looked up from the two boxes as he snapped the lids closed. He looked at Niles long and hard.

“We will recover the engine.” He locked eyes with the small alien. “I promise.”

Matchstick seemed placated by Compton’s reassurance and returned to his chair, started to pop another pizza roll into his small mouth, and then quickly thought better of it. The information about the failure to find one of the many alien crash sites had taken a toll on his appetite. Mahjtic knew that without that alien power plant there would be no war, only a slaughter.

“Well, let’s get Jack in here as soon as we can and get a message and recall order out to Mr. Everett in Romania,” Compton said.

Alice didn’t respond. She exchanged a look with Virginia, who sat directly across from her. The assistant director of the Event Group saw that Alice was concerned about something as she slowly pulled a note from the same pocket. She looked it over and then looked up at Niles.

“Carl is no longer in Romania and Jack left the complex twelve hours ago.”

Niles was speechless.

“Jack left a message for me, with instructions to open it at eight tomorrow morning. Then I received a report from the State Department, telling me that Carl had used his passport to fly home on a commercial flight.”

“Where is he going?” Niles asked and not politely.

Alice remained silent for thirty seconds. “Washington. Carl flew into D.C. early this morning. If anything is going to happen it will be there. I took the liberty of opening up Jack’s e-mail early; it seems he had recent communication from Colonel Farbeaux. The subject matter in all of this is this man.” Alice opened her folder and pulled out the same photo Henri had sent Jack.

“Why does this guy look familiar?” Niles asked.

“That’s because you’ve sat in more than just one security briefing with the man. CIA — I think Jack and Carl, along with our French friend, have found the bastard that murdered Jack’s sister.”

“Did Jack and Carl have communication at any time in the last two days?” he asked as his anger grew.

“Not as far as Europa knows. Jack hasn’t seen or spoken to Captain Everett since the Group left Romania. I even went as far as checking out Anya Korvesky’s location.”

“And?” Niles fumed.

“She’s back in Israel, on active duty.”

“Which is a clear indication that something unforeseen has happened to make these three people move as quickly as they did. Carl would never have left that woman, he loved her,” Virginia said, trying to assuage Niles anger as much as she could. “And Jack knew that we had major problems mounting here. Besides, would he have left the complex knowing that Sarah was heading into harm’s way in Iran?”

Niles again angrily shook his head. “I didn’t tell him. Jack knows nothing about what we have ordered her and Ryan to do.”

“Niles, Jack should have been informed.” Alice knew that she was pushing the wrong buttons at that very moment, adding fuel to the fiery anger of Niles Compton.

“Jack is a soldier, he does not have to have everything explained to him. He cannot protect people all of the time. Sarah has a job to do.” He reached out, took the box that held the two shiny stars, and threw it against the wall. “And so did he, goddamn it!” Compton hit the second box and it also flew to the far wall and landed on the carpet. Niles placed his head in his hands and cursed again.

“Do you think Jack would do it?” Virginia asked.

Niles looked up with his swollen and reddened eyes. “You know he will, and Captain Everett, like a damn lapdog, will be right beside him. And then the two men we rely on the heaviest outside of Matchstick will be in jail for murder instead of where Matchstick and Garrison wanted them during the war. Damn it, Jack!”

Alice knew what had happened as soon as she received the note from Jack. He and Carl had somehow found out the identity of the person who killed Jack’s sister, Lynn Simpson. She shook her head, knowing that there was one thing in the world you could make a sure bet on: the fact that Jack Collins would kill the person responsible, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

“What do we do, Niles?” Virginia asked.

Compton stood as he watched Matchstick slowly slide out of his overly large chair. He quickly came to a decision.

“Alice, call Kyle Stimson at the FBI and tell him to pick up Jack and Carl and place them into protective custody. Get them off the fucking streets before Overlord loses two valuable chess pieces that cannot be replaced. Inform Houston about the delay in getting Everett out there, and then inform General Wheeler in Japan that Jack is also on assignment but will arrive ASAP.”

Alice wrote all of this down.

“Are you going to inform the president?” Virginia inquired.

“What, that two of the main cogs in the wheel just went off to commit what amounts to premeditated murder? Oh, that would go over real well with a man that has more on his plate than Wilson, Churchill, or Roosevelt ever had.” He shook his head. “No, I will deal with this myself.”

Niles slowly walked to his desk and sat heavily.

None of them noticed that Matchstick had retrieved the two boxes and was staring at the stars inside. He looked up, walked over to the large desk, and placed them on the top even though he wasn’t tall enough to see it. The long fingers pushed them toward the director, then he turned and left the conference room.

Niles lowered his head, knowing that he needed to take the attitude that Matchstick was taking. He smiled lightly and reached for the brevet promotional ranks, then tapped his fingers on them.

“Jack, what am I going to do with you now?” he mumbled, then looked at Alice, who always had words to smooth things over.

She smiled in her coquettish way and batted those green eyes of hers at the director. She then became serious.

“What will you do with Jack?” She looked from Niles to Virginia and then back to the director.

Niles looked lost.

“This is what you do, just like you and I used to with Garrison: you sit here and hope that our agent in the FBI can stop them. If not, we hope he and Mr. Everett catch up to whoever this murdering son of a bitch is and kill him. Society can overlook this one minor infraction, I’m sure.” Alice gathered her things, then went to Niles and kissed him on the cheek and patted his shoulder. “That’s what you do, Niles — trust in Jack, either way.”

The field glasses were tinted with an electrified liquid crystal, the newest creation of the Bushnell Corporation’s advancement in binocular technology; it assisted in the elimination of glare bouncing off the tri-lenses of the viewing system. The man saw the target emerge from the main building after nodding his head to several of the CIA guards who roamed the outside, looking as if they were men and women taking after-lunch walks. The watcher adjusted his lenses so he could make out the feminine features of the subject he was tasked to follow.

Henri Farbeaux tilted his head at what he would call the audacity of the man as he just strolled out the front doors of the CIA headquarters as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The colonel lowered his glasses and shook his head. He raised his small radio and hit the transmit button two times, then waited until he heard the responding three clicks in return. Once he had received the response he raised the glasses and studied Hiram Vickers. “Yes,” he mumbled. He knew automatically that this was the same man whose picture had been forwarded to him from Leavenworth. Farbeaux lowered his glasses and walked out from behind the stand of trees that fronted the open gates of the Langley facility. He walked to the small side street that was only a hundred and fifty yards away and waited. Soon a black rental car pulled up and he stepped inside. He took a deep breath and then looked at Colonel Jack Collins.

“That’s him.” He pulled out his cell phone and looked at the one message he had waiting for him. He frowned, then placed the cell phone in his pocket. “We can pick him up when he gets to Colonial Farm Road. That will be his way home.”

Jack didn’t say a word as he placed his foot down hard upon the gas pedal. The black Chevrolet sped into the morning sun.

“I suppose you still refuse to be persuaded to wait, Colonel?” Henri asked.

“This needs to end, and end now.” Jack looked at Henri, his enemy for many years; the man he knew beyond any doubt was in love with Sarah McIntire. “The world is not going to wait on me. I’m out of time, Colonel.”

Farbeaux took a deep breath and then looked out of the side window. This favor he owed, he knew that, but to willingly walk into a murder was something Farbeaux liked to do of his own volition, not on the whim of a man he hated for allowing his wife to die in the jungle eight years before. He looked at Jack as he drove and knew that the man he faced was not the person he always thought he had been. This American colonel was unlike any individual he had ever known, and if a man like this could love a woman such as Sarah McIntire there had to be more to him than his enemies ever saw. He had started to reassess his opinion on his wife’s demise in the Amazon at this man’s hands. Farbeaux had his doubts that Jack was capable of cold-blooded murder.

“Listen, I’m a little more experienced at being a bad guy. I think you should allow a professional to do this. From what I’ve learned, this man that you want to kill can be retired without any fuss.”

Jack said nothing. The light-gray suit Collins wore and the white shirt underneath were starting to darken with sweat as the man neared his prey. Henri had the same physical reaction as Jack when it came time to finish business that was long in coming. He knew then that the colonel was going to carry this thing through to its obvious and, to him, logical conclusion.

“Turn left and we can beat him to his town house.” Henri realized that trying to talk this man out of what he was about to do was no use. He knew because he had been there himself.

Hiram Vickers stepped from his car and glanced around. The early evening was warm. A slight breeze brushed his sweaty features and he tossed his keys in the air. Before they reached his hand he felt the gun at his back. The keys fell to the pavement of the parking area. Vickers froze.

“Man, there are security cameras all over the place. Maybe you should have picked a better robbery target, or at least another location.”

“Tell me where the cameras are so we can wave and smile,” came the slight French-accented reply. “Now, shall we go inside and talk? Ah, ah, pick up your keys. And please lower your hands and quit being so melodramatic. After all, this is Washington, not your Dodge City. We don’t want to attract the attention of your influential neighbors, now do we?”

