Culver caught a glimpse through Kipper's window. "That's the Cerner Campus, home of the Heartland Territorial Government. We've just moved in there. If things go according to plan, we should have Heartland admitted as a state before the next election. That could help us."

"Cerner? Don't they do medical technology?" Kipper asked, ignoring the politics.

Culver nodded. "Yeah, they had a lot of people overseas in 2003. Most of them are back here now in their R amp;D division, but not with enough numbers to fill the campus. Territorial government took fully serviced office space there in return for tax concessions."

Kipper wondered how Jed kept all this stuff in his head.

"Good morning, Mister President and passengers on board Air Force One," Colonel Lowry said over the speakers. "We are due to land at Charles B. Wheeler Downtown Airport shortly. Please secure all belongings and prepare for landing. Security detail and crew to arrival stations."

"Caesar or not, what's done-" Kipper turned away from the window and looked squarely at his chief of staff. "-is done. Question now is what's to be done next. That's up to you, my friend. Turn your devious mind to it and get back to me with a cunning plan."

Jed took a pull on his bourbon.

"For now," he said, "I'd suggest doing nothing. But only for now, while we're distracted in New York. I'll admit, Mister President, I don't like the way things have gone bad so quickly there. It smells. I do have some plans for Texas, but you're right about needing to focus on the piracy issue first. Especially if it turns out we've got something worse than pirates in New York."

"But if we do nothing about these forced evictions in the Mandate, now that we know what's happening, it'll be taken as consent and I'll be held accountable," Kipper said.

Culver shook his head. "I don't think so, Mister President. Not with the fighting in New York. People will believe you're biding your time, waiting for an opportunity to settle up," he said, sipping his bourbon.

"He hasn't given me one," Kipper said.

Jed pointed at a stack of briefing documents on the unoccupied chair next to the president. "In all of those files, do you have any on your officers? Any officer evaluation reports?"

Kipper's face went blank. "No, why? I could get them, I suppose. General Franks would probably ship over whatever I wanted, but what good would they do?"

"Well, for one thing, they'd tell you what other officers thought of Blackstone. His file is interesting. I've studied it deeply. He's aggressive, almost to the point of folly. He has a mouth he can't quite control, which is one reason he was at Fort Lewis in command of I Corps in '03, far away from the main game in the Middle East. He overreaches, especially when in command of a military operation. Sometimes skill and a combination of luck and mistakes by his opponents reward that aggressiveness. And…" Jed finished his drink and smiled wolfishly.

Kipper smiled. "And sometimes his mistakes catch up with him. Like in Seattle?"

Jed nodded. "See, you're learning. We'll make a president out of you yet."

The small windows were full of dawn's breaking light now as they descended toward the tarmac at Charles B. Wheeler Downtown Airport. Culver leaned forward and raised his glass to Kip.

"When Blackstone makes a mistake," he said, "I promise you it'll be a large one. In my judgment, Jack Blackstone is a man who can be led all too easily to foolish and intemperate action, which, by the way, just happens to be one of the many services I provide."

New York "Man, this is the way to fight pirates," said Wilson.

"This is the way to fight everyone," Milosz said, as he watched sheets of rain drift down past the ninth-floor window of the apartment building on Astor Place. A contrary gust of wind would sometimes blow a few drops in on his face, but compared with the poor bastards doing their fighting down on the streets below, he was warm and dry and relatively safe. This was much more pleasant than flying into a nest of vipers such as the ones they had encountered on Ellis Island.

He sat on a very comfortable leather armchair that was perched on top of a huge oak desk some distance back from the window, providing him with an elevated view of the street without exposing him too much. Wilson, sitting next to Milosz in another chair they'd hauled up on top of a dining-room table, scanned their field of fire for any more hostiles while the Polish commando resisted the urge for another Winston from his growing stash of New York City plunder. He sucked down a little more of the stale Folgers coffee instead and continued his own scan. The weapon, a fifty-caliber M107 sniper rifle, was heavier than he was used to, but he'd traded up because the M107 was a big serious weapon for big serious work, and he wanted to be able to neutralize any threat short of a T-90. With Wilson's help he had stabilized it by screwing the base into a wooden file cabinet that they'd also lifted up onto the makeshift firing platform. The whole arrangement gave the impression of two overgrown boys who'd decided to build a fort in their rich uncle's apartment.

For the moment, there was no movement at all. Using a thermal sight on his rifle, Milosz was able to watch the body heat leaking out of the eight men he had already killed around the Brinks armored truck they had been using to get around the city. He had put two rounds of armor-piercing incendiary into the engine block to stop the truck before sending another round through the skull of the driver. He and Wilson had picked off the rest, before any of them made it to cover. One of them, he noted with interest, was wearing a scarf of the type sported by the pirate… how would you describe them? Commanders? Captains? That seemed too formal. Whatever his role, the dead man's body, like the others, had glowed a fierce cherry red when Milosz had shot him, but now they all registered as dim, wistful ghost images in the AN/PAS-13 scope. Soon, with the cold rain draining all the heat from their corpses, the last trace of their lives would vanish, at least to him. The bodies would stay where they'd fallen until it was safe to dispose of them.

If there was danger in all this, it was that he was so comfortable in the expensive lounger that he might fall asleep. As his eyelids began to droop, he decided on another square of chocolate and a fresh coffee.

"I am getting drowsy, Wilson. I shall make some more shitty Folgers if you would like."

"What I'd like," said the wiry black man, "is three days in bed with some smoking, cocksuckin' hottie. The first two days, just to sleep."

"Ah, that way lies madness, Wilson, believe me. I had a wife once. Am much better now in city of the dead being shot at by pirate bitches and fools."

"Who said anything about a wife?" Wilson asked with real umbrage. It was almost as though Milosz had let slip another nig nog or two. "I'm talking poo-saay, my friend."

"Is all the same in end," said Milosz. "All the women, they hold out promise of this mythical poo-say, but what you get is nagging and frustration and not so much of the penis gobbling. Being shot at is much more exciting, believe me."

Wilson eased back from the spotter scope for a moment, looking wistful. "I hear Texas is the place for a man to live these days. Frontier country again. Your money can buy anything there. New toys, booze, real hotties," he added significantly.

Milosz squirmed, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. "Are you thinking about going there? My brother and his family, they farm in Texas on the federal program. They do not so much like this Blackstone."

Wilson pulled back from the scope and shook his head. "Nah, I hear Mad Jack down there, he's cool with the black man, as long as you served, but he has a god-awful number of redneck cracker assholes gathering to his flag who aren't. I'm looking further ahead, no matter how shitty the short run may be."