There’s a long runway.

  Three hangars clustered at one end of the runway, and a larger one, set off at a distance from the others.

  Not even a control tower.

  Five civilian planes—Cessnas, Beechcrafts, Pipers—are parked on grass aprons, their wings tied down to the ground. Two gas pumps sit on a concrete island about twenty feet away.

  Liam turns right, drives down the narrow road running parallel to the runway, and a small building comes into view, looking like a small one-story Cape Cod cottage with black shingled roof and a door at the center.

  A Harley-Davidson motorcycle is parked on the grass.

  He parks the Audi next to the motorcycle, gets out, and walks into the small building. There’s a metal desk, two mismatched chairs, another motorcycle in pieces on a tarp on the cement floor, and a tall woman in jeans and a black tank top working a wrench. She has purple hair and both arms are heavily inked with tattoos.

  She looks at Liam. “If you’re looking for storage for your private aircraft, sorry, we’re full.”

  She stands, wipes her hands on a white greasy rag.

  Liam says, “I’m supposed to meet someone here, at nine.” He looks at the round clock with black hands next to a tool calendar from Dewalt. It’s 8:55 a.m.

  She smiles. “Well, best as I know, I’m the only one here. A couple of folks park their Lear jets in the other hangars, and I’m here just to make sure nobody steals the joint. Sorry.”

  Liam says, “Not a problem.”

  He steps outside in the bright morning sunlight.

  Now what?

  He checks his watch.

  One minute to nine.

  What to do when time runs out?

  He hears a whisper of a sound and looks off to the south.

  A jet is approaching.

  A big jet.

  One of the biggest in the world, a four-engine C-17 Globemaster III transport, made by Boeing, and—

  The damn thing is landing here!

  The landing gear lowers and Liam takes another good, hard look at the place.

  The runway is less than a mile long from what he can tell, which is plenty of room for the C-17. It lands gracefully, the engines throttling back, and it slows down and then maneuvers its way to the large hangar sitting apart from the others.

  Liam goes to the Audi, takes out a black duffel bag, starts running to the Globemaster. All Air Force aircraft have serial numbers and squadron lettering on them, but not this one. The only identification mark is a small, dark Air Force roundel on the fuselage.

  The aircraft lurches to a halt. A wide door slides up at the hangar and a set of stairways is pushed out by two men wearing plain, dark-green jumpsuits. It gets to the forward door of the aircraft, which swings open. Within seconds a line of men and women come off the aircraft, while others emerge from the warehouse and go in.

  He gets to the stairway.

  A woman with her blond hair tied up in a bun and a sun-worn face looks him up and down. She’s wearing a standard green zippered Air Force jumpsuit, with no insignia, rank, or name tag.

  “You Grey?”

  “I am,” he says.

  “Then get in,” she says.

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  He thinks, I’m supposed to be in South Africa in less than two hours. This can’t be right.

  “Thanks,” Liam says, and climbs up the several steps and into the dark interior of the aircraft.

  CHAPTER 88

  NOA HIMEL IS waiting in the living room of Director Abrams’s home when the director comes out of her office, face drawn, accompanied by her security officer Ralph and says, “Liam’s made it. Bruce, I’m not so sure.”

  “What happened?” Noa asks.

  Hannah says, “There was a shooting at a service station off the George Washington. Liam escaped, but Bruce got shot in the arm. Lost a lot of blood before the EMTs arrived on scene. He’s en route now to a hospital in Tysons Corner.”

  Ralph looks like he’s carved from some mobile type of granite, but Noa sees his dark-blue eyes and looks away. Death is in those eyes, and she quickly feels a bit of sympathy for whoever shot his fellow officer Bruce. Ralph is coming for you, she thinks, whoever you are, and whoever ordered you to do this.

  Noa says, “I’m ready, Director, if you think it’s a good time to head out.”