Vickers reached down and retrieved the keys, then straightened. He managed to see the face of the man who held the silenced weapon at his kidneys. While his face seemed familiar he couldn’t place where he had seen it before.

“Who in the hell are you?” Vickers asked as he was not too gently pushed forward toward his first-floor apartment door. He reached out to place his key in the first door he came to and was stopped by Farbeaux.

“Now why would you attempt to go into your neighbor’s house? Try the next one.”

Vickers knew then that he was in some serious trouble. He cursed his poor attempt at trying to fool the man with the gun. He went to the next apartment and shoved the key in and opened the door. Henri pushed the man inside and quickly reached behind him to lock the door, all the while keeping the gun leveled at Vickers’s kidneys.

Vickers almost lost his balance and bladder control when he saw the man in the gray suit sitting in his living room chair. The intense blue eyes bore into his frightened ones. But the one object he noticed even more than the man’s blue eyes was the silenced Beretta in his right hand. His guest was sitting casually as the barrel of the weapon gently tapped his knee.

“Look, you guys really don’t know who you’re fucking with here,” he said as he gestured that he wanted to reach into his coat. Jack Collins nodded his head that it was all right. The blue eyes went to Henri, wanting him to shoot the man if anything untoward came free of his coat. Vickers pulled out his CIA identification and tossed it to Jack, who caught it but didn’t examine it. Instead he just placed it on the small coffee table to his left and stared at the cowering man before him.

“You don’t know me?” Collins slowly stood from the chair and faced the man he had wanted to meet since his sister’s murder six months before.

“Why should I?” Vickers said as Henri strode away and into the man’s kitchen. Jack heard the refrigerator open and the Frenchman rummage through it.

“I thought since you knew my sister that you just might know me.”

Vickers felt his heart slip a notch in his chest as he realized just who was inside his home. All thoughts of the Matchstick Man were all but gone — along with his future.

“Look, I really don’t have any idea what it is you’re talking about. Who is your sister?”

Henri Farbeaux stepped from the kitchen with an opened can of Coke and watched the activity he found immensely amusing. He did notice a momentary flare in Jack’s eyes. It wasn’t one of anger, but one of doubt when Vickers said he didn’t know what the colonel was referring to. Henri sipped the cold drink.

Jack walked toward Vickers with a purposeful stride. He stopped only inches from Vickers’s nose.

“Lynn Simpson … Collins.”

Vickers’s eyes flitted to the Frenchman, who raised his soda and nodded. Vickers didn’t know if he was praising the cold drink or saying we gotcha.

Jack knew the man they sought was right in front of him. “Why was she killed?”

“You can’t shoot me right here in the middle of Georgetown for something I am not involved in. I don’t know what—”

The gun’s barrel struck the CIA man on the side of the head, making him yelp in pain. He looked at his hand when he pulled it away from his ear and it was covered in blood.

“Who said anything about shooting?” Henri said as he sipped from the can. “There are quite a number of ways to use a gun, my friend, and I think the colonel knows them all.”

“But I—”

Another gun-barrel blow to the other ear and Vickers this time went down.

“Why?” Jack persisted.

Vickers looked up at Collins and saw no mercy in the eyes of the man.

“Okay, okay,” the CIA man screamed as he tried to stand. The gun came down again, sending him to the braided carpeting. “What was that for?”

“I believe he was telling you to be forthright and straight with him before you speak again,” Henri said as he raised the can to his lips. He froze when he felt the weapon digging into his backside. The can stopped at the lips and he didn’t move.

Jack saw the other three men but it was too late. They were drawn on before he could react. They had been in the apartment the whole time and Jack hadn’t checked when he entered the building. He cursed himself for his unprofessional act.

“This man has done quite enough damage,” a tall, thin man in a black Windbreaker said as he stepped around Vickers to remove Jack’s weapon. Henri was simultaneously pushed out of the kitchen’s doorway. He was as angry as Collins for being taken by surprise. He quickly surmised that although they were both extremely adept at battlefield prowess, they were sorely lacking in the fine art of cold-blooded murder tactics.

“Maybe we should have planned this a little better, Colonel,” Farbeaux said as he joined Collins in the living room.

Collins counted four men in total. There was one more outside the front door as he had seen a shadow pass the window a moment before. They were all wearing black Windbreakers and at that moment Collins knew just who it was they were dealing with. The infamous Men in Black that had been reborn, and now he knew who it was that had reinstated the teams — the CIA. Everything became crystal clear to Jack.

Vickers finally stood and wiped the blood from both ears, then bravely punched Jack in the stomach. The colonel barely winced. One of the Black Team snickered when Collins didn’t even flinch at the assault. Instead he looked at Henri.

“Not only did this asshole kill Lynn, Henri, these are the wondrously patriotic gentlemen that hit our complex six months back, looking for the Ripper formula.” Collins turned back to face the man standing next to Vickers.

“Not us, but our commander, Mr. Smith. Don’t tell me you’re the men that dispatched him and his team?” the thin man asked.

“You bet. Killed every one of the bastards,” Jack said as he looked into the steady eyes of the man in black.

“Enough of this crap — kill the son of a bitch!” Vickers said.

The man turned the weapon away from Collins and shot Vickers in the meatiest section of his right calf. Hiram screamed and went down, sliding to the carpet against the wall.

“You must remain quiet as we attempt to sort through this, Mr. Vickers.”

Jack was surprised but held the expression in check as Vickers rolled on the bloodstained carpeting in agony. He looked up at the team leader.

“What are you doing?” he wailed as he tried to hold his wounded calf.

“You are no longer head of your desk, sir. They told me to tell you one fuck-up is all that is tolerated.” The man took deliberate aim at the face of Hiram Vickers, who covered his eyes as blood from his hands dripped onto his face.

Jack hit the floor as the front window exploded into the room as a silenced weapon opened up. The first bullet struck the man with the gun in his exposed hand, dropping him to the floor. Jack fell upon him. Henri ducked just as three of the bullets flew past him. One struck the man at his back in the nose, dropping him as if he were a mere sack of potatoes. The two men standing behind the first hit the floor as the front door was kicked in. Several more rounds found their mark, hitting the men in their exposed backs.

Jack wrestled with the first gunman, then wrenched the weapon up as the trigger was pulled. Collins felt their rescuer run into the apartment and down the hallway, where several more shots were fired just as his own efforts caught the struggling man in the lower chin. A bullet exploded into the assassin’s brain. He went limp. Henri ran by and took one of the weapons from the two fallen men and ran to the front door. As Collins pushed the dead man in black away with disgust he looked around but didn’t see Hiram Vickers. He saw the blood trail leading out of the front door. Henri stepped back inside with the silenced weapon still smoking after discharge. He shook his head.

“Your target just ran for the hills, Colonel.” Henri looked at the hallway and was surprised when a familiar face emerged from the bedroom, dragging one more of the men in black by the collar. He was also dead.

“Always have a navy man plan your ops, Jack, you know that.” Carl Everett let go of the dead man’s collar and looked over the others.

Collins finally managed to get to his feet and shook some of the blood from his exposed hand. He looked at Carl and shook his head.

“I thought you had a woman to look after in Romania?” He went to the door and looked out past Farbeaux. Vickers’s car was gone. Jack looked at the gun in his hand, then tossed it on the couch next to the door.

“Ah, she left me for another man, a general in the Mossad, as a matter of fact.” Carl slid his nine millimeter into the belt at the back of his waistband. He looked at Henri and tilted his head. “And a good thing too, it looks like you’re starting to hang out with characters that can get you into a lot of trouble.”

“You can’t be here, Carl,” Collins said. “I’ll explain later but you cannot be around me.”

“Well, if that’s not a thank-you, I’ll—”

“Jesus Christ!” a voice from behind Jack said.

“We are really losing our touch,” Henri said, realizing they had been taken by surprise once again as he spied the man with the drawn weapon standing in the doorway.

Collins turned and immediately recognized the Group’s man inside the FBI.

“Agent Stimson, how are things?” Jack wiped his hand on the white curtains at the window.

The agent placed his weapon in its holster and looked at the scene inside the apartment.

“I don’t know how in the hell I’m going to explain this one to my boss.” The FBI special agent stepped inside and eyed the three men. “Jack you have put me in a hell of a spot here.”

“How did you know where to find us?” The colonel looked from Everett to the man he had recruited himself five years before.

Stimson looked at Collins and shook his head. “How in the hell do I know how your people find these things out? I’m just an errand boy here.” Stimson shook his head as he examined the scene again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now, the Bureau’s had orders for a couple of months to keep tabs on our Mr. Vickers. It seems the Oval Office doesn’t like certain factions over in Langley and wanted to start a file on more than just a few of their operatives.”

“Bullshit. Dr. Compton authorized you to use the computer chip tags Mr. Everett and I have in our arms.”

