transcriber's note: this etext was produced from astounding science fiction, february and march, . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed. null-abc by h. beam piper and john j. mcguire _there's some reaction these days that holds scientists responsible for war. take it one step further: what happens if "book-learnin'" is held responsible ...?_ illustrated by van dongen chester pelton retracted his paunch as far as the breakfast seat would permit; the table, its advent preceded by a collection of mouth-watering aromas, slid noiselessly out of the pantry and clicked into place in front of him. "everything all right, miss claire?" a voice floated out after it from beyond. "anything else you want?" "everything's just fine, mrs. harris," claire replied. "i suppose mr. pelton'll want seconds, and ray'll probably want thirds and fourths of everything." she waved a hand over the photocell that closed the pantry door, and slid into place across from her brother, who already had a glass of fruit juice in one hand and was lifting platter covers with the other. "real eggs!" the boy was announcing. "bacon. wheat-bread toast." he looked again. "hey, sis, is this real cow-made butter?" "yes. now go ahead and eat." as though ray needed encouragement, chester pelton thought, watching his son use a spoon--the biggest one available--to dump gobs of honey on his toast. while he was helping himself to bacon and eggs, he could hear ray's full-mouthed exclamation: "this is real bee-comb honey, too!" that pleased him. the boy was a true pelton; only needed one bite to distinguish between real and synthetic food. "bet this breakfast didn't cost a dollar under five c," ray continued, a little more audibly, between bites. [illustration:] that was another pelton trait; even at fifteen, the boy was learning the value of money. claire seemed to disapprove, however. "oh, ray; try not to always think of what things cost," she reproved. "if i had all she spends on natural food, i could have a this-season's model 'copter-bike, like jimmy hartnett," ray continued. pelton frowned. "i don't want you running around with that boy, ray," he said, his mouth full of bacon and eggs. under his daughter's look of disapproval, he swallowed hastily, then continued: "he's not the sort of company i want my son keeping." "but, senator," ray protested. "he lives next door to us. why, we can see hartnett's aerial from the top of our landing stage!" "that doesn't matter," he said, in a tone meant to indicate that the subject was not to be debated. "he's a literate!" "more eggs, senator?" claire asked, extending the platter and gesturing with the serving knife. he chuckled inwardly. claire always knew what to do when his temper started climbing to critical mass. he allowed her to load his plate again. "and speaking of our landing stage, have you been up there, this morning, ray?" he asked. they both looked at him inquiringly. "delivered last evening, while you two were out," he explained. "new winter model rolls-cadipac." he felt a glow of paternal pleasure as claire gave a yelp of delight and aimed a glancing kiss at the top of his bald head. ray dropped his fork, slid from his seat, and bolted for the lift, even bacon, eggs, and real bee-comb honey forgotten. with elaborate absent-mindedness, chester pelton reached for the switch to turn on the video screen over the pantry door. "oh-oh! oh-oh!" claire's slender hand went out to stop his own. "not till coffee and cigarettes, senator." "it's almost oh-eight-fifteen; i want the newscast." "can't you just relax for a while? honestly, senator, you're killing yourself." "oh, rubbish! i've been working a little hard, but--" "you've been working too hard. and today, with the sale at the store, and the last day of the campaign--" "why the devil did that idiot of a latterman have the sale advertised for today, anyhow?" he fumed. "doesn't he know i'm running for the senate?" "i doubt it," claire said. "he may have heard of it, the way you've heard about an election in pakistan or abyssinia, or he just may not know there is such a thing as politics. i think he does know there's a world outside the store, but he doesn't care much what goes on in it." she pushed her plate aside, poured a cup of coffee, and levered a cigarette from the readilit, puffing at it with the relish of the morning's first smoke. "all he knows is that we're holding our sale three days ahead of macy & gimbel's." "russ is a good businessman," pelton said seriously. "i wish you'd take a little more interest in him, claire." "if you mean what i think you do, no thanks," claire replied. "i suppose i'll get married, some day--most girls do--but it'll be to somebody who can hang his business up at the office before he comes home. russ latterman is so married to the store that if he married me too, it'd be bigamy. ready for your coffee?" without waiting for an answer, she filled his cup and ejected a lighted cigarette from the box for him, then snapped on the video screen. it lit at once, and a nondescriptly handsome young man was grinning toothily out of it. he wore a white smock, halfway to his knees, and, over it, an old-fashioned sam browne belt which supported a bulky leather-covered tablet and a large stylus. on the strap which crossed his breast five or six little metal badges twinkled. "... why no other beer can compare with delicious, tangy, cardon's black bottle. won't you try it?" he pleaded. "then you will see for yourself why millions of happy drinkers always call for cardon's. and now, that other favorite of millions, literate first class elliot c. mongery." pelton muttered: "why frank sponsors that blabbermouth of a mongery--" ray, sliding back onto the bench, returned to his food. "jimmy's book had pictures," he complained, forking up another mixture of eggs, bacon, toast and honey. "book?" claire echoed. "oh, the instructions for the 'copter?" "pipe down, both of you!" pelton commanded. "the newscast--" literate first class elliot c. mongery, revealed by a quick left quarter-turn of the pickup camera, wore the same starchy white smock, the same sam browne belt glittering with the badges of the organizations and corporations for whom he was authorized to practice literacy. the tablet on his belt, pelton knew, was really a camouflaged holster for a small automatic, and the gold stylus was a gas-projector. the black-leather-jacketed bodyguards, of course, were discreetly out of range of the camera. members of the associated fraternities of literates weren't exactly loved by the non-reading public they claimed to serve. the sight of one of those starchy, perpetually-spotless, white smocks always affected pelton like a red cape to a bull. he snorted in disdain. the raised eyebrow toward the announcer on the left, the quick, perennially boyish smile, followed by the levelly serious gaze into the camera--the whole act might have been a film-transcription of mongery's first appearance on the video, fifteen years ago. at least, it was off the same ear of corn. "that big hunk of cheese," ray commented. for once, pelton didn't shush him; that was too close to his own attitude, at least in family-breakfast-table terminology. "... first of all; for the country, and especially the newer new york area, and by the way, it looks as though somebody thought somebody needed a little cooling off, but we'll come to that later. here's the forecast: today and tomorrow, the weather will continue fine; warm in the sun, chilly in the shadows. there won't be anything to keep you from the polls, tomorrow, except bird-hunting, or a last chance at a game of golf. this is the first time within this commentator's memory that the weather has definitely been in favor of the party out of power. "on the world scene: you'll be glad to hear that the survivors of the wrecked strato-rocket have all been rescued from the top of mount everest, after a difficult and heroic effort by the royal nepalese air force.... the results of last week's election in russia are being challenged by twelve of the fourteen parties represented on the ballot; the only parties not hurling accusations of fraud are the democrats, who won, and the christian communists, who are about as influential in russian politics as the vegetarian-anti-vaccination party is here.... the central diplomatic council of the reunited nations has just announced, for the hundred and seventy-eighth time, that the arab-israel dispute has been finally, definitely and satisfactorily settled. this morning's reports from baghdad and tel aviv only list four arabs and six israelis killed in border clashes in the past twenty-four hours, so maybe they're really getting things patched up, after all. during the same period, there were more fatalities in newer new york as a result of clashes between the private troops of rival racket gangs, political parties and business houses. "which brings us to the local scene. on my way to the studio this morning, i stopped at city hall, and found our genial chief of police delaney, 'irish' delaney to most of us, hard at work with a portable disintegrator, getting rid of record disks and recording tapes of old and long-settled cases. he had a couple of amusing stories. for instance, a lone independent-conservative partisan broke up a radical-socialist mass meeting preparatory to a march to demonstrate in double times square, by applying his pocket lighter to one of the heat-sensitive boxes in the building and activating the sprinkler system. by the time the radicals had gotten into dry clothing, there was a, well, sort of, impromptu conservative demonstration going on in double times square, and one of the few things the local gendarmes won't stand for is an attempt to hold two rival political meetings in the same area. "curiously, while it was the radicals who got soaked, it was the conservatives who sneezed," mongery went on, his face glowing with mischievous amusement. "it seems that while they were holding a monster rally at hague hall, in north jersey borough, some person or persons unknown got at the air-conditioning system with a tank of sneeze gas, which didn't exactly improve either the speaking style of senator grant hamilton or the attentiveness of his audience. needless to say, there is no police investigation of either incident. election shenanigans, like college pranks, are fair play as long as they don't cause an outright holocaust. and that, i think, is as it should be," mongery went on, more seriously. "most of the horrors of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries were the result of taking politics too seriously." pelton snorted again. that was the literate line, all right; treat politics as a joke and an election as a sporting event, let the independent-conservative grafters stay in power, and let the literates run the country through them. not, of course, that he disapproved of those boys in the young radical league who'd thought up that sneeze-gas trick. "and now, what you've been waiting for," mongery continued. "the final trotter poll's pre-election analysis." a novice literate advanced, handing him a big loose-leaf book, which he opened with the reverence a literate always displayed toward the written word. "this," he said, "is going to surprise you. for the whole state of penn-jersey-york, the poll shows a probable radical-socialist vote of approximately thirty million, an independent-conservative vote of approximately ten and a half million, and a vote of about a million for what we call the who-gives-a-damn party, which, frankly, is the party of your commentator's choice. very few sections differ widely from this average--there will be a much heavier radical vote in the pittsburgh area, and traditionally conservative philadelphia and the upper hudson valley will give the radicals a much smaller majority." they all looked at one another, thunderstruck. "if mongery's admitting that, i'm in!" pelton exclaimed. "yeah, we can start calling him senator, now, and really mean it," ray said. "maybe old mongie isn't such a bad sort of twerp, after all." "considering that the conservatives carried this state by a substantial majority in the presidential election of two years ago, and by a huge majority in the previous presidential election of ," mongery, in the screen, continued, "this verdict of the almost infallible trotter poll needs some explaining. for the most part, it is the result of the untiring efforts of one man, the dynamic new leader of the radical-socialists and their present candidate for the consolidated states of north america senate, chester pelton, who has transformed that once-moribund party into the vital force it is today. and this achievement has been due, very largely, to a single slogan which he had hammered into your ears: _put the literates in their place; our servants, not our masters!_" he brushed a hand deprecatingly over his white smock and fingered the badges on his belt. "there has always been, on the part of the illiterate public, some resentment against organized literacy. in part, it has been due to the high fees charged for literate services, and to what seems, to many, to be monopolistic practices. but behind that is a general attitude of anti-intellectualism which is our heritage from the disastrous wars of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. chester pelton has made himself the spokesman of this attitude. in his view, it was men who could read and write who hatched the diabolical political ideologies and designed the frightful nuclear weapons of that period. in his mind, literacy is equated with '_mein kampf_' and '_das kapital_', with the a-bomb and the h-bomb, with concentration camps and blasted cities. from this position, of course, i beg politely to differ. literate men also gave us the magna charta and the declaration of independence. "now, in spite of a lunatic fringe in the consolidated illiterates' organization who want just that, chester pelton knows that we cannot abolish literacy entirely. even with modern audio-visual recording, need exists for some modicum of written recording, which can be rapidly scanned and selected from--indexing, cataloguing, tabulating data, et cetera--and for at least a few men and women who can form and interpret the written word. mr. pelton, himself, is the owner of a huge department store, employing over a thousand illiterates; he must at all times have the services of at least fifty literates." "and pays through the nose for them, too!" pelton growled. it was more than fifty; and russ latterman had been forced to get twenty extras sent in for the sale. "now, since we cannot renounce literacy entirely, without sinking to _fellahin_ barbarism, and here i definitely part company with mr. pelton, he fears the potential power of organized literacy. in a word, he fears a future literate dictatorship." "future? what do you think we have now?" pelton demanded. "nobody," mongery said, as though replying to him, "is stupid enough, today, to want to be a dictator. that ended by the middle of the twenty-first century. everybody knows what happened to mussolini, and hitler, and stalin, and all their imitators. why, it is as much the public fear of big government as the breakdown of civil power because of the administrative handicap of a shortage of literate administrators that is responsible for the disgraceful lawlessness of the past hundred years. thus, it speaks well for the public trust in chester pelton's known integrity and sincerity that so many of our people are willing to agree to his program for socialized literacy. they feel that he can be trusted, and, violently as i disagree with him, i can only say that that trust is not misplaced. "of course, there is also the question, so often raised by mr. pelton, that under the hamilton machine, the politics, and particularly the enforcement of the laws, in this state, are unbelievably corrupt, but i wonder--" mongery paused. "just a moment; i see a flash bulletin being brought in." the novice literate came to his side and gave him a slip of paper, at which he glanced. then he laughed heartily. "it seems that shortly after i began speaking, the local blue-ribbon grand jury issued a summons for chief delaney to appear before them, with all his records. unfortunately, the summons could not be served; chief delaney had just boarded a strato-rocket from tom dewey field for buenos aires." he cocked an eye at the audience. "i know irish is going to have a nice time, down there in the springtime of the southern hemisphere. and, incidentally, the argentine is one of the few major powers which never signed the world extradition convention of ." he raised his hand to his audience. "and now, until tomorrow at breakfast, sincerely yours for cardon's black bottle, elliot c. mongery." "well, whattaya know; that guy was plugging for you!" ray said. "and see how he managed to slide in that bit about corruption, right before his stooge handed him that bulletin?" "i guess every literate has his price," chester pelton said. "i wonder how much of my money that cost. i always wondered why frank cardon sponsored mongery. now i know. mongery can be had." "uh, beg your pardon, mr. pelton," a voice from the hall broke in. he turned. olaf olafsson, the 'copter driver, was standing at the entrance to the breakfast nook, a smudge of oil on his cheek and his straw-colored hair in disorder. "how do i go about startin' this new 'copter?" "what?" olaf had been his driver for ten years. he would have been less surprised had the ceiling fallen in. "you don't know how to start it?" "no, sir. the controls is all different from on the summer model. every time i try to raise it, it backs up; if i try to raise it much more, we won't have no wall left on the landing stage." "well, isn't there a book?" "there ain't no pictures in it; nothing but print. it's a literate book," olaf said in disgust, as though at something obscene. "an' there ain't nothin' on the instrument board but letters." "that's right," ray agreed. "i saw the book; no pictures in it at all." "well, of all the quarter-witted stupidity! the confounded imbeciles at that agency--" pelton started to his feet. claire unlocked the table and slid it out of his way. ray, on a run, started for the lift and vanished. "i think some confounded literate at the rolls-cadipac agency did that," he fumed. "thought it would be a joke to send me a literate instruction book along with a 'copter with a literate instrument board. ah, i get it! so i'd have to call in a literate to show me how to start my own 'copter, and by noon they'd be laughing about it in every bar from pittsburgh to plattsburg. sneaky literate trick!" they went to the lift, and found the door closed in their faces. "oh, confound that boy!" claire pressed the button. ray must have left the lift, for the operating light went on, and in a moment the door opened. he crowded into the lift, along with his daughter and olaf. on the landing stage, ray was already in the 'copter, poking at buttons on the board. "look, olaf!" he called. "they just shifted them around a little from the summer model. this one, where the prop-control used to be on the old model, is the one that backs it up on the ground. here's the one that erects and extends the prop,"--he pushed it, and the prop snapped obediently into place--"and here's the one that controls the lift." an ugly suspicion stabbed at chester pelton, bringing with it a feeling of frightened horror. "how do you know?" he demanded. ray's eyes remained on the instrument board. he pushed another button, and the propeller began swinging in a lazy circle; he pressed down with his right foot, and the 'copter lifted a foot or so. "what?" he asked. "oh, jimmy showed me how theirs works. mr. hartnett got one like it a week ago." he motioned to olaf, setting the 'copter down again. "come here; i'll show you." the suspicion, and the horror passed in a wave of relief. "you think you and olaf, between you, can get that thing to school?" he asked. "sure! easy!" "all right. you show olaf how to run it. olaf, as soon as you've dropped ray at school, take that thing to the rolls-cadipac agency, and get a new one, with a proper instrument board, and a proper picture book of operating instructions. i'm going to call sam huschack up personally and give him royal hell about this. sure you can handle it, now?" he watched the 'copter rise to the two thousand foot local traffic level and turn in the direction of mineola high school, fifty miles away. he was still looking anxiously after it as it dwindled to a tiny dot and vanished. "they'll make it all right," claire told him. "olaf has a strong back, and ray has a good head." "it wasn't that that i was worried about." he turned and looked, half ashamed, at his daughter. "you know, for a minute, there, i thought ... i thought ray could read!" "father!" she was so shocked that she forgot the nickname they had given him when he had announced his candidacy for senate, in the spring. "you didn't!" "i know; it's an awful thing to think, but--well, the kids today do the craziest things. there's that hartnett boy he runs around with; tom hartnett bought literate training for him. and that fellow prestonby; i don't trust him--" "prestonby?" claire asked, puzzled. "oh, you know. the principal at school. you've met him." claire wrinkled her brow--just like her mother, when she was trying to remember something. "oh, yes. i met him at that p.t.a. meeting. he didn't impress me as being much like a teacher, but i suppose they think anything's good enough for us illiterates." * * * * * literate first class ralph n. prestonby remained standing by the lectern, looking out over the crowded auditorium, still pleasantly surprised to estimate the day's attendance at something like ninety-seven per cent of enrollment. that was really good; why, it was only three per cent short of perfect! maybe it was the new rule requiring a sound-recorded excuse for absence. or it could have been his propaganda campaign about the benefits of education. or, very easily, it could have been the result of sending doug yetsko and some of his boys around to talk to recalcitrant parents. it was good to see that that was having some effect beside an increase in the number of attempts on his life, or the flood of complaints to the board of education. well, lancedale had gotten education merged with his office of communications, and lancedale was back of him to the limit, so the complaints had died out on the empty air. and doug yetsko was his bodyguard, so most of the would-be assassins had died, also. the "north american anthem," which had replaced the "star-spangled banner" after the united states-canadian-mexican merger, came to an end. the students and their white-smocked teachers, below, relaxed from attention; most of them sat down, while monitors and teachers in the rear were getting the students into the aisles and marching them off to study halls and classrooms and workshops. the orchestra struck up a lively march tune. he leaned his left elbow--literates learned early, or did not live to learn, not to immobilize the right hand--on the lectern and watched the interminable business of getting the students marched out, yearning, as he always did at this time, for the privacy of his office, where he could smoke his pipe. finally, they were all gone, and the orchestra had gathered up its instruments and filed out into the wings of the stage, and he looked up to the left and said, softly: "all right, doug; show's over." with a soft thud, the big man dropped down from the guard's cubicle overhead, grinning cheerfully. he needed a shave--yetsko always did, in the mornings--and in his leather literates' guard uniform, he looked like some ogreish giant out of the mythology of the past. [illustration:] "i was glad to have you up there with the big noise, this morning," prestonby said. "what a mob! i'm still trying to figure out why we have such an attendance." "don't you get it, captain?" yetsko was reaching up to lock the door of his cubicle; he seemed surprised at prestonby's obtuseness. "day before election; the little darlings' moms and pops don't want them out running around. we can look for another big crowd tomorrow, too." prestonby gave a snort of disgust. "of course; how imbecilic can i really get? i didn't notice any of them falling down, so i suppose you didn't see anything out of line." "well, the hall monitors make them turn in their little playthings at the doors," yetsko said, "but hall monitors can be gotten at, and some of the stuff they make in manual training, when nobody's watching them--" prestonby nodded. just a week before, a crude but perfectly operative -mm shotgun had been discovered in the last stages of manufacture in the machine shop, and five out of six of the worn-out files would vanish, to be ground down into dirks. he often thought of the stories of his grandfather, who had been a major during the occupation of russia, after the fourth world war. those old-timers didn't know how easy they'd had it; they should have tried to run an illiterate high school. yetsko was still grumbling slanders on the legitimacy of the student body. "one of those little angels shoots me, it's just a cute little prank, and we oughtn't to frown on the little darling when it's just trying to express its dear little personality, or we might give it complexes, or something," he falsettoed incongruously. "and if the little darling's mistake doesn't kill me outright and i shoot back, people talk about king herod!" he used language about the board of education and the tax-paying public that was probably subversive within the meaning of the loyalty oath. "i wish i had a pair of -mm auto-cannons up there, instead of that sono gun." "each class is a little worse than the one before; in about five years, they'll be making h-bombs in the lab," prestonby said. in the last week, a dozen pupils had been seriously cut or blackjacked in hall and locker-room fights. "nice citizens of the future; nice future to look forward to growing old in." "we won't," yetsko comforted him. "we can't be lucky all the time; in about a year, they'll find both of us stuffed into a broom closet, when they start looking around to see what's making all the stink." * * * * * prestonby took the thick-barreled gas pistol from the shelf under the lectern and shoved it into his hip pocket; yetsko picked up a two-and-a-half foot length of rubber hose and tucked it under his left arm. together, they went back through the wings and out into the hallway that led to the office. so a twenty-second century high school was a place where a teacher carried a pistol and a tear-gas projector and a sleep-gas gun, and had a bodyguard, and still walked in danger of his life from armed 'teen-age hooligans. it was meaningless to ask whose fault it was. there had been the world wars, and the cold-war interbellum periods--rising birth rates, huge demands on the public treasury for armaments, with the public taxed to the saturation point, and no money left for the schools. there had been fantastic "progressive" education experiments--even in the 'fifties of the twentieth century, in the big cities, children were being pushed through grade school without having learned to read. and when there had been money available for education, school boards had insisted on spending it for audio-visual equipment, recordings, films, anything but textbooks. and there had been that lunatic theory that children should be taught to read by recognizing whole words instead of learning the alphabet. and more and more illiterates had been shoved out of the schools, into a world where radio and television and moving pictures were supplanting books and newspapers, and more and more children of illiterates had gone to school without any desire or incentive to learn to read. and finally, the illiterates had become illiterates, and literacy had become literacy. and now, the associated fraternities of literates had come to monopolize the ability to read and write, and a few men like william r. lancedale, with a handful of followers like ralph n. prestonby, were trying-- the gleaming cleanliness of the corridor, as always, heartened prestonby a little; it was a trophy of victory from his first two days at mineola high school, three years ago. he remembered what they had looked like when he had first seen them. "this school is a pig pen!" he had barked at the janitorial force. "and even if they are illiterates, these children aren't pigs; they deserve decent surroundings. this school will be cleaned, immediately, from top to bottom, and it'll be kept that way." the janitors, all political appointees, independent-conservative party-hacks, secure in their jobs, had laughed derisively. the building superintendent, without troubling to rise, had answered him: "young man, you don't want to get off on the wrong foot, here," he had said. "this here's the way this school's always been run, an' it's gonna take a lot more than you to change it." the fellow's name, he recalled, was kettner; lancedale had given him a briefing which had included some particulars about him. he was an independent-conservative ward-committeeman. he had gotten his present job after being fired from his former position as mailman for listening to other peoples' mail with his pocket recorder-reproducer. "yetsko," he had said. "kick this bum out on his face." "you can't get away with--" kettner had begun. yetsko had yanked him out of his chair with one hand and started for the door with him. "just a moment, yetsko," he had said. thinking that he was backing down, they had all begun grinning at him. "don't bother opening the door," he had said. "just kick him out." after the third kick, kettner had gotten the door open, himself; the fourth kick sent him across the hall to the opposite wall. he pulled himself to his feet and limped away, never to return. the next morning, the school was spotless. it had stayed that way. beside him, yetsko must also have returned mentally to the past. "looks better now than it did when we first saw it, captain," he said. "yes. it didn't take us as long to clean up this mess as it did to clean up that mutinous guards company in pittsburgh. but when we cleaned that up, it stayed cleaned. this is like trying to bail out a boat with a pitchfork." "yeah. i wish we'dda stayed in pittsburgh, captain. i wish we'd never seen this place!" "so do i!" prestonby agreed, heartily. no, he didn't, either. if he'd never have come to mineola high school, he'd never have found claire pelton. * * * * * sitting down again at the breakfast table with her father, claire levered another cigarette out of the readilit and puffed at it with exaggeratedly bored slowness. she was still frightened. ray shouldn't have done what he did, even if he had furnished a plausible explanation. the trouble with plausible explanations was having to make them. sooner or later, you made too many, and then you made one that wasn't so plausible, and then all the others were remembered, and they all looked phony. and why had the senator had to mention ralph? was he beginning to suspect the truth about that, too? i hope not! she thought desperately. if he ever found out about that, it'd kill him. just kill him, period! mrs. harris must have turned off the video, after they had gone up to the landing stage. to cover her nervousness, she reached up and snapped it on again. the screen lit, and from it a young man with dark eyes under bushy black brows was shouting angrily: "... most obvious sort of conspiracy! if the radical-socialist party leaders, or the consolidated illiterates' organization political action committee, need any further evidence of the character of their candidate and idolized leader, chester pelton, the treatment given to pelton's candidacy by literate first class elliot c. mongery, this morning, ought to be sufficient to remove the scales from the eyes of the blindest of them. i won't state, in so many words, that chester pelton's sold out the radical-socialists and the consolidated illiterates' organization to the associated fraternities of literates, because, since no witness to any actual transfer of money can be found, such a statement would be libelous--provided pelton had nerve enough to sue me." "why, you dirty misbegotten illegitimate--!" pelton was on his feet. his hand went to his hip, and then, realizing that he was unarmed and, in any case, confronted only by an electronic image, he sat down again. "pelton's been yapping for socialized literacy," the man on the screen continued. "i'm not going back to the old argument that any kind of socialization is only the thin edge of the wedge which will pry open the pit of horrors from which the world has climbed since the fourth world war. if you don't realize that now, it's no use for me to repeat it again. but i will ask you, do you realize, for a moment, what a program of socialized literacy would mean, apart from the implications of any kind of socialization? it would mean that inside of five years, the literates would control the whole government. they control the courts, now--only a literate can become a lawyer, and only a lawyer can become a judge. they control the armed forces--only a literate can enter west point or fort mackenzie or chapultepec or white sands or annapolis. and, if chester pelton's socialization scheme goes into effect, there will be no branch of the government which will not be completely under the control of the associated fraternities of literates!" the screen went suddenly dark. her father turned, to catch her with her hand still on the switch. "put it back on; i want to hear what that lying pimp of a slade gardner's saying about me!" "phooy; you'd have shot it out, yourself, if you'd had your gun on. i saw you reaching for it. now be quiet, and take it easy," she ordered. he reached toward the readilit for a cigarette, then his hand stopped. his face was contorted with pain; he gave a gasp of suffocation. claire cried in dismay: "you're not going to have another of those attacks? where are the nitrocaine bulbs?" "don't ... have any ... here. some at the office, but--" "i told you to get more," she accused. "oh, i don't need them, really." his voice was steadier, now; the spasm of pain had passed. he filled his coffee cup and sipped from it. "turn on the video again, claire. i want to hear what that gardner's saying." "i will not! don't you have people at party headquarters monitoring this stuff? well, then. somebody'll prepare an answer, if he needs answering." "i think he does. a lot of these dumbos'll hear that and believe it. i'll talk to frank. he'll know what to do." frank again. she frowned. "look, senator; you think frank cardon's your friend, but i don't trust him. i never could," she said. "i think he's utterly and entirely unscrupulous. amoral, i believe, is the word. like a savage, or a pirate, or one of the old-time nazis or communists." "oh, claire!" her father protested. "frank's in a tough business--you have no idea the lengths competition goes to in the beer business--and he's been in politics, and dealing with racketeers and labor unions, all his life. but he's a good sound illiterate--family illiterate for four generations, like ours--and i'd trust him with anything. you heard this fellow mongery--i always have to pause to keep from calling him mongrel--saying that i deserved the credit for pulling the radicals out of the mud and getting the party back on the tracks. well, i couldn't have begun to do it without frank cardon." * * * * * frank cardon stood on the sidewalk, looking approvingly into the window of o'reilly's tavern, in which his display crew had already set up the spread for the current week. on either side was a giant six-foot replica, in black glass, of the cardon bottle, in the conventional shape accepted by an illiterate public as containing beer, bearing the red cardon label with its pictured bottle in a central white disk. because of the heroic size of the bottles, the pictured bottle on the label bore a bottle bearing a label bearing a bottle bearing a bottle on a label.... he counted eight pictured bottles, down to the tiniest dot of black. there were four-foot bottles next to the six-foot bottles, and three-foot bottles next to them, and, in the middle background, a life-size tri-dimensional picture of an almost nude and incredibly pulchritudinous young lady smiling in invitation at the passing throng and extending a foaming bottle of cardon's in her hand. aside from the printed trademark-registry statements on the labels, there was not a printed word visible in the window. he pushed through the swinging doors and looked down the long room, with the chairs still roosting sleepily on the tables, and made a quick count of the early drinkers, two thirds of them in white smocks and sam browne belts, obviously from literates' hall, across the street. late drinkers, he corrected himself mentally; they'd be the night shift, having their drinks before going home. "good morning, mr. cardon," the bartender greeted him. "still drinking your own?" "hasn't poisoned me yet," cardon told him. "or anybody else." he folded a c-bill accordion-wise and set it on edge on the bar. "give everybody what they want." "drink up, gentlemen, and have one on mr. cardon," the bartender announced, then lowered his voice. "o'reilly wants to see you. about--" he gave a barely perceptible nod in the direction of the building across the street. "yes; i want to see him, too." cardon poured from the bottle in front of him, accepted the thanks of the house, and, when the bartender brought the fifteen-dollars-odd change from the dozen drinks, he pushed it back. he drank slowly, looking around the room, then set down his empty glass and went back, past two doors which bore pictured half-doors revealing, respectively, masculine-trousered and feminine-stockinged ankles, and opened the unmarked office door beyond. the bartender, he knew, had pushed the signal button; the door was unlocked, and, inside, o'reilly--baptismal name luigi orelli--was waiting. "chief wants to see you, right away," the saloon keeper said. the brewer nodded. "all right. keep me covered; don't know how long i'll be." he crossed the room and opened a corner-cupboard, stepping inside. the corner cupboard, which was an elevator, took him to a tunnel below the street. across the street, he entered another elevator, set the indicator for the tenth floor, and ascended. as the car rose, he could feel the personality of frank cardon, illiterate brewer, drop from him, as though he were an actor returning from the stage to his dressing room. the room into which he emerged was almost that. there was a long table, at which two white-smocked literates drank coffee and went over some papers; a third literate sprawled in a deep chair, resting; at a small table, four men in black shirts and leather breeches and field boots played poker, while a fifth, who had just entered and had not yet removed his leather helmet and jacket or his weapons belt, stood watching them. cardon went to a row of lockers along the wall, opened one, and took out a white smock, pulling it over his head and zipping it up to the throat. then he buckled on a sam browne with its tablet holster and stylus gas projector. the literate sprawling in the chair opened one eye. "hi, frank. feels good to have them on again, doesn't it?" "yes. clean," cardon replied. "it'll be just for half an hour, but--" he passed through the door across from the elevator, went down a short hall, and spoke in greeting to the leather-jacketed storm trooper on guard outside the door at the other end. "mr. cardon," the guard nodded. "mr. lancedale's expecting you." "so i understand, bert." he opened the door and went through. william r. lancedale rose from behind his desk and advanced to greet him with a quick handshake, guiding him to a chair beside the desk. as he did, he sniffed and raised an eyebrow. "beer this early, frank?" he asked. "morning, noon, and night, chief," cardon replied. "when you said this job was going to be dangerous, i didn't know you meant that it would lead straight to an alcoholic's grave." "let me get you a cup of coffee, and a cigar, then." the white-haired literate executive resumed his seat, passing a hand back and forth slowly across the face of the commo, the diamond on his finger twinkling, and gave brief instructions. "and just relax, for a minute. you have a tough job, this time, frank." they were both silent as a novice literate bustled in with coffee and individually-sealed cigars. "at least, you're not one of these plain-living-and-right-thinking fanatics, like wilton joyner and harvey graves," cardon said. "on top of everything else, that i could not take." lancedale's thin face broke into a smile, little wrinkles putting his mouth in parentheses. cardon sampled the coffee, and then used a sixteenth century italian stiletto from lancedale's desk to perforate the end of his cigar. "much as i hate it, i'll have to get out of here as soon as i can," he said. "i don't know how long o'reilly can keep me covered, down at the tavern--" lancedale nodded. "well, how are things going, then?" "first of all, the brewery," cardon began. lancedale consigned the brewery to perdition. "that's just your cover; any money it makes is purely irrelevant. how about the election?" "pelton's in," cardon said. "as nearly in as any candidate ever was before the polls opened. three months ago, the independents were as solid as gibraltar used to be. today, they look like gibraltar after that h-bomb hit it. the only difference is, they don't know what hit them, yet." "hamilton's campaign manager does," lancedale said. "did you hear his telecast, this morning?" cardon shook his head. lancedale handed over a little half-inch, thirty-minute, record disk. "all you need is the first three or four minutes," he said. "the rest of it is repetition." cardon put the disk in his pocket recorder and set it for play-back, putting the plug in his ear. after a while, he shut it off and took out the ear plug. "that's bad! what are we going to do about it?" lancedale shrugged. "what are you going to do?" he countered. "you're pelton's campaign manager--heaven pity him." cardon thought for a moment. "we'll play it for laughs," he decided. "some of our semantics experts could make the joke of the year out of it by the time the polls open tomorrow. the fraternities bribing their worst enemy to attack them, so that he can ruin their business; who's been listening to a tape of 'alice in wonderland' at independent-conservative headquarters?" "that would work," lancedale agreed. "and we can count on our friends joyner and graves to give you every possible assistance with their customary bull-in-a-china-shop tactics. i suppose you've seen these posters they've been plastering around: _if you can read this, chester pelton is your sworn enemy! a vote for pelton is a vote for your own enslavement!_" "naturally. and have you seen the telecast we've been using--a view of it, with a semantically correct spoken paraphrase?" lancedale nodded. "and i've also noticed that those posters have been acquiring different obscene crayon-drawings, too. that's just typical of the short-range joyner-graves mentality. why, they've made more votes for pelton than he's made for himself. is it any wonder we're convinced that people like that aren't to be trusted to formulate the future policy of the fraternities?" "well ... they've proved themselves wrong. i wonder, though, if we can prove ourselves right, in the long run. there are times when this thing scares me, chief. if anything went wrong--" "what, for instance?" "somebody could get to pelton." cardon made a stabbing gesture with the stiletto, which he still held. "maybe you don't really know how hot this thing's gotten. what we had to cut out of mongery's report, this morning--" "oh, i've been keeping in touch," lancedale understated gently. "well then. if anything happened to pelton, there wouldn't be a literate left alive in this city twelve hours later. and i question whether or not graves and joyner know that." "i think they do. if they don't, it's not because i've failed to point it out to them. of course, there are the independent-conservative grafters; a lot of them are beginning to hear jail doors opening for them, and they're scared. but i think routine body-guarding ought to protect pelton from them, or from any isolated fanatics." "and there is also the matter of pelton's daughter, and his son," cardon said. "we know, and graves and joyner know, and i assume that slade gardner knows, that they can both read and write as well as any literate in the fraternities. suppose that got out between now and the election?" "and that could not only hurt pelton, but it would expose the work we've been doing in the schools," lancedale added. "and even inside the fraternities, that would raise the devil. joyner and graves don't begin to realize how far we've gone with that. they could kick up a simply hideous row about it!" "and if pelton found out that his kids are literates--_woooo!_" cardon grimaced. "or what we've been doing to him. i hope i'm not around when that happens. i'm beginning to like the cantankerous old bugger." "i was afraid of that," lancedale said. "well, don't let it interfere with what you have to do. remember, frank; the plan has to come first, always." he walked with o'reilly to the street door, talking about tomorrow's election; after shaking hands with the saloon keeper, he crossed the sidewalk and stepped onto the beltway, moving across the strips until he came to the twenty m.p.h. strip. the tall office buildings of upper yonkers borough marched away as he stood on the strip, appreciatively puffing at lancedale's cigar. the character of the street changed; the buildings grew lower, and the quiet and fashionable ground-floor shops and cafés gave place to bargain stores, their audio-advertisers whooping urgently about improbable prices and offerings, and garish, noisy, crowded bars and cafeterias blaring recorded popular music. there was quite a bit of political advertising in evidence--huge pictures of the two major senatorial candidates. he estimated that chester pelton's bald head and bulldog features appeared twice for every one of grant hamilton's white locks, old-fashioned spectacles and self-satisfied smirk. then he came to the building on which he had parked his 'copter, and left the beltway, entering and riding up to the landing stage on the helical escalator. there seemed to have been some trouble; about a dozen independent-conservative storm troopers, in their white robes and hoods, with the fiery-cross emblem on their breasts, were bunched together, most of them with their right hands inside their bosoms, while a similar group of radical-conservative storm troopers, with their black sombreros and little black masks, stood watching them and fingering the white-handled pistols they wore in pairs on their belts. between the two groups were four city policemen, looking acutely unhappy. the group in the lone ranger uniforms, he saw, were standing in front of a huge tri-dimensional animated portrait of chester pelton. as he watched, the pictured candidate raised a clenched fist, and pelton's recorded and amplified voice thundered: "_put the literates in their place! our servants, not our masters!_" he recognized the group leader of the radical-socialists--the masks were too small to be more than token disguises--and beckoned to him, at the same time walking toward his 'copter. the man in black with the white-handled pistols followed him, spurs jingling. "hello, mr. cardon," he said, joining him. "nothing to it. we got a tip they were coming to sabotage big brother, over there. take out our sound-recording, and put in one of their own, like they did over in queens, last week. the town clowns got here in time to save everybody's face, so there wasn't any shooting. we're staying put till they go, though." "_put the literates in their place! our servants, not our masters!_" the huge tridianimate bellowed. over in queens, the independents had managed to get at a similar tridianimate, had taken out the record, and had put in one: _i am a lying fraud! vote for grant hamilton and liberty and sound government!_ "smart work, goodkin," he approved. "don't let any of your boys start the gunplay. the city cops are beginning to get wise to who's going to win the election, tomorrow, but don't antagonize them. but if any of those ku kluxers tries to pull a gun, don't waste time trying to wing him. just hold on to that fiery something-or-other on his chest and let him have it, and let the coroner worry about him." "yeah. with pleasure," goodkin replied. "you know, that nightshirt thing they wear is about the stupidest idea for a storm-troop uniform i ever saw. natural target in a gunfight, and in a rough-and-tumble it gets them all tangled up. ah, there go a couple of coppers to talk to them; that's what they've been waiting on. now they can beat it without looking like they been run out by our gang." cardon nodded. "tell your boys to stay around for a while; they may expect you to leave right after they do, and then they'll try to slip back. you did a good job; got here promptly. be seeing you, goodkin." he climbed into his own 'copter and started the motor. "_put the literates in their place!_" the tri-dimensional colossus roared triumphantly after the retreating independents. "_our servants, not our masters!_" * * * * * at eight thousand, he got the 'copter onto the lower manhattan beam and relaxed. first of all, he'd have to do something about answering slade gardner's telecast propaganda. that stuff was dangerous. the answer ought to go on the air by noon, and should be stepped up through the afternoon. first as a straight news story; elliot mongery had fifteen minutes, beginning at --no, that wouldn't do. mongery's sponsor for that time was atomflame heaters, and atomflame was a subsidiary of canada northwest fissionables, and canada northwest was umbilicus-deep in that kettle river lease graft that pelton had sworn to get investigated as soon as he took office. professional ethics wouldn't allow mongery to say anything in pelton's behalf on atomflame's time. well, there was guthrie parham, he came on at , and his sponsor was all right. he'd call parham and tell him what he wanted done. [illustration:] the buzzer warned him that he was approaching the lower manhattan beacon; he shifted to manual control, dropped down to the three-thousand-foot level, and set his selector beam for the signal from pelton's purchasers' paradise. down toward the tip of the island, in the section that had been rebuilt after that stalin mark xv guided missile had gotten through the counter-rocket defenses in , he could see the quadrate cross of his goal, with public landing stages on each of the four arms, and the higher central block with its landing stage for freight and store personnel. above the four public stages, helicopters swarmed like may flies--may flies which had mutated and invented ritual or military drill or choreography--coming in in four streams to the tips of the arms and rising vertically from the middle. there was about ten times the normal amount of traffic for this early in the morning. he wondered, briefly, then remembered, and cursed. that infernal sale! grudgingly, he respected russell latterman's smartness, and in consequence, the ability of wilton joyner and harvey graves in selecting a good agent to plant in pelton's store. latterman gave a plausible impersonation of the illiterate businessman, loyal prime minister of pelton's commercial empire, generalissimo in the perpetual war against macy & gimbel's. from that viewpoint, the sale was excellent business--latterman had gotten the jump on all the other department stores for the winter fashions and fall sports trade. he had also turned the store into a madhouse at the exact time when chester pelton needed to give all his attention to the election. pressing the button that put on his private recognition signal, he rose above the incoming customers and began to drop toward the private landing stage, circling to get a view of the other four stages. maybe the sale could be turned to some advantage, at that. a free souvenir with each purchase, carrying a pelton-for-senator picture-message-- he broke off, peering down at the five-hundred-foot-square landing stage above the central block, then brought his 'copter swooping down rapidly. the white-clad figures he had seen swarming up the helical escalator were not wearing the ku klux robes of the independent-conservative storm troops, as he had first feared--they were in literate smocks, and among them were the black leather jackets and futuristic helmets of their guards. they were led, he saw, by stephen s. bayne, the store's chief literate; with him were his assistant, literate third class roger b. feinberg, and the novices carrying books and briefcases and cased typewriters, and the guards, and every literate employed in the store. four or five men in ordinarily vivid-colored business suits were obviously expostulating about something. as he landed and threw back the transparent canopy, he could hear a babel of voices, above which feinberg was crying: "unfair! unfair! unfair to organized literacy!" he jumped out and hurried over. * * * * * "but you simply can't!" a white-haired man in blue-and-orange business clothes was protesting. "if you do, the associated fraternities'll be liable for losses we incur; you know that!" bayne, his thin face livid with anger--and also, cardon noticed, with what looked like a couple of fresh bruises--ignored him. feinberg broke off his chant of "unfair! unfair!" long enough to answer: "a literate first class has been brutally assaulted by the illiterate owner of this store. literate service for this store is, accordingly, being discontinued, pending a decision by the grand council of the local fraternity." cardon grabbed the blue-and-orange clad man and dragged him to one side. "what happened, hutschnecker?" he demanded. "they're walking out on us," hutschnecker told him, unnecessarily. "the boss had a fight with bayne; knocked him down a couple of times. bayne tried to pull his tablet gun, and i grabbed it away from him, and somebody else grabbed pelton before he could pull his, and a couple of store cops got all the other literates in the office covered. then bayne put on the general-address system and began calling out the literates--" "yes, but why did pelton beat bayne up?" "bayne made a pass at miss claire. i wasn't there when it happened; she came into the office--" cardon felt his face tighten into a frown of perplexity. that wasn't like literate first class stephen s. bayne. he made quite a hobby of pinching salesgirls behind the counter which was one thing; the boss' daughter was quite another. "where's latterman?" he asked, looking around. "down in the office, with the others, trying to help mr. pelton. he's had another of those heart attacks--" cardon swore and ran for the descending escalator, running down the rotating spiral to the executive floor and jumping off into the gawking mob of illiterate clerks crowded in the open doors of pelton's office. he hit and shoved and elbowed and cursed them out of the way, and burst into the big room beyond, and then, for a moment, he was almost sorry he had come. pelton was slumped in his big relaxer chair, his face pale and twisted in pain, his breath coming in feeble gasps. his daughter was beside him, her blond head bent over him; russell latterman was standing to one side, watching intently. for an instant, cardon was reminded of a tomcat watching a promising mouse hole. "claire!" cardon exploded, "give him a nitrocaine bulb. why are you all just standing around?" claire turned. "there are none," she said, looking at him with desperate eyes. "the box is empty; he must have used them all." he shot a quick glance at latterman, catching the sales manager before he could erase a look of triumph from his face. things began to add up. latterman, of course, was the undercover man for wilton joyner and harvey graves and the rest of the conservative faction at literates' hall, just as he, himself, was lancedale's agent. obsessed with immediate advantages and disadvantages, the joyner-graves faction wanted to secure the re-election of grant hamilton, and the way things had been going in the past two months, only chester pelton's death could accomplish that. latterman had probably thrown out pelton's nitrocaine capsules and then put bayne up to insulting pelton's daughter, knowing that a fit of rage would bring on another heart attack, which could be fatal without the medicine. "well, send for more!" "the prescription's in the safe," she said faintly. the office safe was locked, and only a literate could open it. the double combination was neatly stenciled on the door, the numbers spelled out as words and the letters spelled in phonetic equivalents. all three of them--himself, claire, and russell latterman--could read them. none of them dared admit it. latterman was fairly licking his chops in anticipation. if cardon opened the safe, pelton's campaign manager stood convicted as a literate. if claire opened it, the gaggle of illiterate clerks in the doorway would see, and speedily spread the news, that the daughter of the arch-foe of literacy was herself able to read. maybe latterman hadn't really intended his employer to die. maybe this was the situation he had really intended to contrive. chester pelton couldn't be allowed to die. if grant hamilton were returned to the senate, the long-range planning of william lancedale would suffer a crushing setback, and the public reaction would be catastrophic. _the plan comes first_, lancedale had told him. he made his decision, and then saw that he hadn't needed to make it. claire had straightened, left her father, crossed quickly to the safe, and was kneeling in front of it, her back stiff with determination, her fingers busy at the dials, her eyes going from them to the printed combination and back again. she swung open the door, skimmed through the papers inside, unerringly selected the prescription, and rose. "here, russ; go get it filled at once," she ordered. "and hurry!" oh, no, you don't, cardon thought. one chance is enough for you, russ. he snatched the prescription from her and turned to latterman. "i'll get it," he told the sales manager. "you're needed for the sale; stay on the job here." "but with the literates walked out, we can't--" cardon blazed: "do i have to teach you your business? have a sample of each item set aside at the counter, and pile sales slips under it. and for unique items, just detach the tag and put it with the sales slip. now get out of here, and get cracking with it!" he picked up the pistol that had been taken from pelton when he had tried to draw it on bayne, checking the chamber and setting the safety. "know how to use this?" he asked claire. "then hang onto it, and stay close to your father. this wasn't any accident, it was a deliberate attempt on his life. i'll have a couple of store cops sent in here; see that they stay with you." he gave her no chance to argue. pushing latterman ahead of him, he drove through the mob of clerks outside the door. "... course she can; didn't you see her open the safe?" he heard. "... nobody but a literate--" "then she's a literate, herself!" a couple of centuries ago, they would have talked like that if it had been discovered that the girl were pregnant; a couple of centuries before that, they would have been equally horrified if she had been discovered to have been a protestant, or a catholic, or whatever the locally unpopular religion happened to be. by noon, this would be all over penn-jersey-york; coming on top of slade gardner's accusations-- * * * * * he ran up the spiral escalator, stumbling and regaining his footing as he left it. bayne and his striking literates were all gone; he saw a sergeant of pelton's store police and went toward him, taking his spare identity-badge from his pocket. "here," he said, handing it to the sergeant. "get another officer, and go down to pelton's office. show it to miss pelton, and tell her i sent you. there's been an attempt on chester pelton's life; you're to stay with him. use your own judgment, but don't let anybody, and that definitely includes russell latterman, get at him. if you see anything suspicious, shoot first and ask questions afterwards. what's your name, sergeant?" "coccozello, sir. guido coccozello." "all right. there'll be a medic or a pharmacist--a literate, anyhow--with medicine for mr. pelton. he'll ask for you, by name, and mention me. and there'll be another literate, maybe; he'll know your name, and use mine. hurry, now, sergeant." he jumped into his 'copter, pulled forward the plexiglass canopy, and took off vertically to ten thousand feet, then, orienting himself, swooped downward toward a landing stage on the other side of the east river, cutting across traffic levels with an utter contempt for regulations. the building on which he landed was one of the principal pharmacies; he spiraled down on the escalator to the main floor and went directly to the literate in charge, noticing that he wore on his sam browne not only the badges of retail-merchandising, pharmacist and graduate chemist but also that of medic-in-training. snatching a pad and pencil from a counter, he wrote hastily: _your private office, at once; urgent and important._ looking at it, the literate nodded in recognition of cardon's literacy. "over this way, sir," he said, guiding cardon to his small cubicle office. "here." cardon gave him the prescription. "nitrocaine bulbs. they're for chester pelton; he's had a serious heart attack. he needs these with all speed. i don't suppose i need tell you how many kinds of hell will break loose if he dies now and the fraternities are accused, as the illiterates' organization will be sure to, of having had him poisoned." "who are you?" the literate asked, taking the prescription and glancing at it. "that,"--he gestured toward cardon's silver-laced black mexican jacket--"isn't exactly a white smock." cardon had his pocket recorder in his hand. he held it out, pressing a concealed stud; the stylus-and-tablet insignia glowed redly on it for a moment, then vanished. the uniformed literate nodded. "fill this exactly; better do it yourself, to make sure, and take it over to pelton's yourself. i see you have a medic-trainee's badge. ask for sergeant coccozello, and tell him frank cardon sent you." the literate, who had not recognized him before, opened his eyes at the name and whistled softly. "and fix up a sedative to keep him quiet for not less than four nor more than six hours. let me use your visiphone for a while, if you please." the man in the literate smock nodded and hurried out. cardon dialed william r. lancedale's private number. when lancedale's thin, intense face appeared on the screen, he reported swiftly. "the way i estimate it," he finished, "latterman put bayne up to making a pass at the girl, after having thrown out pelton's nitrocaine bulbs. probably told the silly jerk that claire was pining away with secret passion for him, or something. maybe he wanted to kill pelton; maybe he just wanted this to happen." "i assume there's no chance of stopping a leak?" cardon laughed with mirthless harshness. "that, i take it, was rhetorical." "yes, of course." lancedale's face assumed the blank expression that went with a pause for semantic re-integration. "can you cover yourself for about an hour?" "certainly. 'copter trouble. visits to campaign headquarters. an appeal on pelton's behalf for a new crew of literates for the store--" "good enough. come over. i think i can see a way to turn this to advantage. i'm going to call for an emergency session of the grand council this afternoon, and i'll want you sitting in on it; i want to talk to you about plans now." he considered for a moment. "there's too much of a crowd at o'reilly's, now; come the church way." breaking the connection, cardon dialed again. a girl's face, over a literate third class smock, appeared in the screen; a lovely golden voice chimed at him: "mineola high school; good morning, sir." "good morning. frank cardon here. let me talk, at once, to your principal, literate first class prestonby." * * * * * ralph prestonby cleared his throat, slipped a master disk into the recording machine beside his desk, and pressed the start button. "dear parent or guardian," he began. "your daughter, now a third-year student at this school, has reached the age of eligibility for the domestic science course entitled, 'how to win and hold a husband.' statistics show that girls who have completed this valuable course are sooner, longer, and happier married than those who have not enjoyed its advantages. we recommend it most highly. "however, because of the delicate nature of some of the visual material used, your consent is required. you can attach such consent to this disk by running it for at least ten seconds after the sign-off and then switching from 'play' to 'transcribe.' kindly include your full name, as well as your daughter's, and place your thumbprint on the opposite side of the disk. very sincerely yours, literate first class ralph c. prestonby, principal." he put the master disk in an envelope, checked over a list of names and addresses of parents and girl students, and put that in also. he looked over the winter sports schedule, and signed and thumbprinted it. then he loaded the recorder with his morning's mail, switched to "play," and started it. as he listened, he blew smoke rings across the room and toyed with a dagger, made from a file, which had been thrown down the central light-well at him a few days before. the invention of the pocket recorder, which put a half-hour's conversation on a half-inch disk, had done more to slow down business and promote inane correspondence than anything since the earlier inventions of shorthand, typewriters and pretty stenographers. finally, he cleared the machine, dumping the whole mess into a basket and carrying it out to his secretary. "miss collins, take this infernal rubbish and have a couple of the girls divide it between them, play it off, and make a digest of it," he said. "and here. the sports schedule, and this parental-consent thing on the husband-trapping course. have them taken care of." "this stuff," martha collins said, poking at the pile of letter disks. "i suppose about half of it is threats, abuse and obscenities, and the other half is from long-winded bores with idiotic suggestions and ill-natured gripes. i'll use that old tag line, again--'hoping you appreciate our brevity as much as we enjoyed yours--'" "yes. that'll be all right." he looked at his watch. "i'm going to make a personal building-tour, instead of using the tv. the animals are sort of restless, today. the election; the infantile compulsion to take sides. if you need me for anything urgent, don't use oral call. just flash my signal, red-blue-red-blue, on the hall and classroom screens. oh, doug!" yetsko, his length of rubber hose under his arm, ambled out of prestonby's private office, stopping to stub out his cigarette. the action reminded prestonby that he still had his pipe in his mouth; he knocked it out and pocketed it. together, they went into the hall outside. "where to, first, captain?" yetsko wanted to know. "cloak-and-dagger department, on the top floor. then we'll drop down to the shops, and then up through domestic science and business and general arts." "and back here. we hope," yetsko finished. * * * * * they took a service elevator to the top floor, emerging into a stockroom piled with boxes and crates and cases of sound records and cans of film and stacks of picture cards, and all the other impedimenta of illiterate education. passing through it to the other end, prestonby unlocked a door, and they went down a short hall, to where ten or fifteen boys and girls had just gotten off a helical escalator and were queued up at a door at the other end. there were two literate guards in black leather, and a student-monitor, with his white belt and rubber truncheon, outside the door. prestonby swore under his breath. he'd hoped they'd miss this, but since they hadn't, there was nothing for it but to fall in at the tail of the queue. one by one, the boys and girls went up, spoke briefly to the guards and the student-monitor, and were passed through the door, each time, one of the guards had to open it with a key. finally, it was prestonby's turn. "b, d, f, h, j, l, n, p, r, t, v, x, y," he recited to the guardians of the door. "a, c, e, g, i, k, m, o, q, s, u, w, y," the monitor replied solemnly. "the inkwell is dry, and the book is dusty." "but tomorrow, there will be writing and reading for all," prestonby answered. the guard with the key unlocked the door, and he and yetsko went through, into an utterly silent sound-proofed room, and from it into an inner, noisy, room, where a recorded voice was chanting: "hat--_huh-ah-tuh._ h-a-t. box--_buh-oh-ksss_. b-o-x. gun--_guh-uh-nnn_. g-u-n. girl--_guh-ih-rrr-lll_," while pictures were flashed on a screen at the front, and words appeared under them. there were about twenty boys and girls, of the freshman-year age-bracket at desk-seats, facing the screen. they'd started learning the alphabet when school had opened in september; now they had gotten as far as combining letters into simple words. in another month, they'd be as far as diphthongs and would be initiated into the mysteries of silent letters. maybe sooner than that; he was finding that children who had not been taught to read until their twelfth year learned much more rapidly than the primary grade children in the literate schools. what he was doing here wasn't exactly illegal. it wasn't even against the strict letter of fraternity regulations. but it had to be done clandestinely. what he'd have liked to have done would have been to have given every boy and girl in english i the same instruction this selected group was getting, but that would have been out of the question. the public would never have stood for it; the police would have had to intervene to prevent a riotous mob of illiterates from tearing the school down brick by brick, and even if that didn't happen, the ensuing uproar inside the fraternity would have blown the roof off literates' hall. even lancedale couldn't have survived such an explosion, and the body of literate first class ralph n. prestonby would have been found in a vacant lot the next morning. even many of lancedale's supporters would have turned on him in anger at this sudden blow to the fraternities' monopoly of the printed word. so it had to be kept secret, and since adolescents in possession of a secret are under constant temptation to hint mysteriously in the presence of outsiders, this hocus-pocus of ritual and password and countersign had to be resorted to. he'd been in conspiratorial work of other kinds, and knew that there was a sound psychological basis for most of what seemed, at first glance, to be mere melodramatic claptrap. he and yetsko passed on through a door across the room, into another sound-proofed room. the work of soundproofing and partitioning the old stockroom had been done in the last semester of his first year at mineola high, by members of the graduating class of building-trades students, who had then gone their several ways convinced that they had been working on a set of music-class practice rooms. the board of education had never even found out about it. in this second room, a literate teacher, one of the lancedale faction, had a reading class of twenty-five or thirty. a girl was on her feet, with a book in her hand, reading from it: "we are not sure of sorrow; and joy was never sure; today will die tomorrow; time stoops to no man's lure; and love, grown faint and fretful with lips but half regretful sighs, and with eyes forgetful weeps that no loves endure." then she handed the book--it was the only copy--to the boy sitting in front of her, and he rose to read the next verse. prestonby, catching the teacher's eye, nodded and smiled. this was a third-year class, of course, but from h-a-t spells hat to swinburne in three years was good work. there were three other classes, a total of little over a hundred students. there was no trouble; they were there for one purpose only--to learn. he spoke with one of the teachers, whose class was busy with a written exercise; he talked for a while to another whose only duty at the moment was to answer questions and furnish help to a small class who were reading silently from a variety of smuggled-in volumes. "only a hundred and twenty, out of five thousand," yetsko said to him, as they were dropping down in the elevator by which they had come. "think you'll ever really get anything done with them?" "i won't. maybe they won't," he replied. "but the ones they'll teach will. they're just a cadre; it'll take fifty years before the effects are really felt. but some day--" the shops--a good half of the school was trades-training--were noisy and busy. here prestonby kept his hand on his gas-projector, and yetsko had his rubber hose ready, either to strike or to discard in favor of his pistol. the instructors were similarly on the alert and ready for trouble--he had seen penitentiaries where the guards took it easier. carpentry and building trades. machine shop. welding. 