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  The DISH rep nodded from his chair. “That’s right. Anyone breaking our trust will lose their contract, and I will be glad to tell the public why.” The other cable and satellite providers nodded in agreement.

  The President threw up his hands. “And I was worried this might be a long meeting,” he said.

  There was laughter around the table and one of the men raised his hand. “Mister President, would you mind filling us in on what is going on at present? It may give us a few things to watch out for,” he said.

  The President nodded. “Good idea. Of course I remind you that none of this is to get out. Like the last time, we are getting a little sneaky. Maybe after I share what I have some of you will feel a little better about this cooperative effort,” he said. The briefing lasted a good forty five minutes. Once it was over, he took the time to thank each of the men and then he hung around and just talked. They had just re-formed a powerful team and getting reacquainted was more a reward than a chore.

  Fort Belvoir, Virginia

  “What a clusterfuck!” exclaimed Master Sergeant Ricks as he watched the drone students seemingly attack a group of camped soldiers. All of them had rushed in to take care of business, but there was no order to the assault. As a result, the same first ten people seen were hit by at least thirty different drones. The rest were left alone. Ricks turned to the Colonel in charge, who simply shook his head.

  “What a mess,” the Colonel sighed. Officers shouldn’t use the same expletives the enlisted did. “Okay, how do we clean this up? This was just 100 people. Imagine an attack with over a thousand,” he said.

  Ricks watched as things unfolded on the screen in front of them. He looked back at the Colonel. “Colonel, we go back to basics. Battalions, companies, platoons. We have platoons of twenty men run by a sergeant. Companies of ten platoons run by first and second lieutenants, then a battalion of ten companies run by a major. We assign each to a sector and run the drill as if these were boots on the ground. Each gets told where to go, then they march out. The sergeants tells their people where to go. The first lieutenants tell the sergeants and the Major runs a whole sector. We plan these things out and send them in again. It means hooking up some communications sets, but it’s only in one building. Hell, we’ve been running the army that way my whole career. No use changing it now,” Ricks said. “I’d even bring them all in on a briefing just before each raid. At least then everybody’s singing from the same music.”

  “I agree,” the Colonel said. “Call down to signals and have them rig it up. We run the same thing tomorrow morning and see how it works,” he said.

  They both turned to watch as several of the drones actually ran into each other trying to maneuver around. “I may cry,” Ricks said exacerbated.

  The Pentagon

  Things were moving rapidly around the Pentagon. Troops and equipment were moving and the security around the building had jumped up dramatically. Everyone was searched going in and out, slowing everything to a crawl in the early mornings and late evenings. Lt. Jeffers now had to get to work around 4:30 am. In order to get through the already burgeoning crowd and get to his desk on time. Yet, his job had gotten a lot slower. Admiral Hammond was attending more meetings and there were longer periods where he just sat and waited for his phone to ring. Captain Clarity had him doing quite a bit, but Jeffers always wanted to keep busy doing something. Daydreaming was not fun.

  This particular morning Hammond went to the morning brief and asked him to sit still and wait until he returned. An hour later, Hammond came back in and went into his office. He beckoned Jeffers to join him. “Rod, have a seat,” he said. “I have been feeling like I have been deficient in your training. I promised that I would make sure you were ready for promotion, so as a part of that, I want you to take some time and do something for me.”

  “What can I do, Admiral?” Jeffers asked.

  “You’ve seen operational plans, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking more about what we talked about a while back concerning the Black Sea. Now, I know this is well above your paygrade, but we think a lot alike. I want you to give a crack at planning out our operations there. How can we get in and do what we discussed. What we’ll be up against, all that. Then write up everything, the order of battle, logistics, the timing, everything. Don’t worry about forgetting something, if I like it, we can flesh it out. So let me see what you can do. If nothing else it will get you ready for a senior staff job down the line. So, what do you say? You up to it?” Hammond asked.

  Jeffers was almost overwhelmed. He had never done anything like this before, especially to this scale. The closest he had come to it was some of the shipboard plans he had worked out for Captain Davis. But he never turned down a challenge. Jeffers let out a slow whistle. “That’s a tall order, Boss, but if you want it, I’ll do it. How long before you need it?” Jeffers asked.

  Hammond was glad the young man had not folded under this kind of pressure. Davis had told him how thorough Jeffers was and just how smart he could be. “Let’s get the first draft to me in two weeks. I’m taking you off your normal duties and let you plug away at this full time. Go visit who you need to in this place, but let’s get something down on paper. Then I promise, I’ll give it a look and we can critique it together. I can then use any parts I like and make up the overall plans,” Hammond said.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll get it done. How limited am I with assets?”

  Good question, Hammond thought. “You can use up to a quarter of fleet assets. That should get you started. If you need more, come talk to me about it,” he said.

  Jeffers stood. “I’ll get started right now, Boss,” he said with a grin.

