“My dad has left.”

  Jackson stared at Stan. “Do I have to pull your dad out of the car?”

  “You’re missing your chance. Do you know that?”

  “Meaning what?” Jackson asked.

  “That if you arrest my father on some minor charge like knocking on doors about space aliens, you’re risking the judge throwing it out of court because it’s bogus. That would make it easier for me to press harassment charges.”

  Jackson kept staring.

  “Why not wait and try to catch my dad on something serious?” Stan asked. “Why not let the threat of your doing that trouble me.”

  “Why are you saying this?”

  “I think I can change my dad before you find something really serious to charge him with.”

  “He’ll never change,” Jackson said.

  No, because you beat the old man on the head with a baton, Stan thought to himself. You flipped a switch in there and broke it, and now my dad will never be normal again.

  “Go ahead then,” said Stan. “Arrest him, and we’ll start the review process. I’m sure it will go in your favor this time.”

  Jackson glanced at Mack Higgins, who sat quietly in the Land Rover. Jackson looked at the watching people. Many had left already, going inside. The nearest were making jokes at Mack’s expense and they were laughing good-naturedly.

  Jackson snapped his holster shut. He shrugged. “I’ll give you this one. Space aliens. First I need to warn him, though.” Jackson headed toward the rover.

  Stan followed, deciding he’d have to bring his dad home with him tonight. Then he’d have to figure out a way to keep his dad off the streets. Susan would be upset, but what choice did he have?

  Before Stan could worry about it, Mack opened his door. The old man grinned crazily, with the .44 Magnum in his grip and aimed at Sergeant Jackson.

  “Dad,” whispered Stan.

  Mack Higgins stood and used his thumb to click the hammer all the way back. That rotated the cylinder and showed the visible bullets in each chamber.

  Jackson had halted. The police officer moved his lips, but no sounds issued.

  “Benedict Arnolds are filth under my feet,” Mack declared. “The aliens will never capture Earth. Never, do you hear me?”

  “Dad, stop,” Stan said. “Put the gun down.”

  Mack glanced at him, and the .44 barrel was now aimed at him.

  It made Stan queasy. He was a finger-twitch away from lying on the snow dead. Why had he forgotten to put the gun away? It shouldn’t have been in the glove compartment in the first place.

  “Dad,” Stan whispered. “It’s me, your son.”

  Mack cocked his head.

  “I’m ordering you—” Jackson managed to say.

  Mack aimed the .44 at the police officer again, stopping the flow of words.

  Stan knew it was crazy, but he started walking toward his dad. Colonel Higgins had killed his share of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. The old man was more than capable of killing Sergeant Jackson.

  “Dad, don’t shoot. It will be murder. Set down the gun, okay?”

  “You alien-loving traitor,” Mack told Jackson.

  “No!” Stan shouted, and he rushed his dad.

  Mack aimed at Stan, the trigger-finger seemed to squeeze, and then something entered those drunken eyes. Was it a moment of normality? Whatever it was, Mack hurled the .44 away. The big revolver hit the snowy ground and discharged with a thunderous boom.

  People screamed. The bullet smashed into a nearby pine and the half-naked Mack Higgins stared dully at Sergeant Jackson. There were two prongs in Mack’s chest, with wires trailing back to Jackson’s hand. Apparently when the old man had chucked the gun, Jackson had madly clawed out his taser and fired. Mack bellowed in pain and he crumpled onto the snow, thrashing.

  A second later, a pale Jackson took his thumb off the switch.

  Stan’s shoulders slumped as Jackson took out his handcuffs. Now his dad had gone and done it. What made it worse was his dad peering up at him from the snow, forlorn and confused. There had to be something Stan could do to help his dad, but Stan had no idea what it was.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Anna Chen headed the China Desk for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor for President Clark. At the moment, she was in her cubicle in the West Wing of the White House. She cradled a phone against her shoulder as she spoke with a friend at the National Security Agency.

