Because of Mercer’s record for success, he had come to the attention of military and intelligence circles as someone with unique professional credentials and terror-related experience. Ira Lasko had approached Mercer last year with an offer to join his staff. He wanted to create a post specifically for him as special science advisor. The job went far beyond the purview of the chief executive’s regular scientific personnel. They focused on forming national policy. Mercer was to be a consultant and sometime field agent for when the worlds of science and terror collided, a fresh perspective on problems that no one else could solve.
Mercer spiraled down the stairs and crossed the foyer. The easy banter from the past hour had evaporated, and his anticipation for his first vacation in a year was gone. Ira wouldn’t send two agents unless he absolutely had to. Something was up. Something big. “Why don’t you gentlemen come in,” he said. “Harry, take your time walking Drag.”
“Right you are.” The octogenarian smiled at the agents. “Sorry about my little joke. No hard feelings.”
The shorter agent flashed his Secret Service credentials to Mercer. He was Special Agent Michael Thayer. “Who was that man?”
“A friend who knows about my position with Ira Lasko. Relax.”
Thayer remained terse. “Admiral Lasko sent us to deliver you to Andrews Air Force Base, where an aircraft is standing by. He said you should pack for a week.”
At least Ira’s expecting me to return, Mercer thought. He asked one of the more practical questions swirling in his head. “Do you know where I’m going? I need to know what to bring.”
“We weren’t told,” the second agent said.
“All right, give me a few minutes.” He went back to the stairs. At the balcony, Mercer saw neither of the agents had moved from near the front door. “The old man and his dog will be back in a few minutes. Tell him I’m in my bedroom packing.”
Mercer hadn’t unpacked from Canada, so he dumped the dirty clothes from his suitcases into the hamper and tossed the empty luggage on his bed. An aircraft waiting at Andrews could mean a thirty-minute helicopter ride or a C-5 Galaxy cargo jet that could take him to the other side of the planet. No sense trying to guess what he’d need. He stuffed a week’s worth of socks and underwear into a bag along with his toiletry kit. A pair of jeans went next, a couple of casual shirts, a pair of slacks and a sports jacket. He added one dress shirt, one tie and a pair of heavy-duty miner’s coveralls with reinforced patches at the knees and elbows.
Before throwing a metal hard hat on top of the pile, he grabbed the Beretta 92 semiautomatic from his nightstand. The weapon was coolly familiar in his hands. There was no need to check if the magazine was full; he could tell by its weight. He slid it into the helmet’s liner and zipped it into the leather bag. Work boots and loafers went into outside pockets.
He checked his watch. Three minutes and forty seconds from the time the bag hit the bed until he was done. Not bad.
He heard Harry’s voice from downstairs and peered over the balcony. “Don’t bother coming up. I’m leaving.”
“You think I care what you do?” Harry retorted. “I left a full drink on the bar.”
They met at the library landing, and Mercer followed Harry into the dark oak-and-brass barroom. He downed the last of his gimlet. “I’ll be gone a week, or so they tell me. Who knows.” Mercer peeled two hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “For your party.”
“Thanks.” Harry left the money untouched.
“Hire someone to clean up when you’re done. Last time there were enough pizza boxes lying around to corner the world cardboard market.” Mercer smiled. “See you, Harry.”
“Yeah, see you.” Harry shot him a good-natured scowl, trying not to show his disappointment.
Drag rewarded Mercer with a sloppy kiss when he scratched behind the basset’s ears. Then he ambled off to lie at his master’s feet.
Mercer pulled a bomber jacket from the coat closet next to the front door and followed Thayer and his partner to a dark Chevy Suburban parked in front of his town house. Traffic to Andrews was a snarl so it took more than an hour to reach the base. No one in the SUV said a word, which suited Mercer just fine.
These were the first moments to think about what was happening and he found he resented the unnecessary secrecy. Ira could have easily called to tell him why he was needed. Mercer would have gone. Lasko didn’t have to send two goons to virtually kidnap him and rush him off for some clandestine flight. Typical government zealotry, Mercer thought, the kind he detested.
Once past a series of checkpoints, Thayer guided the Suburban through the sprawling air force base and onto an access road behind the flight line. A KC-135 tanker was just taking off. Its engine shriek split the air while the four black smears of exhaust looked like claw marks on the otherwise bright sky. The Suburban pulled in toward an enormous hangar and drove through its side door. Thayer braked next to the only aircraft in the cavernous space, a Gulfstream IV executive jet painted in U.S. Air Force livery. Standing next to the open hatch was a soldier in camouflage fatigues. The dark insignia on his collar showed him to be a captain
Without preamble, the muscular African American asked Thayer, “You got my passenger?”
Mercer unlimbered himself from the SUV holding his bag in one hand.
The soldier eyed him. “Mercer?” Mercer nodded. “I’m Sykes. Omega ninety-nine temple.”
“Caravan eleven solstice.”
“Good enough for me. Get aboard.”
Even before Mercer got to his seat, the jet’s tail-mounted engines spooled to life and the nimble plane was towed through the hangar doors facing the complex of runways. Noticing that all the shades had been pulled over the windows, he reached to open the one nearest him. Captain Sykes leaned back in the seat in front of Mercer and closed the shade again.
“Sorry, Doc. Think of it as blackout conditions.” Sykes had a wad of tobacco in the corner of his mouth and appeared to be swallowing the juice.
“Any idea how long the flight will be?”
“Long enough for you and I to play a whole lot of gin.”
This was just getting better and better. “Do you know Admiral Lasko?”
“I know he authorized this flight,” Sykes replied, “but I’ve never met the man. Way above my pay grade.”
“If you happen to meet him before I see him again” — Mercer settled deeper in his seat, stretching out his six-foot frame and closing his eyes — “tell him he’s a dead man.”
“So, no cards, Doc?”
“Try solitaire.” Mercer felt the plane leap from the tarmac a few minutes later. There was no sense speculating about their destination. The same went for trying to guess what Ira wanted him for. Instead of frustrating himself further with mental gymnastics, he allowed his mind to slip into a balance between sleep and consciousness. If this was going to be a long flight, the least he could do was tune out most of it.
Hurtling into the unknown. It was a phrase that just popped into his head and immediately reminded him of the first time he’d been involved with a mine rescue. The visions came back to him with a dreamy quality, a kind of hyperreality where Mercer seemed to be standing still while the events rushed past him. He was twenty-seven at the time, on one of his first consulting jobs. A fire had broken out eleven hundred feet below ground at a West Virginia coal mine where he’d been plotting the best way to extract a newly discovered vein. As the only miner there who’d trained with South Africa’s famed Proto Team, the world’s best subterranean rescue group, Mercer had been the first volunteer to go down into the mine. He led four other men into the elevator cage after it had been verified that not all the men who’d gone down on their shift had returned when the mine was evacuated.