'copter and tv repair shops--he made a minor and relatively honest graft there, from the sale of rebuilt equipment. even an atomic-equipment shop, though there was nothing in the place that would excite a geiger more than the instructor's luminous-dial watch. domestic science--home decorating, home handicrafts, use of home appliances, beautician school, charm school. he and yetsko sampled the products of the cooking school, intended for the cafeteria, and found them edible if uninspired. business--classes in recording letters, using illiterate business-machines, preparing illiterate cards for same, filing recordings--always with the counsel, "when in doubt, consult a literate." general arts--spanish and french, from elaborate record players, the progeny of the old twentieth century linguaphone. english, with recorded-speech composition, enunciation training, semantics, and what prestonby called english illiterature. the class he visited was drowsing through one of the less colorful sections of "gone with the wind." world history, with half the students frankly asleep through an audio-visual on the feudal system, with planted hints on how nice a revival of same would be, and identifying the clergy of the middle ages with the fraternities of literates. american history, with the class wide awake, since custer's massacre was obviously only moments away. "wantta bet one of those little cherubs doesn't try to scalp another before the day's out?" yetsko whispered. prestonby shook his head. "no bet. remember that film on the spanish inquisition, that we had to discontinue?" it was then that the light on the classroom screen, which had been flickering green and white, suddenly began flashing prestonby's wanted-at-office signal. * * * * * prestonby found frank cardon looking out of the screen in his private office. the round, ordinarily cheerful, face was serious, but the innocent blue eyes were as unreadable as ever. he was wearing one of the new mexican _charro_-style jackets, black laced with silver. "i can't see all your office, ralph," he said as prestonby approached. "are you alone?" "doug yetsko's all," prestonby said, and, as cardon hesitated, added: "don't be silly, frank; he's my bodyguard. what could i be in that he wouldn't know all about?" cardon nodded. "well, we're in a jam up to here." a handwave conveyed the impression that the sea of troubles had risen to his chin. he spoke at some length, describing the fight between chester pelton and stephen s. bayne, the literate strike at pelton's purchasers' paradise, pelton's heart attack, and the circumstances of claire's opening the safe. "so you see," he finished. "maybe latterman tried to kill pelton, maybe he just tried to do what he did. i can't take chances either way." prestonby thought furiously. "you say claire's alone at the store with her father?" "and a couple of store cops, sterling characters with the hearts of lions and the brains of goldfish," cardon replied. "and russ latterman, and maybe four or five conservative goons he's managed to infiltrate into the store." prestonby was still thinking, aloud, now. "maybe they did mean to kill pelton; in that case, they'll try again. or maybe they only wanted to expose claire's literacy. it's hard to say what else they'd try--maybe kidnap her, to truth-drug her and use her as a guest-artist on a conservative telecast. i'm going over to the store, now." "that's a good idea, ralph. if you hadn't thought of it, i was going to suggest it. land on the central stage, ask for sergeant coccozello of the store police, and give my name. even aside from everything else, it'd be a good idea to have somebody there who can read and dares admit it, till a new crew of literates can get there. you were speaking about the possibility of kidnaping; how about the boy? ray?" prestonby nodded. "i'll have him come here to my office, and stay there till i get back; i'll have yetsko stay with him." he turned to where the big man in black leather stood guard at the door. "doug, go get ray pelton and bring him here. check with miss collins for where he'd be, now." he turned back to the screen. "anything else, frank?" "isn't that enough?" the brewer-literate demanded. "i'll call you at the store, after a while. 'bye." the screen darkened as cardon broke the connection. prestonby got to his feet, went to his desk, and picked up a pipe, digging out the ashes from the bowl with an ice pick that one of the teachers had taken from a sixteen-year-old would-be murderer. he checked his tablet gun, made sure that there was an extra loaded clip in the holster, and got two more spare clips from the arms locker. then, to make sure, he called pelton's store, talking for a while to the police sergeant cardon had mentioned. by the time he was finished, the door opened and yetsko ushered ray pelton in. "what's happened?" the boy asked. "doug told me that the senator ... my father ... had another heart attack." "yes, ray. i don't believe he's in any great danger. he's at the store, resting in his office." he went on to tell the boy what had happened, exactly and in full detail. he was only fifteen, but already he had completed the four-year reading course and he could think a great deal more logically than seventy per cent of the people who were legally entitled to vote. ray listened seriously, and proved prestonby's confidence justified by nodding. "frame-up," he said succinctly. "stinks like a glue factory of a put-up job. something's going to happen to russ latterman, one of these days." "i think you'd better let frank cardon take care of him, ray," prestonby advised. "i think there are more angles to this than he told me. now, i'm going over to the store. somebody's got to stay with claire. i want you to stay here, in this room. if anybody sends you any message supposed to be from me, just ignore it. it'll be a trap. if i want to get in touch with you, i'll call you, with vision-image." "mean somebody might try to kidnap me, or claire, to force the senator to withdraw, or something?" ray asked, his eyes widening. "you catch on quickly, ray," prestonby commended him. "doug, you stay with ray till i get back. don't let him out of your sight for an instant. at noon, have miss collins get lunches for both of you sent up; if i'm not back by fifteen-hundred, take him to his home, and stay with him there." * * * * * [illustration:] for half an hour, frank cardon made a flying tour of radical-socialist borough headquarters. even at the manhattan headquarters, which he visited immediately after his talk with prestonby, the news had already gotten out. the atmosphere of optimistic triumph which had undoubtedly followed mongery's telecast and his report on the trotter poll, had evaporated. the literate clerical help was gathered in a tight knot, obviously a little worried, and just as obviously enjoying the reaction. in smaller and constantly changing groups, the volunteers, the paid helpers, the dirt-squirters, the goon gangs, gathered, talking in worried or frightened or angry voices. when cardon entered and was recognized, there was a concerted movement toward him. his two regular bodyguards, both on leave from the literate storm troops, moved quickly to range themselves on either side of him. with a gesture, he halted the others. "hold it!" he called. "i know what you're worried about. i was there when it happened, and saw everything." he paused, to let them assimilate that, and continued: "now get this, all of you! our boss, and--_if he lives_--our next senator, was the victim of a deliberate murder attempt, by literate first class bayne, who threw out his supply of nitrocaine bulbs and then goaded him into a heart attack which, except for his daughter, would have been fatal. claire pelton deserves the deepest gratitude of every radical-socialist in the state. she's a smart girl, and she saved the life of her father and our leader. "but--she is _not_ a literate!" he cried loudly. "all she did was something any of you could have done--something i've done, myself, so that i won't be locked out of my own safe and have to wait for a literate to come and open, it for me. she simply kept her eye on the literates who were opening the safe, and learned the combination from the positions to which they turned the dial. and you believe, on the strength of that, that she's a literate? the next thing, you'll be believing that professional liar of a slade gardner. and you call yourselves politicians!" he fairly gargled obscenities. looking around, he caught sight of a pair who seemed something less than impressed with his account of it. joe west, thick-armed, hairy-chested, blue-jowled; horace yingling, thin and gangling. they weren't radical-socialist party people; they were from the political action committee of the consolidated illiterates organization, and their slogan was simpler and more to the point than chester pelton's--the only good literate is a dead literate. he tensed himself and challenged them directly. "joe; horace. how about you? satisfied the pelton girl isn't a literate, now?" yingling looked at west, and west looked back at him questioningly. evidently the _suavitor in modo_ was yingling's province, and the _fortior in re_ was west's. "yeh, sure, mr. cardon," yingling said dubiously. "now that you explain it, we see how it was." * * * * * it was worse than that in some of the other boroughs. one fanatic, imagining that cardon himself was a crypto-literate, drew a gun. cardon's guards disarmed him and beat him senseless. at another headquarters, some character was circulating about declaring that not only claire pelton but her younger brother, ray, as well, were literates. cardon's two men hustled him out of the building, and, after about twenty minutes, returned alone. cardon hoped that the body would not be found until after the polls closed, the next day. finally, leaving his guards with the 'copter at a public landing stage, he made his way, by devious routes, to william r. lancedale's office, and found lancedale at his desk, seeming not to have moved since he had showed his agent out earlier in the day. "well, we're in a nice puddle of something-or-other," cardon greeted him. "on top of that gardner telecast, this morning--" "guthrie parham's taking care of that, and everything's going to be done to ridicule gardner," lancedale told him. "and even this business at the store can be turned to some advantage. before we're through, we may gain more votes than we lose for pelton. and we had an informal meeting--joyner for retail merchandising, starke for grievance settlements, and four or five others including myself, to make up a quorum. we had bayne in, and heard his story of it, and we got a report from one of our stoolies in the store. bayne thought he was due for a commendation; instead, he got an eat-out. of course, it was a fact that pelton'd hit him, and we can't have literates punched around, regardless of provocation. so we voted to fine pelton ten million for beating bayne up, and to award him ten million for losses resulting from unauthorized withdrawal of literate services. we ordered a new crew of literates to the store, and we exiled bayne to brooklyn, to something called stillman's used copter and junk bazaar. for the next few months, the only thing he'll find that's round and pinchable will be second-hand tires. but don't be too hard on him; i think he did us a favor." "you mean, starting a rift between pelton and the consolidated illiterates' organization, which we can widen after the election?" "no. i hadn't thought of it that way, frank," lancedale smiled. "it's an idea worth keeping in mind, and we'll exploit it, later. what i was thinking about was the more immediate problem of the election--" the buzzer on lancedale's desk interrupted, and a voice came out of the commo box: "message, urgent and private, sir. source named as sforza." cardon recognized the name. maybe the independent-conservatives have troubles, too, he thought hopefully. then lancedale's video screen became the frame for an almost unbelievably commonplace set of features. "sforza, sir," the man in the screen said. "sorry i'm late, but i was able to get out of the building only a few minutes ago, and i had to make sure i wasn't wearing a tail. i have two new facts. first, the conservatives have been bringing storm troops in from outside, from philadelphia, and from wilkes-scranton, and from buffalo. they are being concentrated in lower manhattan, in plain clothes, with only concealed weapons, and carrying their hoods folded up under their coats. second, i overheard a few snatches of conversation between two of the conservative storm troop leaders, as follows: '... start it in china ... thirteen-thirty,' and '... important to make it appear either spontaneous or planned for business motives.'" "try to get us more information, as quickly as possible," lancedale directed. "obviously, we should know, by about thirteen hundred, what's being planned." "right, sir." lancedale's spy at independent-conservative headquarters nodded and vanished from the screen. "what does it sound like to you, frank?" lancedale asked. "china is obviously a code-designation for some place in downtown manhattan, where the conservative goon gangs are being concentrated. the only thing i can say is that it probably is not chinatown. they'd either say 'chinatown' and not 'china,' or they would use some code-designation that wasn't so close to the actual name," cardon considered. "what they're going to start, at thirteen-thirty, which is only two hours and a half from now, is probably some kind of a riot." "a riot which could arise from business motives," lancedale added. "that sounds like the docks, or the wholesale district, or the garment district, or something like that." he passed his hand rapidly over the photoelectric eye of the commo box. "get me major slater," he said; and, a little later, "major, get a platoon out to long island, to chester pelton's home; have the place searched for possible booby traps, and maintain guard there till further notice. you'll have no trouble with the servants, they're all in our pay. that platoon must not, repeat not, wear uniform or appear to have any connection with the fraternities. put another platoon in pelton's store. concealed weapons, and plain clothes. they should carry their leather helmets in shopping bags, and roam about in the store, ostensibly shopping. and a full company, uniformed and armed with heavy weapons, alerted and ready for immediate 'copter movement." he went on to explain about the intelligence report and the conclusions drawn from it. the guards officer repeated back his instructions, and lancedale broke the connection. "now, frank," he said, "i told you that this revelation of claire pelton's literacy can be turned to our advantage. there's to be a full council meeting at thirteen hundred. here's what i estimate joyner and graves will try to do, and here's what i'm going to do to counter it--" * * * * * a couple of men in the maroon uniform of pelton's store police were waiting as prestonby's 'copter landed on the top stage; one of them touched his cap-visor with his gas-billy in salute and said: "literate prestonby? miss pelton is expecting you; she's in her father's office. this way, if you please, sir." he had hoped to find her alone, but when he entered the office, he saw five or six of the store personnel with her. since opening her father's safe, she had evidently dropped all pretense of illiteracy; there was a mass of papers spread on the big desk, and she was referring from one to another of them with the deft skill of a regular fraternities literate, while the others watched in fascinated horror. "wait a moment, mr. hutschnecker," she told the white-haired man in the blue and orange business suit with whom she had been talking, and laid the printed price-schedule down, advancing to meet him. "ralph!" she greeted him. "frank cardon told me you were coming. i--" for a moment, he thought of the afternoon, over two years ago, when she had entered his office at the school, and he had recognized her as the older sister of young ray pelton. "professor prestonby," she had begun, accusingly, "you have been teaching my brother, raymond pelton, to read!" he had been prepared for that; had known that sooner or later there would be some minor leak in the security screen around the classrooms on the top floor. "my dear miss pelton," he had protested pleasantly. "i think you've become overwrought over nothing. this pretense to literacy is a phase most boys of ray's age pass through; they do it just as they play air-pirates or hi-jackers a few years earlier. the usual trick is to memorize something heard from a record disk, and then pretend to read it from print." "don't try to kid me, professor. i know that ray can read. i can prove it." "and supposing he has learned a few words," he had parried. "can you be sure i taught him? and if so, what had you thought of doing about it? are you going to expose me as a corrupter of youth?" "not unless i have to," she had replied coolly. "i'm going to blackmail you, professor. i want you to teach me to read, too." now, with this gang of her father's illiterate store officials present, a quick handclasp and a glance were all they could exchange. "how is he, claire?" he asked. "out of danger, for the present. there was a medic here, who left just before you arrived. he brought nitrocaine bulbs, and gave father something to make him sleep. he's lying down, back in his rest room." she led him to a door at the rear of the office and motioned him to enter, following him. "he's going to sleep for a couple of hours, yet." the room was a sort of bedroom and dressing room, with a miniscule toilet and shower beyond. pelton was lying on his back, sleeping; his face was pale, but he was breathing easily and regularly. two of the store policemen, a sergeant and a patrolman, were playing cards on the little table, and the patrolman had a burp gun within reach. "all right, sergeant," claire said. "you and gorman go out to the office. call me if anything comes up that needs my attention, in the next few minutes." the sergeant started to protest. claire cut him off. "there's no danger here. this literate can be trusted; he's a friend of mr. cardon's. works at the brewery. it's all right." the two rose and went out, leaving the door barely ajar. prestonby and claire, like a pair of marionettes on the same set of strings, cast a quick glance at the door and then were in each other's arms. chester pelton slept placidly as they kissed and whispered endearments. it was claire who terminated the embrace, looking apprehensively at her slumbering father. "ralph, what's it all about?" she asked. "i didn't even know that you and frank cardon knew each other, let alone that he had any idea about us." prestonby thought furiously, trying to find a safe path through the tangle of claire pelton's conflicting loyalties, trying to find a path between his own loyalties and his love for her, wondering how much it would be safe to tell her. "and cardon's gone completely cloak-and-dagger-happy," she continued. "he's talking about plots against my father's life, and against me, and--" "a lot of things are going on under cloaks, around here," he told her. "and under literate smocks, and under other kinds of costume. and a lot of daggers are out, too. you didn't know frank cardon was a literate, did you?" her eyes widened. "i thought i was literate enough to spot literacy in anybody else," she said. "no, i never even suspected--" somebody rapped on the door. "miss pelton," the sergeant's voice called. "visiphone call from literates' hall." prestonby smiled. "i'll take it, if you don't mind," he said. "i'm acting-chief-literate here, now, i suppose." she followed him as he went out into pelton's office. when he snapped on the screen, a young man in a white smock, with the fraternities executive section badge, looked out of it. he gave a slight start when he saw prestonby. "literate first class ralph n. prestonby, acting voluntarily for pelton's purchasers' paradise during emergency," he said. "literate first class armandez, executive section," the man in the screen replied. "this call is in connection with the recent attack of chester pelton upon literate first class bayne." "continue, understanding that we admit nothing," prestonby told him. "an extemporary session of the council has found pelton guilty of assaulting literate bayne, and has fined him ten million dollars," armandez announced. "we enter protest," prestonby replied automatically. "wait a moment, literate. the council has also awarded pelton's purchasers' paradise damages to the extent of ten million dollars, for losses incurred by suspension of literate service, and voted censure against literate bayne for ordering said suspension without consent of the council. furthermore, a new crew of literates, with their novices, guards, et cetera, is being sent at once to your store. obviously, neither the fraternities, nor pelton's, nor the public, would be benefitted by returning literate bayne or any of his crew; he has been given another assignment." "thank you. and when can we expect this new crew of literates?" prestonby asked. the man in the screen consulted his watch. "probably inside of an hour. we've had to do some re-shuffling; you know how these things are handled. and if you'll pardon me, literate; just what are you doing at pelton's? i understood that you were principal of mineola high school." "that's a good question." prestonby hastily assessed the circumstances and their implications. "i'd suggest that you ask it of my superior, literate lancedale, however." the literate in the screen blinked; that was the equivalent, for him, of anybody else's jaw dropping to his midriff. "well! a pleasure, literate. good day." * * * * * "miss pelton!" the man in the blue-and-orange suit was still trying to catch her attention. "where are we going to put that stuff? russ latterman's out in the store, somewhere, and i can't get in touch with him." "what did you say it was?" she replied. "fireworks, for the peace day trade. we want to get it on sale about the middle of the month." "this was a fine time to deliver them. peace day isn't till the tenth of december. put them down in the fireproof vault." "that place is full of photographic film, and sporting ammunition, and other merchandise; stuff we'll have to draw out to replace stock on the shelves during the sale," the illiterate objected. "the weather forecast for the next couple of days is fair," prestonby reminded her. "why not just pile the stuff on the top stage, beyond the control tower, and put up warning signs?" the man--hutschnecker, prestonby remembered hearing claire call him--nodded. "that might be all right. we could cover the cases with tarpaulins." a buzzer drew one of the illiterates to a handphone. he listened for a moment, and turned. "hey, there's a mrs. h. armytage zydanowycz down in furs; she wants to buy one of those mutated-mink coats, and she's only got half a million bucks with her. how's her credit?" claire handed prestonby a black-bound book. "confidential credit-rating guide; look her up for us," she said. another buzzer rasped, before prestonby could find the entry on zydanowycz, h. armytage; the illiterate office worker, laying down one phone, grabbed up another. "they're all outta small money in notions; every son and his brother's been in there in the last hour to buy a pair of dollar shoestrings with a grand-note." "i'll take care of that," hutschnecker said. "wait till i call control tower, and tell them about the fireworks." "how much does mrs. h. armytage zydanowycz want credit for?" prestonby asked. "the book says her husband's good for up to fifteen million, or fifty million in thirty days." "those coats are only five million," claire said. "let her have it; be sure to get her thumbprint, though, and send it up here for comparison." "oh, claire; do you know how we're going to handle this new literate crew, when they get here?" "yes, here's the to for literate service." she tossed a big chart across the desk to him. "i made a few notes on it; you can give it to whoever is in charge." * * * * * it went on, like that, for the next hour. when the new literate crew arrived, prestonby was delighted to find a friend, and a fellow-follower of lancedale, in charge. considering that retail merchandising was wilton joyner's section, that was a good omen. lancedale must have succeeded to an extraordinary degree in imposing his will on the grand council. prestonby found, however, that he would need some time to brief the new chief literate on the operational details at the store. he was unwilling to bring claire too prominently into the conference, although he realized that it would be a matter of half an hour, at the outside, before every one of the new literate crew would have heard about her literate ability. if she'd only played dumb, after opening that safe-- finally, by , the new literates had taken over, and the sale was running smoothly again. latterman was somewhere out in the store, helping them; claire had lunch for herself and prestonby sent up from the restaurant, and for a while they ate in silence, broken by occasional spatters of small-talk. then she returned to the question she had raised and he had not yet answered. "you say frank cardon's a literate?" she asked. "then what's he doing managing the senator's campaign? fifth-columning?" he shook his head. "you think the fraternities are a solid, monolithic, organization; everybody agreed on aims and means, and working together in harmony? that's how it's supposed to look, from the outside. on the inside, though, there's a bitter struggle going on between two factions, over policy and for control. one faction wants to maintain the _status quo_--a handful of literates doing the reading and writing for an illiterate public, and holding a monopoly on literacy. they're headed by two men, wilton joyner and harvey graves. bayne was one of that faction." he paused, thinking quickly. if lancedale had gotten the upper hand, there was likely to be a revision of the joyner-graves attitude toward pelton. in that case, the less he said to incriminate russell latterman, the better. let bayne be the villain, for a while, he decided. "bayne," he continued, "is one of a small minority of fanatics who make a religion of literacy. i believe he disposed of your father's medicine, and then deliberately goaded him into a rage to bring on a heart attack. that doesn't represent joyner-graves policy; it was just something he did on his own. he's probably been disciplined for it, by now. but the joyner-graves faction are working for your father's defeat and the re-election of grant hamilton. "the other faction is headed by a man you've probably never heard of, william r. lancedale. i'm of his faction, and so is frank cardon. we want to see your father elected, because the socialization of literacy would eventually put the literates in complete control of the government. we also want to see literacy become widespread, eventually universal, just as it was before world war iv." "but wouldn't that mean the end of the fraternities?" claire asked. "that's what joyner and graves say. we don't believe so. and suppose it did? lancedale says, if we're so incompetent that we have to keep the rest of the world in ignorance to earn a living, the world's better off without us. he says that every oligarchy carries in it the seeds of its own destruction; that if we can't evolve with the rest of the world, we're doomed in any case. that's why we want to elect your father. if he can get his socialized literacy program adopted, we'll be in a position to load the public with so many controls and restrictions and formalities that even the most bigoted illiterate will want to learn to read. lancedale says, a private monopoly like ours is bad, but a government monopoly is intolerable, and the only way the public can get rid of it would be by becoming literates, themselves." she glanced toward the door of pelton's private rest room. "poor senator!" she said softly. "he hates literacy so, and his own children are literates, and his program against literacy is being twisted against itself!" "but you agree that we're right and he's wrong?" prestonby asked. "you must, or you'd never have come to me to learn to read." "he's such a good father. i'd hate to see him hurt," she said. "but, ralph, you're my man. anything you're for, i'm for, and anything you're against, i'm against." he caught her hand, across the table, forgetful of the others in the office. "claire, now that everybody knows--" he began. * * * * * "_top emergency! top emergency!_" a voice brayed out of the alarm box on the wall. "_serious disorder in department thirty-two! serious disorder in department thirty-two!_" the voice broke off as suddenly as it had begun, but the box was not silent. from it came a medley of shouts, curses, feminine screams and splintering crashes. prestonby and claire were on their feet. "you have wall screens?" he asked. "how do they work? like the ones at school?" claire twisted a knob until the number appeared on a dial, and pressed a button. on the screen, the chinaware department on the third floor came to life in full sound and color. the pickup must have been across an aisle from the box from whence the alarm had come; they could see one of pelton's illiterate clerks lying unconscious under it, and the handphone dangling at the end of its cord. the aisles were full of jostling, screaming women, trampling one another and fighting frantically to get out, and, among them, groups of three or four men were gathered back to back. one such group had caught a store policeman; three were holding him while a fourth smashed vases over his head, grabbing them from a nearby counter. a pink dinner plate came skimming up from the crowd, narrowly missing the wired tv pickup. a moment later, a blue-and-white sugar bowl, thrown with better aim, came curving at them in the screen. it scored a hit, and brought darkness, though the bedlam of sound continued. [illustration:] [illustration:] cardon looked at his watch as he entered the council chamber at literates' hall, smoothing his smock hastily under his sam browne. he'd made it with very little time to spare, before the doors would be sealed and the meeting would begin. he'd been all over town, tracking down that report of sforza's; he'd even made a quick visit to chinatown, on the off chance that "china" had been used in an attempt at the double concealment of the obvious, but, as he'd expected, he'd found nothing. the people there hardly knew there was to be an election. accustomed for millennia to ideographs read only by experts, they viewed the current uproar about literacy with unconcern. at the door, he deposited his pocket recorder--no sound-recording device was permitted, except the big audio-visual camera in front, which made the single permanent record. going around the room counterclockwise to the seats of his faction, he encountered two other lancedale men: gerald k. toppington, of the technological section, thin-faced, sandy-haired, balding; and franklin r. chernov, commander of the local literates' guards brigade, with his ragged gray mustache, his horribly scarred face, and his outsize tablet-holster almost as big as a mail-order catalogue. "what's joyner-graves trying to do to us, frank?" chernov rumbled gutturally. "it's what we're going to do to them," cardon replied. "didn't the chief tell you?" chernov shook his head. "no time. i only got here fifteen minutes ago. chasing all over town about that tip from sforza. nothing, of course. nothing from sforza, either. the thing must have been planned weeks ago, whatever it is, and everybody briefed personally, and nothing on disk or tape about it. but what's going to happen here? lancedale going to pull a rabbit out of his hat?" cardon explained. chernov whistled. "man, that's no rabbit; that's a full-grown bengal tiger! i hope it doesn't eat us, by mistake." cardon looked around, saw lancedale in animated argument with a group of his associates. some of the others seemed to be sharing chernov's fears. "i have every confidence in the chief," toppington said. "if his tigers make a meal off anybody, it'll be--" he nodded in the direction of the other side of the chamber, where wilton joyner, short, bald, pompous, and harvey graves, tall and cadaverous, stood in a rosencrantz-guildenstern attitude, surrounded by half a dozen of their top associates. the council president, morehead, came out a little door onto the rostrum and took his seat, pressing a button. the call bell began clanging slowly. lancedale, glancing around, saw cardon and nodded. on both sides of the chamber, the literates began taking seats, and finally the call bell stopped, and literate president morehead rapped with his gavel. the opening formalities were hustled through. the routine held-over business was rubber-stamped with hasty votes of approval, even including the decisions of the extemporary meeting of that morning on the affair at pelton's. finally, the presiding officer rapped again and announced that the meeting was now open for new business. at once, harvey graves was on his feet. "literate president," he began, as soon as the chair had recognized him, "this is scarcely _new_ business, since it concerns a problem, a most serious problem, which i and some of my colleagues have brought to the attention of this council many times in the past--the problem of black literacy!" he spat out the two words as though they were a mouthful of poison. "literate president and fellow literates, if anything could destroy our fraternities, to which we have given our lives' devotion, it would be the widespread tendency to by-pass the fraternities, the practice of literacy by non-fraternities people--" "we've heard all that before, wilton!" somebody from the lancedale side called out. "what do you want to talk about that you haven't gotten on every record of every meeting for the last thirty years?" "why, this pelton business," graves snapped back at him. "you know what i mean. your own associates are responsible for it!" he turned back to face the chair, and, with a surprising minimum of invective, described the scene in which claire pelton had demonstrated her literacy. "and that's not all, brother literates," he continued. "since then, i've been receiving reports from the pelton store. claire pelton has been openly doing the work of a literate; going over the store's written records, checking inventories, checking the credit guide, handling the price lists--" "what's that got to do with black literacy?" gerald toppington demanded. "black literacy is a term which labels the professional practice of literacy, for hire, by a non-fraternity literate, or literate service furnished for criminal or politically subversive purposes, or the betrayal of a client by a fraternity literate. there's nothing of the sort involved here. this girl, who does appear to be literate, is simply looking after the interests of her family's business." "she was taught by a literate, a fraternities-member, under, to say the very least, irregular circumstances, and without payment of any fee. any fee, that is, that the fraternities can collect any percentage on. and the literate who taught her also taught her younger brother, ray pelton, and this literate, who is known to be her lover--" "suppose he is her lover, so what?" one of lancedale's partisans demanded. "you say, yourself, that she's a literate. that ought to remove any objection. why, if she were to come forward and admit and demonstrate her literacy, there'd be no possible objection from the fraternities' viewpoint to her marrying young prestonby." "and as for prestonby's action in teaching literacy to her and to her brother," cardon spoke up, "i think he deserves the thanks and commendation of the fraternities. he's put a period to four generations of bigoted illiterates." wilton joyner was on his feet. "will literate graves yield for a motion?" he asked. "thank you, harvey. literate president, and brother literates: i yield to no man in my abhorrence of black literacy, or in my detestation for the political principles of which chester pelton has made himself the spokesman, but i deny that we should allow the acts and opinions of the illiterate parent to sway us in our consideration of the literate children. it has come to my notice, as it has to literate graves', that this young woman, claire pelton, is literate to a degree that would be a credit to any literate first class, and her brother can match his literacy creditably against that of any novice in our fraternities. to show that we respect literate ability, wherever we find it; to show that we are not the monopolistic closed-corporation our enemies accuse us of being; to show that we are not animated by a vindictive hatred of anything bearing the name of pelton--i move, and ask that my motion be presented for seconding, that claire pelton, and her brother, raymond pelton, be duly elected, respectively, to the positions of literate third class and literate novice, as members of the associated fraternities of literates!" from the joyner-graves side, there were dutiful cries of, "yes! yes! admit the young peltons!" and also gasps of horrified surprise from the rank-and-filers who hadn't been briefed on what was coming up. lancedale was on his feet in an instant. "literate president!" he cried. "in view of the delicate political situation, and in view of chester pelton's violent denunciation of our fraternities--" "literate lancedale," the president objected. "the motion is not to be debated until it has been properly seconded." "what does the literate president think i'm doing?" lancedale retorted. "i second the motion!" joyner looked at lancedale in angry surprise, which gradually became fearful suspicion. his stooge, who had already risen with a prepared speech of seconding, simply gaped. "furthermore," lancedale continued, "i move an amendment to literate joyner's motion. i move that the ceremony of the administration of the literates' oath, and the investiture in the smock and insignia, be carried out as soon as possible, and that an audio-visual recording be made, and telecast this evening, before twenty-one hundred." brigade commander chernov, prodded by cardon, jumped to his feet. "excellent!" he cried. "i second the motion to amend the motion of literate joyner." if there were such a thing as a bomb which would explode stunned silence, lancedale and chernov had dropped such a bomb. cardon could guess how joyner and graves felt; they were now beginning to be afraid of their own proposition. as for the lancedale literates, he knew how many of them felt. he'd felt the same way, himself, when lancedale had proposed the idea. he got to his feet. "literate president, brother literates," he raised his voice. "i call for an immediate vote on this amended motion, which i, personally, endorse most heartily, and which i hope to see carried unanimously." "now, wait a minute!" joyner objected. "this motion ought to be debated--" "what do you want to debate about it?" chernov demanded. "you presented it, didn't you?" "well, i wanted to give the council an opportunity to discuss it, as typical of our problems in dealing with black ... i mean, non-fraternities ... literacy--" "you mean, you didn't know it was loaded!" cardon told him. "well, that's your hard luck; we're going to squeeze the trigger!" "i withdraw the motion!" joyner shouted. "literate president," lancedale said gently, his thin face lighting with an almost saintly smile, "literate joyner simply cannot withdraw his motion, now. it has been properly seconded and placed before the house, and so has my own humble contribution to it. i demand that the motion be acted upon." "vote! vote! vote!" the lancedale literates began yelling. "i call on all my adherents to vote against this motion!" joyner shouted. "now look here, wilton!" harvey graves shouted, reddening with anger. "you're just making a fool out of me. this was your idea, in the first place! do you want to smash everything we've ever done in the fraternities?" "harvey, we can't go on with it," joyner replied. he crossed quickly to graves' seat and whispered something. "for the record," lancedale said sweetly, "our colleague, literate joyner, has just whispered to literate graves that since i have seconded his motion, he's now afraid of it. i think literate graves is trying to assure him that my support is merely a bluff. for the information of this body, i want to state categorically that it is not, and that i will be deeply disappointed if this motion does not pass." an elderly literate on the joyner-graves side, an undersized man with a bald head and a narrow mouth, was on his feet. he looked like an aged rat brought to bay by a terrier. "i was against this fool idea from the start!" he yelled. "we've got to keep the illiterates down; how are we ever going to do that if we go making literates out of them? but you two thought you were being smart--" "shut up and sit down, you old jackass!" one of joyner's people shouted at him. "shut up, yourself, ginter," a hatchet-faced woman literate from the finance section squawked. literate president morehead, an amiable and ineffective maiden aunt in trousers, pounded frantically with his gavel. "order!" he fairly screamed. "this is disgraceful!" "you can say that again!" brigade commander chernov boomed. "what do you people over on the right think this is; an illiterates' organization political action meeting?" "vote! vote!" cardon bellowed. literate president morehead banged his gavel and, in a last effort, started the call bell clanging. "the motion has been presented and seconded; the amendment has been presented and seconded. it will now be put to a vote!" "roll call!" cardon demanded. four or five other voices, from both sides of the chamber, supported him. "the vote will be by roll call," literate president morehead agreed. "addison, walter g." "aye!" he was a subordinate of harvey graves. "agostino, pedro v." "aye!" he was a lancedale man. so it went on. graves voted for the motion. joyner voted against it. all the lancedale faction, now convinced that their leader had the opposition on the run, voted loudly for it. "the vote has been one hundred and eighty-three for, seventy-two against," literate president morehead finally announced. "the motion is herewith declared carried. literate lancedale, i appoint you to organize a committee to implement the said motion, at once." * * * * * prestonby flung open the door of the rest room where sergeant coccozello and his subordinate were guarding the unconscious pelton. "sergeant! who's in charge of store police, now?" coccozello looked blank for an instant. "i guess i am," he said. "lieutenant dunbar's off on his vacation, in mexico, and captain freizer's in the hospital; he was taken sick suddenly last evening." probably poisoned, prestonby thought, making a mental note to find out which hospital and get in touch with one of the literate medics there. "well, come out here, sergeant, and have a look around the store on the tv. we have troubles." coccozello could hear the noise that was still coming out of the darkened screen. as he stepped forward, claire got another pickup, some distance from the one that had been knocked out. a mob of women customers were surging away from the chinaware department, into glassware; they were running into the shopping crowd there, with considerable disturbance. a couple of store police were trying to get through the packed mass of humanity, and making slow going of it. coccozello swore and started calling on his reserves on one of the handphones. "wait a moment, sergeant," prestonby stopped him. "don't commit any of your reserves down there. we're going to need them to hold the executive country, up here. this is only the start of a general riot." "who are you and what do you know about it?" coccozello challenged. "listen to him, guido," claire said. "he knows what he's doing." "claire, you have some way of keeping a running count of the number of customers in and out of the store, haven't you?" prestonby asked. "why, yes; here." she pointed to an indicator on chester pelton's desk, where constantly changing numbers danced. "and don't you have a continuous check on sales, too? how do they jibe?" "they don't; look. sales are away below any expectation from the number of customers, even allowing for shopping habits of a bargain-day crowd. but what's that got to do--" prestonby was back at the tv, shifting from pickup to pickup. "look, sergeant, claire. that isn't a normal bargain-day crowd, is it? look at those groups of men, three or four to a group, shifting around, waiting for something to happen. this store's been infiltrated by a big goon gang. that business in chinaware's just the start, to draw our reserves down to the third floor. look at that, now." he had a pickup on the twelfth floor, the floor just under the public landing stages, and at the foot of the escalators leading to the central executive block. "see how they're concentrating, there?" he pointed out. "in that ladies' wear department, there are three men for every woman, and the men are all drifting from counter to counter over in the direction of our escalators." coccozello swore again, feelingly. "literate, you know your stuff!" he said. "that fuss in china is just a feint; this is where they're really going to hit. what do you think it is? macy & gimbel's trying to bust up our sale, or politics?" prestonby shrugged. "take your choice. a competitor would concentrate where your biggest volume of sale was going on, though; political enemies would try to get up here, and that's what this gang's trying to do." "he's absolutely right, guido," claire told the sergeant. "do whatever he tells you." sergeant coccozello looked at him, awaiting orders. "we can't commit our reserves in that chinaware department fight; we need them up here. where are they, now, and how many?" "thirteen, counting myself and the man in there." he nodded toward the room where chester pelton lay in drugged sleep. "in the squad room, on the floor below." "and for the mob below to get up here?" "two escalators, sir, northeast and southwest corners of office country. and we got some new counters that mr. latterman had built, that didn't get put out in time for the sale. we can use them to build barricades, if we have to." "how about a 'copter attack on the roof?" coccozello grinned. "i'd like to see that, now, literate. we got plenty of a-a equipment up there--four -mm machine guns, two -mm's, and one -mm auto-cannon. we could hold off the state guard with that." "that isn't saying much, but they're not even that good. so it'll be the escalators. think, now, sergeant. fires, burglary, holdups--" the sergeant's grin widened. "high-pressure fire hose, one at the head of each escalator, and a couple more that can be dragged over from other outlets. say we put two men on each hose, lying down at the head of the escalators. and we got plenty of firearms; we can arm some of these clerks, up here--" "all right; do that. and put out an emergency call, by inter-department telephone, not by public address, to floorwalkers from the fifth floor down, to gather up all male clerks and other store personnel in their departments, arm them with anything they can find, and rush them to chinaware. tell them to shout 'pelton!' when they hit the mob, to avoid breaking each others' heads in the confusion, and tell them they're expected to hold the chinaware and glassware departments themselves, without any help from the store police." "why not?" claire wanted to know. "that's how battles come to happen at the wrong time and place," prestonby told her. "two small detachments collide, and each sends back for re-enforcements, and the next thing anybody knows, there's a full-size battle going on where nobody wants to fight one. we're going to fight our main battle at the head of the escalators from the twelfth floor." "you've done this sort of work before, literate," coccozello grinned. "you talk like a storm-troop captain. what else?" "well, so far, we've just been talking defense. we need to take the offensive, ourselves." he glanced around. "is there a freight elevator from this block to the basement?" "yeah. wait till i see." coccozello went to the tv-screen and dialed. "yeah, and the elevator's up here, too," he said. "well, you take what men you can spare--a couple of your cops, and a couple of the office crew--arm them with pistols, carbines, clubs, whatever you please, and take them down to the basement. gather up all the warehouse gang, down there, and arm them. and as soon as you get to the basement, send the elevator back up here. that's our life line; we can't risk having it captured. you'll organize flying squads to go up into the store from the basement. bust up any trouble that seems to be getting started, if you can, but your main mission will be to rescue store police, literates, literates' guards, and store help, and get them back to the basement. they'll be picked up from there and brought up here on the elevator." he picked up a pad from a desk and wrote a few lines on it. "show this to any literate you meet; get literate hopkinson to countersign it for you, when you find him. tell him we want his whole gang up here as soon as possible." "how about getting help from outside?" claire asked. "the city police, or--" "city police won't lift a finger," prestonby told her. "they never help anybody who has a private police force; they have too much to do protecting john q. citizen. hutschnecker; suppose you call radical-socialist campaign headquarters; tell them to rush some of their lone rangers around here--" * * * * * [illustration:] russell m. latterman was lunching in the store restaurant, at a table next the thick glass partition, where he could look out across confectionery and pastries toward the tobacco shoppe and the liquor department. there were two ways of looking at it, of course. he was occupying a table that might have been used by a customer, but, on the other hand, he was known by sight to many of the customers, and the fact that he was eating here had some advertising value, and he could keep his eye on the business going on around him. off in the distance, he caught the white flash of a literate smock at one of the counters; one of the new crew sent in to replace the ones bayne had pulled out. he was glad and at the same time disturbed. he had had his doubts about staging a literates' strike, and he was almost positive that wilton joyner had known nothing about it. the whole thing had been harvey graves' idea. there was a serious question of literate ethics involved, to say nothing of the effect on the public. the trick of forcing claire pelton to reveal her secret literacy was all right, although he wished that it had been frank cardon who had opened that safe. or did he? cardon would have brazened it out, claimed to have memorized the combination after having learned it by observation, and would probably have gotten away with it. but that silly girl had lost her head afterward, and had gone on to brand herself, irrevocably, as a literate. one of the waitresses was hurrying toward him, almost falling over herself in excitement. she began talking when she was ten feet from the table. "mr. latterman! mr. latterman!" she was calling to him. "a terrible fight, down in chinaware--!" "well, what do we have store police for?" he demanded. "they can take care of it. now be quiet, madge; don't get the customers excited!" he returned to his lunch, watching, with satisfaction, the crowd that was packing into the liquor department, next to the restaurant. that special loss-leader, old atom-bomb rye, had been a good idea. in the first place, the stuff was fit for nothing but cleaning drains and removing varnish; if he were pelton, he would have fired that fool buyer who got them overstocked on it. but the audio-advertiser, outside, was reiterating: "_choice whiskies, two hundred dollars a sixth and up!_" and pulling in the customers, who, when they discovered that the two-hundred-dollar bargain was old atom-bomb, were shelling out five hundred to a grand a sixth for good liquor. he finished his coffee and got to his feet. be a good idea to look in on liquor, and see how things were going. the department was getting more and more crowded every minute; three customers were entering for every one who left. on the way, he passed two women, and caught a snatch of conversation: "don't go down on the third floor, for heaven's sake ... terrible fight ... smashing everything up--" worried, he continued into liquor, and the looks of the crowd there increased his worries. too many men between twenty and thirty, all dressed alike, looking alike, talking and acting alike. it looked like a goon-gang infiltration, and he was beginning to see why harvey graves had wanted the literates pulled out, and why joyner, bound by ethics to do nothing against the commercial interests of pelton's, had known nothing about it. he started toward a counter, to speak to a clerk, but one of the stocky, quietly-dressed young men stepped in front of him. "gimme a bottle of atom-bomb," he said. "don't bother wrapping it." "yes, sir." the clerk seemed worried, too. he got the bottle and set it on the counter. "that'll be two c, sir." "i see you're wearing a radical-socialist button," the customer commented. "because you want to, or because chet pelton makes you?" "mr. pelton never interferes with his employees' political convictions," the clerk replied loyally. saying nothing, the customer took the bottle, swung it by the neck, and smashed it over the clerk's head, knocking him senseless. "that's all that rotgut's good for," the customer said, jumping over the counter. "all right, boys; help yourselves!" * * * * * for a surprisingly long time, the riot was localized in china, where it had begun. using, alternately, three tv-pickups around the scene of the disturbance, prestonby watched its progress, and watched successive details of store personnel, armed with clubs and a few knives and sono pistols, hit the riot, shouting their battle cry, and vanish. they were, of course, lambs of sacrifice, however unlamblike their conduct. they were buying time, and they were drawing groups of goons into the action in china and glassware who might have been making trouble elsewhere. there was an outbreak on the sixth floor, in liquor; claire, touring the store on the other tv-screen, spotted it and called his attention to it. back of the shattered glass partition, a mob of men were snatching bottles from the shelves and tossing them out to the crowd. one of the clerks, in his gray uniform jacket, was lying unconscious outside. while prestonby watched, another, and another, came flying out the doorway. a fourth victim, in ordinary business clothes, tattered and disheveled, came flying out after them, to land in a heap, stunned for an instant, and then pick himself up. prestonby laughed heartily when he recognized literate--undercover--first class russell m. latterman. "i ought to have anticipated that," he said. "any time there's a riot, the liquor stores are the first things looted. the liquor stores, and the--claire! see what's going on in sporting goods!" sporting goods, between tools & hardware and toys, on the fifth floor, was swamped. one of the clerks was lying on the floor in a puddle of blood, past any help; none of the others were in sight. the gun racks and pistol cases were being cleaned out systematically. this had been organized in advance. there were four or five men working industriously wiping grease out of bores and actions before handing out firearms, and a couple more making sure that the right cartridges went with each weapon. somebody had brought a small grinding wheel over from tools and plugged it in, and was grinding points on the foils and épées. others were collecting baseball bats, golf clubs, and football helmets and catchers' masks. the tool department was being stripped of everything that could be used as a weapon, too. the whole store, by this time, was an approximation of mutiny in a madhouse. dressgoods was being looted by a howling mob of women, who were pulling bolts of material from shelves and fighting among themselves over them. somebody had turned on the electric fans, and long streams of flimsy fabric were blowing about like a surrealist maypole dance. somebody in household furnishings had turned on a couple of fans, too, and a mob of hoodlums were opening cans of paint and throwing them into the fan blades. the little antiques department, in a corner of the fourth floor back of the gift shoppe, was an island of peace in the general chaos. there was only one way into it, and one of the clerks, who had gotten himself into a suit of fifteenth century battle armor, was standing in the entrance, leaning on a two-hand sword. there was blood on the long blade, and more blood splashed on the floor in front of him. he was being left entirely alone. * * * * * hutschnecker, called to the telephone, spoke briefly, listened for a while, spoke again in hearty thanks, and hung up. "macy & gimbel's," he told prestonby. "they heard about our trouble--probably one of their price-spotters phoned in about it--and they're offering to send twenty of their store-cops to help us out. they'll be landing on our stage in eight minutes, rifles and steel helmets." prestonby nodded. it would have been quite conceivable that pelton's chief competitor had started the riot; since they hadn't, their offer of armed aid was just as characteristic of the bitter but mutually-respectful rivalries of the commercial world. a few minutes later, another call came in, this time on the visiphone. prestonby took it when he saw a literates' guards officer in the screen and recognized him. "that you, prestonby?" the officer, major slater, asked in some surprise. "didn't know you were at pelton's. what's going on, there?" prestonby told him, briefly. "yes; we had some of our people at the store, in plain clothes," slater said. "just in case of trouble. on mr. l.'s orders. they reported a riot starting, but naturally, their reports were incomplete. can you get one of your landing stages cleared for us? we have two hundred men, in twenty 'copters." then he must have noticed some of the store illiterates back of prestonby, and realized that this offer of help to literacy's worst enemy would arouse suspicion. "not that we care what happens to chester pelton, but we have to protect our own people at the store." "yes, of course," prestonby agreed. "come in on our north stage. you'll probably find a fight going on on our twelfth floor, just inside. anybody who's trying to get up the escalators to the office block will be an enemy." "right. we're halfway there now." the literates' guards officer broke the connection. "you heard that?" he asked, turning to the others in the office. "if we can hold out till they get here, we're all right. did you contact radical-socialist headquarters, yet, hutschnecker?" "yes. i talked to a fellow named yingling. he said that all the party storm troops had been lured out to some kind of a disturbance in north jersey borough; he'd try to get them recalled." prestonby swore bitterly. "by the time his own party-goons get here, the literates' guards and macy & gimbel's will have pulled pelton's bacon off the fire for him. nice friends he has!" an alarm buzzer went off suddenly, and an urgent voice came out of the box on the wall: "here come the goons! south escalator!" prestonby grabbed a burp gun and a canvas musette bag full of clips. by the time he had gotten down to what, in deference to the superstitions of the illiterate store force, was known as the fourteenth floor, an attack on the north escalator had developed as well. in both cases, the attackers seemed to expect no organized resistance. they simply jumped onto the escalators, adding their own running speed, and came rushing up, firing pistols ahead of them at random. the defenders, however, had been ready: the fire hoses caught those in the lead and hurled them back. some of them vaulted the barrier between the ascending and descending spirals and let themselves be carried down again. less than five minutes after the buzzer had sounded the warning, the attack stopped. the noise on the twelfth floor increased, however, and, leaning over into the escalator-way, prestonby could see the rioters firing in the direction of the entrance from the north landing stage. within a matter of thirty seconds, they began to flee, and a wave of literates' guards, in their futuristic "space cadet" uniforms, came pouring in after them. * * * * * douglass macarthur yetsko put the burp gun back together again, tried the action, and laid it aside with a sigh. he had cleaned every weapon in his and prestonby's private arsenal, since lunch, and now he had to admit the unpalatable fact that there was nothing left to do but turn on the tv. ray had been no company at all; the boy hadn't spoken a word since he'd started rummaging among the captain's books. gloomily, he snapped on the screen to sample the soap shows. della pallas was in jail again, this time accused of murdering the lawyer who had gotten her acquitted on a previous murder rap. considering the fact that she had languished in jail for almost a year during the other trial, yetsko felt that she had a sound motive. rudolf barstow, in "broadway wife," was, like bruce's spider, spinning his five hundredth web to ensnare the glamorous marie knobble. and there was a show about a schoolteacher and her class of angelic little tots that almost brought yetsko's lunch up. he shifted the dial again; a young literate announcer was speaking quickly, excitedly: "... scene of the riot, already the worst this year, and growing steadily worse. we take you now to downtown manhattan, where our portable units and commentators have just arrived, and switch you to ed morgan." the screen went black, and yetsko swore angrily. ray lifted his head quickly from his book and reached for the sono pistol yetsko had given him. "good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and just a moment, until we can give you the picture. we're having what is usually labeled as 'slight technical difficulties,' in this case the difficulty of avoiding having a hole shot in our camera or in your commentator's head. yes, that's shooting you hear; there, somebody's using an auto rifle! how are you coming, steve?" a voice muttered something which, two centuries ago, would have caused an earth-shaking scandal in the whole radio-tv industry. "well, till steve gets things fixed up, a brief review, to date, of what's sure to go down in history as the battle of pelton's purchasers' paradise--" "huh?" ray fairly shouted, the book forgotten. "... started in the chinaware department, as a relatively innocent brawl, and spread to the liquor department, and then, all of a sudden, everybody started playing rough. at first, it was suspected that macy & gimbel's had sent a goon gang around to break up pelton's fall sale, but when the former concern rallied to the assistance of their competitor with a force of twenty riflemen, that began to look less likely, and we're beginning to think that it might be the work of some of pelton's political enemies. about ten minutes ago, major james f. slater, of the literates' guards, arrived with two hundred of his men, to protect the literates on duty at the store. they captured the entire twelfth floor, where we are, now, with the exception of the ladies' lingerie and hosiery departments around one of the escalators to the lower floors; here the gang who started the riot, and who are now donning white hoods to distinguish themselves from the various other factions involved, have thrown up barricades of counters and display tables and are fighting bitterly to keep control of the escalator head. ah, here we are!" the screen lit suddenly, and they were looking, ray over yetsko's shoulder, across the devastated expanse of what had been the ladies' frocks department, toward lingerie and hosiery, which seemed to have been thoroughly looted, then stripped of everything that could be used to build a barricade. "... seems to have been quite a number of heavy 'copters just landed on the east stage, filled with more goons, probably to re-enforce the gang back of that barricade. the firing's gotten noticeably heavier--" * * * * * yetsko had turned from the screen, and was pawing in the arms locker. for a job like this, he'd need firepower. he took the ten-shot clip from the butt of his pistol and inserted one with a curling hundred-shot drum at the bottom, and shoved two more like it into the pockets of his jacket. and now, something to clear the way with. he took out a three-foot length of weighted fire hose. then he saw ray. that kid was pinning him down, here, while the captain was probably fighting for his life! but the captain'd told him to stay with ray--he dropped the weighted hose. "what's the matter, doug?" the boy asked. "pick it up and let's get going." he shook his head. "can't. the captain told me i had to take care of you." the boy opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and thought for a moment. then he asked: "doug, didn't captain prestonby tell you to stay with me?" "yes--" "all right. you do just that, because i'm going to help claire and the senator. that's who that goon gang's after." yetsko considered the proposition for a moment, horrified. why, this was the captain's girl's kid brother; if anything happened to him--his mind refused to contemplate what the captain would do to him. "no. you gotta stay here, ray," he said. "the captain--" then his eye caught the screen. ed morgan must have found a place where he could run his camera up on an extension rod from behind something; they were looking down, from almost ceiling height, at the barricade, and at the literates' guards who were firing from cover at it. a sudden blast of automatic-weapons burst from the barricade; more men in white hoods came boiling up the escalator, and they all rushed forward. the few literates' guards skirmishers were overwhelmed. he saw one of them, a man he knew, sam igoe, from company , go down wounded; he saw one of the white-hooded goons pause to brain him with a carbine butt before charging on. "why, you dirty rotten illiterate--!" he roared, retrieving his weighted hose. "come on, ray; let's go!" ray hesitated, as though in thought. "ken dorchin; harry cobb; dick hirschfield; jerry mccarty; ramon nogales; pete shawne; tom hutchinson--" "who--?" yetsko began. "what've they gotta do with--?" "we need a gang; the two of us'd last about as long as a pint of beer at a dutch picnic." ray went to the desk, grabbed a pen, and made a list of names, in a fair imitation of ralph prestonby's neat block-printing. "give this to the girl outside, and tell her to have them called for and sent in here," the boy directed. "and see if you can find us some transport. i think there ought to be a couple of big 'copters finished down at the shops. and if you can find a couple more literates' guards you can talk into going with us--" yetsko nodded and took the paper without question. he was not, and he would be the first to admit it, of the thinking type. he was a good sergeant, but he had to have an officer to tell him what to do. ray pelton might be only fifteen years old, but his sister was the captain's girl, and that put him in the officer class. a very young and recently-commissioned second lieutenant, say, but definitely an officer. yetsko took the list and looked at it. like most literates' guards, he could read, after a fashion. he recognized the names; the boys were all members of the top floor secret society. he went out and gave the list to martha collins. he'd expected some argument with her, but she seemed to accept ray pelton's printing as prestonby's; she began checking room charts and class lists, and calling for the boys to be sent at once to the office. he went out, and down to the 'copter repair shop, where he found that a big four-ton air truck that the senior class had been working on for several weeks was finished. "that thing been tested, yet?" he asked the instructor. "yes; i had it up, myself, this morning. flew it over to the bronx and back with a load of supplies." "o. k. have somebody you can trust--one of your guards, preferably--bring it around behind the administration wing. captain prestonby wants it. i'm to take some boys from fourth year civics on a tour. something about election campaign methods." the instructor called a literates' guard and gave him instructions. yetsko went to the guards' squad room on the second floor, where he found half a dozen of the reserves loafing. "all right; you guys start earning your pay," he said. "we're going to a party." the men got to their feet and began gathering their weapons. "mason," he continued, "you have your big 'copter here; the gang of you can all get in it. i'm taking off in a four-ton truck, with some of these kids. i want you boys to follow us. we're going to pelton's store. there's a fight going on there, and the captain's in the middle of it. we gotta get him out." they all looked at him in puzzled surprise, but nobody gave him any argument. funny, now that he thought of it; it had been quite a long time since anybody had ever given him any argument about anything. a couple of guys out in pittsburgh had tried it, but somehow they'd lost interest in arguing, after a little-- when he returned to the office and opened the door, a blast of shots greeted him through the open door of prestonby's private office. he had his pistol out before he realized that the shooting was going on at pelton's purchasers' paradise, ten miles away. literate martha collins, in the inner room, was fairly screaming: "shut that infernal thing off and listen to me!" the dozen-odd boys whom ray had recruited for the improvised relief-expedition were pulling weapons out of the gun locker, pawing through the boxes on the ammunition shelf, trying to explain to one another the working of machine carbines and burp guns. yetsko shouldered through them and turned down the sound volume of the tv. "this is absolutely outrageous!" literate martha collins stormed at him. