around Russia.
Klein took off his glasses and rubbed wearily at the bridge of his long nose.
Right now, no American combat aircraft were going anywhere. The F-16s, F-15s, and refueling tankers were just sitting near runways or in their hardened shelters, waiting. Approached quietly through back channels, the NATO allies were expressing grave doubts about allowing the use of their airspace for any U.S. military deployment to the east. Ironically, the conference the president had summoned for tomorrow morning was now working against him because it gave the French and Germans and others an excuse to delay any decisions until after their representatives reported back. Perhaps even more important, none of the countries that were threatened by Russia were willing to invite U.S. forces into their territories.
Renke’s DNA-based weapons had done their work well, Klein decided sourly. Too many of the best and bravest political and military leaders in Ukraine and the other smaller states were dead. Those who were left alive were too frightened of angering Moscow. They were paralyzed, fearing the blow that might be about to fall ?but unwilling or unable to take actions that might deter a Russian attack. If the United States could prove that what it said about Dudarev’s actions was true, they might find the courage to decide. Otherwise, they would not, preferring the uncertainty of inaction to the perils of action.
He put his glasses back on. Almost unwillingly, Klein found himself staring again at the small dot representing the plane carrying Jon Smith, Fiona Devin, and Kirov, as though he could somehow urge the 747 to even greater speed by sheer willpower.
“Nathaniel?”
Klein looked up. His longtime assistant, Maggie Templeton, stood in the doorway that separated their two offices. “Yes, Maggie?”
“I’ve finished running that search you asked for,” she told him quietly, walking all the way into the room. “I cross-checked every file we had on OMEGA with the FBI, CIA, and other databases.”
“And?”
“I found one serious correlation,” Maggie told him. “Take a look at your in-box.”
Klein obeyed, using his keyboard to call up the documents she had downloaded and sent to his computer. The first was a local news story from the archives of The Washington Post, dated roughly six months ago. The second was a copy of an updated police investigative report covering the same incident. The last was a personnel file from the Bethesda Naval Medical Center.
He compared them quickly. One eyebrow rose. He looked up. “Very good work, Maggie,” he said. “As always.”
Before she left his office, he had already hit the button that would connect him to President Castilla’s private line.
The president answered it on the second ring. “Yes?”
“Unfortunately, Colonel Smith was right,” Klein told him flatly. “I’m convinced that OMEGA has been compromised.”
“How?”
“Six months ago, the metropolitan police found a body floating in one of the canals near Georgetown,” Klein said, reading the relevant facts from the Post story. “Eventually, they identified the dead man as a Dr. Conrad Home.
According to the police, Dr. Home appeared to be the victim of a routine mugging that went very badly wrong. But no one was ever arrested for his murder and there are no pending leads.”
“Go on,” Castilla said.
“It turns out that Home was a senior researcher at the Bethesda Naval Medical Center,” the head of Covert-One told him.
“With clearances for the OMEGA medical database,” Castilla guessed bleakly.
“Exactly,” Klein said. He went through the police report, noting key details. “Home was divorced, with huge, court-mandated alimony and child-support payments. His bank balances were always near zero. And his colleagues often heard him complaining about the lousy pay given to government-employed scientists. But the detectives searching his apartment after the murder found several thousand dollars in cash and thousands more in brand-new furniture and consumer electronics. There were also indications that he had been shopping around for a brand-new car, probably a Jaguar.”
“And you think he was selling access to the tissue samples in the database?” Castilla interjected.
Klein nodded solemnly. “Yes, I do. What’s more, I think he got greedy?or that he was simply too indiscreet?and that he was murdered to keep his mouth shut.”
Castilla sighed. “So what you’re telling me is that Professor Renke and his patrons could already have the DNA for every key player in our government?”
“Yes, sir,” Klein replied grimly. “Including yours.”
The U.S. Air Force base at Aviano lay in the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region, roughly fifty kilometers north of Venice, right at the foot of the Italian Alps.
From the flight line at Area F, Mount Cavallo dominated the northern horizon, towering nearly twenty-three hundred meters above the surrounding highlands. The pale rays of the rising moon glittered off vast expanses of snow and ice covering the mountain’s rugged slopes.
With its engines howling as the TranEx pilot reversed thrust, the 747 rolled down the long, main runway at Aviano, braking hard as it passed rows of hardened aircraft shelters. Each had its blast doors open, revealing brightly lit interiors where hangar crews were busy prepping the F-16s of the 31st Tactical Fighter Wing for a long flight east into possible combat.
At the end of the runway, the massive cargo aircraft swung off onto a wide stretch of concrete apron and came to a full stop. A truck equipped with a set ot mobile stairs appeared and maneuvered into position at the 747’s forward door. As soon as thev were in place, Smith hurried down them, with Fiona Devin and Kirov following close behind.
A young Air Force captain in a green flight jacket stood waiting for them at the bottom. He carried a helmet with night-vision goggles clipped to the visor.
“Lieutenant Colonel Smith?” he asked, rather dubiously eyeing the three apparent civilians, all of whom looked verv much the worse for wear.
Jon nodded. “That’s right.” He grinned at the worried expression on the younger officer’s face. “Don’t worry. Captain. We’ll try not to bleed all over your nice shiny aircraft.”
The Air Force officer looked abashed. “Sorry, sir.”
“No problem,” Smith told him. “Are you ready for us?”
“Yes, sir. We’re right over that way,” the captain said, nodding toward a large black helicopter sitting off by itself across the concrete. Smith recognized it as an MH-53J Pave Low, one of the world’s most advanced special missions aircraft. I heavily armored, bristling with weapons, and crammed hill of sophisticated navigation systems and electronic countermeasures. Pave Lows were built to carry commandos deep into enemy-held territory, flying as low as thirty to forty meters off the ground while dodging enemy radar detection and surface-to-air missiles.
“What about our gear?” Smith asked the captain.
“Your clothing, weapons, and other equipment are already stashed aboard the bird, Colonel,” the younger man assured him. “Our orders are to get von and your party airborne as soon as possible.”
Five minutes later, Smith, Fiona, and Kirov were strapping themselves into seats in the twenty-one-ton Pave Low’s gray-painted rear compartment. One of the helicopter’s six crewmen handed around helmets and earplugs. “You’ll need them when we crank this baby up,” he said cheerfully, hooking them into the intercom system. “Otherwise, the noise will pretty much pound your brains into mush.”
Overhead the huge rotor blades began turning, spinning faster and faster as the two turbo-shaft engines rewed up. Bv the time the engines were at full power, the whine and roar were deafening. The aircraft rattled and shook, vi-brating and rocking from side to side.
Through the intercom. Smith heard the flight engineer, a sergeant with a thick Texas drawl, running through the checklist with the MH-53J’s pilot and copilot. “Ready to taxi,” the sergeant said at last.
The helicopter crept down the taxiwav.
The three Air Force crewmen in back with Smith and the others leaned out through the open hatches and
