Blue Warrior

“The Air Force might also arrest you when you return, since you’re originating your flight from one of their air bases. They’ll track your plane to and from Mali using your IFF transponder.”

“Still not a problem. I can shut it off from the cockpit before we enter Mali airspace.” That was illegal under international air traffic regulations, but Judy believed it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission when it came to operational security.

“Right, and you’ll need to. But once you do, any military aircraft that encounters you will assume you’re either hostile or criminal and will likely shoot you down.” Worry framed his kindly face.

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Mr. Holliday.” Judy tried to comfort him with a smile.

“You’re a very brave young woman.”

“I’m a pilot for Pearce Systems. It’s what I do.”

“And what is Pearce Systems, if I may ask?”

Judy had to think about that. She’d been away for several months now. Heard through the grapevine it had changed a lot.

“It’s a private security and technology firm. Drones, mostly. Air, sea, and land.”

Holliday frowned, curious. “And here you are on a drone base. That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Gee, it is, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought about that until now.”

He tried to read her guileless face. “Are you a drone pilot, too?”

“Me? No, I’m terrible at it. Even with haptics. I fly by feel, not numbers.”

“But a drone is safer, isn’t it?”

“Sure, at least for the pilot. But I don’t fly to feel safe. I fly because I love it. It’s what I was born to do.”

“Well, I’ll say it again. You’re a very brave young woman. Best of luck to you.”

“Thanks. We’re gonna need it.”

16

Glory Box Café

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

7 May

It was 3 a.m. when the blond woman with a French-braided ponytail and a Colorado Buffalos ball cap slipped into a padded booth. A few locals lingered in the main lounge. Sleeve tattoos and pierced noses, mostly. Dusty moose heads, snowshoes, and salmon trophies adorned the rough-timbered walls. A performance space in the corner was empty save for a mic stand and an empty stool. She could smell the sweet tang of pot in the air.

A heavy Hispanic kid with a mop of curly hair and a pencil-thin beard ringing his jawline dropped a large plastic tumbler of ice water and a menu in front of her. His black T-shirt was stained. Pink letters read GLORY BOX. She asked for coffee and he asked what kind, they had a bunch. “Strong,” was all she said. But he was slurring his words, probably stoned, so she added, “Caffeinated,” and as an afterthought, “two eggs, fried hard.”

She sipped the coffee and waited. It was all she could do. Ian had managed to get her the address safely. She used every trick in the book to get here without being followed — cash only, no cell phone, and the blond wig being the three most important. Now she sat in the all-night café and waited for Ian to contact her again.

Margaret Myers took another sip. She guessed the coffee was Sumatra, but she wasn’t sure. It was strong, all right, and a little burnt. But she wasn’t here for the coffee.

The Hispanic kid and the cannabis aroma brought back memories. She was glad she had waged war on the drug lords. A lot of bad hombres got planted in the dirt, and drug violence had decreased dramatically on both sides of the border now that President Madero was in charge down there. The irony, of course, was that marijuana had been legalized in several states since then, including her home state of Colorado. There was much further to go in the drug war, but President Greyhill wasn’t the man for the job. Maybe her critics were right. Maybe the nation would never have the wherewithal to fight it like a real war. If that was true, legalization was inevitable, and it wouldn’t end with marijuana.

How would history judge her? She’d asked herself that question a thousand times in recent weeks, then pushed it away before she could answer. It was a vain, stupid question, and the answer would only come long after she was dead, past her caring. But the question kept coming back nonetheless.

So many things hadn’t gone the way she’d planned as president. Drone strikes, a showdown with the Russians, resignation. She had shown resolve, then quit. But that was the deal she had made. The alternative was a shooting war with the Russians and a showdown with Congress. But she couldn’t fight the feeling that she had failed.

No matter how she justified it, she had quit her job, and she had never quit anything in her life. There were still so many things left undone that she might have been able to accomplish had she remained in office. And now she’d put the destiny of her country in the hands of Greyhill and Diele, exactly the kind of career politicians she’d always railed against.

But “What If?” was a fool’s game and she needed to stop playing it. Now.