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, taking these children to a murderous battle like that--" "well, maybe it ain't right, using savages in a civilized riot," yetsko admitted, "but i don't care. the captain's in a jam, and i'd use live devils, if i could catch a few." he took a burp gun from one of the boys, who had opened the action and couldn't get it closed again. "here; you kids don't want this kinda stuff," he reproved. "sono guns, and sleep-gas guns, that's all right. but these things are killing tools!" "it's what we'll have to use, doug," ray told him. "things have been happening, since you went out. look at the screen." yetsko looked, and swore blisteringly. then he gave the burp gun back to the boy. "look; you gotta press this little gismo, here, to let the action shut when there's no clip in, or when the clip's empty. when you got a loaded clip in, you just pull back on this and let go--" * * * * * frank cardon looked at his watch, and saw that it was , as it had been ten seconds before, when he had last looked. he started to drum nervously on his chair arm with his fingers, then caught himself as he saw lancedale, who must have been every bit as anxious as himself, standing outwardly calm and unruffled. "well, that's the situation which now confronts us, brother literates," the slender, white-haired man was finishing. "you must see, by now, that the policy of unyielding opposition which some of you have advocated and pursued is futile. you know the policy i favor, which now remains the only policy we can follow; it is summed up in that law of political strategy: if you can't lick 'em, join 'em, and, after joining, take control. "in spite of the radical-socialist victory in this state at tomorrow's election, it will not be possible, in the next congress, to enact pelton's socialized literacy program into law. the radicals will not be able to capture enough seats in the lower house, and there are too many uncontested seats in the senate now held by independent-conservatives. but, and this is inevitable, barring some unforeseen accident of the order of a political cataclysm, they will control both houses of congress after the election of , two years hence, and we can also be sure that two years hence chester pelton will be nominated and overwhelmingly elected president of the consolidated states of north america. six months thereafter, the socialized literacy program will be the law of the land. "so, we have until mid- to make our preparations. i would estimate that, if we do not destroy ourselves by our own folly in the meantime, we should, two years thereafter, be in complete if secret control of the whole consolidated states government. if any of you question that last statement, you can merely ask yourselves one question: how, in the name of all that is rational, can illiterates control and operate a system of socialized literacy? who but literates can keep such a program from disintegrating into complete and indescribable confusion? "i don't ask for any decision at this time. i do not ask for any debate at this time. let each of us consider the situation in his or her own mind, and let us meet again a week from today to consider our future course of action, each of us realizing that any decision we take then will determine forever the fate of our fraternities." he looked around the room. "thank you, brother literates," he said. instantly, cardon was on his feet with a motion to recess the meeting until the following monday, and brigade commander chernov seconded the motion immediately. as soon as literate president morehead's gavel banged, cardon, still on his feet, was running for the double doors at the rear; the two literates' guards on duty there got them unsealed and opened by the time he had reached them. there was another guard in the hall, waiting for him with a little record-disk. "from major slater; call came in about ten minutes ago," he said. cardon snapped the disk into his recorder-reproducer and put in the ear plug. "frank," slater's voice came out of the small machine. "you'd better get busy, or you won't have any candidate when the polls open tomorrow. just got a call from pelton's store--place infiltrated by goons, estimated strength two hundred, presumed independent-conservatives. serious rioting already going on; i'm taking my reserve company there. and if you haven't found out, yet, where china is, it's on the third floor, next to glassware." cardon pulled out the ear plug, stuffed the recorder into his trouser pocket, and began unbuckling his sam browne as he ran for the nearest wall visiphone. he was dialing the guard room on that floor with one hand as he took off the belt. "get a big ambulance on the roof, with a literate medic and orderly-driver," he ordered, unbuttoning his smock. "and four guards, plain clothes if possible, but don't waste time changing clothes if you don't have anybody out of uniform. heavy-duty sono guns, sleep-gas projectors, gas masks and pistols. hurry." he threw the smock and belt at the guard. "here, pancho; put these away for me. thanks." he tossed the last word back over his shoulder as he ran for the escalator. [illustration:] it was three eternal minutes after he had reached the landing stage above before the ambulance arrived, medic and orderly on the front seat and the four guards, all in conservatively cut civilian clothes, inside. he crowded in beside the medic, told him, "pelton's store," and snapped the door shut as the big white 'copter began to rise. they climbed to five thousand feet, and then the driver nosed his vehicle up, cut his propeller and retracted it, and fired his rocket, aiming toward downtown manhattan. four minutes later, after the rocket stopped firing and they were on the down-curve of their trajectory, the propeller was erected and they began letting down toward the central landing stage of pelton's purchasers' paradise. cardon cut in the tv and began calling the control tower. "ambulance, to evacuate mr. pelton," he called. "what's the score, down there?" one of pelton's traffic-control men appeared on cardon's screen. "you're safe to land on the central stage, but you'd better come in at a long angle from the north," he said. "we control the north public stage, but the east and south stages are in the hands of the goons; they'd fire on you. land beside that big pile of boxes under tarpaulins up here, but be careful; it's fireworks we didn't have time to get into storage." the ambulance came slanting in from uptown, and cardon looked around anxiously. the may-fly dance of customers' 'copters had stopped; there was a sabbath stillness about the big store, at least visually. a few small figures in literates' guards black leather moved about on the north landing stage, and several pelton employees were on the central stop stage. the howling of the 'copter propeller overhead effectively blocked out any sounds that might be coming from the building, at least until the ambulance landed. then a spatter of firing from below was audible. cardon, the medic and the guards piled out, the latter with the stretcher. the orderly-driver got out his tablet pistol and checked the chamber, then settled into a posture of watchful relaxation. major slater was waiting for them by one of the vertical lift platforms. "i tried to get hold of you, but that blasted meeting was going on, and they had the doors sealed, and--" he began. cardon hushed him quickly. "around here, i'm an illiterate," he warned. "where's pelton? we've got to get him and his daughter out of here, at once." "he's still flat on his back, out cold," slater said. "the medic you sent around here gave him a shot of hypnotaine: he'll be out for a couple of hours, yet. prestonby's still here. he's commanding the defense; doing a good job, too." that was good. ralph would help get claire to literates' hall, after they'd gotten her father to safety. "there must be about five hundred independent-conservative storm troopers in the store," slater was saying. "most of them got here after we did. the city cops have all the street approaches roped off; they're letting nobody but grant hamilton's thugs in." "they were fairly friendly this morning," cardon said. "mayor jameson must have passed the word." they all got off the lift two floors down, where they found claire pelton and ralph prestonby waiting. "hello, ralph. claire. what's the situation?" "we have all the twelfth floor," prestonby said. "we have about half the eleventh, including the north and west public stages. we have the basement and the storerooms and the warehouse--sergeant coccozello's down there, with as many of the store police and literates and literates' guards and store-help as he could salvage, and the warehouse gang. they've taken most of the ground floor, the main mezzanine, and parts of the second floor. we moved two of the -mm machine guns down from the top, and we control the front street entrance with them and a couple of sono guns. the store's isolated from the outside by the city police, who are allowing re-enforcements to come through for the raiders, but we're managing to stop them at the doors." "have you called radical-socialist headquarters for help?" "yes, half a dozen times. there's some fellow named yingling there, who says that all their storm troops are over in north jersey, on some kind of a false-alarm riot-call, and can't be contacted." "so?" cardon commented gently. "that's too bad, now." too bad for horace yingling and joe west; this time tomorrow, they'll be a pair of dead traitors, he thought. "well, we'll have to make do with what we have. where's russ latterman, by the way?" prestonby gave a sidewise glance toward claire and shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. _she doesn't know, yet_, cardon interpreted. "down in the basement, with coccozello," prestonby said, aloud. "we're in telephone communication with coccozello, and have a freight elevator running between here and the basement. coccozello says latterman is using a rifle against the raiders, killing every one he can get a shot at." cardon nodded. probably vindictive about being involved in action injurious to pelton's commercial interests; just another odd quirk of literate ethics. "we'd better get him up here," he said. "you and i have got to leave, at once; we have to get pelton and claire to safety. he can help major slater till we can get back with re-enforcements. i am going to kill a man named horace yingling, and then i'm going to round up the storm troops he diverted on a wild-goose chase to north jersey." he nodded to the medic and the four plain-clothes guards. "get pelton on the stretcher. better use the canvas flaps and the straps. he's under hypnotaine, but it's likely to be a rough trip. claire, get anything you want to take with you. ralph will take you where you'll be safe for a while." "but the store--" claire began. "your father has riot-insurance, doesn't he? i know he does; they doubled the premium on him when he came out for senate. let the insurance company worry about the store." the medic and the guards moved into chester pelton's private rest room with the stretcher. claire went to the desk and began picking up odds and ends, including the pistol cardon had given her, and putting them in her handbag. "we've got to keep her away from her father, for a few days, ralph," he told prestonby softly. "it's all over town that she can read and write. we've got to give him a chance to cool off before he sees her again. take her to lancedale. i have everything fixed up; she'll be admitted to the fraternities this afternoon, and given literate protection." prestonby grabbed his hand impulsively. "frank! i'll never be able to repay you for this, not if i live to be a thousand--" he began. there was a sudden blast of sound from overhead--the banging of machine guns, the bark of the store's -mm auto-cannon, the howling of airplane jets, and the crash of explosions. everybody in the room jerked up and stood frozen, then prestonby jumped for the tv-screen and pawed at the dials. a moment later, after the screen flashed and went black twice, they were looking across the topside landing stage from a pickup at one corner. a slim fighter-bomber, with square-tipped, backswept, wings, was jetting up in almost perpendicular flight; another was coming in toward the landing stage, and, as they watched, a flight of rockets leaped forward from under its wings. cardon saw the orderly-driver of the ambulance jump down and start to run for the open lift-shaft. he got five steps away from his vehicle. then the rockets came in, and one of them struck the tarpaulin-covered pile of boxes beside the ambulance. there was a flash of multicolored flame, in which the man and the vehicle he had left both vanished. immediately, the screen went black. the fireworks had mostly exploded at the first blast; however, when cardon and major slater and one or two others reached the top landing stage, there were still explosions. a thing the size and shape of a two-gallon kettle, covered with red paper, came rolling toward them, and suddenly let go with a blue-green flash, throwing a column of smoke, in miniature imitation of an a-bomb, into the air. something about three feet long came whizzing at them on the end of a tail of fire, causing them to fling themselves flat; involuntarily, cardon's head jerked about and his eyes followed it until it blew up with a flash and a bang three blocks uptown. here and there, colored fire flared, small rockets flew about, and firecrackers popped. the ambulance was gone, blown clear off the roof. the other 'copters on the landing stage were a tangled mass of wreckage. the -mm was toppled over; the gunner was dead, and one of the crew, half-dazed, was trying to drag a third man from under the overturned gun. the control tower, with the two -mm machine guns, was wrecked. the two -mm's that had been left on the top had vanished, along with the machine gunners, in a hole that had been blown in the landing stage. cardon, slater, and the others dashed forward and pulled the auto-cannon off the injured man, hauling him and his companion over to the lift. the two rakish-winged fighter-bombers were returning, spraying the roof with machine-gun bullets, and behind them came a procession of fifteen big 'copters. they dropped the lift hastily; slater jumped off when it was still six feet above the floor, and began shouting orders. "falk: take ten men and get to the head of this lift-shaft! burdick, levine: get as many men as you can in thirty seconds, and get up to the head of the escalator! diaz: go down and tell sternberg to bring all his gang up here!" cardon caught up a rifle and rummaged for a bandolier of ammunition, losing about a minute in the search. the delay was fortunate; when he got to the escalators, he was met by a rush of men hurrying down the ascending spiral or jumping over onto the descending one. "sono guns!" one of them was shouting. "they have the escalator head covered; you'll get knocked out before you get off the spiral!" he turned and looked toward the freight lift. it was coming down again, with falk and his men unconscious on it, knocked senseless by bludgeons of inaudible sound, and a half a dozen of the 'copter-borne raiders, all wearing the white robes and hoods of the independent-conservative storm troops. he swung his rifle up and began squeezing the trigger, remembering to first make sure that the fire-control lever was set forward for semiauto, and remembering his advice to goodkin, that morning. by the time the platform had stopped, all the men in white robes were either dead or wounded, and none of the unconscious literates' guards along with them had been injured. the medic who had come with cardon, assisted by a couple of the office force, got the casualties sorted out. there was nothing that could be done about the men who had been sono-stunned; in half an hour or so, they would recover consciousness with no ill effects that a couple of headache tablets wouldn't set right. the situation, while bad, was not immediately desperate. if the white-clad raiders controlled the top landing stage, they were pinned down by the firearms and sono guns of the defenders, below, who were in a position to stop anything that came down the escalators or the lift shaft. the fate of the first party was proof of that. and the very magnitude of the riot guaranteed that somebody on the outside, city police, state guards, or even consolidated states regulars, would be taking a hand shortly. the air attack and 'copter-landing on the roof had been excellent tactics, but it had been a serious policy-blunder. as long as the disturbance had been confined to the interior of the store, the city police could shrug it off as another minor riot on property supposed to be protected by private police, and do nothing about it. the rocket-attack on the top landing stage and the spectacular explosion of the fireworks temporarily stored there, however, was something that simply couldn't be concealed or dismissed. the cloud of varicolored smoke alone must have been visible all over the five original boroughs of the older new york, and there were probably rumors of atom-bombing going around. "what gets me," slater, who must have been thinking about the same thing, said to cardon, "is where they got hold of those two fighter-bombers. that kind of stuff isn't supposed to be in private hands." "a couple of hundred years ago, they had something they called the sullivan law," cardon told him. "private citizens weren't even allowed to own pistols. but the gangsters and hoodlums seemed to be able to get hold of all the pistols they wanted, and burp guns, too. i know of four or five racket gangs in this area that have aircraft like that, based up in the adirondacks, at secret fields. anybody who has connections with one of those gangs can order an air attack like this on an hour's notice, if he's able to pay for it. what i can't understand is the independent-conservatives doing anything like this. the facts about this business will be all over the state before the polls open tomorrow--" he snapped his fingers suddenly. "come on; let's have a look at those fellows who came down on the lift!" there were two dead men in white independent-conservative robes and hoods, lying where they had been dragged from the lift platform. cardon pulled off the hoods and zipped open the white robes. one of the men was a complete stranger; the other, however, was a man he had seen, earlier in the day, at the manhattan headquarters of the radical-socialist party. one of the consolidated illiterates' organization people; a follower of west and yingling. "so that's how it was!" he said, straightening. "now i get it! let's go see if any of those wounded goons are in condition to be questioned." * * * * * ray pelton and doug yetsko had their heads out an open window on the right side of the cab of the 'copter truck; ray was pointing down. "that roof, over there, looks like a good place to land," he said. "we can get down the fire escape, and the hatch to the conveyor belt is only half a block away." yetsko nodded. there'd be a watchman, or a private cop, in the building on which ray intended landing. a couple of hundred dollars would take care of him, and they could leave two of mason's boys with the vehicles to see that he stayed bribed. "sure we can get in on the freight conveyor?" he asked. "maybe it'll be guarded." "then we'll have to crawl in through the cable conduit," ray said. "i've done that, lots of times; so have most of the other guys." he nodded toward the body of the truck, behind, where his dozen-odd 'teenage recruits were riding. "i've played all over the store, ever since i've been big enough to walk; i must know more about it than anybody but the guy who built it. that's why i said we'd have to bring bullet guns; down where we're going, we'd gas ourselves with gas guns, and if we used sono guns, we'd knock ourselves out with the echo." "you know, ray, you'll make a real storm trooper," yetsko said. "if you manage to stay alive for another ten years, you'll be almost as good a storm troop captain as captain prestonby." that, ray knew, was about as high praise as doug yetsko could give anybody. he'd have liked to ask doug more about captain prestonby--doug could never seem to get used to the idea of his officer being a schoolteacher--but there was no time. the 'copter truck was already settling onto the roof. the watchman proved amenable to reason. he took one look at yetsko, with three feet of weighted fire hose in his hand, and gulped, then accepted the two c-notes yetsko gave him. they left a couple of literates' guards with the vehicles, and ray led the way to the fire escape, and down into the alley. a few hundred feet away, there was an iron grating which they pulled up. ray drew the pistol he had gotten out of captain prestonby's arms locker and checked the magazine, chamber, and safety, knowing that yetsko and the other guards were watching him critically, and then started climbing down the ladder. the conduit was halfway down. yetsko, climbing behind him, examined it with his flashlight, probably wondering how he was going to fit himself into a hole like that. they climbed down onto the concrete walkway beside the conveyor belts, and in the dim light of the overhead lamps ray could see that the two broad belts, to and from the store, were empty for as far as he could see in either direction. normally, there should be things moving constantly in both directions--big wire baskets full of parcels for delivery, and trash containers, going out, and bales and crates and cases of merchandise, and empty delivery baskets and trash containers coming in. he pointed this out to yetsko. "sure," the big literates' guards sergeant nodded. "they got control of the opening from the terminal, and they probably got a gang up at the other end, too," he shouted, over the noise of the conveyor belts. "i hope they haven't got into the basement of the store." "if they have, i know a way to get in," ray told him. "you'd better stay here for about five minutes, and let me scout ahead. we don't want to run into a big gang of them ahead." yetsko shook his head. "no, ray; the captain told me i was to stick with you. i'll go along with you. and we better take another of these kids, for a runner, in case we have to send word back." "ramon, you come with us," ray said. "the rest of you, stay here for five minutes, and then, if you don't hear from us, follow us." "mason, you take over," yetsko told the guards corporal. "and keep an eye out behind you. we're in a sandwich, here; they're behind us, and in front of us. if anything comes at you from behind, send the kids forward to the next conduit port." ray and yetsko and ramon nogales started forward. halfway to the next conduit port, there was a smear of lubricating oil on the concrete, and in it, and away from it in the direction of the store, they found footprints. it was ramon nogales who noticed the oil on the ladder to the next conduit port. "you stick here," yetsko told him, "and when mason and the others come up, hold them here. tell mason to send one of the guards forward, and use the rest of the gang to grab anybody who comes out. come on, ray." at the port beyond, they halted, waiting for mason's man to come up. they lost some time, thereafter, but they learned that the section of conduit between the two ports was empty and that the main telephone line to the store had been cut. whoever had cut it had gone, either forward or back away from the store. a little farther on, the sound of shots ahead became audible over the clanking and rattling of the conveyor belts. "well, i guess this is where we start crawling," yetsko said. "your father's people seem to be holding the store basement against a gang in the conveyor tunnel." one of the boys scouted ahead, and returned to report that they could reach the next conduit port, but that the section of both conveyor belts ahead of him was stopped, apparently wedged. yetsko stood for a moment, grimacing in an effort to reach a decision. "i'd like to just go forward and hit them from behind," he said. "but i don't know how many of them there are, and we'd have to be careful, shooting into them, that we didn't shoot up your father's gang, beyond them. i wish--" "well, let's go through the conduit, then," ray said. "we can slide down a branch conduit that runs a power line into the basement. i'll go ahead; everybody at the store knows me, and they don't know you. they might shoot you before they found out you were a friend." before yetsko could object, he started up the ladder, yetsko behind him and the others following. at the next conduit port, they could hear shooting very plainly, seeming to be in front of them. at the next one, the shooting seemed to be going on directly under them, in the tunnel. with the flashlight yetsko had passed forward to him, ray could see that the dust on the concrete floor of the three-foot by three-foot passage between and under the power and telephone cables was undisturbed. a little farther on, there was an opening on the left, and a power cable branched off downward, at a sharp angle, overhead. ray was able to turn about and get his feet in front of him; yetsko had to crawl on until he had passed it, and then back into it after ray had entered. bracing one foot on either side, ray inched his way down the forty-degree slope, hoping that the two hundred pound weight of doug yetsko wouldn't start sliding upon him. ahead, he could hear voices. he drew his hands and feet away from the sides of the branch conduit and let himself slip, landing in a heap in the electricians' shop, above the furnace rooms. two men, who had been working at a bench, trying to assemble a mass of equipment into a radio, whirled, snatching weapons. ray knew both of them--sam jacobowitz and george nyman, who serviced the store's communications equipment. they both stared at him, swearing in amazement. "all right, doug!" ray called out. "we're in! bring the gang down!" * * * * * frank cardon and ralph prestonby were waiting at the freight-elevator door when it opened and russell latterman emerged, a rifle slung over one shoulder. cardon stepped forward and took the rifle from him. "come on over here, russ," he said. "and don't do anything reckless." they led him to one side. latterman looked from one to the other apprehensively, licking his lips. "it's all right; we're not going to hurt you, russ," cardon assured him. "we just want a few facts. beside rigging that business with bayne, and almost killing chet pelton, and forcing claire to blow her cover, how much did you have to do with this business?" "and who put you up to it?" prestonby wanted to know. "my guess is joyner and graves. am i right?" "graves," latterman said. "joyner didn't have anything to do with it; didn't know anything about it. he's in charge of the retail merchandising section, and any action like this would be unethical, since pelton's is a client of the retail merchandising section. all graves told me to do was fix up a situation, using my own judgment, that would provoke a literate strike and force either claire or frank here to betray literacy. but i had no idea that it would involve a riot like this. if i had, i'd have stood on literates' ethics and refused to have any part in it." "that's about how i thought it would be," cardon nodded. "graves probably was informed by literates with the independent-conservatives that this riot was planned; he wanted to get our people out of the store. unfortunately for him, he wasn't present at the extemporary meeting that reversed bayne's action in calling the strike." he handed the rifle back to latterman. "i just took this in case you might get excited, before i could explain. and you can forget about the graves-joyner opposition to pelton. we had a meeting, right after noon. lancedale gained the upper hand; joyner and graves are co-operating, now; the plan is to support pelton and get on the inside of the socialized literacy program, when it's enacted." "i still think that's a suicidal policy," latterman said. "but not as suicidal as splitting the fraternities and trying to follow two policies simultaneously. i wonder if i could put a call through to literates' hall without some of these picture-readers overhearing me." "you've been out of touch, down in the cellar, russ." prestonby told him. "our telephone line's cut, and the radio is smashed." he told latterman about the rocket attack on the control tower, which also housed the store's telecast station. "so we're sandwiched, here; one gang has us blocked at the twelfth floor, and another gang's up on the roof, trying to get down at us from above, and we've no way to communicate with the outside. we can pick up the regular telecasts, but nobody outside seems to be paying much attention to us." "there's a lot of equipment down in the electricians' shop," latterman said. "maybe we could rig up a sending set that could contact one of the telecast stations outside." "that's an idea," prestonby said. "let's see what we can do about it." they went into pelton's office. the store owner was still lying motionless on his stretcher. claire was fiddling with a telecast receiving set; she had just tuned out a lecture on home beautifications and had gotten the mid-section of a serial in which three couples were somewhat confused over just who was married to whom. "nobody seems to realize what's happening to us!" she said, turning the knob again. then she froze, as elliot c. mongery--this time sponsored by parc, the miracle cleanser--appeared on the screen. "... and it seems that the attack on chester pelton has picked up new complications; somebody seems determined to wipe out the whole pelton family, because, only ten minutes ago, some twenty armed men invaded the mineola high school, where pelton's fifteen-year-old son, raymond, is a student, and forced their way to the office of literate first class ralph n. prestonby, in an attempt to kidnap young pelton. neither literate prestonby, the principal, nor the pelton boy, who was supposed to be in his office, could be found. the raiders were put to flight by the presence of mind of literate martha b. collins, who pressed the button which turned in the fire alarm, filling the halls with a mob of students. the interlopers fled in panic after being set upon and almost mobbed--" prestonby looked worried. "i left ray in my office, with doug yetsko," he said. "i can't understand--" [illustration:] "maybe yetsko got a tip that they were coming and got ray out of the school," cardon suggested. "i hope he took him home." he caught himself just in time to avoid mentioning the platoon of literates' guards at the pelton home, which he was not supposed to know about. "don't worry, claire; if anything'd happened to ray, mongery'd have been screaming about it to high heaven. that's what he's paid to do." "well, i'll stake my life on it; if anybody tried to do anything to ray while yetsko was with him, you'd have heard about it," prestonby said. "it'd have been a bigger battle than this one." "... can't seem to find out anything about what's going on at pelton's store," mongery continued. "telephone and radio communication seems to be broken, and, although there is continuous firing going on inside the building, the city police, who have a cordon completely around it, say that the situation in the store is well in hand. considering chester pelton's attacks on the city administration and particularly the police department, i leave to your imagination what they mean by that. we do know that a large body of unidentified plug-uglies whom police inspector cassidy claims are 'special officers' are holding the conveyor line into the store at the downtown manhattan terminal, and nobody seems to know what's going on at the other end--" "they have the sections of both belts at the store entrance end wedged," latterman said, coming up at the moment. "coccozello has a barricade thrown up across the store end of the tunnel, and they have a barricade about fifty yards down the tunnel. that's where i was fighting when you called me up." "anything being done about gold-berging up a radio sending-set?" prestonby asked. "yes. i just called coccozello," latterman said. "fortunately, the inter-department telephone is still working. he's put a couple of men to work, and thinks he may have a set in operation in about half an hour." "... and if, as i much fear, chester pelton has been murdered, then i advise all listening to me to go to the polls tomorrow and vote the straight anarchist ticket. if we've got to have anarchy in this country, let's have anarchy for all, and not just for grant hamilton and his political adherents!" mongery was saying. * * * * * there was a series of heavy explosions on the floor above. everybody grabbed weapons and hurried outside, crowding onto the escalators. the floor above was a shambles, with bodies lying about, and the descending escalator was packed with white-robed attackers, who had apparently prepared for their charge by tossing down a number of heavy fragmentation bombs. cardon had a burp gun, this time; he emptied the fifty-shot magazine into the hooded hoodlums who were coming down. prestonby, beside him, had a heavy sono gun; he kept it trained on the head of the escalator and held the trigger back until it was empty, then slapped in a fresh clip of the small blank cartridges which produced the sound waves that were amplified and altered to stunning vibrations. still, many of the attackers got through. more were dropping down the lift-platform shaft. cardon's submachine-gun ceased firing, the action open on an empty clip. he dropped it and yanked the heavy pistol from his shoulder holster. then, from the direction of the freight elevator, reinforcements arrived, headed by a huge man in the black leather of the literates' guard, who swung a three-foot length of fire hose with his right hand and fired a pistol with his left, and a boy in a black-and-red jacket who was letting off a burp gun in deliberate, parsimonious, bursts. it was a second or two before cardon recognized them as prestonby's bodyguard, doug yetsko, and claire pelton's brother ray. there were four literates' guards and about a dozen boys with them, all firing with a variety of weapons. at the same time, others were arriving on the escalators from the floors below, firing as they came off--slater's literates' guards, the literates and their black-jacketed troopers of hopkinson's store service crew, the fifteen survivors of the twenty riflemen from macy & gimbel's. the attackers turned and crowded onto the ascending escalator. most of them got away, the casualties being carried up by the escalator. doug yetsko bounded forward and brought his fire hose down on the back of one invader's neck. then, after a last spatter of upward-aimed shots from the defenders, there was silence. cardon stepped forward and yanked the hood from the man whom yetsko had knocked down, hoping that he had a stunned prisoner who could be interrogated. the man was dead, however, with a broken neck. for a moment, cardon looked down at the heavy, brutal features of joe west, the illiterates' organization man. if chester pelton got out of this mess alive and won the election tomorrow, there was going to have to be a purge in the radical-socialist party, and something was going to have to be done about the consolidated organization of illiterates. he turned to yetsko. "you and your gang got here just in the nick of time," he said. "how did you get into the store?" "through the freight conveyor, into the basement." "but i thought those goons had both ends of that plugged." "they did," yetsko grinned. "but ray pelton took us in at the middle, and we crawled through a cable conduit to get around the gang at this end." cardon looked around quickly, in search of ray. the boy, having come out of the excitement of battle, was looking around at the litter of dead and wounded on the blood-splashed floor. his eyes widened, and he gulped. then, carefully setting the safety of his burp gun and slinging it, he went over and leaned against the wall, and was sick. prestonby, with claire pelton beside him, started toward the white-faced, retching boy. yetsko put out a hamlike hand to stop them. "if the kid wants to be sick, let him be sick," he said. "he's got a right to. i was sicker'n that, after my first fight. but he won't do that the next time." "there isn't going to be any next time!" claire declared, with maternal protectiveness. "that's what you think, miss claire," yetsko told her. "that boy's gonna make a great storm trooper," he declared. "every bit as great as captain prestonby, here." claire looked up at prestonby almost worshipfully. "and i never knew anything about your being a fighting-man, till today," she said. "ralph, there's so much about you that i don't know." "there'll be plenty of time to find out, now, honey," he told her. cardon stepped over the body of joe west and went up to them. "sorry to intrude on you two," he said, "but we've got to figure on how to get out of here. could we get out the same way you got in?" he asked yetsko. "and take mr. pelton with us?" yetsko frowned. "part of the way, we gotta crawl through this conduit; it's only about a yard square. and we'd have to go up a ladder, and out a manhole, to get out of the conveyor tunnel. what sorta shape's mr. pelton in?" "he's under hypnotaine, completely unconscious," prestonby said. "then we'd have to drag him," yetsko said. "strap him up in a tarp, or load him into a sleeping bag, if we can get hold of one." "there are plenty, down in the warehouse," latterman interrupted, joining them. "and the warehouse is in our hands." "all right," cardon decided. "we'll take him out, now, and take him home. i have some men there who'll take care of him. we'll have to get you and ray out, too," he told claire. "i think we'll take both of you to literates' hall; you'll be absolutely safe there." "but the store," claire started to object. "and all these people who came here to help us--" "as soon as i have your father home, i'm going to start rounding up a gang to raise the siege," cardon said. "radical-socialist storm troops, and--" he grinned suddenly. "the insurance company; the one that has the store insured against riot! why didn't i think of them before? they're losing money every second this thing goes on. it'll be worth their while to start doing something to stop it!" * * * * * the trip out through the conduit was not so difficult, even with the encumbrance of the unconscious chester pelton, but prestonby was convinced that, except for the giant strength of doug yetsko, it would have been nearly impossible. ray pelton, recovered from his after-battle nausea and steeled by responsibility, went first. cardon crawled after him, followed by a couple of the boys. then came yetsko, dragging the sleeping bag in which chester pelton was packed like a mummy. prestonby himself followed, pushing on his future father-in-law's feet, and claire crawled behind, with the rest of ray's schoolmates for a rearguard. they got past the battle which was still going on at the entrance to the store basement, letting pelton down with a rope and carrying him onto the outward-bound belt. they left it in time to assemble under the ladder leading to the alley through which ray said they had entered, and hauled pelton up after them. then, when they were all out in the open again, ray ran up the alley and mounted a fire escape, and, in a few minutes, a big 'copter truck which had been parked on the roof let down to them. into this, cardon ordered the unconscious senatorial candidate loaded, and the boys who had come with ray. "i'll take him home, and then run the boys to the school," he told prestonby. "you and ray and claire get in this other 'copter and go straight to literates' hall." he pointed up to the passenger vehicle which was hovering above, waiting for the truck to leave. "go in the church way, and go straight to lancedale's office. and here." he scribbled an address and a phone number and a couple of names. "these men have my 'copter at this address. call them as soon as you get to literates' hall and have them take it at once to pelton's home, on long island." prestonby nodded and watched cardon climb into the truck. the literates' guard who was driving lifted it up and began windmilling away toward the east. the passenger 'copter, driven by another guard from the school, settled down. putting ray and claire into it, he climbed in after them. "ray," he said, "how would you like to be a real white-smock literate?" ray's eyes opened. "you think i'm good enough?" "good enough to be a novice, to start with. and i don't think you'll stay a novice long." claire looked at him inquiringly, saying nothing. "you, too, honey," he said. "frank fixed it all up. you and ray will be admitted to the fraternities, this afternoon. and that will remove any objection to our being married." "but ... how about the senator?" she asked. prestonby shrugged. "it's all over the state now that you can read; there's nothing that you can do about it. and frank has a lot of influence with him; he'll talk him around to where he'll be willing to make the best of it, in a week or so." * * * * * russell latterman noticed that major slater was looking at him in a respectfully inquiring manner. he said nothing, and, at length, the literates' guards officer broke the silence. "you didn't go out with the others." latterman shook his head. "no, major; i'm an executive of pelton's purchasers' paradise, however unlike its name it may look at the moment. my job's here. i'm afraid i'll have to lean pretty heavily on you, until mr. cardon can get help to us. i'm not particularly used to combat." "you've been doing all right with that rifle," slater told him. "i can hit what i aim at, yes. but i'm not used to commanding men in combat, and i'm not much of a tactician." slater thrust out his hand impulsively. "i took a sort of poor view of you, at first. i'm sorry," he said. "want me to take command?" "if you please, major." "what are you going to do, after this thing's over?" slater asked. "stay on with pelton's, provided mr. p. doesn't find out that i organized that trick with his medicine and the safe," latterman said. "since lancedale seems to have gotten on top at the hall, i am, as of now, a lancedale partisan. that's partly opportunism, and it's partly because, since a single policy has been adopted, i feel obliged to go along with it. i'll have to get the store back in operation, as soon as possible. pelton's going to need money, badly, if he's going to try for the presidency in ' ." he looked around him. "you know, i've always wanted to run a fire sale; this'll be even better--a battle sale!" * * * * * cardon watched chester pelton apprehensively as the bald-headed merchant and senatorial candidate sipped from the tall glass in his hand and then set it on the table beside him. his face was pale, and he had the look of a man who has just been hit with a blackjack. "that's an awful load of bricks to dump on a man, all at once, frank," he said reproachfully. "you'd rather i told you, now, than turn on the tv and hear some commentator talking about it, wouldn't you?" cardon asked. pelton swore vilely, in a lifeless monotone, cursing literacy, and all literates back to the invention of the alphabet. then he stopped short. "no, frank, i don't mean that, either. my own son and daughter are literates; i can't say that about them. but how long--?" "oh, for about a year, i'd say. i understand, now, that they were admitted to the fraternities six months ago," he invented. "and they were working against me, all that time?" pelton demanded. cardon shook his head. "no, chet; they were for you, all the way. your daughter exposed her literacy to save your life. your son and his teacher came to your store and fought for you. but there are literates who want to see you defeated, and they're the ones who made that audio-visual, secretly, of the ceremony in which your son and daughter took the literates' oath and received the white smock, and they're going to telecast it this evening at twenty-one hundred. coming on top of the stories that have been going around all afternoon, and slade gardner's speech, this morning, they think that'll be enough to defeat you." "well, don't you?" pelton gloomed. "my own kids, literates!" he seemed to have reached a point at which he was actually getting a masochistic pleasure out of turning the dagger in his wounds. "who'd trust me, after this?" "no, chet; it isn't enough to beat you--if you just throw away that crying towel and start fighting. they made one mistake that's going to wreck them." "what's that, frank?" pelton brightened, by about one angstrom unit. "the timing, of course!" cardon told him, impatiently. "i thought you'd see that, at once. this telecast comes on at twenty-one hundred. your final speech comes on at twenty-one thirty. as soon as they've shown this business of claire and ray taking the literate oath, you'll be on the air, yourself, and if you put on any kind of a show worth the name, it won't be safe for anybody in this state to be caught wearing a white smock. now, if they'd only had the wit to wait till after you'd delivered that speech you've been practicing on for the last two weeks, and then spring this on you, that would have been different. they'd have had you over a barrel. but this way, you have them!" pelton took another gulp from the tall glass at his elbow, emptying it. "fix me up another of these, frank," he said. "i feel like a new man, already." then his face clouded again. "but we have no time to prepare a speech, now, and i just can't ad lib one." cardon drew a little half-inch record-disk from his pocket case. "play this off," he said. "i had it fixed up, as soon as i got wise to what was going to happen. the voice is one of the girls in my office, over at the brewery. pronunciation, grammar, elocution and everything correct." pelton snapped the disk onto his recorder and put in the ear plug. then, before he pressed the stud, he looked at cardon curiously. "how'd you get onto this, anyhow, frank?" he wanted to know. "well ... i hope you don't ask me for an accounting of all the money i've been spending in this campaign, because some of the items would look funny as hell, but--" "no accounting, frank. after all, you spent as much of your own money as you did of mine," pelton interrupted. "... but i bought myself a pipe line into literates' hall big enough to chase an elephant through," cardon went on, ignoring the interruption. "this fellow mongery, for instance." elliot mongery was one of literate frank cardon's best friends; he comforted his conscience with the knowledge that mongery would slander him just as unscrupulously, if the interests of the lancedale plan were at stake. "i have mongery just like this." he made a clutching and lifting gesture, as though he were picking up some small animal by the scruff of the neck. "so, as soon as i got word of it, i started getting this thing together. it isn't the kind of a job a literate semanticist would do, but it's all honest illiterate thinking, in illiterate language. turn it on, and tell me what you think of it." while pelton listened to the record, cardon mixed him another of the highballs, adding a little of the heart-stimulant the medic had given him. pelton was grinning savagely when he turned off the little machine and took out the ear plug. "great stuff, frank! and i won't have to ham it much; it's just about the way i feel." he thought for a moment. "you have me talking about my ruined store, there. just how bad is it, anyhow?" "pretty bad, chet. latterman says it's going to take some time to get it fixed up, but he expects to be open for business by thursday or friday. he's going to put on a big battle sale; he says it's going to make retail-merchandising history. and the insurance covers most of the damage." "well, tell me about it. how did you get the riot stopped, after you got me out? and how did you--?" cardon shook his head. "you play that record over again; get yourself in the mood. when you go on, we'll have you in a chair, wrapped in a blanket ... you're supposed to have crawled back out of the valley of the shadow of death to make this speech ... and we'll have the wire run down inside the blanket, so that you can listen to the speech while you're giving it. chet, this is going to be one of the great political speeches of all time--" * * * * * literate william r. lancedale looked up from his desk and greeted his visitor with a smile. "well, frank! sit down and accept congratulations! i suppose you got the returns?" cardon nodded, dropping into a chair beside the desk. "just came from campaign headquarters. this automatic tally system they use on the voting machines is really something. complete returns tabulated and reported for the whole state within forty minutes after the polls closed. i won't be silly enough to ask you if you got the returns." "i deserved that, of course," lancedale chuckled. "can i offer you refreshment? a nice big stein of cardon's black bottle, for instance?" cardon shuddered and grimaced horribly. "i've been drinking that slop by the bucketful, all day. and pelton's throwing a victory party, tonight, and i'll have to choke down another half gallon of it. give me a cup of coffee, and one of those good cigars of yours." lancedale grinned at him. "ah, yes, the jolly brewer. his own best advertisement. how's pelton reacting to his triumph? and what's his attitude toward his children? i've been worrying about that; vestigial traces of a conscience, i suppose." "well, i had to keep him steamed up, till after he went off the air," cardon said. "chet isn't a very good actor. but after that, i talked to him like a dutch uncle. told him what a swell pair of kids and a fine son-in-law he had. he got sore at me. tried to throw me out of the house, a couple of times. i was afraid he was going to have another of those attacks. but by the time ralph and claire get back from their honeymoon and ray finishes that cram-course for literate prep school, he'll be ready to confer the paternal blessing all around. i'm going to stay in town and make sure of it, and then i'm taking about a month's vacation." "you've earned it, all right." lancedale poured cardon's coffee and passed him the cigar humidor. "how's pelton's attitude toward the consolidated illiterates' organization, now?" cardon, having picked up the italian stiletto to puncture his cigar, looked at it carefully to make sure that it really had no edge, and then drew it quickly across his throat. "just like that. you know what really happened, yesterday afternoon, at the store, don't you?" "well, in general, yes. i wish you'd fill me in on some of the details, though, frank." "details he wants. well." cardon blew on his coffee and sipped it. "the way we played it for propaganda purposes, of course, there was only one big riot, and it was all the work of the wicked literates and their independent-conservative hirelings. actually, there were two riots. first, there was one the independents had planned for about a week in advance; that was the one sforza tipped us on, the one that started in china. graves knew about it, enough to advise latterman to get all the literates out of the store before noon, which latterman did, with trimmings. "then, there was another riot, masterminded by a couple of illiterates' organization action committee people named joe west and horace yingling, both deceased. that was the result of latterman's bright idea to trap claire and/or me into betraying literacy. these illiterate fanatics made up their minds, to speak rather loosely, that the whole pelton family were literates, including chet himself. they decided that it was better to kill off their candidate and use him for a martyr two years from now than to elect him and have him sell them out. they got about a hundred or so of their goons dressed in independent-conservative kkk costumes, bought air support from patsy callazo's mob, up in vermont, and made that attack on the top landing stage, after starting a fake riot in north jersey, to draw off the regular radical-socialist storm troops. incidentally, when i found out it was callazo's gang that furnished those fighter bombers, i hired another mob to go up and drop a block-buster on callazo's field, to teach him to keep his schnozzle out of politics." lancedale nodded briskly. "that i approve of. how about west and yingling?" "prestonby's muscle man, yetsko, killed west. i took care of comrade yingling, myself, after i'd gotten reinforcements to the store--first a couple of free-lance storm troops that the insurance company hired, and then as many of the radical rangers as i could gather up." "and pelton knows about all this?" "he certainly does! after this caper, the illiterates' organization's through, as far as any consideration or patronage from the radicals is concerned." "well, that's pretty nearly the best thing i've heard out of the whole business," lancedale said. "in about eight or ten years, we may want to pull the independent-conservative party together again, to cash in on public dissatisfaction with pelton's socialized literacy program, which ought to be coming apart at the seams by then. and if we have the illiterates split into two hostile factions--" cardon finished his coffee. "well, chief, i've got to be getting along. o'reilly can only cover me for a short while, and i have to be getting to this victory party of pelton's--" lancedale rose and shook hands with him. "i can't tell you, too many times, what a fine job you did, frank," he said. "i hope ... no, knowing you, i'm positive ... that you'll be able to engineer a reconciliation between pelton and his son and daughter and young prestonby. and then, have yourself a good vacation." "i mean to. i'm going deer hunting, to a place up in the mountains, along the old pennsylvania-new york state line. a little community of about a thousand people, where everybody, men, women and children, can read." lancedale was interested. "a community of literates?" cardon shook his head. "not literates-with-a-big-l; just people who can read and write," he replied. "it's a kind of back-eddy sort of place, and i imagine, a couple of hundred years ago, the community was too poor to support one of these 'progressive' school systems that made illiterates out of the people in the cities. probably couldn't raise enough money in school taxes to buy all the expensive audio-visual equipment, so they had to use old-fashioned textbooks, and teach the children to read from them. they have radios, and tv, of course, but they also have a little daily paper, and they have a community library." lancedale was thoughtful, for a moment. "you know, frank, there must be quite a few little enclaves of lower-case-literacy like that, in back-woods and mountain communities, especially in the west and the south. i'm going to make a project of finding such communities, helping them, and getting recruits from them. they'll fit into the plan. well, i'll be seeing you some time tomorrow, i suppose?" he watched cardon go out, and then poured a glass of port for himself and sipped slowly, holding the glass to the light and watching the ruby glow it cast on the desk top. it had been over thirty years ago, when he had been old jules de chambord's assistant, that the plan had been first conceived. de chambord was dead these twenty years, and he had taken the old man's place, and they had only made the first step. things would move faster, now, but he would still die before the plan was completed, and frank cardon, whom he had marked as his successor, would be an old man, and somebody like young ray pelton would be ready to replace him, but the plan would go on, until everybody would be literate, not literate, and illiteracy, not illiteracy, would be a mark of social stigma, and most people would live their whole lives without personal acquaintance with an illiterate. there were a few years, yet, to prepare for the next step. the white smocks would have to go; literates would have to sacrifice their paltry titles and distinctions. there would have to be a re-constitution of the fraternities. wilton joyner and harvey graves and the other conservative literates would have to be convinced, emotionally as well as intellectually, of the need for change. there were a few of the older brothers who could never adjust their thinking; they would have to be promoted to positions with higher salaries and more impressive titles and no authority whatever. but that was all a matter of tactics; the younger men, like frank cardon and elliot mongery and ralph prestonby, could take care of that. certain changes would occur: a stable and peaceful order of society, for one thing. a rule of law, and the liquidation of these goon gangs and storm troops and private armies. if a beginning at that were made tomorrow, using the battle at pelton's store to mobilize public opinion, it would still take two decades to get anything really significant done. and a renaissance of technological and scientific progress--today, the manufacturers changed the 'copter models twice a year--and, except for altering the shape of a few chromium-plated excrescences or changing the contours slightly, they were the same 'copters that had been buzzing over the country at the time of the third world war. every month, the pharmaceutical companies announced a new wonder drug--and if it wasn't sulfa, it was penicillin, and if it wasn't penicillin it would be aureomycin. why, most of the scientific research was being carried on by a few literates in the basements of a few libraries, re-discovering the science of two centuries ago. he sighed, and finished his port, and, as he did probably once every six months, he re-filled the glass. he'd be seventy-two next birthday. maybe he'd live long enough to see-- the end for an html version of this document and additional public domain documents on nuclear history, visit trinity atomic web site: http://www.envirolink.org/issues/nuketesting/ worldwide effects of nuclear war - - - some perspectives u.s. arms control and disarmament agency, . contents foreword introduction the mechanics of nuclear explosions radioactive fallout a. local fallout b. worldwide effects of fallout alterations of the global environment a. high altitude dust b. ozone some conclusions note : nuclear weapons yield note : nuclear weapons design note : radioactivity note : nuclear half-life note : oxygen, ozone and ultraviolet radiation foreword much research has been devoted to the effects of nuclear weapons. but studies have been concerned for the most part with those immediate consequences which would be suffered by a country that was the direct target of nuclear attack. relatively few studies have examined the worldwide, long term effects. realistic and responsible arms control policy calls for our knowing more about these wider effects and for making this knowledge available to the public. to learn more about them, the arms control and disarmament agency (acda) has initiated a number of projects, including a national academy of sciences study, requested in april . the academy's study, long-term worldwide effects of multiple nuclear weapons detonations, a highly technical document of more than pages, is now available. the present brief publication seeks to include its essential findings, along with the results of related studies of this agency, and to provide as well the basic background facts necessary for informed perspectives on the issue. new discoveries have been made, yet much uncertainty inevitably persists. our knowledge of nuclear warfare rests largely on theory and hypothesis, fortunately untested by the usual processes of trial and error; the paramount goal of statesmanship is that we should never learn from the experience of nuclear war. the uncertainties that remain are of such magnitude that of themselves they must serve as a further deterrent to the use of nuclear weapons. at the same time, knowledge, even fragmentary knowledge, of the broader effects of nuclear weapons underlines the extreme difficulty that strategic planners of any nation would face in attempting to predict the results of a nuclear war. uncertainty is one of the major conclusions in our studies, as the haphazard and unpredicted derivation of many of our discoveries emphasizes. moreover, it now appears that a massive attack with many large-scale nuclear detonations could cause such widespread and long-lasting environmental damage that the aggressor country might suffer serious physiological, economic, and environmental effects even without a nuclear response by the country attacked. an effort has been made to present this paper in language that does not require a scientific background on the part of the reader. nevertheless it must deal in schematized processes, abstractions, and statistical generalizations. hence one supremely important perspective must be largely supplied by the reader: the human perspective--the meaning of these physical effects for individual human beings and for the fabric of civilized life. fred c. ikle director u.s. arms control and disarmament agency introduction it has now been two decades since the introduction of thermonuclear fusion weapons into the military inventories of the great powers, and more than a decade since the united states, great britain, and the soviet union ceased to test nuclear weapons in the atmosphere. today our understanding of the technology of thermonuclear weapons seems highly advanced, but our knowledge of the physical and biological consequences of nuclear war is continuously evolving. only recently, new light was shed on the subject in a study which the arms control and disarmament agency had asked the national academy of sciences to undertake. previous studies had tended to focus very largely on radioactive fallout from a nuclear war; an important aspect of this new study was its inquiry into all possible consequences, including the effects of large-scale nuclear detonations on the ozone layer which helps protect life on earth from the sun's ultraviolet radiations. assuming a total detonation of , megatons--a large-scale but less than total nuclear "exchange," as one would say in the dehumanizing jargon of the strategists--it was concluded that as much as - percent of the ozone might be eliminated from the northern hemisphere (where a nuclear war would presumably take place) and as much as - percent from the southern hemisphere. recovery would probably take about - years, but the academy's study notes that long term global changes cannot be completely ruled out. the reduced ozone concentrations would have a number of consequences outside the areas in which the detonations occurred. the academy study notes, for example, that the resultant increase in ultraviolet would cause "prompt incapacitating cases of sunburn in the temperate zones and snow blindness in northern countries . . ." strange though it might seem, the increased ultraviolet radiation could also be accompanied by a drop in the average temperature. the size of the change is open to question, but the largest changes would probably occur at the higher latitudes, where crop production and ecological balances are sensitively dependent on the number of frost-free days and other factors related to average temperature. the academy's study concluded that ozone changes due to nuclear war might decrease global surface temperatures by only negligible amounts or by as much as a few degrees. to calibrate the significance of this, the study mentioned that a cooling of even degree centigrade would eliminate commercial wheat growing in canada. thus, the possibility of a serious increase in ultraviolet radiation has been added to widespread radioactive fallout as a fearsome consequence of the large-scale use of nuclear weapons. and it is likely that we must reckon with still other complex and subtle processes, global in scope, which could seriously threaten the health of distant populations in the event of an all-out nuclear war. up to now, many of the important discoveries about nuclear weapon effects have been made not through deliberate scientific inquiry but by accident. and as the following historical examples show, there has been a series of surprises. "castle/bravo" was the largest nuclear weapon ever detonated by the united states. before it was set off at bikini on february , , it was expected to explode with an energy equivalent of about million tons of tnt. actually, it produced almost twice that explosive power--equivalent to million tons of tnt. if the power of the bomb was unexpected, so were the after-effects. about hours after the explosion, a fine, sandy ash began to sprinkle the japanese fishing vessel lucky dragon, some miles downwind of the burst point, and rongelap atoll, miles downwind. though to miles away from the proscribed test area, the vessel's crew and the islanders received heavy doses of radiation from the weapon's "fallout"--the coral rock, soil, and other debris sucked up in the fireball and made intensively radioactive by the nuclear reaction. one radioactive isotope in the fallout, iodine- , rapidly built up to serious concentration in the thyroid glands of the victims, particularly young rongelapese children. more than any other event in the decade of testing large nuclear weapons in the atmosphere, castle/bravo's unexpected contamination of , square miles of the pacific ocean dramatically illustrated how large-scale nuclear war could produce casualties on a colossal scale, far beyond the local effects of blast and fire alone. a number of other surprises were encountered during years of nuclear weapons development. for example, what was probably man's most extensive modification of the global environment to date occurred in september , when a nuclear device was detonated miles above johnson island. the . -megaton burst produced an artificial belt of charged particles trapped in the earth's magnetic field. though percent of these particles were removed by natural processes after the first year, traces could be detected or years later. a number of satellites in low earth orbit at the time of the burst suffered severe electronic damage resulting in malfunctions and early failure. it became obvious that man now had the power to make long term changes in his near-space environment. another unexpected effect of high-altitude bursts was the blackout of high-frequency radio communications. disruption of the ionosphere (which reflects radio signals back to the earth) by nuclear bursts over the pacific has wiped out long-distance radio communications for hours at distances of up to miles from the burst point. yet another surprise was the discovery that electromagnetic pulses can play havoc with electrical equipment itself, including some in command systems that control the nuclear arms themselves. much of our knowledge was thus gained by chance--a fact which should imbue us with humility as we contemplate the remaining uncertainties (as well as the certainties) about nuclear warfare. what we have learned enables us, nonetheless, to see more clearly. we know, for instance, that some of the earlier speculations about the after-effects of a global nuclear war were as far-fetched as they were horrifying--such as the idea that the worldwide accumulation of radioactive fallout would eliminate all life on the planet, or that it might produce a train of monstrous genetic mutations in all living things, making future life unrecognizable. and this accumulation of knowledge which enables us to rule out the more fanciful possibilities also allows us to reexamine, with some scientific rigor, other phenomena which could seriously affect the global environment and the populations of participant and nonparticipant countries alike. this paper is an attempt to set in perspective some of the longer term effects of nuclear war on the global environment, with emphasis on areas and peoples distant from the actual targets of the weapons. the mechanics of nuclear explosions in nuclear explosions, about percent of the energy is released in less than one millionth of a second. most of this is in the form of the heat and shock waves which produce the damage. it is this immediate and direct explosive power which could devastate the urban centers in a major nuclear war. compared with the immediate colossal destruction suffered in target areas, the more subtle, longer term effects of the remaining percent of the energy released by nuclear weapons might seem a matter of secondary concern. but the dimensions of the initial catastrophe should not overshadow the after-effects of a nuclear war. they would be global, affecting nations remote from the fighting for many years after the holocaust, because of the way nuclear explosions behave in the atmosphere and the radioactive products released by nuclear bursts. when a weapon is detonated at the surface of the earth or at low altitudes, the heat pulse vaporizes the bomb material, target, nearby structures, and underlying soil and rock, all of which become entrained in an expanding, fast-rising fireball. as the fireball rises, it expands and cools, producing the distinctive mushroom cloud, signature of nuclear explosions. the altitude reached by the cloud depends on the force of the explosion. when yields are in the low-kiloton range, the cloud will remain in the lower atmosphere and its effects will be entirely local. but as yields exceed kilotons, part of the cloud will punch into the stratosphere, which begins about miles up. with yields of - megatons or more, virtually all of the cloud of radioactive debris and fine dust will climb into the stratosphere. the heavier materials reaching the lower edge of the stratosphere will soon settle out, as did the castle/bravo fallout at rongelap. but the lighter particles will penetrate high into the stratosphere, to altitudes of miles and more, and remain there for months and even years. stratospheric circulation and diffusion will spread this material around the world. radioactive fallout both the local and worldwide fallout hazards of nuclear explosions depend on a variety of interacting factors: weapon design, explosive force, altitude and latitude of detonation, time of year, and local weather conditions. all present nuclear weapon designs require the splitting of heavy elements like uranium and plutonium. the energy released in this fission process is many millions of times greater, pound for pound, than the most energetic chemical reactions. the smaller nuclear weapon, in the low-kiloton range, may rely solely on the energy released by the fission process, as did the first bombs which devastated hiroshima and nagasaki in . the larger yield nuclear weapons derive a substantial part of their explosive force from the fusion of heavy forms of hydrogen--deuterium and tritium. since there is virtually no limitation on the volume of fusion materials in a weapon, and the materials are less costly than fissionable materials, the fusion, "thermonuclear," or "hydrogen" bomb brought a radical increase in the explosive power of weapons. however, the fission process is still necessary