Roman put the tablet aside and glanced toward the horizon, where the small speck that was the returning Nightwarden slowly grew larger in the fading light. Maybe something was going on at levels far above his pay grade. Maybe all bases were conducting unusually high volumes of drills and tests. At least, that’s what he’d told himself until today—politics in the outside world didn’t interest him much. But this search for a missing MIM-23 … that misfire had happened several months ago, and the conclusion was that it had self-destructed intentionally while in the air. Besides, he was fairly sure the Hawk hadn’t been headed in this direction to begin with.

The Nightwarden was close now—that mother sure could move—and he saw Specialist Hudson in the command shelter, both hands busy with controls as he maneuvered it in for a landing. As he supervised from the Humvee, Roman put his speculations aside. The general was a good sort, as far as COs went—Roman had never heard of one who didn’t have some peculiarity or other. Maybe that was a requisite for command. McGurk wasn’t a petty tyrant, and he didn’t swagger around like some tinpot Hitler. Roman had never heard him speak a word in anger. If his eccentricity was a passion for nuclear history, there was nothing wrong with that. In fact, it would explain the rumors that McGurk had specifically requested the post of base commander about eighteen months before—not exactly a smart career move, since such positions were usually assigned to colonels. But Roman would rather have someone who—

His thoughts were interrupted by movement in the side mirror. It was a small convoy—two jeeps, apparently—approaching from the direction of the Main Post. What the hell? His idle curiosity turned into something else altogether when he saw the star stenciled on the door of the lead jeep.

He leapt out of the M1079 as the two jeeps came up beside him, creating a roiling cloud of dust when they braked to a sudden halt. The Nightwarden had landed now, and Roman’s team paused in the act of bringing up its trailer to stare in surprise at the sight of General McGurk’s vehicle.

Roman noticed two MPs were in the second jeep. Behind the wheel of the first was McGurk’s executive assistant, Lieutenant Woodbridge. She stepped out of the jeep with almost imperial gravity, then turned her tall, slender form slowly until she faced Roman. With her high cheekbones, perfect copper skin, amber eyes, and full lips that never seemed to smile, she reminded Roman of an Egyptian queen. And like a queen, her mere presence inspired fear—the yin to McGurk’s yang. She stood still as a statue in the dying light. The two MPs remained in the second jeep, engine idling.

The only person moving quickly was General McGurk. He’d gotten down from the lead jeep and was rapidly approaching. His face wore an expression Roman didn’t recall seeing before. Roman quickly came to attention and saluted, but McGurk walked right past him and stopped before Specialist Hudson.

“Report,” he snapped.

Hudson, not used to being addressed directly by the general, had scrambled to his feet. “Sir?”

“Report!”

Hudson swallowed. “Sir, recon pattern finished without any positive results. Sir.”

“Let me see that grid.” McGurk took the tablet from the specialist’s hand, peered at it, tapped it a few times. “You only covered sections C-12 to F-14.”

“Yes, sir, those were the operational orders.”

“That’s less than half these formations!” the general said, waving his hand in the direction of Victorio Peak.

“Sir, ballistics stated that if the MIM-23 missile had crashed, it could only have been on this side of the—”

“I’m not interested in what ballistics said!” the general said. He had not raised his voice, but a suffusion of red had crept up his face until it reached his hairline. “Can a computer predict the path of a missile gone haywire?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you tell me, for certain, that missile didn’t crash on the far side of that formation?”

“No, sir.”

“Then search the far side, damn it! And increase the target radius by two miles. Send the results to me directly.”

“Sir—” Hudson began. But McGurk had already turned on his heel and was returning to his jeep. He glared briefly as he passed Roman.

It had happened so suddenly, unexpectedly, and quickly that Roman hadn’t had time to intervene. The general got back into his jeep; Woodbridge followed; and then the two vehicles turned and began speeding back to headquarters. Roman watched them recede in a kind of daze. The general’s angry presence here, micromanaging a routine mission, was unusual. This wasn’t just a bug up the old man’s ass—this was more like a horned rhinoceros.

Roman felt a presence come up behind him. “Sir?” It was Hudson. “We’ve completed the parameters of the sweep, as indicated by—”

“You heard the general,” Roman interrupted. “The parameters have changed. We return here tomorrow at six hundred hours and extend our sweep, per the new orders.”

33

THIS TIME, WHEN Corrie Swanson drove up to the log cabin with the tin roof, Jesse Gower was waiting for her on the front porch. She got out of her car, navigated her way through the detritus in the yard, and paused at the base of the first step.

The man—as far as she could tell, still dressed in the same shabby clothes as the last time she’d seen him—looked back at her from one of the ancient chairs on the porch. It might have been her imagination, but it appeared as if his blond hair had been washed and combed. He’d definitely shaved.