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"Pretty good, sir." There was no need for Stewart to call Colonel Hines 'sir' but Stewart had spent six years in the Army and old habits were hard to break. He also had learned to grease the skids of politeness every place he went. Other agents doing advance security came into places like gangbusters, making demands and treating the local security folks like minions. Stewart didn't like that approach, especially at places like Fort Myer and with people like Colonel Hines who he had to deal with often. People usually reacted well to a little respect.

  Hines's report was the usual for the area. "We're secure. I sent a detail through the cemetery, and it's clean. I've got men posted at all gates, and the route to the gravesite is blocked for 400 meters on either side."

  Stewart glanced at his watch. "The President will be coming in by chopper in thirty minutes. I'll give you departure notice." He looked at Hines, sensing the colonel was bothered by something. "Anything wrong?"

  Hines shrugged. "Just the general's widow. She's not too happy about the President coming here. In fact, I would say she's kind of pissed."

  "Any press on post?" Stewart asked.

  "No. I did what you asked and closed it down. One of the Arlington Ladies is with Mrs. Faulkner, and I hope she'll be calm by the time the President gets here."

  "Arlington Ladies?" Stewart asked as he checked the frequency on the radio he wore on his belt and slipped the earpiece into his left ear.

  "They're volunteers who go to every funeral at the cemetery. They're a great help. Most of them have someone in their family buried here so they can really talk to those who've lost loved ones."

  "Has this Arlington Lady been cleared?" Stewart asked, regretting the question as soon as he asked it.

  Hines's face clouded with anger. "Mrs. Patterson—the lady assigned to this funeral—has a husband and a son buried here, KIA Korea and Vietnam. I think that's clearance enough."

  "Sorry," Stewart said. "That was a stupid question." A voice crackled in his ear. "Chopper's lifting off. They'll be here about ten minutes early, so we need to get this going at nine-fifty."

  Hines frowned but uttered no word of protest. "I'll inform Mrs. Faulkner."

  Stewart walked across the street to the parade field where the 3rd Infantry practiced their intricate drill and ceremonies. When Stewart had been in the 1st Cavalry Division at Fort Hood, the 3rd Infantry had been regarded as a showboat unit, not worth much in terms of real infantry. He watched carefully as two soldiers set out beanbag lights to mark the landing zone for the President's helicopter.

  Beside the fact that this was a military post, Stewart felt comfortable security-wise because this trip was unannounced. The President had only decided the previous evening to attend the funeral and the only ones informed of the decision had been the Secret Service, Colonel Hines at Fort Myer and General Faulkner's aide, who'd informed the family. One of the primary rules of security was that the chances of a random attack on the President were much lower than a planned one. If a visit wasn't announced, the threat indicators were usually very low.

  Stewart heard the Marine Corps CH-53 helicopter long before he saw it. "Gull, this is Julius, are we clear?"

  Stewart spoke, knowing the acoustic mike built into the plug in his ear would pick up his words and transmit them. "Julius, this is Gull. You are clear to land."

  The aircraft came straight in, landing with a slight flair of blades. The staircase on the side was folded out and the lead men for the President's security detail stepped out. The President followed along with several of his key people. Stewart knew more about the Administration than most reporters who covered the White House beat because he was on the inside and more importantly, because Secret Service agents were treated like part of the furniture, with much being said in front of them that would not be said in front of anyone else.

  The man right behind the President was someone who Stewart always paid careful attention to, because the President paid careful attention to him. The person the President relied on for political expertise in the vicious and unfamiliar political waters of Washington was the man walking at his right side, inside the inner circle of Secret Service protection. James Jordan was the senior senator from Vermont and the man who had helped guide the President through the minefield of the campaign trail and his first three and a half years in office.