to achieve the high temperatures and pressures needed to trigger the hydrogen fusion reactions. thus, all nuclear detonations produce radioactive fragments of heavy elements fission, with the larger bursts producing an additional radiation component from the fusion process. the nuclear fragments of heavy-element fission which are of greatest concern are those radioactive atoms (also called radionuclides) which decay by emitting energetic electrons or gamma particles. (see "radioactivity" note.) an important characteristic here is the rate of decay. this is measured in terms of "half-life"--the time required for one-half of the original substance to decay--which ranges from days to thousands of years for the bomb-produced radionuclides of principal interest. (see "nuclear half-life" note.) another factor which is critical in determining the hazard of radionuclides is the chemistry of the atoms. this determines whether they will be taken up by the body through respiration or the food cycle and incorporated into tissue. if this occurs, the risk of biological damage from the destructive ionizing radiation (see "radioactivity" note) is multiplied. probably the most serious threat is cesium- , a gamma emitter with a half-life of years. it is a major source of radiation in nuclear fallout, and since it parallels potassium chemistry, it is readily taken into the blood of animals and men and may be incorporated into tissue. other hazards are strontium- , an electron emitter with a half-life of years, and iodine- with a half-life of only days. strontium- follows calcium chemistry, so that it is readily incorporated into the bones and teeth, particularly of young children who have received milk from cows consuming contaminated forage. iodine- is a similar threat to infants and children because of its concentration in the thyroid gland. in addition, there is plutonium- , frequently used in nuclear explosives. a bone-seeker like strontium- , it may also become lodged in the lungs, where its intense local radiation can cause cancer or other damage. plutonium- decays through emission of an alpha particle (helium nucleus) and has a half-life of , years. to the extent that hydrogen fusion contributes to the explosive force of a weapon, two other radionuclides will be released: tritium (hydrogen- ), an electron emitter with a half-life of years, and carbon- , an electron emitter with a half-life of , years. both are taken up through the food cycle and readily incorporated in organic matter. three types of radiation damage may occur: bodily damage (mainly leukemia and cancers of the thyroid, lung, breast, bone, and gastrointestinal tract); genetic damage (birth defects and constitutional and degenerative diseases due to gonodal damage suffered by parents); and development and growth damage (primarily growth and mental retardation of unborn infants and young children). since heavy radiation doses of about roentgen or more (see "radioactivity" note) are necessary to produce developmental defects, these effects would probably be confined to areas of heavy local fallout in the nuclear combatant nations and would not become a global problem. a. local fallout most of the radiation hazard from nuclear bursts comes from short-lived radionuclides external to the body; these are generally confined to the locality downwind of the weapon burst point. this radiation hazard comes from radioactive fission fragments with half-lives of seconds to a few months, and from soil and other materials in the vicinity of the burst made radioactive by the intense neutron flux of the fission and fusion reactions. it has been estimated that a weapon with a fission yield of million tons tnt equivalent power ( megaton) exploded at ground level in a miles-per-hour wind would produce fallout in an ellipse extending hundreds of miles downwind from the burst point. at a distance of - miles downwind, a lethal radiation dose ( rads) would be accumulated by a person who did not find shelter within minutes after the time the fallout began. at a distance of - miles, a person would have at most hours after the fallout began to find shelter. considerably smaller radiation doses will make people seriously ill. thus, the survival prospects of persons immediately downwind of the burst point would be slim unless they could be sheltered or evacuated. it has been estimated that an attack on u.s. population centers by weapons of one-megaton fission yield would kill up to percent of the population immediately through blast, heat, ground shock and instant radiation effects (neutrons and gamma rays); an attack with , such weapons would destroy immediately almost half the u.s. population. these figures do not include additional deaths from fires, lack of medical attention, starvation, or the lethal fallout showering to the ground downwind of the burst points of the weapons. most of the bomb-produced radionuclides decay rapidly. even so, beyond the blast radius of the exploding weapons there would be areas ("hot spots") the survivors could not enter because of radioactive contamination from long-lived radioactive isotopes like strontium- or cesium- , which can be concentrated through the food chain and incorporated into the body. the damage caused would be internal, with the injurious effects appearing over many years. for the survivors of a nuclear war, this lingering radiation hazard could represent a grave threat for as long as to years after the attack. b. worldwide effects of fallout much of our knowledge of the production and distribution of radionuclides has been derived from the period of intensive nuclear testing in the atmosphere during the 's and early 's. it is estimated that more than megatons of nuclear yield were detonated in the atmosphere between and , about half of this yield being produced by a fission reaction. the peak occurred in - , when a total of megatons were detonated in the atmosphere by the united states and soviet union. the limited nuclear test ban treaty of ended atmospheric testing for the united states, britain, and the soviet union, but two major non-signatories, france and china, continued nuclear testing at the rate of about megatons annually. (france now conducts its nuclear tests underground.) a u.n. scientific committee has estimated that the cumulative per capita dose to the world's population up to the year as a result of atmospheric testing through (cutoff date of the study) will be the equivalent of years' exposure to natural background radiation on the earth's surface. for the bulk of the world's population, internal and external radiation doses of natural origin amount to less than one-tenth rad annually. thus nuclear testing to date does not appear to pose a severe radiation threat in global terms. but a nuclear war releasing or times the total yield of all previous weapons tests could pose a far greater worldwide threat. the biological effects of all forms of ionizing radiation have been calculated within broad ranges by the national academy of sciences. based on these calculations, fallout from the -plus megatons of nuclear testing through will produce between and cases of genetic disease per million live births in the next generation. this means that between and persons per billion births in the post-testing generation will have genetic damage for each megaton of nuclear yield exploded. with similar uncertainty, it is possible to estimate that the induction of cancers would range from to cases per megaton for each billion people in the post-test generation. if we apply these very rough yardsticks to a large-scale nuclear war in which , megatons of nuclear force are detonated, the effects on a world population of billion appear enormous. allowing for uncertainties about the dynamics of a possible nuclear war, radiation-induced cancers and genetic damage together over years are estimated to range from . to million for the world population as a whole. this would mean one additional case for every to , people or about / percent to percent of the estimated peacetime cancer death rate in developed countries. as will be seen, moreover, there could be other, less well understood effects which would drastically increase suffering and death. alterations of the global environment a nuclear war would involve such prodigious and concentrated short term release of high temperature energy that it is necessary to consider a variety of potential environmental effects. it is true that the energy of nuclear weapons is dwarfed by many natural phenomena. a large hurricane may have the power of a million hydrogen bombs. but the energy release of even the most severe weather is diffuse; it occurs over wide areas, and the difference in temperature between the storm system and the surrounding atmosphere is relatively small. nuclear detonations are just the opposite--highly concentrated with reaction temperatures up to tens of millions of degrees fahrenheit. because they are so different from natural processes, it is necessary to examine their potential for altering the environment in several contexts. a. high altitude dust it has been estimated that a , -megaton war with half the weapons exploding at ground level would tear up some billion cubic meters of rock and soil, injecting a substantial amount of fine dust and particles into the stratosphere. this is roughly twice the volume of material blasted loose by the indonesian volcano, krakatoa, whose explosion in was the most powerful terrestrial event ever recorded. sunsets around the world were noticeably reddened for several years after the krakatoa eruption, indicating that large amounts of volcanic dust had entered the stratosphere. subsequent studies of large volcanic explosions, such as mt. agung on bali in , have raised the possibility that large-scale injection of dust into the stratosphere would reduce sunlight intensities and temperatures at the surface, while increasing the absorption of heat in the upper atmosphere. the resultant minor changes in temperature and sunlight could affect crop production. however, no catastrophic worldwide changes have resulted from volcanic explosions, so it is doubtful that the gross injection of particulates into the stratosphere by a , -megaton conflict would, by itself, lead to major global climate changes. b. ozone more worrisome is the possible effect of nuclear explosions on ozone in the stratosphere. not until the th century was the unique and paradoxical role of ozone fully recognized. on the other hand, in concentrations greater than i part per million in the air we breathe, ozone is toxic; one major american city, los angeles, has established a procedure for ozone alerts and warnings. on the other hand, ozone is a critically important feature of the stratosphere from the standpoint of maintaining life on the earth. the reason is that while oxygen and nitrogen in the upper reaches of the atmosphere can block out solar ultraviolet photons with wavelengths shorter than , angstroms (a), ozone is the only effective shield in the atmosphere against solar ultraviolet radiation between , and , a in wavelength. (see note .) although ozone is extremely efficient at filtering out solar ultraviolet in , - , a region of the spectrum, some does get through at the higher end of the spectrum. ultraviolet rays in the range of , to , a which cause sunburn, prematurely age human skin and produce skin cancers. as early as , arctic snow blindness was attributed to solar ultraviolet; and we have since found that intense ultraviolet radiation can inhibit photosynthesis in plants, stunt plant growth, damage bacteria, fungi, higher plants, insects and annuals, and produce genetic alterations. despite the important role ozone plays in assuring a liveable environment at the earth's surface, the total quantity of ozone in the atmosphere is quite small, only about parts per million. furthermore, ozone is not a durable or static constituent of the atmosphere. it is constantly created, destroyed, and recreated by natural processes, so that the amount of ozone present at any given time is a function of the equilibrium reached between the creative and destructive chemical reactions and the solar radiation reaching the upper stratosphere. the mechanism for the production of ozone is the absorption by oxygen molecules (o ) of relatively short-wavelength ultraviolet light. the oxygen molecule separates into two atoms of free oxygen, which immediately unite with other oxygen molecules on the surfaces of particles in the upper atmosphere. it is this union which forms ozone, or o . the heat released by the ozone-forming process is the reason for the curious increase with altitude of the temperature of the stratosphere (the base of which is about , feet above the earth's surface). while the natural chemical reaction produces about , tons of ozone per second in the stratosphere, this is offset by other natural chemical reactions which break down the ozone. by far the most significant involves nitric oxide (no) which breaks ozone (o ) into molecules. this effect was discovered only in the last few years in studies of the environmental problems which might be encountered if large fleets of supersonic transport aircraft operate routinely in the lower stratosphere. according to a report by dr. harold s. johnston, university of california at berkeley--prepared for the department of transportation's climatic impact assessment program--it now appears that the no reaction is normally responsible for to percent of the destruction of ozone. in the natural environment, there is a variety of means for the production of no and its transport into the stratosphere. soil bacteria produce nitrous oxide (n o) which enters the lower atmosphere and slowly diffuses into the stratosphere, where it reacts with free oxygen (o) to form two no molecules. another mechanism for no production in the lower atmosphere may be lightning discharges, and while no is quickly washed out of the lower atmosphere by rain, some of it may reach the stratosphere. additional amounts of no are produced directly in the stratosphere by cosmic rays from the sun and interstellar sources. it is because of this catalytic role which nitric oxide plays in the destruction of ozone that it is important to consider the effects of high-yield nuclear explosions on the ozone layer. the nuclear fireball and the air entrained within it are subjected to great heat, followed by relatively rapid cooling. these conditions are ideal for the production of tremendous amounts of no from the air. it has been estimated that as much as , tons of nitric oxide is produced for each megaton of nuclear explosive power. what would be the effects of nitric oxides driven into the stratosphere by an all-out nuclear war, involving the detonation of , megatons of explosive force in the northern hemisphere? according to the recent national academy of sciences study, the nitric oxide produced by the weapons could reduce the ozone levels in the northern hemisphere by as much as to percent. to begin with, a depleted ozone layer would reflect back to the earth's surface less heat than would normally be the case, thus causing a drop in temperature--perhaps enough to produce serious effects on agriculture. other changes, such as increased amounts of dust or different vegetation, might subsequently reverse this drop in temperature--but on the other hand, it might increase it. probably more important, life on earth has largely evolved within the protective ozone shield and is presently adapted rather precisely to the amount of solar ultraviolet which does get through. to defend themselves against this low level of ultraviolet, evolved external shielding (feathers, fur, cuticular waxes on fruit), internal shielding (melanin pigment in human skin, flavenoids in plant tissue), avoidance strategies (plankton migration to greater depths in the daytime, shade-seeking by desert iguanas) and, in almost all organisms but placental mammals, elaborate mechanisms to repair photochemical damage. it is possible, however, that a major increase in solar ultraviolet might overwhelm the defenses of some and perhaps many terrestrial life forms. both direct and indirect damage would then occur among the bacteria, insects, plants, and other links in the ecosystems on which human well-being depends. this disruption, particularly if it occurred in the aftermath of a major war involving many other dislocations, could pose a serious additional threat to the recovery of postwar society. the national academy of sciences report concludes that in years the ecological systems would have essentially recovered from the increase in ultraviolet radiation--though not necessarily from radioactivity or other damage in areas close to the war zone. however, a delayed effect of the increase in ultraviolet radiation would be an estimated to percent increase in skin cancer for years in the northern hemisphere's mid-latitudes. some conclusions we have considered the problems of large-scale nuclear war from the standpoint of the countries not under direct attack, and the difficulties they might encounter in postwar recovery. it is true that most of the horror and tragedy of nuclear war would be visited on the populations subject to direct attack, who would doubtless have to cope with extreme and perhaps insuperable obstacles in seeking to reestablish their own societies. it is no less apparent, however, that other nations, including those remote from the combat, could suffer heavily because of damage to the global environment. finally, at least brief mention should be made of the global effects resulting from disruption of economic activities and communications. since , an increasing fraction of the human race has been losing the battle for self-sufficiency in food, and must rely on heavy imports. a major disruption of agriculture and transportation in the grain-exporting and manufacturing countries could thus prove disastrous to countries importing food, farm machinery, and fertilizers--especially those which are already struggling with the threat of widespread starvation. moreover, virtually every economic area, from food and medicines to fuel and growth engendering industries, the less-developed countries would find they could not rely on the "undamaged" remainder of the developed world for trade essentials: in the wake of a nuclear war the industrial powers directly involved would themselves have to compete for resources with those countries that today are described as "less-developed." similarly, the disruption of international communications--satellites, cables, and even high frequency radio links--could be a major obstacle to international recovery efforts. in attempting to project the after-effects of a major nuclear war, we have considered separately the various kinds of damage that could occur. it is also quite possible, however, that interactions might take place among these effects, so that one type of damage would couple with another to produce new and unexpected hazards. for example, we can assess individually the consequences of heavy worldwide radiation fallout and increased solar ultraviolet, but we do not know whether the two acting together might significantly increase human, animal, or plant susceptibility to disease. we can conclude that massive dust injection into the stratosphere, even greater in scale than krakatoa, is unlikely by itself to produce significant climatic and environmental change, but we cannot rule out interactions with other phenomena, such as ozone depletion, which might produce utterly unexpected results. we have come to realize that nuclear weapons can be as unpredictable as they are deadly in their effects. despite some years of development and study, there is still much that we do not know. this is particularly true when we consider the global effects of a large-scale nuclear war. note : nuclear weapons yield the most widely used standard for measuring the power of nuclear weapons is "yield," expressed as the quantity of chemical explosive (tnt) that would produce the same energy release. the first atomic weapon which leveled hiroshima in , had a yield of kilotons; that is, the explosive power of , tons of tnt. (the largest conventional bomb dropped in world war ii contained about tons of tnt.) since hiroshima, the yields or explosive power of nuclear weapons have vastly increased. the world's largest nuclear detonation, set off in by the soviet union, had a yield of megatons--equivalent to million tons of tnt. a modern ballistic missile may carry warhead yields up to or more megatons. even the most violent wars of recent history have been relatively limited in terms of the total destructive power of the non-nuclear weapons used. a single aircraft or ballistic missile today can carry a nuclear explosive force surpassing that of all the non-nuclear bombs used in recent wars. the number of nuclear bombs and missiles the superpowers now possess runs into the thousands. note : nuclear weapons design nuclear weapons depend on two fundamentally different types of nuclear reactions, each of which releases energy: fission, which involves the splitting of heavy elements (e.g. uranium); and fusion, which involves the combining of light elements (e.g. hydrogen). fission requires that a minimum amount of material or "critical mass" be brought together in contact for the nuclear explosion to take place. the more efficient fission weapons tend to fall in the yield range of tens of kilotons. higher explosive yields become increasingly complex and impractical. nuclear fusion permits the design of weapons of virtually limitless power. in fusion, according to nuclear theory, when the nuclei of light atoms like hydrogen are joined, the mass of the fused nucleus is lighter than the two original nuclei; the loss is expressed as energy. by the 's, physicists had concluded that this was the process which powered the sun and stars; but the nuclear fusion process remained only of theoretical interest until it was discovered that an atomic fission bomb might be used as a "trigger" to produce, within one- or two-millionths of a second, the intense pressure and temperature necessary to set off the fusion reaction. fusion permits the design of weapons of almost limitless power, using materials that are far less costly. note : radioactivity most familiar natural elements like hydrogen, oxygen, gold, and lead are stable, and enduring unless acted upon by outside forces. but almost all elements can exist in unstable forms. the nuclei of these unstable "isotopes," as they are called, are "uncomfortable" with the particular mixture of nuclear particles comprising them, and they decrease this internal stress through the process of radioactive decay. the three basic modes of radioactive decay are the emission of alpha, beta and gamma radiation: alpha--unstable nuclei frequently emit alpha particles, actually helium nuclei consisting of two protons and two neutrons. by far the most massive of the decay particles, it is also the slowest, rarely exceeding one-tenth the velocity of light. as a result, its penetrating power is weak, and it can usually be stopped by a piece of paper. but if alpha emitters like plutonium are incorporated in the body, they pose a serious cancer threat. beta--another form of radioactive decay is the emission of a beta particle, or electron. the beta particle has only about one seven-thousandth the mass of the alpha particle, but its velocity is very much greater, as much as eight-tenths the velocity of light. as a result, beta particles can penetrate far more deeply into bodily tissue and external doses of beta radiation represent a significantly greater threat than the slower, heavier alpha particles. beta-emitting isotopes are as harmful as alpha emitters if taken up by the body. gamma--in some decay processes, the emission is a photon having no mass at all and traveling at the speed of light. radio waves, visible light, radiant heat, and x-rays are all photons, differing only in the energy level each carries. the gamma ray is similar to the x-ray photon, but far more penetrating (it can traverse several inches of concrete). it is capable of doing great damage in the body. common to all three types of nuclear decay radiation is their ability to ionize (i.e., unbalance electrically) the neutral atoms through which they pass, that is, give them a net electrical charge. the alpha particle, carrying a positive electrical charge, pulls electrons from the atoms through which it passes, while negatively charged beta particles can push electrons out of neutral atoms. if energetic betas pass sufficiently close to atomic nuclei, they can produce x-rays which themselves can ionize additional neutral atoms. massless but energetic gamma rays can knock electrons out of neutral atoms in the same fashion as x-rays, leaving them ionized. a single particle of radiation can ionize hundreds of neutral atoms in the tissue in multiple collisions before all its energy is absorbed. this disrupts the chemical bonds for critically important cell structures like the cytoplasm, which carries the cell's genetic blueprints, and also produces chemical constituents which can cause as much damage as the original ionizing radiation. for convenience, a unit of radiation dose called the "rad" has been adopted. it measures the amount of ionization produced per unit volume by the particles from radioactive decay. note : nuclear half-life the concept of "half-life" is basic to an understanding of radioactive decay of unstable nuclei. unlike physical "systems"--bacteria, animals, men and stars--unstable isotopes do not individually have a predictable life span. there is no way of forecasting when a single unstable nucleus will decay. nevertheless, it is possible to get around the random behavior of an individual nucleus by dealing statistically with large numbers of nuclei of a particular radioactive isotope. in the case of thorium- , for example, radioactive decay proceeds so slowly that billion years must elapse before one-half of an initial quantity decayed to a more stable configuration. thus the half-life of this isotope is billion years. after the elapse of second half-life (another billion years), only one-fourth of the original quantity of thorium- would remain, one eighth after the third half-life, and so on. most manmade radioactive isotopes have much shorter half-lives, ranging from seconds or days up to thousands of years. plutonium- (a manmade isotope) has a half-life of , years. for the most common uranium isotope, u- , the half-life is . billion years, about the age of the solar system. the much scarcer, fissionable isotope of uranium, u- , has a half-life of million years, indicating that its present abundance is only about percent of the amount present when the solar system was born. note : oxygen, ozone and ultraviolet radiation oxygen, vital to breathing creatures, constitutes about one-fifth of the earth's atmosphere. it occasionally occurs as a single atom in the atmosphere at high temperature, but it usually combines with a second oxygen atom to form molecular oxygen (o ). the oxygen in the air we breathe consists primarily of this stable form. oxygen has also a third chemical form in which three oxygen atoms are bound together in a single molecule ( ), called ozone. though less stable and far more rare than o , and principally confined to upper levels of the stratosphere, both molecular oxygen and ozone play a vital role in shielding the earth from harmful components of solar radiation. most harmful radiation is in the "ultraviolet" region of the solar spectrum, invisible to the eye at short wavelengths (under , a). (an angstrom unit--a--is an exceedingly short unit of length-- billionths of a centimeter, or about billionths of an inch.) unlike x-rays, ultraviolet photons are not "hard" enough to ionize atoms, but pack enough energy to break down the chemical bonds of molecules in living cells and produce a variety of biological and genetic abnormalities, including tumors and cancers. fortunately, because of the earth's atmosphere, only a trace of this dangerous ultraviolet radiation actually reaches the earth. by the time sunlight reaches the top of the stratosphere, at about miles altitude, almost all the radiation shorter than , a has been absorbed by molecules of nitrogen and oxygen. within the stratosphere itself, molecular oxygen ( ) absorbs the longer wavelengths of ultraviolet, up to , a; and ozone (o ) is formed as a result of this absorption process. it is this ozone then which absorbs almost all of the remaining ultraviolet wavelengths up to about , a, so that almost all of the dangerous solar radiation is cut off before it reaches the earth's surface. ============================================================== this work is licensed under a creative commons attribution . unported license, http://creativecommons.org/ ============================================================== thomas hoover "a high-tech launch site, a missing nuke, and arab terrorists with nothing to lose . . ." in the sun-dappled waters of the aegean, ex-agent michael vance pilots the _odyssey ii_, a handmade replica of the sailcraft of the ancient hero ulysses. out of nowhere, a russian hind gunship with arab terrorists at the helm fires upon the tiny ship below. the terrorists' destination is a tiny aegean island where a u.s. aerospace corporation carefully guards the cyclops -megawatt laser launch facility. but the company security force is no match for the firepower of the arab invasion and the launch site is quickly overrun. with helpless horror, the executives can only watch as renegade technicians convert the launch vehicle into a ballistic missile that can deliver their stolen thermonuclear warhead to any city in the u.s. left for dead amid the smoking ruins of _odyssey ii_, michael vance washes up on the occupied island - and becomes america's only hope. books by thomas hoover nonfiction zen culture the zen experience fiction the moghul caribbee wall street _samurai_ (the _samurai_ strategy) project daedalus project cyclops life blood syndrome all free as e-books at www.thomashoover.info project cyclops a bantam falcon book/september all rights reserved. copyright © by thomas hoover. cover art copyright © by alan ayers. isbn - - - published simultaneously in the united states and canada printed in the united states of america opm grateful acknowledgment is made to reprint from the following: "on forelands high in heaven" from more poems from the collected poems of a.e. housman. copyright © by barclays bank ltd., copyright © by robert e. symons. copyright © by holt, rinehart and winston. reprinted by permission of henry holt and company, inc. key words: thomas hoover (author) project cyclops (novel: techno thriller) arab terrorists, laser, aegean, odyssey, aerospace, ballastic missile, thermonuclear warhead, ulysses, u.s. navy, israeli terrorist, hind, spacecraft, satellite, pakistan nuclear bomb, mercenaries project cyclops preface : p.m. "keep her above three hundred meters on the approach." ramirez's hard voice cut through the roar of the , -hp isotov turboshafts. down below, the cold, dusk-shrouded aegean churned with a late autumn storm. "any lower and there'll be surface effect." "i'm well aware of that," the iranian pilot muttered, a sullen response barely audible above the helicopter's noise and vibration. it stopped just short of open disrespect. sabri ramirez did not mind. the two iranians had been an unfortunate necessity, but in three days they would be dead. the others, the professionals, were the ones who counted. when he hand-picked the european terrorists now resting on the four litters in the main cabin, he had gone for the best. each man had a track record and a purpose. ramirez, however, was the leader, fully in control. he had planned, financed, and now commanded the operation. in the ghostly light of late evening, his sleek cheeks, iron- shaded temples, and trim mustache gave no hint of the extensive plastic surgery that had created this, his latest face. he wore a black jumpsuit, like the others, but under his was a $ , brioni charcoal double-breasted--perhaps more suited for a three-star dinner in paris, at l'ambroisie or la tour d'argent, than the operation at hand. all the same, he felt comfortably at home in this hind-d helicopter gunship, the most lethal assault machine ever. their operation had two objectives, and the first had just appeared on the bright green cockpit radar. it was the , -ton u.s. frigate glover, garcia class, which the national security agency had converted into a mid-east spy platform. loaded with missile-tracking and communications-monitoring antennas, it had to go. ramirez expected no difficulties. like the uss stark, the frigate disabled by iraqi exocet missiles in the persian gulf in , it was a perfect target. with only one gun, it would be child's play for a fully-armed hind. "activate iff," he ordered, glancing back at the instrument panels. "they should acquire us on radar within two minutes now." "iff on." salim khan, the still-brooding iranian, nodded and reached for the interrogator/responsor in the panel on his right. they were using the nato identification system, a low-band interrogator, into which they had programmed the false israeli identification friend or foe code. the gray box would receive the electronic query, "are you a friend?" and it would automatically reply, "yes, this aircraft is friendly." ramirez watched with satisfaction as the green numbers flashed. deception, he thought. the key to everything. in the intelligence dossiers of mossad, and the u.s. cia, he was known as the hyena, killer of hundreds in europe and the middle east. but his most cherished recent fact in those dossiers was the item declaring the disbanding of his private organization. he thankfully had been written off. of course, the self-important analysts reasoned over their pipes and printouts, of course the chimera named sabri ramirez must be dead. his unmistakable touch had not been on a bombing in years. the playboy terrorist who flaunted silk suits, had cellars of rare vintage wines in tripoli, damascus, baghdad, and beirut . . . that man wouldn't just retire. he had to be _gone_. they were half right. he had wearied of the squabbles and disputes of a far-flung organization; however, he had not lost his taste for money. or his hatred of the united states. now that nato was falling apart, america was trying to take over the middle east--aided by its european lackeys. but he had put together a plan that would end america's global military intimidation once and for all. not coincidentally, he was going to acquire eight hundred million dollars in the process. "we'll be exposed," he continued, "but just for about three minutes. they only have one gun, a . caliber dp mark , mounted on the forward deck. it is in plain view. remember i need a clear ten-second window for the swatter. after we neutralize their main ordnance, we come about and strafe the communications gear." he hoped this dense iranian understood the approach profile. he had briefed the man over and over, but still he was not sure it had sunk in. he examined salim khan one last time--the bulky face with sunken, almost depressed eyes--and stifled a sigh of exasperation. iranians. still, he had better not offend the man's much-vaunted honor. after all, salim had single-handedly stolen the hind gunship they were now flying from the iranian air force, providing a crucial component in the overall operation. a rare prize, the hind had been secretly purchased by the iaf from an afghan rebel unit--which had captured it in . iran had wanted to see one up close, against the day the soviets might turn their anti-islamic paranoia against them and try to invade. that day had never come. and now this disaffected air force lieutenant had simply stolen it. at last, ramirez thought with satisfaction, their valued prize would be put to use. salim khan had mastered the hind's controls years before, had flown it often, and just four days ago he had taken it up, shot his weapons operator, and used a fake identity to file a new flight plan, setting down to refuel in rawalpindi. the theft had caused a tempest. when they discovered it, the mullahs had blamed america and engineered a demonstration in the streets of tehran so they could bray in the press. but by that time he had already taken it out over the gulf and landed it on the camouflaged greek cargo ship they had waiting. after navigating the suez canal, that ship was now anchored safely off crete's main port of iraklion. for salim khan, who had twice been passed over for promotion to captain, the taste of revenge in that theft was sweet indeed. "the most important part of the approach," ramirez went on, "is to make sure we're id'd by their vis, their visual identification system. it's crucial they make our israeli markings." the hind-d looked like nothing else in the world, one of a kind. its visual profile, dark green against the sunset hues of the sky, should be unmistakable. or so he hoped. almost sixty feet long and over twenty feet high, it had a main rotor fifty-five feet in diameter and a heavy, retractable landing gear. the tandem stations in the nose for the weapons operator, and the pilot above him, had individual canopies, with the rear seat raised to give the pilot an unobstructed forward view. any schoolboy should be able to identify one a mile away, as well as its israeli markings--the blue star of david in a white circle. "i still think it's unnecessary," salim khan mumbled into his beard. "it only adds to our risk. it would be better--" "a visual id is essential." ramirez cut him off. "when they make it, they'll go through the sixth fleet hq in gournes for verification, then--" 'they just acquired us on radar," the iranian interjected, as a high- pitched alert sounded from the instrument panel and a line of green warning diodes turned red. "right on schedule." ramirez nodded. "the u.s. navy never sleeps." he turned and motioned to one of the men crouched on a litter in the main cabin, shouting above the noise. "peretz, it's time to start earning your share." dore peretz, a veteran of the weizman institute, was a specialist in strategic weapons and their delivery. but that was another life. now he was free-lance. ramirez had picked him for his technical skills, and his greed. he rose and made his way forward, working carefully through the jumble of legs and automatic weapons. he was younger than he appeared; his prematurely salt-and-pepper hair made him look late forties, though he actually was only thirty-nine. he settled into the weapons station below salim, pulling down his black turtleneck, the better to accommodate a flight helmet, and went to work. "are you ready?" he asked salim, in perfect farsi. "i am ready if god is ready," the iranian replied grimly, his eyes beginning to gleam from the strain. peretz reached down and switched the radio to . megahertz, the military emergency channel. "mayday. mayday. israeli hawk one requesting permission for emergency approach." he then repeated the announcement in hebrew. it was, of course, a pointless gesture for the illiterate americans, but for now verisimilitude counted. "we copy you, hawk one. this is uss glover. we've acquired you on radar," came back the response, a southern drawl, young and slightly nervous. "what seems to be the problem?" "one of our turboshafts has started losing oil pressure. we could use a visual check. what's your position?" he glanced down at the green radar screen and grinned. it showed the frigate's coordinates to within meters. the radioman complied with his request, then continued. "there could be a problem, hawk one. the storm's just pushed the sea over four feet. it's a helluva--" "permission to approach. we have a situation here," he continued in english. "have to check that with the tao. we've got a perimeter," came back the uneasy answer. "fuck your perimeter, sailor." peretz' voice was harder now. "this is lieutenant colonel leon daniel, israeli air force. we've got an emergency and we're coming in. tell that to your tao, and get us perimeter clearance. we're coming by." he switched off his mike. "well done." ramirez nodded his approval. "just the right combination of entreaty and bravado. i think the americans will be stymied. the good-neighbor policy they like to talk about." he leaned back and wished he had a cigar. the other men waiting, crouched in the dark, had understood only some of the english. they were four germans, a frenchman, and a greek. "conditional clearance granted," crackled the radio. "but we have to visual id you first. approach from vector three-two-zero. emergency rescue op being readied, just in case." "roger, uss glover," peretz spoke back sharply, in his best military style. "keep the coffee hot." "it's always hot, sir. this is the u.s. navy." "appreciated." "glad to be of help, hawk one." peretz clicked off the radio and turned around. "i think they bought it." "so far so good," ramirez nodded. he descended the three steps down into the lower cockpit, the weapons station, and stood behind peretz, looking it over again. the hind's offensive capability included a four-barrel gatling-type . mm machine gun in a turret under the nose, as well as -round packs of mm rockets secured on hardpoints on each stubby auxiliary wing. finally, the wingtips carried four swatter homing antitank missiles, two on each side. plenty of firepower for what he intended. "remember," he said to salim as he moved back up, "no hint of hostile action until after they make the id." would the stubborn iranian hold steady? stick to the procedure? he checked his watch. four and a half minutes should take them inside the vis range. the altimeter showed that they were now at eleven hundred meters, and so far the iranian was bringing her in perfectly. of course, after the frigate confirmed they were flying a hind . . . but by then it would be too late. . . . _"i was doubling cape maleas when the swell, the current, and the north wind combined to drive me sidelong off my course and send me drifting past kythera. the force of the gusts tore my sails to tatters, and for nine days i was chased by those accursed winds across the fish-infested seas. but on the tenth i made the country of the lotus-eaters." from the odyssey: book nine_ chapter one : p.m. "do you read me, _odyssey ii_? come in." the radio crackled on channel sixteen, the ocean mariner's open line. "goddammit mike, do you copy? over." michael vance was exhilarated, and scared. the salty taste of the aegean was in his mouth as he reached for the black mike of his radio, still gripping the starboard tiller. his waterproof ross dsc was topside, since there was no other place for it. he was lean, with leathery skin and taut tanned cheeks all the more so for his having spent the last three days fighting the sea. he had dark brown hair and a high forehead above eyebrows that set off inquiring blue eyes. his face had mileage, yet was curiously warm, with a slim nose that barely showed where it had been broken year before last-- during an arm special op in iran. "is that you, bill? good to hear your voice, but this is a hell of a time--" "who else would it be, you loony gringo? hey, i'm getting a damned lot of static. how about switching channels? over to seventy." "seventy, confirmed." he pushed in the code, his fingers slippery and wet. the wind was already gusting up to thirty knots, while his boat was crabbing across the growing swell. "okay, lotus-eater, you're on." "listen, old buddy," the voice continued, clearer now that it was digital, "our weather radar shows a squall building in the north, up in the sporades, and it looks like it could be a real bear. it's going to be all over your butt in no time. thought i'd better let you know. you ought to try and hole up down on the south side of kythera." kythera was an island just off the southeast tip of greece's peloponnesos. it was now looming off vance's starboard bow, barren mountains and sheer cliffs. "i've been watching it," he yelled back into the mike, holding it close to shield it from the howl of wind. the gale was coming in at an angle to the waves, creating two swells running at ninety degrees, and the sea was getting short and confused. "but i think i can ride it out. i'm making probably seven or eight knots." he paused, then decided to add a little bravado. no point in admitting how worried he was. "just a little rock and roll." 'that's horseshit, friend. this thing's for real. you'd better head for cover." it was the profane, oversmoked voice of bill bates, ceo of satcom, who'd been monitoring his trip using the awesome electronics he'd installed on the little island of andikythera, fifteen kilometers south of kythera. "even old ulysses himself had that much sense, and it's common knowledge that guy didn't know fuck-all about sailing. took him ten years to get home. remember that inlet on the south side of the island, that little harbor at kapsali? we put in once for a drink last year. i respectfully suggest you get your ass over there and drop anchor as soon as possible." "and let you win? no way, jose." he was jamming his weight against the starboard tiller, and the radio was distracting. as far as he was concerned, the wager with bates was ironclad: retrace ulysses' route in a fortnight and do it without ever touching land. "i just think you're getting worried. you suddenly remembered we've got ten large riding on this. somebody's got to lose, and it's going to be you, pal." "you're a headstrong idiot, michael," bates sputtered. "fuck the ten grand. i don't want it and you don't need it. i'm hereby going on record as taking no responsibility for this idiotic stunt, from this point on. you're really pushing your luck." "we both know this ain't about money. i've got a reputation to live up to." like finding out how many ways i can kill myself, he thought. jesus! how did i get into this? he reached to secure the linen sail line to a wooden cleat. the heightening swell was churning over the gunwales, soaking him as it drove the bow to leeward. "well, for once in your life use some sense. the risk isn't worth it. our weather radar here at the facility tells no lies, and you should see it. this is going to be a granddaddy. i've triangulated your position and you're only about four klicks off the east side of kythera. you could still run for that little harbor down south before it hits." "i know where i am. i can just make out the island off my starboard bow. about two o'clock." it's tempting, he told himself. damned tempting. but not just yet. 'then go for it." bates coughed. "listen, you crazy nut-cake, i have to get back out to control. we've got a major run-up of the cyclops laser system scheduled tonight for hours. so use your head for once, goddammit, and make for that anchorage." "your views are taken under advisement. but a great american philosopher once said it ain't over till it's over." he pushed the thumb switch on the microphone, clicking it off. then he switched it on again. "by the way, amigo, good luck with the test." the cyclops was going to power the world's first laser-driven space vehicle. who knew if it would work? 'thanks, we may need it. catch you again at ." "see you then." if i'm still around, he thought. he clicked off his mike, then switched back to channel sixteen. the radio was the only electronic equipment he had permitted himself. he enjoyed monitoring the greek chatter coming from the island fishing boats and trawlers, which worked nights. lots of bragging. now, though, the bursts of talk on the open channel were all about the building storm. the fishing boats this night had abandoned the aegean to the massive inter-island ferries. in fact, those white multi-deck monsters were his real concern, more than the storm. _odyssey_ _ii_ had no radar, and his tiny mast lantern would just melt into the rain when the storm hit. sailing in the dark and in a squall was a game of pure defense; he had to keep every sense alert--sight, hearing, even smell. he prayed the ferry lanes would be empty tonight. a nomicos line triple-decker could slice his little homemade toy in half without ever knowing he was there. _odyssey ii_ was a thirty-eight-foot wooden bark, planked construction of cypress on oak, that no sane man would have taken out of a marina. but michael vance was hoping to prove to the world that the fabled voyage of ulysses from troy back to greece could have happened. unlike anything seen afloat for almost three thousand years, his "yacht" was, in fact, an authentic replica of a single-masted mycenaean warship. painted lavender and gold--the ancient greeks loved bold colors--she could have been a theme-park ride. but every time he looked her over, he felt proud. his browned, cracked fingers gripped the wet wood as the sea churned ever higher, now blotting out the dim line of the horizon. the storm was arriving just as daylight faded-- the worst moment. enough thinking, he ordered himself, audibly above the gale. it's bad for the reflexes. just keep the tiller to leeward and don't shorten sail. go for it. just get around kythera, then heave to and lie in the lee till the worst is over. another five, maybe six kilometers should do it. vance wasn't greek; he was american and looked it. as for greece and things greek, he preferred tequila over ouzo, a medium-rare sirloin to chewy grilled octopus. all the same, years ago he had gotten a ph.d. in greek archaeology from yale, taught there for two years, then published a celebrated and radical theory about the palace of knossos on crete. the book had caused an uproar in the scholarly community, and in the aftermath he had drifted away from the world of the ancient greeks for several years. with this project, he liked to think, he was coming back home. he had just turned forty-four, and it was about time. age. more and more lately he realized he preferred old, well-crafted things: stick-shift transmissions, tube amplifiers, vinyl recordings. anything without numbers that glowed. _odyssey_ _ii_ was as close to that feeling as he could get. coming in now was his first real weather, and he had his numb, pained fingers crossed. his creation had certain historically precise features yet to be fully tested in high seas. he had built her in the style of ships in homer's time, which meant she was hardly more than a raft with washboard sides. four meters across the beam, with a shallow draft of a meter and a half, she was undecked except for a longitudinal gangway over the cargo and platforms at the bow and stern, protected with latticework to deflect enemy spears. it did not help much, however, against the swell. the keel extended forward at the bow, supposedly for additional lateral plane, and that was a plus when reaching with the wind abeam or tacking to windward, but now, running downwind, it increased her tendency to sheer about. all his strength was needed on the tillers just to keep her aright. there were other problems. maybe, he thought, ulysses had them, too. he'd reproduced the ancient aegean practice of tying the ends of the longitudinal wales together at the stern, then letting them extend on behind the ship and splay outward like the tail feathers of some magnificent phoenix. although he loved the beauty of it, now that "tail" was catching the wind and making steering even tougher. probably should have left the damn thing off, he'd often lectured himself. but no: _odyssey ii _had to be exactly authentic . . . or what was the point? no guts, no glory. the ancient greeks were the astronauts of their age, the aegean their universe, and he wanted to recapture the triumphs and the fears of homer's time, if only for a fortnight. : p.m. "sir, we got an rq from the glover." alfred konwitz, a twenty-year-old oklahoman with a thirty-eight-inch waist and known to the evening radio shift affectionately as big al, lifted off his headphones and reached for his coffee, extra cream and sugar, which he kept in a special thermos cup. the united states has two bases on the southern mediterranean island of crete, strategically close to libya and the middle east in general. they are the naval and air base at souda bay, which is large enough to accommodate the entire mediterranean sixth fleet, and the communications base at gournes, in the southern outskirts of iraklion, crete's capital city. he and staff sergeant jack mulhoney were at gournes, on the fourth floor of the faceless gray building that housed operations for the massive battery of antennas. they both knew the glover was a garcia- class frigate, technically part of the sixth fleet, on a routine but classified intelligence-gathering assignment a hundred kilometers northwest of souda bay. "they've got an israeli chopper mayday," konwitz continued. "they need a verify. see if it's a scheduled op or what." jack mulhoney was busy with paperwork--more damned forms every day--and did not really want to be bothered. he got off at midnight, and the staff officer had ordered it completed and on his desk, by god, by tomorrow. or else. 'then run it by traffic," he said without looking up. forms. "maybe it's some exercise. you could call down to the mole and see if it's on his schedule." the mole was charlie molinsky, who ran the traffic section on the second floor. if the israeli chopper was on a regular op, he would have it in the computer. "roger." konwitz punched in the number and asked molinsky to check it out. as he waited, he found himself wishing he were back in oklahoma, hunting white-tail deer on his uncle's ranch. they were as thick as jackrabbits. he only had six months more to go, and he could not wait to get out. he had joined at age seventeen to get a crack at electronics, and--true to its word--the navy came through. when he got out, he was going to open his own shop and get rich fixing vcrs. hell, everybody who had one was always saying how they broke down all the time and how much they cost to fix. who said the japs didn't create jobs in america. . . . suddenly he came alive. "he's got a negative, sir. he's asking if we could get glover to reconfirm." "christ, switch me on." mulhoney shoved aside the pile of paper and reached for his headset. "glover, this is gournes. do you copy? over." he listened a second, then continued. "roger. we have no id on that bogey. repeat, negative id. can you reconfirm?" while he was waiting, he punched up a computer screen and studied it. the glover had reported a position at latitude ° ' and longitude ° ' at hours. and their bearing was last reported to be two-five- zero. nothing else was in the vicinity. damn. he didn't like the feel of this one. his instincts were telling him something was wrong. then his headphones crackled. "verified iff. definitely israeli code. do you copy?" "i copy but i don't buy it. proceed with caution. configure for a bogey unless you can get a good visual." "roger. but can you get through to israeli control? there's a hell of a storm coming down out here right now, and visuals don't really cut it." "i copy you, glover. hang on and we'll try to get something for you." he flipped off the headset and revolved in his chair, concern seeping into his ruddy features. "al, see if the people downstairs can get through on their hot line to israeli air control. military. ask them if they know anything about a chopper in the vicinity of the glover. tell them we need a response now. priority. could be we've got a bogey closing on one of ours, maybe using a phony iff. i want them to clear it." "aye, aye, sir," he said crisply, then reached for the phone again. he spoke quickly, then waited, drumming his fingers on the vinyl desk. . . . : p.m. as another gust hit, vance glanced up at the rigging, praying it would hang together. instead of canvas, the wide, shallow square sail was made of small linen cloths sewn together, like those made on the tiny looms of ancient times. it was a single-masted reefing sail, invented just in time for the trojan war, with an upper yard fitted with a system of lines whereby it could be furled up and then secured aloft. when he got south of the island and hove to, he would drop the sea anchor and reef her, but for now he wanted every square inch. he was tired and thirsty, but he had no time for even a sip of water. with the sea rising, waves were pounding over the primitive sideboards and soaking him to the skin. next the squalls would come--though maybe a little rain would feel good, improve the personal hygiene. . . . he was used to problems. for the past five years he had operated a three-yacht charter sail business out of nassau, the bahamas, living aboard one of the vessels, a forty-four-foot bristol two-master christened _the ulysses_. in fact, this whole enterprise had begun there when, after a day of sailing, he and bill bates were unwinding over drinks one hot and humid afternoon at a club near the hurricane hole marina. vance, attired in shorts and a t-shirt, his standard sailing outfit, was sipping his sauza tres generaciones tequila and feeling great. "you know, bill, i've been thinking," he had said. "i want to try something that's never been done before." "what? you mean try paying your bills on time?" bates had laughed, knowing vance seemed to have a perennial cash-flow problem. "very funny." he had ignored the crack and swirled the ice in his glass, then pulled out a piece to chew. "no, this is serious. ever check out the paintings of the early ships on greek vases?" "can't say as i have." bates had reached down and was brushing a fleck of dirt off his perfectly white leather sperry top-siders. as always, his pale blue polo blazer remained crisp, his west marine "weatherbeater" cap immaculate. "well, hear this out. i think there's enough detail in some of the pictures i've seen to actually re-create one. and i checked it out: there's also a pretty good description of one in the _odyssey_." bates had looked up from his bacardi and perrier. "so you want to try and build--" "not just build one; anybody could do that." he had leaned back, hoping to add a touch of drama to what was next. "i want to sail one through the aegean. do a rerun of the _odyssey_, the classic quest." "get serious." bates laughed. "couldn't be more. i want to build one--single mast, square sail--and go for it. recreate ulysses' _odyssey_. and no nav gear. just the stars." "but what route would you take?" bill was digging into the pocket of his blazer for a weathered briar pipe. "does anybody really know?" "i've looked into it, and just about everything homer talked about has been located, in some place or another. we know exactly where the site of troy was, so that'd be the spot to push off. starting at the dardanelles strait, ulysses first went north and sacked a city on the coast of thrace. then he took a heading almost due south, passing through the cyclades islands and by the north side of crete, then put in at the north shore of africa, where--" "so, you intend to do it by the book," bates had interjected. "only way." he had sipped his tequila, feeling his excitement growing, then continued. "from there it's up to the western tip of sicily, polyphemus land, then northwest to sardinia. then over to italy and down the west coast, where ulysses ran afoul of circe. next it's south, past the galli islands, where the sirens sang, after which i make the straits of messina and down to malta, the island of calypso. finally it's northeast to corfu, and from there it'd be a straight shot on down to ithaca. home plate." "you'll never make it." bill was thoughtfully filling his pipe. "bet you ten grand i can do it in a fortnight." "i'll probably never see the money, but you're on." bates had grabbed the bet, with a big, winner's grin. . . . so far, it had gone virtually without a hitch. using old paintings, he had worked up precise engineering drawings for the vessel, then engaged with a small shipyard in istanbul to build it. the turkish workers could scarcely believe their eyes. the ship was a greek vase come to life, and already the world press had given him plenty of coverage. everybody liked the idea of a long shot. he had taken plenty of long shots sailing the caribbean over the last eight years, but he had no experience with an early october storm in the aegean. tonight was building into a serious problem. all signs pointed to a typical autumn blowout. he glanced at the low-lying clouds moving in from the north, darkening the sky and building rapidly. he knew that in these waters, light autumn breezes could easily whip into thrashing gales. yeah, bill's radar was right. the weather was real. and it scared him, a lot. well, he figured, it was time. he had been lucky so far. the ross dsc radio still worked, and the patchwork sail hadn't ripped--yet. . . . then it happened. the nightmare. without warning the winds suddenly changed around to the north, going from thirty knots to sixty in what seemed only a second. as the linen sail strained, he threw his weight against the tiller, hoping to hold his course. now more than ever, with the storm on him, he wanted to keep on all his canvas and try to get into the lee of the island as soon as possible. it was definitely time to cut the bravado and start thinking about the sea anchor. "_odyssey ii_, come in," the radio crackled, and he recognized bates' voice once more. "do you read?" he reached down and picked up the small black mike, then yelled against the howl of wind. "i copy you, but make this quick. no time to chat." "i had another look-see at the radar, mike, and i just noticed something else you should know about. we show you at almost the same position as a u.s. navy ship of some kind. part of the sixth fleet probably. take care you miss her." he clicked the mike to transmit. this time he didn't want to bother switching channels. "some kind of exercise, probably. what's her class?" "can't tell. but she's still a hell of a lot bigger than you are, pal. they may pick you up on their radar, but again maybe not. just take care." "i'll keep an eye out for lights. thanks." he clicked off the mike again, then looked around. but the aegean, what he could see of it, remained dark and empty. somehow, though, the black made it just that much scarier. he leaned back into the tiller, still trying to hold as much of the wind in the sail as possible. the waves were lashing him now, cold and relentless. and _odyssey ii _was beginning to heel precariously, forcing him to apply helm, throwing his full hundred and eighty pounds against the heavy wooden portside tiller. it was one of a pair, port and starboard--the old greek idea being that whenever a ship leaned away from the wind, lifting the windward rudder out of the water, the helmsman still had a lee rudder for control. but when he took her to starboard and tried to round the island, the wind and tides would be full abeam. with a shallow-draft, low-ballast vessel like this, that was going to be dicey. . . . he reached for the life jacket he had secured to the mast, a new switlik fastnet crew vest mk_ii_. normally he did not bother, but this was not the time to go macho. it had a -pound buoyancy and a , - pound breaking strength, enough for any seas. now the wind was gusting even harder, kicking up yet more swell. the aegean sunset was concluding, its red clouds turned purple and darkening fast, a presage that visibility would shortly be a thing of the past. the past, _a la recherche du temps perdu_. this trip, regardless of his bet with bill, was also about recent times gone by. his father had died, the revered michael vance, sr., the undisputed grand old man of archaeology at penn. it turned out to be a far greater loss than he had anticipated, like a chunk of himself torn away. he still missed their late-hours "discussions"--heated arguments, really. he had been trying to wrench away the future, the old man trying to hang on to what he knew best: the past. it had been a dynamic tension filled with mutual love. and now he felt guilty. but why? there was no reason. he also had gone through another of life's milestones, a divorce. eva borodin, a dark-haired daughter of russian aristocracy, a college sweetheart, had come back into his life after a digression of ten years. the second time around was supposed to be a charm, right? the soap operas were wrong on that one, the same way they were about most other things in real life. although the divorce, now a year ago, had been businesslike and amicable, it still had hurt. for the past year he had been sitting around and brooding--about life, love, middle age, death. he still found himself wearing his wedding ring. why? it just made him think of her even more. no, the truth was, everything reminded him of her and how much he needed her. what he had not realized--until she was gone--was that needing somebody was the richest experience of life. he sighed into the wind. the challenge of his _odyssey_ enterprise was supposed to take his mind off all that. was it working? maybe. but so far the jury was still out. . . . he gripped the tiller harder and glanced up at the sail. running downwind, the cutwater on the bow was going to be a real problem. but just another half hour, probably, and-- christ! bill's warning was on the mark. a massive hulk loomed dead ahead, running with no lights. it was as long as a football field, the bow towering up like a battering ram. she was moving in off his portside stern--he guessed she was making at least fifteen knots. high above the bridge, antennas and communications gear showed faintly against the twilight gloom, gray and huge. not recommended for close encounters . . . but he still had time to tack and give her a wide berth. he threw his weight against the tiller, veering to leeward. once clear, he would bring the bow about and let the cutwater top her wake like a surfboard, keeping him from taking water. then he would be on his way, into the storm and the night. maybe he did not even have a problem. they probably had picked him up on their radar by now. it did not mean they would veer off course, but they might throttle her down a few notches, just to be neighborly. . . . he was still leaning on the tiller, watching the monolithic hulk skim silently past, when he noticed a throaty roar beginning to drown out the slap of the ship's wake against the side of _odyssey ii'_s_ _hull. after a few moments, as it grew in ominous intensity, he realized it was coming in from the south. what in hell! he whirled to look, and spotted a chopper, altitude about eight hundred meters. what was it doing here? had bill been that worried, enough to risk sending his hot new agusta mark _ii_ out in this weather to . . . no, it was way too big. when he finally saw it clearly, the stubby wings and rocket pods, he realized it was a soviet mi- d, a hind. over the mottled camouflage paint he discerned the blue star and white background of the israeli air force. odd. he knew they had captured one once, an export model from the syrian air force, but they would never fly it this far into international airspace. it was a prize. what's more, this bird was fully armed--with dual heat-seeking missiles secured at the tips of each stubby wing, just beyond the twin rocket pods. then it assumed an attack mode. . . . : p.m. sabri ramirez stepped down to the weapons station again, gazed out through the huge bubble, and smiled. "shut down the radar. their iwb must not have any reason for alarm. they're probably running our iff through gournes right now." the israeli nodded, then reached over to switch off all systems that the americans might interpret as weapons guidance. next he clicked on the low-light tv. unlike radar, it was a passive system that would not alert the ship that she was being ranged. ramirez pictured the control room of the uss glover crowded with curious young seamen glued to their monitoring screens, probably happy to have a little excitement. their iff would be reporting an israeli chopper. but the minute the visual id came through, all hell would break loose. so far, he told himself, it had been a textbook approach. airspeed was down to ninety-five knots, altitude eight hundred meters. carefully, carefully. first rule. don't spook the quarry. we don't need radar. we'll be passive, heat-seeking. no ecm they can throw at us will make any difference. "under two minutes now," he said. "it's time." "no pain, no gain." peretz flipped on the radio. "uss glover, we're going to have to ditch. we have a crew of three--pilot, copilot, and navigation trainee." "we have emergency crews on starboard side, ready to pick you up. do you have mae wests?" "life jackets on. standard-issue yellow. with dye markers and saltwater-activated beacons. we'll--" "hawk one, our traffic guys at gournes just reported they can't get a positive verify on you." 