CHAPTER 1

I guess you could say there was no love lost between my brother Jack and me. He was fifteen years old when I was born and had spent his life up till then as an only child. It wasn't that our parents hadn't tried to have more kids in between—they did. But Mom had a condition that made getting pregnant difficult, if not impossible. So, Jack pretty much thought he had the folks all to himself and that he always would have.

Then the impossible happened. Jack had all of seven months to get used to the idea that he was going to be a brother. If they'd had ultrasound technology back then, he'd've probably begged Mom to get one. He was dying to know whether I was going to be a girl or a boy. A sister he could've lived with. But just when things had started to get interesting between him and Dad—I guess these days they'd call it "male bonding"—the possibility that he might have some competition for the old man's attention did not sit well.

How do I know all this? Because Jack told me, that's how. No, it wasn't back when I was a toddler and he was a teenager with a chip on his shoulder. It was, in actual fact, not that long ago. It all began the day Jack got an email and I got a text message on my cellphone. . . .

(*)

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," said Uncle George. "I was wondering if you'd both show up."

It was easy to tell that Uncle George was Dad's younger brother. They were both short, squat, red-haired and balding. Unlike Jack and me, they'd always been pretty close.

The message my brother and I had received had come from Uncle George. It simply stated that something had happened to Dad and that we needed to come home immediately. Being dutiful sons—despite our issues with each other—we both took off for Denver as soon as we were able to pack a bag and leave.

Jack, a Navy pilot for thirty years who was now an admiral with a desk job at Homeland Security, decided to fly. And me? I've dabbled in a lot of things. I drove the Interstate all the way from L.A. in my beat-up, old, red Jeep. It took me two and a half days to get to Denver. Due to some urgent business at Homeland, it took Jack that long to get there, too.

Coincidentally, we both arrived at the old homestead—where Uncle George had asked us to meet him—at around the same time: me in my old, red Jeep and Jack in a new, black Cherokee that he'd rented at the airport.

As we leapt out of our respective vehicles, we said simultaneously, "I like the Jeep," and traded ironic smiles at the thought that we actually had something in common. Uncle George's silver '89 Lincoln was in the driveway. We squeezed past it as we headed for the front door.

"Your hair is shorter," Jack commented.

"Yours is grayer," I returned.

"I grew up," I said.

"I got older," said Jack.

Then, never one for formalities, Jack addressed our uncle as we approached him, saying, "Yeah, George, we're both here. Now, what was that message you sent us about something happening to Dad?"

"Let's all go on inside and I'll explain," Uncle George replied, nodding his head toward the front door. Jack and I looked at each other. It had been years since either of us had set foot in that house. Not since Mom's funeral had we been able to bring ourselves even so far as the doorstep.

We'd kept in touch with Dad by phone (me), email (Jack), and greeting cards (both), always with a promise to come home for a visit sometime. But, it had never happened; and, if the feelings of foreboding I was having were any indication, there was a good chance that it never would. . . I shivered; so, I noticed, did Jack. And there wasn't even a hint of a breeze in the air. And it was midsummer. It was probably just nerves, or something. Anyway, the only kinds of spooks I've ever believed in are the Government kind. . ..

(**)

Despite the fact that my kid brother has the IQ of an orange, he's pretty much got things straight, up to this point. Uncle George emailed me because he knows I have a computer on my desk at Homeland, and it's the safest way to get in touch with me. He sent a text message to Mac because my brother never seems to be in one place very long, and his cellphone is always with him. Although I've been forced to use them for my job, I'm not really fond of computers, cellphones, palm pilots or any other thing that requires taking a college course or studying an instruction manual before you can properly operate it.

. . . and I've never been really fond of Mac, either. All that was about to change, though. I mean, when you think about it, I went off to Annapolis right about the time he was starting to say complete sentences, so there wasn't much time or opportunity for us to really get to know each other. Over the years, as he grew up, I grew older.

After Annapolis, I got married to a girl named Liz Howell, had a kid, and lost them both when my son drowned in the Pacific Ocean. . ..

