Free Arc Light by Eric Harry

his window. He leaned out to try to catch sight of the President down the narrow passageway to the rear of the helicopter, but a rack of equipment cut him from view. He even thought about trying to call the President from his portable phone, but he knew it would be too late. Secretary Moore would have already made his call.
    The glowing Jefferson Memorial streaked by the small window, and Lambert felt faintly nauseous from the gyrations of the hurtling helicopter. The volume of the rotors was intense and vibrated through the metal wall at his back. The helicopter began a pattern of pitching first left, then right. They’re dodging imaginary antiaircraft missiles! he realized. Of course. Evasive maneuvering. The helicopter’s pilots who trained for this flight naturally prepared only for wartime conditions.
    Lambert took a deep breath and tried to relax, settling back to watch the familiar sights streak by his small window. On one steep bank over the Potomac he saw the old buildings of Georgetown University, his alma mater, silhouetted against the city lights for an instant before they disappeared as the pilot threw the helicopter into another steep bank. He’s following the river, Lambert guessed.
    He was in his own private world, cut off from the others by the straps holding him to his seat and the noise filling the speeding aircraft. For the first time in days, he found himself idle. His mind wandered, and he let it drift.
    Jane. Images of her floated before the dark and dimly reflective porthole like lilies in a pond. Though they were both now thirty-eight years old, Jane was almost unchanged from their days at Georgetown, her freshly scrubbed face still looking made up even when it wasn’t. They were the kind of couple who gets greedily snatched up by the social circles of Washington—he, tall, blond, blue-eyed, a rising star; she, petite, auburn-haired, demure.
    They had met their freshman year at Georgetown. He was at a shoot-around meeting his new teammates and coaches when a number of women had filed in for gymnastics tryouts. The girl on the endnearest him was Jane. He’d asked her to marry him their senior year, but she had refused. He had been accepted to Harvard Law School and had been drafted in the third round by the New Jersey Nets. Jane had replied she didn’t think he was ready to make a decision like marriage with so much up in the air. He smiled, remembering. He had taken a wild guess that she was bluffing, insecure about his possible sports stardom, and wanted him to beg her, which he did. They were married in June.
    His pre-NBA summer camp had been disheartening. A lowly seventh rounder at his position was the surprise star of the Nets’ rookie review. Greg had declined the “invitation” to try out in the fall. “What would you think if I joined the army?” he had asked Jane on the plane to Maine after camp. She had laughed, not realizing he was serious.
    Four years later, at age twenty-five, Greg had graduated Harvard with a law degree and a Masters in government. During the spring of his final year he had been approached by the CIA after a professor had anonymously recommended him. Greg had politely declined to interview for a job in Operations—for work in the field. He had asked, however, if there might be an opening in Intelligence. A few weeks later he had gotten a letter responding to his “inquiry” about a position with the Defense Intelligence Agency. He had never even heard of it before.
    And so they had returned to Washington. Thirteen years ago, he thought in amazement at how quickly time had passed. His first job at DIA had been excruciatingly boring—academic papers on the Soviet economy. His only excitement at work had come from his few trips to “The Farm,” the CIA training facility in West Virginia. Every Friday the DIA had posted a list of weekend courses at The Farm that had open slots, and he had enrolled in the