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  As the troop carriers sped closer, three much larger helicopters roared overhead, their beating rotors saturating the air like the war drums of a thousand angry warriors. Their bellies full of heavily armed and anxious young soldiers in black body armor, these Pave Low IV rotorcraft dashed toward the middle of the village, then paused abruptly fifty feet above the business district.

  After rounding a slight curve, the major reached inside and tapped his driver’s shoulder, indicating to Staff Sergeant Chambers to apply the brakes. The wheels of the five vehicles behind them screeched lightly, their engines quieting to a low hum as they pulled to the shoulder within clear sight of the mountainside town.

  In the same instant that the debarkation ramps on the back of the armored vehicles fell open, the soldiers spilled out and scrambled for cover along the roadway. With paternal care, Major Jackson visually inspected each of his men’s position as he climbed from the commander’s hatch and dropped to the ground. Satisfied his soldiers had taken sufficient cover, he took up his binoculars and scanned the area before them.

  They’d met no opposition thus far, which was surprising. The town appeared totally lifeless, seeming to confirm the earlier reconnaissance reports that Jackson had discounted as erroneous. Still, he held his breath as he watched the operation through swirling dust clouds whipped up by the big helicopters’ rotor blades — the proverbial all hell could erupt at any time dominating his thoughts.

  In the town, the major’s airborne element fast-roped from the choppers and onto the roofs and streets, then rushed to safe vantage points. Jackson watched until the emptied helicopters banked in unison and sped back toward the safety of the ridge.

  Anticipation electrified the air. Tension and angst seemed tangible. But as Major Jackson watched the insertion, time passed monotonously, uneventfully, and the minutes ticked by allowing dark despair to settle in, frustration laying heavily against him like some kind of medieval torture device.

  Jackson swung his glasses in the direction of the homes spread along the wooded mountainside. But he saw no lights from the houses. He spied no armed adversaries, no curious citizens on the sidewalks, in any of the yards or even peeking from behind their doors while still in their bathrobes. No cars drove on the streets or were parked in the narrow, gravel driveways. No morning newspapers lay on the porches — not even a single dog barked at their intrusion.

  The houses were old, saltbox style, the newest of which had most likely been built in the thirties and forties. Some were obviously dilapidated, gaping holes in their weathered and warped roofs, shutters hanging at odd angles from graying wood lap siding, windows busted. Tall, brown weeds had overgrown the small yards. Garages, many leaning awkwardly from years of wind abuse and snow load, rested wearily aside a few of the homes, but they were too narrow to accommodate anything more modern than Model Ts.

  Jackson’s breathing slowed and deepened with dread. If today’s mission failed, there’d be little hope of finding Dan McMaster. Sunny would be devastated.

  Less than ten minutes passed before a half-dozen of the hostage rescue squads returned to the center of town, trotting in from the deserted residential area. Meanwhile, Jackson watched through his binoculars as several of his men stepped from the buildings and shops along the main drag and into the open. One man slung his assault rifle over his shoulder and moved out from the rest. He looked toward Jackson and the column of Stryker armored vehicles on the road five hundred yards away and shrugged his shoulders.

  A voice crackled in the major’s radio headset that he recognized as Lieutenant Carpenter’s. “Eagle Blue Team to Black Lion, come in.”

  Major Jackson acknowledged, “Black Lion. Go ahead, Eagle Blue.”

  “Sir, we’ve finished sweeping. No one’s home. Thick dust on everything. Hasn’t been anyone here in years.”

  The major watched as Carpenter glanced up the street at his returning comrades.

  A different voice came over the headset. “Sergeant Dixon, sir. Eagle Red didn’t have any luck, either.”

  “Roger,” the major said into his microphone. “Wrap it up, Eagle.” He turned with a frown as Sunny dropped from the short hood of their armored vehicle. She stepped next to him, and he handed her the binoculars. “Not one bastard soul in the whole damn town.”

  “How?” Sunny’s voice now sounded desperate. “They must be here.” She focused the binoculars, scanning the empty, dust-hazed streets. After a moment, she said, “It’s like a ghost town, an old movie set. Where else can they be, Dan and the others — an entire town, hundreds of people? They couldn’t have just vanished.” She pulled the binoculars away from her face, turned to Jackson and raised her voice in frustration. “It’s been two years, Jax. Where is he?”