  While she was on the phone, Anna jotted notes, puzzled by her friend’s tone and that he hadn’t yet told her something she didn’t already know. In other words, why had he called?

  “How about lunch, Anna?” asked Alfredo Diaz.

  Anna frowned thoughtfully. At thirty-six, she was still slender and a stunning beauty. Because of her position, though—and for a variety of reasons she never admitted to herself—Anna wore fake glasses, kept her hair up in an unflattering style and dressed ultra-conservatively. Anna knew men were intimidated by her looks and her intellect, and though she was willing to play down her appearance, she hated acting dumb. In Harvard, she had been president of the chess club and had majored in Chinese History. She’d always won the highest marks in each class, ensuring that by getting the best grades on every paper she wrote and test that she took. During her four years at Harvard—and afterward as well—she had forever been picking up new skills. One year it was piano playing. The next she studied body kinetics and body language. After that, it had been stargazing—she could name eighty-three stars by memory, pointing each one out in the night sky.

  All of this drive had led to success. She had written the definitive tome on present China and its policies, Socialist-Nationalist China, and had taught at Harvard for a time. But she had found life there too tame. Then one of her old professors had entered Presidential service, asking her to be his assistant, which she had eagerly accepted. Unfortunately, he’d been asked to retire after the first year. The silver-lining for her was that Anna had taken his place.

  Presidential service in the shark-like environment of political D.C. suited her. During his first term, President Clark had jury-rigged the country’s domestic problems well enough that he was now able to take timid steps in international affairs. The President was considered a dove. For election reasons, he wanted to buff up that image.

  As the Chinese expert, Anna was supposed to figure out what was going on over there. Had Deng Fong gained enough personal power to broker a deal on his own? Or had Deng simply been a mouthpiece for the ailing Chairman? According to what the Third Assistant had told her, the President and the National Security Advisor had been second-guessing the Secretary of State’s decision in Sydney for days.

  “Did we undercut Deng?” National Security Advisor Green had asked the Third Assistant several days ago. The assistant had related the story to Anna five times already. Here in Washington, proximity to power was the measure of worth, and that included the amount of time one spent with the President and his closest advisors. Because of the President’s increasing interest in foreign affairs, the National Security Advisor had become more important, and that had increased Anna’s importance.

  She cradled the receiver under her chin as she waited for Alfredo to speak again, which he did. “Let’s go to lunch, Anna,” Alfredo said, “somewhere loud and obnoxious. With good food, of course.”

  Anna underlined lunch. She understood now. Because he worked in the NSA, Alfredo was worried their line was tapped. Part of the job over there was using sophisticated means—satellites mainly—to eavesdrop on foreign and domestic enemies. Alfredo, therefore, had cause to be paranoid. People seemed to worry most about what they themselves did or dealt with. Therefore, liars seemed most worried about other liars. She’d read a study before that said some off-duty police officers took their gun with them when they went outside to empty the trash, because dealing with muggers and thieves all day gave them a darker worldview than, say, a software engineer, who probably worried more about identity theft.

  “Do you know of a good place to eat that fits your description?” Anna asked.

  “You pick it,” Alfredo said promptly.

  “How about Herod’s by the University Mall?” she said.

  “Herod’s,” Alfredo said. “Yes, that’s perfect. Can you meet me in an hour?”

  “Make it an hour and half,” she said.

  “You’re beautiful, my love. I’ll reserve a table for us next to the band. You’ll definitely come, yes?”

  “An hour and a half,” Anna confirmed. “Bye.” She immediately hung up, missing his goodbye, if he’d given one.

  Anna frowned at her notepad. What did Alfredo want to tell her that was so important he couldn’t speak about it over the phone? She tapped the pad with her pen, deciding she’d better summon Tanaka, her regular security man.

  The Third Assistant didn’t like it when she went places without any security. He recognized that Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor didn’t make him a primary target, let alone those working for him. But he’d told her more than once that she was a special case, and Anna was quite certain her boss meant it as a compliment.

