There were complications he did not like to ponder. This mission could fail. Hell, it was a near certainty that it would fail! Smitrov could be killed in some cross fire. The SEALs who weren’t killed in a shoot-out could get themselves captured. Durov could use all that as still more evidence of U.S. aggression, as justification for whatever unimaginable retribution he might conjure up.

“Damn it, Schwartz!” Donnegan yelled. “Can’t you hear? I said I needed you.”

The young lieutenant stepped through the door before Donnegan finished, carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee. “Sorry, Admiral. I was making a fresh pot of coffee. I brought you a cup. Now, what do you need?”

Donnegan took the offered coffee and allowed himself a slight smile. “Thanks, I needed this. You’ll never know how much I needed this.” He took a swig, swallowed hard, and then added, “Get President Brown on the phone. If they say they have to get him out of the rack and try to put you off onto some aide, tell them this is a Code Red Emergency call.”

Donnegan’s aide hardly flinched. He set the tray down and was off to place the call to the White House.

Nicholas Vujnovich stomped across the porch behind Josef Bogatinoff and then stepped through the door back into the farmhouse. Vujnovich remained silent as he started the coffeemaker, then joined Bogatinoff, who had slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs, exhausted.

The night had been frustrating. They had slogged around in ever-growing circles through the woods and fields for miles around the farmhouse, searching frantically for the escaped SEC inspector, for any signs of her at all. Now they sat glumly, too tired to even talk, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

Dawn was breaking over the horizon to the east, illuminating the corn stubble in a gray light. A soft but steady rain had started to fall during the night, washing away the last patches of dirty snow, transforming the sodden ground into a muddy morass. Clumps of mud dropped away from the Russians’ feet and the legs of their trousers as they sat there sullenly watching the steam rise from the coffeemaker. Water dripped from their shoes and pooled on the wooden floor. Neither man cared.

Vujnovich shook his head back and forth and stared at his hands as he spoke. “She cannot have gotten away from us that easily.”

Bogatinoff rose and stepped over to the kitchen sink, trying not to slip on the muddy floor, hopping over the dried lake of blood from their fallen comrade. The body still lay wedged against the wall where they had dragged it. He avoided looking at Mikhail Gikoytski’s unseeing eyes as he grabbed two dirty mugs and rinsed the residue out of them before pouring them full of the hot coffee. He set one cup down in front of Vujnovich and sipped from the other.