Skyler waited behind the fender until the barrage stopped for an instant. Then he rose, took quick aim and fired again. Both men retreated at the sound of an approaching siren. The van shot onto the Beltway leaving a spray of gravel and dirt behind. Skyler turned his attention to the two agents. Tyson was lifeless but Knowles groaned with pain. Brakes squealed from the direction of the highway and the LEDs of the trooper's car washed the surroundings with alternating red and blue. Skyler heard the metallic voices from the police radio as the trooper moved down the embankment, a gun aimed at the demolished Ford Explorer.
“Let me see your hands!” the trooper yelled and worked his way around the back of the agent's car.
A wail of sirens filled the air as Skyler felt blood flowing down his own face — the sting from glass fragments in his scalp swept over him like a swarm of bees. Dizzy and weak, he dropped the Browning and raised his hands.
“Don’t shoot,” he managed to mumble as he looked into the barrel of the trooper’s automatic.
OVAL OFFICE
A female intern at the George Washington University Hospital emergency room cleaned and stitched the lacerations on Skyler’s head. One was at the edge of his hairline and two on his scalp. A fourth across his left arm had been swabbed and butterflied. Skyler watched the steady parade of victims, the result he was told by the intern, of random shootings, car crashes, house fires, drug overdoses, rapes, and muggings. An army of medical emergency and trauma specialists attended to all — a typical Saturday night in the inner city.
While the intern worked on him, Skyler was surrounded by law enforcement officers — D.C. detectives and city police, FBI agents, ATF agents, State Police, and a number of men in suits who never bothered to identify their organizations.
He had learned soon after arriving by ambulance that Agent Daniel Tyson had died at the scene. Agent Knowles was in emergency surgery — he had lost his left eye but was expected to recover. The white van had somehow eluded police and disappeared into the Virginia suburbs.
“That should do,” the doctor said and snipped the last of the sutures.
“Thanks.” Skyler looked down at his dirty, bloodstained clothes. “Wouldn't happen to have a spare outfit I could borrow?”
“Only if you love pale green and don't mind a breeze from the rear.” With a weary expression, she moved to a patient in the next partition.
“Mr. Skyler, I’m Colonel Michael Argentine.”
Skyler looked up. “Hello, Colonel. Friendly town you got here.”
They shook hands. “We usually don't start shooting visitors until they're inside the Beltway. But for important people like you, we make exceptions.”
“Don't do me any favors.” Skyler strained a smile. “Any idea who they were?”
“A few theories, probably the same as yours.”
“I'll lay odds it was some friends of mine from south of the border.”
“Sounds like a sure bet. I didn't realize until a few days ago that it was you who filed the report with the Mexican authorities about the submarine sighting.” He lowered his voice. “You've had a first-hand look at Escandoza's latest smuggling techniques and his sub. If I were him, I wouldn't want you around either. He's obviously not as good as he thinks. You're still with us.”
“Only means he'll try harder next time.”
Over the clamor of the emergency room came a deep booming voice. “Sky, I can't leave you alone for one moment without you getting into trouble.”
Skyler and Argentine turned to see Mickey Gates push his way through the crowd. A detective held out an arm to stop the burly military salvage expert, but Argentine said, “He's cleared,” and motioned Gates through.
Gates leaned in to take a closer look at the shaved portions of Skyler's head and the stitches. Then he extended his hand to the Colonel. “So you must be our mystery date.”
“Afraid so,” Argentine said, and they shook hands.
“Well, Colonel,” Skyler said, “you called this meeting. Now how about some answers.”
“Gentlemen, all your answers will come soon. First we need to take a ride.”
“That’s how my troubles started in the first place.” Skyler eased off the examination table.
“This time, we're going to give you a little more protection.” A contingency of law enforcement officers surrounded Skyler, Gates and Argentine, and moved them out the emergency exit to a line of waiting police cars and motorcycles.
“If this is the treatment we get,” Gates said as they approached a black Chevrolet Suburban with dark tinted windows, “I'd like to see what you guys do for the President.”
“The President doesn't make a lot of visits to the GWTC emergency room.” Argentine held the door open for the two men.
After leaving the underground entrance, the entourage split into three groups. A few moments later, there were only the Suburban and two black & whites, one leading and one following. They moved through the downtown streets of the nation's capital with ease, the lead car remotely triggering the traffic lights to green in time for the caravan to pass through the intersections.
Changing into fresh clothes from his recovered carryall, Skyler watched as they weaved in and out of the light, 4:00 a.m. traffic. He soon saw familiar landmarks — the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the White House. Within seconds they were cleared through the Northwest Gate. Before Skyler could take in the immense grandeur of his surroundings, he and Gates along with Argentine were ushered into the building and down a series of hallways, and finally into the Oval Office.
Three men sat on the couches positioned on the carpet that bore the crest of the President of the United States. Skyler recognized Alan Grant, Director of the CIA, Dean Clancy, National Security Adviser, and Thomas Lancaster, Secretary of the Navy.
“Come in, gentlemen,” Dean Clancy said. “Please be seated. Can we get you something to drink?”
“Diet Coke,” Argentine said.
“Coffee, black,” Skyler requested.
“A beer, if you got one.” Gates took a seat at the end of one couch, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I'm sure we can find you a beer, Mr. Gates.” Clancy shot him a condescending smile. “Please, Mr. Skyler, make yourself at home. You too, Colonel.”
Skyler sat beside Gates while Argentine took a vacant spot on a couch across from the two.
“We're waiting for a few late arrivals,” Clancy said, “then we can get started.”
Just then the door opened. Everyone including Skyler and Gates turned and stood as the President entered the room. Two other men followed him.
“Sorry I'm late.” The President approached with his hand extended. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice. I'd like you to meet Dr. John Dolen, Managing Director of Deep Scan, and Professor Carl Reynolds, his associate and Deep Scan's Chief of Vital Research.”
Skyler and Gates greeted the two scientists while the rest of the group took their seats. The President nodded to the other men before taking his place at his desk. “Well,” he said, stretching his arms and interlacing his fingers, “we have a big problem on our hands.” He looked at CIA Director Grant. “Alan.”
Grant opened a file on the table, taking one quick glance around the room at each individual. “The missile was a Soviet-built SS-N-17, launched from a submarine approximately eight hundred miles west of Cedros Island, off the Mexican coast. Immediately after launching her bird, the sub turned south and disappeared. The missile ran its full range of three thousand nine hundred kilometers skipping across the outer atmosphere, detonating four hundred eighty-two kilometers or three hundred miles above the big island of Hawaii.”
“Was this some kind of an attack?” the President asked.