  If there weren’t some merit to what he’d said, she’d have declined the protection. The Aztlan separatists seemed to have lost their fire recently, but the incidents of kidnapping—and often the execution—of government people had risen all over the world. It wasn’t just an American problem. At this point in history, the world seemed hell-bent on continuing to fracture into smaller and smaller national entities. There wasn’t even a Great Britain anymore. Instead, it was England, Wales and Scotland, each a separate nation. This nationalism is what had broken up NATO.

  Picking up the phone, Anna decided to play it safe. Besides, Tanaka made her feel better in the city, which was a welfare jungle seething with violence. Her mother had told her many years ago that men wanted her body, and would do outrageous things to acquire it. Anna could often hear her mother’s scolding voice in her head whenever she walked the streets alone. An hour and a half—she’d need the time to prepare her security and run a quick check on Herod’s, Alfredo and the safest route to the mall. These days, with so many people out of work and looking for money, it paid to prepare.

  * * *

  The big band music crashed through the dining area of Herod’s. The musicians wore glittering suits as they played their instruments in the alcove. Overhead, massive, slowly rotating chandeliers added to the ambiance. Herod’s was one of the posh spots of the capital. Waiters in tails took the orders. Cocktail waitresses wearing strings of sequins brought the drinks. Because it was the 2030s, a huge fad had developed on the East Coast for the 1930s. Nostalgia for the first Depression was fashionable and growing.

  Anna wore a pants suit that did nothing to heighten her beauty. She still wore glasses, her hair in a bun and used makeup to dampen the smoothness of her skin.

  Tanaka moved ahead of her. The security agent wore a slick suit and dark sunglasses. Anna knew he kept a gun in his jacket. His hair was greased back and he had stern features, an expert in personal security. Anna liked him because he hardly ever spoke and never offered her an opinion on anything.

  Many of the higher government officials hired their own security these days, gunmen bought on the cheap. The National Security Advisor kept more guards than average, as he was a rich man. With the state of the economy, it was relatively easy to find competent men like Tanaka.

  “You brought your pet goon!” Alfredo shouted over the noise.

  Tanaka didn’t even glance at the NSA man sitting at a small table to the immediate left of the alcove. Tanaka glanced around, possibly examining the various tables and their occupants, and then he bent near Anna’s ear.

  “I’ll wait outside the dining room,” Tanaka said in a deep voice, his hot breath blowing against her skin.

  A shiver ran down Anna’s spine from his voice, but she clamped down on any outer emotions. She nodded as Tanaka turned and strode away. Other security men always pulled out her chair for her. Tanaka had never offered once. She wondered why, and she was surprised that it nettled her. She even glanced back at him as he moved gracefully through the crowd. He was like a panther.

  “Are you troubled?” Alfredo asked.

  Anna features tightened as she pulled out her chair, sat down and picked up the menu. Like everything else here, it was elegant in overdone art deco.

  “The french fries are to die for,” Alfredo said.

  Anna lowered her menu. “You order. Make it something light, though.”

  Alfredo motioned to a waiter, and when he arrived, put in their order. While he did so, Anna looked around. The dining area was packed with millionaires, lobbyists, important bloggers, ambassadors and Congressmen with daughter-aged companions. She turned back to Alfredo.

  He was thin and balding, with a narrow mustache. He wore a black suit and tie in a neo-nineteen-thirties fashion. Alfredo Diaz was good at his job, and several times, he’d alerted Anna to potentially explosive information, which she had passed on to the Third Assistant. Once, Anna had received a commendation signed by the President for it, handed to her by the National Security Advisor.

  The problem of government leaks had intensified throughout the years with spies both foreign and domestic. Many of those spies were embedded within the bureaucracy. Years ago, Alfredo had been one such spy, dabbling in Aztlan separatism. Having grown up in one of the so-called “Aztlan” territories—Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and California—he had felt the pull of separatism. That had changed, Alfredo had told Anna, once the situation in Mexico proper shifted.

