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 border:
CRACK.
“Stone! Cooper! Red Squadron!” Admiral Mercer barked, his voice sixty decibels of mountain quarry explosive that filled the entire pavilion:
“Execute Directive Archangel-Ten! Deploy Task Force Caduceus! Clear the flight corridor between this gym and the Cedar Falls limestone bluffs under Title Fifty War Powers! Scramble the presidential intercept corridor!”
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Admiral Mercer looked at Captain Garrett Stone, Marcus Cooper, and me, his flint-gray eyes hardening into cold, unyielding iron:
“Captain Stone, secure Chancellor Mercer and Master Warden Evan Mercer aboard Lead Bird Nine-Seven-Two. Damon... 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.
I pulled on my Red Wing boots, laced them tight with two swift pulls, buttoned my flannel shirt, and stepped out through the pulverized glass entrance into the cold rain.
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