“Okay, that too.” The agent again shook his head as he looked at the three men before him. “By the way, you three … well, you’re under arrest.”

“Now you know better than that,” Carl said as he raised a brow at the agent.

“Look, you guys can take me down but I have to tell you that I have eight more agents outside. We have enough of a mess around here. By the orders of the president of the United States you are hereby placed into protective custody.”

“President, my ass. I smell Niles, correct?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know about these gentlemen,” Farbeaux said, “but I’m a foreign national who has nothing to do with secret groups or even the president of the United States. So if you would excuse me, I’ll say—”

“You’ll say thank-you and be grateful you’re not in handcuffs, Colonel Farbeaux,” Stimson said with an angry glare.

“Yes, Colonel Collins, I would say your little bald employer is indeed behind this.” Henri walked up to Jack and smiled as he slightly raised both hands. “I guess if you can’t get one bad guy, your boss thinks another will be just as good. At least enough to appease your president over this mess.” He gestured at the dead men around him.

“No, I’m afraid your own government wants to speak with you, Colonel,” Stimson said.

Henri deflated before their eyes when he realized his time on the run from his own government was now at an end. He took the gun from his pants and handed it to the agent. The look he gave Jack was not a pleasant one, and Collins knew trying to explain to Henri that he had nothing to do with his arrest would go by the wayside. Henri Farbeaux never forgot a slight and Collins knew he was back to square one with the Frenchman.

“Come, gentlemen, we have little time. We have to get you clear of this and cleared fast. Things are starting to go to hell in a handbasket across the globe. The president just placed the rapid deployment force in Kuwait on alert for action inside the borders of Iran.”

Jack was taken aback. “I didn’t know FBI field agents were briefed on presidential orders?”

“He didn’t brief me, Director Compton did. And he told me to tell you that the Azerbaijan field team is involved. I guess you’re supposed to know what that means.”

Jack’s face went slack, a reaction that both Carl and Henri noticed.

“What, Jack?” Carl asked.

“Sarah is on the field team in Azerbaijan.”

“Then we must obey your orders,” Henri said, becoming dead serious.

The men were led from Vickers’s apartment. It was Jack who remembered what they had come here for.

“Vickers could not have been working alone, you know that?” he asked no one in particular.

“I’m afraid the men he does work for are untouchable at the moment,” Stimson said. He led the men past his special agents as they rushed into the slaughterhouse that was once a beautiful condo inside Georgetown. “Call the forensics team and issue an all-points for Mr. Hiram Vickers. This is his place and his mess,” he said to the team inside.

“And why are the men in black untouchable?” Everett asked.

“Because priorities have shifted, gentlemen, from passive preparedness to a war footing. Dr. Compton said you would understand. He said to tell you, Operations Magic and Overlord are on. And that you picked one hell of a time to go rogue on him.”

Farbeaux didn’t know what either meant, but became concerned when he saw the countenance of Jack Collins go from worry to fear in a split second. “If you don’t mind telling me, what do those terms mean?”

Jack stopped before reaching the FBI sedan.

“It means, Henri, that the war we’ve been fearing is starting.”

The three Russian-built troop transports, the Ilyushin IL-76 D “Desantnyis,” sat at the far edge of the northern-most runway. The security aspect of what was now known as Operation Zeus dictated the large force stay as far from the prying eyes of the Azerbaijani military forces as possible. From a distance the newest sets of eyes on the airstrip watched the activity of the Russian paratroopers as they made ready for their flight into Iran. It had taken close to three hours to get the Azerbaijani government’s permission to use Masally as a staging area. As it was, several large western newspapers and networks had gotten wind of the operation but were kept at bay at the main civil terminal far away.

The lone helicopter sat between the large troop transports. The pilot made ready for the flight into the Caspian Sea staging site. His passengers had just arrived and were being outfitted inside the three large tents they had set up.

Two miles away inside the run-down terminal, two Russian soldiers made their way through security and past the many prying eyes of the civilians waiting for their flights. The two officers, a man and a woman with very dark hair, turned sharply into the airline pilots’ ready room. The woman removed her cap and held a hand up, stilling the man as he stepped in behind her. She heard a shower running and a man somewhere inside the locker room whistling. She gestured for the man to take the whistler and she would address the shower situation. The man nodded, reached into his uniform jacket pocket, and removed a small syringe. He looked at the raven-haired woman one last time and she gave him a warning with her raised brows. He smiled and walked off.

The woman pulled a duplicate syringe from her own pocket and with one last glance at her male counterpart moved to the shower stalls that lined the back of the pilots’ ready room. She heard the shower turn off and the soft humming of a woman as she opened the stall door. The woman in the absconded Russian uniform moved quickly to jab the female shower taker in the arm, then held the woman’s head as she easily collapsed into her arms. She laid her gently on the tiled floor, then looked over at the man who had accompanied her as he dragged the whistler into the shower area.

“Place them in the janitor’s closet and seal the door. Someone should free them tomorrow morning when their cleaning shift arrives.”

“I don’t think that’s wise. This fellow”—the man lightly tapped the drugged man with his right foot—“got a good look at me before I stuck him.” The dark-haired woman removed the combat fatigues from the wall hook, held them up for sizing, and tilted her head, thinking the large fit would have to do. She finally spared the man a hard look.

“The last I heard, Israel wasn’t at war with Russia. We’re here to observe and report, that is all. If this weapon the Iranians have is meant for Israel, we have to know.”

“You’re the boss, Major, I just work here.”

Anya Korvesky looked at the man, then nodded at the captive at his feet. “Then by all means do your work and hide these two.” She looked at the wall clock. “And hurry, we’re on the clock.”

Anya was bone weary. The two Mossad agents had been airlifted twenty miles out from Masally and had to walk in from there. Now they had but five minutes to make the flight line to be in on the raid into Iran. She was there to confirm the suspicion that the weapon the Iranians were using was being directed at the State of Israel. If it was, the Russians would have one chance to destroy it, and if that failed it would be left in the hands of the Israeli Air Force, which was on standby just outside Tel Aviv.

Anya dressed quickly and looked around the locker room until she saw the briefcase. She opened it and made sure the two people they had replaced had all of their documentation and necessary credentials; they did. The man and woman the two agents replaced would have been the scientific advisors on nuclear energy and would be allowed on the raid to assist the American team flown in from a cruiser out in the Caspian Sea. Only it would be she and her partner who would be in on the combat jump into Iran instead of these two.

Dressed in their combat gear, they walked out of the pilots’ ready room and into the night.

The Mossad was jumping tonight with the elite of the Russian military.

Sarah nervously watched as the twin-rotor helicopter started up before them. She and Ryan were sitting on that cold tarmac next to a set of giant landing gear of one of the Ilyushin transports when the pilot of the helicopter waved them over for their flight to the Riga-class frigate Leschenko awaiting them in the Caspian Sea. They stood and both knew they were heading into a situation neither had expected.

“Right about now would be a good time for the colonel and Mr. Everett to make an appearance.” Ryan threw his bag over his shoulder and looked at Sarah.

“Yeah, it would be nice to have them along,” Sarah agreed as Ryan helped her to her feet.

“No, not to come along, but to replace us. I don’t know about you, but those Russian boys don’t look like they’re heading for a picnic.”

Sarah watched as the paratroopers of the elite Russian 106th Guards Division started loading onto the three transports that would take them into harm’s way.

“Strange how soldiers look the same all over the world, isn’t it?”

“It’s the look in their eyes,” Jason replied.

“Look?”

“Yeah.” He took Sarah by the elbow and started steering her toward the idling helicopter. “The look that says they would sure as hell rather be somewhere else.”

Sarah had to agree. She started forward when she accidentally bumped into a soldier making her way to the second Ilyushin in line. The two women locked eyes for the briefest of moments but it was enough to make Sarah stop in her tracks. Jason Ryan saw exactly what she had seen. Sarah managed to get her feet moving as Jason pushed her forward.

Anya Korvesky felt her heart sink when she saw who had bumped into her. She knew Sarah was going to say something and then that, as they say, would be that, and their little ruse would be over before they entered Iranian airspace. Both parties managed to separate without a word.

Sarah slowly turned her head just as Anya did. The two sets of eyes met again and then they both turned away.

“What in the hell is she doing here?” Sarah asked as Jason managed to get her moving again. “Where’s Carl?”

“I don’t know, McIntire, but if we draw attention to her we could damn well be responsible for getting the major shot, so move on and let’s forget we even saw her — at least until we can inform Group.”

Anya turned one last time. She had met the two Americans in Romania and knew them to be Carl’s best friends outside of Colonel Collins. She was grateful that Ryan and Sarah seemed to realize what would happen if Sarah had exposed her identity. With a sigh of relief Anya Korvesky adjusted her chute and equipment, then stepped onto the rear loading ramp of the Ilyushin just as it started to rise, closing out the sight of the small helicopter lifting off with Sarah and Jason.

