Vice Admiral David Mercer did not hesitate for three-tenths of a second. The seventy-four-year-old four-star Admiral turned on his hand-welted leather bridge shoes with that clean, concussive *CRACK* against the hardwood:
*CRACK.*
“Stone! Cooper! Red Squadron!” Admiral Mercer barked, his voice sixty decibels of mountain quarry explosive that filled the entire sanctuary:
“Execute Directive Archangel-Ten! Deploy Task Force Caduceus! Clear the flight corridor between this hotel roof and the coastal cliffside redoubt under Title Fifty War Powers! Scramble the presidential intercept corridor!”
Admiral Mercer looked at Captain Garrett Stone, Marcus Cooper, Ethan, and me, his flint-gray eyes hardening into cold, unyielding iron:
“Captain Stone, secure Chancellor Mercer and Lieutenant Commander Ethan Cole aboard Lead Bird Nine-Seven-Two. Olivia… take your grandfather’s titanium transit keyway. We have eight minutes before their diamond core drills reach the liquid-nitrogen pressure coils beneath Arthur’s foundation.”
*CLACK.*
Two SOG tactical operators stepped forward in synchronized, mechanical precision across the floor:
