'What?'
'The admiral,' the speaker said. His voice was hesitant, uneasy. 'He left the hotel from the back exit, but he never made it to the convention center.'
'It's only a mile!' Stone said. 'Have you called the driver?' he asked as he reached for his own cell phone.
'We did. There's no answer. The admiral doesn't answer his phone, either.'
'Is security on this?'
'They called 911 and asked for an aerial search to see if they can find the limousine.'
'Tell security I'll be right there,' Stone said angrily. He speed-dialed a number as he started jogging back toward the hotel.
Rodgers followed, also running.
'Kat, it's Eric,' he said after a moment. 'Something has happened. I need you to get downstairs and run the press.'
The men entered the lobby. Word of a possible abduction was spreading.
People had stopped whatever they were doing and were looking around, asking anyone with a Staff badge for information. Stone ignored them all as he rushed by.
The men walked past the elevators to a corridor lined with shops. The rear entrance was at the end of the carpeted hallway.
As Stone briefed Kat, Rodgers examined the feeling he had experienced just before the walkie-talkie came to life. A sense that had suddenly changed Rodgers's perception of what he thought was beginner's luck, a chaos gambit.
He no longer believed that Stone was an amateur. Neither was his boss, whoever that was. Someone had profiled Rodgers. They had understood exactly how the general would act and react to everything they did.
Stone knew that Rodgers would seek him out in San Diego. He knew that, after their first talk, after McCaskey's arrest, Rodgers would tell Kat to stay out of the way for a while. Stone also knew that when he finally presented himself to Rodgers, the general would push for information.
In short, the son of a bitch Stone had been stalling him.
FORTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 5:47 p.m.
The sun was sinking low, and there was a chill in the air. The odor of diesel fuel wafted thinly from the aircraft at the base. It reminded Herbert of when he and his wife, Yvonne, used to be at a military airfield in some foreign land, waiting to be airlifted to or from a mission for the Company.
The light, the smell, the taste of the air reminded him in particular of the field at the U.S. air base in Ramstein, Germany. That was where he and Yvonne had their last meal before heading to Beirut, where she died and he lost the use of his legs. They had gone to the base commissary, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and coffees, and took a card table onto the field. It was a little too windy for candles, so they used a menorah the quartermaster had in storage. It was the best grilled cheese and coleslaw Herbert ever had. Yvonne never looked more beautiful and heroic to him. What a role model she had been. Always pushing him and herself to do a better job. She was convinced that whatever they did in Lebanon could help to bring peace to the region.
It did, to the nearly three hundred U.S. troops who died in the embassy bombing. Including Yvonne.
It was difficult for Herbert not to crash, burn, and smoulder for hours whenever that day came upon him typically by surprise, like a mugger.
It could be a song Yvonne might have been listening to on the trip over. It could be a feeling in the air, like now. Even the smell of grilled cheese took him back. All Herbert could do was swallow the awful lump, concentrate on what he was doing, and get the hell out of that bittersweet place.
Yesterday's EM explosion made the feeling even more immediate.
Stopping bad guys usually worked. That was what Herbert was trying to do now. The problem at the moment was not just wrestling down memories of Yvonne but fighting off the desire to hurt Paul Hood. As his grandfather used to put it back in Mississippi, he wished he could 'sock him in the snot box and shake loose some intelligence.' The firing of Mike Rodgers offended him like nothing else in the past quarter century. When this was over, Herbert