'tell them to check again," peretz suggested matter-of-factly. "maybe they screwed up in--" "we'll have them run it through one more time. routine security. but you've got to keep a three-thousand-meter perimeter till--" "dammit, sailor, oil pressure's in the red. we're taking her by your starboard bow. ready your crews." suddenly another voice came on the radio. it was older. "israeli hawk one, this is tactical action officer vince bradley. who the hell are you? we vid you as a mi- gunship." peretz had switched off his mike and was loosening his helmet strap. "you got it right, asshole." : p.m. _ _vance watched as the hind approached on the starboard side of the destroyer, heading straight for it and dropping altitude. what in hell was going on? he lunged for the radio, and switched it to the military emergency frequency, hoping to pick up some clue that would explain it all. probably not much of a chance. if this was a sixth fleet operation, they would be scrambling everything. nothing. so he flipped over and started scanning the u.s. navy tracking frequencies-- . through . megahertz--in the meantime trying to keep the tiller in hand. the radio was alive, agitated voices yelling back and forth. it was an argument, the helo claiming it was making a flyby for an emergency ditch, the frigate not exactly buying the story. no kidding. he'd checked out the chopper in close-up as she came over, and he'd seen nothing wrong. everything looked to be in perfect working order. the only obvious thing out of the ordinary was that she was fully armed. whoever was flying her was using some kind of bogus mayday to get in close. but by now it was too late to try and give the frigate a warning. : p.m. "perfect timing," ramirez said, moving down to the weapons station and taking peretz' place. "we're inside forty-five seconds. now just keep her on the deck. first we neutralize the forward gun turret." "taking airspeed to fifty knots." salim was praying now. "_allau akbar_!" "uss glover." ramirez had switched on the helmet mike again. "we have a confirmed ditch. oil pressure just went entirely. we'll be taking her by the bow." "i repeat, who the hell are you?" the tao's voice came back on the radio. "we still have no confirm on your iff. if you make a pass, i'll assume hostile intent." "sorry. no time to play this by the book," he replied. "we're ditching." he immediately clicked on the radar. in less than ten seconds he'd be in position to lay a swatter directly into the forward gun turret. command on the _glover _knew it, and at that moment the gun was swiveling, coming around. suddenly a blaze streaked past them in the sky as the forward gun fired and a telltale tracer ripped by. it was intended as a warning. but now the gun glowed on the ir interrogation screen. thank you very much, ramirez thought, and flipped a switch, activating the starboard swatter's heat-seeking guidance system. : p.m. "right." alfred konwitz snapped to attention. "yes, sir." he slammed down the phone and whirled around to jack mulhoney. "full denial, sir. israeli control says they have no military aircraft operating anywhere in that sector of the aegean. they double-confirm. that's class a. hard." "we're in the shit. some son of a bitch is closing on one of ours, and we don't even know who he is." he picked up the headphones, then switched on the scrambler. "_glover_, do you read me? i think it's a bogey. i can't tell you that officially, but you'd better alert your tao in the next five seconds or it'll be your ass, sailor." "this is bradley," came back a new voice. "we just-- jesus!" "_glover_, what--?" "hostile action . . . do you copy? we've got a hostile." "how many--?" "it's visual id'd as a russian mi -d. with israeli markings. we're taking fire forward--" "what are--?" sounds behind the radio voice had erupted in turmoil. something catastrophic was going on. "al," he turned quickly, "get command. i think we've got an israeli- id'd hind taking hostile action on the _glover_." he didn't realize it, but with those words he had played directly into sabri ramirez's hands. the scenario was now a lock. when jack mulhoney turned back to his radio, he only heard static. : p.m. vance watched as the frigate got off a warning tracer, but to no effect. the hind ignored it, as a stream of mm rockets from under the chopper's stubby starboard wing flared down, while the radar-slaved machine gun beneath the nose opened fire. then the weapons operator on the hind loosed a starboard-mounted heat-seeking swatter, and an instant later flames erupted on the frigate's bow, an orange and black ball where the forward gun turret had been. as it spiraled upward into the night, the turret and its magazine exploded like a giant, slow- motion cherry bomb. he could see sailors running down the decks, could hear the sound of a shipboard fire alarm going off, the dull horn used for emergencies. they were calling all hands to station, but their response had come too late. the false-flag approach had caught the u.s. navy off guard, its defenses down. the radio crackled alive with a mayday. were there any other ships in the area? he wondered. anybody to take out the bastards in the chopper? now it was banking, coming around, bringing the frigate's stern into its deadly view. then a blaze of mm rockets poured in, engulfing the communications gear and antennas. next the weapons operator loosed a second swatter directly into the bridge. christ! seconds later it had transformed the midsection of the frigate into a ball of fire. he watched aghast as the blast flung the men on the bridge outward through the glass partition. he plunged for cover just as the first airborne shock wave ripped _odyssey ii's _linen sail loose from its lines. when he rose to try and grab the starboard tiller, a second shock wave caught him and flung him savagely against the mast. the next thing he knew, he was clinging to the portside gunwale, one hand still tangled in the lines that had been ripped from the sail. the night sky had turned a blood red, reflecting down off the low-lying clouds. then he felt a tremor in the hull as a massive wave caught him and the pegs that held the stern together--so lovingly installed--sheared. the aft section of _odyssey_ _ii_ instantaneously began to come apart. the light woods would float-- she was, after all, hardly more than a raft with sides--but she would be helpless. his handmade marvel had been reduced to a bundle of planks, barely holding together, sail in shreds, twin rudders demolished. for a moment he counted himself lucky. his body unscathed, he probably could weather the storm by just hanging on. then it happened. whether through luck or skill, the chopper's weapons operator laid another one of the swatter missiles into the frigate's stern section, causing a massive secondary explosion, a billowing ball of fire that punched out near the waterline. this time, he knew, a wall of water would come bearing down on him, sending a terminal shock wave through what was left of _odyssey ii_. you've got to try and keep her aright, he told himself. try and lash yourself down with one of the lines. . . . the wall of water hit, hurtling him over the side. he grasped for a section of gunwale, but it was too late. the wave obliterated everything. now the swell was churning against his face as he tried to stroke back, his lungs filling with water. his arms were flailing, hands trying desperately to grasp the slippery cypress planking. the switlik vest was holding, so he was in no danger of drowning. yet. fighting the swell with his left hand, spitting water, he reached out with his right, trying to catch any piece of wreckage floating by. finally, he succeeded in wrapping a line around his wrist. he gasped, choking, and caught his breath. then, still grasping the line, he draped his left arm across _odyssey ii's _shattered side and used the line to pull himself over, into what was left of the hold. if he could stay with her, he figured, he might still have a chance. just as he tried to rise to his feet, however, he looked up to see the mast slowly heeling over, coming straight down. he toppled backward, hoping to dodge it, but it slammed him just across the chest. the world swirled into blackness, as even the light from the blazing ship behind him seemed to flicker. stay conscious, he told himself. stay alive. holding onto the toppled mast, using it as a brace, he managed to rise. and now the hind had completed its gruesome handiwork and was banking. again it was going to pass directly overhead. by god, he thought, this thing isn't over. those bastards are not going to get off scot-free. : p.m. _ _"you used the swatters!" salim was shoving the throttle levers forward as he banked. his voice was incredulous. "you said we were just going to disable the trsscomm system and the radars with rockets." trsscomm was short for technical research ship special communications. the frigate was equipped with batteries of listening antennas, an elaborate system of sensors and sophisticated computers, and various hydraulic systems on the stern needed to twist and turn the various dishes. but it also was manned. what was the point of mass murder? ramirez had explained that the _glover _was a spy ship that worked for the u.s. national security agency, the nsa. normally it operated within a small region, in a special "hearability" area just off crete where a fluke in the weather allowed it to eavesdrop on all the middle east; the crew could even watch cairo television. salim was stunned. ramirez, he had suddenly realized, was a madman. it was one thing to require an occasional killing in an operation this complex--after all, he had had to shoot his weapons operator in order to steal the hind--but an all-out attack on a u.s. frigate was pointless. the stakes had just gone through the roof. however, salim's younger brother, jamal, had exactly the opposite reaction. with a surge of pride he exclaimed, "praise be to god," and fell to his knees on the rear litter. this was a leader he would follow anywhere. the others did not share jamal's joy. they considered themselves professionals, and overkill was not businesslike. however, they merely glanced at each other and kept silent. squabbling with ramirez served no purpose. "we were only going to take out their tracking capability," salim said again, his anger growing. "it's time you understood something." ramirez handed his headset to the israeli, dore peretz, and stepped up from the weapons station, his voice sounding above the roar of the engines. "i am in charge of this operation. if i think an action is necessary, i will take it. does anyone here want to disagree?" the question was answered with silence. he had just killed dozens of men. they all knew one more would hardly matter. : p.m. vance pulled himself across the planking and stretched for a box of gear stowed beneath the stern platform. in it was a constant traveling companion: his chrome-handled mm walther. although the concept of downing a hind gunship with small-arms fire had been tested in afghanistan and found wanting, he was so angry his better judgment was not fully in play. the pistol remained in its waterproof case. quickly he took it out, unwrapped it, and clicked a round into the chamber. then he tried to steady himself against the fallen mast. the hind was about a hundred meters away now, coming in low. were they going to strafe? no, they probably didn't realize he was there. they were about to be in for a surprise. he could see the weapons-system operator inside the lower bulletproof bubble. forget it. and the pilot, seated just above him, was similarly invulnerable. no way. furthermore, the dual rocket pods beneath each short wing were probably armored. again no vulnerability. aside from the poorly protected gas tanks there was only one point worth the trouble. if . . . it was about to pass directly overhead, and he saw that he was going to be lucky. one swatter missile remained, secured on the hardpoint tip of the stubby starboard wing. it was the only shot he had. but if he didn't get it, they would get him. one touch of the red firing button by the weapons operator and _odyssey ii_ would be evaporated. he took careful aim at the small white tube on the wing, still nestled on its launcher, and squeezed off a round. but at that instant _odyssey ii_ dipped in the swell and he saw sparks fly off the fuselage instead. the chopper passed blissfully overhead, its engine a dull roar above the howl of the sea. : p.m. "we're taking fire!" peretz shouted from the weapons station down below. "what? that's impossible." ramirez whirled, then stepped in behind him to look. lights from the control panel winked over his shoulders, while below them the aegean was dark and gray. "check the look-down radar." peretz flipped a switch on his left and scanned the screen. 'there's something down there. maybe a fishing--" "idiot, nobody's fishing here now. not with this weather." he looked up and shouted to the cockpit. "salim, take her about, one-eighty, and we'll strafe the son of a bitch." the . mm nose cannon was slaved to the radar, another of the hind's many well-designed, and lethal, features. while ramirez watched--he would have moved back into the gunnery seat himself, but there was no time--dore peretz switched on the nose cannon. when the target locked on the radar, he pushed the fire control under his right hand. : p.m. a flare of machine-gun fire, hopping across the churning sea, caught the side of _odyssey ii_ and sprayed flecks of wood around him. but the swell was making him an elusive target. the line of fire had not really done any damage, not this time. they knew he was there, though. now the chopper was banking and returning for another pass. maybe, he thought, they're going to stick with the nose cannon. they won't bother wasting rockets or a multi- thousand-dollar swatter missile on the wreckage of a raft. the bastards are just having some target practice, a little fun and games. he saw the flames from the nose cannon begin as the massive hind started its second pass. this was it. _odyssey ii _was about to be history. but not before he gave her one last blaze of glory. holding to the gunwale and readying himself, he took careful aim at the starboard swatter, still perched like a thin white bird on the stubby wingtip. he steadied the walther, on semiautomatic, and began firing-- oblivious to the line of strafing coming his way. he saw the rounds glancing off the armored wing, and the sparks guided his aim. the clip was going fast, but then . . . bingo. a flare erupted, then an orange fireball, neatly severing the starboard wingtip. the missile had detonated, but just as it did, the hind's strafing caught _odyssey ii_ right down the middle, shearing her in half. : p.m. "stabilize her!" peretz felt himself flung against the bulletproof bubble that shielded the weapons station. a blinding explosion jolted the hind, and the accompanying shock wave from the detonating swatter spun it around thirty degrees. several gauges in the instrument panel had veered off scale. salim reached up and cut the power to the main rotor, then eased the column and grabbed the collective pitch lever with his left hand. in less than a second the hind had righted herself. slowly the instruments began coming back as the electrical system recovered from the impact. "tail rotor's okay," he reported, checking the panel. "altimeter reads five hundred meters." he looked up. "what in the name of god happened?" "our last swatter detonated. the question is, why?" ramirez answered. he was staring angrily out the high-impact plastic of his bubble at the wreckage of the starboard wing. dore peretz, now in the weapons station in the nose, was talking to himself. "i got the bastard." : p.m. _ _he shoved the walther into his belt and dove into the swell, the cold waters crashing against his face. the _odyssey ii _was reduced to debris. his labor of love, half a year's work, all evaporated in an instant. the zen masters were right: never get attached to physical things. he avoided the deadly shards of wood, then seized onto a section of the mast that had blown in his direction. the hind was banking and turning now, assuming a heading due south. that, he realized, was the direction of andikythera, site of satcom's new complex. was it their next target? that didn't make any sense. bill's project was commercial; it had no military value. or at least none he could imagine. but now he had only one thing on his mind. he secured his life vest tighter and held on to the mast, the salty aegean in his face. the current was taking him due south, the same direction the chopper had headed. chapter two : p.m. "damn it!" ramirez looked down at the weapons' readouts. "did you have the swatter armed? the system should have been off. if it was on, he could have detonated it by impact." peretz stared a second longer at the wreckage of the vessel below, then glanced back at his instruments and paled. "i thought it was . . . it must have malfunctioned. no fucking way--" "carelessness. stupid carelessness." ramirez bent his head and examined the wing, then checked the status readouts on the weapons system. "we lost the starboard rocket pod, too." peretz took one look and realized it was true. the rocket pod had been shorn away, leaving the tangled metal of the wing completely bare. but the hind did not need its wings for stability; they were merely for armaments. "well, so what? i wasted the fucker, whoever he was." he tried a smile, sending a web of lines through his tan as the lights of the weapons panel played across his face. it was the way he always disguised nervousness. damn you, ramirez was thinking. an israeli cowboy. i would kill you on the spot except that i need you. it was an arrogant mistake, and i can't let it happen again. it won't happen again. he turned and moved back up to the cockpit. "what's our status?" "sideslip is nominal," salim reported grimly, his dark eyes glancing down at the churning sea only a couple of hundred meters below them. "i think we're going to be all right." "we have just had an example of how an oversight can destroy an operation," ramirez declared, turning back to the main cabin. "we will not succeed if we get careless, lose discipline. i have planned this operation down to the last small detail. you have all been briefed, over and over." he paused and examined the men. sometimes he felt as if he were lecturing children, but these were no children. "each of you knows what his job is. i expect you to do it with exactness and precision. the next oversight anyone here makes will be his last. am i understood?" there was silence, then finally a voice came from the litters in the darkened cabin aft, barely audible above the roar of the twin engines. it was jean-paul moreau, the frenchman. he hated flying, and he particularly hated flying with an iranian at the controls. "what the hell happened?" "someone on . . . presumably a raft of some kind. we took a couple of rounds of small-arms fire." he glanced back, making sure his voice reached peretz in the weapons station. "the last swatter was left turned on, armed, and it must have been hit. probably the detonator. a stupid oversight." "looks like the mistake was mine," came the voice of peretz, trying, unsuccessfully, to sound contrite. "can't win them all, baby." back to his smart-ass self, ramirez thought, still gritting his teeth in anger. but he pushed it aside. "forget it. in this business you only look back if you can profit from your mistakes. we just learned what happens when we forget our mission. the matter is closed." "now"--he returned his attention to the main cabin-- "when we set down at the facility, i expect total discipline. nothing less will be tolerated. is that understood?" he motioned peretz out of the weapons station and took his place there. would these men hold together the way he required? as he looked them over, he felt confident. he had had enough experience to smell success. sabri ramirez had definitely been around the track. born in venezuela almost half a century earlier, the son of a prominent marxist lawyer, he had become an ardent revolutionary by age twenty. at twenty-five he went off to cuba, but it was only later, while attending patrice lumumba university in the soviet union, that he discovered his true ideological core --it turned out he actually despised "the oppressed of the earth," along with curfews, books, and lectures. no, what he really wanted to join was not the party, but the party--good living, women, fame. and he wanted the last most of all. after nine months his lack of ideological fervor got him summarily expelled. he actually felt relief. with an eye to where the action was, he immigrated to beirut . . . and prudently became a muslim by conversion. then he started making contacts--beirut had always been a good place to make contacts. the payoff was quick. he was young, obviously brilliant, and he would do anything. in the early s he was recruited by the terrorist group known as the popular front for the liberation of palestine and assigned leadership of its european unit. off he went to paris, the posting of his dreams. he had long fantasized about making himself a legend as one of the world's leading terrorists, and he was soon succeeding beyond his fondest imaginings. in he graduated from the pflp and formed his own group. a middle eastern gun-for-hire, it was known as the organization of the armed arab struggle. the designation, he thought, had a nice revolutionary ring, which he had long since learned mattered. his new enterprise--terrorism-to-go--soon attracted such major clients as libya and iraq. among his more celebrated achievements were the bombing of a french cultural center in west berlin, exploding a suitcase bomb at a marseilles railroad station, and placing an incendiary device aboard the french "bullet train." although he never had cared about ideology, he appreciated the importance of a correct political stance in the islamic world, and therefore he frequently posed as the leader of an "armed struggle" against the "zionist enemy." but always, however, at a profit. he had, in fact, perfected the fine art of extortion, pressing the "reactionary" regimes of egypt, jordan, kuwait, saudi arabia, and the gulf sheikdoms into paying protection money disguised as "revolutionary donations." after he engineered the opec incident in vienna in which eleven oil ministers were taken hostage, and then blew up a seaside resort, killing a kuwaiti official, he began receiving regular payoffs from all the gulf states. finally, in , he closed out operations under the oaas name, moved to damascus, and began training syrian intelligence agents. by that time, he had become a chimera, a legend whose nickname, the hyena, was linked to every car bomb in europe. and by that time also, the hyena (a name he despised) had become the stuff of popular fiction, as well as of dossiers on three continents. having reduced terrorism to a science--a boring science --he then temporarily retired. but now, after the american invasion of the middle east, he had decided to come back for one last score, to do what he had been dreaming about for years. the americans had unwittingly provided the perfect opportunity. why not seize it? this time, however, he wanted to do it himself, not with an army of half-crazed radical muslims. . . . he stepped up to the cockpit and examined the rows of gauges. "hold the airspeed under a hundred knots. and make sure you keep her on the deck." then he checked down below. "peretz, this time make sure all the weapons stations are switched off. that's _off."_ the israeli nodded, this time without his usual grin. now the hind had begun its final approach. the low-light tv showed a small landing pad approximately thirty meters on each side with a private helicopter parked in the middle of a black and white bull's-eye in the center. he knew that arm--a group he had long hated-- had ringed the island with a first-class industrial security system. five years ago, he recalled, they had killed three of his operatives in beirut, in a futile attempt to kill him. what's more, it never made the papers. typical. the security system they had developed for the island was good, but it made no provision for this kind of penetration. it pleased him to at last make fools of them. "we're coming in," salim announced. he touched the rudder pedal with his left foot to hold their heading and grasped the collective pitch lever as he eased the engines toward idle. "there's already a helo on the pad. looks like a new agusta." "i know about it. just set down next to it, inside the landing perimeter. i want this to be simple." tonight, he knew, they had scheduled the first full power-up of the cyclops. everything depended on how that test went, but he couldn't postpone the takeover any longer. this was it. . . . abruptly he wondered if the damaged wing would affect stability on touchdown? they would soon find out. : p.m. the current swept him inexorably southward, while behind him the bundle of planks that remained of _odyssey_ _ii_ was dispersing rapidly. he cursed himself for having lost the ross dsc radio. on the other hand, he considered himself lucky just to be in one piece. luckier than the crewmen of the uss glover. it was heartrending. seeing a tragedy coming and not being able to stop it: that was the worst possible nightmare. he wanted to go back to try and help, but the sea made it impossible. he pulled himself over the bobbing, drifting mast, feeling it slam against his face as the sea tossed it like a matchstick. all around him lethal splinters of _odyssey_ _ii_ sliced through the water, jagged spears driven by the swell. the dark engulfed him, lightened only by the billowing remains of the navy frigate now some thousand yards away. somewhere, dear god, it's got to be somewhere. let it still be strapped to the mast. the idea seemed stupid at the time, but now . . . he felt his way down until his fingers touched a slippery nylon cord. was it . . . yes. maybe there is a god. the straps were tangled, which was not supposed to happen, and fragments of cypress planking from the sides of the ship had punctured the nylon cover, but his switlik search-and-rescue raft was still dangling from the remains of the mast. now for one more minor miracle: could he manage to pull it free before everything disappeared into the dark and the swell? he flailed with one hand to keep his head afloat, while his fingers grappled with the bowline knot. finally the knot loosened, and he wrenched it loose. jesus, is there going to be anything left? would it still inflate? he grappled with the fiberglass canister that contained the raft, then popped it open. with his last remaining strength he pulled on the tether, discharging the bottled carbon dioxide that caused the switlik to hiss to life. part of it. he realized the lower buoyancy tube had been ripped to shreds by the . mm machine gun of the hind that had destroyed the mast, but the upper one had somehow escaped intact. so he was half-lucky. it was yellow, hexagonal, and it looked like heaven. he had never used one before, and he had never realized how it felt. like an oversized inner tube. with a surge of relief, he pulled himself aboard, inching in as he felt the swell pound over him, and then he drew out the folding oars and extended them. with his new course he knew he would miss the harbor at kythera recommended by bates--no way could he battle the current and make it. the vagaries of wind and sea were driving him almost due south. it was the direction the chopper had taken--straight for the little island of andikythera. could they breach satcom's security and get in? probably. the setup installed by arm was industrial-level only. he had cautioned bill about that. he grimaced and plied his strength to the two small aluminum oars. the way the wind and seas were taking him, he would find out soon enough. again he lamented the loss of the radio--with it he could get out a mayday alerting any ships around that might mount a rescue of the frigate's survivors. he also could try warning the satcom facility that trouble was headed their way. the problem was, the hind had a top speed of over a hundred and fifty knots. if andikythera was its destination, it probably was already there. the cold sea stung his face and the tossing waves were making him slightly seasick, but he felt alive again. almost by instinct he looked up to try to find the stars, loving how crisp and striking they could be over the aegean. nothing yet, but there were glimmers in the north. a good sign. the storm was blowing over now, the clouds starting to open up again. if bill tries the radio, he'll probably figure i've just vanished from the earth. he half felt like it. as the cold autumn waters of the aegean surged around him, its six-foot waves washing over his partially inflated switlik, he thought about bill bates. he was a friend, a very good friend. was he about to be in trouble? although bates was a world-class executive, he also was a dedicated family man. he had a model wife back in arlington and two model sons, both deposited in model private academies. his wife, a blond wasp old- fashioned enough to have the same family name as a prominent philadelphia bank, never seemed to tire of her charity obligations, so it was his sons he took with him sailing in the summers. that was how vance had met him, sailing with the boys in the bahamas. bill was highly regarded in industry circles as the ceo's ceo, and not without reason. for one thing, less inconsequential than most would think, he looked the part. his steel-gray hair was always trimmed to the precise millimeter, his tanned cheeks were forever sleek from a workout at his club, or whatever club was handy on his perpetual travels. he had once claimed he knew the location of more health clubs than any man in america. best of all, though, he knew how to raise money. when he described a pending enterprise, he did it with the gleaming eye of the true believer. even in a dicey investment environment, he always generated the enthusiasm sufficient to ensure that a new stock issue sold out and closed higher than the offering price on the day it was floated. the man could sell sunlamps in the sahara. he competed hard in everything he did. when he decided, some years after he and vance had become acquainted, that he wanted to spend summers racing, he did not bother buying his own yacht; instead he flew to nassau and leased the fastest boat he knew. at that moment, the vessel filling that description was the argonaut, owned by windstalker, ltd. it was a forty-four-foot sloop, highly regarded throughout the racing fraternity. its owner, however, never let any of his three yachts out of the harbor without first undertaking a personal checkout of the new skipper--even if it was an old friend. vance remembered it well. bill manned the helm, a mahogany wheel always kept well polished, and they were making a solid eight knots on the speedo. it was one of those mornings in the islands when everything seemed as clear as a desert sky. no cruise ships were scheduled into the harbor, and the stinkpot powerboats were mercifully in limited supply. the wind was perfect and the water as smooth as a glittering mirror. best of all, bates was handling the helm as though he had been there all his life. "think we can get her up to ten knots?" he'd asked, shielding his eyes as he studied the genoa, a gleaming triangle of white above the bow. vance had leaned back and tested the wind. "give her a little touch on the helm, to starboard, and i think she might come through for you." he was proud of his recent refurbishing of the boat--the latest northstar digital satnav gear, brand-new sails that cost a fortune, a complete renovation of the instrument station down below. bates tapped the wheel and the genoa bellied even more. "i like this fucking boat a lot, mike," he declared. "so here's the deal. i want to lease her for three months, take her to norfolk, get a crew together, and get everybody comfortable with her." "i think we can talk." vance had to smile. the yacht would be in good hands, and a three-month charter was a dream come true for a guy in his business. "matter of fact, i wanted to ask you to help me out with something else, too. some security work." "hey, i'm just a simple charter-boat operator. not my line." "don't bullshit me, pal." he laughed. "you know satcom is building a new industrial facility in the aegean." "a private space facility." "i think american technology is getting a bum rap, michael," he said with sudden seriousness. "i plan to change that." "the journal says you want to try and give the europeans a run for the roses." he looked over, the wind whipping his glistening hair. "you keep in touch pretty damned good for a simple sailor. but i tell you, if we succeed, we'll literally change the way space is used. i'll be able to put a satellite into orbit for a song. just between us, i'm building the biggest private spaceport anywhere. the french operation in guiana won't hold a candle to it. i've already got ten geostationary orbital slots locked up with the world administrative radio conference. even nasa better keep a grip on their jockstrap." "where's the money coming from? the usual suspects?" "who else." he laughed, then tapped the helm slightly more to starboard. "the stock was over-the-counter and it was hell and gone in three fucking hours. bang. out the door. matter of fact, it's now trading almost fifteen percent above the original offering price." he shrugged. "i should have issued more. but like a stupid son of a bitch, i had a failure of nerve. didn't go with my instincts." "next time, how about letting me in on the action?" "you're a goddamn piece of work, michael. and so's this boat. tell you what. i'll make you a deal. i figure you're expecting about four thou a week for this baby, correct?" "anything for a friend." "right." he laughed. "i want her for twelve weeks. so . . . what if i paid you with some of my personal satcom stock? fifty thou worth at the current price? how's that sound?" "deal," vance said, without hesitation. he'd heard a lot of big-time bull in the charter business, but bates was a straight shooter. the temporary gap in cash flow was going to make meeting the three mortgages--one for each boat--tough, but he liked the sound of the project." "this isn't going to leave you strapped, is it?" bates looked a trifle worried. "i'll manage. as i always say, two in the bush is worth one in the hand." "michael, half the time you don't have a pot to piss in. i know that. you're the lousiest personal-finance manager i know." he laughed out loud and tapped the helm, bringing her to port a notch. "which is one of the world's great ironies, considering what you do for arm." "you hear things, too." he had never really discussed his arm work with bates. "you're good. i know that. word gets around." he paused. "matter of fact, i wanted to ask you a favor. i was hoping you could work up a contract for me with your people. as i said, i need some security for that facility in greece." "what kind?" "that's for your guys to say. it just has to be good. we're going to be installing some proprietary technology that's light-years beyond anything that's ever been seen before. and we're going to rock a lot of boats in the business. there're a hell of a lot of europeans who'd love to know what we're up to. there's a real chance of industrial espionage." "so what's the program? perimeter surveillance? security guards? we could probably arrange the subcontracting." "i'd appreciate it. your guys know europe, the local scene. i've got a feeling that's going to be important." "no problem." the truth was, this was exactly the kind of no-risk work the boys at arm liked. nobody shooting at you. "i'll put in a call to paris if you like. something probably can be arranged." "good." bates nodded, as though a handshake were already involved. one more thing off his checklist. "mainly i want some physical-security stuff. you know--fences, alarms, that kind of crap." "we've got a guy in athens who specializes in that. he won't give estimates over the phone, but if you'll let him look over the site, he'll price the job for you right down to the drachma. with various options. but you'd be smart to go with his top-of-the-line recommendation. try to nickel and dime him and he'll walk. i've seen him do it." "so what's this so-called 'top of the line' likely to run me?" bates had asked. "well, there are the systems you can see and the ones you can't." he'd laughed. "the ones you can't see cost more." "i already told you i need the best." "then you probably want to go mad," vance said, his eyes hiding a twinkle. "what the hell are you talking about?" he looked over, annoyed and puzzled. "magnetic anomaly detectors. you bury special transmitting cables beneath the ground, outside the perimeter, so that they build an invisible electromagnetic field around and above their location. anything--doesn't even have to be metal--that enters the field will distort it. if you go with the sentrax system, made by an outfit in switzerland called cerberus, you can have the whole thing linked to a central console that displays the layout of the perimeter on computer screens." "sounds good. we're practically going to have computers in the bathrooms." "won't come cheap." bates shrugged into the wind. "as long as you guys don't ask for the store, i see no problem. i've budgeted for security, and there's always contingency money." "i'll see what i can do." he had glanced up and ascertained that the sun had passed the yardarm. but even if it had not, what the hell. he saw the prospects for a fat commission looming. "how about a heineken?" he was reaching into the cooler in the well. "you read my mind." "by the way, want to tell me the location of the site? you've managed to keep that out of the papers so far. i'd guess it's probably an uninhabited island, right?" "good guess. it's north of crete, about twenty square kilometers. it's privately owned, but i've just signed a long- term lease." vance tried to envision the place. most of the greek islands tended to be granite, with nothing growing on them but scrub cedar. "what's the terrain like?" "that's actually what makes it so attractive. cliffs all around the shoreline--you couldn't put in with so much as a dinghy--and then one really marvelous deepwater inlet. but the best part is, the interior is mostly level and perfect for what we need. and there's a granite mountain at one end that's ideal for our telemetry." "a protected docking location and a natural telemetry base." "right. all the electronics will be set up high above the launch facility, and we can use the inlet for bringing in materials. we should only have to dredge it a bit and sink some pilings. it's well along. i've already signed off on a lot of the prime contracts." he stared at the blue horizon and adjusted the wheel again. "and i'll let you in on another secret, michael. i've bet the ranch on this one. the stock offering wasn't nearly enough to capitalize the enterprise. i've had to raise money from everybody in town--junk bonds, the fucking banks, you name it. just the hardware ran close to three hundred million. i've even put up my stock in all my other companies. if this project doesn't fly"--he laughed--"literally, i'm going to be joining america's homeless. i even put up my house in arlington. worth two million, and i owned the goddamn thing free and clear. i'll just have to hand over the keys. dorothy'll kill me." "then we'll make sure nobody snoops." he popped open an ice-cold beer for bates, then one for himself. "from land or sea." "land or sea." bates hoisted his icy green bottle. "which actually raises an interesting question." he took a sip, cold and bracing. "how about security from the air? flyovers, that kind of action?" "let them come. there'll be nothing to see. except for the launch pad and telemetry, everything's going to be underground. there're a lot of caves on the island--like that famous one on antiparos. we're going to use those for the computers and assembly areas. and what we can't find in place, we'll just excavate." it's beginning to sound a little too pat, vance found himself thinking. but that's what security experts were for. they were the guys who got paid to find holes in a project like this. . . . the thing that kept gnawing at his mind, however, was the phrase "by land or sea." all along he'd worried about penetration from the air. had he been right after all? chapter three : p.m. sitting at main control, the central desk facing the large display screen, cally andros had just reached a conclusion. she was getting old. two more weeks to her thirty-fifth birthday, then a measly five years till the big four-oh. after that she could only look forward to a holding action, fighting sags and crow's-feet. building dikes to hold back the deluge of time. it was depressing. she sipped at a cup of black coffee emblazoned with the satcom logo, the laser eye of the cyclops, and impatiently drummed her fingers on the workstation keyboard, trying not to be distracted by meditations on mortality. tonight for the first time they would nin up the superconducting coil all the way, in their most important test yet. the tech crews at the other end of the island predicted it would reach peak power in--she glanced at the huge digital clock on the blue wall next to the screen--twenty-seven minutes. . . . what was wrong with her? she had thought that one over a lot and decided the answer was nothing. she had dark greek eyes, olive skin, and a figure that would stop a clock-- a perfect size eight. but it got better. she had the best legs in the world. the absolute very best. if they wouldn't necessarily stop a timepiece, they'd sure as heck slowed a lot of traffic over the years. no, her problem was opportunity. whereas on paper this island was every single girl's dream--males trapped here by the carload--all the attractive/interesting men were either too young or too old or too dumb or too married. moreover, those in the control room--mostly ph.d.'s in their late twenties--saw her only as dr. c. a. andros, director-in- charge. there seemed to be an unspoken rule around control that you didn't make a move on the boss lady. anybody who could run this project had to be treated with the distance befitting authority. especially since they believed all she really cared about was work. thanks a lot, whoever dreamed that one up. the sickest part of all, though, was they were half right. she did not wish herself anywhere else in the world right now, men or no men. she occupied the center of the universe, was poised for the winner-take-all shot she could only have dreamed about five years ago, back when she was still fighting the mindless bureaucrats at nasa. with project cyclops she was running a half-billion-dollar gamble for the last big prize of the twentieth century. if she lived to be a hundred, she would never be handed anything this terrific ever again. born calypso andropolous thirty-four years ago, daughter of strong- minded greek farmers, she had learned to believe in herself with a fierce, unshakable conviction. until now, though, she had never really had the opportunity to test that faith. until now. it had not been an easy journey. after getting her doctorate in aerospace engineering from cal tech, she had struggled up through nasa's kennedy center bureaucracy to the position of chief analyst. but she had never achieved more than a desk job. she had wanted more, a lot more. now, thanks to satcom, in three days she would have it. using a fifteen-gigawatt microwave laser nicknamed cyclops, she was about to put satcom in the forefront of the private race for space. ironically, the company had built its spaceport barely three hundred kilometers from her birthplace on the island of naxos. she often thought about life's ironies: sometimes you had to return home to change the future. she barely remembered that rugged little island now; the images were faint and overly romantic. those times dated back to when the junta of right-wing colonels had seized power in greece. soon thereafter her parents had emigrated; they and their nine-year-old daughter joining a large exodus of freedom-minded greeks to new york. they had been there only three months when her father died--the hospital said it was pneumonia; she knew it was mourning for greece and all he had lost. he had loved it more than life. she was afraid, down inside in a place where she didn't visit much anymore, that he loved it more than he had loved her. so along the way she tried to forget all of it, to bury her memories of greece. and now here she was back again. in new york, cally andropolous had, in spite of herself, thought incessantly of greece; back here now, all she could think about was new york. the strongest recollection was the third floor of a walk-up tenement on tenth avenue and forty-ninth street, a section of town widely known as hell's kitchen--and for good reason. the schools were designed to make sociopaths of all those trapped inside; only new york's famous bronx high school of science, one of the finest and most competitive public institutions in the nation, offered an escape from their horror. accepted when she was thirteen, calypso andropolous graduated third in her class. for her senior science project, she created a solid-fuel rocket, using, as the phrase goes, ordinary household chemicals. and she did it all by herself, with a little help from a skinny french canadian boy named georges lefarge, who lived with his mother in soho. by that time, she knew exactly what she wanted. her ambition was to be the first woman in space. nobody said it would be easy. but after the rocket--she and georges had launched it from the morton street pier in greenwich village--she felt she was on her way. she had blossomed--in every way, much to her frustration--a lot quicker than georges did. at age seventeen his idea of sex was still to swap chemical formulas. so she finally gave up on him as a lover and decided to wait till college. she chose cal tech, selected after turning down acceptances from half a dozen prestigious universities in the east. by then, calypso andropolous had decided she wanted to get as far away from west forty- ninth street as possible. and she never wanted to see another eggplant moussaka as long as she lived. she also wanted a shorter name, and thus it was that her long greek surname became merely andros. that simple change had a liberating effect on her far beyond what she had expected. at last she felt truly american . . . and able to admit to loving nothing better than living off whoppers and fries. junk food was, in fact, the thing she missed most here. no, what she missed most was alan. still. georges had picked mit, and she did not see him again until he came to cal tech for grad school. by that time she was deeply in love with alan harris, who was twenty years her senior. she was discovering things about herself she didn't want to know. harris was a biochemistry professor, tall and darkly handsome, and she wanted desperately to live with him. she knew he was a notorious womanizer, but that didn't matter. she was looking for a missing father and she didn't care. it was what she wanted. when he broke it off, she thought she wanted to die. the only one she had left to turn to was georges. and they restarted a friendship as platonic as it had been back at bronx science, though it was deeper this time. georges told her to forget about harris and just concentrate on a first-rate dissertation. it was not easy, but she did. her project involved compressing a big computer program that calculated spacecraft trajectories into a small one that could be operated on a hewlett-packard hand calculator. she then devised a way to create voice commands that could free up an astronaut's hands while he--soon, she told herself, it would be she--handled other controls. after reading every nasa report that ntis had released on microfiche, she knew no one there had created anything like it. she also figured out that nasa was a hotbed of careerists, all protecting their own turf. the only obstacle to their accepting her new computer program would be the nih syndrome--not invented here. it turned out she was right, and wrong. by happy chance, her dissertation came to the attention of dr. edward olberg, a deputy director of trajectory control at the kennedy space center, who hired her a week later, with a gs rating a full two grades higher than customary. he knew a good thing when he saw it. and now dr. cally andros' computer work was the creation of a nasa employee. end of problem. she still wanted to be in the astronaut program, but she figured she had made a good start. she was wrong. it turned out that she was far too valuable in the guidance section to let go. she published a lot of papers, grew very disillusioned, and was on the verge of telling them to stuff it, when . . . an executive unknown to her, named william bates, called one may morning three years ago, said he had read all her papers, and then offered her a job that caused her to postpone her dreams of space flight. he wanted her to head up a private space program. she was, he told her, too good to work for the government. she should be out in the real world, where things happened. when she recovered from the shock, she felt an emotion she had not known since her first day at bronx science--she was scared. in the business world, the responsibilities were clear-cut and fatal. you were not blowing some anonymous taxpayer's money: it was real cash. furthermore, your responsibilities doubled. not only did you have to make it work, you had to make a profit. she loved the challenge, but she quaked at the enormous risk. finally she made a deal. yes, she would give up a sure career for a risky long shot, but on two conditions. first, she got to pick her staff, and second, someday she would get to go into space herself. although he clearly thought the second demand rather farfetched for satcom, he assented to both. . . . "how's it looking, cally?" bates was striding into command, having just emerged from his office at the far end of the cavernous room. fifties, gray-templed but trim, he wore a trademark open-necked white shirt and blue trousers--a touch of the yachtsman, even ashore. a former vietnam fighter pilot, he had flown over from the company's head office in arlington, virginia two days ago--setting down the company's gulfstream iv at athens--to be on hand when the first vehicle, vx- , went up. as he stalked up, he was his usual crabby self, seemingly never satisfied with anything that was going on. she looked him over and stifled the horrible impulse she had sometimes to call him alan. he was short-tempered, the way alan harris was, and he had the same curt voice. otherwise, though, they were nothing alike. the mind works in strange ways. "cyclops countdown is right on the money, bill. to the second. big benny is humming, and coil temps are nominal. georges says it's a go for sure this time. we're going to achieve the power levels needed to lase." (they had tried two preliminary power-ups previously, but the supercomputer had shut them down in the last hour of the countdown both times.) "looks like tonight is the night we get lucky." georges lefarge had served as her personal assistant throughout the project, even though he formally headed up the computer section. these days he was still slim, almost emaciated, with a scraggly beard he seemed to leave deliberately unkempt, just as he had at cal tech. bates had bestowed on him the title of director of computer systems, which did not sit well with his leftist politics. his conscience wanted him to be a slave to the exploiting capitalists, not one of them. however, he always managed to cash his bonus checks. he had carried on a flirtation with cally, sending messages back and forth on the fujitsu's workstations, for the last two years. she had finally taken him up on it; and it was a bust all around. _c'est la vie_. at this moment he was blended into a sea of shirt-sleeved technicians glued to the computer screens in command central, the nerve center of the entire operation. the young americans all worked in a room slightly smaller than three tennis courts, with rows of light-beige workstations for the staff and three giant master screens that faced out from the far wall. the soft fluorescents, cheerful pale-blue walls spotted with posters and the large satcom laser-eye logo, muted strains of pink floyd emanating from speakers somewhere in the corner, and circulated air carrying a hint of the sea--all made the perfect environment for the nineteen young workers spaced comfortably apart at the lines of desks this evening shift. as they watched, the superconducting coil ratcheted increasingly larger bursts of energy into the accelerator, pumping it up. at twelve gigawatts the cyclops should--if all went well--begin to lase. the coil, a revolutionary new concept for storing electrical energy, was situated deep in the island's core. it was a near-perfect storage system, permitting a huge current of electricity to circulate indefinitely without resistance, ready to produce the massive, microsecond pulses of power. the heart of the system was an electromagnetic induction coil feet in diameter and feet high embedded in a natural cave in the island's bedrock. the coil itself was a new niobium-titanium alloy that became superconducting, storing electricity without resistance losses, at the temperature of liquid nitrogen. a vacuum vessel almost like a giant thermos bottle surrounded the coil and its cryogenic bath. the coil fed power into a particle accelerator that drove the complex's centerpiece, the cyclops--a free-electron laser designed to convert the energy stored in the coil into powerful pulses of coherent microwaves. the supercomputer would then focus these with the phased-array antennas into the propulsion unit of the space vehicle. that unit contained simple dry ice--the only thing simple about the entire system--which would be converted to plasma by the energy and expand, providing thrust for the vehicle. "cally, we have ten point three gigs," lefarge announced confidently. he was absently stroking his wisp of beard. "power is still stable." "good." she watched the readout on the computer screen in front of her as the numbers continued to scroll. if the cyclops performed the way the engineers were all predicting, the world's most powerful laser was about to go critical. a thrill coursed through her. the idea was brilliant. by directing the energy to a space vehicle, you kept the power plant for its rockets on the ground. unlike conventional rockets, the vehicle's weight would be virtually all payload, instead of almost all fuel. it would cut the cost of launching anything by a factor of at least a hundred. . . . now a green oscilloscope next to the computer screens was reading out the buildup, a sine curve slowly increasing in frequency. "eleven point one," georges announced, barely containing a boyish grin. "we're still nominal." cally glanced at the screen. "let's keep our fingers crossed. almost there." "by the way," bates interjected, "assuming everything goes well here tonight and the storm lets up, i've scheduled myself on the agusta over to kythera in the morning. a friend of mine was sailing near there, and i'm a little worried. i just tried to reach him on the radio and got no answer. maybe his radio got swamped, but i want to find out." he was turning to head back to his office. "now, though, i've got some calls in to tokyo. so keep me informed on the countdown, and your feelings on the weather." more investors, she caught herself thinking. begging. which must mean the money's getting tight again. but hang in there just a couple more days, bill, and we're gonna show the world a thing or two. they'll be begging _you _to let them invest. "i just came in to give you some moral support," bates continued, pausing, "and to tell you i think you're doing a terrific job." "bullshitting the help again?" she laughed, not quite sure she believed his tone. "why not? it's free." a scowl. "but just keep up the good work." he had extracted a leather tobacco pouch from his blue blazer and begun to fiddle with his heavy briar pipe. she started to ask him to please not smoke here with all the sensitive fujitsu workstations, but then decided they were his workstations. "if this thing flies, literally, i'm going to give you a vulgar stock option. another one. for putting up with me." "how about a bottle of aspirin?" she made a mock face. "i don't have any time to spend the money." "i'm going to take care of that, too. after this is over, i'm going to have you kidnapped by a greek beachboy and taken to some deserted island where there's only one way to pass the time." he frowned back, a wry crinkle passing through the tan at the corner of his eyes. "twenty years ago i might have tried to do it myself." "still hoping to get me laid?" she gave him her best look of shock, and they both had to laugh. the sexual electricity was there, whether either of them wanted to admit it or not. "there's a time and place for everything," he went on, showing he could hint and not hint at the same time. "you're definitely working too hard." "i can't take all the credit." she knew when to be self-effacing and when to change the subject, fast. "we owe all this to the bed sox's oldest living fan." by which she meant isaac mannheim, the retired mit professor whose revolutionary propulsion idea had made the whole project possible. in he had demonstrated his ground-based laser concept to nasa, but they had backed away, claiming they had too much invested in conventional chemical rockets. but he knew it would work, knew it would change the way space was used, so he had taken the idea to entrepreneur william bates and offered to sign over the patents for a piece of the profits. bates was impressed. he took him up on the offer, raised the money, and then hired the best aerospace engineer he could find to head up the project. together they were a perfect team. mannheim, with flowing white hair and tweedy suits, was now in his seventies and lived in retirement in cambridge, massachusetts. he was due in tomorrow, just in time to watch the first lift-off of a full- scale vehicle. when he arrived in athens, cally always dispatched the company agusta to pick him up. a first-class corporation, she figured, ought to behave like one. "if the cyclops power-up goes off without a hitch tonight, then we should have plenty of good news for him this trip," bates said. "i'll let you be the one to brief him." "oh, he'll know it all before he gets here. he calls me every day at hours, our time, to check things out. i could use him to set my watch." "isaac's like the voice of our conscience, always telling us to work harder and better. well, good for him." he smiled and flicked a gold lighter. the young technicians around the room gave him a disapproving glance, but kept their silence. the boss was the boss. besides, everybody in command, poised in front of their screens, had other things to worry about. : p.m. eric hamblin, formerly of sweetwater, texas, had worked as a guard for satcom for the past two and a half years and he loved the job. he was twenty-four, a college-dropout casualty of the go-go eighties who got to spend his afternoons hanging out on one of greece's most beautiful islands. he was tall, thin, and bronzed to perfection. during his weekends on crete he could almost pass for french as he cruised the german frauleins who lined the sands in their string bikinis. tonight he had come on duty at seven o'clock--actually a couple of minutes later than that, since he'd been on the phone to a girl from dresden to whom he had made some pretty overreaching promises. she wanted to come back to crete this weekend and do it all over again. he grinned with satisfaction, kiddingly asking himself if he had the stamina. he sighed, then strolled on down the east perimeter. the security here at this end of the island was good, as it was everywhere: the tall hurricane fence was topped with razor wire and rigged with electronic alarms. of course you couldn't see all the security, which meant the place did not feel confining or scary. which suited him fine. he was wearing a . , but it was mainly for show. he wasn't sure he could hit anything if--god forbid--he should ever have to draw it. besides, the island was surrounded by miles and miles of water, the deep blue aegean. the whole scene was a fucking hoot, and he gloried in it. sea, sand, and--on weekends--hot-and-cold running german snatch. who could ask for more? andikythera was, indeed, a travel poster come to life. though it still was owned by the greek shipbuilder telemachus viannos, as part of his major investment in the company, bates had negotiated a long-term lease for satcom, and by the time the technical staff started arriving, the few greek shepherds on the island had been comfortably relocated to paros. construction began almost immediately after bates took over, and soon it was almost like one giant cal tech laboratory. everything from big benny, satcom's fujitsu supercomputer, to the phased-array microwave installation was state of the art. here satcom had created a launch facility that was within ten degrees latitude of cape canaveral, totally secure from industrial espionage, and perfectly situated to send up a major network of communication satellites. even now, though, the island remained unbelievably picturesque--its sharp white cliffs abutting the deep blue sea, then rising up in craggy granite to a single peak at one end, where the phased-array transmission antennas were now. its flawless air sparkled in the mornings, then ripened to a rosy hue at sunset. for security and safety, as much as for aesthetics, the major high-technology installations had been secured deep in the island's core. command was at one end, situated behind sealed security doors, and a tunnel from there led down to the power plant, installed a hundred and fifty meters below sea level. guarding this small piece of paradise had been a snap. . . . hamblin scratched at his neck and moved on through the sand. he despised the shoes they made him wear and wished he could be barefoot, untie his ponytail and let his sandy hair flow free around . . . what was that? the east perimeter was totally dark, but he caught a sound that almost could be . . . what? a chopper approaching? but there were no lights anywhere on the eastern horizon, and the pad was dark. nobody flew mr. bates' fancy new agusta mark ii at night. especially with no lights. no mistaking it now, though. a whirlybird was coming in. he could clearly make out the heavy drumbeat of the main rotor. : p.m. salim altered the throttles when they were about ten meters above the pad, and they started drifting sideways. for a second it looked as though they might ram the agusta, but then he applied the clutch, stopcocked the engines, and hit the rotor brake. the hind safely touched down, tires skidding. they were in. best of all, there'd been no radar warning alert from the instrument panel. around them the facility was dark and, as he shut down the engines, deathly quiet. the wheels of the retractable landing gear had barely settled onto the asphalt before the main hatch was open and the men were piling out, black uzis ready, the first rounds already chambered. : p.m. hamblin thought briefly about raising guard command at the front desk on his walkie-talkie and inquiring what in hell was going on. but then he knew how they hated false alarms. particularly when the top brass was busy, like tonight. he turned and studied the blinding white glow surrounding the two launch vehicles, vx- and vx- , down by the superstructure on the western end of the island. they were basking in glory, as though anticipating tonight's power-up of the cyclops. he automatically glanced at his watch: the big test was scheduled for about twenty minutes from now. no, instead of running the risk of looking like a jerk by reporting the expected arrival of satcom execs he should have known about, he'd check this out himself. jesus, why didn't anybody tell him anything? he mused that security precautions here had been intended to guard against infiltration through the fences, not to prevent a chopper from coming in. guess they figured nobody would be crazy enough to try and sneak in using a helicopter. as he moved toward the landing pad, just over a hundred yards farther on down the fence line, he searched his memory for something he might have forgotten. no, he'd glanced over the schedule for the pad this afternoon and nothing was listed. dr. andros--what a fox she was, made those plump german broads look like leftover hamburger--always had been good about keeping the schedule up to date. he liked that and counted on it. but then maybe this was some kind of unscheduled situation, connected with the test. who the hell knew? he was about to find out. fifty yards to go. he could see the chopper now and it was huge, much bigger than anything he'd ever known the company to use. maybe it was a last-minute delivery. an emergency. they had touched down, but still no landing lights. that didn't make any sense. suddenly nothing made any sense. another ten seconds, though, and he'd zap them with his big flashlight. he flipped the securing strap on his . and tested the feel of the grip. just to be ready. he was thirty yards away and he could hear them talking now, though he still did not recognize all the languages. he realized right away, however, that these clowns weren't connected with satcom. he'd had an uneasy feeling all along, and now he was sure. were they industrial spies trying to pull a fast one? maybe sneak in and take some photos? he had no time now to radio for help. he was on his own. he drew out the . and cocked it. suddenly it felt very heavy. then in his left hand he rotated the long flashlight till his thumb felt the switch. now. he flicked on the light, beaming it through the wire security fence and catching the side of the chopper--god, it was huge--just in time to see several men stepping down. they were wearing black commando outfits and they most definitely were not anybody from the company. "_you_!" he yelled, his courage growing. "stop right where you are and identi--" one of the intruders whirled in his direction, and before he could finish, he felt a deep burning sensation in his chest that slammed him backward. next a piercing pain erupted in his neck and his head dropped sideways. the asphalt of the pavement came up, crashing against his nose. he heard the dull thunk of silencers just as the world went forever black. : p.m. "pad perimeter secure," jamal khan, salim's intense younger brother said in farsi, his voice matter-of-fact. he'd just wasted some stranger; no big deal. then he slipped the uzi's strap over his shoulder and turned back. come to think of it, this was the thirteenth man he d killed with an uzi. maybe the number would be lucky. . . . ramirez looked out over the facility, confident. posing as an electronics supplier, he had fully reconnoitered the site two months earlier, meticulously memorizing the location of everything they needed. once again he reflected on how fortuitous its geometry was. the facility was made to be penetrated from the air. stelios tritsis, their greek, was busy scanning the walkie- talkie channels, but he heard no alerts from any of the guards--which meant no more surprises in this remote corner. for reasons of safety, satcom deliberately had located the helicopter pad as far as possible from the cyclops and the launch installation. all staff were engaged down at the other end. this guard had been a loner, and he had paid for his stupidity. "phase two complete," ramirez announced quietly as he looked back at the hind. "now, remember. no heroics. everybody on semiauto." the only obvious security out here was at the entry gate to the chopper pad. after peretz quickly aborted its alarm by short-circuiting the copper contacts, they moved through single-file. ramirez stood at the opening, studying each man one last time and hoping he could keep them together as a team. so far almost everything had gone according to plan. he had hand- picked, assembled, and trained them four months in libya, rehearsing them for all the standard antiterrorist techniques that might be used against them--from stun grenades to "thunder strips"--then afterward had rendezvoused with them in yemen to pick up the hind, the other helicopter, and the two packages. he had made cash arrangements with enough officials in both countries to ensure that no questions would be asked. the most unreliable team member was salim khan, tonight's pilot. ramirez watched him pat a twenty-two-round clip into his uzi and draw back the gnarled walnut cocking knob on the top as he stepped through the gate. he looked trustworthy, but he really wasn't. ramirez suspected salim was too bitter, was too strongly of the opinion life had given him a screwing--which meant he was now devoted to settling the score. he liked to live on the edge, push the rules. on the other hand, this mission was all about that, and thus far ramirez had exploited the iranian to the hilt. it also meant, however, that he had to be watched: he was a cynical realist who held nothing but contempt for the militant cadres of young firebrands who marched through the streets of tehran with photos of some ayatollah attached defiantly to their chest, chanting slogans against the great satan . . . while wearing jeans whose back pockets read "made in u.s.a." because salim didn't believe in anything anymore, he was difficult to control. always dicey. following close behind him, also carrying a black uzi, was jamal, his younger brother. jamal, with crazy eyes and a coal-black beard, was the exact opposite--he only fought for a cause. jamal had come to lebanon years ago to join hizballah, a radical organization headquartered in west beirut and the bekaa valley. since he joined, as many as five hundred hizballah had been directly involved in terrorist acts in the middle east and europe. he believed god wanted him to carry out a jihad, a holy crusade, against the americans and zionists who had surrounded and were choking the muslim peoples. to prove his faith, he had been part of the team that commandeered a libyan arab airlines in flight between zurich and tripoli, leading to the longest hijacking in history. the plane had traveled six thousand miles, bouncing from beirut to athens, then rome, again beirut, and even tehran before ending on its third stop in lebanon three days later. miraculously jamal had walked free. he was a hothead, but he also was a survivor. jamal prayed five times a day, neither drank nor smoked, and had been one of the explosives experts on the u.s. embassy job in beirut that killed marines. he was truly a living contradiction. that was fine with ramirez. he could care less about hizballah's radical politics. on the other hand, he'd always made good use of them. after jamal's famous hijacking, ramirez had gone to the bekaa valley and found him, and through him salim--who, by stealing the hind, had turned out to be much more valuable than his rabid younger brother. all the same, he had problems with them. iranians sometimes had difficulty discerning the difference between fact and fantasy: as with most muslims, they thought that saying something was so made it happen. the tall man striding through after jamal, nursing a slight limp, was stelios tritsis, their only greek. in , as a young firebrand, he had been a founding member of the famous terrorist organization epanastaiki organosi noemvri. in his heart he was still a radical, dedicated to forcing greece out of nato and ending the u.s. military domination of his country. the new american imperialism in the persian gulf had only proved he was right all along. because of an incident long ago in his youth--a torture episode at the hands of the infamous colonels--stelios's eyes never seemed entirely focused. he had become addicted to the morphine given to relieve the pain and never kicked it. even so, he was their most lethal marksman, and he considered this operation his final revenge against america and her lackeys. the man didn't care, honestly didn't care, about his share of the money. even ramirez had to admire that. following him was jean-paul moreau, head of the famous action directe, whose international wing was headquartered in paris. jean-paul was tall, had long flowing blond hair and determined eyes. he also had a famous bullet scar across his cheek from an attempt in the early eighties to assassinate former justice minister alain peyrefitte with a bomb attached to his car. he merely killed the chauffeur and was wounded by the security guards. but in november he got his revenge, masterminding the murder of georges besse, the chairman of renault. he wanted nothing more than for europe to rid herself of americans and zionists--toward which end action directe had cooperated with the lebanese armed revolutionary faction on several attacks carried out in france, which was how ramirez had first met him. in the past action directe had financed its operations primarily through bank robberies. after this, moreau was told, their money problems would be over. the next man was wolf helling, the lanky, balding leader of germany's revolutionare zellen. ramirez suspected his real goal in life was to look as aryan as possible. politically he was an anarchist--who had, in , bombed a nato fuel pipeline near lorch in baden-wurttemberg. rz's official aim was to pressure the u.s. out of germany through terrorist attacks and to destroy the west german "system" by conducting guerrilla terrorism against zionists and militarists. rz had long-standing ties to palestinian terrorist organizations, which was again how ramirez had met him. how ironic for helling, just when he had lived to see the zionist american military begin to depart europe, it had become the de facto ruler of the middle east. he wanted to teach america one final lesson: the propertied classes of the world could never be secure. following behind him were three beefy former members of east germany's stasi--now being sought by authorities in the new unified germany for torture and other crimes of the past. with few friends left, they had thrown in their lot with rz. they had always reminded ramirez of the three monkeys of folklore: rudolph schindler, with his dark sunglasses, could