Not everyone at Benning used meditation, but it worked for Thomas Thom. Meditation helped him relax, helped him rejuvenate his body and mind, and it helped him concentrate, focus, and clarify his task and objective. Some likened it to a catnap but, properly done, it was the exact opposite—it was a recharger, a rejuvenator. It served Thomas Thom well after he left the U.S. Army—he had meditated for twenty minutes, twice a day, every single day since he received his mantra and learned how to do it properly.

It took only moments for Thom to slip into his higher state of consciousness, and then the journey began. The reason Thomas Thom never took vacations, rarely visited Camp David, played no sports other than T-ball with his children, and had no hobbies, was that he took a “vacation” twice a day when he slipped into a transcendental state. Arriving at that level was like stepping off a supersonic jet and arriving at a different place every time.

But it was not such a journey this time. Instead of traveling himself in a different world, dimension, or time, he was a spectator this time, watching events happen. That was unusual—certainly not impossible or unheard of, since the soul has no beginning and no end—but why couldn’t he watch it as well as experience it?

He awoke with a start—also not an usual occurrence. He glanced at his watch and realized with relief that his meditation lasted almost exactly twenty minutes, as it should have. So why did he feel so odd?

He knew why he felt that way—he felt it for a long time now, ever since the Turkey-Ukraine-Russia conflict over the Black Sea, ever since the raid against Pavel Kazakov’s base in Romania. He knew what was happening.

“Patrick,” he spoke.

MUNKHAFAD AL-QATTARAH LOWLANDS,
 THIRTY-TWO MILES SOUTHWEST OF
 MERSA MATRUH, EGYPT
 THAT SAME TIME

The gas had run out, both in their vehicles and in the men themselves. Patrick and the rest of the Night Stalkers had taken shelter in yet another complex of oil wells—these appeared to be bombed out rather than run dry. They provided minimal cover: Chris Wohl had the men dig foxholes in the burning sand to conceal themselves as much as possible and wait for rescue.

They were all exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Patrick told them about the detonation over Mersa Matruh. They had received no other reports from anyone— the electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear device had electrified the atmosphere so badly that no satellite transmissions could get in or out. . .

“Patrick.”

Or so he thought—apparently now the satellite transceivers implanted in their bodies were up and running again.

He recognized the voice immediately, of course—and his next move was also immediate: “Cancel Thom to Patrick.” And the voice went silent.