"This is Payne."
"This is Colonel Harrington. Sorry to drop in like this, but we've got a situation."
Payne had heard those words hundreds of times before, and it always meant trouble. Once in his lifetime, he wanted to hear the term situation followed by a dose of good news.
"Colonel, I'm guessing you didn't get my memo, but I'm retired." Harrington growled. "I'm guessing you didn't get my memo. I don't give a fuck."
The chopper landed on the building's helipad, where it was greeted by four armed security guards who questioned the pilot and searched the aircraft before escorting the colonel inside. Unarmed, he wore the domes of a civilian-khaki pants, white dress shirt, black overcoat-an outfit that would have blended in with the business world, if not for his dramatic arrival. Normally Payne's visitors parked in the garage under the building instead of on the roof.
Then again, his entrance wasn't the only thing that stood out. There was something about Harrington, a quality that one noticed but couldn't put a finger on. Maybe it was his board-straight posture or his striking white hair, shorn tight on the sides. Whatever it was, he had a presence. An air. One felt it when he walked into a room. The man commanded attention.
Payne waited for him in the conference room, a chestnut-lined chamber equipped with the latest audiovisual gadgets-computers, plasma screens, high-speed connections. Plus it was windowless, which was the best safeguard against laser-guided listening devices. Or getting lased, as the military calls it. A single video camera, mounted in the far corner, tracked Harrington as he strode toward Payne, who stood at the head of the conference table.
Instead of saluting, Harrington simply nodded. "Colonel Joshua Harrington, U.S. Army."
Payne looked him straight in the eye. "Jonathon Payne, U.S. Navy. Retired."
"Yes, Payne, you've made that quite clear. Still, I think you'll want to hear me out on this."
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
"Because it involves you."
Payne was not surprised. "That's a shocker." Harrington sneered and sat in one of the leather chairs. He waited there, poker-faced, until Payne took a seat as well. "This also involves that buddy of yours, David Jones. Is he here?"
Payne nodded. "Yeah, I think he's still around. Do you want me to get him?"
"No need. I'll get him myself." Harrington pointed toward the video camera in the corner of the ceiling, then pointed to the chair next to Payne. "Don't worry. He'll be here shortly."
Payne grinned, duly impressed. The colonel was in the room less than thirty seconds yet had properly assessed the situation. Jones was watching them from an adjacent room, running a background check on Harrington while Payne handled the small talk. The fact that the colonel was able to sort things out so quickly said a lot about the man. Somehow it proved his worth.
So did the credentials that appeared on Jones's computer screen. Harrington was a graduate of West Point and earned his silver eagle the old-fashioned way: by going to war and being a hero. In fact, the more Jones read, the more surprised he was that he'd never met him before. His resume read like a Tom Clancy novel. Only six hundred pages shorter.
A moment later, Jones entered the room with the look of a busted schoolboy, a combination of shame and embarrassment that would have been much more apparent if his flushed cheeks showed through his black skin. He was tempted to offer an apology but realized it wasn't necessary. He was simply running security on an officer he had never met. It was protocol.
"So, did I check out? Did I pass your little test?" Harrington pulled his bifocals from the inner pocket of his overcoat and slipped them on. "Or do you want my fingerprints, too?"
Jones was tempted to flip him off and say, Yeah, let's start with the middle finger.
But Payne didn't give him a chance. "So, Colonel, what can we help you with?"
"Who said anything about helping me? Do I look like I need your help?"
Payne and Jones exchanged glances. They were confused by Harrington's tone.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Payne said, "but you just buzzed my building with your chopper and demanded to speak with me ASAP. My guess is you're either here for help or you're out delivering Christmas cookies. And if that's the case, you're three days late."
Jones stared at Harrington. "You have cookies? Do you have any with green sprinkles?"
The colonel ignored their banter-he had been warned about Payne and Jones's antics-and flipped through his folder instead. It was filled with maps, photographs, and reports. All of them stamped CLASSIFIED in red letters. "Gentlemen, let me be blunt. I don't want to be here, talking to non-army personnel. I think it's a total waste of time, both mine and yours. However, the Pentagon felt you might offer something to my investigation, although I can't figure out what." With a disapproving eye, he glanced around the room. "It's obvious you've gone soft."
"Soft?" Payne echoed.
"Yes, soft. You and your fancy-ass leather chairs and your Radio Shack surveillance equipment. How long have you been out of the service? Four years? The entire infrastructure of the military has changed in that time. How in the hell can you possibly help me?"
Somehow Payne managed to keep a straight face. He pondered things for a moment, trying to read between the lines of the colonel's rant. No one in his right mind would show up with this much attitude unless he was trying to pick a fight. And the only purpose that would serve is if Harrington wanted to end this conversation before it got started. And that didn't make sense. If Harrington wanted to have a fifteen-second chat, he could've done that by phone. The fact that he flew here from Washington meant something else was going on. Something less obvious.
Suddenly Payne figured it out. At least he hoped he had.
"Colonel, I have to admit I was this close to throwing you out of my fancy-ass chair. Then it dawned on me, there's no way the Pentagon would've sent a total prick like you without giving me some kind of warning. Therefore, I'm going to assume that you're acting like an ass in order to test us, maybe trying to see if we've lost any discipline during the past few years. If that's the case, I gotta commend you. Because you've got that asshole thing down pat."
Payne hoped he had guessed right, but if not, so what? He was retired and had enough money to live for the rest of his life. What did it matter if he told off some jackass from D.C.?
Still, the room grew uncomfortable while Payne waited for a reaction.
Finally, he got the one he was hoping for: Colonel Harrington broke into a smile.
"Forgive my rudeness," Harrington explained, "but I had to know what I was dealing with. There's no way I was going to entrust you with this information if I didn't think you could handle some heat. Because, trust me, there's going to be some major heat on this one."
"What kind?" Jones asked.
"International, domestic, political. We've got the potential for a world-class shitstorm, and right now we're missing our weatherman."
Payne deciphered the statement. "Does this weatherman have a name?"
"One you're familiar with: Captain Trevor Schmidt. I believe you trained him with the MANIACs."
Payne and Jones both nodded. They had run the unit for several years, and Schmidt was one of their favorites. A black-haired kid from Columbus, Ohio, who had a passion for war and a taste for revenge. Then again, that could have described anyone in the MANIACs. They were a special group with a unique assignment: Do anything necessary, but don't get caught.
"When was Schmidt last seen?" Jones asked.