As the ramps of the three transports closed, a large red flare shot into the sky, and then the first of the giant transports started to roll.

Operation Zeus was on the move.

5

Hiram Vickers winced as the bullet was slowly pulled from his upper right calf. He hissed as the old doctor removed the insulting object from his body. He was lying on a gurney in a shabby office of a man he had only sent people to for injuries — never, ever his own.

“Aw, come on now,” the old doctor said in German-accented English. “It barely qualifies as a flesh wound. I’ve done worse to myself with a—”

“Shut the fuck up and keep your witticisms to yourself. Can I travel without too much discomfort?”

The doctor allowed the misshapen bullet to fall free of the clamp and Vickers heard the ting of the bullet as it hit the stainless steel bowl. He then placed a gauze bandage over the wound and started to tape it.

“As I said, it was nothing more than a flesh wound. It barely hit the muscle. If you can withstand a little discomfort I’m sure aspirin will cover it.”

Vickers eyed the man and was about to comment on the doctor’s opinion of his pain threshold when his cell phone chimed. He cursed when he saw the secure number displayed. He pushed the old doctor away and answered it.

“You son of a bitch, do you think this is going to stand?” he said angrily into the phone.

“You brought this down on yourself. You gave us no choice in deciding your fate, and you knew going in that if your dirty tricks and acquisitions department became public knowledge you would do what needed to be done. You didn’t do what was expected, so your retirement was determined to be essential. As I said, you brought it on yourself, and unless you have a plan that will make the president of the United States forgive and forget, some sort of leverage, you will be the most hunted man in the country. The FBI has already tagged you for the murder of four men at your apartment. Believe me, if I were you I would handle my retirement myself and not allow Jack Collins to do it for you. And you know that you can’t go and turn yourself in — we can get to you anywhere.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Peachtree, if you don’t help me get the hell out of here I will do something that will not only ensure that I hang, but you and several others will also.”

“You have nothing on either me or Speaker of the House Camden. You started the department and you are the one that went rogue on us and killed two American citizens, and agency people at that. No, I think the best way out for you and your family name is to do the retirement ceremonies yourself. Or your very own Black Teams will hunt you down and do the retirement in a most brutal manner — their way.”

“Listen to me, I will—”

Vickers cursed when he realized he was speaking into a severed connection. He closed the cell phone, then looked at the doctor, who was wiping his hands on a towel and looking his way.

“Find something funny in that?” he asked as he slowly slid from the table.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s not often that I treat a dead man. May I suggest you run for your life?” He smiled as he started to turn for the door.

Vickers angrily reached into his coat, pulled out the .32 automatic, and fired six times into the old doctor’s back. He limped over to the fallen man as he rolled over.

“Still find it funny?” he asked, and fired two more times into the upturned face.

Vickers turned and rummaged in the medicine cabinet until he found some pain medication, then quickly swallowed three pills. He reached out with his good leg and kicked the doctor’s head to remove the staring and blank eyes from him. He shook his head as he realized that the entire law enforcement community of the planet would be looking for him. He knew he needed leverage, the likes of which would sway the president into not proceeding with his retirement. He stepped around the murdered doctor and faced the far wall.

“I’ll bring you all down before this is over,” he said as he leaned his head against a large wall map of the United States. He knew he was a lost man as he took a deep breath and straightened. His eyes fell on the map and then they strayed to the western part of the United States. They centered on the southern portion of the multicolored map and he slowly started to smile, feeling better almost immediately with the sudden burst of inspiration. He stepped back and looked at the map and his smile grew. He knew he had found his get-out-of-jail-free card. His hand reached out and slapped the area he was staring at. He smiled at the streak of blood he left on the spot. He then turned away and left the dilapidated office building, exiting Washington for the last time.

On the wall map there was a blotch of red blood smearing the small town in Arizona that would see Vickers free of his dilemma: Chato’s Crawl — the home of the Matchstick Man.

The Alan Shepard rose on the twelve-foot swell and then rolled slightly to the starboard beam as her blunt but powerful nose fought free of the foam and sea that had so suddenly sprung to life around her. She went from a five-knot wind and light seas to having to take on ballast to keep her firmly placed in the water. Her captain leaned forward and peered through the wipers that tried in vain to keep her bridge windows clear. The swirling skies above were taking on a shape that the young captain didn’t like at all. He turned and looked toward his executive officer.

“I want damage control to standby near the ammunition lockers. This would be the time we find out that someone went slack on their loading procedures because no one was expecting this an hour ago.”

“Already done.” The exec reached for a control panel just as the Alan Shepard rolled again, this time to port. Lightning illuminated the interior of the bridge and many worried looks from her young crew were exchanged at the sudden appearance of the swirling storm.

“Captain, we’re starting to get a severe current slamming us from the starboard side. We’re having a hard time keeping course.”

“Maintain course, bring speed up to fifteen knots. I want to get out of this corkscrew. This is beginning to look like a typhoon.”

“I heard the North Sea was rough, but this is ridiculous,” the exec said as he finally gained control and steadied.

“Captain, you better look at this,” called out one of civilian load handlers. He was looking through binoculars and gesturing in the growing darkness of the raging storm. The captain grabbed a pair of glasses and turned to his second-in-command.

“Get a message off to South Hampton and warn them about this. They have to get word out to those deep-sea oil platforms — this thing could tear them apart. Message the Royal Navy that they may have a situation brewing out here.”

“Aye,” the exec replied and moved off to get the word out.

The captain quickly raised the glasses to his eyes as the Alan Shepard went deep into a trough of water that plunged her no less than a hundred feet down a steep waterfall of terror. She corrected and then her bow shot almost straight up. Lightning flashed and eyes flinched as they broke free to the surface once again.

“My God,” the captain said beneath his breath as he eyed the most amazing sight he had ever seen in the natural world — one he knew few had ever seen before. The clouds swirled in a clockwise motion high above them and thirty miles to the south. It looked as if it was a hurricane forming but the captain knew it was swirling far too perfectly. What he was seeing looked almost animated. The colors of blue, purple, green, and reds turned at an amazing speed. The sea directly beneath was churned up into a whirlpool that covered no less than ten miles of the North Sea. A giant wall of water was reaching up to touch the bottom of the tornado of light. The captain flinched and turned away when the windows were blotted out by a thousand streaks of lightning as they broke free of the swirling mass and struck out into the sky in all directions.

“Captain, sea temperature has risen by ten degrees, current winds approaching one hundred miles per hour!” The shout came as the captain regained his sight and once more looked out into the raging hurricane.

“Bring us hard to port — get us the hell out of here! All ahead flank!”

The large supply ship turned hard as the captain saw a sight that froze his blood. Far above and twenty miles away the great tornado of clouds, water, and Lord knew what else, slammed into the sea. The two met with a powerful explosion that sent the sea three miles into the sky, and that still was not enough to hide the terror of the mass of swirling light as it met the ocean. The captain turned away just as the bridge windows exploded in. He looked up and then his heart sank just as five objects of tremendous size exited the twirling tornado. The sound they made even broke through the passion of the raging winds — a deep base tuba that hurt the ears of men twenty miles away. Five times the excruciating noise broke through as the sound of the objects exiting the storm finally diminished and then was gone. The giant round structures then vanished into the eruption on the surface of the North Sea. They disappeared as fast as they had arrived and even then the captain truly wondered if he had seen them at all.

“God!” came a scream of terror as the Alan Shepard rolled hard to starboard as the rogue wave slammed into her. Men lost their grips and fell. Cargo meant for the USS Nimitz carrier battle group broke free and crushed many below decks, and still the giant supply ship rolled. A tremendous scream rent the air as the ship began her death roll.

Three minutes later the bottom keel broke the surface of the North Sea and the USNS Alan Shepard rolled lazily on the now-gentle surface. The sun gleamed off her red-painted underside as men started to bob to the surface of the cold sea one and two at a time. The storm had completely vanished as if it had never been there at all. There was only the debris of a once-proud supply ship that marked the graves of many a sailor.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad looked on angrily from behind the protective three-foot glass wall as technicians raced to put out the fire that blazed at the base of the alien power plant. General Hassan Yazdi was standing beside him and too saw the debacle that the final test had turned out to be. He felt the anger rolling off of Ahmadinejad in waves. The ex-president reached out and struck the intercom button with a closed fist.

“Turn off that cursed alarm,” he said over the intermittent beeping of the fire warning system. He waited as the alarm was finally silenced. He turned to the general. “As if these incompetents couldn’t realize on their own that they had a fire, they had to be warned?” He shook his head as he watched the fire being brought under control. “How does the placement of your men progress?”

“The First Guards Division is entrenched outside of Tehran, and the Third Guards are at this very moment approaching the holy city of Qom. We will have no trouble from the clerics — nor, dare I say, the ayatollahs. The bulk of the men believe they will be preventing a coup, not initiating one. Once the president falls, the religious right will fall in line with the plan, especially since it will be too late to stop it.” He looked into the dark eyes of the smaller man. “That is if this infernal device works correctly and the target actually is struck.”

