They outlined what they would discuss with the media, including a few items to be leaked by "unnamed sources" in the White House and Pentagon, and then the meeting broke up. Thomas Thorn went upstairs to the residence to see what the family was up to and visit with the kids who weren't in school, and then he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him. The children and his wife all knew not to disturb him now.
Thomas Thorn first learned meditation in the U.S. Army Sniper School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he trained as a sniper himself in order to be a commander of a Special Forces Group. To tell the truth, Thorn was not the best shot in the world, and he wondered if he could cut it. But he soon learned that being a sharpshooter was only twenty percent of being a sniper-the mental struggles and challenges of stalking and shooting a living target was the hard part. Snipers had to learn how to move without being detected, sometimes within there feet of the enemy, and they had to learn to detect a target out of camouflage or deep in cover. They had to have perfect eyesight and exceptional infantry and outdoorsman skills, but most of all, they had to have the mental discipline required to inflict quick, catastrophic, and "one shot, one kill" finality to a pursuit. Thorn soon learned that mental discipline-what he called "mental quietude"-was the most important qualification.
Not everyone at Benning used meditation, but it worked for Thomas Thorn. Meditation helped him relax, helped him rejuvenate his body and mind, and it helped him concentrate, focus, and clarify his task and objective. Some likened it to a catnap but, properly done, it was the exact opposite-it was a recharger, a rejuvenator. It served Thomas Thorn well after he left the U.S. Army-he had meditated for twenty minutes, twice a day, every single day since he received his mantra and learned how to do it properly.
It took only moments for Thorn to slip into his higher state of consciousness, and then the journey began. The reason Thomas Thorn never took vacations, rarely visited Camp David, played no sports other than T-ball with his children, and had no hobbies, was that he took a "vacation" twice a day when he slipped into a transcendental state. Arriving at that level was like stepping off a supersonic jet and arriving at a different place every time.
But it was not such a journey this time. Instead of traveling himself in a different world, dimension, or time, he was a spectator this time, watching events happen. That was unusual-certainly not impossible or unheard of, since the soul has no beginning and no end-but why couldn't he watch it as well as experience it?
He awoke with a start-also not an usual occurrence. He glanced at his watch and realized with relief that his meditation lasted almost exactly twenty minutes, as it should have. So why did he feel so odd?
He knew why he felt that way-he felt it for a long time now, ever since the Turkey-Ukraine-Russia conflict over the Black Sea, ever since die raid against Pavel Kazakov's base in Romania. He knew what was happening.
"Patrick," he spoke.
The gas had run out, both in their vehicles and in the men themselves. Patrick and the rest of the Night Stalkers had taken shelter in yet another complex of oil wells-these appeared to be bombed out rather than run dry. They provided minimal cover: Chris Wohl had the men dig foxholes in the burning sand to conceal themselves as much as possible and wait for rescue.
They were all exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Patrick told them about the detonation over Mersa Matruh. They had received no other reports from anyonethe electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear device had electrified the atmosphere so badly that no satellite transmissions could get in or out…
"Patrick."
Or so he thought-apparently now the satellite transceivers implanted in then" bodies were up and running again.
He recognized the voice immediately, of course-and his next move was also immediate: "Cancel Thorn to Patrick." And the voice went silent.
It was the one thing that kept Patrick and the other Night Stalkers out of prison after their first series of raids the year before: They were still tied into the subcutaneous microtransceiver system they had received while working at the Air Force's High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada-and the President of the United States got one too, a tiny rivet-sized wireless biotransceiver injected into a shoulder, powered by a radioisotope power supply worn as an anklet. The satellite transceiver allowed global communications, tracking, biofunction monitoring, and data transmission, although the user could selectively cut off individual functions.
This was the first time the President of the United States had activated his transceiver-and it startled Patrick completely. But what surprised him even more was to hear: "Patrick. Talk to me." Even though Patrick had instructed the transceiver satellite server to cut out the President, he was still coming through!
"What is it, Mr. President?" Patrick finally responded.
"I'm sorry about Paul," Thorn said. The transmission was scratchy, but the emotion in the President's voice was still evident, still genuine. "I know you loved him, and that it hurt you to have him go into battle with you."
Patrick immediately recognized the subtle query-he was hunting for information-but Patrick didn't have the energy to try to resist an interrogation right now. "Someone had to go in and stop the Libyans," he responded. "You won't do it."
"What else happened, Patrick?" Thorn asked. "Why didn't you come home with your brother?" No reply. The President's eyes narrowed, thinking hard-and then they widened in absolute horror. "My God, not Wendy. Was she caught in the attack on your ship? Was she… oh, no… was she one of the prisoners sent to Mersa Matruh? Oh God, Patrick…"
"Mr. President, soldiers are resting here, preparing for battle," Patrick said woodenly. "You know the old saying-lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way."
"And you think Kevin Martindale is your leader?"
Patrick had to close his eyes against the pain of the dart thrust through his heart. "Damn you, Thorn!" he cried against clenched teeth. The other Night Stalkers turned toward him, but no one approached-they seemed to instantly know whom he was talking with. Patrick knew that, again, Thomas Thorn the hippie-dippie president had cut right to the heart of the matter.
Patrick didn't believe in this fight. They were fighting for money, and that was not a reason to kill and die. Worse, he had accepted the assignment, even though he had not only the power but the responsibility to refuse it. Even worse than that-he had allowed his wife and his younger brother to follow him. Now one was dead, and the other was missing and probably dead in the nuclear explosion at Mersa Matruh. He would burn in hell for all eternity for what he had done-and he knew it, and Thorn knew it too.
"I'm sorry, Patrick."
"You have access to the same information we do!" Patrick cried out. "You know what's going on out here! And yet you decided to do nothing! I did it because there's a battle that needs to be fought over here, Thorn! What are you waiting for?"
"I hope one day you'll understand why," Thorn replied. "I'm still not going to do anything, not unless the people of Egypt want our help."
"What about leadership, Thorn?" Patrick retorted angrily. "What about justice and freedom and the strong protecting the weak? Basic stuff we both learned in kindergarten! How about believing in something and standing up for it?"