Point of Contact

The SBIRS GEO-3 infrared missile-warning satellite stood high in geosynchronous orbit over the Asian continent, monitoring the flight of the same North Korean rocket.

The SLBM’s trajectory and flight data displayed graphically in real time on the wide wall monitor in the SWS tracking facility, but in accordance with standard procedure, relevant data points were read aloud by the noncommissioned Air Force officers stationed in their specialized departments.

“Second-stage fuel burn complete.”

“Altitude four hundred miles.”

“We have warhead separation.”

The sergeant standing next to the commanding officer, a major, whispered aloud, “Hope it’s a dummy.”

The major ignored the comment. The sergeant was a real motormouth, especially when he was nervous. Of course it was a dummy warhead. This was a test launch, not a first strike.

She studied the warhead’s seven computer-generated probability tracks, each color-coded. The farthest reach was twelve hundred nautical miles from the Sinpo launch point, approximately six hundred miles due east of the northern Japanese coast.

The major frowned. She knew the performance specs for the Pukkuksong-1. That outer track was far and away beyond what she was expecting today from the compact SLBM.

“Major?” the sergeant said, alarm cracking his voice. But he didn’t need to say anything. Everyone in the room was watching the wall monitor, including her.

“Missile warhead appears to be breaking up.”

The major stepped closer to the monitor, shaking her head. “Holy crap.”

“Sir?”

The major was too busy to reply. The seven color-coded tracks suddenly split into twenty-one. She knew the flight was being monitored by U.S. air and ground stations around the world, but the SOP required her to pick up the phone and dial the wing commander now.

That warhead wasn’t breaking up.

5

AUDACITY MMA DOJO

SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

The mixed-martial-arts dojo was located in a strip mall not far from the community college and less than two miles from The Campus’s safe house. A light, cold rain fell outside, but after the last training exercise in the North Sea, it felt like the Bahamas to Jack.

The dojo was owned by Hector “Bruiser” Martinez, a former Navy SEAL chief petty officer and now a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt who trained a team of heavy-hitting MMA competitors dominating the professional circuit.

Martinez often used other instructors to round out the martial-arts sparring opportunities for his students. He sometimes invited his friend Dom Caruso to train his team in Krav Maga. Dom first learned Krav Maga from his mentor and friend Arik Yacoby, the former Israeli Shayetet 13 naval Special Forces operator, in Paravur, India — slaughtered along with his family by a bomb detonated by an Iranian-led hit team.

Dom wasn’t a certified Krav Maga instructor, but his skills on the mat and his real-life combat experience counted for more than a piece of paper. Dom enjoyed teaching eager young students in the world’s deadliest and most practical form of unarmed self-defense, developed through hard years of street combat by the Israeli Defense Forces. Teaching Krav Maga was also his way to honor his dead friend.

Like everybody else, Jack had been exhausted on the long flight home from Norway to Virginia on the company’s luxurious Gulfstream G550. But he had a hard time sleeping. He kept running what he now called the “blonde scenario” in his head. Yeah, she’d distracted him, but he had to admit there was something about that knife. Two hours before they landed at Reagan International, Jack woke Dom up with a shake of his lapel. “Need a favor.”

“Sure, cuz. Name it.”

Jack had trained in hand-to-hand and close-quarters combat, but he wanted to be better prepared the next time he faced a bladed weapon. He asked Dom for help.

“You mean you want an edge,” Dom joked, still bleary-eyed.

Jack shook his head. “Don’t quit your day job.”

Before they landed, Dom had called Martinez for advice, and within the week today’s private instruction had been arranged.

* * *

Dom and Jack knelt barefoot on the thick dojo sparring mat, waiting for Martinez and the special instructor to arrive. They waited in silence out of respect for the traditions of the dojo, and also in their practice of mindfulness — a spiritual discipline Adara had introduced to The Campus recently. Mindfulness helped foster focus, creativity, and awareness, making the team more productive in every aspect of their work, including combat.

Jack and Dom wore heavy gym shorts and shirts for the training. Their legs, arms, and hands bore purpling bruises and scrapes from the rescue operation. Jack had a black eye from where his head had slammed into the ladder, too.