  Mexico had come under heavy Chinese influence. Because of that, the country had exploded with cheap factories and cheaper labor. There was no minimum wage as Mexico exploited its workers with help from Chinese advisors. The economy had grown rapidly, but the wealth distribution had become more uneven. It had been one of the reasons for the civil war. Rather than align himself with that system, Alfredo had decided to stick with the peaceful government, realizing he didn’t want to live in a country with a permanent state of war. A few times since his awakening—as he’d put it—he’d helped pass Trojan horse information to the leaders of Aztlan. They’d been poison pills that had suppressed some of their primary terrorist cells, and had helped Alfredo prove his patriotism to Anna.

  Anna and Alfredo now spoke about the latest Broadway play, sipped wine, nibbled on french fries—they were fantastic—and fell silent as each ate their entrée. Anna had sautéed mushrooms and a half order of ribs, while Alfredo devoured a sirloin steak. Neither wanted dessert, although both agreed they’d like a cup of coffee.

  “I want mine black,” Anna told the waiter, who bowed at the waist to show he’d received the information.

  “French cream for me,” Alfredo said.

  Soon, each sipped coffee as the band played a newly fashionable Benny Goodman number.

  “Is this going to be on my tab?” Anna asked.

  Alfredo smiled as he clicked his coffee cup onto its saucer. “You’re paying, but only because I have this.” He slid a memory stick across the table.

  Anna glanced at the tiny black object before opening her purse and sliding it into a side pocket. Then she gave Alfredo a significant glance.

  “What do you know about the destruction of Platform Seven?” Alfredo asked.

  “The Shop experts believe CHKR-57 high explosives were used,” she said. “I suppose that’s why the report was forwarded to me. CHKR-57 is of Chinese make.”

  Alfredo used his napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead. “The search and rescue workers have discovered a Chinese corpse. The corpse was carrying a TOZ-2.”

  “A TOZ-2 underwater pistol,” Anna said. “Those are issued to White Tiger Commandos.” She frowned. “Wait a minute. I glanced at the search and rescue reports. There was never any mention about a TOZ-2. It certainly wasn’t in the news.”

  Alfredo glanced both ways before he leaned across the table. “The search and rescue people who found the body have been quarantined.”

  “What?”

  “I heard the order,” Alfredo said.

  “You intercepted it?”

  He looked down. “I got carried away,” he whispered. “There was no one else at my station, which is unusual, but it happens more often than people realize. I kept monitoring the conversation and it became increasingly more interesting.”

  Anna became thoughtful. “You have strict policies concerning who and what a NSA officer listens to. You’ve just admitted to a serious Federal crime. They could put you away…maybe forever, for what you’ve just admitted doing.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Like a shy boy caught stealing, Alfredo looked at her. “I think the President has decided to cover this one up.”

  “Why would you believe that?”

  “I heard a Presidential order. It went to a Secret Service detail, with orders to bring the admiral in charge of the S-and-R operation to Washington for a briefing.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Alfredo shook his head. “The Secret Service detail was given top secret orders to reroute the flight and detain the admiral and the entire S-and-R Team in a lonely facility on Federal land in Nevada.”

  Anna felt cold inside, never doubting Alfredo for a moment. He was good at what he did. Another reason she didn’t doubt him was that the election was near—sometimes presidents did strange things to win an election. She needed to study Alfredo’s data. It was hot, and she had to make sure no one caught her reading it. She opened her purse to hunt for her credit card. It was time to leave. Then she noticed Alfredo, the fear in his eyes.

  Anna reached across the table and touched one of his hands. The skin was cold, and it felt clammy.

  “I’m worried,” Alfredo whispered.

  She patted his hand. “Don’t be. I’m going to figure this out, but it might be wise if we don’t see each other for a while.”

  “I understand. I don’t want to end up in that lonely base in Nevada. And thank you, Anna. I knew you were the person I should tell.”

 

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