see no evil; peter maier remained such a rabid ideologue he still could hear no evil (of communism); and henes sommer spoke nothing but evil, against everyone. they were sullen and bitter, but they were perfect goons for auxiliary firepower, or should be. they were men without a country, guns for hire who already had lost everything. dore peretz, their renegade israeli, walked through last, closing the wire gate behind him. he had fixed his steady dark eyes on only one outcome: he had come for the money, the money only. no politics or mock-heroics for him. he already had selected a seaside villa in hadera. despite his annoying tendency to shoot off his mouth, to make jokes at the wrong time, his contribution would be crucial. ramirez did not wholly trust him, but he needed his computer and weapons expertise. he asked himself what peretz would do if the chips were really down. with luck, however, that question would never have to be answered. ramirez almost liked him--he was not sure why--and would hate to have to kill the smart-ass fucker. . . . they were in. command lay at one end of satcom's setup, the two vehicles at the other, and in between was the living quarters--known as the "bates motel"--as well as rows of small warehouses that contained supplies for personnel and equipment maintenance, used for storage but now darkened and locked. as they moved along the walkway, carefully staying out of the circles of light that illuminated the doorways of the warehouses, their black slipovers blended into the aegean night. the minimal lighting in this area caused him no hesitation: he had thoroughly memorized the site. he knew they would find the control center with the computers just below their present location. now they were approaching the entry-point to command, the high-security "lobby." just inside the glass-doored space a uniformed greek guard occupied a teakwood desk, attentively studying the sports section of an athens newspaper. they paused in the last shadows before the open space fronting the entryway, giving stelios tritsis time to shuck his black pullover. underneath he was wearing the brown uniform of a satcom guard, complete with epaulets and the regulation . . he also had what, upon casual inspection, looked like a satcom photo id. while the others waited, holding their breath, he stepped through the glass entry doors, feigning a jaunty pace and flipping the pass impatiently against the leg of his uniform. when the satcom guard looked up, puzzled, and started to challenge him, tritsis was only five feet away. he sang out a hello in greek, then reached to scratch an itch in the small of his back. when his hand came away, it was holding a small glock- automatic. the shot was directly in the forehead, a dull thunk, and the guard tumbled backward in his chair, his eyes disbelieving, his . still holstered. it took only seconds. without a word the rest of them moved in. "what's next?" ramirez said quietly to peretz. "the code for the doors has to be punched in there--" he pointed. behind the desk was a computer terminal that reported the security status of all the sectors. its green screen remained blank, flashing no alerts. "disable them," ramirez ordered, the first test of the israeli's technical skills. in the hours to come, he would prove indispensable. or so he claimed. "then deactivate the access code and we ought to be able to just walk in." while jamal was rearranging the guard's body, leaving him slumped over the desk as though asleep, ramirez locked the entry doors behind them, then stepped behind the desk and dimmed the lobby lights. finally he slipped off his flight suit and tossed it behind the desk. right on schedule. they headed toward command. he knew that if you control the brain, you are master of the body, and now they had to seize that brain. so far their smooth progress surpassed his hopes. but the next phase was crucial, allowed for no foul-ups. he still feared his ad hoc troops might get trigger-happy and destroy some of the critical equipment; he had even considered making them use blanks, but that was taking too big a risk. "the gates of paradise are about to be opened," jamal declared through his black beard, his crazed eyes reflecting back the lights on the security door as they changed from red to green and a muted buzzer sounded. "allah has given this to us." ramirez said nothing, merely straightened the hand-tailored cuffs of his charcoal brioni. then he stepped back to watch as the door to command central slowly began sliding to the left. : p.m. cally was thinking about how much she would love a pizza, heavy on the cheese and italian sausage. no, just heavy on the cholesterol. why was it that the only things that tasted good were all supposed to be bad for you? she had long ago determined never to let it bother her. like scarlett, she'd think about it tomorrow. the heck with it. everybody needed a secret sin. and that was the worst part of being here on andikythera. you couldn't just pick up a phone. . . . she stared across the cavernous room, her stomach grumbling, and looked at the large overhead screen intended to track the space vehicle after lift-off. then she glanced around at the rows of desks with computer workstations that lined the floor. it was almost as though she had a small army under her command. all this power, and she still couldn't order up a pizza. what was wrong with this picture? she was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she completely failed to notice the new arrivals. : p.m. as ramirez took position, he quickly noticed everything. at the far end, beneath the huge master screens, a wide desk commanded the room. and behind it sat a dark-haired woman whose history he had committed to memory. she was the one that counted. odd that a woman should be in charge . . . but then a woman had even been elected president of a major muslim country. once. all things were possible, now and then. it did not matter to him, not the way he knew it mattered to these two iranians. he lived in the real world; they lived in a world that did not exist. they, he knew, would say it did not exist _yet_. well, that was their problem, not his. . . . gradually, as one technician after another became aware of them standing in the doorway, all activity ceased. ten men, dressed in black, all armed with uzis. their image triggered a reflexive response of fear throughout the room, nurtured by decades of terrorism in the news. ramirez surveyed the room. none of the american technicians had any weapons. as anticipated, he had caught the prey unprepared. indeed, he had hoped to avoid gunfire. keep the staff calm. they would be needed. "you will continue, please, as you were." his voice sounded over the room, english with only a trace of accent. but that trace of accent was bloodless. the authority with which he spoke let everybody know that the command chain had just changed. cally turned to stare at the intruders, puzzled. they were strangers . . . now the sight of their automatic weapons registered . . . and they were armed. they sure didn't work for satcom. how the hell did they get through facility security? their leader--she noted that he was wearing a sharp italian suit, not commando mufti, and he was doing the talking-- was scanning the room as though he already owned it. and, in truth, he did. like the american embassy in tehran, satcom had been caught sleeping. but there was no gesturing of weapons. he seemed to want to maintain normality. they're terrorists, her intuition was screaming. but no, her rational mind answered back. it couldn't be true. terrorism operated a universe away from andikythera; it wasn't supposed to touch the lives of anybody outside the hot spots. now their spokesman was strolling down the aisle between the computer terminals, headed her way. she figured him for late forties, educated, subject to reason. he seemed rational, or at least businesslike. he could have been a satcom vp from arlington dropping by for a surprise inspection. the rest, except for a couple of arabs with beards, looked like eurotrash hoods. "miss andros, i presume," the man said, then laughed. "it is a pleasure to meet you. at last." "what are you doing here?" her disorientation was being rapidly replaced by anger. "this is a restricted area." the man smiled . . . almost politely . . . and seemed to ignore the question. "you are absolutely correct. very reasonable, and proper. but please, you and your staff must just continue on and pay no attention to us. your head-office check-in is scheduled for hours. you will, of course, report nothing amiss. which will be true." he bowed lightly. "i'm sure they will want to know how the cyclops power-up went. in fact, we are all anxious for the answer to that." his words echoed off the hard, neon-lit surfaces. command central, its pale blue walls notwithstanding, had never seemed more stark. "i'd appreciate it very much if you would leave," she said, holding her voice quiet. "this is private property. you are trespassing." the man just smiled again and walked over to examine the big screens. "these things have always intrigued me. like something in the movies. buck rogers." he turned back. "please, don't let my layman's curiosity interfere with your work." bill, bill. she thought of satcom's ceo in his office, just beyond the doors at the far end of the room. you've got a radio. and you can see this room on a security monitor. can't you-- the door at the far end opened, and there stood william bates. "who the hell are you?" his voice boomed over the room. "my name need not concern you," the terrorist in the suit answered. "just call me number one. but i will favor you by returning your question." "and i'll give you the same answer, number one, or whoever the hell you are," bates replied, not moving. "whatever you're thinking, there's nothing here to steal. you're wasting your time. what's more, you're trespassing on american property. so take those goons with you and get the hell out the same way you came in." "american property? americans seem to think the whole world is their property." he smiled once more. "but let me put your mind at ease. we are not here to steal. and if you cooperate, no one in this room will be harmed." cally looked him over, asking herself whether she believed him. not for a minute. she suddenly realized this man would kill anyone who got in his way; it was etched into his eyes. "now, miss andros . . . you should order your people to proceed with the countdown. my understanding is that the first vehicle is scheduled to be launched in less than sixty-five hours. we certainly want nothing to disrupt your timetable." she stared at him more closely, puzzled. if he and these creeps weren't here for blackmail, threatening to destroy the facility, against a payoff, then what could they possibly want? "you don't give the orders here." bates moved toward the man. "i do." he dropped his voice as he passed cally. "don't do a goddamn thing." then he looked up. "you will leave right now, or i'll call my security staff." "that would be most unwise. at least two of them would be unable to respond." he nodded toward the door. "you are welcome to check outside. but come, we're all wasting precious time." "you son of a bitch. i won't--" "well, well," the man interrupted, "could it be i am luckier than i dreamed possible? could it be that i have the honor to be speaking to none other than william bates? have we snared the ceo? no, that would be too much good luck." we're screwed, cally thought. he knows. now they'll hold bill for ransom. he's pure gold. rich and famous. "you will kindly take a seat, mr. bates," the man went on. "the hell i--" one of the bearded men carrying an automatic weapon stepped forward and slammed the metal butt into bates' stomach, sending him staggering backward. he tried to catch his balance, but failed and collapsed ignominiously onto the gray linoleum. "again, we're squandering time," the spokesman, the one in charge, continued calmly. "where were we? oh yes, the power-up." he turned around. "now, miss andros, none of us wants that report to be late, do we? it would look bad for everybody." chapter four : a.m. when vance caught his first clear sight of andikythera's sheltered inlet, the storm had passed over in the night and homer's "rosy- fingered dawn" was displaying all her splendored glory. with only a slight effort he had altered his course and reached the island. now, as he rowed in through the still, turquoise waters, only light surface ripples lapped against his switlik. as quickly as it had come, the turmoil in the seas had vanished. he hoped it was a good omen. he looked down and realized the water was so crystalline he could see the bottom, now at least ten meters below. although he had visited many islands, he had never seen anything more perfect than andikythera. despite being bone-tired and soaked to the skin, conditions that exacerbated his anger, the sight of the island momentarily buoyed his spirits. it reminded him of a thousand caribbean mornings, the feeling of rebirth and renewal. andikythera had always been private, and never more so than now. it was an industrial site these days, pure and simple. no ferries deposited tourists here, no fishing boats docked in the mornings. nothing but granite cliffs surrounded the secrets held inside. the heavy construction equipment, the prefabricated buildings, the facility's high-tech components, all had come through this harbor. now, however, the dock was deserted; the off-loading cranes and giant mechanical arms highlighted against the morning sky stood idle. everything had been delivered, was in place, and was humming. the only vessel now tied up was a sailing yacht, bill's twenty-eight-foot morgan, leased specially so he could keep his hand in while here. great boat. . . . abruptly he stopped rowing. think a minute, he told himself. you can't risk using the inlet. no way. on the right and left sides of the harbor, steep crags of white granite speckled with scrub cypress guarded the shore, while the towering cliffs of the north mirrored the coastline of a thousand greek islands. unlike the postcard photos for sale everywhere on the tourist islands-- featuring topless swedish blondes and trim italian playboys, gold chains glinting--this was the real greece, harsh and severe. only a few seabirds swirling over the near shore, adding their plaintive calls to the silence-breaking churn of surf pounding over the rocks, broke the silence. he studied the island, trying to get his bearings. just as bill had said, it appeared to be about three miles long, maybe a couple of miles wide. as though balancing the radar-controlled mountain at one end, at the opposite terminus stood the launch vehicles, now just visible as the tip of two giant spires, gleaming in the early sunshine like huge silver bullets. and somewhere beneath this granite island, he knew, was the heart of the cyclops, satcom's computer-guided twenty- gigawatt laser. . . . there was no sign of anybody monitoring his approach. the early light showed only pristine cliffs, cold and empty. careful now. first things first. he rowed under a near cliff, then slipped off the yellow raft and into the knee-deep waters of the near shore, still dazzlingly clear. it reminded him again of the caribbean. maybe bill unconsciously had an island there in mind when he decided to move everything here. the water was cold, refreshing as he moved in. he collected what he needed from the raft and stood a minute wondering what to do with it. then inspiration struck. it only weighed sixty-five pounds, so why not use it? it was a standard switlik, which meant inflation had been automatic. the deflation would take a while, so he started it going as he hefted the heavy yellow hulk and headed up the hill. he wanted it empty, but not entirely. the security dimitri spiros had installed was high-tech and good. he had not gone to the trouble of burying cables all around the place with magnetic anomaly detectors. that would have required blasting through a lot of granite and did not really seem worth the tab. instead he had surrounded the place with a chain-link fence and topped that with free- spinning wheels of razor wire known as rota-barb, which prevented an intruder from smothering the cutting edges with cloth. then, just to make sure, across the top and at several levels below, he had added lines of sabretape with an enclosed fiber-optic strand. a pulse of light was transmitted through the length of the tape, and if it was disturbed, detectors at a central guard location would know immediately when and where. now vance had to try to penetrate a system he had actually been involved, indirectly, in setting up. the ultimate irony. the jagged granite tore at his hands as he struggled up, picking his way through the clusters of scrub cedar that clung to the steep ascent and dragging the switlik by its nylon straps. the cliff rose a good two hundred feet and was almost sheer, but he located enough niches to haul himself forward. finally, exhausted and hands bleeding, he pulled himself over the top. then he dragged up the remains of the raft. ahead, just in front of the towering communications mountain, he discerned arm's industrial security installation, a ten-foot-high chain-link fence interwoven with fiber optics. beyond it on a helicopter pad sat bill's new agusta, a hot mark ii with all the latest modifications, including two -hp allison engines. it sat there, its blue trim like ice, a ghostly apparition against the lightening sky. poised alongside was a brooding hulk that dwarfed the agusta--a soviet mi- d, one of its stubby wings a tangled mass of metal. so the bastards were here. he'd guessed right. he saw no guards around it, but who knew. he would find out soon enough, but one thing was sure: it must have a radio on board. the u.s. navy would be very interested in identifying the location of its hostile. maybe he should just switch on the hind's cockpit iff, let it start broadcasting. if the ship that was attacked had been interrogating the hind, there'd probably be knowledge somewhere of the codes it was transmitting. easy. just take it easy. go in behind the chopper, handle the fence, and then rush the thing from the back. if anybody's guarding it, you'll be taking them from their blind side. grasping the switlik, with the walther tucked firmly into the waist of his soaked trousers, he dashed for the corner of the fence behind the hind. he was barefoot, the way he always sailed, and the granite felt sharp and cutting under his feet. but being barefoot was going to help him take the fence. okay, he thought, the fiber-optic alarm system is going to blow, no matter what. just get in and get on the radio quick, then worry about what comes next. he knew the only way to defeat a rota-barb system was at the corners, where the spinning rolls of wire intersected at a right angle. as he approached the corner, he looked up and checked out his chances. yep, with the switlik to smother the barbs it might just be possible. he looped one of the nylon straps, then leaned back and heaved the raft up onto the top of the fence. it caught and was hanging there but--just as he had hoped--the strap passed over and down the other side. next he reached through, seized it, and tied it securely to the heavy chain links of the fence. now it would hold the raft in place as he climbed from the outside. holding the hand straps of the raft, he clambered up and made it to the top. then he rolled himself into the rubber and pushed over. a second later he dropped shoulder-first onto the asphalt of the landing pad. home. the razor wire had shredded the raft, and the fiber-optic security system would have detected the entry, but he was in. if any guards were left alive, they probably had other things to worry about. or so he hoped. at that instant he thought he heard a sound, and whirled back. no, he had only caught the chirp of a morning bird, somewhere in the cluster of trees down toward the shore. the island again seemed as serene as a paradise. he crouched a moment, grasping the walther, then shoved a round into the chamber. the early morning light showed the hind in all its glory. it was dark green, with a heavy, retractable landing gear--a magnificent machine. and a lethal one. originally intended as an antitank weapon, the mi- had quickly become a high-speed tool for air-to- ground combat. to reduce vulnerability to ground fire, its makers substituted steel and titanium for aluminum in critical components and replaced the original blade-pocket design with glassfiber-skinned rotors. . . . the only defect of this particular example was the absence of the starboard auxiliary wing, including the rocket pod. its arrival and accurate landing here spoke volumes for the flying skills of whoever had been at the controls. if the weapons operator had possessed comparable talent, vance reflected, he might not be standing here now. but, he noted again, it had israeli markings. had the israelis really attacked a u.s. frigate? that made no sense. for one thing, they couldn't have flown a hind this far without refueling. its combat radius was only about a hundred miles. then he looked more closely and realized that the israeli star of david in a circle of white had merely been papered on. so it was a false-flag job. which more than ever left open the question--who the hell were they? gripping the walther, he slid open the door to the cargo bay and examined the darkened interior. it was empty save for a few remnants of packing crates. he climbed in and checked them over. they had been for weapons. he saw some u.s. markings on one: a crate of m grenade launchers. another had contained czech zb- light machine guns, with spare boxes for c-mag modifications, giving them -round capability. jesus! if these were just the discarded crates, what else did these guys have? he turned and moved up the gray metal steps to the cockpit, a raised bubble above the weapons station. nice. he settled himself, looking out the bulletproof windscreen at the first tinge of dawn breaking over the island. his first impulse was to crank her up and fly her out. he resisted it. switching on the iff would be a chore; he was not even sure he knew how. he could, however, get on the airwaves. the pilot's flight helmet was stashed on the right-hand panel where it had been tossed. he picked it up and slipped it on, then clicked on the electronics. the helicopter's main panel and screens glowed to life, a patchwork of green and red lights and leds. he flicked more switches overhead and the infrared and radar systems came on-line, their displays like christmas-tree lights briskly illuminating one by one in rows. now for the radio. it was soviet-made, of course, with heavy metal knobs and a case that looked as though it could withstand world war iii. he clicked it on and began scanning through the aviation channels, checking to see if anybody was out there. maybe . . . nothing, except a few routine exchanges of civilian pilots. well, he thought, could be it takes a while for the news of major world events to get down to the trenches. word would circulate soon enough. the military channels, however, would be another matter. the hind had them all. he clicked over to the frequencies and began scanning. there were a lot of scrambled communications; the radio traffic was sizzling. he figured the sixth fleet was on full alert. except they didn't know where to look for their hostile. he remembered that the military emergency channel was . megahertz. he punched it in, then unhooked the black mike and switched to transmit. the green diodes blinked to red. : a.m. jean-paul moreau, who had perfect command of english, was catching the bbc on a small sony icf-pr in command central, keeping abreast of the news. the world service was just winding up its morning broadcast, circumspect as always. ". . . a reminder of the main story: there are unconfirmed rumors emanating from the southern aegean that an american naval vessel, the uss glover, was attacked by a helicopter gunship late last evening, with considerable damage and loss of life. it is said the gunship was israeli. no confirmation or denial of this report has yet been issued by the government in tel aviv. and that's the end of the news from london. . . ." "guess we had a hit." he laughed, then switched frequencies and started monitoring the military channels. ramirez had also heard the broadcast, with satisfaction. the attack would soon blossom into a world event, with accusations flying. after that had played its course, he would drop his bombshell. now it was daylight. time to begin phase three of the operation. it had been a productive night. the first order of business had been to off-load their hardware. in addition to the uzis they had carried in, they had broken out a compliment of ak- s. the germans had also brought out and limbered up a crate of mk submachine guns, fully automatic with folding stocks, as well as some czech mortars and grenade launchers. that was finished by hours, after which the men caught catnaps, rotating to keep at least three on guard at all times. now that the test had gone off successfully, most of the facility staff was lounging at the blank terminals, dazed. ramirez, however, had no intention of letting the satcom staff become rested. he looked over the room at the young engineers, all of whom were showing the first signs of hostage behavior. they were frightened, stressed, tired--already in the early stages of "hostile dependency." soon they would melt, become totally pliable. but to achieve that, they could not be allowed to get enough sleep. food also had to be kept to a minimum. most importantly, all telephone and computer linkages with the outside world had been cut--with the exception of one. the single telephone remaining was on the main desk down at the other end of command. otherwise, peretz had methodically shut down everything, including the telemetry equipment located up on the mountain. while they would need to reactivate it later on, for the moment they could keep it on standby. peretz had proved reliable so far, ramirez told himself. the man was seasoned and competent, unlike the young muslims who acted first and thought later. an operation like this required precision, not unbridled impetuosity, which was why he valued the israeli so highly. . . . as he surveyed command, he decided it was time for champagne. he had brought a small bottle, a split of dom. . . . but what was champagne without the company of a beautiful woman. he turned toward miss andros-- "_merde_!" his meditations were interrupted by the startled voice of moreau. "there's a mayday on one-twenty-one point five megahertz. it's so close, i think someone is transmitting from here on the island." ramirez cursed, while the buzz in command subsided. then moreau continued. "in english. he's talking about the _glover_, and he's giving our location." "probably one of the guards." ramirez paused, thinking. "but how could he know about the _glover_?" "maybe he's in the hind, monitoring the radio," helling said, rubbing at his balding skull. "we--" "you brought backup. time to use it." ramirez turned and beckoned for the three ex-stasi: schindler, maier, and sommer. it was time for the three monkeys to start earning their keep. "go out to the chopper," he barked to them in german, "and handle it. you know what to do." they nodded seriously and checked their uzis. they knew exactly. : a.m. the transmit seemed to be working, and he was getting out everything he knew--the location of the hind, the fake nationality, the attack on the frigate. but was anybody picking it up? the heavy soviet radio was rapidly drawing down its batteries, but he figured it was now or never. get it out quick and hope, he thought. pray some navy ship in this part of the aegean will scan it and raise the alarm. he was still trying to piece it all together when he spied the figures, approaching from far down the central walkway. three men dressed in black, looking just like a hit squad. he had not expected so fast a response, and for a second he was caught off guard. they must have been monitoring the radio. if you had any sense, he told himself, you'd have expected that. you're about to have some really lousy odds. the hind was armored like a tank, he knew, and even the bubbles over the cockpit and the weapons station were supposedly bulletproof. how bulletproof, he guessed, he was about to learn. with the three men still a distance away, he realized he had only one choice. although he had never actually flown a hind, this seemed an ideal time to try and find out how difficult it was. probably harder than he knew. he reached up and flicked on the fuel feeds, then pushed the starter. to his surprise, there came the sound of a long, dull whine that began increasing rapidly in intensity and frequency. the main rotor had kicked on--he could tell from the vibration--and the tail stabilizer, too, if the rpm dials were reporting accurately. all right, he told himself, the dial on the right side of the panel is rotor speed. keep it in the green. and over to the left is engine speed. come on, baby. go for the green. red line means you crash and burn. pedals, okay. but this isn't like a regular airplane; the stick is cyclic, controls the angle of your blades. the instruments were now on-line--temperature, fuel gauges, pressure, power output. the two isotov turboshafts were rapidly bringing up rpm now, already past three thousand. he grabbed hold of the collective, eased back on the clutch, and felt the massive machine shudder, then begin to lift off. as the three men breached the gate leading into the asphalt-paved landing area, a fusillade of automatic-weapons fire began spattering off the bubble windscreen, leaving deep dents in the clear, globelike plastic. so far, so good, he thought. it's holding up to manufacturer's specs. now for the power. it's controlled by the collective, but when you increase power you increase torque, so give her some left pedal to compensate. the hind had started to hover, and now he moved the columns to starboard, bringing it around. he could not reach the weapons station, but the . mm machine gun in the nose had an auxiliary fire control under the command of the pilot. with his hand on the stick, he activated the fire button. he might not be able to hit anything, but he'd definitely get somebody's attention. . . . the machine gun just below him erupted, a deadly spray that knocked sparks off the hurricane fence surrounding the pad as the chopper slowly revolved around. somewhere now off to his left came a new burst of automatic fire. he found himself in a full-scale firefight, trapped like a tormented bull in a pen. but the hind was up and hovering . . . and also beginning to slip sideways because of the damaged wing. he grappled with the collective pitch lever in his left hand, trying to regain control, but he didn't have the experience. the chopper was now poised about ten feet above the ground, its engines bellowing, nosing around and drifting dangerously. he'd lost control. as it tilted sideways, the fence began coming up at him, aiming directly for the nose bubble. even more unnerving, though, was the heavyset terrorist in a black pullover who was standing directly in front of the bubble and firing his uzi point-blank. worse still, he was handling it like second nature. the plastic splintered with a high-pitched shriek as the rounds caught it head-on. the curvature had helped before, but now the gunman was able to fire straight into it. the game was about to be up. he ducked for the floor of the cockpit just as the bubble windscreen detonated, spewing shards of plastic both outward and inward. now the helicopter was coming about and lifting off again, pulling up strands of the wire fence that had gotten tangled in the landing gear. no time to worry about it. he rose up, grasped the collective, and urged more power, trying to compensate for the torque. but the mottled gray behemoth was increasingly unstable, shunting sideways, drifting over the security fence and spiraling upward toward the mountain that bristled with satcom's communications gear. the gunner holding the uzi slipped in another clip and raised up to finish him off, but at that instant vance squeezed the fire button one last time and the man danced a pirouette, disappearing from view. as he started to spiral in earnest, more automatic fire ricocheted off the fuselage. then came a sickening whine. the stabilizer, he thought. they must have hit the damned stabilizer. this is going to be a very short trip. panic caught him as the hind started into autorotation, round and round like a bumper-car ride at an amusement park. he cut the power--hoping he could bring her down using the energy stored in the blades--then quickly put the right pedal to the floor, held the collective down, and tried to keep rotor speed in the green. he was drifting to the east now, headed for a copse of trees halfway up the mountain. not a bad place to set down, he thought, and started to flare the blades with the stick, hoping he could bring her in with the collective. the hind was still spinning in autorotation, but not yet dangerously. slowly, slowly . . . he was about thirty feet above the trees when a splatter of automatic fire erupted from the open doorway. he whirled around to see the terrorist he'd bulldozed into the fence now hanging onto the metal step and trying to pull himself in. what now . . . ! the man--vance guessed he was pushing forty, with a face of timeless brutality--was covered with blood and his aim was hampered by trying to hold the uzi as he fired one-handed, the other hand grasping the step. he was cursing in german. . . . at that instant the hind took a sickening dip, and the uzi clattered onto the doorway pallet as the terrorist relinquished it to try to hold on with both hands. but he was losing it, his hands slippery with his own blood, and all that held him now was the torn section of his own shirt that had somehow sleeved over the step. then his grasp gave way entirely, and he dangled for a moment by the shirt before it ripped through and he fell, a trailing scream. he landed somewhere in the trees twenty feet below, leaving only the shirt. in the meantime the hind continued spiraling and drifting down, and vance looked out to see the gray granite of the side of the mountain moving toward him, with only a bramble of trees in between. but at least the chopper's autorotation was bringing him in for a soft crash. he braced himself as a clump of trees slapped against the side of the fuselage. then the twelve-ton helicopter plunged into them, its landing gear collapsing as it crunched to a stop. he felt himself flung forward, accompanied by the metallic splatter of the rotor collapsing against the granite, shearing and knocking the fuselage sideways in a series of jolts. as the two turboshaft engines automatically shut down, he held onto the seat straps and reflected that this was his first and probably last turn at the stick of a hind. and all he'd managed to do was total it. heck of a way to start a morning. the uzi was still lying on the floor of the cabin, while the shirt of the man he had shot was wrapped around the metal step and lodged beneath the crushed landing gear. when he reached back and checked to see that the walther mm was still secured in his belt, he noticed that his arm had been lacerated by the jagged plastic of the shattered canopy. he noticed it, but he didn't feel it. he was feeling nothing, only a surge of adrenaline and the certain knowledge he had to get out fast, with the uzi. he scooped it up and stumbled through the doorway, to the sound of muted gunfire down the hill, as the other two hoods continued to advance. he had the german's automatic now, but the last thing he wanted was a shootout. nonetheless, rounds of fire sang around him as he ripped the black shirt loose from the chopper's step and felt the pockets. one contained what seemed like a small leather packet. he yanked it out, then plunged in a direction that would bring the hind between him and the other two assailants. but when he tried to catch his footing in the green bramble of brush, he fell on his shoulder and rolled, feeling a spasm of pain. christ, this was no longer any fun! about twenty feet away was an even denser copse of cypress scrub than the one he had crashed in. if he could make that, he told himself, he'd have some cover. he just had to get there in one piece. half scrambling, half rolling, he headed for the thicket of trees, occasionally loosing a round of covering fire down the hill. then he felt the scratchy hardness of the low brush and threw himself into the bramble. dirt spattered as rounds of fire--or was it flecks of granite?-- ricocheted around him, and then he felt a nick across one shoulder--he was not sure from what. a couple more rounds cut past, but now they were going wide. he collapsed into the dense bramble and tried to catch his breath. what next? the uzi still had a half-full clip. maybe he could hold them off. he stilled his breathing and listened, but heard nothing. the mountainside was deathly quiet, so much so he could almost hear the crash of waves on the shore below. it was probably only wishful imagination, but the quiet gave hope he might temporarily be out of danger. he turned and looked up the mountain, finally able to see it clearly. the near hillside was covered with brush, the only objects visible above the green being the tip of a high-tech jungle. satcom had a hell of a communications installation. outlined against the blue sky were huge parabolic antennas used for microwave uplinks, a phased-array transmission system for powering the space vehicles, a myriad of dishes for satellite uplinks and downlinks, and various other antennas used for conventional radio. it was all set inside a high-security hurricane fence with a gray cinderblock control hut at the near corner. well, he thought, with that battery of antennas, there's surely a way to do what has to be done next. . . . this time he wouldn't waste radio access with maydays. : a.m. as the landing announcement sounded through british air flight from london to athens, isaac mannheim took off his thick spectacles, wiped them futilely with a greasy handkerchief, settled them back, and stared down. the plane was now on final approach, and he had already taken down his flight bag and stuffed it under the seat in preparation, ready to march off. mannheim was professor emeritus at mit, department of engineering, and he retained the intellectual curiosity of a mischievous schoolboy. he had the flowing white hair of a nineteenth-century european philosopher, the burning eyes of a jules verne visionary, the single- minded enthusiasm of a born inventor, the discursive knowledge of a renaissance man, and the self-assurance of a true genius--which he was. wearing a tweedy checked suit, a frayed brown overcoat, smudgy horn- rims, and a boston red sox baseball cap, he also looked every bit as eccentric as his reputation said. the baseball cap was tribute to another of his eclectic concerns--the statistics of that particular team. those he kept on a computer file and subjected to daily updates. as issac mannheim saw it, he was the undisputed father of project cyclops; bill bates was merely in charge of its delivery room down on andikythera. it was a half-truth, perhaps, but not entirely untrue either. he had dreamed up the idea and proved in his mit lab that it could work. the rest, he figured, was merely scaling it up--which any dimwit with half a billion dollars could do with ease. he had already seen to the hard part. mannheim liked to check in on his baby every other week, just to make sure that bates--who was going to make a fortune off his idea--was doing it right. although the long flight to athens and then the helicopter ride down to andikythera were starting to make him feel his seventy- five years, he did not really mind. when you're my age, he'd claim, you don't have time to sit around on your butt all day. he always flew british air from london rather than taking a direct olympic flight from boston, mainly because he was an anglophile but also because he wasn't quite sure he trusted greek maintenance. isaac mannheim was old school in all things. as the tires screeched onto the asphalt, he glanced out the window again, marveling how small the athens airport was. but then his mind quickly traveled on to other pressing matters: namely, the day's agenda. he was anxious to go over the power-up data number by number with georges lefarge. the young french canadian had been his best student in cambridge, ten years ago, and isaac mannheim was secretly pleased, very pleased, that georges had been given a leading role in the project. together, years ago, they had ironed out many of the technical problems in the system. the work back then had been done on a lab bench, and a shoestring, but lefarge knew everything that could go wrong. with georges as director of computer systems here, mannheim knew the project was in good hands, at least the crucial computer part of it. when the doors opened, he was one of the first to step out of the ba and down the steel stairway onto the runway. he reflected that he'd had a good flight this time, with only an hour layover in heathrow's infamously crowded terminal four. now, as the airport bus arrived to carry the bleary-eyed london passengers into the athens terminal, he anticipated getting an early start on the day. he glanced down toward the far end of the airport, the civilian aviation terminal, expecting to catch sight of bates' blue-and-white- striped agusta helicopter. funny, he couldn't see it today; usually you could. it was odd; they were always here, waiting. customary promptness was just one more example of how well that young dr. andros was handling the project. he chafed to admit it, but she was pretty damned good. although he had long scoffed at the idea that women could compete successfully with male engineers, he had to admit she was as professional as any male project manager he'd ever worked with. carrying his overstuffed black briefcase in his left hand and his tattered nylon flight bag in his right, he waited till the airport bus was almost full before stepping on. airport buses, he noted as an engineer, operated on the old-time lifo computer storage principle: last in, first out. no random access. and he was indeed first out as they pulled into the sheltered awning of the terminal. the athens morning sun was already burning through the growing layer of brown haze. he thought ruefully how it would look from the south, down around piraeus, as they flew out. from there athens seemed to be encased in an ugly brown tomb. world air quality was yet another of the topics weighing on his mind these days. it was, in fact, a frequent subject of the long letters he addressed to another former student, an average-iq danish boy majoring in physics whom he had seen fit to flunk in junior-year thermodynamics. afterward mannheim had taken the lad aside and bluntly suggested he might wish to consider a less intellectually demanding career path. the advice had been heeded, and these days he was doing reasonably well at his cushy new job, down in washington. still, isaac mannheim felt it necessary to post the boy long typewritten letters from time to time concerning various avenues for self-improvement. yes, he had turned out reasonably well after all, considering, but he still needed to work harder. don't be a slacker, john; nobody ever got ahead that way. the forty-second president of the united states, johan hansen, read his old professor's missives, usually written on the back of semi-log graph paper or whatever was handy, and dutifully answered every one of them. maybe he was afraid he'd get another "f" and a humiliating lecture. isaac mannheim stared around the half-filled terminal, wondering. the satcom pilot usually met him right at the gate, but today nobody was there. incompetent greeks. this one, in fact, was particularly feckless: just out of the greek air force with no real grasp of the value of time. or had dr. andros forgotten he was arriving? that was hard to imagine, since he had talked with her just before he left cambridge. one thing you had to say for her, she never forgot appointments. strange. no helicopter. no pilot. damned peculiar. he had no alternative but to phone dr. andros on her private line. he walked over to the booth near the entrance to the terminal lobby and got some drachmas. then he located a pay phone and placed the call. she answered on the first ring. good. "cally, what in blazes is going on down there?" he tried to open the conversation as diplomatically as he knew how. "i'm here, sitting on my butt in the athens airport, as though i had nothing else to do. i don't see alex anywhere. or the agusta. you're going to have to get rid of that boy if this happens again. where in hell are they?" a long uncomfortable pause ensued, and it sounded as though she was listening to someone else. finally she answered in a shaky voice. "dr. mannheim, it's been a very long night here. maybe you--" "well, how did the power-up go? i need to go over the data with georges right away." "dr. mannheim, maybe--" the phone seemed to go dead. then she came back on. "the mark ii is temporarily out of service. can you take the ferry?" "what! you know perfectly well that damned thing only runs once a week. and that was yesterday. now what about the agusta?" "it's . . . it's just not possible. so--" 'tell you what, then, i'll just rent one here. it'll cost a few dollars, but i can't wait around all day." "isaac, i--" she never used his first name, at least not to him, but he took no notice. "don't worry about it. it'll just go into project overhead. be a tax write-off for bates." he laughed, without noticeable humor. "he understands all about such things." 'that's awfully expensive," she said, her voice still sounding strange. "maybe it'd be better to wait--" "damn it. i'll be there in a couple of hours." "dr. mannheim . . ." her voice would have sounded an alarm to most people. but then most people listened. isaac mannheim rarely bothered. especially where women were concerned. you simply did what had to be done. it was that simple, but most women seemed unable to fathom matters of such obvious transparency. he slammed down the phone and strode out into the morning sunshine. the private aviation terminal was about a half mile down an ill-paved road, but he decided the walk would do him good. the breeze would feel refreshing after the smoky, stuffy terminal. the problem was, athens was already getting hot. that's why he liked the islands. they were always cooler this time of year. chapter five : a.m. vance stared up the mountain, puzzled. the silence baffled him, and then he realized why. he was not hearing the usual high-tension hum of transformers; nothing was operating. they had shut down the power. he heaved a sigh, then dropped down beside a tree trunk and clicked out the magazine of the black uzi. it had about fifteen rounds left, so the time had come to start making them count. here, amid the brush, he had a chance to lie low for a while and figure out what to do next. besides feeling thirst and fatigue, he had a throbbing sprain in his shoulder, incurred somehow during the crash of the chopper. but the pain was helping to clear his mind. maybe, he thought, he could find some provisions stowed in the hind, left or overlooked. a stray canteen or some mres. but did he want to risk going back down? the answer was yes because--even more important--the radio might still be operating. it was definitely time to activate the warranty on this job. but first things first. who are these creeps? hoping to find out something, he pulled out the leather packet he had retrieved from the terrorist's torn shirt and cracked it open. crumpled inside was a wad of yemeni dinars, and a crinkled id card in german. on the back was a phrase scrawled in english ... it looked like the resistance front for a free--it was smudged, but yes--europe. back when he and bates had first talked about the security question, bill had insisted arm focus on industrial security. truthfully, there hadn't been any real thought given to antiterrorist measures. it had just seemed unimaginable. looked at another way, though, bates had been trying to be cost-effective, had gambled on an assumption. now it was beginning to look as though that had been a bad bet. although for a ground-based setup dimitri's handiwork-- contracted out of athens--was top-notch, it had made no provisions against aerial penetration. from land or sea. that haunting phrase kept coming back. but bill had laughed it off, and the client was always supposed to be right. besides, the satcom facility already had a nest of radars up on the hill, there as part of the cyclops and also to monitor the local weather. why clutter up the place any more? the fact was, these guys had probably come in under the facility's electronic eyes anyway, using the hind's ability to detect an interrogation and keep low enough to avoid a significant radar signature. the background noise from the choppy sea must have been enough to mask their approach. maybe spiros should have considered that, but at this point such meditations amounted to monday-morning quarterbacking. so now the parameters of the job had changed, from industrial security to counterterrorism. satcom was fortunate in its choice of security services, because an arm job always came with a guarantee: if a problem came up, the boys would be there immediately to solve it. which meant that alerting paris was now his first priority. until reinforcements arrived, though, he was arm's on-site rep. lots of problems came to mind. first off, he was operating on the perimeter: he had no map of the facility, no idea where to find the hostages. however, the communications station up the hill represented a redoubt he probably could defend reasonably well, unless they brought up some really heavy artillery. maybe there would be some way to disrupt the proceedings, provide a diversion. sooner or later, he figured, there's bound to be some action out of the u.s. air and naval base down at souda bay, on crete. hopefully somebody down at gournes had picked up his mayday. but even if they had, could they send in a team? this was greek soil, and greeks tended to be fussy about their sovereignty. now that nato had no idea what its new mission was, america's heavy presence in europe more and more looked like yankee imperialism. they might convince the greeks to let them bring in the navy seals or even the antiterrorist delta force from fort bragg in fayetteville, north carolina, but that would require a lot of negotiation, might take days. time could run out by then. and the greeks had no capability themselves to do anything but make matters worse. he looked down the hill, toward the half-visible wreckage of the hind. okay, he thought, time to see about that radio. slowly he rose, chambered a round in the uzi with a hard click, and started through the brush. the greek scrub tore through his thin shirt and rasped at his skin, while the morning sun, glimmering off the proud silver spires of the vehicles at the other end of the island, beat down. the island remained eerily calm, the sleep of the dead. the takeover was complete, no question about that. through the brush the wreckage of the hind showed its mottled coloring, a mix of grays and tans among the green of the branches. as he approached, he could discern no sign of his attackers, which either meant they were pros and lying in wait for him or they were amateurs and had fled. he looked around the copse of scrub cypress, then gingerly stepped through the open doorway. by some miracle the electronics were still lined up in rows of readiness, lights and leds glowing. a tough bird. and the radio was still operating, and on. dawn had long since ripened the clear blue of the sky, and he could feel the beat of warm sunshine on the shattered bubble of the canopy. now, he knew, the terrorists would be scanning the military frequencies, so it was time to be circumspect and use some caution for a change. he checked it over. good, it had sideband. that was perfect, because he figured they probably wouldn't monitor those offbeat marine frequencies. if he could raise spiros in athens, he could then contact paris. they could put together a team overnight and fly it down. he fiddled with the sideband channels, hoping. he heard some amateur action and a ship-to-shore--funny, he thought, that the minute yachtsmen put to sea they're anxious to get in contact with someone on dry land. what would ulysses have done with a shortwave radio? talked back to the sirens? . . . the broadcasts, however, were mainly about the weather. sailors did not waste their time on world events. when that news finally trickled down, however, these sideband channels would probably no longer be safe to use--maybe they weren't now, but he had to take the risk. . . . he tried a few frequencies and then he got lucky. it was a greek ham operator, probably having a second cup of strong native coffee and waiting for the traffic in athens to subside. as are all amateurs, he was delighted to talk. he sounded youthful and enthusiastic, eager to help. "i read you, ulysses. you're coming in loud and clear on ssb . megahertz. this is sv vms, athens. what is your callsign?" "don't have a handle," vance replied into the mike, in greek. "this is a mayday." "i copy." the voice suddenly grew serious. "what is your location?" he paused a second, wondering what to say. no, he couldn't take a chance. who knew who else was listening in? "don't have that either. what i need is a phone patch to a number in athens. can you set it up?" "no problem," came the confident response, using the international english phrase. vance tried to imagine what he looked like. probably mid-twenties, with the swagger acquired by all young greek men along with their first motor scooter. they wanted to impress you with how wonderful their country was, and they also wanted you to know that they were the biggest stud in all the land. "but whoever you want may be gone to work by now." "this guy probably won't even be out of bed yet. he's a night owl," vance replied into the mike. he didn't add that the best thing dimitri did at night was handle an infrared-mounted h&k mp . "it's athens city code and the number is ." he knew that spiros kept a lovely whitewashed house on the western side of town, just out of the major smog centers. moments later the patch was through and he had spiros on the radio. the patch was scratchy and hill of static, but not so much he couldn't hear. "michael, you woke me up. i hope the world just ended." it was spiros's gruff voice. a thirty-year veteran of an antiterrorist unit in brussels, he was as tough as he sounded. "by the way, everybody's heard about that _odyssey_ stunt of yours. are you in trouble already? we've got a pool going on you. i have ten thousand drachmas saying you'll never make it." "i appreciate the confidence. anyway, you can start spending the money. you'll be relieved to know i blew it. she sank on me." 'too bad." he laughed. "so what was the problem?" "mostly it was some twelve-mil machine-gun fire. took the wind right out of her sails. i took a swim and then i think a mm euclid finished her off." 'that's russian." the voice quickly grew serious. "sounds like vou made the wrong people mad. who in hell did it?" "don't know, but they're very meticulous about their work. they used a false-flag approach and shelled an american frigate down here north of crete. should be making the news any time now." "sounds like somebody's getting hot about inviting the sixth fleet out of the med." then spiros's pensive tone turned businesslike. "are you okay? where are you now?" "i'm fine, i think. but you've got to get some of the boys down here." "what do you mean?" "remember that job you did for bill bates?" maybe, he thought, we can talk around the problem. "looks like the security didn't stick." "that was a good job," spiros said with a growl. "need some updating?" "it's going to be a little more than that. i think maybe a dozen hostiles, give or take, came in by chopper. a hind-d. had all the factory extras." "had?" "it just met with an accident." "and i'll bet you had nothing to do with it." he laughed. "so what kind of hardware do they have?" "uzis for sure. probably also some grenade launchers. also light machine guns, zb- . the odds are good they're going to be here for a while. they've dug in and it's a long swim to anywhere." "should we be having this conversation on the phone?" caution was entering his voice. "can we secure up these communications?" "bight now we've got no choice," vance answered. "nothing where i am is secure." including my skin, he thought. "all right, then, give it to me fast." he was all business. "what do you have on nationality?" "it has a beirut feel about it. but i managed to get some material off one of them, and i think he was a former east german stasi type. whoever they are, they're operating under some phony front name." "i read you. usual terrorist mo?" "best i can tell." 'then we have to worry about civilians. that's going to make it tougher." "bill may be among them. and all his staff." "bad news." "he's a prize." "what do you think their game is?" spiros asked after a pause. "ransom?" "that'd he my first guess. though it doesn't synch with the attack on the u.s. ship--unless it was intended as a deliberate diversion. maybe they're planning something else. but my hunch is money's involved. anyway, we'll find out soon enough." "you're damned right we will." the line was silent for a moment as static intervened. "well, this will teach us to guarantee our work. it's going to be an expensive insurance policy." "nothing in life is supposed to be easy." "so we keep finding out." he seemed to be thinking. "you know, i sent the layout to paris when the job was finished. for the files." he didn't want to mention pierre armont, the head of arm, on an unsecured line. "i'll see what the office there can get together for us." "do we have any people left on site?" vance asked. "just contract," spiros responded. "locals and probably not worth much." "well, whoever they are, chances are good they've been neutralized by now. as a matter of fact, i fear the worst." "that's our motto. assume everything will go to hell and then work around it." "time to get off the air. i'll try to raise you at hours. on megahertz. by that time you'd better have the team lined up and ready to move in. i owe bates this one. a nice clean job." "right. who do you think we ought to use?" "anybody who worked on the security here would be good." 'that's got to be me," spiros said ruefully. "okay. beyond that, we'll need a first-class swat team. this one is going to be rough. we need somebody who can handle explosives like a brain surgeon, maybe marcel, out of antwerp. get him if you can find him sober. also, we probably could use a negotiator. somebody who can keep them busy while we get the real insertion in place. and a good sniper will be essential. lots of friendlies." "okay. that sounds like reggie. i'll run some names past paris. but what are you going to do in the meantime?" "well, they know i'm here, but they don't know who i am. i'll concentrate on staying alive, and try to find out whatever i can about the mo. catch you at ." "talk to you then," dimitri said, and hung up. right, vance thought. i'd definitely rather be in philadelphia. : a.m. "it's a go in five," caroline shaeffer announced in a stage whisper, leaning over his shoulder. a blond ohio debutante, she was press secretary--a job she had fought for and loved --and she structured the president's media appearances with the bloodless efficiency of a nazi drill sergeant. this hastily arranged breakfast speech at new york's plaza was no different. she had put it together in less than ten days, and anybody who mattered in new york politics was in attendance, smiling their way dirough stale _prosciutto con melone _and soggy eggs benedict, for an awe-inspiring hour of "quality time" with president johan hansen. the head table had the usual crowd: mayor jarvis, senators, representatives, state senators, state officials of every stripe, even the borough presidents. hansen was almost as popular as ronald reagan had been in his heyday. the election was coming up in less than six weeks, and johan hansen held a commanding lead--twenty-eight points if you believed the latest newsweek/gallup poll. a "nonpolitical" event in the middle of the campaign allowed everybody to show up for a photo, regardless of party. president hansen's speech was scheduled to begin at : a.m. sharp, perfectly timed to let today and good morning america carry the opening remarks live eastern and central and not have to look like the networks were trailing cnn, indeed wiping its ass, yet again. in any case, it would definitely make the evening news on all three. precisely as hansen intended. johan hansen, whose perfect white hair and granite chin made him look every inch a chief of state, had mixed feelings about his trips to the big apple. he relished the automatic media attention they received (caroline claimed that whereas $ -million-a-year network anchors usually considered themselves above travel, in new york one or two might deign to show up), but chafed at the mechanics--the helicopters, traffic jams, awesome security. he also despised political food, which was why caroline had packed his own private breakfast of shredded wheat and skimmed milk, to be downed discreetly while everybody else was busy clogging their arteries. he was speaking on worldwide nuclear disarmament, and he intended his address to be a warm-up for one at the united nations general assembly three weeks hence (which meant another damned trip to new york). alter opening with his standard stump remarks, all partisan digs excised, he would then go on to assure his audience that the new world truly was here--which always got everybody in a receptive mood. he would then remind them that three years earlier (i.e., "when i assumed this office"), america was still spending $ billion a year on new nuclear warheads. he had put an end to that, but now it was time to take the next step. total nuclear disarmament worldwide. it was a stance that normally received polite applause at best, and stony silence at worst. but it never failed to make the news. this morning the broadcast networks and cnn had combined their resources--after all, the space was limited--to provide pool coverage. although the usual ganglia of lights and wires were reduced to an absolute minimum, the back of the room still looked like a makeshift convention bureau. the broadcast correspondents all had their own "instant analysis" cameras set up, and the print people were all next to their own newly installed, dedicated phones. johan hansen's acquisition of the oval office had come at the end of a hard-fought election battle that saw several firsts in american politics. for one thing, it proved, finally, that america truly was the land of opportunity. he was a first-generation danish american, and he was jewish--the latter being a part of his heritage that seldom, if ever, got press play. he scarcely noticed either. in truth, it was only on his father's side-- which in judaism did not really count. hansen's father, joost, had been a young copenhagen college student in when the people of denmark one night heroically evacuated all the country's jews to sweden, out of the looming grasp of the nazis. shortly thereafter he had married hansen's mother, a swede named erica who had helped in the evacuation, and then, after the war, they had immigrated to america. joost hansen had finished his doctorate in physics at princeton--being a promising physicist was one of the reasons he could so readily get into the united states--and then had gone to work at los alamos. on the liner that brought them, the birth of johan hansen was due any minute, and one hour after it docked on the pier on the west side of new york, he came bawling into the world--a brand-new citizen and native-born, thereby eligible by a matter of minutes to be president someday. who could have known? young johan remembered little of princeton, new jersey, but in los alamos he had gloried in the clear air of the mountains, had loved the old white sands rocket test area where they vacationed, had loved everything about america. he'd gone on to try engineering at m it, but he had soon realized he didn't have the makings to follow in his father's technical footsteps. he cared too much about human affairs to stay in the bloodless world of formulas and machines. as a result, he shifted to political science, and after graduating he became an aide to one of massachusetts's liberal congressmen. eventually he ran for the house on his own. the democratic primary was a model of rough-and-tumble boston politics, but he won a squeaker and became a full-fledged member at thirty-one. thus began a career that continued through the senate and, after two terms, to the presidency. he had achieved his ambitions, and his soaring popularity was all the more amazing for accruing to a man who had restructured the military during the painful transition of the united states to a post-cold-war economy. turning swords into plowshares was never as easy as it sounded, but america's excess armaments capacity had gone back to reinvigorate her high-tech sectors. if you could make an f- , he had declared, you could by-god make anything. now retool and get on with it. america had. in his most important contribution to history, however, john hansen had presided over the dismantling of more than half the world's nuclear arsenal. it's easy, he'd declared to the russians, we just do nothing. and in so doing, the tritium in all those warheads will simply decay. end of bombs. you monitor our plants at oak ridge and savannah river; we monitor you; and together we watch the nuclear threat to humanity simply tick away. it was working, he often noted with pride. maybe we're not going to melt the planet after all. not only would future generations thank him; there would be future generations. but would they know enough history to appreciate what he'd done? he wondered ruefully. only if the dismal state of american education could be improved. . . . it was now : a.m. and the television lights had been switched on, turning the fake gold leaf on the ceiling into an intense white. the teleprompter had been readied, and the secret service detail was making last-minute checks around the room as unobtrusively as conditions would permit. correspondents, for their own part, were poring over an advance copy of the text that caroline's aide had just passed out, making notes for the brief question period scheduled to follow. the time was : when she walked up behind him and laid down a large gray envelope marked top secret. it was, she whispered, a couple of pages fresh off the secure fax that had been installed in the room just down the hall. what was it? he wondered. some eleventh-hour revisions by jordan mccormick, a young new speechwriter from harvard who liked to tinker till the very last minute? puzzled, he ripped open the envelope. the first page was a covering memo from his personal secretary, alicia winston. miss winston, as she insisted on being called, was a spinster, fifty- eight, who guarded access to johan hansen with the ferocity of a pit bull. get past her, junior members of congress often declared, and you're home free. it was, however, more often a dream than a realization. seduction was frequently discussed. alicia's note was brief and pointed. the second page, it said, was a copy of a fax that had just arrived on her desk from ed briggs, head of the joint chiefs. hansen's chief of staff, morton davies, had asked her to fax it on to new york immediately. they both knew morton was not a man to squander time. hansen glanced over to see a white phone, complete with scrambler, being nestled next to the official text of his speech. when he scanned the second sheet, he knew why. "he's on the line," caroline said. he nodded and checked his watch. eight forty-three. shit. "caroline, tell them there's been a five-minute hold. and see if you can have them kill those damned lights." "you've got it." she signaled to the pool producer, pointed to the lights, and made a slashing motion across her throat. with a puzzled nod, he immediately complied, barking an order to his lighting director. hansen picked up the phone. "ed, what the hell is this about? i'm looking at the fax. you say this happened over six hours ago?" "mr. president, that came in about ten minutes ago from naval intel. they've been trying to get the story straight. the bbc was carrying a rumor, but it was soft. we wanted to get all the facts before--" "it was in the med?" hansen impatiently cut him off. "why so long--?" "they claim they took all this time trying to nail down who's responsible, and they still don't know for sure. all they've got that's hard is what i sent you. a frigate under contract to nsa got hit. about fifty known casualties. it could be our friends the israelis, up to their old tricks, or it could be somebody who wants us to think it's them." "ed, i'm staring down half the press in the country right now, as we speak. i can't do anything till i get back. but check with alicia. i think i'm scheduled in around noon, and i'd like to try and have a statement out by three today." "all right, mr. president, we'll do what we can. let me secure-fax morton everything i've got so far, and he can forward anything he thinks might help. but we've got to talk. this could be a tough call." "what are the israelis saying?" 'their military intel told morton they don't know a damned thing about it. but their embassy here's already on red alert, getting ready to start pushing out smoke." 