  Hannah sits down on the near couch. “Nothing right now is a good time, but we’ll have to make do. Ralph, when you get a moment, make a call. I want increased protection for me, Deputy Director Jean Swantish, and this house.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Also get a firearm for Miss Himel here.”

  “Thank you,” Noa says.

  A tired smile from the director. “Better to have it and not need it, than the reverse, correct?”

  Noa says, “I’m going to need transportation to get to Kay Darcy.”

  A shake of the director’s head. “With my personal Audi gone, I’ll have Ralph drive you out in my Agency Suburban. But you be careful out there, Noa. You milk Kay as much as you can and you promise her the world and the universe. We need to know what she knows about President Barrett. But make it quick. There’s already been one death and today, an attempted murder. Forces are in play.”

  “Where are you going, Director?”

  “To Langley, where else? I’ve got to be there, showing the flag, working like I don’t have a care in the world. Otherwise, Barrett’s allies in the Agency will tell him something is amiss. I can’t have that.”

  “Ma’am, you being in the office is going to be dangerous.”

  Hannah gets off the couch. “We’re all in danger today, aren’t we? You be careful at your meet with Kay and get back here as soon as you can. I’ll leave instructions for the additional security officers that will be showing up here to let you in.”

  Noa stands up as well. “Director, I need to tell you something. About the president’s threat to rape me or kill me.”

  Hannah says, “Is it important?”

  “Very important,” Noa says, feeling embarrassed again at the incident, but also strengthened as to what she’s about to say to the director.

  Hannah sits back down on the couch. “Then tell me.”

  CHAPTER 89

  ONCE LIAM IS inside the interior of the large transport aircraft, the door shuts behind him, and the engines start whining into power. Next to him are the short set of stairs leading up to the cockpit, and to the aft—

  He’s puzzled.

  Where did all the personnel go?

  There’s a forward metal bulkhead with a center door here that doesn’t belong, that Liam hasn’t seen on previous trips he’s taken on other C-17s. There’s a narrow row of seats in front of the bulkhead, and the woman who escorted him in is sitting down, buckling in.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Grey,” she says, voice loud over the engines.

  He puts his bag at his feet, sits down, buckles up, and looks around. Typical C-17 interior with cables, access panels and lights, except for the bulkhead behind him.

  “You can call me Liam,” he says, matching her voice’s volume. “What’s your name?”

  A slight smile and the briefest hesitation, telling Liam that she’s about to lie to him.

  “You can call me Betty,” she says. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks,” he says, surging back in the seat as the C-17 starts rumbling down the runway.

  About fifteen minutes later a small red lamp forward turns green, and Betty unbuckles and gets up. “We’re at altitude. Grab your gear and follow me, and for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.”

  “I won’t,” he says, and she opens the door to the bulkhead and he follows in, stopping in awe at what he’s now seeing.

  The huge storage area of the C-17—eighty-five feet in length and eighteen feet in width—is jammed with personnel at monitoring stations, large cylindrical tanks with hoses running out of their bases, and other workstations and—

  In the center, taking up most of the free space, is a small aircraft, the oddest he’s ever seen.

  It’s flat and shiny black, with two stubby fins at the rear tail assembly, and a narrow fuselage that ends in a needle point, with thin wings nearly touching each side of the C-17’s fuselage. At the stern of the aircraft is a series of eight rocket nozzles, all in a row. Hoses from the shiny metal tanks are being hooked up to the underbelly of the aircraft by workers in hazmat suits. What looks to be part of a cockpit is resting on the deck.

  Betty says, “I’ll find a place for your bag. Go forward and get prepped, and again, don’t touch a damn thing. The leading edges of the wings can cut your fingers off.”

  He recalls what he heard back in Director Abrams’s office. “Is this the A-22?”

  Betty says, “Aren’t you the informed one. Just a test bed for now.”

  Liam walks with her to the front of the aircraft. “Hypersonic, correct?”