  Jordan was every inch the distinguished senator, from his full head of white hair, to his erect carriage and bearing. The sound of his New England accent preaching a new brand of middle class liberalism had become very familiar to all Americans, and there were many who wondered why Jordan had not sought the nomination himself, not knowing that the senior senator was more than content to sit on the less stressful side of the desk in the Oval Office. Jordan had a reputation in Washington for a brilliant mind. Stewart knew he'd saved the President's political bacon more than once with his observations and suggested plans of action.

  The party went into the chapel. Stewart waited outside and he was joined by his immediate superior. Special Agent John Rameriz, radio code name Julius, shift commander of the President's personal detail.

  Rameriz had a large manila envelope under his arm. He extended it to Stewart as the chapel doors closed and the service began inside.

  "Oh Christ," Stewart said. "Where to now? Not Iceland again."

  Rameriz smiled. "Ah, Mike, I'm giving you a good deal."

  "Yeah, right," Stewart said as he took the envelope. "There's no such thing as a good deal on this detail."

  "How does sun, bikinis, and a room on Waikiki sound?" Rameriz asked.

  "I may have to take my last statement back," Stewart said as he looked at the orders inside.

  "You leave this evening. You do the initial run through with the locals and then I'll join you on the fifth. The threat assessment is in there along with all the names we need the locals to run for us. We've got four Class A's," he said, referring to people who made it to the top of the Secret Service list of persons who had threatened the President in some manner, "who we need picked up."

  "No problem," Stewart said, checking the rest of the papers.

  Rameriz smiled. "I told you this was a good deal. I've already faxed those names to Hancock who's in place there with the VP's second detail. All you have to do is double-check. Hancock has also initiated security briefings with the locals so you only have to check on that too.

  "We got you a room at the Royal Hawaiian. That's where the Boss will be staying and attending a dinner the night of the sixth. We've never done that hotel before so we need you to do an assessment. That's the reason you're going so much earlier. That should leave you plenty of time to catch some time on the beach. Any questions?"

  "No, sir."

  "Good, then you might as well go and get packed. I'll close out here."

  Stewart walked past the Army detail decked out in dress blues standing next to the caisson and horses, ready to take General Faulkner to his final resting place in Arlington.

  A figure in an Army-issue raincoat stepped out of the chapel and walked up to Stewart. He recognized the face as the man drew close. Stewart stiffened, almost locking his arms to his side at attention. "Good morning, sir."

  "Good morning," General Maxwell replied.

  "Terrible loss, sir," Stewart said, uncertain as to why Maxwell had approached him.

  Retired General Roy Maxwell was the man that the President's party was touting as his successor. Maxwell had guided the successful intervention into—and the even more successful departure out of—Bosnia as NATO Commander. It had proved to be a bright spot on an otherwise dismal international record for the Administration. Maxwell had retired shortly afterward.

  Stewart had been present at the first meeting between Maxwell and the President. He could tell the President had been bothered that the man his party saw as an apt successor was being foisted upon him as an adviser. After several meetings (Stewart noticed) the President came to value the general's keen mind, and he was forced to admit that if someone else was to pick up
the reins, it would be the retired general. Maxwell appealed to a broad base of Americans because of his military background, and the party—although in the manner of American politics it was never publicly discussed—appreciated that he was an African-American.

  Maxwell was whipcord lean and despite the civilian clothes he wore under the raincoat, his military life was stamped on his bearing. A product of South Central LA, Maxwell had worked his way to an ROTC scholarship at a local university and followed that with a highly successful thirty-year career in the military. He had surprised many when he retired as he had been the odds-on favorite to become the next chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but his presence as political journeyman at the President's side went a long way toward explaining that decision.

  When Maxwell spoke, his voice was a deep, reassuring bass. Maxwell glanced over at the chapel. "Faulkner was a good soldier. He did his job and he did it well." The general glanced at the envelope in Stewart's hand. "I've been informed that you are departing immediately for Hawaii to prepare security for the President."

  "Yes, sir," Stewart replied.

  "Uh-huh." Maxwell pulled a pipe out of his pocket. "Going to be a pretty contentious trip."