  Jax looked down at her and narrowed his eyes in consternation. “There is another possibility. However, it’s nearly too incredible to believe.”

  “Wait a minute!” Sunny slammed the side of her fist against the thick steel fender. “This isn’t going to be more of the Defense Intelligence Agency’s hocus pocus, is it?”

  “Easy, Sunny. Don’t forget who your friends are.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring and sympathetic smile, but he doubted it was. “There are some other aspects to this thing we were reluctant to believe. Now it looks as though we have to consider them. For the most part, our intel is probably correct. But there is, let’s say . . . a twist.”

  “A twist?” Sunny threw her helmet to the ground, and it spun briefly at Jackson’s feet. She shook her head, and her hair fell over her shoulders. “You’d better do some quick explaining, or it’ll be me who does the twisting when I spill my guts to the media.” Her hands went to her hips, and she continued, “And don’t think I won’t do it. How do I explain to my daughter that her daddy isn’t coming home, that I still don’t know where he is, that he’s just up and disappeared? How do I convince her that wherever he is, he still loves her?” She shook her head again. “A twist! What caliber of remote viewers does the Department of Defense have working for them these days? ‘High probability,’ they said. They told you where to look, bragged about their accuracy. Bullshit! They were wrong.”

  Jackson nodded. “Maybe.” He looked to Staff Sergeant Chambers, who watched the operation from the driver’s hatch of their vehicle. “Chambers, hand me my case, please.”

  As the young sergeant ducked back inside, Sunny’s eyes pooled, and she spoke through her gritted teeth. “What now? They’re underground? They’re invisible? They’ve been changed into cockroaches?”

  Jackson placed his hand gently on the side of her shoulder. He tried to look her in the eyes, but she glared past him, instead seeming to focus on a point in the small town.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and leaned back against the Stryker vehicle. Her voice had softened. “I know, Jax. We go back a long way.” After a silent moment, she met his gaze and her voice elevated once again. “But you’d better understand this: I’m not going to believe any more crap — from the U.S. government or from you. Be straight with me. I want to know the truth — everything.”

  It was the stress talking, not Sunny, Jackson reminded himself. He’d known this woman and had been best friends with her husband for such a long time. Her mistrust cut like a serrated bayonet, but how could he blame her?

  He spoke slowly, emphasizing his sincerity. “Sunny, our remote viewers gave us two scenarios. We’d hoped this venue was the correct one. The RVs’ majority opinion, five of six, said this was the most likely locale. The minority opinion had a much more complicated and challenging scenario — a different Gold Rush. If that single RV is correct, the scope of this plot is incredible. Dozens of people we thought were dead for years, even decades, might still be alive. But for this new mission, the difficulty level will be daunting, and I’m sure the government won’t be willing to risk it.”

  Sunny shook her head again. “You’re saying it’s hopeless?”

  “No. I’m only a major, Sunny, but I’ve made a lot of
contacts over the past twenty years. A whole bunch of people owe me. I’ve called in all my markers for this one. We have equipment already staged at the alternate objective and we will be ready to go as soon as we get there.” He paused, knowing what he was about to say would give her a glint of hope. “Since we can’t count on our own government footing the bill or authorizing our mission, Gunny Sampson is backing us with money and logistics.”

  Sunny’s face only hinted a reminiscent smile. Jax knew that several years had passed since she’d seen their friend The Gunny.

  Staff Sergeant Chambers reemerged arm first from the driver’s hatchway, his hand gripping the handle of a thin, black attaché case. “Sir.”

  Jackson took it and glanced into the redhead’s vibrant green eyes. “Dan’s like a brother to me, Sunny, you know that. And I owe him — I owe him my life. I’ll search in every corner of this Earth for him, if that’s what it takes — spend each hour of every waking day. I promise you that I will find Daniel, or I’ll die trying.”

  He supported the case against the sloped front of the armored vehicle and opened it. As he took out an inch-thick file folder and handed it to her, he said, “I have some satellite photos I’d like you to see.”