Ahmadinejad remained stoic as he held the general’s eyes. “That is something we shall see about right now.”

As the two men watched a large glass doorway parted and the lead physicist stepped out. The giant, round, mostly glass and strange steel power plant was still and dark behind him as other technicians scrambled on and over it. The man used a white towel to wipe his hands. He angrily removed the white lab coat he was wearing and tossed it aside. He rummaged in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of American cigarettes. He caught himself just before he lit up and looked at the dark eyes staring at him. He cleared his throat and apologized, then placed both cigarette and lighter back into his pocket.

“Well, what happened to the test?” Ahmadinejad asked, still eyeing the bald man.

“We had a power spike from the blasted power plant itself.”

The two men just stared at the physicist.

“The power we were supplying it was too much; the damn thing seems to be correcting its output on its own. The technical advancement of this engine is so far beyond our understanding. It’s like it is healing itself after being inactive for so long. It’s actually correcting the adjustments we had made to it.”

“Talk straight, man,” Ahmadinejad said angrily.

“It has made an adjustment entirely on its own that actually made it more efficient. It went out of control momentarily and didn’t target anything on this planet. There was no ground strike, it just dissipated into space … we assume.”

“Will the machine work in the manner we need it to?” Yazdi asked. “I have half a million men with their lives hanging in the balance if it doesn’t work, you fool.”

“Oh, yes, yes, very much so,” the man said, wishing for a cigarette in the worst way. “We now know what to look for and will prevent the power plant from spiking. We’ll adjust our input of power to compensate for what the engine provides.”

“Will it work?” Ahmadinejad asked as he leaned forward into the scientist’s face.

“Yes, the targeting will be accurate to the foot.”

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad finally dipped his head. He turned and faced the general. “Make final preparations to eliminate the key government personnel we have selected — seal the capital off, General.”

The taller man came to attention as the once and now future president of Iran turned to the shaking physicist.

“Correct your machine and make it operational within the hour. No more delays.”

“Yes, sir,” the man shakily answered.

“A complete strike package will be delivered to you in one hour. Target: Tel Aviv.”

The boat was new. She was on her third shakedown cruise deep in the North Sea as the French navy unveiled its latest attack submarine: the Barracuda-class Suffren. Her design and construction had been done in secret and the French people had been shocked when news leaked of the Barracuda class of boats. Protests from Paris to Toulon took up every available minute of news time on television. The anger stemmed from the program’s prohibitive cost, for the six new boats of the Barracuda class would cost the people of France eight billion Euros — roughly twelve billion dollars. The citizens could not grasp the need for such an expensive weapons platform when the world — so it was thought — was drawing down from the war on terror. It seemed to the French nation that military spending was on the rise just as it was in other countries. Every western nation along with China was trying to quietly bring on new and expensive weapons platforms for no apparent reason or perceived threat. Riots in every western nation soon followed the discovery of new weapons programs that no nation on earth could possibly afford after the costly war on terror. The anger stemmed from not having a justification for the buildup.

Captain Jean Arnaud, a veteran of every class of submarine the French navy had produced since the end of the Cold War, sat at his elevated station just above the navigation console. Arnaud was close to his retirement from the sea and was preparing to drive a desk after the Suffren had been thoroughly put through the ringer on this, the last of her shakedown cruises.

As he looked around the silent control room he wondered if the protests back home would eventually shut the most expensive naval program in the history of France down before the second boat, the Duguay-Trouin, could be launched early next year. He shook his head in wonder at the way civilians thought. He knew the program was needed, but he had to admit that in this day and age it was hard to justify the expense of such a massive weapons system when the terrorists of the world were on the run and the old Soviet Union didn’t exist. As far as the Chinese went, they had been silent for the past four years on anything concerning their military. Rumors of a massive Chinese buildup could be the force factor in the West’s rearming.

At the moment the Suffren was running a standard station-keeping drill in the thermal cline a thousand feet below the surface of the roiling North Sea. If the new boat could keep still at the thermal cline — which was a layer of current that separated deep water from shallow and had varying degrees of current and temperature — her shakedown would be complete. Thus far the Suffren had not moved three feet in either direction. Her thrusters kept her nearly motionless in the dark waters as the rough current tried to push her first one way, and then the other.

“Very nice. Enter the specs into the computer along with the time and note it. Gentlemen, let’s bring her up to five hundred feet at a bearing of 237 … let’s take her home.”

He saw the relief on the faces of the young French sailors as the order was given and the shakedown was officially closed. The Suffren had passed all of her tests. Even his officers were relieved to learn they were headed back to L’Ile Longue submarine base.

“Sonar, do you have anything in the vicinity?”

“Conn, sonar, no close-aboard surface contacts and nothing below.”

The captain nodded his head and then started to relax.

“Five hundred feet and zero bubble, Captain.”

Arnaud heard the chief and smiled. “Gentlemen, push the fish out of the way and let’s get back home with our newest fleet boat. Watch commander, all head two-thirds.”

“All ahead, two-thirds, aye, Captain.”

The Suffren and her new power plant pushed her silently and efficiently through the frigid waters of the North Sea.

The French navy was not the only nation in Europe with the latest in attack submarines. The Royal Navy was in the middle of producing its own — the Astute-class submarines would lead the empire into a future of subsurface warfare that was on a par with the United States and her Virginia-class line of superboats. The Ambush was the second keel to have been laid down at the shipyard and her crew was well aware that theirs was the leading class of attack boat in the entirety of the Royal Navy.

“It looks as if our French friends may be satisfied. It seems they are headed home, Captain.”

Captain Miles Von Muller took the report from the sonar officer, examined it, and handed it back.

“I see old Arnaud worked out the station-keeping problem they had with their thrusters.”

“Yes, sir,” Von Muller’s first officer, or number one, said as he folded the report. “It looks as though the Marine Nationale have a keeper on their hands.”

Von Muller nodded his head. “For now we’ll await them to egress from the North Sea. Then we’ll come shallow and report to the admiralty that the Suffren is now a viable asset for our friends across the channel.”

“Aye, Captain,” the first officer answered.

Von Muller started to rise from his chair. “Until then, match speed and course and let’s follow Suffren a while, and collect what we can from her power plant noises. Keep her at fifteen knots and three hundred in depth. Let’s stay above the thermal cline for the moment.” He smiled, “No sense in letting our friends know we’re near and interested.”

“Very good, Captain.”

“I think I’ll take some tea and settle in for a while. You have the conn, Number One.”

“Number One has the conn.”

Von Muller started to move aft, patting men on their shoulder and nodding his head in thanks at their performance.

“Conn, sonar, we have a light contact bearing two-three-seven. Contact is intermittent at this time.”

The captain immediately stopped and looked back at his first officer. He watched the man take the 1MC mic from its stanchion.

“What do you mean intermittent?” The first officer thought a moment and then clicked the mic to life once more. “Either the Suffren is there or it’s not.”

“Sir, this is not the Suffren. The Frenchies are slowing to five knots. I think they see and hear the same thing we are.”

The captain strode quickly back into the control room and nodded his head, indicating that he would take it from there — his tea would wait.

“Captain has the conn,” his first officer said as he turned and sped for the sonar shack.

“All stop, quick quiet,” came Von Muller’s order.

“Captain, sonar,” his first officer called from the aft compartment, where the Thales Underwater Systems Sonar 2076 was located. The Thales system was the newest and latest in British technology and the men were well aware of its sensibilities. If she said there was something out there you could bet your mother’s pension check that there was indeed something in the tree line. They all felt the massive submarine decelerate as she came to a full stop. “I believe we have a contact two kilometers to the south. It comes shallow and then goes deep. We have a hard time tracking her below the layer. Captain, there is something out there.”

“Americans?” the chief of the boat asked the captain in a low tone.

“No, the Americans know the way the game is played. They bloody well invented shakedown tracking. They have other things to concern themselves with in the South China Sea, with the Koreans. This is something else. What is the Suffren doing?”

Arnaud had ordered all stop as his sonar was below the thermal cline and thus had much better information than their British counterpart. They could see the object at one half mile away holding perfect zero-bubble station — as if it were waiting. Arnaud noticed that the target was sitting right in the middle of the swiftest current in the North Sea and she refused to budge one inch in any direction, up, down, sideways, or backward — the object was anchored like a rock at six hundred feet.

“What are the dimensions?” Arnaud asked as he leaned over the operator’s shoulder to see the multicolored waterfall display on the screen.

“We may be having an issue here, sir. We think it may be as much as six hundred feet…” The young operator paused. “In diameter, Captain.”

“Diameter? You mean this thing is—”

“It’s round Captain. That is not a submarine. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a normal submersible.”

Captain Arnaud turned to face his second-in-command and leaned toward him, as he looked like a man wanting to say something. “What are you thinking?”