  “From Point A to Point B anywhere on the globe in two hours or less, or your next delivery is free,” she says. “You need to use the latrine?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Up forward is man dressed in an orange pressure suit, not unlike an astronaut’s space suit. Two women in plain Air Force flight suits are checking readouts from the suit—one holding a clear helmet in her hands—and the suited man with close-cropped black hair sees Liam and frowns.

  Liam doesn’t blame him.

  “Okay,” Betty says, as two other technicians come forward, carrying a similar suit. “Strip.”

  Some minutes later he’s helped into the rear of the tiny cockpit. Hoses and communication cables are hooked up, and then a helmet is lowered over his head and fastened on a rigid collar. Liam feels the suit pressurize around him and his mouth is dry, and he’s feeling so out of place that part of him wishes he was still back in the Army, facing the Taliban at night. At least you knew what you’re doing, who and what you were up against. Straps are lowered over his shoulders and tightened.

  The pilot is sitting in front of him, with a large instrumentation panel separating the two of them. The cockpit cover is lowered by four Air Force technicians and Liam hears the pilot up forward press a set of switches, shackling it in place.

  His earphones crackle in his ear. “Mr. Grey?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “I’m Jeff, your pilot,” he says. “You secure back there?”

  “I am,” he says.

  “Good,” he says. “Just one thing.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Liam says.

  A soft chuckle. “You’re learning. Drop-off and launch is in five minutes.”

  The dark interior lightens with red light. Just above and forward is a windshield, but it’s less than a foot in height and maybe a yard in width.

  Liam says, “One hell of a setup you folks have here.”

  Jeff says, “Thanks. Wish I could say I thought of it but no, others figured out that CONUS was getting too crowded for classified flight tests, even in the most remote desert areas. Too many people with cameras and phones. So we hide in plain sight, and when it comes to doing tests, we just fly off to an empty part of the Atlantic and let loose.”

  “Makes sense,” Liam says, realizing the tightness in his chest isn’t coming from the tight straps, but from his racing heart.

  “Yeah,” Jeff says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to get real busy. Don’t talk to me unless it’s an emergency, and trust me, you won’t recognize an emergency until it’s too late.”

  “Roger that,” Liam says.

  He blinks his eyes, trying to move his head, but there’s not much room in the helmet. He looks to the instrumentation panel and sees the various dials and screens have been covered. Whatever classified clearance level Liam has is worthless here.

  The quality of the light changes, and Liam thinks the rear cargo hatch of the C-17 is opening. He’s going to ask Jeff that and he remembers his orders.

  Okay, he thinks.

  We wait.

  Shuddering gets his attention, and various squeals and whines, and—

  A heavy lurch, a sense of falling free.

  He can’t see much but he’s sure the A-22 is now free of the C-17.

  In the helmet’s earphones Jeff says, “Get ready for a kick in the pants.”

  Liam keeps his mouth shut and there’s a heavy, deafening roar, and then he’s on his back, as the classified hypersonic jet leaps into the air. G-forces crush his chest, legs, and arms, and he looks up through the helmet visor and tiny aircraft windshield.

  Liam thinks he sees stars up there before he passes out.

  CHAPTER 90

  CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams is sitting in one of the conference rooms on the seventh floor of CIA headquarters. Across from her is a man that she thinks was approaching his teens before he could reliably tie his shoes by himself.

  But she keeps that opinion to herself—not even sharing it with her deputy, Jean Swantish—because this man is Terrence Grant, the director of national intelligence, retired admiral from the US Navy, and nominally her boss.

  After 9/11 and the intense failure that was the search for Iraqi weapons of mass destruction, legislature was passed years back for one intelligence position that would oversee all of the alphabet intelligent agencies, from the National Security Agency to the Defense Intelligence Agency.

  Terrence is a tall, slim man with brown-rimmed glasses, black hair, and a look and presence that he doesn’t feel quite comfortable either in his skin or his pricey gray pinstripe suit.

  He says, “Hannah, with all due respect, I need more than just a fifteen-minute session here with you. We need to have a meeting of deputies and principals, clear up lines of communication and responsibility, and get the intelligence community moving forward as one.”

