“There’s one more thing that wasn’t included in the first draft of your orders,” Rosenthal continued. “But it comes straight from the Joint Chiefs, too. Apparently, there’s also a chance that you might run across another aircraft on the ground out there. An intact aircraft. And if you do, you’re to report its presence and location immediately, but you are not, repeat not, to take any further action . . . not without direct orders from either the SecDef or the JCS.”

“Exactly what kind of intact aircraft are we talking about?” Flynn asked carefully. Inside his mind, a whole new set of alarm bells were now going off. “One of ours? One of the Russians? Or one made by little green men from Mars?”

The general winced. “You now know as much about this as I do, Captain.” His expression was not happy. “I’m pushing hard for more data, especially since it may have some bearing on what happened to our Raptors and the other missing planes. And on why the Russians are being so goddamned aggressive all of a sudden. So far, though, I’m not getting very far.”

If those internal alarm bells got any louder, Flynn judged, he’d be metaphorically deaf real soon. He scowled. “Just for the record, sir, this sort of ‘need to know’ bullshit really pisses me off.”

“You’re not alone in that feeling, son,” Rosenthal said. A hint of frustration crept into his voice, confirming what he said. “And I fully understand your own particular aversion to this level of strict secrecy.”

That was true enough, Flynn realized. No matter how “prettied up” the orders justifying his exile to Barter Island may have been, the Pentagon’s version of the old boys’ network undoubtedly meant Rosenthal knew all about his earlier run-in with the CIA and its Libyan black ops arms smuggling.

“If it’s any consolation, Captain Flynn,” the general continued, “my strong suspicion is that there are a number of people back in Washington right now who are almost equally unhappy that you’re in charge of this mission.”

Flynn shook his head. “Frankly, sir, that’s not much consolation at all.” He sat back with a resigned sigh. “Okay, we’ll do our best.”

“I know you will, Captain,” Rosenthal said. “Now, from what I understand, there’s supposed to be a lull in this blizzard later tonight, but it may not last long. So organize your team and pull together any gear you’ll need fast. We’re putting Major Ingalls and Captain Van Horn and their HC-130J on standby out at the Barter Island airport right now. They’ll be ready to take off as soon as your men are on board.”

Sweating in the station’s steam heat, Flynn strode down the corridor toward Sergeant Andy Takirak’s tiny quarters. He’d thought briefly about stopping by his own room to wriggle out of his parka and the rest of his cold weather gear to get more comfortable, but he’d resisted the temptation. They were already on the clock, without any time to waste. And any layers he took off now were only ones he’d have to squeeze back into before they headed out to the airport.