  Stewart remained quiet. If Maxwell wanted to smoke a pipe and talk, that was fine with him. "What do you think of the MRA?" Maxwell asked.

  "I don't know, sir."

  "You were active duty before you joined the Secret Service, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then you must have an opinion," Maxwell said.

  "Sir, that's not my job."

  Maxwell chuckled. "I have a most difficult time trying to tell the President that the military is not the monolithic, single-minded organism most seem to believe."

  "It seems to be unified in its stand against the MRA," Stewart noted. "At least that's the media take," he amended.

  Maxwell shook his head. "Every person in uniform can find some part of the MRA he doesn't agree with. The act covers a lot of ground."

  "What do you disagree with, sir?" Stewart asked, trying to keep the conversation away from his own opinions. It was part of the Secret Service unofficial code that one always kept one's opinions to oneself.

  Maxwell puffed, then let out a smoke ring. "The melding of the Marine Corps into the Army. That was never even remotely proposed by any committee affiliated with the military. They got that part from that independent review panel, all civilian backgrounds by the way. I know that it would be more cost-effective to integrate the two services, but there is a factor that is worth a hell of a lot more than any dollar amount and that is the pride and spirit of the Corps."

  Stewart felt uncomfortable. He didn't believe that General Maxwell was just making idle conversation, but he couldn't imagine his purpose.

  "What I think isn't important either," Maxwell continued. "Now, what the Joint Chiefs thinks is. Nobody likes to lose their job. The MRA totally restructures the JCS and cuts a lot of the fat. Also, they don't want to lose the academies."

  Stewart was surprised at that succinct assessment and glanced at the general. "Out of all that, you're saying they're worried about the academies as their number two priority, sir?"

  Maxwell looked at him. "The chairman and three of the four service chiefs are graduates."

  "But even so," Stewart said, "that's relatively minor in the overall scheme of the MRA."

  "Not to them it isn't," Maxwell said. "I said earlier that the military is not monolithic, but the graduates of the academies are another story. They've exerted influence in the military well beyond what should reasonably be expected. You're asking the Joint Chiefs to kill their own offspring." Maxwell took off his steel-rimmed glasses and rubbed his forehead. "You're a graduate of the Academy, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You don't seem too concerned. You just said that doing away with the academies was a minor point."

  Stewart shifted his feet uncomfortably. "I was a turn-back, sir."

  Maxwell put his glasses back on. "A what?"

  "I had to go through my plebe year twice. It took me five years to graduate."

  "No love lost then for West Point, eh?"

  "Not really, sir."

  "Then you won't mind my saying that I believe the academies, as they are, may have outlived their usefulness. They either need extensive revision, which the JCS and the academies themselves have vigorously resisted for decades, or they need to be abolished." Maxwell abruptly changed the subject. "You know the President is making a major policy speech about the MRA at Pearl Harbor?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "He scraped the MRA through Congress," Maxwell said. "Of course, with what just happened in the Ukraine and Turkey, he's catching quite a bit of flack." Maxwell sighed. "There are some shortsighted people around. We're pumping millions into the Ukraine, but the Pentagon's solution is to pour billions into Hard Glass, a system most objective researchers say won't work. Even the contractors admit they can't guarantee a hundred percent protection. We can't guarantee a hundred percent solution in the Ukraine either, but it should prove cheaper doing it the political way. And it does have a higher probability of success."

  "Of course, we've got to consider the jobs that are affected by Hard Glass. Those billions aren't going into a vacuum, they're going into our economy. Those millions into the Ukraine are going into a black hole as far as the people in Congress are concerned. Ukrainians don't vote and they don't contribute to PACs."

  Stewart had been in Washington long enough to have heard it all before. Every clear-cut issue dissolved into a morass of special interests, many of which had little direct bearing on the issue itself. Sometimes Stewart wondered how the republic had worked so well for so long.

  "I'll be going to Hawaii with the President," Maxwell said.

  "Yes, sir."