'typical." hansen had no love for israel. in his view, their intransigence had caused the lion's share of america's problems in the middle east. they never told the truth about anything until three days later, when it was too late to matter. in the meantime, they just did whatever they wanted. "well, this time i almost think they may be straight," briggs said. "it doesn't have any of their trademarks. for one thing, it had their name all over it--not their style." hansen scanned the fax again, noting the large-print top secret across the top, and tried to make it sink in. concentration was difficult, considering the expectant stirrings in the room, the clank of silverware. but this was nothing short of a major episode. what did it mean? "okay, ed, i want to see you first thing. and bring bob with you"-- robert barnes was his assistant, navy--"in case we need to scramble out of crete." "roger, sir. i'll have alicia get everything we need set up in the sit room." "good." hansen hung up the phone and looked around the room. damn. who was trying to screw up the med? already he had a bad feeling it might involve terrorists, but where did they get the soviet helicopter? okay, he told himself, time to call in all the heavy guns, all the advisers who get paid so much to do your thinking. he would face his first problem when the press got hold of the story. he could already see the cartoons, that bastard in the moonie-owned washington times who was always accusing him of being a pansy on defense. they'd want blood, an eye for an eye, while he was trying his best to change that way of thinking. this latest stupidity damned sure wasn't going to make it any easier. with that grim thought, he smiled his widest smile and signaled caroline to alert the pool producer to switch on the television lights. : a.m. "what happened?" ramirez asked. helling had alerted him by walkie- talkie and summoned him to the lobby. there the germans were returning, henes sommer covered with blood and being carried by rudolph schindler and peter maier. "henes got caught in a firefight. then he tried to take the chopper . . . and fell." schindler was struggling to find the words, thinking that he would have to be the one to tell henes' wife, in what used to be east berlin. henes sommer, forty-five, had joined ramirez's operation out of idealism, as a step toward driving the zionist scourge from europe. ramirez had made the operation sound so easy. "it's even worse," helling said slowly, addressing his words to ramirez. "he must have been a guard who escaped our notice, but he managed to start the hind. then he crashed it against the hillside." "why didn't you go after him and kill him?" ramirez asked quietly, his anger smoldering. "there was no need. he's trapped up there. for now he can rot." an uncomfortable pause ensued before he continued. "besides, he's armed. we probably should wait till nightfall. what can he do?" he can do a lot, ramirez was thinking. this could be trouble. the three germans had been brought along as a favor to wolf helling, and now they had demonstrated just how worthless they actually were. under ordinary circumstances, he would have shot them all on the spot, as an example to the rest of the team. "you say the hind has been crashed?" he went on, his eyes hidden behind his shades. "we don't need it any more. what does that matter?" helling shrugged, not sure he believed his own words. "in any case, this is what comes of having amateurs involved." schindler's eyes darkened in resentment. it had never really occurred to him until this moment that his and his friends' lives were at risk. ramirez was trying hard to mask his own chagrin, telling himself he should never have sent these untried goons out to do a man's work. a good attorney never asked a question in court that he didn't already know the answer to; and you never turned your back on an operation if you weren't already fully certain how it would turn out. that was one mistake he didn't plan to make again. "life is never simple," he said, turning back to the german threesome. the wounded man was wheezing from a hole in his chest. "there's only one thing to do with him." he withdrew a walther from inside his coat and, with great precision, shot henes sommer directly between the eyes, as calmly as though dispatching a racehorse with a broken leg. the body slumped into the arms of rudolph schindler, who looked on in horror. "it was merely a minor miscalculation, but now it's been handled." he turned to helling. "now go back and watch the hill. and try to act like a professional." the german nodded. he dared not tell ramirez the true extent of their trouble. not only had the mysterious stranger escaped with henes' uzi, he also still might have a radio, if the hind had not been totally wrecked. helling, their boss, didn't seem yet aware of this problem. if it was still working, what would he do? "now," ramirez continued, "rather than waste our time on fruitless recriminations, we must proceed." he turned and walked back through the doors leading into command. across the room, past the rows of computer terminals, bates sat at the main command desk, talking to dr. andros. "problem?" bates asked, looking up. although he had not slept all night, his blue blazer remained immaculate. "having some trouble, you son of a bitch?" "you will be relieved to know nothing is amiss," ramirez replied as smoothly as he could manage. "one of your guards, it would seem, decided to make a nuisance of himself. but he has been neutralized." bates did not believe it. he had overheard the broadcast on the bbc, and now he was starting to put it all together. these thugs had come in by chopper, after attacking a u.s. ship. they must have left the attack helicopter out on the pad. but somebody got to it . . . "now, miss andros . . ." ramirez lifted a clipboard from her desk and examined it. "my, my, today we all have a busy schedule. review the test data from the power-up, final calibrations of the cyclops, flight prep of the vehicle. . . ." he put it down. "yes, it does look like a busy day. for us all. all you have to do is cooperate, and no one here will be harmed." the second chopper is on its way now, he was thinking, if everything was on schedule. the next item was the launch vehicle. he estimated they would need a day and a half to make the retrofit. the scheduled first test launch had been programmed for three days away--now it was two--so there was ample time . . . exactly as he had planned. : a.m. vance leaned back against the scrub cypress and listened to the whistle of the light wind through the granite outcroppings. he had perched himself on one of the rugged cliffs, from which he could see virtually everything that went on aboveground. around him ants crawled, oblivious to the heat of the sun, which now seared the bone-colored rocks on all sides, while down below the languorous surf beckoned. how ironic, and tragic: all the violence and killing, right here in the middle of paradise. he had managed to remove the battery-powered radio from the hind; it would serve as his lifeline to the rest of the world. the military channels were all scrambled now, which told him that plenty was going on out there over the blue horizon. trouble was, all communications had been secured. he had no idea what was happening. what the hell to do next? he was barefoot--with nothing but an uzi, a mm, and a radio. he felt waves of grogginess ripple over him as the sun continued to climb. he was dead tired, and in spite of himself he sensed his mind drifting in the heat, his body losing its edge. pulling himself together, he snapped alert. this was no time to ease up. he noticed that some of the men had left the command section and gone down to launch control, the flight-prep sector. they were carrying ak- s now. much better for sniper work. they know i've only got an uzi, he reminded himself, which is why they realize they're in no danger. from up here it'd be next to useless. but with a scope, those kalashnikovs are bad news. . . . at that moment he heard a dull roar, coming in from the south. was it somebody who'd picked up his radio mayday? he squinted against the sun and tried to see. as he watched, a dark, mottled shape appeared over the blue horizon. it was another helicopter--not a hind this time. as it came in for a landing at the pad down by launch control, vance checked it over. it was a sikorsky s- r, military, with a main rotor almost sixty feet across, a retractable tricycle landing gear, and a rear cargo ramp. it went back to the sixties--the u.s. had used them to lift astronauts from the sea--but it was a warhorse and reliable as hell. it had an amphibious hull, twin general electric turboshaft engines located up close to the drive gearbox, and an advanced flight- control system. whether or not this one had the latest bells and whistles, he did know its speed was over a hundred and sixty miles per hour and its range was over six hundred miles. what's that all about? he wondered. is this the getaway car? whatever it was, they were not landing on the regular pad; they were putting her down as close as they could to the vehicles. no, he decided, what they're doing is setting up something, getting ready for the big show. he already had a feeling he knew what it was going to be. the modus was standard operating procedure. but this was going to be a waiting game, at least for a while, and he thought about trying to catch a couple of winks. there was nothing to be done now. he'd have to wait till dark. to pass the time, he clicked on the radio again, to see if they were using walkie-talkies. after scanning the civilian channels he finally got a burst of traffic. they were chatting, all right--a lot of coded talk in a mixture of german, english, and french. he paused a minute, even picked up the mike, attached by a coiled black cord to the radio, and pushed the red button. but then he thought better of it and clicked it off. the time would come soon enough to get in on the fun, but not yet. : a.m. jamal khan, the younger brother of salim, watched as the sikorsky set down, then pushed the starter button on the white electric cart, urging it to life. this was the moment he had been waiting for. nothing he had ever done in years past matched up to this, not even the airline hijackings. the only drawback was his comrades. like, for example, this wise-ass israeli, peretz. dore peretz, for his own part, waited until the cart--a three-wheel, on- site mover--had started, and then he swung onto the back. neither spoke as they silently motored through the sunshine, the breeze in their hair, headed for the just-landed helo. the sparkling morning did not improve the atmosphere between the two men: only the sunshine contributed warmth to the moment. peretz had contempt for the iranian's arrogance and intensity; the bearded iranian resented the israeli's technical skills, his attitude, and the fact that he was israeli. none of it could easily be forgiven. jamal further could not forgive the israeli for having no commitment to driving the americans from the middle east, for being here only for the money. when they reached the sikorsky, now settled on the tarmac, jamal pulled the cart to a halt, then switched off the motor and stepped down. it would take all hands to manage the off-loading. helling and the two other germans were already waiting in the sunshine, and as jamal looked them over, he found himself liking them even less than he did peretz. the truth was, they were little more than bureaucrats, regardless of whatever they called themselves. they ranted about america being the prisoner of the zionists, but it was just rhetoric. . . . the door of the sikorsky was opening now and "abdoullah," the first of the three pakistani engineers, was emerging, followed by "rais" and "shujat." all three had their dark hair swathed in a traditional palestinian black and white _kaffiyeh_, part of their "disguise." jamal tried not to smile as he watched them--grim-faced college boys-- awkwardly slam clips into their uzis and look around, as though they were about to lead an assault. it was a wonderful joke. "abdoullah" actually had a ph.d. in nuclear engineering from berkeley. while in america he had developed a taste for the good life--cars, designer clothes, and gold jewelry--and then when he came back and went to work at kahuta, pakistan's top-secret uranium enrichment plant, he had discovered sex. the instrument of this discovery was a hard-eyed palestinian girl, ramala, whose fiery politics were matched only by her skills in bed. he became a convert to her and then to her cause--which played directly into the hands of ramirez. ramirez had, jamal knew, been working on this setup for five years. money here, information there, it all had finally paid off. of all ramirez's recruits, "abdoullah's" contribution had been the most crucial, since he had been the one who had arranged the theft of the two items now crated and ready in the cargo bay of the sikorsky. he and his two engineer-colleagues spoke english by choice, and to jamal they looked almost identical, all with new coal-black beards and designer "commando" sweatbands under their _kaffiyeh_. they were trying to get with the look of revolutionary chic, he thought with disdain. they'd just made the big time, but they still thought they were in a chuck norris movie. fortunately, they'd already served their main purpose. in two more days, they would be totally expendable. the sikorsky had landed approximately fifty yards from the entrance to the blockhouse of the launch facility, placing them a mere two hundred yards away from the satcom space vehicles, vx- and vx- . those spires seemed to preside over everything, casting long shadows, and the three pakistani engineers paused, still gripping their uzis, to gaze up and admire them. "don't stand there gawking." peretz curtly brought them to attention. "we've got to get moving. if anybody has started any satellite recon of this place, we could be on tv by now. a u.s. kh- can read the address on a fucking postcard." he signaled for the pilot to release the rear entry ramp. "let's get going. we're taking them in immediately." the pakistanis saluted in paramilitary style, secured their uzis into their black leg-holsters, and moved expectantly to the rear of the helo. as the ramp slowly came down, there strapped and waiting in the aft bay were two wooden crates cushioned in a bed of clear plastic bubble-wrap, each approximately a meter square and weighing just under a hundred kilos. phase four had begun. chapter six : p.m. cally andros felt disgusted, physically nauseated. and partly it was with herself. blame the victim. she wondered if all hostages felt this way: powerless, angry, and scared. what would she feel next? she had heard that strange things happened to your mind when you lost all control. you started forgetting recent events and remembering oddities from long ago, childhood memories you'd totally repressed, stashed away somewhere down in the lower cortex. it had already started, dwelling on her father's death and blaming herself, when the real reason was his overwork and grief. and other memories were creeping in, little things that only the child inside would regard as anything but trivial. that first bumbling sexual disaster, in the cal tech dorm that weekend, when she got drunk, then threw up on his pillow. she'd repressed that one completely, never told anybody about that, hoping the memory would just go away. god! it was horrible. and now it was back, right at the top of the remembrance file. more memories, the first year at bronx science, when her very first real date stood her up, and she ended up sitting home all night crying and praying everybody was going to believe her when she told them she'd had the cramps and couldn't go out after all. (they didn't. everybody found out exactly what had happened.) humiliations? stupid things that meant so much at the time that they stuck. you felt your life had been a string of mistakes and you wanted to go back and get it right before you checked out. and try as you might, you didn't care at all about the triumphs--degrees, ceremonies, honors. no, all you could remember were the little, trivial things, joys and sadnesses that were yours alone. remembrances of trivialities past. that's what being a hostage was all about. on the other hand--and she hated herself for this feeling--there was something almost erotic about men with so much sudden, ill-gotten power. evil had its own allure, just as surely as good. were they just two opposite sides of the same emotion? wasn't satan the real hero of paradise lost ? was ramirez that same figure? the sexiness of power. bill bates had the same aura. . . . georges and his young staff engineers were sitting listlessly and staring at their computer screens, looking exhausted and defeated. bill had been confined to his office, where he could do nothing but fume since his radio had been shut down and there was now only one phone remaining connected to the outside world--the one on her desk, which they monitored. it got worse. isaac was coming in, which meant they'd have a real prize for a hostage. as if bill weren't enough, to have a famous american jewish professor in hand would be the topping on their whole grab. she tried to catch georges's eye, across the room. he seemed to be drowsing at his terminal, almost as though nothing had happened. since he had always held a political stance slightly to the left of che guevara, maybe he secretly enjoyed being taken hostage by these self- appointed enemies of american capitalism. no . . . she saw an eyelid flutter ... he was just faking his calm. he was scared to death. and he was thinking. about what? she had done some thinking of her own, about the guy who called himself number one, the terrorist now sitting at the other end of command, calmly smoking a thin cigar. as she examined him, the gray temples and perfect tan, the beige sunglasses, she began to find his appearance a little incongruous. what was it? well, for one thing, he looked too perfect. something about him . . . he had to be at least in his late forties, but nobody's face looked like that at his age. it was too smooth, too tight. plastic surgery. the bastard had changed his appearance. so who was he, really? he hadn't given his name, but his face must have mattered once. who? try and put it together, she told herself. he's not middle eastern. maybe he's trying to pass as an arab, but he's not fooling me. no, he's latin. it's in the way he moves, the way he brushes at his sleeve, the way he holds his cigar. he's just like domingo, the guy in junior year, who thought he was god's gift to the feminine gender. yes, domingo was a latin caricature, but this guy has all the same moves. they can't escape it. they're just so proud of being male. the ironic part was, half the time domingo couldn't get it up unless some act of violence was involved. he liked to dominate, or be dominated. power was what he was all about. power. think. can you use that some way to get to this guy? no, she told herself, this killer has all the power he needs. he's about image. and money. she moved through the rows of workstations, now merely flashing updates of the status of the various components of the cyclops system. the power plant was idling now, the superconducting coil in standby mode. the crew of technicians, armed with a punch list of post-power-up items, was checking out the cyclops itself. the test had been a total success. "miss andros, you are a beautiful woman." ramirez glanced up as she approached. he had seemed to be meditating on his cigar, inspecting the ash as he slowly allowed it to accumulate. "i was wondering why a creature of such beauty would want to submit herself to this kind of manly trade?" "not as 'manly' a trade as yours. killing for profit." she felt her anger coming back, and her courage. "as far as i'm concerned, there's no difference between a so-called 'terrorist' and a common murderer. you disgust me." his face flushed for a millisecond as he impassively drew on his cigar. "it would be better if you would consider me, and the rest of these men, as economic freedom fighters. perhaps i'm a modern-day robin hood." "right." she felt like spitting on him, a definitely unladylike response. "you steal from the rich and give to yourself. but you've made a big mistake this time. all you're going to do is ruin satcom." "ruin you?" he seemed amused at the notion, taking another puff on his cigar. "i have no desire to ruin your precious american corporation. as a matter of fact, i'm going to make you the beneficiary of a billion dollars' worth of free publicity. truly, no money in the world could purchase what i am about to do for you. and all i want in return is to borrow your cyclops laser for a few days. if anything, you should pay me . . . though there will be others to do that." "i don't know who you expect to come up with any money. it sure as hell isn't going to be satcom. we're totally tapped out. if this launch doesn't meet our schedule, day after tomorrow, a bunch of banks in geneva and tokyo are going to take us over. and i doubt very much they're going to pay off you and your goons. they'll tell you to go screw yourself." "they can do whatever they wish. they're not the ones who're going to pay." there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. "we are going to make the americans pay. for their crimes against the muslim peoples of the world." 'that's a lot of crap." she hated the man, really hated him. "you don't care a damn about the 'muslim peoples,' do you, senor?" he pulled up sharply and stared at her, startled. for the first time since he had barged in, he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. but he covered it quickly by reaching out to tap his cigar ash into a half- filled trash can. "what are you suggesting?" "you're a fake, through and through." keep him on the defensive, she thought. "as phony as they come. who are you, really?" his composure was returning, an instinct for chivalry that could operate on autopilot if need be. "i'm flattered by your interest in me, but who i am need not concern you. all you need to worry about is following my instructions. then you and i will get along nicely." "listen, you creep, there's no way we are going to get along, nicely or otherwise." she felt her resolve growing. "you don't know me. i'm going to fight you with everything i have. you're going to have to kill me to stop me." "do yourself a favor, miss andros." he pulled again on his cigar, inhaling the harsh smoke. "don't make that necessary." : p.m. isaac mannheim gazed down through the glass partition of the old bell jetranger and wondered again what he was seeing. the pilot couldn't raise command on the radio, and now he was grumbling that the pad looked unsafe. the boy had a point. the surrounding hurricane fence had been half ripped away, and there was oil everywhere on the asphalt. the place looked as though a raging bull elephant had powered its way through, knocking aside everything in its wake. what in blazes had happened? a tornado? he surveyed the area, and something even more ominous caught his eye. what was it, that thing half-buried in the trees, about two-thirds the way up the mountain? now he strained to see through the smudgy windows, just making out the wreckage of some sort of military helicopter. next he turned and looked in the other direction, down toward the launch vehicles. that's odd. another helicopter was parked down there. it was big, a military gray, but no one was around it. "it looks like there was a crash on the pad or something," the young greek pilot shouted over the roar of the engines, his dark, serious eyes fixed gravely on the scene. his name, sewn in greek on his tan shirt, was mikis; his father owned the jetranger, and the business. flying this far from athens meant he would have to refuel to make it back, and nobody was around to take care of that. moreover, the situation definitely looked unsafe. "i can see that," mannheim responded dryly, his voice faint above the noise. "which is why you need to be careful. we don't want to add another casualty." "something funny is definitely going on," mikis continued, to no one in particular. he had already discovered the eccentric american professor with a baseball cap didn't care all that much for small talk. and he had no patience whatsoever for small talk that pointed out the obvious. "i don't like this, but i'll have to put her down. i'm already on my auxiliary tank." for once mannheim allowed his thoughts to stray to the concerns of someone else. "there's an airfield at kythera. you could make it there, if you just touched down here and dropped me off." "are you sure you want to do that?" mikis was gripping the stick, frowning behind his aviator shades. "we can't raise anybody here on the radio, and now there's this mess. let me take you to kythera with me. the whole deal looks weird." "no," mannheim shouted back. "i have to find out what's happened." this project is like sarah, he thought, his estranged daughter coming to mind. i had to do everything i knew how to try to keep her from making the wrong decisions. then he remembered ruefully that she had gone ahead and made them anyway. but he had been there always, ready to give her advice. mikis shrugged, clearly worried, and gave the jetranger some pedal, circling to search for signs of life. there was nothing. the bleak granite cliffs were barren, and the cool blue of the light surf washed against an empty shoreline. he had not seen this space facility before, but everybody had heard about it. the most impressive sight was, of course, those silver spires down at the other end of the island. those had to be their vehicles, but nobody was around them now. puzzled, he examined the huge dormitory-type residence in the middle of the island and the supply buildings, lined along a paved segment connecting the landing pad with the main building, and still saw no one. "look, i'm going to just drop you off and then get the hell out of here," he yelled over. he was easing up on the collective, taking her in. "i'll buy petrol on kythera. i don't see anybody around, and this place gives me the creeps." "you've done all you need to," mannheim shouted back. "something . . ." his voice trailed off as he finally saw some movement. a figure was coming down the mountain, carrying what looked like an automatic weapon. "we'd better make this quick." : p.m. vance was moving as fast as he could and watching as the helicopter--now about a thousand yards from the pad--began its final approach. friend or foe? with the second arrival in as many hours, the place resembled an airport. he assumed by now they surely had seen the wreckage of the hind, but they seemed determined to come in anyway. he watched as the old bell gingerly began to hover above the landing pad, the pilot dispensing with preliminaries. while it was settling in, he chambered a round in the uzi, pulled back the gnarled cocking lever on the top, and continued on down the hill at a brisk pace. with any luck he would beat the guys in black. or maybe they were deliberately keeping a low profile, hoping to lure in the prey. they were also luring him out, he knew, but he had to take the chance. he was moving quickly, the sharp rocks cutting into his feet, and now only a hundred yards or so remained between him and the approaching helo. only then did he first notice he had bumped bill's new agusta when he tried to fly the hind, leaving a bad dent. now he owed bates for repairs. great. he wondered fleetingly if satcom had terrorist insurance. there was now an opening in the pad's protective fence, where the hind had ripped it away, and as the din of the approaching helicopter rang in his ears, he raced across the last clearing, headed for it. but his instincts caused him to look around, and just in time . . . approaching on the run down the asphalt road leading from the launch facility were three of the terrorists. he recognized two of them as his earlier assailants, together with a third who looked like he might actually know what he was doing. they must have seen the arriving jetranger, and now they were coming out to give it a welcome. the way they were moving, and the ak- s they were carrying, told him a lot. the chopper's occupants were the good guys. as the bell settled in and its door opened, he dropped onto the granite and nestled the metal stock of the uzi against his cheek. it felt warm from the morning sun, like the touch of a comfortable friend. he flipped the fire control to semiautomatic and caught the approaching goons in the metal sight. then he gently squeezed the trigger. the uzi kicked back, sending a round upward into the morning air. he realized he was out of practice. next time he would handle it better, but for now he had blown the operation. the three in black who had been running toward the landing pad dropped onto the asphalt and opened fire, spattering flecks of granite around him as he took cover. then he looked up to see an elderly man fairly tumble out of the chopper and make a dash for the safety of the satcom agusta. he need not have hurried; no one was shooting at him. as the jetranger started to lift off, however, the gunmen's focus switched away from vance, and he realized they had no intention of letting it escape. as it left the pad and banked to gain altitude, the lead terrorist dropped to a prone position on the asphalt and took aim directly at the cockpit, where the pilot was just visible behind the glare of the windscreen. with a range of only fifty yards, vance realized, taking him out would be easy. it was. the ak- was on full auto, and one burst splintered away the windscreen, exploding it and leaving what remained spattered with blood. the pilot was thrown against the shattered glass, then left hanging halfway through. he never knew what hit him. the fuselage began to pirouette into a sickening spiral, but the firing continued, as though to kill what was already dead. the gunman's obsessed, vance thought. he's also emptying his magazine. now's the time. make a move while he's still distracted. these thugs want the old man alive, whoever he is. so why not try and ruin their day, get him before they do. the bell continued to autorotate in a series of circles. then it abruptly nosed straight downward, and a second later it veered toward the side of the cliff abutting the sea. a splintering crash replaced the sound of the engine as the rotors slammed against the granite, shearing away--whereupon the fuselage bounced down the steep wall of the cliff and into the water. in moments the seabed swallowed it up. in the meantime vance had reached the landing pad, a few meters away from the old man, who was stumbling distractedly across the asphalt, staring in the direction the chopper had disappeared and so shocked by the sight he seemed not to realize he was walking directly into the hands of the men who had killed the pilot. vance wanted to shout, but then he thought better of it. what was the point? the old man clearly was unable to think. he had to be pulled out quickly and with a minimum of risk. no, the best thing to do was lay down a line of covering fire and go for him. he opened up the uzi on semiauto and dashed for the agusta. : p.m. wolf helling hit the ground rolling, bringing up his kalashnikov, set on automatic. the renegade guard was back to shoot it out, firing from somewhere in the area of the pad. good. he was going to trap the fucker. this time he would handle the situation personally; he would not have to depend on a bunch of incompetent east german stasi burnouts. he glanced back and saw the two trailing behind him. when the guard had opened fire, they'd dived and stumbled pell-mell for the cover of the storage sheds. they wouldn't be any help, but he'd known that already. it didn't matter. this was going to be one-on-one. and easy. the chopper had been lost, which was a shame. although ramirez's orders were to seize it when it arrived, that had not been possible. you win some, you lose some. amid the gunfire the old man had reached the satcom helicopter, while the guard was now making a dash for its protection, too, even as he covered himself with another spray from the automatic that the damn fools had let him get. fortunately his aim was wild again, probably because he was running, and the rounds sailed by harmlessly. and he was in the open. now. helling trained his ak- , long barrel and heavy clip, on him and pulled the trigger. . . . his clip was empty. _scheisse_! he cursed himself for having used the gun on automatic. at ten pops a second, you could wipe out a - round clip before you could sneeze. still cursing, he pushed the button releasing the clip and slammed in another. but he was too late; by that time the guard had disappeared behind the satcom helicopter. the two east germans were firing randomly and ineffectually from the safety of the storage sheds, holding their weapons around the corners and spraying blindly. idiots. they were providing cover, but since they had no idea where they were aiming, they were endangering him at least as much as their target. and now the bastard had reached the cover of the helicopter. he was safe for the moment. but only for the moment. : p.m. _ _"don't shoot," isaac mannheim shouted as he saw the unshaven, barefoot man roll next to him, an uzi giving off bursts of rounds. "get down," vance yelled back, then shoved him onto the asphalt beside the blue-and-white agusta. "you picked a hell of a time to come visiting. there're some new natives, and they're not overly friendly." "who are you?" the old man's ancient eyes were brimming with alarm and confusion. "what are you doing here?" "at the moment i'm trying to keep you alive." vance checked the clip of the uzi. there were about seven rounds left. with three hoods out there, all with kalashnikovs, seven rounds would not go very far. was anything usable in the agusta? he asked himself. he peered through the glass of the cockpit, searching. it looked empty. except for-- a blast of fire careened by the canopy, and he again yanked mannheim down onto the asphalt. then he cautiously raised up enough to recon the situation. the hoods were all advancing now, scurrying forward from building to building as they gave covering blasts from their automatics. however, the two farthest back did not seem to be overly enthusiastic. "they're going to kill us, too," mannheim stammered. "can you--?" "just stay down," vance interrupted him. "i'm probably the one they want to get rid of. if they'd wanted you dead, believe me, you would be by now." he opened the door and hurriedly surveyed the cockpit more closely. yes, he had seen it right . . . attached to the back firewall, ready for emergency use, was a rack of smoke grenades, factory fresh, the kind used for signaling in case the helo went down. he remembered that grenade smoke was designed to cling to the ground rather than rise, and with a burn time between one and two minutes, a good grenade could produce a quarter million cubic feet of hc smoke. maybe, he thought, i just got lucky. he peeled one off the rack and checked it over. yep, american m- , which everybody knew was the best. the can was about the size of a diet coke, and it was military gray. it even gave the flavor on the side-- this one was red, but they also came in yellow and white. nice to have around if you went down in wooded terrain. he looked toward the gunmen approaching and made the decision on the spot. with a quick motion he clenched the handle with his right hand and yanked the steel pin with his left. when he looked up again, they had closed the distance, now only about thirty yards. time for a touchdown. he drew back and lobbed the can directly at the lead terrorist. the time delay was one and a half seconds. it landed just in front of the first man, bounced once, and blew--an eruption of red that engulfed him. beautiful. with a quick twist he yanked the rack from the side of the cockpit and began hurling the cans as fast as he could. finally, he grabbed the startled old professor by the arm, then dropped the last grenade at their feet. "time to move the party. there's cover in the rocks up there." mannheim stumbled backward as the smoke bomb exploded, and vance realized he would never make it. he would have to be dragged, or carried. and since dragging was out of the question, there really was only one option. he bent down and grabbed the old man around the waist, then lifted him over his shoulder. it turned out he was hardly more than skin and bones, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, tops. after spending the last four days heaving the tillers of the late, lamented _odyssey_ _ii_, the load seemed like a feather. some more random gunfire exploded behind them as he struggled and stumbled up the rocky slope, but now a dense cloud of red completely obliterated the scene below. the m- grenades were still billowing, totally obscuring the landing pad and the roadway. when they reached the first clump of brush leading up the mountain, he settled mannheim onto the ground. the old professor was choking from the smoke, totally disoriented, and babbling. vance clapped a hand over his mouth, then urged him onward. "no talking. if they find us, we're going to have some really lousy odds." he removed his hand, and immediately mannheim started again. "whoever you are, i guess i have to thank you for saving my life." he puffed over the stones. "who are you?" "i'm a friend of bill bates, the man supposedly in charge around here." "i'm isaac mannheim. this project--" "the godfather." vance looked him over. "bill's talked about you. mit, right?" "the cyclops is my--" "nice to meet you. now who in the hell are these thugs?" "i have no idea." "well, we can assume they're not part of bill's technical support team." he glanced down the hill, toward the drifting cloud of red smoke, then back at the old man. "but if you've been involved in this project, then you must know the layout here." "i know it very well. but--" "good. we're going to have to keep moving, at least till it gets dark, but while we're doing that, i want you to get me up to speed on where things are. give me the setup. and tell me how many personnel are here and where they are." mannheim pointed down the hill, at a point just past the storage sheds. "the people are housed in the bates motel, which is over there, beyond that row of buildings." vance looked it over. at the moment it seemed deserted. "where's the entrance?" "you can go in directly from the connecting corridor underground, or you can use the front entrance, there." "what if the entrance topside were locked? then it would he secure, right?" "i suppose so." he still seemed disoriented, though he was recovering. "of course there are fire exits at various places in the underground network, as well as the security lobby over there. and then, the storage sheds can be accessed from below." "but all of those entry-points can be sealed, right?" "yes. in fact, they can be sealed electronically, from command. the staff controls everything from there." vance looked down at the white surf rippled across the blue. "so if somebody wanted to take over this place, that's where they would start, right? hit that and you're in like a bandit. it's the head office." "that's correct." mannheim nodded. "good. we know where to focus. now you're going to tell me how i can get there." chapter seven : p.m. pierre armont was forty-six, with gray temples and a body appropriate to an olympic wrestler. he had full cheeks, a heavy mustache, and suspicious dark eyes that constantly searched his surroundings. it was an innate survival instinct. he never went out without a tie and a perfect shoeshine, not to mention a crisp military bearing that sat as comfortably on him as a birthright. he prided himself on his ability to instill discipline while at the same time leading his men. although he liked to command, he wanted to do it from the front, where the action was. here in paris he ran a worldwide business from a gray stone townhouse situated on the left bank in an obscure cul-de-sac at the intersection of saint-andre des arts and rue de l'ancienne comedie. fifty meters away from his ivy-covered doorway, the rue de seine wound down to the river, playing host to one of paris's finer open-air produce markets, while farther down, rows of small galleries displayed the latest in neo-deconstructionist painting and sculpture. an avid amateur chef and art collector, he found the location ideal. from his house, where the french aviator saint-exupery once wrote, he could march a few paces, along cobblestones as old as chartres, and acquire a freshly plucked pheasant, a plump grouse, aromatic black truffles just hours away from the countryside, or an abstract landscape whose paint was scarcely dry. it was the best of all worlds: everything he loved was just meters away, and yet his secretive courtyard provided perfect urban privacy and security, with only the occasional blue-jeaned student from the academie de beaux-arts wandering into his courtyard to sketch. he was rich and he knew how to live well; he also risked his life on a regular basis. he claimed it made his _foie gras _taste even better. he worked behind a wide oak desk flanked by a line of state-of-the-art communications equipment, and along one walnut-paneled wall stood rows of files secured inside teak-wood-camouflaged safes. his wide oak desk could have belonged in the office of a travel agent with a very select clientele. however, it served another purpose entirely: it was where he planned operations for arm. pierre armont headed up the association of retired mercenaries, and he had been busy all day. but he was used to emergencies. what other people called problems, arm thought of as business. the association of retired mercenaries was a secretive but loose group of former members of various antiterrorist organizations. the name was an inside joke, because they were far from retired. although they were not listed in the paris phone book, governments who needed their services somehow always knew how to find pierre. arm took on nasty counterterrorism actions that could not occur officially. they rescued hostages unreported in newspapers, and they had terminated more than a few unpleasant individuals in covert actions that never made the evening news. at the moment, as he was thinking over the insertion strategy for andikythera, he was gazing down on his private courtyard and noticing that the honking from the boulevard saint-germain indicated that paris's mid-afternoon traffic had ground to a halt. again. he had just hung up the scrambled phone, after a thirty-minute conversation with reggie hall, the second today. london was on board, so everything was a go. he was looking forward to this one. some _batards_ had mucked with an arm job. they had to be taken down. armont was retired from france's antiterrorist groupement d'intervention de la gendarmerie nationale, known as gign, ideal experience for his present occupation. over the years "gigene" had carried out, among other things, vip protection in high-threat situations and general antiterrorist ops. mostly commandos in their twenties and early thirties, gigene operatives had to pass a grueling series of tests, including firing an h&k mp one-handed while swinging through a window in a quick entry called the pendulum technique. known for their skills in inserting by helicopter, either by rappelling or by parachuting, they could also swim half a mile under water and come out blasting, using their specially loaded norma ammo. armont's particular claim to fame was the invention of a sophisticated slingshot that fired deadly steel balls for a silent kill. he had trained antiterrorist units in a number of france's former colonies, and had secretly provided tactical guidance for the saudi national guard when they ejected radical muslims from the great mosque at mecca. these days, however, he was a private citizen and ran a simple business. and as with all well-run businesses, the customer was king. if problems arose, they had to be resolved; if a job did not stick, you sent in a repair team. an american member of arm named michael vance, who normally did not participate in the operations end of the business, had turned up at the wrong place at the right time. a reuters confirmation of the loss of the u.s. communications ship definitely meant some bad action had gone down in the eastern med. vance's analysis that it was a preliminary to seizure of the satcom facility on andikythera probably was correct. armont's secretary had spent the day on the phone trying to reach the island, but all commercial communications with the site were down. there was no way that should have happened, even with last night's rough storm. he had liked michael vance the minute he met him, three years earlier. he considered mike reliable in completing his assignments--be they quick access to a "secure" bank computer file or a paper trail of wire transfers stretching from miami to nassau to geneva to bogota. vance's regular missions for arm, however, were those kinds of transactions, not the street action, and armont could only hope he could also manage the rougher end of the business. the organization had checked out the man extensively, as they did all new members, and arm's computer probably knew as much about him as he did himself. it was an oddball story: son of a famous penn archaeologist, he had been by turns an archaeologist himself, a yachtsman, and a low-level spook. after he finished his doctorate at yale and had taught there for two semesters, he had published his dissertation--claiming the famous palace of minos in crete was actually a hallowed necropolis--as a book. it had caused a lot of flap, and to get away for a while, he had taken a vacation in nassau to do some big- game fishing. before the trip ended, he had bought an old forty-four- foot bristol sailboat in need of massive restoration. it was a classic wooden vessel, which meant that no sooner had he finished varnishing the thing from one end to the other than he had to start over again. but he apparently liked the life. or maybe he just enjoyed giving the academic snakepit a rest. the computer could not get into his mind. whatever the reason, however, the sailboat, which had begun as a diversion, soon became something else. by the time he had finished refurbishing her, she was the most beautiful yacht in the caribbean, and everybody around nassau wanted a shot at the helm. he had a charter business on his hands. then his saga took yet another turn. the nassau yacht club, and the new hurricane hole marina across the bridge on paradise island, comprised a yachting fraternity that included a lot of bankers. nassau, after all, had over three hundred foreign commercial banks, and its "see no evil" approach to regulation and reporting made it a natural haven for drug receipts. with a lot of bankers as clients, before long vance knew more than any man should about offshore money laundering. he did not like that part of the scene, but the bankers loved his yacht, and they paid cash. as he once told it, he eventually found out why. at least for one of them. one sunny afternoon the vice president of the european consolidated commercial bank, an attractive blond-haired young swiss mover known to vance only as "werner," was docking _the ulysses_ at hurricane hole, bringing her back from a three-day sail, when the dea swooped down, flanked by the local bahamian police. armed with warrants, they searched the boat and soon uncovered fifty kilos of colombian export produce. seems "werner" had sailed _the ulysses _to some prearranged point and taken it on, planning to have divers stash the packages in the rudder-trunk air pocket of one of the giant cruise ships that tied up at nassau's four-berth dock. vance heard about it when he got a call from the harbormaster advising him that his prized bristol had just been seized as evidence in a coke bust. he was out of business. that afternoon bill bates had coincidentally flown in on merv griffin's paradise island commuter airline and come over to hurricane hole, wanting to charter _the ulysses _for a week of sailing and fishing. vance had to inform him his favorite bahamian yacht had just acquired a new owner. bates could not believe he had flown into such a screw-up. vance was having his own problems with disbelief, too, but paying the mortgage was his more immediate concern. the dea had the boat, but before long he wouldn't have to worry about that any more. that problem, and the boat, would soon belong to the mortgage-holding bank over on bay street. he immediately slapped the dea with a two-million-dollar lawsuit, just to put on some heat. his lawyer claimed he didn't have a hope in hell. but two weeks later a bahamian judge, after lunch with the mortgage- holding banker, summarily ordered the dea to release the yacht. to vance's surprise, the u.s. drug enforcement administration cheerfully complied and turned it over the same afternoon. he immediately dropped the lawsuit, writing off the whole affair as a triumph for truth, justice, and the bahamian way of banking. or so it seemed. only later did he unearth the byzantine complexities of what really had happened. the affair had somehow come to the attention of the company, and there had been a flurry of phone calls to the dea in new orleans from langley, virginia. a month later, while he was in the states attending a yale alumni function, he'd found himself talking to two earnest washington bureaucrats, who congratulated him on beating the system. huh? they then described their need for a "financial consultant" in nassau, somebody who knew the right people. maybe he would consider taking the job; it could merely be a favor for--they hinted broadly--a favor. here was the problem: the cia desperately needed help in trying to keep track of the cocaine millions being laundered through nassau's go-go banks. the company wanted some local assistance getting certain off- the-record audits, from clean bankers who were tired of nassau being a haven for dirty cash. he hated drugs and drug money, so he had seen nothing wrong with the idea. he even ended up training some greenhorns out of langley in the subtle art of tracing wire transfers. two years later he got his payoff. they formed their own in-house desk to do what he had been doing and retired him. he was, it turned out, too successful. but the word on such skills got around, and two months later pierre armont had approached him about joining arm. they needed somebody good at tracing hot money, frequently the most reliable trail of a terrorist operation, and everybody close to the business had identified him as the best around. by that time he had formally incorporated a charter operation in nassau as windstalker, ltd., with three boats, three mortgages, and a big monthly nut. so he had signed on, only later discovering that along with arm's extra cash came a lot of travel, many responsibilities, and occasional death threats. he took them seriously enough to start carrying his own protection, a chrome-plated mm walther. armont approved. vance had always been well paid. it was expected. anybody who hired arm--usually because there was nowhere else left to turn--knew the best did not come cheap. a good two-week op could pull down fifty thousand pounds sterling for every man on the team, which was why the boys drove bmws and drank twelve-year-old scotch. but no client ever complained about the price. or if they did, they didn't complain to pierre. payment was always cash, half up front and the rest on delivery. any client who welshed on the follow-through would be making a very ill- considered career decision. he pulled the blinds and turned to his desk. faxes sent via arm's secure, encrypted system covered the surface. the team was coming together. his secretary emile, a young frenchman who came in mornings and worked in the next room, had already booked the necessary flights. by hours tomorrow everybody would be assembled in athens and ready to insert. armont intended to lead the operation himself . . . unless vance, as the man on the ground, proved the logical choice. since he was already in place, always the best location, he would in any case have to be point man. he had talked the job over with "hans" in frankfurt at hours, just after he had gotten the call from athens, and together they had picked six operatives. vance would make seven. he calculated that would be plenty. "hans" was the _nom de guerre _of a former gsg- , germany's green- beret-sporting grenzschutzgruppen . gsg- , headquartered at st. augustin just outside bonn, had a nine- million-dollar underground training range that included a communications and intel unit, aircraft mockups, an engineer unit, a weapons unit, an equipment unit, a training unit, and a strike unit. in his fifteen years with gsg- , hans had been known to achieve percent accuracy with an h&k mp when firing from a moving vehicle or even rappelling down a rope from a hovering chopper. now retired, he brought to arm many talents: as well as participating in the on-site op, he usually acted as liaison officer because of his flawless english. he also knew which old-timers from gsg- --that was anybody over thirty- five--were looking for an op, and if the job required some younger talent he used his connections to get current members temporarily released from their units. when needed, he could arrange for special-purpose weapons otherwise "unavailable" or restricted. once, when a sniper-assault situation called for a hot new ir scope, he borrowed one from the st. augustin armory overnight, made a drawing, then had it copied in brussels by noon the next day. he knew where to find arm field operatives and what shape they were in--which ones had been shot up, broken legs in parachute drops, or gone over the edge with a case of nerves and too much booze. best of all, though, he could usually locate a wanted terrorist. gsg- was hooked directly into a massive computer in wiesbaden informally known as the kommissar. hans could still tap into the kommissar, which tracked various world terrorist groups, constantly updating everything known about their methods, their membership, and--most importantly--their movements. these days he operated a rundown _biergarten_ in frankfurt, at least as his cover, and there were suspicions he managed to drink up a lot of its profits. in any case, he was in arm for the money, and he never pretended otherwise. so when armont rang him, he was immediately all ears. never failed. "pierre, _alio! comment allez vous?" _even at ten-thirty in the morning hans could be cheerful. armont, definitely a night person, never understood how he did it. "_bien_, considering." armont knew hans was more comfortable in english than in french, and he hated speaking german. "what're you doing for the next couple of days?" "got something?" the german's interest immediately perked up. "there's a little cleanup . . ." after he gave him a quick briefing on the situation via their secure phone, hans was extremely unhappy. "dimitri screwed up. it's not our problem." "i say it's our problem," pierre replied. "we guarantee our work and you're either in, or you're out. permanently. those are the rules." "all right." hans sighed. "can't blame me for not liking it, though." "so who do you think we need?" armont asked. hans knew the people better than he did. "well, we definitely should have reggie," he replied straightaway. "he's the best negotiator we've got, and also he can get us some of the hardware we'll be needing." the man in question was reginald hall. just under fifty, he was a stocky ex-small-arms instructor, regimental sergeant major, retired, of the sas, britain's special air service. in the old days he headed up a unit known in the press as the crw, counter revolutionary warfare section, called "the special projects blokes" by those on the inside. he finally quit after successfully leading an assault on the iranian embassy in london on may --which, to his astonished dismay, was televised live. he'd gotten famous overnight, and after thinking it over for a weekend, he decided the time had come to cash it in. these days he ran a small company that purportedly bought and sold used sports firearms. that was a polite way of saying he dabbled in the international arms trade, though not in a big way. but whenever abm needed a special piece of equipment, as often as not reggie found a way to take care of it. he did not do it for love. even though he was happily retired down in dorset, thomas hardy country, with a plump welsh common-law wife, he occasionally slipped away--much to her chagrin--to take on special ops for arm. maybe his neighbors thought he had bought their matching jaguars with his army pension or the sale of used mausers. "i'll call him as soon as we hang up. he spent some time in the emirates or some damn place and claims to speak a little arabic." he was thinking. "okay, who else could we use?" "how about the flying dutchmen?" hans said. he was referring to the voorst brothers, willem and hugo, both former members of the royal dutch marines' "whiskey company." that was the nickname of a special group officially known as the marine close combat unit. both bachelors, though never short of women, they lived in amsterdam and took on any security job that looked like it would pay. they also ran a part-time aircraft charter operation. "we might need a chopper for the insert. think they can handle it on such short notice?" the voorst brothers would occasionally arrange, through their old connections, for a dutch military helicopter to get lost in paperwork for a weekend. whiskey company was a club, and everybody was going to retire someday. what went around came around. besides, there was plenty of spare change in it for those who made the arrangements. "with nobody paying? it'll take some fast talking." "so far, this thing's being done on spec. we're just making good on a job." "don't remind me," hans groaned. "don't want to hear it. i think we'd better just rent something in athens." he paused. "but i also think we ought to take along the hunter. he'd be the man to handle grenades. he loves those damned things better than his wife." they were both thinking of marcel, formerly of the belgian esi, escadron special d'lntervention. while with esi, he had fathered their famous four-man units, pairs of two-man teams, and had come up with the idea of carrying a spare magazine on the strong-side wrist to facilitate rapid mag change. esi was known informally as diana unit, and since diana was the huntress of mythology, marcel had become known as the hunter. but not till after he had earned the sobriquet. a former belgian paratrooper, ex-angola, he got the nickname after a special op there, when he had saved an entire arm team by taking out a room of terrorists with three stun grenades, tear gas, and an uzi--while wearing an antiflash hood called a balaclava plus a gas mask, a little like working under water. marcel liked the nickname. "i'll see if i can reach him. the antwerp number." "well, we'll probably need him." hans paused. "and vance is already on site. that'll make all the difference." "he's good. if you can get all the others, i think we'll have what we need." 'then, let's get started. i'll try to reach everybody and have them in athens by late tomorrow. fax me an equipment list and i'll talk that over with spiros. see what he can get together for us down there and save having to ship it." "you know, _mon cher_," hans had said, "this is no way to start a day." : p.m. "it was there for the national security agency, the nsa," admitted theodore brock, his special assistant for national security affairs. the atmosphere in the oval office was heating up. "i'm now well aware of that," the president snapped, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "what i'm not well aware of is who the hell authorized it?" the oval office, in the southeast corner of the white house west wing, was, in the eyes of many, a small, unimposing prize for all the effort required to take up residence. john hansen, however, seemed not to notice. he commandeered whatever space he happened to occupy and made it seem an extension of his own spirit. in fact, he rather liked the minimalist quarters, heritage of a time when u.s. presidents had much less weight on their shoulders. from here the wide world opened out. for one thing, the communications here and in the situation boom in the basement put the planet at his fingertips. next to a gigantic push- button multiline telephone was another, highly secure and modernistic, digital voice transmission system that could take him anywhere. as the old-fashioned danish grandfather clock--his only personal item in the office--began to chime the half hour, he glanced once more over the crisis summary that alicia winston had hastily assembled and had waiting on his desk when he returned from new york. her office was conveniently just behind one of the three doors that led into the oval office. another led to his personal study, passing through a small kitchen, from which now came the aroma of fresh-brewed jamaican blue mountain coffee. the third opened onto a corridor, with the standard six secret service people, through which he expected to see his national security adviser appear at : p.m. then, according to his schedule, he had to try to put all this out of his mind at : , when he was due to host a delegation of troglodytes from the hill. nuclear disarmament did not have a lot of friends in tennessee and washington state. he was going to have to make some concessions, he knew, but politics was about compromise, always had been. "apparently the ship was put into place without authorization," brock went on. "there was some back-channel request from nsa. they wanted to keep tabs on a space project on an island in the aegean." "satcom. now we're spying on americans, is that it?" hansen leaned back in his high, kevlar-protected chair and tossed a telling glance toward morton davies, his chief of staff, who monitored most of his incoming calls. they both had received an earful on the cyclops project from his old professor, isaac mannheim--who claimed it would demonstrate to the world that america's private sector still had plenty of life left, could stand up to the europeans and the japanese when it came to innovation. satcom's independence from government, at least to mannheim's way of thinking, was precisely its greatest virtue. "well, damn nsa," he continued. "this is an outrage." he recalled that he'd sent the new director, al giramonti, a pointedly worded memo on that very subject. when john hansen took office, the national security agency was still liberally exercising its capacity to monitor every phone call in america from its vast array of listening antennas at fort meade. he had resolved to terminate the practice. he thought he had. "it was just routine surveillance," brock insisted, squirming. he was in his late fifties, bright, with horn-rimmed glasses and a high forehead. he also was black, and he felt he had more than the usual obligation to make his president look good. "there was a satellite test launching in the works. the whole project has been kept under wraps, and nasa wanted to know what was going on. the national security agency had a platform in the area, so it all more or less meshed. there was nothing--" "and what do the israelis have to say for themselves?" the president pushed on. "the hind had their markings." "they deny they had anything to do with it." he squinted toward hansen, trying to seem knowledgeable yet uncommitted. which way was the wind going to blow next? "even though the helo was plainly id'd by--" "that's what they claimed in ' ," hansen fumed, cutting him off, "when they strafed, torpedoed, and napalmed nsa's liberty, which was clearly in international waters. they were hoping to prolong the six-day war long enough to roll into syria, and they didn't want us to monitor their plans. so they took careful pains to knock out all our sigint capability in the region, just happening to kill a dozen seamen in the process. afterwards the lying fuckers told our embassy in tel aviv it was all a mistake and sent flowers. if anybody else in the world had done that, we'd have nuked them." "well, at the time the glover was hit, it wasn't monitoring israeli sigint," brock noted, adjusting his glasses. "we think they're clean on this one. at least what we have from fort meade so far seems to bear that out. they're still running a computer analysis, though, pulling out all the voice and code used by the israeli air force during that time. we didn't have that capability back in . in a few more hours we'll be able to put that question to rest, one way or another." "okay, maybe we should go slow till then. so in the meantime, let's take them at their word for a moment and examine the other possibilities." hansen revolved in his chair and stared out the bulletproof window behind him. the washington sky was growing overcast. and the clock was running. this whole screw-up would be in tomorrow's washington post, garbled, just as sure as the sun was going to come up. cnn had already picked up the bbc's "rumor" and was running it on their "headline" service, hinting the u.s. intelligence community had been caught with its pants around its ankles, again. "there's more," brock said, interrupting his thoughts. "the iranians have been screaming about a stolen hind for four days, blaming us, of course. but they've quietly let mossad know they think it may have strayed into pakistan, maybe as a diversion, and then ended up heading out for one of the gulf states, probably yemen. the israelis have reason to believe it was delivered to a yemeni-flagged freighter in the persian gulf, then taken through the suez canal and into the eastern med. after that, all contact was lost." iran, the president thought. pakistan. none of it sorted into a picture. unless . . . "incidentally," morton davies, chief of staff, interjected, "the israelis also have one other bit of intel that seems to have somehow gotten lost in all of nsa's cray supercomputers. an israeli 'fishing trawler' picked up a mayday they triangulated as coming from somewhere north of crete. it supposedly claimed--the transmission was a bit garbled--to emanate from the very hind that had attacked the ship. the broadcast said that terrorists had taken over the satcom facility on the island of andikythera. if that's true, it would be the one that the glover was monitoring." hansen stared at him. "are we supposed to believe any of this? that unknown terrorists are behind this whole thing? that's exactly the kind of disinformation the israelis have used on us in the past. besides, it doesn't click. if terrorists did do it, they'd damned sure want the credit. nobody throws a rock this size through your window unless there's a note attached. so where is it?" that's when the import of what davies had said hit him. satcom. it was going to be the pride of america, a symbol . . . my god, it was a rocket launch facility. he reached down and touched the blue button on the desk intercom on the right side of his desk. "alicia." "sir," came back the crisp reply. "have nsa send over any recent photoint they have on the greek island of andikythera. by hand. i want it yesterday." "yes, sir." "ted," he said, turning back to brock, "somehow this time i've got an uncomfortable feeling the medium may be the message." : p.m. "to understand the operation of this facility," isaac mannheim was saying, "you need to appreciate the technology we've installed here." he was resting against the trunk of a tree, gazing wearily down the mountain at the sun-baked asphalt of the facility stretching below. "i've already got a rough idea how it works," vance replied. he was pondering the quiet down below. "it's the people i want to know more about." "well, of course, that's my primary concern as well." the old man shrugged. "but we are on the verge of an experiment that will change the world for all time. that's just as important." "not in my book." "perhaps. but all the same, i think i should tell you a few technical details about the facility. since you say you're familiar with its general workings, you probably know that its heart is a twenty-gigawatt laser we call the cyclops. using it, we can send a high-energy beam hundreds of miles into space without losing appreciable energy. our plan is to use that beam of energy, which we can direct very accurately, to power a satellite launch vehicle." "i understand that." "excellent," he said, as though encouraging a student. then he pushed on. "in any case, the cyclops itself is a repetitive-pulsed, free- electron laser, which means the computer can tune it continuously to the most energy-efficient wavelength, a crucial feature. it starts with an intense beam of electrons which it accelerates to high velocity, then passes through an array of magnets we call the 'wiggler.' those magnets are arranged in a line but they alternate in polarity, which causes the electrons passing through to experience rapid variations in magnetic-field strength and direction. what happens is, the alternating magnetic field 'wiggles' the beam of electrons into a wave, causing them to emit a microwave pulse--which is itself then passed back and forth, gaining strength at every pass. eventually it saturates at a level nearly equal to the power of grand coulee dam, and then--" "maybe you ought to get to the point," vance said, feeling he was receiving a college lecture. he used to give college lectures, for chrissake, in archaeology. were they just as tedious? he suddenly wondered. "of course." he pushed on, oblivious. 