  Chapter 1 — Gold Rush, Three Days Later

  I had no idea I would begin a killing spree on such a lovely morning. I felt animosity for no one. I willed no one dead.

  My name is Robert Weller. I’m the type of guy who will trap a spider in the shower, take it out to the bushes in the middle of the night and bid it farewell and happy hunting. But early on this Monday morning a change seemed to come over my life as subtle and lethal as a glass of Chardonnay laced with arsenic.

  I was dreaming. I saw myself sitting in a large room, white and cold. It smelled of antiseptic. In the middle of the room was a table with a large brown envelope propped up on it. I sat to one side in a hard oak chair. On the opposite side of the room, behind a small, gray-metal desk, sat a woman in a U.S. Army uniform. Her name was Lieutenant Vanzandtz, and she appeared to be in her early thirties. Her mismatched chair was thick and upholstered in burgundy leather or more likely cheap Naugahyde.

  In this dream, I was shirtless and covered in goose bumps. I didn’t know what the cathode-ray tube beside me monitored, nor did I care. That was their business. I was getting three hundred bucks. The jumping green lines and the constant blips from the machine were becoming annoying, however. The monitor’s leads were stuck to my temples and to well-shaven areas on the base of my head and on my chest.

  I closed my eyes but didn’t concentrate on the envelope as the lieutenant had just instructed. Instead, I thought of her. She had yet to smile. I guessed she’d have a pleasant smile if she’d ever try. But she just sat behind her desk, her face stern, mouth small and tight. I considered how a broad smile on her narrow face would’ve nicely balanced out her large-framed glasses and the bun of walnut hair on top of her head.

  My focus changed to the contents of the envelope. Somewhere behind my eyes a three-dimensional image formed. I saw blue-green water, deep but calm, near a beach with sand as white and fine as table salt. In the water, a white sailing yacht, probably eighty feet, floated peacefully with three large sails billowing in a light breeze. The name Chairman was scrolled in blue across the leisure vessel’s stern. To the left of the boat, the sun posed like a huge tangerine ball drifting in the ocean, and above, the clouds were wispy ghosts painted coral by the sun’s last rays.

  With eyes still closed, I turned my attention to a thick file folder in front of the lieutenant. Another vision came clear, the file’s jacket. Project: Grill Flame, it said in large, stamped-on letters. On its index tab was a name I didn’t recognize — Daniel McMaster. I focused on the heading of the first page. Remote Viewer Evaluation, it said. A list followed with all of the boxes farthest to the left checked under the Excellent column. Under Notes was written: Top candidate. Subject excels in all measured areas. Someone’s entire life put down in letters and numbers, I thought, and I got the distinct impression that this man’s file, this Daniel McMaster, was being used for comparison — some sort of watermark, the bar everyone else should strive to reach.

  I told the lieutenant what I saw in the thin package on which she had requested my attention, but I said nothing of what I’d discovered in the file folder, and I opened my eyes.

  She stood and walked leisurely toward the monitoring equipment next to me. As she stepped past the table, she plucked the envelope from it. After taking a moment to check the equipment, she turned to me and pulled out a line drawing on a standard, letter-size sheet of paper.

  Drawn in minimalistic pencil sketch was a scene exactly as I’d described, sans color and detail, except the sun was setting to the right of the boat.

  “Are you dyslexic?” the lieutenant asked, and she finally smiled. Her teeth were crooked.

  “No,” I said, “you had the drawing turned around.”

  * * *

  Seeming more like a distant memory than a dream, the vision faded as the scent of fruity lotion and perfumed powder roused me to consciousness.

  I didn’t open my eyes, yet I knew what I’d find when I did — my wife Michelle sitting naked at her make-up table across the room.

  It brought a smile to my face, and I reached for my glasses on the night table. When I looked, it was as I’d envisioned — Michelle sitting on her snow-white bathrobe like a Matisse painting I’d seen. I couldn’t remember where. There sat my childhood and high school sweetheart, the girl of my dreams, the mother of my son — the sweetest, most generous woman I knew.