  Jeffers turned and went back to his desk. Where do you start? He wondered. Sitting down, he thought a few minutes, then called up the yeoman in the outer office. In ten minutes a large book-like file with folders was laid on his desk. It was old and musty, but quite readable. On the cover of the book were two words, “Operation Overlord.”

  Sacremento, California

  Governor Yost had nearly barricaded himself in his office. Three lines of state police officers were stationed in the halls and corridors. He almost never left his office. As a result, he looked frazzled. His usually immaculately tailored suit was wrinkled and stained. His eyes told a story of a desperate man, trying to escape. He sat at his desk alone. Few people except reporters tried to contact him. His party had deserted him, more to the point; they had given up on reasoning with him. His ship was sinking and he was at the helm, speeding things up.

  His aide entered the room. “Governor, it’s time to leave to greet the Prime Minister of Malaysia,” he said.

  The Governor looked up at the man with tired eyes. “I don’t want to go.”

  The young man insisted. “I’m afraid you have to. They are going to open up some manufacturing up north and it will be the best news for the state since you came into office. If you don’t meet him, the whole thing might be called off. You need to go, for the business and to do something to improve your image. I’ve taken care of everything. No crowds, no close media. Just meet the man and get him in your car. You will drive back here and it will be all over,” he said.

  Yost gave a long sigh. “Oh, okay,” he grunted. He stood up and brushed himself off. Another aid came in and helped him straighten up a bit. Once he looked reasonably well, the men left the office and made their way down to the basement garage where the limousine was waiting. Getting in, he was whisked out of the garage and into the sunlight.

  The drive to LAX was silent. The aide had tried to brief him, but Yost simply told him to keep quiet. Along the way, crowds of protesters lined the streets shouting and waving signs. At one point, the limo swerved as a protester jumped out of the crowd and ran toward the car. Just missing the man, he had thrown something onto the limousine. It was feces.

  Circling around to the business terminal, the limo pulled through the gates and stopped beside
the glass and steel building. A red carpet was rolled up just outside the entrance. Just ten minutes later a large Boeing 757 made its way down the runway and pulled left along the taxiway toward the business terminal. It was brightly marked with the colors of Malaysia Airlines. Once in position, a boarding stair was wheeled into place and the red carpet rolled out for the dignitary. The representative from the consulate and the State Department came out and were staring back toward the limo.

  The State Policeman escorting the Governor had scanned the area to make sure all the security was in place, then opened the door for the Governor. Yost stepped from the limo and made his way cautiously to the men waiting for him.

  The crack of a high powered rifle was unmistakable. Security forces swarmed toward the direction of the shot as the Governor slumped to the ground. Several of the State Police rushed to his side, but it was no use. The shot had entered the side of his head and exited the other side. Governor Yost would not be seeking reelection.

  The Pentagon

  The phone rang at his desk and Hammond picked up the receiver. “Hammond.”

  “Roger, come see me,” said the CNO on the other line.

  “Right away,” said Hammond as he quickly got up and made his way out the door to his office and into the CNO’s office in the same suite. The CNO was standing by his desk. “Roger, pack your bags. Your presence is requested in London,” Admiral Perry Johnson said with a slight grin.

  “But I just got back from there,” Hammond insisted.

  “Maybe, but you are going just the same. You will be meeting with the British Prime Minister and His Majesty the King,” the CNO stated.

  That made Hammond stop. “The King?”

  Johnson laughed. “You have been getting some attention overseas and they want to talk to you about some of the things you have been talking about,” he said. “I got a call from Sir Richard telling me that you needed to get back there pronto. You’ll be staying at his townhouse in London, then after your meetings you are to go to Germany and meet with their Prime Minister there. The Prime Ministers of Belgium and Denmark will meet with you at the same time,” he said.

  Hammond stood with his eyes wide. “What the hell have I done?” he asked.

  Perry Johnson laughed. “Son, you have just been thrown into the political quagmire that is known as Europe. I’m afraid you have won over their military types and now the politicians want to get hold of you.” He motioned to a seat.

  After sitting down Johnson continued, “Look, Roger, these guys are running a little scared. You came in and calmed them down a bit, so naturally, they are interested in who you are and what you may have to say on all that’s going on. Steve called me and said to tell you to go over there and keep doing what you’re doing. He said it’s the first unifying thing to happen to those guys since we won the war. So just pack up and go. Try and take some time to enjoy yourself. It will be a one week trip.”

  Hammond sat back and deflated a bit. “This is getting awfully tiring going back and forth to the continent,” he commented, then sat up in his seat. “And Patricia was coming up this weekend. I had hoped to spend a little time with them,” he exclaimed.

  The CNO got a slightly hurt look on his face. “Sorry about that Roger, but this has got to happen. Do you want to take her along?”

  Hammond shook his head. “No, she can’t be away that long and Little Steve doesn’t have a passport.”

  “We can fix that if you like. You sure?”

