There was another element that began to enter into the discourse in the operations room: someone dared ask the question whether this was simply a twist thrown into the simulation to see how they reacted. That earned the speaker an even fiercer tongue-lashing by Slocum, who got them back on track by pretending this was a real exercise.

For Royce, there was another issue bothering him. One that had nothing to do with the recon team or even the mission. He'd used one of his connections to the National Security Agency to check on the progress of the jet David was on. The NSA was wired into Space Command out in Cheyenne Mountain, which controlled a ring of satellites that tracked every single object that flew.

The reports had been fine up until a little while ago. Then the jet disappeared.

At first Royce had assumed that it landed on some island. But when he checked the last confirmed satellite spotting, projected out speed and time, and drew a circle, all he was left with was ocean. There was no place it could have landed.

It had vanished.

Royce did not believe in the Bermuda Triangle, or the Devil's Sea, the Pacific's version of that famed locale. Planes didn't vanish. They crashed, they blew up, or they landed somewhere. Instinctively, he knew that David – and everyone else on board that plane – was dead. The Organization had retired them. Permanently.

He shook his head. It wasn't his instincts, it was reality. He'd sensed David's fatalism the last time they met. And he had to assume that David had not made the decision to retire, despite what he'd told him. He'd been forced out.

Royce held his emotions at bay and considered that. True, David was old. But he was still an effective agent. A man with loads of experience. So why "retire" him?

There was only one reason Royce could come up with: David had fucked up.

And David had been working this op.

Royce's jaw clenched. Tai. The bitch. She – His thought abruptly ended as a red light flickered in the operations center. An incoming message. It began to scroll across the screen in front of the room. The overdue initial entry report:

ON JOLO. WATER LANDING. TAI DEAD. MALFUNCTION. BODY GONE. WILL CONTINUE WITH MISSION. VAUGHN

The muscle on the side of Royce's face relaxed. Payback was a motherfucker.

"One down, five to go," the team leader announced.

"But that only leaves five to do the job," the black man noted.

"They are supposed to do the job, aren't they?"

"Oh fuck off."

It was a worthless piece of ground if taken by itself. But as realtors always say: location, location, and location. In this case the key to the location was isolation. Many believed Johnston Atoll was the most isolated reef in the world. It is eight hundred kilometers southwest of Hawaii – the nearest island – and fifteen hundred kilometers north and east of North Line Island and Phoenix Island, respectively.

The United States and the Kingdom of Hawaii annexed Johnston Atoll in 1858. The United States mined the guano deposits until the late 1880s. When they ran out, it was designated a wildlife refuge, in 1926. Then the Navy saw the strategic position of the place and took over in 1934.

The atoll consists of four coral islands: Johnston Island, Sand Island, North Island, and East Island. The largest of the four, at 625 acres, is Johnston Island, and the only one that could support an air strip. It was the place where the Navy settled in, and the island has continued to be the center of what little human community there is. At present, there were 960 civilian and 250 military personnel stationed on the island. They were not there on vacation.

The United States government designated the atoll a national wildlife refuge jointly administered by the

U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Department of Defense: two distinct, incompatible organizations. As with any jointly administered operation in the U.S. government, when DOD was on one end, things tended to slide down the table to it.

The major facility on the atoll was operated and maintained by the Field Command, Defense Special Weapons Agency, Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico. Its mission made perfect sense for the remote location, and as usual for the military, was given an acronym: JACADS: Johnston Atoll Chemical Agent Disposal System.

The Department of Defense claimed that JACADS had fulfilled its mission, which begged the question as to why so many people were still stationed there and what exactly they were doing. If the U.S. military wasn't developing any more chemical weapons and JACADS had fulfilled its mission of destroying the stockpile, there seemed no point for the large contingent of personnel, all of whom had top secret security clearances.

Six kilometers south of Johnston Atoll, a submarine periscope pierced the surface, cutting a slow, smooth wake as the craft ran parallel to the atoll. Standing in the cramped control room, Moreno could see the lights on the island reflected and magnified through the scope's mirrors.

Satisfied, he ordered the scope down and the sub to come to a halt and submerge – to sit on the bottom in one hundred feet of water. They were here, but it wasn't time yet. Tomorrow would be another day.

Ruiz slumped down on the podium. The room was empty. He looked at the piece of paper the woman who took the bids had left him. He knew Abayon's goal with the auction was not about the money, but about the attention it would bring. But still, the figure was staggering.

His cell phone had already rung four times with inquiries from major news agencies wanting to know the source of the auction items. His reply had been to sink the hook in deeper and invite the reporters to another auction, where he promised even more rare pieces would be put up for sale.

And he dropped a hint, asking the reporters in return if they had ever heard of the Golden Lily project.

"Vaughn is on the island, ten klicks from where he was supposed to land," Orson announced.

"Vaughn?" Sinclair repeated.

"What about Tai?"

"Dead."

That brought silence to the four people in the isolation area.

"How?" Hayes finally asked.

"Apparently some sort of parachute malfunction," Orson said.

"The initial entry report wasn't specific."

He shrugged.

"Nothing changes. Vaughn can do the recon. The mission is still a go."

"Lot of fucking empathy there," Sinclair muttered. Orson glared at him.

"You want empathy, you should have joined the Peace Corps. There's nothing any of us can do about Tai. Let's get back to work, people."

Royce frowned as he began to read the latest message on the laptop from David's – now, his – boss. A job needed to be done in Hong Kong. Hong Kong? he wondered. What the hell did Hong Kong have to do with the current mission? There was no explanation, just instructions.

There was no point in pondering the reasons, and from experience, Royce knew he wouldn't get any explanation if he asked. The problem was, he would have to divert assets that were allocated to the Abu Sayef mission. There was time, but not much.

He brought up a blank message and typed in the address. Then he quickly typed out the orders and transmitted the command.