just said? BFF?”

“Yeah.”

“BFF it is, then.” He reached over and playfully mussed her dirty hair. “I owe you. Go to sleep.”

KANDAHAR ARMY AIR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

LIEUTENANT COLONEL SYBELLE SUMMERS and Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins led the debriefing of Swanson and Ledford, with a half-dozen specialists from various intelligence agencies making notes and asking questions. The Lizard was patched in from Washington on a secure video link. A large screen on a wall of the room glowed with a map of the region, with the grid location of the bridge painted in red.

Kyle was hydrating with a cold fruit juice, while Beth sat quietly with a fresh bottle of water. Her tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. “We never did determine exactly who was fighting us, but one of the guys that we brought down was wearing the uniform of a Pakistani army sergeant.”

“That doesn’t really prove anything,” observed one of the nameless men at the table.

“I’m not here to prove shit to you, Suit. Just telling you what I saw and showing you the pictures we took. The bridge is in Pakistan. That proof enough that they are involved, or at least knew about it? Of course they will deny it. No different from their denials of hiding Osama bin Laden in a mansion by an army camp.”

“What about you, Petty Officer Ledford?” the man asked. “Did you see anything that could be incontrovertible proof that the Pakis were in on it?”

She shook her head, and her voice was soft. “No. Just the guy the gunny mentioned, and a whole bunch of guys with a lot of guns. We didn’t exchange business cards.”

Sybelle steepled her fingers. “Side issue. The prisoner confirmed the ISI, the secret police, was involved, and as Swanson said, the thing is inside Pakistan. There is absolutely no way they weren’t in on it.”

For an hour, the questioners picked the brains of the two tired warriors, and Summers let the topic ramble but always brought it back to the bridge. The maps and papers the team had gathered, the computer hard drive, plus their personal on-site observations, photographs, and sketches, gave the situation a tight focus. “So as high- tech as this place is, the purpose was simply to be the new, protected lair for Commander Kahn. It was created for the New Muslim Order. Are we agreed?”

“Looks that way from back here in Washington,” said the Lizard. “I will pull some intercept logs to see what the boys in Islamabad have been talking about. It would be a big help if that captured engineer could give us details on the bridge itself, the weaponry, and that array of sensors and cameras in the valley.”

“Don’t count on that, Liz,” said Kyle. “The man has definitely slipped into his own scrambled little world. The shrinks will have a hard time separating fact from fiction with him, because he apparently believes everything he says is real.”

Freedman chewed on a thumbnail. “General Middleton wants to get that guy down to Guantanamo as soon as possible and turn the experts loose on him. Chemistry can do wonders.”

Sybelle Summers cut in and pointed to the Central Intelligence Agency representative. “That will take too long. My friend here says they have much of the same capability right here at Kandahar, primarily used for time- sensitive, tactical interrogation.”

“That’s correct. Let’s see what we can do to supplement the information about the bridge and its defenses, and then ship him to Gitmo for deeper work.”

“Fine,” the Lizard replied. “Colonel Summers, the general also wants your report and recommendations ASAP, so he can take them to the White House. He gave them a heads-up that he’s coming over.”

“I’ll get him a summary within the hour; then we can link up again and do the details.”

“Sounds good. Oh, yes, the general wants to pass along his compliments to Petty Officer Ledford for her outstanding work.”

“What about me?” Kyle laughed. “I was there, too.”

“He didn’t mention you.”

THE OLD EXEC WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE PRESIDENT OF THE United States, hands in the pockets of his dark suit, strolled nonchalantly out of the basement door of the White House, beneath the maroon awning, between some parked cars, and across the narrow street to a similar basement entrance to the Old Executive Office Building, a baroque gray giant. At the moment, the entire news media corps was corralled in the White House Press Room for the routine daily briefing by his press secretary, who was giving an update on the upcoming Mars mission and confirming the president would be at the Cape for the historic launch. Camera crews were at their tripods on the front lawn, preparing for the stand-ups by the TV correspondents. No one noticed the sudden unannounced departure from the president’s public schedule, and he was in view for less than a minute, alone, as he crossed the protected street without obvious Secret Service protection.

The tall Californian was alone in numerous ways on this day, for he was facing one of the toughest decisions of his presidency—the absolute need to order a direct military attack on Pakistan, an allied nation that was an anchor in the overall war on terror in a fiery region. Only someone who knew him well could discern that the slightly hunched shoulders were actually bowed with worry. He had been pacing the Oval Office, trying to walk off the fury of once again feeling double-crossed by the Pakistanis—Osama’s compound all over again, but bigger and better— but he had calmed little by the time of this meeting just after lunch.

Members of the Secret Service detail that had unobtrusively shepherded him across the street met him at the door of Old Exec and gave verbal confirmation of the handoff to the agents at the seldom-used White House exit and to agents in the parked cars that he passed. He led the way to the second floor of the musty building, and another agent opened a normal-looking door into a comfortable large room that was thoroughly soundproof. Several easy chairs and two large sofas formed a large, loose circle. Senior administration officials had come in earlier through various entrances and were gathered in small groups. They turned to face him, and a repeated murmur of “Mr. President” acknowledged his presence. He did not shake anyone’s hand and did not flash the famous smile but proceeded to an armchair, sat, and crossed his legs. The others took seats. All eyes were on him.

There was no preamble. “Each of you has been privately briefed within the past few hours concerning this latest event in Pakistan. It is an intolerable situation. A vital ally that already had given shelter to our single biggest enemy, Osama bin Laden, has been busy creating a new and possibly worse threat to our security, and as usual, intentionally keeping it secret from us.

“There is no way to sugarcoat my decision. As you were briefed, I intend to launch a military strike to wipe out that new sanctuary, and by doing so, to send a clear message to our friends throughout the Middle East. Any new terrorist leader will never be beyond the reach of the United States, and neither will any country that gives him sanctuary.” He paused, hands clasped before him, looking from face to face.

“We will hit it hard—very hard—and that once again includes boots on the ground for a short window of time, for I consider this to be a matter of utmost national security. Our military leaders predict that if all goes well, we will be in and out of there within three hours, leaving behind nothing but a smoking ruin. Consider it to be a surgical operation to remove a deadly cancer. Pakistan has to learn that this must stop! Before I give the final order, I wanted you all together to thank you for agreeing that this course of action is necessary. Any further discussion? Questions?”

“I don’t see how we can do anything else,” declared the vice president.

“Pakistan is going to be outraged,” Secretary of State Mark Grayson added, “but that’s to be expected, and you pay me the big bucks to take the heat.”

“This time, you don’t have to,” said the president, finally falling into a smile. “To further demonstrate how pissed off we are, they don’t even get to complain to you or to me about it. Give that job to Undersecretary Curtis of the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs, along with my order to rudely brush them off.”

“They will consider that to be a great insult,” Secretary of State Grayson replied.

“Good, because that is exactly what is intended. If they are smart, they will grab the opportunity to let the whole sleazy incident disappear instead of flying into meaningless outrage. They got off easy with the surgical SEAL Team Six raid that did bin Laden. This time, not so much.”

The president turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “There it is, General Rauch. You have a go. Give the orders. And let me remind everybody here: no leaks, or you might be visiting Guantanamo Bay for a while. Friend or not, you must believe that I am serious.”

NORTH WAZIRISTAN, TRIBAL LANDS, PAKISTAN

AYMAN AL-MASRI WAS PUFFING with exertion as he climbed the final stretch of stairs that led to a square

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