The motorcade turned off the highway and passed the lone, white guard post that had been added in 1993 after several employees were killed on their way into work. The two Suburbans and black armor-plated Cadillac limousine continued onto the narrow tree-lined drive and over a rise without slowing. They appeared to be in a hurry. Once over the rise, an intimidating security checkpoint came into view. All visitor traffic was directed to the right by large, easily readable signs. Other signs warned people that this was their last chance to turn around without risking arrest and prosecution. If they missed the signs, the men in black Nomex jumpsuits carrying submachine guns provided further warning that this place was not part of the local sightseeing tour.

The motorcade stayed to the left and came to an abrupt stop in front of the yellow painted steel barricade. Men with guns were everywhere and there were more of them behind the greenish tinted bulletproof Plexiglas of the blockhouse. Three of the guards who had been talking when the surprise visitors came over the hill immediately spread out. No one had to tell them; it was part of their training. Clusters made for easy targets. This wasn't Hollywood. There was no racking of the slides and flicking of safety switches. When these men were on duty they were hot, which meant they had a round in the chamber, and the only safety was their forefinger.

The motorcade was immediately flanked on one side by four of the black-clad men. Despite the gray overcast morning they were all wearing dark shooting glasses to cover their eyes. Their weapons remained pointing down, but fingers caressed trigger guards while eyes tried to peer beyond the heavily tinted windows of the vehicles. These types of motorcades were commonplace, but they were always expected-on the list and fully vetted. This one was not, and the men and women of the security force did not like surprises.

A captain came out of the blockhouse with a look of slight irritation on his face and approached the passenger side of the lead vehicle. The tinted window came down only to reveal a tinted pair of sunglasses. The captain, an eight-year veteran of the force, asked in a not-so-friendly tone, "May I help you?"

The man pulled out a black leather case and flipped it open to reveal his credentials. "Secret Service." He jerked his thumb back toward the limo and said, "We have Director Ross. He's here on official business."

The captain nodded and folded his hands behind his back. "Did you guys forget your manners?"

"Huh?" the agent asked, not getting the question.

"Simple protocol…call ahead…let us know you're coming." The captain rocked back and forth on his heels while he assessed how far he should push this.

The agent gave him the courtesy of lowering his glasses an inch so the top two-thirds of his eyes were visible. "The director is a busy man, but I hear you loud and clear. The problem is we didn't even know we were coming out here until five minutes ago. We were leaving the new counterterrorism facility and he told us to come straight here. I'm just following orders."

The answer seemed plausible. "All right. Roll the windows down, get your creds out, and we'll make this as quick and painless as possible." The captain pointed at the lead Suburban and three men appeared from the blockhouse, one with a dog. The dog and his handler began circling the vehicle while the two men began inspecting credentials. The captain hesitated for a second and then went back to the limo. He waited patiently by the back passenger window for a three count, staring at his own reflection. He waited two more seconds and then rapped on the window with his knuckles.

The window came down revealing two white men talking on phones. One was in his fifties and the other appeared to be about ten years younger. The captain recognized the older man as Mark Ross, the new director of National Intelligence.

The younger man placed his phone flat against the lapel of his suit coat and said, "Could we speed this up, we're on a tight schedule."

"Absolutely," replied the captain. "Who is the director here to see?"

"I'm afraid that's privileged information."

The captain could already see this suit was going to be real fun to work with. "I need to see IDs, and we need to check the trunk. Then I'll have you on your way."

The man gave him a look that said, are you kidding me? "I said we're in a hurry."

The captain stayed calm and polite. "If you'd called ahead some of this could have been avoided, but unfortunately you didn't. Identification please." The captain stuck out his hand and waited. He collected the younger man's ID and wondered whether or not to push it with Director Ross. He decided not to when he realized Ross was talking to the president. He took the single ID back to the blockhouse to make a copy and run a quick check, while the men continued searching the vehicles. He didn't like any of this, but technically, he supposed the new director of National Intelligence was his boss. Less than a minute later he came back out, looked briefly at the limo, and then spoke to the agent in the lead vehicle.

"You guys under high alert or something?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You've got a lot of muscle with you to be driving around DC. Four guys in each Suburban and two more in the limo. That's about what the president travels with when he comes out here."

The agent pulled his glasses down again and said, "I don't ask questions…you know what I mean?"

Smiling, the captain replied, "To a point. I'm going to have the Suburbans wait over here in this parking lot on the right, and the limo may proceed to the main building."

"That'll work for me."

KENNEDY REMAINED ABSOLUTELY unreadable as Rapp went through his pitch. He had seen her stoic behavior unnerve subordinates, especially the younger ones-the ones who needed constant feedback and supervision. Rapp needed no cheerleading. He and Kennedy had been doing this for a long time. Normally, she would have been a bit more responsive to what he was proposing, but Rapp had brought someone to the meeting, so she remained her polite but professional self.

"The Pentagon, State…they're all throwing money around like a sailor in a whorehouse. We need to do the same thing."

Kennedy glanced at the other man in the meeting, who happened to be a retired naval officer, and then looked back at Rapp. "Throw money around like a horny sailor?"

"Absolutely." Rapp smiled. "The more money the better. That'll make it harder for the General Accounting Office and all those oversight pukes to track what we're really up to."

"Could you possibly come up with a better metaphor than the sailor/hooker one?"

"I agree," said the retired officer.

"How about a Marine in a whorehouse?" Rapp looked at the blond-haired man sitting next to him. "Does that work for you?"

"Absolutely. Marines are pigs." Scott Coleman laughed. The former Navy SEAL was in an unusually good mood, and it had everything to do with what Rapp was telling them.

Kennedy ignored the banter and got back to more pressing issues. "So, in essence, what you're advising is that we take Scott's company and use it as a logistical front for the new and expanded Orion Team?"

"Yes."

"That's been tried before and it blew up in the CIA's face."

"When?"

"The Vietnam War. You've surely heard of an outfit called Air America."

"I was in diapers at the time. Different time, different war, different world."

"I'm not so sure," Kennedy persisted.

"Air America got busted, because they got too big, and a couple of corncob generals at the Pentagon didn't like the CIA having their own air force. That combined with the press, the general mood on Capitol Hill, and the public's attitude toward the war…it all contributed to their cover being blown."