Of course, Harrison’s words were all for show, Mixell had thought. There was no way Harrison — or any other SEAL, for that matter — would turn him in. SEALs were a tight-knit fraternity, men who had one another’s backs. The despicable terrorists were simply getting what they deserved, and Mixell was saving the military and civil justice system a ton of money and effort.

But he had gotten it wrong. He could still recall the shock and visceral anger that overcame him when he learned that Harrison had reported what he’d done to their commanding officer. After months in the brig followed by a court-martial, he’d been sentenced to fifteen years in prison, getting out after eight.

While incarcerated, Mixell had made a mental revenge list, which included Harrison and the country that had turned its back on him after he’d fought valiantly for it, risking his life countless times. He would repay America for what it had done to him.

The front door of the blue-and-white house opened, pulling Mixell from his reverie. Gary Nagle emerged, heading toward the car in the driveway.

As Nagle pulled the keys from his pocket, Mixell brought the rifle to his shoulder and an eye to the scope, centering the crosshairs on the man’s head. When Nagle reached the car door and stopped to insert the key, it was all too easy.

Mixell pulled the trigger, and Nagle’s head jerked as the round drilled into his skull and exited the other side, accompanied by a pink puff of blood and gray matter spraying over the top of the car.

Nagle slumped onto the driveway, then Mixell returned the rifle to the passenger’s seat and did a U-turn with the Tahoe, heading back down Marquand Drive.

Two down, three to go.

10

USS MICHIGAN

“Helm, ahead two-thirds. Sonar, Conn. Commence sonar search, all sectors.”

Captain Murray Wilson stood on the Conn as Lieutenant Brittany Kern, the submarine’s Officer of the Deck, standing beside him, slowed Michigan from ahead flank to ten knots, extending the sonar’s search range. After departing NSA Bahrain, Michigan had headed east at maximum speed for the last fifteen hours and was now entering the UUV’s operating area.

Wilson had put the transit time to good use. Using the UUV information Verbeck’s aide had provided, Michigan’s crew had developed a sonar search plan based on the acoustic tonals the vehicle emitted, along with the various speeds and depths at which the submersible was programmed to operate. However, it would be a challenge to detect the small vehicle.

The UUV was battery powered with a direct-drive motor propulsion — no engine, spinning steam turbine, or reduction gears — also lacking any oil, hydraulic, or water pumps that were the acoustic bane of larger, manned submarines. The submersible was quiet indeed. If it weren’t for the small size of the UUV’s operating area, Michigan’s chance of detecting the vehicle would have been almost nil.

Wilson looked up at the red digital display of the submarine’s course, speed, and depth above the Quartermaster’s stand. Traveling at ahead flank, Michigan’s acoustic sensors had been blunted by the flow noise past the sonar hydrophones at high speed. But the submarine had coasted down to ten knots several minutes earlier, long enough for Sonar to complete its initial long-range search.

Lieutenant Kern called out to the microphone in the overhead, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar. Hold no contacts of interest. All contacts correlate to merchants.”

Wilson examined the contact solutions being generated on the nearest combat control console. Every contact was traveling at a relatively high speed — twenty knots or more.

Merchant ships weren’t high-speed vessels, but they usually didn’t dawdle as they traveled from port to port, typically transiting at twenty knots. The UUV, on the other hand, usually traveled slowly, just fast enough to maintain steerage and depth control as it traveled near the surface with an antenna lifted above the water to collect electromagnetic signals.

Wilson settled into the Captain’s chair on the Conn, waiting while Sonar continued its search.

The small UUV was going to be a challenge to find, indeed.

11

NATIONAL HARBOR, MARYLAND

Located along the Potomac River on 350 acres is the National Harbor waterfront complex, comprising over two hundred shops, forty restaurants, and eight hotels, along with multiple entertainment venues such as the MGM resort with Las Vegas — style gambling. A centerpiece of National Harbor is the Gaylord National Resort and Convention Center, which contains a nineteen-story, glass-encased lush garden atrium and over a half million square feet of event space, including several fifty-thousand-square-foot ballrooms.