“Very wise precaution, General McLanahan,” Muhammad as-Sanusi commented, his smile beaming. He waved at Wohl; his wave was not returned. None of them could see what weapon Wohl was carrying, but there were no doubts in anyone’s mind that he was more than proficient with it at this close range.

“Just a heads-up, Muck—Naval Intelligence has just initiated a foreign-contact log on you,” David Luger reported. “They’ll start setting up surveillance on you, probably tap your phones, all that stuff. The contact log said that Muhammad as-Sanusi made contact with you right there in Coronado?”

“He and his men are with me right now,” Patrick said. “So I should assume we’re under surveillance right now, correct?”

“I think that would be a safe assumption. What’s happening?”

“The king says Wendy and the Americans are alive.”

“Holy shit! That’s great! Can we confirm it? Do we have a location?”

“No, and no,” Patrick said. “But I want to get the force loaded up and headed back to Jaghbub right away.”

“You got it, Muck,” Briggs said. “But just to let you know, the feds have really cracked down on Sky Masters. They’ve got us in virtual lockdown as we speak, and Jon has received notice of an FBI security inspection team that wants unlimited access to inspect the base tomorrow morning. My guess is that they’re not there to do a security audit—they’ll shut down the facility. I’m sure we’ve got Defense Intelligence Agency guys on our butts, and now we’ll have to contend with Naval Intelligence.”

“Which means we start immediately,” Patrick said. “I’ll go with the king and Dave to Libya and get the base set up; you and Chris will split up and help Jon get our planes airborne with as many weapons and as much fuel as we can carry.”

TONOPAH TEST RANGE, NEVADA
 A SHORT TIME LATER

The Suburban screeched to a halt in front of the security gate, and six men in plain dark business suits hopped out and assembled at the electric gate. The man from the front passenger seat picked up the phone mounted on the fence beside the gate. “Special Agent Willison, FBI, Los Angeles. My office called this morning.” The gate was buzzed open by the guards inside, and the agents rushed in.

They were met inside the guardhouse by a young man who extended his hand to welcome them but was greeted instead by upraised ID cards and stem, intimidating expressions. “I’m Special Agent Larry Willison, FBI,” the lead agent said. “And you are?”

“John Landow, assistant security director of Sky Masters Inc., the prime contractor in this facility.”

“I asked to meet directly with Dr. Masters or General McLanahan. Where are they?”

“They’re both in the lab right now,” Landow said, “but they can meet you as soon as you clear security.”