“The alert we received from Fleet before leaving on our first shakedown last month. Any abnormal contacts beneath the surface are to be reported immediately when contact has been confirmed not to be a submarine.”

“We don’t even know that yet. We cannot report a partial contact no matter what mysterious orders we have from Fleet. We need—”

“Captain, contact is now active and it’s moving straight toward us at high speed,” the operator said.

“What is their speed?”

“No speed estimate at this time; the computer is having a hard time keeping up.”

“Bring the crew to battle stations, submerged.” Arnaud hurried back to the control room. “Weapons,” he called back to his first officer. “Load tubes one through four with war shots.”

“Aye, Captain, tubes one, two, three, and four with Sharks.”

The Black Shark, as the Italian-made torpedo was known, was a heavyweight in the world of submerged warfare. The fiber-optic-controlled weapon could speed out of the tubes at over fifty-five knots. She could punch a hole in most anything even without her powerful warhead detonating.

Arnaud entered the control room to face the uneasy faces around him.

“Range to target?” he asked as he studied the sea and its surroundings.

“Target aspect change, it’s now slowing, slowing … It’s stopped dead in the water again, Captain.”

“Stopped where, sonar?”

“One moment, conn … Conn, contact is at one hundred meters to our bow. Target is holding station.”

Arnaud looked to his first officer. “The goddamn thing is nose to nose with us. What in the hell are we dealing with here?”

“Captain, we are close enough to use the camera in the sail. Bring the exterior tower floodlights up and see if we can get a look at this thing.”

Arnaud nodded his head. “Weapons, standby, we may have to shoot from the hip.” He smiled in false levity for the benefit of his young crew. “As our American gunslinging friends might say.”

The lightness the captain displayed brought some uneasy smiles to the men manning their stations, but no real relief.

“Lights are up 100 percent, camera coming online.”

Most submarines of modern navies are equipped with cameras hidden behind high-pressured glass located in the tall sail structure. It was used for driving boats under the ice and close-in situations where radar and sonar could only give you numbers, while high definition and ambient light cameras gave you real-life viewing.

Captain Arnaud took a few steps toward the twenty-seven-inch monitor as the picture started to clear. The bright floodlights illuminated the bow of the new submarine, and through the bubbles rising from her steel, sound-absorbing skin Arnaud saw the object. His eyes widened and he looked at his first officer.

“Jesus Christ, what in the hell have we here?” Arnaud asked as curious eyes tried to get a glimpse of the thing blocking their way home. “Maneuvering, back us off to five hundred feet — dead slow.”

“Dead slow astern, aye.” And a few seconds later: “She’s answering two knots astern, Captain.”

They all felt the slight movement as the Suffren slowly eased back from the saucer-shaped object. Arnaud watched as the distance grew between the two very different vessels.

“Conn, sonar, target shows no aspect changes at this time. It’s not following.”

“Orders, Captain?”

“We already have our orders, Number One.” His eyes met those of his younger first officer. “Directly from Fleet at L’Ile Longue. I’m beginning to believe someone knows something very peculiar that they’re not telling us. Well, I guess that’s beside the point now, our orders are to report immediately so that’s just what we’ll do.”

“I assume those orders don’t include not defending ourselves if we have to?”

“Orders sometimes can be very ambiguous.” He smiled at his first officer. “Weapons officer, if that thing so much as blinks put four Sharks down its throat — I don’t care how close it is. Set your safeties on the fish accordingly.”

“Aye, Captain, fish are warmed and ready, safeties set to three hundred feet,” came the call over the overhead speaker.

Every sailor who heard the command knew that the distance was not far enough to avoid blasting open the hull of their own boat if the warheads detonated that close.

“Give me ten degrees up bubble — bring her up slow like she was made of glass, Number One. Periscope depth, please,” he said.

The hull pops and creaks meant the boat was slowly coming shallow.

“Standby radio room for flash traffic to fleet.”

“We can—”

The cannon fire from the saucer flashed three times and the bolts of blue-green light smashed into the sonar dome of the Suffren’s rounded bow. The heavy submarine rocked as its nose was blown free of the boat. Water cascaded into the forward spaces faster than anyone could react to close all hatches. The nose of Suffren went down and the French navy’s newest sub started heading for the bottom of the sea two miles below.

“All back full, blow ballast, blow everything! Weapons, match bearings and fire!” Arnaud called out as loudly as he could. Even with the noise of the fast-sinking warship the captain could feel the four successive jolts as the high-pressure air sent the four Shark torpedoes flying from their tubes. One of the fish caught on the wreckage of the bow and snagged but the other three raced to the target. The flying saucer moved down and the resulting wash of the sea broke the fiber-optic cables guiding the Shark torpedoes. The weapons spun off into three differing directions as the guidance to the Suffren was severed.

“Put the reactor into the red, we’re going down stern first. Full power!” Arnaud shouted. “We need—”

Another salvo of green-blue light struck the Suffren amidships as she spun counterclockwise in her race to the bottom. The cutting beams smashed into the sound-reducing hull and penetrated into the pressure vessel itself. Before anyone could scream, the Suffren came apart.

The fall of the French navy’s newest boat would take a full two hours to reach the bottom of the sea two point seven miles beneath the surface.

Captain Von Muller’s eyes widened as he listened to the recording of the attack. At least he was assuming it was an attack.

“Target is moving off at high speed, Captain.” The sonar operator looked up with an uneasiness he wasn’t accustomed to. “One hundred and twelve knots’ speed. Target is now off the scope.” They saw the sonar rating’s face go white.

The first officer looked from the operator and then leaned over to a switch on his console just as the sonar technician removed his headphones and lowered his head as the sounds of men dying came across the speakers. On the acoustic display and on the sound system inside the sonar room they heard the most horrible noises any submariner could ever hear while submerged. It was the bursting sound of twisting steel and clanging metal.

“Suffren’s bulkheads are collapsing. She’s breaking up.” The operator slowly shook his head as the sound of the French navy’s pride and joy died only a mile and a half away.

“My God, Number One,” Von Muller said as he hurriedly reached out and shut off the echoes from the audio separation mode. “What is the complement of their new boats?” he asked, fearful of the answer. Every man inside the control room could see it in his eyes.

“Forty-seven enlisted personnel and twelve officers.”

Von Muller felt his stomach lurch. He shook his head.

“Do we have a course bearing on the target?” He lowered his head and then nodded at his first officer to get to the radio room.

“Last aspect change had target heading north toward the ice pack.”

“Maneuvering, all ahead flank, take us shallow to fifty feet. Make ready to raise radio mast.”

The HMS Ambush was about to pass along a message the military forces of the world had been waiting to hear — the first shots in a new kind of war had been offered up. A war some had been planning for since 1947—people who knew exactly who the fight was against.

The Grays had arrived.

The semi-darkened room seemed far quieter on the midnight-to-eight shift than third-year controller Oshi Yamamura was used to. The number of flights into Japan was virtually cut by a third in the early morning hours. He noticed some of the more experienced controllers actually had time enough on their hands to share conversations about their experiences, unlike the overtaxed men and women on the day and evening shifts. The atmosphere was light and easygoing and that was just what the young controller wanted.

Oshi’s shift supervisor stopped by his station and momentarily looked over the young man’s shoulder to examine the flights on his scope and their numbers.

“Ito is going to go on his break. Think you can handle a Continental heavy out of Honolulu?”

Yamamura smiled and nodded his head. The supervisor slid the flight and its info card into the slot just above his board. He patted the young man on the back and then made his way to the next controller to further divide the breaking man’s flight responsibilities.

“Korean Air 2786 to Tokyo Center, over,” the voice in his headphones said.

“Korean Air 2786, this is Tokyo Center, good evening.” The young dark-haired man answered confidently, making sure to speak loud enough that his supervisor could hear.

“Tokyo Center, we have traffic off our starboard wing, about two miles out and below our six. What do you have in that area? Over.”

Yamamura examined his scope and saw Korean Air at twenty-nine thousand feet on an easterly heading. The only other flights in the immediate area were a Nippon Air thirty-five miles south of the Korean flight and the Continental 747 he was just handed at twenty-six miles north of Korean Air.

“Korean Air, I have no traffic in your vicinity at this time, over.” He again examined his scope for something he might have missed. The sweep was clear except for his three immediate aircraft responsibilities. “We have the storm cell to your rear and clear skies with a twelve-knot tailwind; other than that we are clear on the scope. All other traffic is local and feet dry, nothing over water, over.”

“Tokyo Center, we are being paced by an aircraft with very bright anticollision lights and it’s less than two miles distant. The lights are brilliant. We have been observing aircraft since breaking into clear weather, over.”

Yamamura watched his scope but the sweep remained clear. He was almost at a loss for what to say. His supervisor came over and also examined his radar sweep and was satisfied the kid had missed nothing. He placed his clipboard down and then connected his headset with Yamamura’s console.

