the back. He opened the tap and put his face under the faucet. The warm water tasted metallic and moldy at the same time, but he was so thirsty he gulped it down.
When his thirst was quenched, he realized he was a few minutes late for his phone call. He went back to the front and took out the satellite phone.
Brott picked up before the first ring ended.
“We think we know where you are,” he told him. “We’re going to arrange a rescue, but it’s not easy. It’s chaos over there. There’ve been several riots.”
“Get someone here,” said McIntyre. He sat down on the floor against the desk. “Get somebody here.”
“We’re working on it. You have to relax.”
As McIntyre struggled to control his response, the door began to open.
Chapter 12
Blitz had the answer ready, but Byrd would not call on him. The others were droning on about terrorist threats, the need for force on the ground, the fool’s gold of technology. Finally he could stand it no more: He stood up from the desk and found himself in the middle of the circle. The others were dressed as he had known them in college, in jeans mostly, but he was in the suit he’d been wearing in the White House a few hours before. Instantly he was self-conscious. Byrd looked at him, waiting.
And so he started.
“Nation-on-nation violence can be halted. We’ve done so for the first time,” he said. The words sounded strange in his ears, as if he were talking through a tube. “Terrorism remains a difficult problem, but the impact there also will be great, with more pinpoint attacks. Imagine fighting the
Byrd nodded, then asked, “What does that mean for those who possess the weapon?”
Blitz had thought of this at some length, mostly from the perspective of what they should do if an enemy obtained its own version. But for some reason his brain refused to formulate an answer.
“Does the selectivity mean the weapon will be used more often, or less?” asked Byrd. “And is either beneficial?”
Again, Blitz had thought of this; the answer, he thought was obvious: the weapon did not need to be used to be effective, but its use must be as carefully controlled as the nuclear bombs had been. But he couldn’t speak.
“Well, Dr. Blitz?”
What was the alternative, he wanted to know. Do nothing? They had been right in India: Millions of people owed their lives to that gamble. That good could be measured unambiguously.
Blitz began to stutter.
“Dr. Blitz?”
Blitz pushed his head upward from the desk as the classroom disappeared. He was in his office; he’d fallen asleep, exhausted, waiting for word about McIntyre.
One of the military liaisons was standing at the door.
“Dr. Blitz?”
“Go ahead. I’m sorry, I was dozing.”
The aide nodded. It was a little past three in the morning.
“Mr. McIntyre just called again. We have a good location. The Pentagon people are trying to contact the task force working with Colonel Howe.”
“Good.” He rose, stretching some of the fatigue away. “I’ll go over to the Tank as soon as I can.”
Chapter 13
Howe and Timmy climbed through thirty thousand feet, circling upward over Chinese territory as the MV-22 finished collecting the last member of its team and set course back to Afghanistan. It would stay low for a little under two hundred miles, threading its way through the mountains and valleys to avoid any possible detection by radar. At that point it would climb and skirt into eastern Pakistan and then over into Afghanistan.
Though much faster than a helicopter, the Osprey was still a propeller-driven aircraft, and flying low through the unforgiving terrain was not something that could be rushed. It would take close to an hour to reach the relative safety of the Pakistani border.
Timmy proposed to fill that time with a song.
“What sort of song?”
“I was thinking something by Limp Bizkit,” joked the wingman.
“If you try that, I’m going to order silent com,” said Howe.
“Don’t you think there ought to be an M3 hookup in these?” asked Timmy. “Actually, a karaoke rig. That’s what we need. I’m going to talk to Firenze about that when we get back.”
Laughing in spite of himself, Howe was just about to suggest that Timmy sing “Old MacDonald” when the AWACS supervisor radioed, requesting that he switch to a new frequency. The moment he keyed in, an Army lieutenant colonel at the Pentagon introduced himself by saying they had found their man.
“Which man are we talking about?”
“An NSC staffer was in the helicopter your plane shot down at the start of the Indian operation,” said the colonel, who was transmitting from the Tank through a satellite hookup. “He’s alive on the ground nearby.”
“How nearby?”
Howe listened as the colonel explained the situation. The location was very close to where they had taken out the helicopters in the Kashmir border area, reachable via a short though significant detour from their planned flight path.
“That’s not a pretty place,” said Howe. “My briefers this morning were talking about guerrilla conflicts all through that region.”
“That’s why we need him located and rescued ASAP,” said the Army colonel. “He’s a valuable commodity.”
Chapter 14
McIntyre stared at the door as it cracked open slowly. The guns were next to him on the desk, but he made no move to get them. He just stared as the door opened.
A teenager took a step inside. He swung a bucket before him, setting it down on the floor and starting to reach back for something outside before seeing McIntyre across from him in front of the desk.
He froze, and for a second they stared at each other, neither able to react.
It was the Indian who moved first. He fell backward out of the building, scrambling away as the door closed. McIntyre followed, still holding the phone in one hand. He cracked open the door, crouching at first, worried that there would be more people outside.
The boy had disappeared. No one else was there as he gradually opened the door wider and wider.
“McIntyre — what the hell’s going on?” Brott was asking when McIntyre closed the door and brought the phone back up to his ear.
When he told Brott about the kid, the aide said he should have shot him.
“Yeah,” answered McIntyre. “Do you know where I am?”
