“Are you all right, General McLanahan?” he heard behind him. He turned and saw Captain Fred Jackson, the commanding officer of Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, standing behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. Jackson was a tall, powerful-looking ex-SEAL who still looked as if he could command a team on a mission—he sometimes worked out with Patrick in the gym or at the SEAL Training Facility across the street, and even though Patrick had been working out for many years and Jackson was at least five years older, Patrick found it impossible to keep up with him.

Patrick nodded. “I’m okay, Fred,” he said ruefully.

“My guys told me you were on the base, so I thought I’d stop by and say hello,” Jackson said. “I’ll get a corpsman to look at that shoulder for you.”

“Not necessary. I’ll just get some ice on it.” But Jackson was not accustomed to anyone saying “no” to him—he already had someone on the way. A few minutes later they were sitting down together, Patrick with a bag of ice on his shoulder.

“You upset about something, sir?” Jackson asked. “You looked like you were about ready to toss those dumbbells through the mirrors.”

“No—just cranky because I’m getting more and more of these little pains,” Patrick said.

“The price of getting old ... I mean older,” Jackson said.

Patrick nodded at the TV as well. “I don’t understand why we’re not doing more over in Egypt, and that’s upsetting me as much as my shoulder.”

“I expected you to be in Washington advising the President on what to do,” Jackson said.

“Why do you say that?”

“According to what I’ve been reading, you’re still the number-one candidate for national security adviser,” the Navy SEAL said. “I thought you’d be out there in the thick of things, writing your policy papers, getting your classified briefings, and getting ready to testify in front of the Senate Armed Services Committee after your nomination.”

“So that’s why you’re over here looking me up, eh, Fred?” Patrick asked with a smile. “Thought you’d get a little face time with the rumored number-one guy?”

“Now, would I do that, sir?” he asked with a toothy grin. “Oh, by the way, I’m letting your son play in my office, I got him his own SEAL to watch him, and I brought in a gourmet chef from the Del to fix him lunch. Is that okay?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Fred, but I haven’t been anywhere near Washington or the White House in many moons, and I’m not likely to be,” Patrick said. “We don’t see eye to eye on much of anything.”

“Which is why all the pundits are saying you’re ‘it’— Thom likes surrounding himself with ideological opposites,” Jackson said. “You just remember your buddies who give you their tee times and let you fly your plane from their airstrips, the next time you talk to the President about the next chief of naval operations, okay?”