*Sever the secondary cryogenic nitrogen flange.*
*Detonate Valve Station Ten before midnight.*
The digital countdown on Marcus Cooper’s tactical wrist console flared in bright, unblinking crimson: `23:34:14 EST`.
Twenty-five minutes and forty-six seconds until the statutory eighty-year spendthrift restriction on Parcel Ten expired at midnight Eastern Standard Time.
Inside the crowded sanctuary, the transformation was instantaneous.
United States Attorney Marcus Cooper did not hesitate for three-tenths of a second. The chief federal prosecutor turned on his hand-welted leather bridge shoes with that clean, concussive *CRACK* against the stone aisle:
*CRACK.*
“Stone! Cooper! Red Squadron!” Cooper barked, his voice sixty decibels of mountain quarry explosive that silenced the four hundred guests:
“Execute Directive Archangel-Ten! Deploy Task Force Caduceus! Clear the flight corridor between this hotel roof and the Narragansett coastal bluffs under Title Fifty War Powers! Scramble the presidential intercept corridor!”
From the center aisle, stepping through the rear threshold behind Cooper, wearing his full Service Dress Blue uniform of midnight-blue wool, four solid-silver cast stars blazing on his shoulder boards, ten dense rows of combat decorations covering his broad chest…
