His ear set blared with an incoming call on the Whiplash circuit. He jerked back in the seat where he’d dozed off, pulling his mind back to full consciousness. The tent was empty.

“This is Freah.”

“Danny, this is Bree. Can you talk?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“You’re authorized to strike the Brotherhood. You are to secure the control unit to the UAV.”

“All right. Can I use the Marines?”

A small contingent of Marines had been detailed to provide security at the Ethiopia base at the start of the deployment, but Danny had left them on their assault ship in the Gulf of Aden, deciding he didn’t need them.

“Yes. Draw whatever you need. But—you need to attack as quickly as possible.”

“It won’t be until dark. There are a lot of people in that camp, Bree. In the area of two hundred fighters.”

“Tonight, then. The Russian UAV expert is in the camp. He can’t get out.”

She didn’t say “killed,” but that’s what she meant. That actually made things a lot easier.

“All right,” said Danny. “We’ll be ready. One thing, Bree . . .”

“Yes?”

“You might think about bombing the camp if it’s that critical.”

“We did think about it,” she told him. “There are too many caves to guarantee success. I know you’ll do your best.”

Chapter 16

Washington, D.C.

The Nationals put on a hitting display in the bottom of the sixth, batting around for seven runs and sending the L.A. fans scurrying for the exits. Even the outs were loud—the last drove the Dodger right fielder against the fence, where he managed to hold on despite taking a wicked shot to the back.

“That had to hurt, huh?” said Zen.

“Not much,” said Stoner.

“Not for you, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just—you have a high pain threshold.” Zen wasn’t sure that Stoner fully appreciated how much stronger he had been made by the operations and drugs.

“Oh.”

The Nats brought in a rookie to mop up in the eighth inning. Zen noticed that Stoner tracked each ball as carefully as if he were a scientist trying to prove some new theory of motion.

“The ball drops six to eight inches as it reaches the plate,” said Stoner after the second strikeout.

“He’s got a hell of a curve, huh?”

“It spins differently than the others.”

“Can you pick that out?” asked the psychiatrist.

“Thirty-two revolutions per second,” said Stoner.

“Thirty-two?” asked Zen.

“On average.”

“You counted?”

“Yes.”

Zen leaned down to look past Stoner at Dr. Esrang. The psychiatrist nodded.

“That’s pretty good eyesight, Mark.”

The rookie struck out the side. Zen took out his phone and did a Google search—it turned out the average curveball rotated in the area of twenty-five to thirty times per second.

The kid would be someone to watch.

When the game ended, Stoner was silent all the way out.

“This was good,” he told Zen as they got into the van. “Can we do it again?”

“Sure,” said Zen. “Any time you like.”

“Tomorrow. I would like tomorrow.”

“Well—maybe. I have to check my calendar.” He glanced back toward the doctor, who was nodding vigorously. “I may be able to.”

“Good,” answered Stoner. “Very good.”

Chapter 17

Southeast Washington, D.C.

After he’d managed to steal the police UAV from the company that manufactured it, Ken’s initial plan was to develop an automated control unit that would fly the aircraft into a hard target—the White House, preferably.

His al Qaeda contacts had obtained the explosives and then promised additional assistance. Amara apparently was that help.

While it was clear to Ken that Amara could offer no real assistance, the program he had brought with him seemed to be exactly what he was trying to write on his own—except it was considerably more sophisticated.

And yet, in some ways, simpler. It was certainly a control system, though it didn’t work like any conventional control system he was familiar with.

The program was divided into a number of modules. The largest and most complicated seemed to involve learning routines. This section had a series of overrides, and was related to an interface that allowed for the control of an aircraft, though it was much more rudimentary than what Ken had seen in either the Israeli or the German UAV systems he was familiar with.

More interesting was the section whose internal comments made it clear that it was meant for targeting. The section had inputs for GPS data, which Ken expected. But it also wanted physical data on the target itself. There were several pictures of an Asian man that filled the variables.

Those seemed easy to replace; there was a screen that controlled this, which Ken had been able to access upstairs.

Connected to the UAV’s own control section, Amara’s program seemed to have a life of its own. It had certainly taken over all of the laptop’s resources—the machine’s hard drive whirled and buzzed, presumably as different parts of the program ran their operations.

But what were they, exactly? The laptop had a set of diagnostic tools that were clearly top notch, but they couldn’t keep up with the program.

Did it matter? Could he just give it a target and launch it?

He’d been working on this for months now, and part of him didn’t want to stop. That was the scientist, not the warrior in him, as his teachers would have said.

The warrior knew he must strike soon. His al Qaeda contact had warned that the police were searching for the UAV and might close in. And perhaps they’d done so already—he had not heard from his contact in over a week.

Ken left the laptop as its program ran and went upstairs for a break. Amara had gone up to bed a few hours before; he could hear him snoring from the kitchen.

Searching the African’s things took no time at all. Of course he didn’t have a weapon. He had little money. He didn’t even have a phone.

Worthless. But at least he wasn’t an assassin.

Back in the kitchen, Ken made a fresh pot of coffee. The percolator had been a revelation: he loved the slightly burnt, metal-tinged taste the old-fashioned pot gave the liquid.

Just as the liquid began to darken in the top globe, he realized it was nearly midnight—time to check the bulletin board where his contact left messages. He signed on through an anonymous server and went to the assigned chat board. It changed every twenty-four hours; tonight it was a site that gave help to homeowners looking for information about air conditioners.

He started scrolling through the messages. They were inane, asking about BTUs and cooling capacity, and how well sealed a duct should be.

Then suddenly he noticed one had been left by CTW119.

Or as it should be read: 9/11 WTC.

He called the message up:

YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO BUY YOUR SYSTEM. DO SO QUICKLY! TODAY IF POSSIBLE.

To a casual browser it was nothing more than a hackneyed advertising slogan left by a salesman.

To Ken, it was a command that he must strike as soon as possible.

He took his coffee and went back down to work.