FORTY-EIGHT

In Union Beach, New Jersey, the nuclear team had completed the assembly of their weapon. At the appointed time, they blasted their massive EMP signal over a ten-mile area, blocking all other telecommunications in that radius — further insurance of security for their sat-fone conference call. Their call linked them with both the terror cell in the Shenandoah Valley and the Russian special-operations headquarters along the northern Kyrgyzstan border. Radinovad, the brilliant Russian chief of clandestine activities, led the brief discussion from his office in the former museum building in the city of Taraz.

“Metropolis, are you ready?” he asked the New Jersey group.

“We are” was the reply.

“And Marble Lady are you ready?”

“Yes sir. Affirmative,” answered the terror cell in the Shenandoah Valley.

“Any evidence of being compromised?”

Both groups said no.

“Let’s all check our atomic clocks.”

They were all coordinated, down to the second.

“Gentlemen, I must remind you that precision is key. Observe your schedules scrupulously. Thank you.”

When Radinovad clicked off, he turned to several big satellite video screens in his office. He saw a host of blips on his electronic map. Each represented a naval warship from Russian-bloc nations heading to the Mediterranean.

He glanced over at the landmass comprising Mother Russia and the nations surrounding it: Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan. Many dots within Russia, and several dots in the other countries, each representing the mobilization of troops. Then over in Turkey, more dots. Libya, Sudan, more dots.

He sipped his espresso and was satisfied. The Russian commander wished for the day when he could take a few days off with his mistress, go to the secret resort along the Black Sea reserved for only high-ranking officials of the Russian republic and members of the FSB like him, go sailing and sunbathing. Pretty soon, he told himself.

Until then, he had a front-row seat to a historic re-creation, like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. He put in an e-alert message to the rest of his team, telling them to come into his office for a briefing.

Then he entertained an aggrandizing thought once again while he took another sip of the black, grainy espresso: The stage is dressed. The iron curtain is ready to rise again. Our global drama will be greater than anything Tolstoy could have imagined. It will rewrite everything.

Deputy Colwin was in the lead. His squad car roared down a dirt lane a half mile from the site of the terror cell. Gallagher and Treumeth were behind him in Gallagher’s rental, trying to keep up. They wondered what kind of wild-goose chase they were on because the sheriff’s deputy had not bothered to tell them where they were going.

The two cars pulled up in front of a farmhouse. A few chickens wandered aimlessly on the lawn and clucked.

Colwin sprinted up the steps and banged frantically on the door. “Ruby,” he called through the door. “Hurry it up!” It was a full minute before a big woman came to the door, wiping her hands.

She said, “Corby, sorry. I was out back, cleanin’ chickens.”

“Where’s Blackie?”

“Inside. Trying to make a call. Says his cell phone went out when he was out on the tractor.”

“How about Dumpster?”

“He’s inside with him.”

Colwin dodged inside with Ruby. There was a flurry of activity, and Colwin came flying out with Ruby, a man in his fifties, and a very large guy about six-four and three hundred pounds. They were carrying rifles and shotguns and a large plastic container that looked like a fishing tackle box. It had Remington and Winchester stickers on it.

Colwin pointed to the older man. “This is Blackie Horvath, parttime volunteer emergency-services coordinator. He’s a gun permit instructor. This is Ruby, his wife. She won the ladies’ shotgun competition last year.”

Ruby turned to Blackie and pointed to one of his shotguns. “Hon, give me that Remington over-and-under will you? She’s my favorite …”

Gallagher turned to the huge man holding two hunting rifles with scopes attached.

“Let me guess, you’re Dumpster?”

The huge guy smiled wide and nodded.

Ruby said, “My boy Dumpster here won the state wrestling championship in high school for his weight division.”

Gallagher shot back, “You don’t have Sumo wrestling here, do you, Mrs. Horvath?”

She bulleted back, squinting her eyes at Gallagher, “Dumpster did two tours in Iraq. Sharpshooter. Can shoot the head off a chicken at a thousand yards.”

Gallagher stepped up and shook the man’s hand. “Dumpster, you’re my new best friend.”

Colwin, already standing by his squad car, shouted that the Horvath family would ride with him, and he’d finish briefing them on the ride back to the site.

The two cars spit gravel and raced back up the driveway.

The whole thing seemed ridiculously surreal to Gallagher. Then again, that would describe most of his experience at the FBI. Gallagher looked at the squad car ahead. Dumpster’s huge head bobbed with each bump in the dirt road. Gallagher tried to put a label on the whole thing, and he succeeded: Special-ops unit of the Beverly Hillbillies versus some very scary terrorists.

Or maybe it was more like a picture Gallagher remembered from his childhood, a picture of ordinary farmers running with muskets — on their way to Lexington and Concord.

Gallagher nodded at the squad car ahead of them and said, “Frank, we could do a whole lot worse …”