I was stationed at a seaside naval base at the time, and Joey loved the water. He and his mother had gone to the beach—which they did about twice a week, just to hang out—when Joey decided to go in for a swim. It was early in the season, so the water was still pretty high, but Joey was a good swimmer, so we didn't worry all that much about him. He was ten years old at the time . . . kind of small for his age (since his mom is fairly small-boned and I'm not especially husky myself); and he went out a little farther than he should have. Liz, busy reading her favorite magazine, didn't notice; and, before she knew it, our son was caught in an undertow. He bobbed to the surface and yelled for help, but by the time anyone was able to reach him, he'd gone under for the third time. He wasn't big enough or strong enough to survive.

Joey was a kid who enjoyed swimming in the ocean; the ocean is a dangerous place. Period. It was nobody's fault . . . but my wife had just lost her only child. So, she had to blame someone and chose to blame me. If I hadn't been stationed at a seaside naval base, she said, it never would've happened.

Unwilling to take the blame for my posting—which certainly wasn't my doing—I blamed her for taking him to the beach and not keeping a better watch on him while they were there. Deep inside she felt I was right, but she couldn't live with the guilt if she actually had to accept the blame, so she chose to lay it on me instead. It didn't occur to either of us to blame Joey for not having sense enough not to go out so far. He was just a kid. You can't blame your own child for his own death—especially when he's only ten years old. So, of course, a rift formed between Liz and me that was irreparable. The pain and guilt were too much for either of us to bear, so we parted ways. Liz eventually remarried, although it was years before she was ready to have another kid. . . As for me, I focused on my career. Up in the air, in an F-14 Tomcat, I could keep the real world and all its pain at bay—for a little while, anyway.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what became of me after I left home. Since then, as Mac previously mentioned, I've retired from active service and am now a desk jockey at Homeland Security. I'm still wearing the uniform, but it's mostly just to get the subordinates to follow orders. A lot of 'em are civilians, but when they see a high-ranking, highly-decorated officer (in full uniform) looking at them as though he means business, they tend to be more respectful than they are to the suits. "The suits," they think, have always been pencil pushers and always will be pencil pushers. At least "the uniforms" have some field experience. At least they have some idea of what it's like out there in "the real world."

Maybe; but even us flea-bitten, hard-nosed vets are up against it when it comes to fighting terrorism. . . Hey, I'd rather go back to fighting the Cold War with the Soviets than to have to deal with all this tightened—and heightened—security that's been implemented to keep another 9/11 from happening. Not to mention trying to gather intell that might help the men overseas who are fighting the terrorists on their own turf. There are times I wish I was really old enough to retire.

Anyway, I knew something was wrong the minute I found the email from Uncle George. Except for the occasional Christmas card, we hadn't communicated with each other since my son's funeral, although that's probably more my fault than his. I haven't exactly been a ray of sunshine in recent years. But that's beside the point.

Back to Uncle George. Yeah. A cool guy, all in all. Very devoted to Dad. And my gut told me that whatever had happened to my old man, it meant I'd probably never see him again. What I hadn't counted on was dealing with my kid brother.

Mac had been ring bearer at my wedding, but only because Mom had insisted. He hadn't wanted to do it. It had felt like a complete sham to both of us, since we were virtual strangers to each other. Of course, being only seven, Mac wasn't able to put it into those exact words. . . . If he'd been a child of the '80's, he probably would've said, "This is so bogus!" And it was. Sort of. Truth is, he did a darned good job—didn't trip, drop the ring, or anything. I was actually kind of proud of him. But that was then.

When I saw him twenty years later at Mom's funeral, his hair was long—well, long-ish, with, you know, a kind of shag at the back and bangs that really weren't . . . bangs. It was almost more of a hairy fringe that sort of fluffed out over his forehead. I half expected him to show up wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. As far as I knew, that had always been his wardrobe of choice. But he loved Mom way too much to be that disrespectful, so he actually wore a suit. The thought occurred to me that maybe he'd rented it, since I was pretty sure he didn't own one.

Sorry. Where my brother is concerned, I tend to get carried away.

