Edge of Battle

them contact me through my headquarters so we can coordinate our efforts, but you can advise them that I am fully prepared to take whatever steps I feel necessary to accomplish my mission. Unless I receive valid countermanding orders, my unit is in target pursuit mode. TALON out.”

Jason saw a truck pull up to the CV-22 Osprey, and crews started loading Cybernetic Infantry Unit backpacks and weapon canisters aboard the tilt-rotor aircraft. At the same time an Air Force Suburban roared up the taxiway and screeched to a halt in front of him, and Bruno Watts jumped out. “I just got a call from the National Security Adviser, ordering me to keep you on the ground!” he shouted over the roar of the Osprey’s massive turboshaft engines. “What is going on? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“I’ll submit my ops plan in the air,” Jason shouted back.

“Like hell you will, Major!” Watts snapped. “This equipment is not your personal property! I am in command of this unit! Until I get clearance from Washington, I’m ordering you…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jennifer McCracken said, stepping up to Watts. “I’d like a word with you.”

“Not now, Lieutenant.” Then, with surprising speed, Watts grabbed Jason’s left wrist with his left hand and lifted his sleeve with his other hand, revealing the remote control wrist keypad for the CID units. “And don’t even think of trying to summon one of your robots to grab me, Major,” he growled. “Sergeant Major Jefferson warned me about you. He said you’re not above doing anything to get your…”

With equally surprising speed, Jennifer McCracken swatted away Watts’s grasp on Jason, twisted his arm upward and backward, rotated her hips, and flipped Watts back over her right leg and down onto the tarmac. With one leg on his left arm and his other arm twisted behind him in a come-along hold, Watts was immediately immobilized. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Watts shouted. “Let me up, McCracken, now!”

“Sir?”

“Hold him there until we’re airborne, Jennifer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you two crazy?” Watts retorted. He tried to struggle free, but it was quickly and painfully obvious that the somewhat nerdy, quiet, and very businesslike young Marine knew exactly what she was doing. “I’ll have you all court-martialed!”

“You’re messing with a member of Task Force TALON, sir,” McCracken said. “You can court-martial us after Dr. Vega has been brought to safety.”

HENDERSON, NEVADA

A SHORT TIME LATER

“We suffered almost a half-million dollars’ worth of damage that our insurance probably won’t cover,” the station manager moaned, checking reports filed by the police and the insurance adjusters. “The ambulance company sent us a bill for transport of seventeen persons to the hospital for a variety of injuries; and every one of our Latino maintenance workers have left.”

“But the show had the highest ratings in the history of talk radio,” Bob O’Rourke’s agent chimed in immediately, “and all but a couple of our sponsors have asked for multiyear advertising contract extensions. I’m expecting a call from the syndication folks, asking for the same—they might even be interested in doing a TV show. Congratulations, Bob.”

“Thanks, Ken, thanks very much for the news,” Bob O’Rourke said, ignoring the station manager. As he usually did after a show, Bob O’Rourke relaxed in his office with his producer, Fand Kent, and the show’s other staff members; he would have one beer, discuss upcoming topics and research assignments, and then O’Rourke would move on to the half-dozen other promotional functions he had scheduled most afternoons, usually golf games with sponsors, speaking engagements, personal appearances, or commercial tapings. He clinked glasses and bottles with his staff, took a deep pull on his beer, then looked at his heavily bandaged right hand. “If I had known just a few broken fingers would get me all that, I would’ve done it long ago.” The laughter was a little strained, but no one in that room ever failed to laugh at one of Bob O’Rourke’s jokes, no matter how lame or unfunny—they all valued their jobs too much.

“Bob, the district attorney, the FCC, the mayor, the sheriff’s department, the state Department of Public Safety, the FBI, and even the White House are screaming mad at you,” the station manager said. “They want to talk with you right away, especially about this Vega thing.”

“I have nothing to say to any of them except I stand by my information and will refuse all requests to reveal my sources,” O’Rourke said.

“That’s all you need to say, Bob—I’ll get your attorney on those calls right away,” the agent said. “Don’t worry about a thing. All those people don’t do a damned thing whenever some nut job like Comandante Veracruz wants to speak, but when a proud American wants to talk, they all want to squash him like a bug.” O’Rourke tipped his bottle in thanks. “I’ve got a car waiting outside to take you to the CNN affiliate, and then we’ll come back here for a few more satellite pieces with Fox News and the BBC. Then…”

“Can’t. I have that match with Jason Gore at two at the country club.”

“Jason said he’d be glad to slip it to tomorrow if you’ll autograph a bunch of visors for him.”

“Deal.” He looked worriedly at his agent. “About the car…”

“Don’t worry about your Excursion. The insurance company will total it, I’m sure, and I’ve already put out feelers to a few charities to auction it off on eBay.”

O’Rourke gave his agent a shake of his head, and he bent down closer so he could whisper, “No, Ken, I mean the car for this afternoon.”

“No worries, Bob. I found a company with armored limos. They’re comping the car for the week as long as they can put their signage in the back window and at the parking areas at your events. All your sponsors and venues said no problem.”

“An armored car, you say?”

“This company has a fleet of armored Suburbans that were rejected by a very wealthy real estate developer from Bahrain because they were too heavy—they wouldn’t fit on their jets,” the agent explained. “These things are like friggin’ tanks, Bob. It’s a good deal.”

“I like my regular service…”

“They don’t have armored limos, Bob, and besides they hesitated to help you after yesterday’s broadcast. Frankly, Bob, they ran like frightened chickens. Screw ’em.”

“But is this a good company…you know, are they trustworthy?”

“Don’t worry about a thing. I checked ’em out. They’re new, but I spoke with the owner and he seems okay. Young, a real go-getter, anxious to make a name for himself.” He read O’Rourke’s eyes and added, “And yes, he’s an Anglo, and all his drivers are Anglos. I said don’t worry. I have a bodyguard assigned to you, recommended by one of your sponsors, and I’ll be along every step of the way to keep an eye on things.” O’Rourke looked worried but said nothing as he reached for another beer.

More TV and media crews were outside the studios when Bob O’Rourke emerged about a half hour later after his staff meeting. The bodyguard took up a position on the other side of the car, facing the crowds being kept away by a greatly expanded police presence. O’Rourke made a few comments for the reporters, waved to the crowd with his left hand, raised his bandaged right hand defiantly to the delighted cheers of his supporters who easily drowned out the protesters on the other side of the street, and entered the massive armored Suburban limousine, making a pleased mental note of the inch-thick steel and Kevlar in the armored doors and three-inch-thick bulletproof glass.

His agent was already inside. “I told you, Bob—first class all the way,” he said, checking out the very high- tech electronics and devices inside. “This is probably what the President’s limo looks like.” He handed O’Rourke the remote to the twenty-four-inch plasma TV inside. “Here—you might be able to catch the news piece on yourself.”

O’Rourke took the remote and turned the TV on. “Get me another beer, will you?”

“Better take it easy, Bob—you have a full afternoon.”

“Just get me another beer and shut up, will you?”

The agent shook his head, silently determined that this would be the last one until dinnertime. He opened the