  Maxwell's back was ramrod straight and his eyes were now on the rows and rows of white grave markers. "I served in Vietnam. I fought the war my country ordered me to fight to the best of my ability and tried to bring home in one piece the men who served under me. Those men who died at Pearl Harbor fifty-four years ago did what they were ordered to do. I have always followed legal orders. I ordered men on missions in Bosnia where they died; those orders came from the President. That's the way it works." Maxwell tapped out his pipe on the palm of his hand. "Do me a favor," he said.

  "Yes, sir," Stewart automatically responded.

  "Be careful and be very thorough with your Pearl Harbor check."

  Stewart blinked. "Sir?"

  Maxwell tapped the side of his closely cropped head. "Humor an old soldier's intuition. I've got a bad feeling about this whole trip and I'd appreciate it if you'd be extra careful in preparing for the President's trip, particularly with regard to the military installations he'll be visiting."

  Stewart nodded, "Yes, sir, I'll do that."

  Maxwell laid a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you." With that, he turned and walked into the chapel, leaving a confused Stewart alone on the chilly hillside among the graves.

  PACIFIC PALISADES, OAHU

  2 December

  5:00 a.m. LOCAL/ 1500 ZULU

  Boomer drowsily awoke from an uneasy dream and turned over. He froze as the pain from his ribs shocked him totally awake. He gingerly swung his legs out and touched the floor before sitting up on the couch. He glanced out the window into the darkness and was surprised to see Maggie's figure silhouetted against the night sky. She was wrapped in an old housecoat and smoking a cigarette, looking out at something.

  Boomer carefully slipped on a shirt and slid open the glass door. Maggie turned and smiled. "Having trouble sleeping?"

  "A little."

  "How's your side?"

  "Hurts like hell, but I've cracked ribs before. It just takes time to heal. As long as I don't laugh too hard, I'll be all right."

  "Not much to laugh about right now is there?" Maggie asked.

  "No, there isn't."

  "Sit down, relax," Maggie said, pointing at one of the w
icker chairs on the porch. A thermos was on the table along with a couple of mugs. "Help yourself to some coffee." She settled into the seat, drawing her coat in tight around her frail shoulders. "Ski's told me what's going on. It's a pretty sad thing."

  Sad wasn't exactly the word Boomer would have used to describe the events of the past week. He remained silent and looked over the low lying ground sloping into the ocean. The Arizona Memorial was a bright block of white, lit by searchlights in the middle of Pearl Harbor. The International Airport was just coming to life as red-eye flights landed every ten minutes.

  "Ski told me your father was killed in Vietnam," Maggie said. "My oldest son, Peter, died there too. Ski probably didn't tell you that."

  "No, he didn't. I'm sorry," Boomer said.

  "It's strange. A generation either way, and we both lost someone in the same war. You know, my generation looks at that war differently than yours. For us it was this long, slow slide that didn't make any sense. We grew up in the Depression and then went through the dark years of World War II. It was especially dark here in Hawaii where every day you could look out at the harbor and see how bad things were."

  "Then things turned around. Coral Sea. Midway. Guadalcanal. On through the islands. The war in Europe ended. Then the bomb. No one questioned the bomb back then. We were so tired of death and war. We just wanted it over. And after what the Japanese did here, we weren't exactly in the mood to be very sympathetic."

  "After the war we all thought everything would be so bright and the world would be a better place. And it was. At least it appeared to be. The fifties were wonderful, but there was a cloud over everything. The Cold War. The war in Korea. No one quite understood that war. The Red Scare!" Maggie laughed. "It all seems so stupid now, but it was so real then."

  She lit another cigarette, then pointed with the glowing end at the harbor. "But the question I've been asking myself: 'Was it real?' "

  Boomer took a sip of hot coffee. "Was what real?"

  Maggie didn't answer him directly. "I get up every morning at four-thirty and sit out here for an hour. I've been doing that for fifty-five years." Maggie sighed. "You know, some people claim Roosevelt knew we were going to get attacked on December seventh and he let it happen. Did you ever hear that?"