“Korean Air 2786 heavy,” the supervisor said as his eyes remained on the screen, studying the lone IFF designation of the Airbus A350 as it made its way toward Tokyo. “Come right to heading 314 and climb to 31,000, see if traffic remains on current course.”

“Roger Tokyo Center, come right to—”

The silence was sudden. Yamamura looked at the supervisor, who just clicked his mic twice. There was no problem on their end.

“Tokyo Center, this is Continental 006 heavy, we have a bright flash of light approximately twenty to thirty miles to our north, very high altitude, over.”

“Continental 006, wait one, please. Korean Air 2786, repeat last message. Korean Air, please report, we have—”

“Oh, God,” Yamamura said as he nudged his supervisor on the side and pointed at the scope just as the blinking symbol for Korean Air 2786 heavy went dark.

“Korean Air, do you copy? Over.”

“Tokyo Center, this is Continental 006, we have traffic to our immediate front and just above our position. Tell whoever that is to mind the rules of the road, we are—”

The Continental icon blinked three times and then it too went dark. The Boeing 747 just vanished.

“Continental 006, come in, over. Continental 006, say again.” The supervisor slapped Yamamura on the shoulder to get him out of the trance he was in. “Get Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa on the line and ask them if they have any traffic in the air that can report on what’s out there. They’re closer than we are.”

As they moved to get to the business of reporting downed aircraft, another of the controllers started talking loudly, trying to raise a commercial heavy, a Qantas 777 out of Anchorage, Alaska, as it too vanished thirty miles from the scene of the first two. All of this at 2:30 A.M. on a cloudless and moonlit night.

The two Japanese Air Self-Defense Force F-16 fighters lifted off on full afterburner just minutes after the call came in from Tokyo Center requesting assistance. The Fighting Falcons jumped into the air and instead of heading for their normal hot spot in the Sea of Japan and the hostile Korean Peninsula, they headed east toward the Pacific.

Lieutenant Colonel Naishi Tomai brought the venerable fighter’s nose up and climbed. As he did he had to think back to the very brief weather report from the base. Cloudless, it had said, but just as the thought came to him the F-16 along with his wingman rose into a heavier, darker mass of weather that seemed to be stationed over the sea at sixty miles. He knew he would never be able to see anything from that altitude so he nosed the fighter down, trying to ease the light aircraft into the sudden storm. He hoped his wingman was hugging him pretty close as they slowly came through the low clouds. It seemed the dark clouds held nothing but potholes as his small fighter was tossed up and down and side to side as he eased the Falcon through the rain and swirling winds of the storm.

The two F-16s broke free of the squall at eight thousand feet and that was when the lieutenant colonel could not believe the sight he was seeing far below on the surface of the sea. He unsnapped his oxygen mask and shook his head at the impossible view. Spread out on the ocean for hundreds of miles around was the wreckage of the three commercial aircraft. Three distinct spots on the sea eight thousand feet below. For the colonel it looked as if the waves had caught fire.

The attack that killed over seven hundred and twenty civilians had lasted less than thirty-two seconds from beginning to end.

Jack, Carl, and Henri sat in a closed and windowless van that either had the air conditioner on the fritz or the four FBI agents watching over them wanted them to suffer for some reason or the other. The mess they left back in Georgetown was more than likely the reason. Farbeaux had listened to the two Americans speaking and tried his best to follow the complicated conversation they were having. Henri adjusted the handcuffs on his wrists.

“And the British, who were out in the middle of the Antarctic for who knows what reason,” Everett said, “found my watch buried in two-hundred-thousand-year-old ice? And this was the reasoning behind you leaving me out of the hunt for your sister’s killer? Just to keep us separated? Your blood on my watch, found at a level in the Antarctic ice that is over a hundred and eighty thousand years old.”

“That’s about it.” Jack glanced at the Frenchman, who acted as if he weren’t listening. “Now, as for the British, I know some parts of the Overlord plan, but not the main cog in the wheel. I’m beginning to think they found that watch during the excavation of something else under the ice.”

“That’s a little thin, Jack.” Everett also looked at Farbeaux, who only winked at the captain. “Niles has got to have more on this.”

Jack adjusted his hands so he could get some relief from the handcuffs on his wrists.

“I believe he does, but he, Matchstick, and Garrison Lee have been so tight-lipped about Overlord that they won’t let anyone in. I handled some troop reports and dispositions of war material for the plan, but after that, it’s like the Manhattan Project was reactivated.”

Carl just raised his brows when Matchstick and Lee were mentioned.

“As far as I can tell without butting my nose into secret stuff is that only a few people, mostly heads of state and their immediate military commanders, even know the word Overlord.”

“And?” Carl persisted.

“Well, I guess Matchstick says that no matter what we do to prevent you from being lost two hundred thousand years ago, it will more than likely cause you to be lost. He said you were too vital to Overlord.”

“So the little guy will just chuck my ass right under the proverbial bus to prevent us from changing the outcome?”

“I guess that’s the way it is. He says you may be the reason we win or lose the war.”

“It’s called a paradox, gentlemen. One cannot change the past, nor dare I say the future. Time and physics will make the changes so it comes out the way it was meant to be.”

Both Everett and Collins stared at the Frenchman as if he had just fallen from the Darwinian tree.

“So now we know the truth — you used to write for Star Trek or something, right?” Carl joked as the van’s sliding door flew open.

“The powers that be, Captain Everett, have deemed you expendable and no attempt is to be made to change the fact that your watch ends up two hundred thousand years in the past. I guess for whatever war that is approaching they need you doing what it was you were meant to do.”

“Henri, why don’t you take your theories and shove them right up your—”

“Gentlemen,” said one of the agents in a navy blue FBI Windbreaker, “please follow me. You will now be separated.”

Henri only smiled at the uncomfortable frame of mind he had put the navy man in. He winked at Everett as he was led to a black sedan only feet away.

“I hate that guy, Jack,” Carl said as he was led to a second car.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Three separate vehicles moved slowly down the winding roadway. Jack Collins was in the backseat of the lead vehicle, driven by a healthy looking young Marine corporal. The guard next to him kept his eyes straight ahead and did not once look back at the career army officer. As they neared the front gate Jack saw the security team of five Marines awaiting their arrival. They all wore gray combat fatigues and all watched the three sedans intently as they approached.

As the rear door was opened for Collins he looked back and saw Carl and Henri step from their cars and look around. Carl knew exactly where they were. As for the French Army colonel, he looked at the secure surroundings and figured this was one of the nicer prison properties he had ever seen. He started to step toward the two other men but a burly Marine stepped in front of him. Another three Marines escorted Henri toward the back of the large wooden residence.

A Marine captain soon stepped from the house and walked down the pathway toward Jack and Carl. He was examining two photographs and then held up a small black box the two Event security men knew immediately. Collins and then Everett both held out their cuffed hands and their right thumbprints were taken and compared to Department of Defense records. The captain nodded his head and then gestured for his security team to disperse. He eyed first Collins and then the much larger Everett. His eyes settled on the blond man as he removed first Everett’s and then Jack’s handcuffs.

“You may not remember, Captain, but we served together once at Camp Pendleton.” He gestured for the captain and colonel to follow him toward the front of the less than ostentatious home.

“I’m sorry, Captain, it’s been a long day,” Everett said as he looked back at Jack.

The Marine captain paused at the double front doors. “It’s about to get a lot longer for you,” he said without a smile just as a two-and-a-half-ton truck pulled up to the front yard. Twenty Marines hopped down from its tarp-covered back. Jack looked at Carl as they both noticed the heavy ordance the squad of Marines carried. Collins raised his eyebrows when he saw the three men carrying the very heavy hellfire missile tubes.

“I take it you’re having trouble with the animal life around Frederick?” Carl asked, not really feeling comfortable with the small joke.

The captain looked back at the dispersing Marines as they vanished into the thickly lined tree-covered property. He ran an electronic keycard through the security lock and the door opened.

“I cannot comment on that aspect of security at the camp, gentlemen, not even as a professional courtesy.” He pushed the door opened and gestured for the two officers to enter. Jack held his place and looked at the young captain.

“What about our fri—” He paused in his description. “Our colleague. Where is he being taken?”

“That will be explained to you later, Colonel.” Jack and Carl looked up in time to see a very weary Niles Compton step into the foyer. “Until then, let’s just say the Marine security unit at Camp David becomes a little nervous when a known criminal enters the compound.” He nodded at the Marine captain until the man turned and with a dip of his head left the house. “And frankly our friend the colonel is not well liked by the president, especially after his miraculous escape from custody six months ago.” He looked sideways at Jack and Carl as he spoke. “So, after we talk maybe you can see Henri again, but not until a few things get out in the open.” Niles turned and walked down the hallway he had just exited. “Until then we have a meeting with a very angry and put-out president.”

Everett looked at Jack and raised his brows. “I probably chose a bad time to come home.”

