Stone pivoted back to the muted television and shook his head at the endless parade of talking heads analyzing the bombing from every conceivable angle. The nation’s first big terrorist attack since 911wasn’t from Al Qaeda. Domestic terrorism now occupied center stage and the negative political fallout was going to land on his shoulders, especially after his press conference trumpeting the seizure of a huge stockpile of illegal Semtex. To make matters worse, his Committee on Domestic Terrorism had been created to prevent this very thing. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? In his defense, everything he’d read in the file about the Bridgestones hadn’t led him to believe they were capable of such a cold-blooded act. So why had they done it?

Deep down, part of him hoped his son would find them before the FBI did. They had it coming.

* * *

Nathan had been on a Lear before and he felt a little underdressed in his blue jeans and white Polo shirt. The sixty-foot Learjet 60 XR was spacious, offering stand-up head room. Two rows of single tan leather seats lined both sides of the fuselage, half of them opposing one another. The rear third of the jet was set up like a small office with a table and two opposing seats facing it. Near the back, a small door opened into the head, a little cramped for a man his size, but manageable. The pilot and copilot introduced themselves as Special Agents Jenkins and Williamson respectively. Jenkins wore captain’s shoulder boards with four chevrons while Williamson, the first officer, wore three. Nathan guessed they were both trained military, Navy or Air Force. As they studied their new VIP’s face, they both betrayed surprise at what they saw.

“I lost an argument with a chainsaw,” Nathan said, easing the tension.

“That was some argument,” Jenkins said. “Where are we going?”

“The airfield at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.”

The two pilots exchanged a quick glance.

“I’ll check it out,” Williamson said. He disappeared into the cockpit and returned twenty seconds later with a black binder. He started thumbing through the pages. “Here we are… Sherman Army Airfield. Looks like… it’s a joint-use military and civilian airfield. Runway’s fifty-nine-hundred feet. We’re good to go, gives us five-hundred feet to spare for our takeoff roll.” He smiled. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Make yourselves comfortable.” Jenkins waved a hand around the interior. “As you can see, there’s no flight attendant so you’re on your own for beverage service. I trust you’ll be able to find what you need?”

“We’ll manage,” Nathan said. “What’s our flight time?”

“Around three hours, depending on the winds aloft.”

“Hell of a job you’ve got here,” Henning added.

“We like it. To be honest, it’s nice to ferry someone other than the director for a change.” He lowered his voice and looked around in fake secrecy. “He’s not real personable.”