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credentials. A moment later a phalanx of dark-suited men appeared, leading the way for President Jack D’Amici and his entourage. Dr. Blitz was at President D’Amici’s side, and the two men were engaged in a deep discussion. The secretaries of defense and state walked immediately behind, frowning deeply, while a handful of aides scurried behind, trying to keep up.
    Deep furrows lined the President’s forehead. The tips of his close-cropped hair were stained gray, and though his body was trim, even on the thin side, the flesh at the corners of his chin had begun to sag. He was perhaps two decades older than Howe, young for a president, though the office weighed on him as it weighed on every man.
    Howe had met him after the recovery of Cyclops One, the airborne laser plane that had been hijacked and then recovered by a team Howe had led. The pilot had come away from the meeting disappointed; spending a few minutes alone with the President had punctured the larger-than-life fantasy he’d unknowingly had of the man. But now that he saw him in the hall, absorbed in thought, Howe felt a sensation of awe take hold. This was the President of the United States, the commander in chief, and if he wasn’t larger than life—if he wasn’t a god or even a demigod—he was nonetheless a man of uncommon ability and even greater responsibility.
    President D’Amici shook his head at something Blitz said. As he did he turned toward Howe, catching a glimpse of him.
    “Colonel Howe, how are you?” said the President, as matter-of-factly as if he saw Howe every day. Before Howe could actually say anything in response, D’Amici added, “Good, good,” and walked on, not even breaking his stride. Blitz himself took no notice of Howe, not even pausing in his conversation.
    “Hey, Colonel,” said a tall black man peeling off from the back of the formation to pump Howe’s hand.
    “Tyler?”
    “How the hell are you?” Major Kenal Tyler had been an Army Special Forces captain when he and Howe had met a few months before. Tyler had led a team that helped recover the Cyclops airborne laser weapon.
    “You’re in D.C. now?” asked Howe.
    Tyler laughed. “Everybody’s got to be somewhere. I’m on a special task force. Brain work. I’m attached to the Joint Chiefs staff, but I’ve been doing tons of work for the NSC. What are you doing these days?”
    “Supposed to meet Dr. Blitz.”
    “Great. You going to work for him?”
    Howe shrugged.
    Tyler looked at him as if he expected an explanation. When Howe didn’t offer one, the major suggested they have a drink sometime. “Where you staying?”
    Howe told him the hotel. Tyler nodded—it wasn’t clear to Howe whether he was truly interested in getting together or not—then ran off down the hall to catch up with the others.
    If the Secret Service agent was impressed by the fact that Howe knew the President, it didn’t show in his manner. He checked the ID again before letting Howe pass.
    “Would you like some coffee, Colonel?” asked Mozelle Clarke, Blitz’s administrative assistant, when he arrived in Blitz’s office a few minutes later.
    “Not really, thanks. I’m kind of coffeed out this morning.”
    “Mention that to Dr. Blitz,” she said.
    “Mention what?” said Blitz.
    “That some people drink too much coffee.”
    “I give up coffee every few months,” said Blitz, meeting him at the door. Blitz looked every bit the academic he had been before coming to work with the administration: His shirt was rumpled and his tie loose at the neck, while his glasses leaned so far off the edge of his nose it seemed impossible that they didn’t fall. Books were stacked high around the office, and the titles that were visible included tomes on biblical studies, English literature, and French philosophy as well as world politics and military analysis.
    “Against my better judgment,” Blitz said, as if commenting on something he had said before.
    “The coffee?” asked Howe,