“Patrick believes he can lead the final mission, Philip. I think he may be right.”
Jeffrey winced at hearing that voice again. The man haunted him, the force of his personality like some apparition scarring his memory. But he knew better than to fight it. It would have its due. For all that Jeffrey knew, all that he had done, his mind needed to wrestle with what had happened. His soul could find little peace.
“This will take some doing.”
“Yes, it will, Philip,” Liam said, rising and lifting a small object from his desk. He passed it between his hands, the metal glinting in the soft light. “Are you ready to put this in motion?”
“This will not be so easy, my friend. And in the end, my career, a long and honorable one, might I add, will be destroyed.”
Jeffrey closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his face, salt spray crusting his skin. He lost himself in time.
“Do you doubt our plans?”
Jeffrey laughed briefly. “No, of course not. The top brass have all checked their minds at the door of the Pentagon, anyway. I don't belong anymore. Any day now they will give that fool Texan his war.”
Liam straightened quickly, then took the metal object and hurled it against the wall. It struck the paneling and entered, splintering the wood and lodging deep like an arrow.
“We have a blind cowboy for a president!” he spat. “A puppet advised by slow-minded and greedy fools. They cannot even focus on the abomination that orchestrated these acts of murder! They chase and they chase after dreams inspired by their politics. And miss the larger target! The heart of evil of which this diabetic coward is only one foul seed.” He walked over to the wall, grabbed the object, and pried it free with a single, swift tug. “No, my friend, we will not aim so low as that.”
Liam's eyes burned into Jeffrey's mind. His words seem to reverberate and echo. “It is said one must beware the vengeance of a patient man. Philip, we will be very patient. Our organization will be hidden, slowly established in every major target nation on earth — no matter how difficult to penetrate. Only when we are ready, when we have trained an elite force, acquired the weapons and tactics we require, and developed our plan thoroughly, will we strike. And by then, it will be almost impossible to stop us. Then blood will be had for blood, and more. Then fire will rain from the skies.”
Jeffrey stared grimly forward. “Yes, and like Prometheus, I will bring you that fire. Hell, my liver's shot anyway. I'm ready, Liam. You will need patience. This will take time. But it will be done. You know my beliefs.”
Liam nodded and returned to his desk, placing the metal object back on its stand. The light glittered off the glass bottom, serving to highlight the metallic arms on which the object rested. The arms came together at the top, forming a cup-like loop, from which the thinner end of the object hung. The metal of the tip thickened from the stem to a much wider girth near the end of the shape, flattening, forming a sharp point in an otherwise flat surface. Carved into the face of the metal was the head of a raven. Jeffrey looked at the object and felt vaguely troubled. From this angle, it did indeed resemble a hammer.
A seagull's cry startled him, and he broke out of his reverie.
“I'll never be free of you, Liam,” he spoke to the depths of the sea.
Liam's proposal was audacious, insane, and brilliant. Jeffrey was swept up by it and terrified at the same time. But when his old friend left, he knew that he would help fulfill that plan. He had engineered his transfer to Ward County, North Dakota—North Dakota! Minot Air Force Base was the perfect seat of operations for what he needed to do. For four years he worked to engineer one of the greatest betrayals in the history of the United States. A betrayal of the country he had fought for, and would die for, because to save it from itself, from its foolish citizens and leaders, drastic action must be taken. And he had pulled it off, an act that had cost him his job and his honor in the military community. Now he was a disgrace, the truth of his crimes hidden from the public. Were Jeffrey in medieval Japan, he would cast himself on his sword.
Instead, he sailed. At sea, the land faded and the world of men became something that seemed almost small. When the waves rolled on and on to the edge of sight, it was almost possible to forget the shame, and perhaps even the guilt, for what was done, and what was to come. Every great action extracts a terrible price. On the waters of the Atlantic, Philip Jeffrey was sailing to find his soul.
The wind was a strong ten knots north by northwest. He tacked his course northward, seeking the middle of the Long Island Sound. The July sun was already beginning to warm the boat and his skin considerably. Damn the melanoma, he thought and steered his course.
Behind him rose a disturbance in the peace he had found at sea, and he turned toward the sound. A boat could be seen at some distance, closing in on him quickly. It was odd. Powerboats didn't usually come out this far, and rarely had he seen one moving at such high speed. As the boat approached, he could see it wasn't the coast guard but what looked like a dock-bound party boat, right down to the tinted windows. Whoever was piloting the thing was reckless as hell. While he couldn't imagine that his good-sized catamaran was not visible to the other boater, he wasn't taking any chances. He went into the spacious cabin and sat down at the two-way radio, powering up to contact the other skipper. The radio was malfunctioning, issuing only static. Odd. He had checked it only last night. After several minutes of fiddling with the knobs, he gave up. Electronics were not his strong suit.
The sound of the other engine was now very loud, and, as he exited the cabin, he could see the boat slow down and approach the left side of his own boat, matching course and speed, much too close for comfort. A figure could be seen standing on the starboard deck, grasping something in his hands. What in the world is he up to?
The sounds of automatic fire erupted from the motorboat. Philip Jeffrey arched back, his face in shock, his chest and neck exploding in bursts of clothing and crimson. He fell backward, close to the cockpit, hitting the wheel and causing the boat to lurch. The powerboat pulled aside as the catamaran turned sharply into the wind and the sails began to luff. Jeffrey lay in a growing pool of his own blood, grasping at the railings. A searing pain across his midsection, chest, and neck clouded his vision, and he slipped and struck hard against the deck.
Time streamed at the surreal pace of a dream. Sensations were confused, as if he were cast into the sea itself, drowning and sinking, unable to stop falling. After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes and found himself clutching the railing, the open sea beneath him. He realized that the boat was no longer moving. Fighting against weakness and a terrible nausea, he turned over on his back. The sky was a bright-blue now, the sun sweltering, and he squinted at its light. For a moment, the light was blocked, and Jeffrey saw a shape above him, broad shoulders and a head in the way of the sun. The figure raised his arm, pointing a dark object at Jeffrey's head. A gunshot rang out over the open sea.
The gray-haired man tapped his keyboard, and the screen in front of him went dark. He swiveled around in his chair and faced the window and the city once more. There were choices to be made, and only some were able to make them. With those choices came sacrifices. In the end, that was how wars were won.