Anyway, we didn't say two words to each other either at the funeral service or at the burial afterward. Not until the luncheon back at the house did we actually manage to speak to each other. As I recall, I asked Mac, "How's it goin'?" and he replied (with a shrug), "It's hangin'. You?" and I said, "I got a promotion last month . . ." Mac then nodded and said, "I know, Dad rubbed my nose in it," and walked away with his plateful of cold cuts and condiments. That was the last conversation the two of us had had.

And now we were back home again, this time with Uncle George, waiting to find out if we were orphans . . . or if Dad was just M.I.A. . . .

(***)

So, Uncle George opened the door and we all went inside. There was a sofa and two armchairs. Uncle George took the sofa. Jack and I each took a chair, which sat at opposite ends of the coffee table. Jack tossed his hat (I believe the military types call it a "cover") onto the coffee table before sitting down. Uncle George sat on the edge of the center-most cushion of the sofa. His legs were spread apart, his arms rested on his thighs, his hands hung down between his knees, and his fingers were loosely laced together. He looked back and forth from me to Jack as he spoke to us.

"As you both know, your father was Editor-in-Chief of The Denver Standard-Gazette for twenty years. When he was forced to retire, he bought the paper and became its publisher: He wanted to keep his hand in and stay on top of things, and he wasn't about to take retirement lying down. Although the job of Editor-in-Chief was given to someone else, he left standing orders that anything of moment or significant import should be brought to his attention by whatever means . . . depending upon the time of day and his location at that time.

"Well, something of moment came up about six weeks ago. He called me one afternoon and we had dinner together that evening, during which he told me that one of the young hotshot reporters at the Standard-Gazette had gone to the editor with a story that was hotter 'n hell on the Fourth of July. Pete told the editor, who in turn told the young reporter (whose name is James—or Jimmy—Kelsey) not to pursue the story—that it was too dangerous. They were both told that unless they wanted their journalistic careers—and their lives—to be cut very short, they should just leave it alone. In order to make certain that the boy did just that, Pete told the editor to take the file from Jimmy and to make certain that every bit of pertinent information he had gathered up to that point was confiscated. Everything was downloaded from Jimmy's computer onto a flash drive and then deleted from the hard drive. After getting the flash drive from the editor, your father downloaded the information onto his own computer."

"Let me guess," Jack said. "Dad decided to try to pursue the story himself, despite how dangerous it was."

"Now, why," I asked sarcastically, "would Dad wanna do a thing like that?"

"If you two would can the commentary—"

"Sorry, Uncle George," we said in semi-unison.

"But, yes, Jack, you're right. Your father did decide to pursue the matter himself, and it was dangerous. That evening at dinner he told me the whole story—everything Jim Kelsey had learned. It was a bombshell."

"And?" Jack prompted.

"If you think I'm going to be foolish enough to tell it to you two boys, you've got another think coming. I haven't had a good night's sleep since your father told it all to me, and I'm far from being a coward."

"Then, what are we doing here?" I asked. "I get the feeling you want us to help in some way, but I don't see how we can if we don't know what's going on."

"What he said," Jack agreed. "Besides that, George, I'm an admiral in the United States Navy. I work at Homeland Security. I've fought in three wars."

"Not all of them were wars," I said brilliantly.

"Not officially," Jack grumbled, obviously having heard that argument before, "but a bullet is a bullet and a bomb is a bomb, and people die either way."

"If you two are through . . .!"

"Cut to the chase, Uncle George," I said. "Jack's an experienced, uh . . . What exactly are you, Jack? You're not a soldier; you're not a pilot anymore . . ."

"I'm an experienced military man with ties to Intelligence."

"Glad to hear you got some from somewhere. . . ."

"That's enough!" roared Uncle George. He sighed. "Your father told me that, as far as he knew, you two had never had a real conversation. The way you're carrying on, anyone would think you'd been throwing barbs at each other your entire lives!" He shook his head. "It's against my better judgment, but I'm going to tell you what young Jimmy Kelsey found out."

Jack and I were on the edges of our seats, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"Well?" Jack prompted.

"It seems," said Uncle George, "that someone close to the President—not someone in the Cabinet, and not one of the Joint Chiefs, but nevertheless someone in the White House who has access to the President—has been selling secrets to Al Qaeda."