Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,47

of the villagers, were vibrant red—fresh. Then he noted several prone bodies, but they didn’t appear injured. In fact, they looked to be crawling through the clearing, up the mountainside. Their heads were covered with brush and leaves. Camouflage. He counted quickly now that he knew what to look for.

Boucher saw him counting. “There are at least fifty advancing. We think there are more in the trees below.”

“Who are they?”

“No idea. The brush they’re covered with conceals anything that might tell us who they are.”

“What are they doing?”

“Note the fellow in the upper left. The one holding a tree branch. He was our first clue.”

Duncan found the man. He looked like the others, but a splash of red made him stand out. After zooming in farther, Duncan could see it was the man’s brains exploding from the back of his skull. He’d been shot. A bullet had poked through the front of his head and punched out the back. A bullet fired from above.

He didn’t wait for Boucher’s instructions. He followed an imaginary line, tracing the bullet back to its origin. He stopped when he reached the trees. “Damn.”

“There’s a gap in the tree cover,” Boucher said.

Duncan found it and zoomed in closer. The gap filled the screen. He’d never been good at guessing objects based on macro photographs. “What is it?”

“Muzzle flash.”

The image came clear to him. He could make out the front end of the weapon—a long slender barrel hosting a tall sight. An explosion of light flared from the front of the weapon. He recognized its custom shape. He’d never held the weapon, but had seen pictures. The XM312-B.

Bishop.

The president sighed. They were alive. And fighting. He looked up at Boucher feeling hopeful and then realized there was more.

Boucher stood up, stepped over the presidential seal, and sat down next to Duncan. He pushed a button on the laptop’s keyboard. The image changed. A mound of fresh dirt and debris filled the image. Dust still clung to the air. The tops of trees poked out.

Duncan looked into Boucher’s pale blue eyes. “Is this . . . ?”

Boucher nodded. “Taken five minutes after the previous image. Looks like they brought the mountain down on top of them. We don’t know exactly what happened, but it doesn’t look good.”

“When were these taken?” Duncan asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

“An hour ago.”

“Keep watching the area. Get me images of anything and everything that changes, even if it’s a tree falling over.”

Boucher stood and collected the laptop. “Yes, sir.”

“Expand the search area, too. Use as many resources as you need. I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake if the mission has failed.”

Boucher pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, sir. You don’t.”

“Thanks, Dom.”

Boucher turned to leave, but paused. He’d been the CIA director when Duncan took office. He’d overseen the Chess Team’s creation at Duncan’s request and arranged for Deep Blue’s insertion into the team. He knew what those five lives in Vietnam meant to him. He put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “We’ll get them back, Tom.”

Duncan just nodded as Boucher left through the northwest door that led to the main hallway of the West Wing. A plan began to take shape in his mind. He wouldn’t just sit back and let the Chess Team die.

Before his thoughts could get any farther a knock came from the northeast door. “What is it, Judy?” He realized he sounded angry. But Judy, his secretary, who was used to his moods, took no offense. She strode across the room, picked up the remote, and turned on the wall-mounted flat screen. She switched the channel to CNN. “Trouble’s brewing.”

An image of a bombshell reporter filled the screen. The volume was turned down. As Judy turned it up, Duncan read the woman’s lips. It was easy to recognize his name. With the volume up, he only needed to hear the next two words. “Heart attack.”

The cat was clawing its way out of the bag.

He turned to Judy. “Better turn on the coffeepots downstairs.”

Judy nodded and rushed out, closing the door behind her. Duncan always referred to the White House Situation Room as “downstairs.” He’d probably be spending the rest of the day there as the press descended on the White House, expecting to be given access to the press room only to be turned away at the door. Then would come the phone calls. But they couldn’t be told the truth. That the entire White House was under quarantine. That the disease