  Hammond thought a minute, then shook his head again. “No, if I take them it will be for us, not for business. Besides, you know how this will go. I probably won’t have the time to do much of anything but schmooze.”

  The CNO’s face got a resigned look. “I hate that, Roger. The both of you have been through a lot. Let’s get this done and I’ll see what we can do to get you some time together,” he promised.

  Hammond gave a weak smile. “I appreciate it. I know it’s not your fault. When do I leave?”

  “Tomorrow,” Johnson said with a shrug.

  Hammond chuckled and shook his head. He pointed his finger at his boss, “Keep this up and I’ll talk to my detailer,” he joked.

  The CNO placed his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll pick you up in the morning and take you to the plane. It’s a Navy one this time. We’re sending you in style,” he said.

  “Oh great,” Hammond said as they left the office. Both were stopped cold with news from California.

  Krakow

  Erich Bolin sat in the back of a van and pored over the files of the case. It still amazed him how a seemingly innocuous request sometimes unravels into a major case. There had been nearly twenty major riots or near riots in Poland recently that had sifted down to something concerning ethnic Russians. After conducting a search of videos in the areas surrounding the events, the man calling himself Filip Menski had been seen at fifteen of them. After getting the call from his friend Hector Polski, he had tried to look the man up and found nothing at all, not even a birth certificate. That red flag led to some surveillance. From there, it was found that he met regularly with a group of men, including Anton Kursov, a pharmacist who was renting out an apartment to Menski. A simple check led to the discovery that all of the men were Polish citizens that had come to Poland from the Soviet Union in the last century before the breakup. That had been when he contacted Agencja Wywiadu, the nation’s foreign intelligence service.

  It hadn’t taken long before Menski had been identified as Anton Bugayev, a member of the Russian SVR. The last place Bugayev had been seen was in the Ukraine just prior to the Russian takeover. A van had been placed one block from the apartment to keep an eye on things. To their surprise, it had picked up radio transmissions from the apartment after two of their meetings. Bolin’s case was rock solid. But, as usual, he wanted a little icing on his cake. They had learned there would be a meeting tonight in the basement of an apartment building not far from the Polski residence. Already the listening devices had been planted and a tracer placed on Bugayev’s scooter. A squad of twenty men was waiting in three vans to go in and assault them during the meeting. He would catch them all at one time.

  One of the men stuck his head around the curtain in the van. “They started their meeting,” he said.

  “Is it being recorded?”

  “Yes sir, we are ready when you say go.”

  Bolin peeked around the curtain and scanned the street. It was quiet. “We go in as planned, van three, go to the back, the other two go to the front. Make this quick. Now move!” he ordered.

  The three vans sprang around the corners of the buildings and pulled up directly by the only exits of the building. Immediately the doors flew open and the fully armed officers, dressed in black, rushed into the building.

  The radio team heard a warning from somewhere in the building over a separate frequency. Inside the basement, the men tried to scatter. Several made it to the basement stairs before several of the police crashed through the door screaming for everyone to get on the ground. Two of the men made a break for the two small basement windows, only to be stopped by officers standing outside. It was a wild melee until the officers were finally able to get everyone down and on the floor. Once there, Bolin surveyed the captives. “Alright Bugayev, time to show your face,” he said. None of the men on the floor moved. Cursing in disgust, he had each man turned over to see their faces. Bugayev wasn’t there. “Son of a bitch!” Bolin swore. He looked around the room for other places for people to hide. That was when he noticed the laundry chute. The end of a rope was dangling from the opening.

  “Get some men going through the building, room by room. I want that man found immediately,” he screamed.

  Several of the men started to head back up the stairs when a call came out over the radio. “Someone just jumped down the fire escape!”

  More units were called in and an extensive search was begun in the area, but after an exhaustive search, there was nothing. Anton Bugayev had escaped.


  Fort Belvoir, Virginia

  The difference had been night and day. Today’s exercise had sent the same 100 drones against a training battalion on the exercise fields. Tanks and troops were everywhere, yet, in a matter of ten minutes, the drones had descended on the troops and had simulated kills on over 600 different people. After expending the last rounds, the drones had returned to their launch points and had been shut down. The general watching the display could not believe his eyes.

  “How many of these things do we have?” the General asked.

  “My understanding is there are already five thousand of the things ready to rock and roll. This is the first class. A second is in training and a third has started. I called down to Bragg. They already have over a thousand people trained and they are on transports to Germany. We shared the organizational ideas and the communications setup. They replicated it and saw the same results. These guys will head out day after tomorrow,” said the Colonel.

  The General slapped the Colonel on the shoulder. “Get them ready fast, Colonel. I have a feeling we will need them over there yesterday,” he said.

  Washington, DC

  Hammond finished putting some papers into his briefcase for the trip. Captain Clarity had made sure he had all he would need. Just as he was about to leave, Clarity entered the office one last time. “By the way, I have some reading material for you,” he said with a grin. He handed over a three ring binder a good five inches thick.