Collins looked from Carl’s eyes to the watch he wore on his right wrist. He looked back and then just nodded his head. It probably was not the most opportune time to help Jack out with his personal problems.

They followed the director of Department 5656 into the bowels of the Camp David White House, eyed by even more menacing men, only these were the standard Secret Service team that always stayed close to the president. The men were serious looking. Jack and Carl immediately noticed that the agents all wore a sidearm fully exposed on their hips and every other agent carried a small briefcase that obviously held something far more lethal than a standard nine millimeter. They watched the two visitors very closely and that got the two Event Group men thinking that something in the equation had changed. They passed through a small living room where an agent stood beside the doorway and as they did they could hear the laughter of two small girls; when they walked by the two officers, both observant men, spied the first lady sitting on the carpeted floor playing with her two daughters. She looked up and met Jack’s eyes, and what he saw there made him worry even more. The first lady looked frightened.

Niles Compton opened a large door and stepped inside. When Carl and Jack followed they saw a sight that was reminiscent of the old photos from the war that depicted President Roosevelt sitting at a conference with Churchill and Stalin. Three men sat around a large table, looking at the newcomers very closely, as did two men standing off from the round table. Both Jack and Carl knew the five men from photos and briefing reports and they immediately came to the position of attention even though they weren’t in uniform. The president of the United States angrily nodded his head toward the desk that sat in the corner of the room. He stood and said something to the other four men. Niles escorted Carl and Jack toward the desk, where the angry man from the Oval Office met them.

“Have a good time in Georgetown, did you?” The president placed his hands on his hips. He wore no tie and his shirt was slowly turning a darker shade of white from sweat. Jack and Carl remained quiet.

A knock sounded at the door and a Secret Service agent escorted another two men into the room; the president gestured for them to join him. With a nervous glance at the four men sitting around the table the two men advanced.

“Gentlemen, this is my director of the CIA, Harlan Easterbrook, and the assistant director of Operations, Daniel Peachtree.”

Easterbrook nodded his head and quickly looked down at his shoes. Only Peachtree offered his hand for shaking. Collins looked from the outstretched hand and then up to the man’s dark eyes. Jack turned away and looked at the president as if he had been set up.

“Colonel Collins, I believe Mr. Peachtree has something to say to you.” The president’s hands remained planted on his hips, a stance every American knew meant he was angry and wanted something concluded. The four men at the table quietly spoke amongst themselves as the American problem played out on the other side of the room.

“Colonel, believe me when I say how much this ugly episode has upset the agency.”

Collins stared at the man as if his words went right past his ears without entering. His blue eyes bore into the man’s darker ones and before the assistant director of Operations knew it he had taken a step back.

“Upset the agency?” Director Easterbrook said as he heard the words come from Peachtree’s mouth. “Colonel, we are even now tracking down the murdering bastard who killed your sister and her colleague. We will not rest until he is hanging from the highest tree the agency can find, and the man to tie the knot in the rope is Mr. Peachtree here, especially since it was in his operational area that Vickers committed his crimes.”

“Enough. For right now the colonel will be satisfied with your response — won’t you, Colonel Collins?’

Jack didn’t give the president the courtesy of looking at him. “No, sir. As soon as I’m cut loose from here I’m going to hunt Vickers down myself. These gentlemen have lost credibility when it comes to policing their own agency.”

“And he’ll have company dong it,” Carl said as his eyes did find the president.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the commander-in-chief said, ignoring both Jack and Carl for the moment. “Our regular security briefings are cancelled for today, as you see I have other guests.” He gestured toward the four men sitting at the table. Peachtree and Easterbrook nodded their heads and Peachtree took a wide path around the two military officers, who only glared at the two CIA men.

The president faced Carl and Jack and shook his head.

“You had your shot, Colonel, now allow the FBI to do their work. They have several men they need to speak to, not just Hiram Vickers.”

Jack’s face took on an angry countenance as he listened but soon softened when he saw Niles and Carl and was held in check by a look from the two men. The president nodded at Collins as he saw that the colonel immediately regretted his action while in the presence of the boss.

“I would want to punch me too, Colonel, but this job sometimes requires a bit of bad taste to get people to listen. Your participation in this matter of your sister is now concluded.”

Jack started to say something but the president held up a hand to stay him.

“Vickers took orders from someone. He gathered war material and several men used it to profit while saying they were patriots. Bullshit. I suspect I know who was behind it and I need the FBI to prove it or nothing will ever be done about it. As I said, your and Captain Everett’s participation in this is at an end. We will track the son of a bitch down and then I’ll let you throw the switch that sends ten thousand volts through Vickers’s black heart.”

“Now, let’s get down to business because, as you see, we have men waiting.” Niles Compton tried to get the meeting back on track and to get Jack’s head away from the immediate situation. He looked at his watch, knowing what he had to say next would place Jack’s mind back at the business at hand. “We have about an hour before the Russians strike at Iran.”

The president raised his brows as he gestured for Everett and Collins to join the men at the table.

“And you don’t know this, Jack, but we have two of our own heading into harm’s way.”

“Who?” Everett asked.

“Sir, your call went through,” a Secret Service agent said from the doorway. Another handed Niles a phone.

Compton looked at the president, who grimaced and then turned away to join his guests. Niles handed the phone to Jack, who gave him a questioning look.

“It’s Lieutenant McIntire.”

Still, the questions filled the cautious look from Jack and even Everett stopped in curiosity.

“Colonel, this is a presidential favor.” Niles held his gaze on Collins. “Sarah and Lieutenant Commander Ryan are going in as consultants to the Russian strike team.”

It was Everett who said what Jack was thinking. “Oh, shit.”

Carl stepped away to give Jack some privacy.

Jack turned away to take the call. He didn’t care how this looked to the powerful men in the room, as all thought of the events happening in the world fell away from his thoughts the very moment he heard Sarah was heading into danger.

“Small Stuff.” He almost choked on the nickname by which he had always called her.

“Hey, baby,” she said, her voice sounding distant and scratchy. “Jack, are you all right? Niles said you were away for a while?”

Collins caught the inference about his mission to kill the man who ended his sister’s life.

“That’s not important. You need to pay attention out there and get your small ass home in one piece. Ryan too.”

“Jack, we have so many Russian commandos here that you better worry about how many times I have to fend them off. I don’t know if those guys ever get time to see any women, the way they train.”

Collins was silent for the longest moment as he swallowed, and thought about the misery he would feel if Sarah was lost to him. “Look, baby—”

“Jack, I have to go; something’s happening here. It looks like we have a massive power surge coming out of Iran. They may be testing again. If they are they could lead the Grays right to us.”

Jack’s heart froze. He looked over toward Niles and the president as several signals officers urgently passed messages to the men around the conference table.

“Listen, I love you.”

Silence. Sarah had been disconnected as the Russian ship she was on went black, meaning the Caspian Sea task force had gone into communications blackout. Jack knew they were getting ready to strike. He turned away and locked eyes with Everett, then tossed him the now silent cell phone. Carl could see the pain in his friend’s eyes as he strode to the conference table just as the president stood with message in hand.

“Gentlemen, we just lost three commercial jetliners in Japanese airspace, and the navy is reporting that we also lost a United States naval supply ship in the North Sea.”

The president of France cleared his throat, then sadly shook his head. He had been conferring with the prime minister of Great Britain, Hamilton Lloyd.

“I must also sadly report that we have also lost contact with one of our submarines in the North Sea. It has been confirmed by a subsequent British report from a submerged source in the same area.” He placed the message he had received back on the table and lowered his head.

“Gentlemen, the time has come. We must assume we are under attack and the strike on Iran is now paramount to recover the alien engine.” The president turned to the leader of Russia. “Sergei, are your follow-up forces ready in case the first strike at recovery fails?”

“Yes, we have the Nineteenth Guards Division ready to move in from Azerbaijan, if needed.”

The president sadly shook his head, and sat down while looking at his old friend Niles Compton, who was seated along the wall. The eye contact was brief but they both knew that the plan they had drawn up along with Matchstick and the late Garrison Lee was now fully on the table. The fate of the world was now predicated on a small green alien and a man who died a year ago, along with two college friends who just five years before had never thought anything like this could ever happen.

“Gentlemen, Operation Overlord is now in effect. We have a lot of work to cover. Colonel Collins, we better start the brief. When the Grays strike in force, you will be immediately transferred to another location.”

Collins was shocked he had been mentioned at all. Every set of eyes was on the forty-two-year-old career army officer as his gaze went from Niles to Everett.

“You, Colonel, will be instrumental for the time we need to make Overlord work, and that may be quite some time. You will lead a fast-reaction unit of Special Forces to secure the Overlord location.”

Again all eyes went toward the head of the table and focused on the president’s words.

“Gentlemen, alert your home forces and let’s prepare to defend ourselves.”

The world was going to war — and they would fight as one.