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the sun with the palm of her hand. Three officers in pressed khaki uniforms and blue hats were in line, watching the helo come in. “It’s the skipper … chief of the boat … and the third one is the chaplain. They aren’t smiling.”
    Taylor spoke again on the aircraft’s internal network. “Listen up, everybody. The doom and gloom squad is out to meet us. The only time those three ever get together is to play poker or deliver bad news. I did not get an alert about it, so we’ll just have to wait and see. Don’t spaz out.”
    The helo shifted into a smooth hover, then edged slowly forward to match the speed of the Stratton. Petty Officer Second Class Beth Ledford thought, Dang. Wonder what they want?

 
     
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    K YLE S WANSON STOOD AT the general’s window in the Pentagon, looking out over the serene park at 1 Rotary Road while the Lizard gave the office a final electronics sweep before the meeting. The crepe myrtle trees were showing signs of maturity as their roots dug deeper into the soil, a visual marker of passing time, like a child’s growth measured year by year on the sill of a door. People were strolling on the gravel and sitting on the cantilevered benches. More than a decade had elapsed since American Airlines Flight 77 was hijacked a short time after takeoff from Washington on September 11, 2001. Its captors had turned the fully fueled Boeing 757 jetliner around and flown it straight into the west wall of the Pentagon at 345 miles per hour. There were 184 benches out there now, one for each of the 59 passengers and crew and 125 military and civilian Pentagon personnel who died that day. The same day, the Twin Towers fell in New York, and the United States went to war against terrorism.
    Reconstruction of the charred and gutted section of the huge building went fast, for the Pentagon had been in the middle of a renovation program. The emphasis on secrecy and going to war against terrorists also brought along a gloves-off approach, and several special offices were included in the new Pentagon, offices that were almost impossible to find on any diagram or directory. These would be home bases for warriors who prowled the dark side. One of those areas was assigned to Major General Bradley Middleton of the U.S. Marine Corps, the commander of Task Force Trident, a special operations unit that reported only to the president of the United States.
    The glass through which Swanson was watching the solemn tourists was two inches thick and blast resistant. Structural steel beams encased the few rooms, the doors had combination locks and retina scans, and a polymer-mesh-reinforced fabric covered the walls. The electronics suite was state-of-the-art. Swanson was pleased that he worked right at the aiming point for the terrorists. Time might pass, but coming to work here hardened his resolve every day. His job was to fight the enemy, wherever they might be, and no one in Trident believed the death of Osama bin Laden meant the war was over. Rival sects in the Middle East were trying to seize bin Laden’s mantle of mysterious leadership. Terrorists don’t sign peace treaties.
    Neither did Task Force Trident. It had only five members, but Middleton could draw as many people as needed from other services and agencies to accomplish a mission. The two-star general was the commander, and the operations officer was Sybelle Summers, the youngest female lieutenant colonel in the Marine Corps and the only woman ever to make it through Marine Recon training. Her clandestine exploits had earned her the nickname “Queen of Darkness.”
    Navy Commander Benton Freedman was Trident’s communications officer, an electronics genius with a round face, round glasses, and such an incredible intellect that he had been called “the Wizard” in the submarine service. The Marines in Trident altered that to “Lizard” to get under his skin, and the nickname stuck.
    Senior Master Sergeant O. O. Dawkins was the administrative chief,