Feet and knees together, toes pointed down, Vaughn stared straight ahead at the horizon. The voices of the "Black Hat" instructors bellowing that command through bullhorns as he did his first jumps at Fort Benning many years ago echoed in his head. Like most Army training, airborne school had been designed to build instincts, not develop deep intellectual discussion about the training. His toes hit, and in quick succession his calves, thighs, hips, and side, and he slammed into the ground.
He lay still for about two seconds, as he always did after a jump, savoring life. He could smell the tall grass he lay in, and layered on top of that, the nearby ocean. Adrenaline made all the senses more acute. Then he was up, unbuckling his harness before gathering in his parachute. He grabbed the opening loop in the top center and pulled it out to extend it fully, then began figure-eighting the material, looping it around both arms extended out to the sides. As he did so he noted that the Land Rover with tinted windows was already at the bundle. Whoever it was moved fast, because by the time he had the parachute stuffed in the kit bag, the Rover was coming toward him. It skidded to a halt and the driver's door opened.
Vaughn recognized the man who stepped out.
"Mr. Royce."
"Just Royce will do."
He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the Rover.
"Throw the chute in. I got the bundle."
Vaughn did as instructed, then got in the passenger side. Royce threw the truck into gear and took off.
"Why am I here?" Vaughn asked.
"I've got a good battery for the designator," Royce said.
At the designated time, Professor Foster checked the "dead drop," as he'd been instructed upon receiving those two code words. There was a practically unnoticeable chalk mark in the right place on the side of the old loading platform in an obscure corner of Fort Shafter where antiquated military vehicles rusted away. Foster had half hoped the sign wouldn't be there, but he was a logical man and knew that action B would follow action A. And now he had to do C.
He got on his knees and reached under the rotting wood platform. His hand groped for the package that he had been told would be there. But there appeared to be a logic breakdown. He retrieved nothing but a couple of splinters that drew blood and curses.
He continued the fruitless search for several more minutes, to no avail. Why would someone put the mark but not the package? Reluctantly, he got to his feet and blinked at the figure standing less than ten feet behind him, wearing shorts, a Bermuda shirt, and sandals. The man's face was in the shadow of his broad-brimmed straw hat, but he had a fringe of white hair along the edge of the hat. There was a small backpack slung over his shoulder. Foster had neither seen nor heard him approach.
"I've got what you need right here," the man said, pointing at his head and then at the pack.
"Who are you?" Foster demanded, looking past the man, searching the area for anyone else. They were alone as far as he could tell.
"I'm David. I'm here to brief you on what you are to do."
He gestured.
"Come, walk with me."
Foster came alongside as the old man began to walk through the abandoned vehicles, planes, and assorted equipment.
David began: "Needless to say, this is top secret, Q classification and completely compartmentalized. The only one you will ever speak of this to, when needed, is myself and my replacement."
"Your replacement?"
"Don't worry about that right now," David said.
"You complete this task and there will be a promotion and reassignment in it for you."
Foster picked up the pace without even realizing it.
"Reassignment to where?"
"The National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort Meade."
David put out a hand, slowing Foster back to his pace.
"The big show. Running simulations for the National Command Authority. Doesn't get any bigger than that."
Foster contemplated the offer, trying not to show his enthusiasm for something he had yearned for.
David gave him an appropriate amount of time, then removed the carrot and showed the stick.
"You screw up, of course, and the little situation from your last year in college will have to come up. You remember. The bowl game. The trip to Tijuana two nights before? You did much more than break curfew."
Foster froze. No one knew of that. No one.
David dipped into his pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He fanned them like a short deck of cards in front of Foster's face, confirming his worst nightmare: the event had been recorded on film. But that was almost two decades ago.
"How did you get those? Who took them?"
"Come come," David said.
"Let's be in the real world."
He held up a hand as Foster started to say something.
"We will not discuss it at all. Just be aware that your life is never as private as you think it is and that there are reasons why people are chosen for certain positions – good reasons and bad reasons, but reasons nonetheless. Which brings us to here and now."
He slapped Foster lightly on the shoulder.
"Look at this as a good thing. The glass is half full and you now have the opportunity to top it off."
David held out the backpack.
"There's a laptop in there. Coded only for you. You'll see. It will only work when your palms rest on the pads below the keyboard. It has the information on what you are to do and links to data sources that will help you in accomplishing your goal. Do not let anyone use it, because if someone other than you tries to access the keyboard, the hard drive will be destroyed.
"Essentially," David went on as they continued to walk through the graveyard of rusting military gear, "you are going to run a simulation involving a covert strike onto Jolo Island in the Philippines to destroy the Abu Sayef."
"But – " Foster began.
"There are no buts," David said.
"It will be a simulation to those who you bring in to do it, but in reality the mission will actually be going on. I think you understand how you would work such a scenario."
Foster blinked as the implications sunk in. And right away he did understand. It would be a delicate balancing act, but it could be done. But why? His thoughts were interrupted as David halted in front of a rusting hulk of an old UH-1 helicopter.
"Did you know that when President Nixon ordered the halt to bombing raids during the Vietnam War, the order was so broad, it stated that there would not be any flights into North Vietnamese or Cambodian airspace? And that reconnaissance teams that had already been inserted across the border and were counting on helicopter exfiltration were abandoned? Simply abandoned."
"I'd never heard that," Foster said.
"It's in plenty of books," David said.
"But most people do not care for the lessons of histories, especially those that killed people for political expediency."
He put his hand on the nose of the helicopter.
"You can go now."
Foster was confused. David pointed.
"Go."
Foster turned and walked quickly away, as if by distancing himself from the messenger, he was distancing himself from the message, even though he had the pack holding the computer on his shoulder now. After taking a dozen steps, he paused and turned, a question forming on his lips.
But there was no one there.
"Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing twice and expecting different results?" Vaughn asked as Royce drove them down a road winding along the Okinawan coast.
"Stupidity is failing and accepting it," Royce replied.
"Your job this time isn't to rescue hostages. There aren't any to be rescued."