As Zach Herney entered the Oval Office, he couldn't help but smile at the image of his entire staff crammed into the deceptively small chamber.
Although this great office had enjoyed many nicknames over the years — the Loo, Dick's Den, the Clinton Bedroom-Herney's favorite was 'the Lobster Trap.' It seemed most fitting. Each time a newcomer entered the Oval Office, disorientation set in immediately. The symmetry of the room, the gently curving walls, the discreetly disguised doorways in and out, all gave visitors the dizzying sense they'd been blindfolded and spun around. Often, after a meeting in the Oval Office, a visiting dignitary would stand up, shake hands with the President, and march straight into a storage closet. Depending on how the meeting had gone, Herney would either stop the guest in time or watch in amusement as the visitor embarrassed himself.
Herney had always believed the most dominating aspect of the Oval Office was the colorful American eagle emblazoned on the room's oval carpet. The eagle's left talon clutched an olive branch and his right a bundle of arrows. Few outsiders knew that during times of peace, the eagle faced left-toward the olive branch. But in times of war, the eagle mysteriously faced right-toward the arrows. The mechanism behind this little parlor trick was the source of quiet speculation among White House staff because it was traditionally known only by the President and the head of housekeeping. The truth behind the enigmatic eagle, Herney had found to be disappointingly mundane. A storage room in the basement contained the second oval carpet, and housekeeping simply swapped the carpets in the dead of night.
Now, as Herney gazed down at the peaceful, left-gazing eagle, he smiled to think that perhaps he should swap carpets in honor of the little war he was about to launch against Senator Sedgewick Sexton.
15
The U.S. Delta Force is the sole fighting squad whose actions are granted complete presidential immunity from the law.
Presidential Decision Directive 25 (PDD 25) grants Delta Force soldiers 'freedom from all legal accountability,' including exception from the 1876 Posse Comitatus Act, a statute imposing criminal penalties for anyone using the military for personal gain, domestic law enforcement, or unsanctioned covert operations. Delta Force members are handpicked from the Combat Applications Group (CAG), a classified organization within the Special Operations Command in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Delta Force soldiers are trained killers-experts in SWAT operations, rescuing hostages, surprise raids, and elimination of covert enemy forces.
Because Delta Force missions usually involve high levels of secrecy, the traditional multitiered chain of command is often circumvented in favor of 'monocaput' management-a single controller who holds authority to control the unit as he or she sees fit. The controller tends to be a military or government powerbroker with sufficient rank or influence to run the mission. Regardless of the identity of their controller, Delta Force missions are classified at the highest level, and once a mission is completed, Delta Force soldiers never speak of it again-not to one another, and not to their commanding officers within Special Ops.
Fly. Fight. Forget.
The Delta team currently stationed above the Eighty-second Parallel was doing no flying or fighting. They were simply watching.
Delta-One had to admit that this had been a most unusual mission so far, but he had learned long ago never to be surprised by what he was asked to do. In the past five years he had been involved in Middle East hostage rescues, tracking and exterminating terrorist cells working inside the United States, and even the discreet elimination of several dangerous men and women around the globe.
Just last month his Delta team had used a flying microbot to induce a lethal heart attack in a particularly malicious South American drug lord. Using a microbot equipped with a hairline titanium needle containing a potent vasoconstrictor, Delta-Two had flown the device into the man's house through an open second-story window, found the man's bedroom, and then pricked him on the shoulder while he was sleeping. The microbot was back out the window and 'feet dry' before the man woke up with chest pain. The Delta team was already flying home by the time its victim's wife was calling the paramedics.
No breaking and entering.
Death by natural causes.
It had been a thing of beauty.
More recently, another microbot stationed inside a prominent senator's office to monitor his personal meetings had captured images of a lurid sexual encounter. The Delta team jokingly referred to that mission as 'insertion behind enemy lines.'
Now, after being trapped on surveillance duty inside this tent for the last ten days, Delta-One was ready for this mission to be over.
Remain in hiding.
Monitor the structure-inside and out.
Report to your controller any unexpected developments.
Delta-One had been trained never to feel any emotion regarding his assignments. This mission, however, had certainly raised his heart rate when he and his team were first briefed. The briefing had been 'faceless'-every phase explained via secure electronic channels. Delta-One had never met the controller responsible for this mission.
Delta-One was preparing a dehydrated protein meal when his watch beeped in unison with the others. Within seconds the CrypTalk communications device beside him blinked on alert. He stopped what he was doing and picked up the handheld communicator. The other two men watched in silence.
'Delta-One,' he said, speaking into the transmitter.
The two words were instantly identified by the voice recognition software inside the device. Each word was then assigned a reference number, which was encrypted and sent via satellite to the caller. On the caller's end, at a similar device, the numbers were decrypted, translated back into words using a predetermined, self-randomizing dictionary. Then the words were spoken aloud by a synthetic voice. Total delay, eighty milliseconds.
'Controller, here,' said the person overseeing the operation. The robotic tone of the CrypTalk was eerie- inorganic and androgynous. 'What is your op status?'
'Everything proceeding as planned,' Delta-One replied.
'Excellent. I have an update on the time frame. The information goes public tonight at eight P.M. Eastern.'
Delta-One checked his chronograph. Only eight more hours. His job here would be finished soon. That was encouraging.
'There is another development,' the controller said. 'A new player has entered the arena.'
'What new player?'
Delta-One listened. An interesting gamble. Someone out there was playing for keeps. 'Do you think she can be trusted?'
'She needs to be watched very closely.'
'And if there is trouble?'
There was no hesitation on the line. 'Your orders stand.'
16
Rachel Sexton had been flying due north for over an hour. Other than a fleeting glimpse of Newfoundland, she had seen nothing but water beneath the F-14 for the entire journey.
Why did it have to be water? she thought, grimacing. Rachel had plunged through the ice on a frozen pond while ice-skating when she was seven. Trapped beneath the surface, she was certain she would die. It had been her mother's powerful grasp that finally yanked Rachel's waterlogged body to safety. Ever since that harrowing
