The lead pilot responded in a businesslike tone, asking for a code word only they and Offerman knew.
“Confirmation code Red Whistle Falcon,” Offerman said.
“Red Whistle confirmed,” the fighter pilot replied. “Stand by.”
General Offerman turned to the screen in time to see a missile launched from one of the F-35s. It raced forward in a trail of smoke, exploding long before it reached the EAGL. A second missile met the same fate.
“They’re using the laser,” someone shouted.
The screen flared once more as the first F-35 exploded in a ball of flame. Offerman pressed the talk switch, communicating with the second chase plane. “Shadow Two, switch to guns,” he snapped. “Fire immediately! Fire imm—”
It was too late. This time there was no explosion, only a flare on the lens, followed by static. A moment later, the screen went dark, and the wordsSignal Lossappeared at the top.
Offerman froze, stunned into silence while staring at the dark screen. Somewhere over the Arctic, the second fireball in the sky was dimming. It marked the end of Falcon Two and the beginning of a new danger, the true depths of which Offerman struggled to fathom. They’d built a machine that could rule the sky, proven its worth in a difficult test, and now lost it to parties unknown.
Reality began to sink in. Offerman felt his hands trembling. He tucked them in his pockets and tried to slow his breathing. “Give me the EAGL’s last known position and heading.”
The technician gave a position report and then announced a heading. “One-five-five degrees.”
The men in the room didn’t need a map to tell them where that heading would take the plane. They’d spent their lives preparing for combat with the Russian bear. A heading of one-five-five would take the EAGL to Russia, directly to the sprawling military complex in the port city of Murmansk.
“Get me the Pentagon,” Offerman said grimly. “We need to deliver the bad news.”
Chapter 2
Kurt Austin stood in the Blue Room of the White House thinking he’d been tricked. A grand state dinner had been planned. Dignitaries and celebrities were expected to attend. Ambassadors and staff from two dozen countries would be there to mix and mingle. A fine time was to be had by all. So said the headlines.
As part of this dinner, agencies around Washington had been directed to send important representatives. The National Underwater and Marine Agency was no exception. Only, the director of the agency, Mr. Dirk Pitt, was on an expedition that had taken him into the jungles of South America and couldn’t be reached, even by satellite phone, which seemed rather suspicious.
With Dirk off the grid, NUMA’s assistant director, Rudi Gunn, had been next up to attend. But at the last minute he’d been called out to the West Coast, where some vague and mysterious ecological disaster was allegedly unfolding. Based on Rudi’s GPS coordinates, that disaster was happening at a winery in Napa Valley. All of which left Kurt to carry the banner as the honored guest, or sacrificial lamb.
As he smiled benignly and made endless small talk, it dawned on Kurt why both Dirk and Rudi had suddenly been needed elsewhere.After what seemed like fifty insipid conversations of little consequence, he was certain he would soon lose his mind.
Refreshing his drink, he retreated to an alcove where he’d be less likely to be spotted. Scanning the room from this spot, he finally noticed someone he hoped to talk with on a more personal level. The beautiful blond woman was standing alone and smiling at him. She was perhaps thirty, dressed like a model, and sipping a drink that left her pink lips glistening.
Kurt offered a slight nod of recognition. His senses came alive once again and he started toward her. He was wearing a fitted tuxedo and a French cuffed shirt held together with studs made of cobalt that had been mined from the bottom of the sea. His shoes were polished, and his notoriously unruly hair had been tamed nicely. He figured he was dressed to get a date.
He’d made three steps in her direction when a strong hand landed on his shoulder. “Don’t bother,” a stern voice warned him. “She doesn’t speak a word of English.”
Kurt turned to see the Vice President of the United States, James Sandecker, standing right behind him. The men shook hands heartily.
Sandecker was a man of endless energy and vigor. He’d founded NUMA and built the agency up over a period of decades, guiding it to a position of prominence if not outright fame among those in the know in Washington. A few years back, he’d accepted the President’s request to join the administration as the Vice President.
Not a large man, Sandecker was bristly and intense, and he stood out with wiry red hair and a well-trimmed Van Dyke beard, which many people mistakenly called a goatee. He reminded some of a bulldog, others considered him like the honey badger, a small but fearless animal known to be relentless at getting what it wanted.
In conversations, Sandecker liked to present his thoughts first and then challenge others to change his opinion—if they dared. It was aquality that irritated many, but endeared him to the President, who appreciated a man who spoke his mind regardless of the consequences.
Kurt considered Sandecker a friend and a mentor. He’d thanked him on more than one occasion for personally recruiting him off a CIA salvage unit and bringing him over to NUMA. And as friends they could talk plainly.
“Are all these parties so boring?” Kurt asked.
“Almost all of them,” Sandecker admitted. “But eighty years ago, in this very room, a giant chandelier almost fell on Bess Truman and the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
“Any chance something like that will happen tonight?”
“Not likely,” Sandecker said. “Harry had the entire White House rebuilt afterward.”
Kurt figured that was probably a good thing. He glanced back at the blond woman, who was still watching him. “You obviously know her. At least tell me her name and where she’s from.”
