The strangeness of the situation was not lost on him. Why someone wanted him to jump and the airplane not to land, he had no clue, other than it seemed a secure way of getting him onto the island without anyone being aware – other than whoever was waiting on the drop zone.

It had crossed his mind that the parachute was rigged to malfunction. He'd checked it as best he could, along with the reserve. He figured if someone wanted him dead, this was a rather elaborate way to go about it. And it wasn't as if he had any other choice. Staying on the plane and not jumping would only delay whatever was awaiting him. He preferred to face it head on.

The green light went on and the loadmaster let go of the bundle. It slid off the ramp, the static line for its parachute playing out. Vaughn followed right after it, as he'd been trained. Stepping off the ramp, he free-fell for three seconds as his static line played out, pulling the deployment bag out and off the parachute, which opened with a snap. Vaughn had assumed a tight body position upon exiting the aircraft, hands wrapped around the edges of the reserve, chin tucked down to his chest, legs tightly together. The opening shock vibrated through the harness and his body.

He had done the routine so many times, he wasn't even aware as he looked up, checked to make sure his canopy was fully deployed and functioning, then reached up and took the toggle on each riser in each hand, gaining control of the chute. He'd stopped counting his jumps once he reached three figures and earned his master parachutist wings. He'd never understood civilians who jumped for fun. To him it was always a part of his job. He jumped for mission or pay. It was too dangerous a thing to do for fun.

He looked down, spotted the bundle floating toward the ground, and turned the chute so he was chasing it. This was what the Airborne called a Hollywood jump – no rucksack, no weapon. The easiest kind to do.

He looked past the bundle to see if he could spot anyone on the drop zone. There was a black Land Rover moving across the open field; like him, chasing the bundle. He turned his attention back to what he was doing – even if it was a Hollywood jump, he was still going to make contact with the ground hard. Military parachutes were not designed for soft landings. One did not want to float slowly to the ground when there was a chance of getting shot at.

Feet and knees together, toes pointed down, Vaughn stared straight ahead at the horizon. The voices of the "Black Hat" instructors bellowing that command through bullhorns as he did his first jumps at Fort Benning many years ago echoed in his head. Like most Army training, airborne school had been designed to build instincts, not develop deep intellectual discussion about the training. His toes hit, and in quick succession his calves, thighs, hips, and side, and he slammed into the ground.

He lay still for about two seconds, as he always did after a jump, savoring life. He could smell the tall grass he lay in, and layered on top of that, the nearby ocean. Adrenaline made all the senses more acute. Then he was up, unbuckling his harness before gathering in his parachute. He grabbed the opening loop in the top center and pulled it out to extend it fully, then began figure-eighting the material, looping it around both arms extended out to the sides. As he did so he noted that the Land Rover with tinted windows was already at the bundle. Whoever it was moved fast, because by the time he had the parachute stuffed in the kit bag, the Rover was coming toward him. It skidded to a halt and the driver's door opened.

Vaughn recognized the man who stepped out.

"Mr. Royce."

"Just Royce will do."

He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the Rover.

"Throw the chute in. I got the bundle."

Vaughn did as instructed, then got in the passenger side. Royce threw the truck into gear and took off.

"Why am I here?" Vaughn asked.

"I've got a good battery for the designator," Royce said.

At the designated time, Professor Foster checked the "dead drop," as he'd been instructed upon receiving those two code words. There was a practically unnoticeable chalk mark in the right place on the side of the old loading platform in an obscure corner of Fort Shafter where antiquated military vehicles rusted away. Foster had half hoped the sign wouldn't be there, but he was a logical man and knew that action B would follow action A. And now he had to do C.

He got on his knees and reached under the rotting wood platform. His hand groped for the package that he had been told would be there. But there appeared to be a logic breakdown. He retrieved nothing but a couple of splinters that drew blood and curses.

He continued the fruitless search for several more minutes, to no avail. Why would someone put the mark but not the package? Reluctantly, he got to his feet and blinked at the figure standing less than ten feet behind him, wearing shorts, a Bermuda shirt, and sandals. The man's face was in the shadow of his broad-brimmed straw hat, but he had a fringe of white hair along the edge of the hat. There was a small backpack slung over his shoulder. Foster had neither seen nor heard him approach.

"I've got what you need right here," the man said, pointing at his head and then at the pack.

"Who are you?" Foster demanded, looking past the man, searching the area for anyone else. They were alone as far as he could tell.

"I'm David. I'm here to brief you on what you are to do."

He gestured.

"Come, walk with me."

Foster came alongside as the old man began to walk through the abandoned vehicles, planes, and assorted equipment.

David began: "Needless to say, this is top secret, Q classification and completely compartmentalized. The only one you will ever speak of this to, when needed, is myself and my replacement."

"Your replacement?"

"Don't worry about that right now," David said.

"You complete this task and there will be a promotion and reassignment in it for you."

Foster picked up the pace without even realizing it.

"Reassignment to where?"

"The National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort Meade."

David put out a hand, slowing Foster back to his pace.

"The big show. Running simulations for the National Command Authority. Doesn't get any bigger than that."

Foster contemplated the offer, trying not to show his enthusiasm for something he had yearned for.

David gave him an appropriate amount of time, then removed the carrot and showed the stick.

"You screw up, of course, and the little situation from your last year in college will have to come up. You remember. The bowl game. The trip to Tijuana two nights before? You did much more than break curfew."

Foster froze. No one knew of that. No one.

David dipped into his pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He fanned them like a short deck of cards in front of Foster's face, confirming his worst nightmare: the event had been recorded on film. But that was almost two decades ago.

"How did you get those? Who took them?"

"Come come," David said.

"Let's be in the real world."

He held up a hand as Foster started to say something.

"We will not discuss it at all. Just be aware that your life is never as private as you think it is and that there are reasons why people are chosen for certain positions – good reasons and bad reasons, but reasons nonetheless. Which brings us to here and now."

He slapped Foster lightly on the shoulder.

"Look at this as a good thing. The glass is half full and you now have the opportunity to top it off."

David held out the backpack.

"There's a laptop in there. Coded only for you. You'll see. It will only work when your palms rest on the pads below the keyboard. It has the information on what you are to do and links to data sources that will help you in accomplishing your goal. Do not let anyone use it, because if someone other than you tries to access the keyboard, the hard drive will be destroyed.