  Terrence waits and looks around the empty conference room table. In a traditional meeting, there would be a coffee and tea service, with some sort of late-morning snacks, but Hannah isn’t feeling traditional.

  “Sorry, Terrence, but I’m doing a lot of catch-up,” she says, smiling sweetly, remembering her meeting with the Senate majority leader at the Button Gwinnett Room, where he said the president was delaying Hannah’s confirmation due to Terrence’s objections.

  She adds, “I’m sure you know exactly what I’m facing.”

  Terrence says, “Not entirely. Which is why I think this meeting is imperative.”

  No, it’s not, Hannah thinks. Keeping the president in his lane and ensuring he doesn’t stumble this country into war is her imperative. And she’s wasted fifteen minutes that should have been spent dealing with that problem, instead of this worthless meet and greet.

  But appearances must be kept.

  “Sometime soon, Terrence, I promise,” she says. “We’ll get the biggest conference room here at the campus, and you can bring in as many principals and deputies you’d like, and we’ll get the job done.”

  “Why not later in the week?”

  “Like I said, I’m quite busy, my confirmation having been delayed so long.”

  Plus, Hannah thinks, after spending this time with the DNI, the Four Ds—the directors of Operations, Intelligence, Administration, and Science and Technology—will be pushing her hard for a meeting.

  Just not enough time!

  “I hear you’ve set up a bed in your office,” he says. “As well as your deputy.”

  Hannah says, “You hear right. I guess some of my folks here are sending you back-channel information. You must be thrilled. Our relatives’ plates are overflowing, and we’re trying to play catch-up by staying here, twenty-four/seven.”

  He purses his thin lips, shakes his head. “I can cause a lot of trouble for you and the Agency, Hannah, if you don’t cooperate.”

  “I’m sure,” she says, checking her watch. He has one more minute left and enough is enough. “But now we’ve run out of time.”

  His face flushes and he says, “What makes you think you’re so special?”

  “Excuse me?” she replies, nearly laughing at his question. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  A soft knock on the door, and one of her security officers, Gary, walks in and says, “Sorry, ma’am, but Deputy Director Swantish says she needs to see you right away.”

  “Thanks, Gary,” she says, and stands up. “Thanks for coming over, Terrence. And I will make it up for you at a later date. If you’re still talking to me then.”

  She takes a few steps and then turns. “You’re ex-Navy, Terrence. I’m sure you remember Admiral King, the CNO during World War II.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, remember this,” she says. “After one of his unexpected promotions, he supposedly said, ‘When they get in trouble they send for the sons of bitches.’”

  Hand on the conference room’s doorknob, Hannah says, “Well, we’re in trouble, and they’ve sent for the bitch.”

  CHAPTER 91

  LIAM GREY FEELS out of time, out of place, standing on a flat stretch of scrubland in South Africa, back in his civilian clothes, sweaty and tired and still stunned at what the past two hours have been like, flying so high and so dark. There’s an empty runway and a distressed-looking hangar that is holding the A-22 hypersonic jet that brought him here, and not much else.

  The wind is blowing hard and all around this empty land is lots of sand and low brush, and a dirt road leading away to the south. Mountains are on the distant horizon. At this end of the dirt road is a dusty, black, two-door Volkswagen Polo sedan with Northern Cape province license plates.

  A side door to the hangar opens and the pilot, Jeff, comes out, holding a plastic shopping bag, which he passes over to Liam. He’s wearing blue jeans, black polo shirt, and an LA Dodgers jacket. His close-cropped hair is still matted down with sweat.

  “Some water and energy bars,” he says. “Best I can do.”

  “Thanks,” Liam says. “I appreciate it. And thanks for the fantastic flight. What do you do now?”

  “Me? Sit my ass down, maybe take a nap, read a book. The C-17 we launched from won’t be here until sometime late tonight. Then we load up and fly back home.”