"Essentially," David went on as they continued to walk through the graveyard of rusting military gear, "you are going to run a simulation involving a covert strike onto Jolo Island in the Philippines to destroy the Abu Sayef."

"But – " Foster began.

"There are no buts," David said.

"It will be a simulation to those who you bring in to do it, but in reality the mission will actually be going on. I think you understand how you would work such a scenario."

Foster blinked as the implications sunk in. And right away he did understand. It would be a delicate balancing act, but it could be done. But why? His thoughts were interrupted as David halted in front of a rusting hulk of an old UH-1 helicopter.

"Did you know that when President Nixon ordered the halt to bombing raids during the Vietnam War, the order was so broad, it stated that there would not be any flights into North Vietnamese or Cambodian airspace? And that reconnaissance teams that had already been inserted across the border and were counting on helicopter exfiltration were abandoned? Simply abandoned."

"I'd never heard that," Foster said.

"It's in plenty of books," David said.

"But most people do not care for the lessons of histories, especially those that killed people for political expediency."

He put his hand on the nose of the helicopter.

"You can go now."

Foster was confused. David pointed.

"Go."

Foster turned and walked quickly away, as if by distancing himself from the messenger, he was distancing himself from the message, even though he had the pack holding the computer on his shoulder now. After taking a dozen steps, he paused and turned, a question forming on his lips.

But there was no one there.

"Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing twice and expecting different results?" Vaughn asked as Royce drove them down a road winding along the Okinawan coast.

"Stupidity is failing and accepting it," Royce replied.

"Your job this time isn't to rescue hostages. There aren't any to be rescued."

Vaughn's face flushed red, but he didn't say anything.

"We want to make sure no more hostages are taken by the Abu Sayef. Ever."

"And how are we going to do that? It's a large organization."

"We cut off the head and the body dies."

Royce glanced over at Vaughn.

"Your task – your new team's task – will be to kill Rogelio Abayon, the leader of the Abu Sayef."

"What new team?" Vaughn asked as he absorbed this mission.

"And isn't assassination against U.S. law?"

"This isn't an official mission," Royce said, emphasizing the word, "which also answers the question of legality since it will never have occurred. Your new unit is called Section Eight. Drawn from various organizations to fight terrorism on its own terms. No rules except don't get caught, and if caught you are denied by our government."

Vaughn considered this.

Royce continued.

"Remember, although you blame yourself for what happened on Jolo Island, it was an Abu Sayef terrorist who fired the RPG that killed your brother-in-law."

"I was in command and I was the one with the laser designator," Vaughn said.

"You think a lot of yourself," Royce noted.

"So all those missions you went on where everything worked and the team was successful – those were all your doing? You kept your brother-in-law alive on all those missions? All by yourself?"

"That's bullshit logic and you know it," Vaughn snapped.

"Yeah, it is," Royce agreed.

"But you're denigrating your brother-in-law's sacrifice by beating yourself up. He signed up, he volunteered again and again – hell, you don't get into Delta Force without volunteering, what, how many times?" Royce ticked them off on his fingers.

"Once to get in the Army. Then Airborne. Then Rangers. Then Special Forces. Then Delta. That's five."

His voice turned harsh.

"So who the fuck do you think you are to be so important, more important than the sacrifice he made in his willingness to serve his country? Get your head out of your ass, Vaughn, and take the opportunity I'm giving you. Direct your anger outward and not inward."

Vaughn didn't reply as the Land Rover bounced along what was now a dirt road, heading toward a mountain. There was silence for a few moments, then Royce began speaking, almost as much to himself, as to Vaughn, as if reminding himself of something important.

"Did you know that Okinawa was the largest amphibious assault of the entire Pacific campaign? And that more people died here, on this island in the assault, than in the combined atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Twelve thousand Americans killed. Over 100,000 Japanese military and conscripts killed. And over 100,000 civilians. At least those are the guesses. No one really knows what the true numbers were. The estimates were made by subtraction."

That got through to Vaughn.

"What do you mean by subtraction?"

"They didn't count the dead after the battle because so many were buried by blasts or incinerated or otherwise wiped from the face of the earth. What they did was count how many civilians were still left. Then they subtracted that number from the prewar population and came up with their casualty estimate.

"And then there were the wounded. Almost half of the American wounded were caused by battle stress, around 26,000 men. That's almost two full divisions wiped out simply by the psychological stress of fighting here. Then there were the kamikazes off shore. Thirty-four ships were sunk and over 350 were damaged by them."

Vaughn tried to visualize war on that scale, but even his combat missions couldn't relate. Those men who had fought here, and the civilians caught in the middle, had truly seen the elephant. A damn big one.

Royce continued.

"The civilians here were used to typhoons. But the worst one that ever hit the island was nothing compared to the tetsu no bow – the storm of steel – that the U.S. Navy and Air Force unleashed on them."

Royce pulled the Land Rover up to a chain-link fence manned by two armed guards. They were next to a small river on the right. The dirt road beyond went to a tunnel entrance barely wide enough for the car. Beyond that there was darkness.

"This tunnel," Royce said, as the guards swung the gate open, "was a hiding place for motorboats that the Japanese loaded with high explosives – the kikusui, floating chrysanthemum – that they planned to bring out on railroad tracks, put into the river there, and send out to hit the American fleet. For some reason, that plan was never carried out. Maybe the Japanese naval commander had a fit of conscience. More likely they didn't have the fuel for the boats, since it was diverted to the kamikazes, who were considered more effective."

The gate was open but Royce didn't move the Rover. He turned to Vaughn.

"Section Eight is classified far beyond anything you've ever been associated with. Only a handful of people at the very highest levels know it exists and what its mission is, which is to fight the bad guys with no rules. Gloves off. If you're successful here, you redeem yourself…" Royce paused.

"…and you'll get revenge for your brother-in-law."

Vaughn sat still, but his mind felt as if it had gone over the edge he had experienced in isolation back in the Philippines. He was in free fall.

Royce continued the sell.

"No bureaucracy. No staff officers interfering. Everything is tightly compartmentalized for security reasons. You will, of course, always be monitored, even when not on mission, but you'll have plenty of free time. The pay is five times what you made in the military and not traceable, so no IRS. In fact, when you join, you no longer exist in any database, anywhere. We make our own rules in this unit."