"We did it there to push you to the limit," Lugar said. "And I'm damn glad we did."
Kilten leaned forward toward Sanchez. "If what you're saying is—"
But Lugar cut in. "Captain, I've heard enough from you. We're not here to debate the system, we came here to talk about what happened on this mission."
"You have to look at the system," Sanchez argued. "If you don't examine the—"
"The system is fine," Willoughby growled. "It's people like you who screw it up."
"Then get people out of the system," Sanchez yelled, finally losing his patience, "and just leave the machines there. If I have no discretion and am not supposed to use my intuition, my human mind, to decide whether or not to unlock the arming control on that bomb, then get us the hell away from the bombs. Have the machines take total control."
"You are being taken out of the system, Captain!" Willoughby snapped. "You'll never work near a damn nuclear weapon again!"
"Fine, sir!" Sanchez ripped the weapons badge off the breast pocket of his coat and tossed it on the table. He stood. "Then I guess I'm done here."
"You're done in the Air Force, young man," Willoughby said to the captain's back as he walked away.
Sanchez paused, his hand on the doorknob and faced the room. "What about Captain Scanlon? Is he just a statistic in all this? What did you tell his widow? Killed in a plane crash during training? Body lost at sea?"
"That's none of your business," Lugar said.
"Scanlon died in your test," Sanchez said, glaring at Kilten.
"I'm sorry about—" Kilten began, but Sanchez opened the door.
"You people are fucked," Sanchez said. He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Willoughby looked to the rear of the room in the awkward silence that followed. He regained his composure. "Mr. Lugar, Professor Kilten, I'd like to thank you for your assistance in setting up this exercise. Your system worked; it was my people who failed to use it efficiently." Willoughby got to his feet. "You are all dismissed."
They stood. The general walked out the door, the other officers right behind him. As Parker approached the door a low voice called out to her. "I'd like to speak with you for a moment, Major."
Parker turned toward Kilten. The man stood and walked forward into the light. Now that she could see him, Parker saw that Kilten was an old man, nattily dressed in a brown wool suit with a bright bow tie. He was frail and slender, his face hatchet-thin. He wore thick glasses with gold rims. Behind the lenses his eyes were a bright green and sparkled with intelligence.
"Major Parker, if you don't mind, I'm interested in your opinion of what just happened in this room." Kilten's voice was soothing, the antithesis of the general's.
"I don't know if I have an opinion," Parker said. "I do believe Major Scanlon's death played a greater role than any of us are admitting."
"Why do you think that is?"
"I believe Scanlon and Sanchez were friends, sir."
"Friends, oh, yes." Kilten repeated the word with relief, as if it explained everything that had just happened. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain," Kilten said. The discussion was apparently over. He turned for the door.
Parker found herself momentarily confused by his reaction.
"Sir—" Parker began and Kilten paused. "Sir," she continued, "why did we go into Israel? I don't understand why we ran such a high-risk operation on foreign soil."
Kilten turned in surprise. "You don't believe Mr. Lugar's explanation that it made for a more realistic test situation?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"Why did you release the arming locks, then?"
"Because I had a lawful EAM to do so, as we discussed. And at the time I had to believe my orders. But now, after what happened, I have to wonder about those orders. Nothing that I heard in this room really justifies what we did in Israel."
Kilten tapped his pipe against his palm, his eyes regarding Parker thoughtfully. "You want to know the truth?"
Parker nodded.
"I don't know either, but I should, shouldn't I?"
Lugar stuck his head in the door. "Are you ready, Professor?"
Kilten nodded and walked out.
Parker was left alone. Slowly she sat down and stared at the ring on her finger.
Chapter Three
Washington, D.C. is the nation's capital. It also leads the country in murder per capita. Just blocks from the hallowed halls of Congress, the quality of life and housing diminishes quickly.
Nestled among the rotting and decaying buildings stood a two-story house painted a fading, dingy red. The house to its right had been abandoned and was now home to transients whose primary interest was stealing enough money to maintain a twenty-four-hour-a-day connection to their crack pipes. The building to the left of the red house was the headquarters for the local crack-and cocaine-dealing gang. Traffic to its back door was steady, day and night.
No one in the neighborhood had ever seen anyone go into the red house, but they knew it was occupied. All the locals knew that. And it was accepted, even by the gang members, that no one was to mess with the red house. There were vague stories of would-be burglars disappearing. The word was that they had been killed.
The man who occupied the red house had indeed killed — and more than once. Not just the few unfortunates who tried breaking in, but on the battlefield in a very different part of the world. It had not been necessary in the strictest sense to kill anyone breaking in upstairs since the four-inch-thick steel door blocking the way to the basement would have denied the criminals access to his lair, but he felt it was wise to keep any potential threats at arm's reach. There was also the possibility that some intruder might stumble across the coaxial cable that led to the satellite dish hidden in an old pigeon coop on the roof. The cable and satellite dish must never be interfered with. The man inspected both each morning and evening. Every day. He had performed the ritual for the past twenty-one months and sixteen days without missing a single one.
His tour of duty would be up in less than three months, but he had not allowed himself the luxury of anticipation. He would not think of home until he was there. To think of anything other than this job would take his mind off the task and that was when things went wrong. Combat had taught him that.
Not that anything was happening in the basement. His job was to make sure the satellite link worked and the object in the basement was secure. He slept in the basement, a cord from the satellite link tied around his wrist. If the link came alive while he slept, an electric shock would be sent through the cord.
When he'd assumed his tour of duty, the men who had brought him here had unloaded enough food for two years from the U-Haul truck they had driven. The electricity, water, and sewage bills were taken care of by others. The man had one job. There was an official title to his job, but he was known by the select few aware of his existence by an informal, but apt, title. He was the man who waited.
Two blocks away, out of direct view of the red house was an old fire station. Inside the blacked-out windows, a dozen hard men with cold eyes also waited. Their weapons were in racks along the walls, next to an M-2 Abrams Fighting Vehicle whose turret housed a 40-mm automatic cannon and TOW missile launchers. A belt of rounds was loaded into the cannon and the two TOW launchers held live missiles. The Abrams had been brought into the firehouse several years ago on a lowboy carrier hidden under a tarp, the operation conducted under cover of darkness.
In the troop bay of the Abrams, several specially designed charges were carefully secured, blasting caps inserted, primers ready. The charges were checked four times a day.