  I must be strong for her today — be positive, for her. She had been through so much. This could be the day that would turn our lives around — that might bring Michelle out of the terrible slump of depression she’d succumbed to since the accident. Late this afternoon, we would find out whether or not our five-year-old son would ever be able to walk again — and we would finally be able to bring him home from the hospital after over six months of surgery and analysis.

  While inhaling the sweet potpourri of aromas, I sat up to enjoy the pleasantness for a long moment, and I smiled at my thoughts and the image before me. I inspected Michelle’s backside: the gentle curves, the soft and subtle beads of her spine — and I noticed the droplets of water her bath towel hadn’t reached in the small of her back. In a nearly entranced state, I observed the faint motion of her back and shoulder muscles as she pulled an ivory brush through her coal-black hair. Then I watched her massage peach-scented body oil into the silky, cinnamon skin of her shoulders, arms, breasts, stomach and legs. My little China doll, I thought, and my smile grew into a grin.

  Then, at precisely 6:42 a.m., according to the Sony digital alarm clock on the nightstand nearby, I slipped out of bed wearing nothing but a pair of silk boxers. A slight dizziness came over me, forcing me to hang onto the bedpost for balance.

  Easy, Superman, a voice told me.

  I paused while considering the voice and then quickly glanced around the room. Seeing only Michelle, I was momentarily perplexed. Slowly, I realized the voice wasn’t totally unfamiliar — that it must have been my own thoughts. But I couldn’t remember my thoughts coming so audibly, so distinctly. I immediately shrugged it off, supposing everyone heard voices at some time or another — the good spirit, bad spirit sort of thing. Perhaps mine was more of an alter ego, safely buried deep in my subconscious but there to give caution and warning whether I needed it or not.

  With the light-headedness easing some, I felt stiffness in the side of my neck and rubbed it while recalling the fall I’d taken on Friday morning in the shower. I remembered the day and night long stay I’d been forced to make in the same hospital as my son. I thought of the intense, throbbing headache I’d had and the lump low on the back of my head, which I now touched gingerly. It was still tender.

  My muscles were weak and tight, more so than I thought three days of recuperative rest should have caused. While doing a few tentative and simple
stretches to limber up, I discovered something else a little odd — my underwear: purple silk boxers covered in pink hearts — hmmm.

  My alter-ego voice surprised me again. Jeez, Superman! Where the hell did you get those sissy-assed things?

  I made a cursory scan of the room for a second time with the same result — no one standing behind the curtain, nobody lurking beneath the bed. The voice definitely seemed to originate inside my skull as if George Lucas himself had wired Dolby® Surround Sound® to tiny speakers and bolted them to the inside of my cranium.

  Deciding it was better than conversing with Harvey, the imaginary talking rabbit from that old Jimmy Stewart movie, I gazed at my shorts to answer my ostensible entity within. But I couldn’t remember where I’d gotten the suspect sleepwear. A Valentine’s Day present, I surmised. Probably stuffed into one of those I [Heart] You coffee mugs with a clutch of colorful balloons tied to the handle.

  Yeah, uh-huh, sure.

  I let the briefs fall to my ankles and then kicked them into an open clothes hamper in the corner next to the bathroom doorway.

  Michelle glanced over her shoulder with an ever-so-slight smile. I answered it with a wink. Then I went to her and, as I did, her large dark eyes followed me through the mirror. She looked me over, and it did my heart good to find the almost imperceptible smile remaining on her lips indicating pleasure in what she saw. When I reached her, I pressed my nude body against hers and ran my hand gently up and down the full length of her backbone. Her eyelids heavy and nostrils flaring, she responded by baring the side of her neck, giving me all the room I needed to kiss it, and I lingered there.

  God, I love this woman, these words coming to my thoughts so naturally as if whispered into my ear. A collage of memories from before the accident swam in my head: of Michelle, her brilliant smile, her laughing Asian eyes, her beautiful lips, the first time we kissed when we were still preteen, the night of the prom when she came ambling down the steps wearing a beautiful light-blue dress, the evening we went skinny dipping — her naked and shivering in a cold mountain pool — and then we made love for the first time.