It was the one thing that kept Patrick and the other Night Stalkers out of prison after their first series of raids the year before: They were still tied into the subcutaneous microtransceiver system they had received while working at the Air Force’s High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada—and the President of the United States got one too, a tiny rivet-sized wireless biotransceiver injected into a shoulder, powered by a radioisotope power supply worn as an anklet. The satellite transceiver allowed global communications, tracking, biofunction monitoring, and data transmission, although the user could selectively cut off individual functions.

This was the first time the President of the United States had activated his transceiver—and it startled Patrick completely. But what surprised him even more was to hear: “Patrick. Talk to me.” Even though Patrick had instructed the transceiver satellite server to cut out the President, he was still coming through!

“What is it, Mr. President?” Patrick finally responded.

“I’m sorry about Paul,” Thom said. The transmission was scratchy, but the emotion in the President’s voice was still evident, still genuine. “I know you loved him, and that it hurt you to have him go into battle with you.”

Patrick immediately recognized the subtle query—he was hunting for information—but Patrick didn’t have the energy to try to resist an interrogation right now. “Someone had to go in and stop the Libyans,” he responded. “You won’t do it.”

“What else happened, Patrick?” Thom asked. “Why didn’t you come home with your brother?” No reply. The President’s eyes narrowed, thinking hard—and then they widened in absolute horror. “My God, not Wendy. Was she caught in the attack on your ship? Was she... oh, no ... was she one of the prisoners sent to Mersa Matruh? Oh God, Patrick ...”

“Mr. President, soldiers are resting here, preparing for battle,” Patrick said woodenly. “You know the old saying—lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.”

“And you think Kevin Martindale is your leader?”

Patrick had to close his eyes against the pain of the dart thrust through his heart. “Damn you, Thom!” he cried against clenched teeth. The other Night Stalkers turned toward him, but no one approached—they seemed to instantly know whom he was talking with. Patrick knew that, again, Thomas Thom the hippie-dippie president had cut right to the heart of the matter.