'the whole operation is controlled by our fujitsu supercomputer. the hardest part is getting the microwave pulses and the electron pulses to overlap perfectly in the wiggler. that part of the cyclops, called the coaxial phase shifter, requires delicate fine-tuning. the alignment has to be critically adjusted, the focusing perfect, the cavity length--" "get back to the vehicle. i think i've heard all i need to know about the wonders of the cyclops." "very well. the energy is focused, in bursts, from up there." he turned and pointed up the mountain. "that installation is a phased-array microwave transmission system, which delivers it to the spacecraft. to a port located on the sides of the vehicles down there. the port is a special heat-resistant crystal of synthetic diamond. once inside, the beam is directed downward into the nozzle, where it strikes dry ice and creates plasma, producing thrust. the vehicle is single-stage-to- orbit." "nothing is burned." vance had to admit it was a nifty idea. if you could do it. "that's correct. the laser beam creates a shock wave, a burst of superheated gas moving at supersonic velocity out of the nozzle. by pulsing the beam, we form a detonation wave that hits the nozzle chamber and--" "so it's really star wars in reverse," vance interjected. "bates is using all that fancy research in high-powered lasers to put up a satellite instead of shooting one down." "the power is comparable. the superconducting coil we use to store power can pulse as high as twenty-five billion watts. the dry ice that is the 'propellant' is only about three hundred kilograms, a tiny percentage of the vehicle's weight, and since the vehicle is virtually all payload, we should be able to put it into a hundred-nautical-mile orbit in a matter of minutes. the beam energy will be roughly five hundred gigawatts per second and--" "i get the picture," vance interjected, tired of numbers. "but what you're really saying is that this transmission system up here on the mountain is the key to everything. if it goes down, end of show." he was thinking. the terrorists had not destroyed anything, at least not up here. which probably meant they intended to use it. the prospect chilled him. "okay, let's work backward to where the people are," he continued. "what's down below us here? the power has to get up here somehow. "we're at one end of the island, down a bit from command, which is underground. that's where the computer is, which handles the output frequencies of the cyclops and also the trajectory analysis. it gets data from a radar up here on the mountain and uses that to provide guidance for the laser beam as the vehicle gains altitude. there are giant servo-mechanisms that keep the parabolic antennas trained on the vehicle as it lifts off the pad and heads into orbit. they also retrieve all the telemetry from the spacecraft, and--" "what's belowground down there?" he was pointing toward the vehicles. "that area has an excavated space below it for the multi- cavity amplifier bay. it's--" "the what?" "that's where the free-electron laser, the cyclops, begins pumping up. then the energy is sent up here"--he pointed back up the mountain--"to the phased-array transmission system." "right. so underground it's shaped something like a dumbbell, with the technical management staff at this end and then the operating people down there. what's in between? just a big connecting tunnel?' "correct. and, of course, the communications conduits. for all the wiring." okay, vance thought. now we're getting somewhere. the terrorists will be split up. that's going to make things easier, and harder. they could be taken out one group at a time, but there also could be hostages at peril all over the place. these situations are always a lot cleaner when all the hostages are in one location. "any other connections?" "well, there's really only one." he shrugged, and ran his hand through his mane of white hair. vance thought it made him look like an aging lion. "as you can imagine, these levels of power mean there are enormous quantities of waste heat. so bates tunneled water conduits between a submerged pumping station on the other side of the island and a number of locations." vance's pulse quickened. "what do they lead to?" "they run from the computer in command, and the power plant down at the other end of the island, right beneath where we are now and . . . actually, one leads up to those heat exchangers there--" he was pointing up the mountain, past a large cinderblock building at the edge of the phased-array radar installation. a tunnel filled with water, vance thought. there's been enough swimming for a while. but if the system is off, then . . . "then there must be an entry-point up there somewhere." he smiled and nodded wistfully. "i assume there must be. but i don't know where it is." "think it's big enough for somebody to get into?" "it should be. everything was over-engineered, since we weren't sure how much waste heat there would be." "so all i have to do is get into the heat exchanger, then hope there's some air left in bill's granite water pipe." the old man looked worried. "do you realize the kind of energy that goes through that conduit? if they should turn on the pumps, you'd be drowned in an instant and then dumped out to sea." "i've already been drowned once on this trip. another time won't matter." he shrugged. "but i've got to get inside and find out how many terrorists there are and where they're keeping the people.'' once i figure out their deployment, he was thinking, we can plan the assault. "it's dangerous," mannheim mumbled. "that conduit was never intended to have anybody--" "i'm forewarned." he was apprehensively rising to his feet and wincing at his aches. "all you have to do is get me inside." : p.m. georges lefarge felt like he was getting a fever. or maybe the room was just growing hot. all he knew was, he was miserable. he swabbed at his face with a moist paper towel and tried to breathe normally, telling himself he had to keep going, had to stick by cally. this was no time to give in to these creeps and get sick. ardent and intense, georges looked every inch the computer hacker he was; but he also was one of the finest aerospace engineers ever to come out of cal tech. although his long hair and so-so beard were intended to deliver a fierce political statement, his benign blue eyes negated the message. he was an idealist, but one filled with love, not hate. his politics were as simplistic as his technical skills were state-of- the-art: he never managed to understand why everyone in the world did not act rationally. he had grown up in new york's soho district, living in a mammoth, sparsely furnished loft with his mother, a widely praised painter of massive, abstract oils--usually in black and ocher. her depressing paintings were huge, but her income only occasionally was, and georges's memory of his childhood was years of alternating caviar and spaghetti. his french canadian father had long since returned to a log- and-clay cabin in northern quebec, never to be heard from again. he also remembered his mother's string of lovers, an emotional intrusion he never quite came to accept. the day he went off to mit, on a national merit scholarship, was the happiest of his life. or at least he had thought so until he got a call from cally andros asking him to come to work for satcom. he was now thirty-four, single, and he loved girls, or the idea of girls. no, the truth was that he loved one girl, and had forever. she was now his boss. after years of separation, they had finally dabbled at an affair here on andikythera, but he had to admit it hadn't worked. at first it had seemed a good idea, his boyhood dream come true, but now he had realized maybe they were better off just being friends. she became a different person in bed, and one he found slightly terrifying. but given what had just happened, all that seemed part of another, forgotten place and time. in addition to having a fever, he was bone-tired and his neck ached. but he wanted desperately to stay alert. he stroked the wispy beard he had been trying to grow for the last four months, gazed at the terminal, and warned himself to stop thinking like an engineer and try to think like a terrorist. these european criminals had shown up just in time for the first space shot, which meant they had something planned that needed a vehicle. they weren't going to hold the facility for ransom: there was nothing here they could steal. also, they had been very careful not to damage any of the systems. which meant their real program, whatever it was, needed the cyclops to work and a vehicle to lift off. if that didn't happen, they were screwed. so, he thought, you sabotage thursday's shot and you nix their plot, whatever it is. but cally would have a fit. mr. bates needed a success, and soon, or the whole satcom gamble would go down the tubes. it was a lose-lose scenario. what to do? simple. just keep working for now and hope. what else was there? on the screen in front of him now was the output of a program in progress, this one called hi-volt, which was a daily low-power warm-up of the coils of the phased-array radar system on the mountain. the computer methodically checked all the power systems for any hint of malfunction, and the program had to be run, rain or shine. it was now time to kick on the pumps and heat exchangers and get going. something to do. . . . the cursor was flashing, ready for the "power on" command. he hit the enter key, activating the pumps for the heat exchangers, then turned to see cally approaching, winding her way through the workstations, led by the head terrorist, the fucker who called himself number one. lefarge could not get over the fact the bastard looked like an executive from the arlington office, only better dressed. "georges, you've got to kill hi-volt," cally said. although she looked normal, there was extreme anxiety in her voice. the strain was coming through. "we have to do a different run." she was passing her fingers nervously through her hair. he loved her dark, mediterranean tresses. "a trajectory analysis using sort." the fujitsu supercomputer they were using was programmed with a special nasa program developed by mcdonnell-douglas astronautics co. called sort, an abbreviation for simulation and optimization of rocket trajectories, it minimized the laser energy required for an insertion trajectory into low earth orbit. it also calculated the on-board nozzle vectors to adjust altitude while the vehicle was in flight. midcourse corrections. all you had to do was program everything in. "now? but i just started--" "here's a list of what he wants." she glanced at number one again, then handed over a sheet of blue paper. he took it and looked down. maybe they were about to tip their hand. but what could they know about computers? he finally focused on the sheet. what? these weren't satellite trajectories, these were longitude and latitude coordinates. then he studied it more carefully. they were abort targets. chapter eight : p.m. the conduit was roughly a meter and a half in diameter and pitch dark. he had expected that and had extracted a waterproof flashlight from an emergency kit in the wreckage of the hind. it was helping, but not all that much. with the heat exchangers off, no water was flowing. the stone walls were merely moist, the curved sides covered with slime. the tunnel sloped downward from the installation on the mountain as a gentle incline, and although the gray algae that swathed its sides now covered him, he had found niches in the granite to hang onto as he worked his way down. then it had leveled out, matching the terrain, and that was when he encountered the first water, now up around his waist. the radars up the hill, he realized, were only one of the producers of waste heat. ahead, the tunnel he was in seemed to join a larger one from another site, as part of a general confluence. thank god all the systems are in standby, he thought. if those massive pumps down by the shore start up, they'll produce a raging torrent that'll leave no place to hide. . . . as he splashed through the dark, he found himself pondering if this was what he had been placed on the planet to do. maybe he should never have left yale. the pay was decent, the hours leisurely, the company congenial. poking around in the hidden secrets of the past always gave solace to the spirit. what did humanity think about three thousand years ago? five thousand? five hundred? what were their loves, their hates, their fears, their dreams? were they the same as ours? and why did humanity always need to worship something? where did the drive come from to create--poetry, music, painting? these were all marvelous mysteries that we might never unravel, but they were among the most noble questions anyone could ask. what makes us human? it was the immortal quandary. but when you asked that, you also had to ask the flip-side question. how could humanity create so much that was bad at the same time? so much tyranny, greed, hurt? how did all that beauty and ugliness get mixed up together down in our genes? maybe he was about to find out more about the evil in the heart of man, coming up. . . . he splashed and paddled his way onward, his flashlight sending a puny beam ahead, and tried to relate his location to the rest of the facility. before entering through the heat exchanger atop the mountain, he had grilled mannheim on the specifics of site layout. the old man, however, hadn't really known much about the nuts and bolts of the facility; his head was out in space somewhere. all the same, vance found himself liking him, in spite of his encroaching senility. even homer was said to nod. just hope you live long enough to get senile yourself. back to business. ahead, settled into the top of the conduit, was a metal door just large enough for a man to work through. what was that for? he wondered. maintenance access? if so, it must lead into the main facility somewhere. he felt his way around the curved sides of the conduit, searching for flaws in the granite where he could get a handhold. then he reached up and tested the door. the metal was beginning to rust from the seawater, but it still looked workable. a large black wheel in the center, inset with gears, operated sliding bolts that fit into the frame. this has to be fast, he told himself. do a quick reconnoiter of the place and make mental notes. look for entry-points and escape routes. then get back in time for the radio chat with pierre. about three hours, two to be on the safe side. he braced himself against the stone sides of the conduit and--holding the flashlight with one hand--tried to budge the metal wheel. nothing. the contact with seawater had frozen it with rust. he tried again, shoving the flashlight into his belt and, grappling in the dark, twisting the wheel with both hands. was it moving? he felt a faint vibration make its way down the stone walls of the conduit, then there was a hum of huge electric motors starting somewhere. somebody was turning on the systems. he listened as the vibration continued to grow, and now the water level was beginning to rise, as the pumps down by the shore began priming. were they about to turn them on full blast? the involuntary rush of his pulse and his breathing made him abruptly aware of how close the confining tunnel felt, the tight hermetic sense of claustrophobia. for the first time since landing on andikythera he felt real fear. he hated the dark, the enclosed space, and now he was trapped. idiot, how did you get yourself into this? you're going to be drowned in about thirty seconds. now the roar of water began to overwhelm the hum of the pumps. the conduit was filling rapidly, and flow had begun. he realized that only about a foot of airspace remained at the top. praying for a miracle, he heaved against the metal wheel one last time, and finally felt it break loose, begin to turn. : p.m. "abdoullah" had finished unpacking the second crate, and now he examined what he had: two fifteen-kiloton nuclear devices, made using enriched uranium- from the kahuta nuclear research center. he smiled again to think they had been smuggled out right from under the noses of the officials at kahuta, directly up the security elevators leading down to the u centrifuge at level five. the research center was situated more or less in between the sister cities of rawalpindi and islamabad, in northeast pakistan, where it was surrounded by barren, scrub-brush rolling hills that looked toward the looming border of afghanistan. kahuta was the heart of pakistan's nuclear-weapons program, and its many levels of high-security infrastructure were buried deep belowground. the only structure visible to a satellite was the telltale concrete cupola and an adjacent environmental-control plant for air filtration. security was tight, with high fences, watchtowers, and an army barracks near at hand. the security was for a reason. in pakistan began acquiring hardware and technology for a plant capable of producing weapons-grade uranium. bombs require percent enrichment, and when the u.s. discovered the project, it had threatened to cut off aid if any uranium was enriched beyond percent. pakistan agreed, then went right ahead. between and , using dummy corporations and transshipments through third countries, the government smuggled from west germany an entire plant for converting uranium powder into uranium hexafluoride, a compound easily gasified and then enriched. two years later the nuclear research center purchased a ton of specially hardened "maraging" steel, from west germany, which was delivered already fabricated into round bars whose diameter exactly matched that of the (also) german gas centrifuges under construction at kahuta. shortly thereafter, the plant at dera ghazi khan was on-line, producing uranium hexafluoride feedstock for the kahuta enrichment facility, and the kahuta facility was using it to turn out u enriched uranium in abundance. at the same time, pakistani operatives were hastening to acquire high- speed american electronic switches called krytrons, the triggering devices for a bomb. their efforts to obtain nuclear detonators required several tries, but eventually they got what they needed. they dispensed with above-ground testing of the nuclear devices they had assembled, having procured the necessary data from china, and instead just went ahead and made their bombs. they then secured them on level five of the kahuta reprocessing facility--against the day they would be needed. until now. liberating two of those well-guarded a-bombs had required a lot of unofficial cooperation from the plant's security forces. batteries of surface-to-air missiles protected kahuta from air penetration, and elite paratroopers and army tanks reinforced the many checkpoints, making sure that no vehicle, official or private, could enter or leave the complex without a stamped authorization by the security chief. only a lot of money in the right hands could make two of the devices disappear. sabri ramirez had seen to that small technicality. . . . abdoullah patted one of the nuclear weapons casually and admired it. the bomb itself was a half meter in diameter, its outer casing of octol carefully packed inside a polished steel sheath embedded with wires. expensive but available commercially, octol was a - mixture of cyclote-tramethvlenetetranitramine and trinitrotoluene, known colloquially as hmx and tnt. it was stable, powerful, and the triggering agent of choice for nuclear devices. inside the octol encasing each device were twenty-five kilograms of percent enriched u . when the external octol sphere was evenly detonated, it would compress the uranium core sufficiently to create a "critical mass,-' causing the naturally occurring radioactive decay of the uranium to focus in upon itself. once the radiation intensified, it started an avalanche, an instantaneous chain reaction of atom-splitting that converted the uranium's mass into enormous quantities of energy. the trick to making it work was an even, synchronous implosion of the outer sphere, which was the job of the high-tech krytron detonator switches. . . . which, abdoullah realized, were still in the sikorsky. the krytrons were packed separately and handled as though they were finest crystal. "rais," he said, looking up and addressing his berkeley classmate now standing by the door, "i need the detonators." "well, they're in the cockpit, where we stowed them." he was tightening his commando sweatband, itching to try out his uzi, still unfamiliar. would the others notice? in any case, he wasn't here to run errands. "then go get them, for chrissake." he had considered rais to be an asshole from the day they first met in the advanced quantum mechanics class at college. nothing that had happened since had in any way undermined that conviction. the guy thought he was hot stuff, god's gift to the world. it was not a view that anybody who knew him shared. "why don't _you_ go get them?" rais said, not moving. "because i want to check these babies over and make sure everything is a go." what a jerk. "come on, man, don't start giving me a lot of shit, okay? this is serious. everybody's got to pull his weight around here." rais hesitated, his manhood on the line, and then decided to capitulate. at least for now. abdoullah was starting to throw his weight around, get on the nerves. the guy was real close to stepping out of line. "all right, fuck it." he clicked the safety on his uzi on and off and on, then holstered it. "as long as you're at it, why don't you just take them directly down to the clean room. we'll be assembling everything there anyway, since that's where the elevator is they use to go up and prep the vehicles." "that's cool. see you down there." rais closed the door and walked out into the greek sunshine. he was starting to like this fucking place. : p.m. vance shoved the metal door open just as the roar of the onrushing water reached the confluence at the intersection of the tunnel, a mere hundred yards ahead. the tunnel was almost full now, the water flow increasing. they're about to turn on the cyclops, he thought. you've got about fifteen seconds left. he pulled himself through the metal door, soaked but alive, and rolled onto a cement floor. with his last remaining strength he reached over and tipped the metal door shut, then grabbed the wheel and gave it a twist. down below he could feel the wall of water surge by. he thought he was going to faint, but instead he took a deep breath and pulled out the flashlight. . . . . . . and found himself in a communications conduit, consisting of a concrete floor with styrofoam insulation overhead. all around him stretched what seemed miles of coaxial cables, wrapped in huge circular strands. the conduit also contained fiber-optics bundles for carrying computer data to guide the parabolic antennas up on the mountain as they tracked the space vehicle. the major contents of the conduit, however, were massive copper power- transmission cables. what had mannheim warned? how many gigawatts per second? the numbers were too mind-boggling to comprehend, or bother remembering. all they meant was that if the cyclops were suddenly turned on, the gaussian fields of electromagnetic flux would probably rearrange his brain cells permanently. he rose and moved down the conduit, feeling along its curved sides, his back braced against the large bundle of power wires in the center while ahead of him the darkness gaped. a few yards farther, though, and the probing beam of his flashlight revealed a terminus where some of the shielded fiber optics had been shunted off into the wall, passing through a heavy metal sleeve. although it was welded into a steel plate bolted to the side of the wall, large handles allowed the bolts to be turned without the aid of special wrenches. whoever designed the fiber optics for this tunnel, he thought, didn't want a lot of greek workmen down here waving tools around after a long lunch of guzzling retsina. the fibers were too vulnerable to stand up to any banging. he grasped the handles and began to twist one, finding the bolts well lubricated. after four turns, it opened. the second yielded just as easily. then the third and the fourth. he took a deep breath, thinking this might be his first encounter with the hostages, and the terrorists. then he slid the metal plate back away from the wall and tried to peer through. the opening was approximately a meter wide, with the bundle of fiber-optics cables directly through the middle. still, he found just enough clearance to slip past and into the freezing cold of the room used to prep the payloads for the vehicles. : p.m. "what's this all about?" lefarge looked again at the sheet, then up at number one. "sort is intended to calculate orbital parameters. optimize them." "and if there is an abort? it has to go down somewhere." "you're talking about a pre-specified abort?" lefarge was trying to sound dumb. "the cyclops can't power an icbm." it probably could, but he didn't want to mention that. the terrorist who called himself number one was not impressed. "that's a question we will let the computer decide. i happen to believe it can. you just send it up, then you abort. when you fail to achieve orbital velocity, it comes down. the nose has a reentry shield, since you are planning to reuse the vehicle. it should work very nicely." georges looked at cally. he did not want to admit it, but this guy was right. he had thought about that a lot. any private spaceport could be seized by terrorists and turned into a missile launch site. was that their plan? "i won't do it," he heard himself saying. "i refuse." "that is a mistake," number one replied calmly. "i will simply shoot one of your technicians here every five minutes until you begin." he smiled. "would you like to pick the first? preferably someone you can manage without." "you're bluffing." he felt a chill. something told him what he had just said wasn't true. this man, with his expensive suit and haircut, meant every word. he was a killer. georges knew he had never met anyone remotely like him. "young man, you are an amateur." his eyes had grown narrow, almost disappearing behind his gray aviator shades. "amateurs do not know the first thing about bluffing. now don't try my patience." he turned and gestured one of the technicians toward them. he was a young man in his mid-twenties. he came forward and number one asked his name. "i'm chris schneider," he said. his blond hair and blue eyes attested to the fact. his father was a german farmer in ohio, his mother a primary-school teacher. he had taken a degree in engineering from ohio state, then stumbled upon the dream job of his life. he was now thinking about moving to greece. "i'm sorry to have to make an example of you, chris," number one said, drawing out his walther. . . . : p.m. vance realized he was in a satellite "clean room," painted a septic white with bright fluorescents overhead. along one wall were steel tables, several of which held giant "glove boxes" that enabled a worker to handle satellite components without human contamination. alongside those were instruments to measure ambient ionization and dust. other systems in the room included banks of electronic equipment about whose function he could only speculate. and what was that? . . . there, just above the door . . . it looked like a closed-circuit tv monitor, black-and-white. it seemed to be displaying the vague movements of a large control room, one with banks of computer screens in long rows and marshaled lines of technicians monitoring them. he studied the picture for a second, wondering why it seemed so familiar, and then he realized it looked just like tv shots of the kennedy space center. shivering from the cold, he moved closer to the screen, which was just clear enough to allow him to make out some of the figures in what had to be the command center. however, he saw only staffers; no sign of bill bates. one individual stood out, his suit and tie a marked contrast to the general open-shirt atmosphere, and he looked like he was giving the orders. he was now chatting with a woman and another, younger man, seated at a keyboard. then the well-dressed guy turned and beckoned one of the staffers forward. he said something to him and then--jesus!--he pulled a pistol. . . . : p.m. "no!" cally screamed, but it was already too late. before chris schneider even saw it coming, ramirez shot him precisely between the eyes, neatly and without fanfare. the precision was almost clinical, and he was dead by the time he collapsed onto the gray linoleum tiles of the floor. his body lay motionless, his head nestled in a growing pool of dark blood. georges lefarge looked on unbelieving. had he really seen it? no, it was too grotesque. chris, murdered in cold blood right before his eyes. they had been talking only yesterday about going to crete for the weekend, maybe renting a car. . . . death had always been an abstraction, never anything to view up close. he had never seen a body. he had never even imagined such things could really happen; it was only in the movies, right? until this moment he had never confronted actual murder ever in his life. calypso andros felt a shock, then a surge of emotional novocain as her adrenaline pumped. right then and there she decided that she was going to kill this bastard herself, personally, with her own hands. number one, whoever he was, was a monster. no revenge . . . then the superego intervened. he's still got the gun. wait, and get the son of a bitch when he's not expecting it. "georges," she said quietly, finally collecting herself, "you'd better do what he says." lefarge was still too astonished to think, let alone talk. this horror was outside every realm of reason. he had no way to file it within any known category contained in his mind. "she is giving you excellent advice," number one was saying. "you would be wise to listen. in any case, i merely want you to demonstrate the technical capabilities of this system." he smiled as though nothing had happened. "an intellectual exercise." georges looked at cally and watched her nod. her eyes seemed almost empty. was it shock? how could she manage to carry on? well, he thought, if she can do it, then so can i. slowly he revolved and examined the computer terminal in front of him. the cool green of the screen was all that remained recognizable, the only thing to which he could still relate. "all right." he barely heard his own words as he glanced down at the sheet. "i'll see if i can put in a run." the room around them was paralyzed in time, the single thunk of the pistol having reverberated louder than a cannon shot. like georges, none of the other young technicians had ever witnessed an overt act of violence. it produced a new reality, a jolt that made the senses suddenly grow sharper, the hearing more acute, the periphery of vision wider. still in shock, he typed an instruction into his fujitsu workstation, telling it to start back-calculating the trajectory of an abort splashdown for various locations. then he began typing in the numbers on the sheet. the first coordinates, he realized at once, were somewhere close. but where? : p.m. vance watched the control room freeze as the body slumped to the floor, and he felt his fingers involuntarily bunch into a fist. the bastards were killing hostages already. they definitely were terrorists, right out of the textbook. kill one, and frighten a thousand. except they might not stop with one. he foresaw a long day. and night. the victim had been hardly more than a college kid. murdered at random, and for no other apparent reason than to frighten the rest into submission. a technique that was as old as brutality. but that terrorist trick, management by intimidation, worked both ways. take away their uzis and these smug bastards could just as easily be turned into quivering jell-o. all human beings had psychological pressure points that could be accessed. what separated the wheat from the chaff was what happened when somebody got to those points. he often wondered what he would do. he prayed he would never have to find out. . . . then he watched as the young man at the terminal began typing in something off a sheet of paper. whatever the terrorist had intended to accomplish by his wanton murder, apparently it had worked. the other technicians were all staring down at their screens, scared to move. whatever had gone on, everybody was back to business. but what did these thugs want? sadly he turned away from the screen to reexamine his surroundings . . . and noticed a workstation, situated off to the left side of the door. what had bill once said? they practically had computer terminals in the bathrooms. this one obviously was intended for quick communications with the command crews from here in this freezing white room. keeping an eye on the tv monitor, he moved over to take a look. instructions began appearing on the bright green screen, indicating it was tied into a computer network at the facility. yes, somebody-- probably the young analyst out there--was typing in a complex series of commands. above that, on the screen, another sequence had been aborted. it had been some sort of run called hi-volt. that must have been what had jolted him when he was out in the conduit. he studied the screen, trying to figure out what was going on. only the hum of air conditioning broke the silence, and the quiet helped him to think. . . . of course! these bastards were planning to use the cyclops--or worse, its spacecraft--to . . . what? he recalled seeing the second chopper arrive and the boys unload two crates. its cargo wasn't going to be a christmas present to the world. whatever it was, they were poised to deliver it just about anywhere on the globe. so what was their target? he studied the computer screen, hoping to get an inkling. but he saw only numbers. in pairs. they looked like . . . latitude and longitude. coordinates. what did that mean? the first ones were nearby, maybe somewhere near crete. so what were they doing? reprogramming the vehicle into a missile? terrific. that was the first half of the bad news. the second half was that whatever they were up to, there also seemed a good chance they might try to blow up the satcom facility after they were finished, just to cover their tracks. dead men make no ids in some faraway courtroom years from now. he could probably terminate that plan by just sabotaging some of the fiber optics in the conduit, thereby putting the whole facility out of commission. but that would screw bill too, and probably end up costing satcom millions. bates was close enough to being suicidal already. this was probably going to put him over the edge in any case. keep that as a last-ditch option, he told himself. and besides, everything at the moment was only guesswork. the thing to do first was to get a better handle on the situation without the terrorists knowing. the question was how. he looked around the room again, wondering. and then his eye fell on the terminal and a thought dawned. why not see if you can interrupt the computer run in progress and have a chat with the analyst at the keyboard, the one with the beard now typing in the numbers appearing on the green screen? he reached down and tested one of the keys, but nothing happened. the data being typed in just kept on coming. what now? how to cut into the system and send him a little personal e-mail? get his attention. something. then he realized the keyboard had an on/off switch, which was currently shunting it out of the system. guess that's to keep somebody from screwing up a run by leaning against it, he thought. how much time is there? any minute now somebody could come wandering in. probably this window of opportunity only had a few minutes to go. he switched on the keyboard and again gave a letter a tap. this time it instantly appeared on the screen, highlighted. a glance at the tv monitor told him that the startled analyst at the keyboard had frozen his fingers in mid-tap, bringing everything to a halt. quickly he started typing, hoping that none of the terrorists had the brains to be monitoring the computers. don't stop. just answer. the young analyst, he could tell from the monitor, had a funny look on his face, obvious even through his scraggly beard. but he was cool. who are you? came back the answer. a friend. need information. fast. how many terrorists? ten. the reply appeared. but i think one was killed. plus those who came in on the sikorsky this morning, vance thought. looked like another three. then he typed in another question. what do they want? don't know. maybe use vehicles. the typing was quick and experienced. they say facility to keep operating normally. where is bates? vance typed back. is he okay? in his office. think he's okay. that's a relief, he thought. guess bill's still got some hostage value to them. tell him ulysses has landed. be of good cheer. the answer came back. who are you? i'm scared. they killed chris. i saw it. but that's probably all for a while. standard terror tactics. now erase this conversation. something was typed on the screen and their words immediately all disappeared. and just in time. . . . : p.m. rais had finished retrieving the box of krytrons from the cockpit of the huey and was headed down the elevator for the area directly below and south of the launch facility, the clean room where satcom's expensive communications satellites were going to be prepped for launch. abdoullah was a jerk, but he had been right about that: it was the obvious location to install the detonators and set the timing mechanisms. as the elevator door opened, his uzi was still holstered just below his right hip and in his hands was the box of detonators, all carefully secured in their beds of bubble-wrap. he stepped into the hallway, then headed down for the closed door of the clean room. : p.m. "william bates, i must say, made a wise choice when he hired you to run this project, miss andros," ramirez was saying. he had just lit a new cigar. "i have to commend his judgment." "well, if you think i'm doing such a great job, you'd better let me go on doing it," cally managed to answer, trying to get a grip on herself. she had her arms crossed, mainly to try to keep her hands from shaking. when chris was shot, she was so stunned she'd repressed the horror. now the numbness was wearing off and she wanted to scream. just one long wail to purge everything. she was biting her lip to try to repress the impulse. "i need to go down to the launch facility and check with the tech crews." toughen up and think, she told herself. these terrorists are up to something, and the sooner you figure out what it is, the better for everybody. "as a matter of fact"--he nodded--"i need to go down myself and see how things are proceeding. so why don't we both go, miss andros." "around here i'm called dr. andros." she was feeling her control coming back. two could play the power game. "but of course." he nodded. "in a professional environment we all like to be treated accordingly. i respect that, and expect no less myself." he surveyed the room, its satcom technicians still stunned. then his eye caught the tall, bearded iranian, salim, now lounging by the door with his uzi, and motioned him over. "get this body out of here." the iranian nodded and strolled over. cally studied him, wondering. she had been trying to size up the team for some time, and she still had not figured them all out. but this one, heavy-set and defiantly bearded, seemed somewhat at odds with the others. he clearly had no taste to clean up number one's murder; you could see it in his eyes. "where--?" "in the lobby. it's disrupting the professional environment." he nodded again and without a word grabbed chris schneider by the shoulders and began dragging him past. "dr. andros"--number one turned back to her--"already i feel closer to you than i do to half of my men. i think you and i will make a good team." "you have got to be fucking kidding." he merely laughed, then spoke to another of the terrorists, a young arab. after apparently ordering him to stay behind in command to keep an eye on things, he motioned cally to lead the way through the security doors. they edged around salim, still moving the body, and out into the lobby. the first thing she noticed was that the guard was missing from the front security station. instead a wide dark stain covered the desk. blood. she whirled on number one. "what happened to milos, you bastard?" "regrettably he is no longer with us." he shrugged, not pausing as he took her arm and shoved her on. "you mean you murdered him, too?" she felt herself about to explode. she had loved that greek, who spent more time worrying about soccer scores than he did about security. thinking about his death, she felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. "you bloodthirsty--" "please, we're going to try to be professionals, remember," he interrupted her calmly. "we will be working together in the days ahead, and animosity will serve no purpose." she thought of several responses, but squelched them all. talking wasn't going to make things any better. in that respect, he was right. talk would have no effect. they were facing the tunnel leading to the mechanical- systems sector at the other end of the island. the large metal doors, operated from the security system at the desk, had been opened, slid back, and permanently secured. the short- circuiting of the security system had disabled all the electronic locks in the facility. scrutinizing them, she felt sadness. all the months of fine-tuning and technical calibration throughout the facility, had all that effort been wasted? probably not, she suspected. these goons, true to their word, had taken great pains not to disturb anything in command. so far everything had apparently conformed to their plan, except for something to do with a helicopter. whatever that was, it had taken them by surprise. what was it? ramirez said nothing as they started down the asphalt pavement of the underground passageway. over a thousand meters long and illuminated by fluorescent lighting, its cinderblock walls were wide and high enough to accommodate a standard greek truck or two small lorries. cally noted the deserted guard desk at the far end. had he been killed as well? she wondered. "let me put your mind at ease," number one announced, as though reading her thoughts. "the other guards have merely been disarmed and locked in their quarters. as i said, we have no desire for any unnecessary bloodshed." "more lies?" she tossed her hair. "you should try to believe me. again, trust will make things easier for us both." she pushed past the doors at the end of the passageway and together they entered the first sector, launch control. beyond, another set of doors led to the giant underground installation for the superconducting coil, which fed into a massive glass tube holding the wiggler, heart of the cyclops. above that, now unseen, stood the launch vehicles, "rockets" that carried no fuel. neither was yet primed; they planned to ready the vehicle designated vx- just before launch. in fact, nothing had happened since the test the night before. tech crews were checking the instruments, knowing only that a communications breakdown with command had occurred and some strange visitors had shown up in a helicopter. something was going on, but nobody knew what. "a very impressive installation," number one said, watching as the technicians all nodded their greetings. "incidentally, there is no point in alarming any of them now. for the moment, you should just proceed normally." "that's why you're here, right?" she shot back. "to make sure there's all this normality. things were pretty normal before you and your band of thugs barged in." "we are colleagues now, dr. andros. i'm here to observe the lift-off we all are so anxious for. please, for starters i would like to tag along and have you show me around. you're a congenial guide." you bet, she thought. you'll discover how "congenial" i am soon enough. of course, she had not yet formulated a strategy. one bright spot was the voice on the radio this morning? was somebody on the island still free? she had peeked out into the lobby long enough to learn that the mysterious "guard" had shot one of the germans and then escaped. so who was it? that was what she wanted to find out next. . . . but first, business. she approached jordan jaegar, a young cal tech graduate and friend of georges who had been with the project from the start. "j.j., how long did the coil temperature stay nominal?" although he had a master's in mechanical engineering, jordan sported shoulder-length hair and had just gotten a tattoo on his right bicep--an elaborate rendering of his initials, j.j., which he much preferred to be called. he liked the fact dr. andros remembered that. "for just over twenty-one minutes," he announced with pride, his eyes discreetly taking in her hourglass figure. "long enough. then it started creeping up, but we'd have almost inserted into orbit by that time. and after twenty-nine minutes it was only five degrees celsius higher. no sweat, dr. andros." who, j.j. was wondering, was this hotshot standing next to dr. andros? he had seen a lot of satcom brass come and go, but this dude was definitely new. what was his scene? no question, though, the boss lady was really pissed about something. she also did not seem interested in introducing this new creep to anyone. fine. there was enough to worry about without more head-office brass. cally nodded. "the on-line readout in command showed that the cyclops reached saturation at twelve point three-five gigawatts." "right," j.j. agreed. "the wiggler went critical and we used the phased array to dissipate the energy." he beamed. "hell, we could have sent her up last night. the whole thing was textbook." he knew she already knew all that. but he figured there was no harm in impressing this front-office creep that all the money they'd spent hadn't been wasted. satcom was definitely on-budget from his section. management had to be happy. payoff time was just around the corner. this time next week, satcom's stock was going to be pure gold. after vx- went up, there wouldn't be any more shit from arlington. they'd be passing out stock bonuses like fucking peppermints. he figured a hot new nissan was definitely in his future. "good," dr. andros said, but she seemed distracted, having trouble staying focused. something was definitely wrong, but she was hiding it. "how about sending a data summary to my terminal in command." cally walked on past j.j., thinking as fast as she could. none of the technicians here knew what had happened. when they found out, were they going to fall apart, endangering everybody and everything? maybe, she thought; it would be better now to just continue normally as long as possible. number one, whoever he was, wasn't carrying an uzi now; instead he had a mm skillfully concealed beneath his double-breasted. it was all very stylish. he was keeping the takeover on low profile, at least down here where the vehicles were. maybe, she told herself, he doesn't feel as sure of himself here, or maybe he needs to keep their plans a secret. so they're definitely up to something. as they walked past the massive steel housings enclosing the wiggler's controls, ramirez suddenly paused and cleared his throat. "dr. andros, what is the payload for the test launching? you certainly wouldn't put a multimillion-dollar communications satellite at peril during your maiden run." he isn't stupid, she thought. he understands the economics of the satellite business. "it's just a test. with a dummy payload." "good. we will have a real payload for you. it won't be low-cost, but it will definitely get you some attention. we--" at that moment his walkie-talkie crackled. : p.m. abdoullah had completed his inspection and, together with shujat, was loading the crates back onto the small trucks intended to move them down to the clean room. "we'll have to adjust the timers very carefully," he was saying to shujat, now bent over with him, "make sure they're synched critically with the trajectory." the second pakistani engineer nodded. "right. so we'll do it when the trajectory computer runs are completed. that's scheduled for hours tonight." "sounds good." abdoullah clicked on his black walkie-talkie, a small kenwood, and tried to sound professional. "firebird two to firebird one. do you read?" there was a burst of static, and then ramirez's voice sounded. "i copy you, firebird two. any problems?" "negative. the items look in perfect condition. we are taking them down to the clean room now to install the detonators." "fine," ramirez replied. "i'll meet you there." the radio voice paused. "incidentally, be aware there is somebody loose on the island who seems a trifle out of synch with the situation." "where is he?" he was signaling for shujat to come over and listen. having a problem or two always made things more fun. "probably up at the communications complex on the mountain. so far he's only been a nuisance, but the matter will have to be resolved. in the meantime, don't let anything slow down your work. we need to be prepared for the next phase, including whatever time flexibility we might need." abdoullah did not exactly like the sound of that. he had a troubling feeling that number one wasn't exactly telling everybody the whole plan. he was not a man you instinctively trusted. who the hell was he. really. of course, in this business you didn't necessarily trust anybody, but still, when you were working together it was nice to think that everybody was on the same wavelength. in his view, a lot of questions still needed answering. like where had the money come from to mount this operation? the preparations, the bribes, the equipment and the second chopper, the sikorsky--the hind, he knew, had been stolen --the payments to all the third parties involved. everything had required money, tons of it, but the man known as number one clearly had all he needed. so how had this character come up with all those millions of bucks? his intuition told him that not everybody was going to make it to the safe house in malta when the time came. at the moment he had confidence only in rais and shujat. and rais was a jerk. in fact, he hadn't seen him since he went out to get the krytrons from the cockpit of the sikorsky, but he should be down in the clean room by now. . . . : p.m. vance heard a sound outside the clean room, footsteps. somebody was approaching, but not with a walk that suggested familiarity with the place. this might turn out to be his hoped-for break. maybe he was about to have a nice face-to-face with one of the terrorists. at last, an opportunity for some answers. he slipped back against the wall next to the door, his wet clothes chilling him in the low temperature. but he sensed that things were about to warm up. the person behind the door paused for a second, then shoved it open. a box appeared, then a face. it was young and cocky. "don't even think about making a sound, asshole." he slapped his walther against the guy's cheek, then yanked the uzi from his leg holster and pulled him into the room. next he kicked the door shut and shoved his new guest to the floor. the box he was carrying thumped down beside him. in the glare of the fluorescents the "terrorist" looked like an aging graduate student, except he was wearing a palestinian _kaffiyeh_. vance ripped it away, rolled him over, and inserted the uzi into his mouth. a metal barrel loosening the teeth, he knew, did marvels for a wiseguy's powers of concentration. that was one of the first lessons he'd picked up from the boys at arm. and this one was no exception. he stared up, genuine terror in his eyes, and moaned. "speak english? just nod." he dipped his forehead forward, eyes still in shock. "good. now we're going to play twenty questions. that's about the number of teeth you've got, so each time i get an answer i don't buy, one of them goes. and when we run out of teeth, you won't be able to talk any more, so i'll just blow your head off. okay, how're we doing? we understand each other so far?" he nodded again and gave an airless grunt. "great. looks like we're on a roll. now, how many more of your team is in there? hold up fingers. very slowly. i was never good at fast arithmetic." his eyes were cloudy, but he managed to lift five fingers. this guy is one of the new arrivals, vance thought. i counted three of them. so that means two others are down here as well. those first guys were the pros, but this kid barely knows which end of an uzi to hold. "do they know you came back here?" he rattled the barrel of the uzi around in his mouth, just to keep him focused. again he nodded, even more terrified. okay, he thought, we're going to have to make this a short chat. "are there hostages down here?" again the man nodded. "how many?" he just shrugged, clearly having no idea. well, vance thought, maybe it's time to get this show on the road. he slowly removed the barrel, then ripped off a portion of the kaffiyeh lying on the floor, balled it, and stuffed it into his mouth. next he tore off a longer strip and tied it around his head, securing the gag. the eyes were still terrified. "by the way," he said, "what's in the box?" a new look of even-greater horror entered the eyes. he's really scared now, vance thought. interesting. "well, well, maybe we ought to take a look." he reached over and opened the lid. there, nestled inside several layers of bubble-wrap, were what looked like large, oversized blue transistors. bingo, he thought, what have we here? could it be these are the tickets to the upcoming show. this ain't chopped liver. "okay, pal, on your feet. we're going to get moving. just you and me. and we're going to take along your little box of toys. you can tell me what they are later." the young terrorist started to rise, gingerly. "see that opening over there"--he pointed--"where the wires enter into the conduit? we're going through there, you first. you're about to have some experience in mountain climbing. the workout might do you good." that was when the door opened. chapter nine : p.m. vance cocked the pakistani's uzi and trained it on the door, not sure what to do. the fear was that he might inadvertently kill a friendly. hostage situations always presented that harrowing possibility. quick identifications and quick decisions were what made good antiterrorist teams. he was afraid he had neither skill. he wasn't even that great a shot. but events were to break his way for a change. as the door swung in, he saw a woman framed there. he needed only to lock eyes with her to know she was a friendly. okay, one id out of the way. then a man behind her, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, reached out to seize her and pull her in front of him. no good. as vance watched, mesmerized, she elbowed him in the chin, sending him reeling backward and out into the hallway. then, before he could recover, she slammed the door, using her other elbow to hit the blue airlock button next to the frame. with electronic efficiency, the red "sealed" light above the door blinked on and bolts around the edges clicked into place. she turned, still shaking, and looked at him. "please tell me you're not one of them, too." "no way. i'm just a tourist." vance examined her and liked her on the spot. she was a stunner, with dark hair and an eye-catching sweater emblazoned with the satcom logo-- one of those take-charge women made for the modern age. exhibit a: she'd just iced the thug in the hallway. "and who are you?" instead of answering, she glanced over at the pakistani, his mouth gagged. "i see you've already met one of our new guests." "we got acquainted informally. not exactly a meaningful relationship." he stared at the door, wondering how long it would hold. "by the way, is that guy outside who i think he is? didn't he just shoot somebody in your control room?" "he did. and you were probably about to be next." she took time to examine him more closely. he couldn't tell if she liked what she saw, but her look quickly turned to puzzlement. "you're soaking wet." "i had an afternoon dip." "what? you swam here?" she looked about the room, then back. "how--" "in a manner of speaking." "who are you?" "mike vance." he extended his hand. "friend of bill's. it's a long story. in real life i run a sailboat charter operation back in the bahamas. and you?" "cally andros. i run this place, or at least i did until last night." she shook his hand, tentatively. "so what are you doing here?" "as i said, just an island tourist. but i've got to tell you, greek hospitality isn't what it used to be." he reached down and picked up the box with the krytrons. "now what do you say we get out of here before that guy outside comes blasting in?" "through that door?" she laughed. 'that's an inch and a half of steel. even better, it's fail-safe, which means that if the electronics fail, it stays in the locked mode anyway." he liked her snappy answers. "nothing lasts forever. i strongly recommend we do ourselves a favor and move along." he turned and indicated the open panel where the wiring entered. "how does the back way sound to you?" "you came in through there?" she clearly was startled. "you're either very smart, or very stupid. that's where--" "i'll tell you what's really stupid. standing around while those goons figure out how to take out that door. because there's something in here i've got a feeling they're going to want back very badly." "you mean him?" she pointed at the pakistani, still gagged, hunching down on the floor. 'this one? doubt that. he's just a water carrier. no, i'm talking about the gadgets inside this box." "what . . . ?" "check them out." he passed it over. "what do you think?" she lifted out one of the glass-covered units, three wires extending from one end, and her dark eyes widened. "my god, do you know what this is?" 'tell me." "it's a krytron." she rotated it in her hand, gently, as though it were crystal. "i've never actually seen one before, only pictures. you can trigger a nuclear device with one of these. they're worth millions on the black market." "guess we just made the fortune five hundred." he laughed. "if we live long enough to cash them in. should be lots of buyers around the middle east." "do you realize--?" 'the nightmare's finally come true? looks that way." he sighed. "terrorists are building a bomb. or, more likely, they've managed to steal one somewhere." "one?" she shivered from the cold and pulled at her sweater. 'there must be more than one, if they've got all these detonators." "but a bomb is just another chunk of enriched uranium without these, right?" "well, if they're planning to do more than threaten . . . oh, my god." she froze. "that explains why they've got georges changing trajectories. they--" "what! are they tinkering with your rockets?" "so far just the computer-guidance part. but if they put a bomb on vx- , who knows what they could end up doing?" "how does nuclear blackmail sound? but nobody goes to this much trouble just to shake down a corporation. there're lots of easier ways." he paused to ponder. ten to one it's not satcom they're holding for ransom. they're aiming for a lot higher stakes. they're probably planning to shake down a country somewhere. no prizes for guessing which one." "the u.s.," she guessed anyway. "think they can get away with it?" "probably not without these." he closed the box. "maybe we've just pulled the plug. so let's take these and get out of here." she glanced down at the surly pakistani. "what about him?" "we could take him with us, as a bargaining chip, but i don't think he's worth the bother." vance reached over and turned his face up. "how about it? do your buddies out there care whether you live or die?" his eyes betrayed his fear they did not. "didn't really think so," vance revolved back. "i say we leave him. they'll probably execute him anyway, for being a screw-up and losing these." he tucked the box under his arm, then turned back one last time. 'tell your chief we're going to take good care of them. they're the world's insurance policy." he pointed toward the opening into the wiring shaft. "want to go first?" 'the conduit?" she frowned. "you get used to it. it's just--" "i really can't believe any of this is happening." she turned, walked over, and--with only minor hesitation--began climbing through. at that moment, the pakistani suddenly rolled to his feet and lunged for the sealed door. vance whirled to try and catch him, but it was too late. he had already thrown his body against the release button. the seal clicked off, and in an instant their security evaporated. "go!" he turned back and yelled, but she was already through. what now? he wondered fleetingly. stay and shoot it out, or disappear. the second option had more appeal. he dived for the open grate of the conduit, but the door was already opening. the paki couldn't yell, but when the door slid back, he pushed through . . . and was cut down by a fusillade of automatic-weapons fire. the impact blew him back into the room, sending his riddled body full length across the floor. vance swung around the uzi and laid down a blast of covering fire through the doorway, which had the effect of clearing the opening for a second. he got off a couple of last rounds, just for good measure, then turned and hurled himself into the communications shaft. no sooner had he pulled himself inside than rounds of fire began ricocheting through behind him. the aim, however, was wide, and he managed to flatten himself and stay out of the way. then the firing abruptly stopped. they must have seen what's in here, he realized, all the wiring. "are you all right?" it was cally's voice, somewhere in the dark ahead. "i'm doing fine." he paused, hating the next part. "only one small problem." "what--?" "i managed to drop our insurance policy on the floor in there. they're back in business." : p.m. isaac mannheim checked his watch and then gazed down the hill, marking the time with growing impatience. coping with inactivity, he felt, was the most extraordinarily difficult task in life. in fact, he never understood how anybody could retire, when three lifetimes would not be adequate for all one's dreams. the tall man who had saved his life earlier in the day had departed almost an hour and a half ago. where was he? this waiting around was not accomplishing a damned thing. he rose off the rock where he'd been sitting, and stretched. enough of this lollygagging about; he had to get down there and find out what was happening. already he assumed that something had interfered with the schedule. this afternoon's agenda included a communications power-up of the servomechanisms that guided the phased-array transmitter through the trajectory. he had even warned the tall stranger about it before he descended into the conduit. well, he seemed to carry luck around with him, because the power-up had begun, then suddenly halted. but that meant somebody was mucking with the timetable. it was necessary to stop these people, whoever they were, from causing any more interference. in times like these, he figured, it paid to be pragmatic. so give them a piece of whatever it was they wanted and they'd go away. it always worked. even the student sit-ins of the sixties could have been tamed with a few gestures, a handful of concessions. if he'd been in charge, the problem would have disappeared. so this time he would take the initiative. these people had no reason to want to stop the project--which meant, logically, that they had to be after something else. so why not just let them have it and then get on with matters? after squinting at his watch one last time, he shrugged and started down the hill, working his way through the rocks and scrub brush. the sun beat down fiercely, making him thirsty and weak, while the sharp rocks pierced the lightweight shoes he had worn for the plane. but the other, sturdier pair he had packed was lost with the helicopter. . . . well, so be it. the first rule of life was to make do with what you had, manage around problems, and he intended to do exactly that. shrugging again, he gingerly continued his climb. on his left he was passing the landing pad, with the slightly beat up agusta, the sight of which momentarily discomfited him. but surely bates had it insured. still, the whole business was damned irritating, start to finish. as he walked onto the asphalt of the connecting roadway and headed for the entrance to command, he puzzled over how these thugs could have penetrated the facility in the first place and why security had not handled the problem. that was bloody well what satcom was paying its layabout greek guards to do. thev should have nipped the whole mess in the bud. he turned and scanned the mountain one last time, but still spied nobody. the chap who saved his life must have gotten lost. or killed. with a shrug he walked directly up to the satcom entry lobby and shoved open the glass door. to his surprise nobody was manning the security station. and an ominous dark stain covered the desk. why hadn't anybody cleaned that up? readying his lecture, he dug out his security card and headed across toward the door to command. : p.m. "let them go," ramirez said. "we have what we need." he bent down and picked up the box. "what about the woman?" wolf helling asked. "can we work without her?" "she'll be back." ramirez seemed to be thinking aloud. "i'll see to it." "but--" "there are ways." he cut him off. "it's not a problem." "what do you want us to do here?" helling inquired finally, skepticism in his voice. he stepped over to look at the body of rais, staring down dispassionately. one less amateur to deal with. he had shot the pakistani by accident, but the kid was unreliable. and this job had no room for unreliability. "just get on with arming the devices," he said, checking his rolex. "i'm going back to command." it's time, he was thinking, for an important phone call. : p.m. "i figure it like this," vance said, trying to sound confident. "we take out the guy in charge, behead the dragon, and we've solved a large part of the problem. he seems to like shooting people, even his own men." he paused, then looked at her. "by the way, do you know who he is? could be a real help." "i have no idea," cally said, shaking her head. "just that he's a killer." she was straightening her clothes after climbing out of the conduit and through the heat exchanger. "he murdered chris for no reason. why would he do that?" her voice began to choke, and she stopped. vance reached over and patted her hand. she had been through a lot. "he needs to scare you and everybody working for you. but try and hang on. you'll be getting some professional reinforcements soon. a few friends of mine known as arm." "arm? isn't that the security bunch that wired this facility in the first place?" she stared at him, then made a face. "some job." "what can i say?" he winced. "they don't usually have these problems." "and now these same guys are going to come back and save us? that's really comforting." "try thinking positive." it was the best he could do. she clearly viewed that response as inadequate, but she was too exhausted to argue. "well, at this point i don't have any better ideas. but i'm worried about what may happen if there's a lot of shooting." "part of our job is to try and make sure nobody gets hurt. keep the friendlies out of harm's way." "great." her spunk was coming back. "we're probably going to have to keep them out of the way of your incompetent rescuers as well." "have faith. these guys've had plenty of experience. it won't be the first time." "and what about you?" she looked him over again. "how much experience have you had?" "you want an honest answer?" "i take it that means none." "pretty close. so till they get here we just ad-lib." he settled under a tree and leaned back against the trunk. "now, how about describing their leading man. i didn't get a very good look at him." she was quiet for a moment, as though to collect her memories, and then she produced a description so thorough it would have impressed a mossad intelligence officer. by the time she finished, vance was grinning. "well, what do you know. he's alive after all. looks like arm is in for some unfinished business." "what do you mean?" "i think you just described somebody who slipped past pierre in beirut about five years ago. he's been in the terrorist game a long, long time, but he hasn't been heard from since. everybody started believing he was dead. or hoping." "you know who he is?" "it could only be one guy. sabri ramirez." he felt mixed emotions. this would be a real prize for pierre and the others, if they could get him. the problem was getting him. nobody had ever managed to come close. "who's that?" vance wondered if he really ought to tell her. or shade the truth down a bit. "let me put it like this. he's no ordinary criminal. he's probably murdered a hundred people if you added up all the bombings. mossad has been trying to assassinate the bastard for fifteen years." vance leaned back, his mind churning, and touched his fingertips together. "this puts things in a whole new perspective. i knew he was a pro, had to be, but we're about to go up against the world's number-one terrorist. the king." his blue eyes grew thoughtful. "i've got to warn pierre asap. the tactics may have to be changed." "what's that supposed to mean?" "if ramirez thinks he's trapped, he'll just lash out. always happens. he goes crazy and gets irrational when he's cornered, which means negotiations are useless." "jesus." she shuddered, her eyes seeming to go momentarily blank. "i didn't sign on for this." "makes two of us." he settled back in the grass, then yanked up a handful, fresh and fragrant, and sniffed it. "i came for sun and sea. not to help re-kill a dead man." "what's that supposed to mean?" she plopped down beside him under the tree. "seems reasonable to guess he's been quote dead unquote for five years because he wants to be. it's not a bad condition to be in. for one thing, people stop looking for you. you can start reusing your old hideaways. and then you can put together a really big score. the hyena returns." "the hyena?" "that's what mossad calls him. the story is he hates it, but it sort of sums up his line of work. the hyena. the world's number-one killer-for- hire." "god. i knew there was something about him, although in a way he seemed so . . . the man in the brooks brothers suit. but when he gunned down chris in cold blood . . . still, this goes way beyond anything i could ever have dreamed." "looks like satcom just made the big time. right up there with the opec ministers he kidnapped in , then auctioned off all over the middle east. this is even bigger. it's going to be the crown jewel of his career." he stopped to muse. "what's it like to be famous and officially dead at the same time?" "maybe the best thing would be if he were really dead." "you read my mind." : p.m. "mr. president." it was the voice of alicia on the intercom. 'there's a call holding on line three. it's dr. mannheim." he glanced up, distracted. in the interest of more space, the operation had moved from the oval office to the cabinet room, where stuart's wooden-jawed portrait of george washington gazed down on the papers strewn around the eight-sided table. seated there with him were his chief of staff, morton davies; the special assistant for national security affairs, theodore brock; head of the joint chiefs, ed briggs; as well as the head of the cia and the secretary of defense. the vice president was giving a speech at a california fund-raiser, but his contribution was not particularly desired, or missed. let him make speeches and wave the flag. he reached over and picked up the handset. "tell him i'll get back to him. is he at home?" "he's calling from somewhere in greece. the satcom--" "damn. can't i call him back? i really don't have time--" "i think you might want to take this, sir." her voice was crisp and neutral as always, but he knew what the edge in her intonation meant. this is priority. "satcom?" suddenly it clicked. he had been too distracted for the name to register at first. "he's almost babbling. something about a helicopter. he's--" "put him on. and have the damned thing traced." he hit the speaker button. "isaac. what's--" "johan, he's got a gun at my head." the voice was unmistakable. it had made students quake for forty years. it had made _him _quake. now it was quivering. he had never heard his old professor in such a state. very, very unlike isaac. "dr. mannheim?" "they made me call this number. i know i'm not supposed--" "who's they?" the connection was intermittent, but he still could make it out. "the . . ." he paused, then seemed to be reading. "the resistance front for a free europe. they've taken over the satcom facility here, everybody. they shot down my helicopter. they killed--" "what did you say? helicopter?" hansen's pulse quickened. was isaac talking about the israeli hind that had attacked the glover? and what was this resistance front--for something or other . . . "free europe?" europe was already free. maybe too damned free, given all the ethnic turmoil. the connection chattered, then another voice sounded. hansen noted a trace of an accent, but he couldn't identify it. "johan hansen, this is to inform you that all the american engineers here are safe at the moment. we have no desire to harm anyone. we merely want our demand addressed." hansen glanced at brock, who nodded, then pushed a button next to the phone that allowed him to record both sides of the conversation. "this had better not be a prank." "it's no prank. the staff of satcom is now hostage." "listen, whoever you are, the united states of america doesn't negotiate with hostage takers. we never have before and we're not about to start now." "i'm afraid the rules of the past no longer apply. in fact, i have no desire to negotiate either. there is nothing to negotiate. we have a very simple demand. and you have no alternative." "you've got that backwards, whoever you are. you have no alternatives. you can release whatever hostages you have and get the hell out of there. that's your one option." "we would be delighted to comply. as i said to you, we merely have a small nonnegotiable demand. i assume we are being recorded, but you may wish to take notes nonetheless. in case you have any questions." "if you're talking about ransom, i can tell you now it's absolutely unthinkable." "that kind of intransigence will get us nowhere." he sighed, a faint hiss over the line, and then continued. "you may consider our demand as merely a small repayment to the muslim peoples, large portions of whose homeland america has seen fit to devastate. that payment will be eight hundred million dollars, to be delivered according to conditions that will be specified by fax. i assume you will wish some time to make the arrangements. you have twenty-four hours." "you're out of your mind," hansen said firmly. "you've got a hell of a nerve even--" "don't make me repeat myself. i will fax you the bank information. as i said, you have twenty-four hours. if you have not wire-transferred the funds by that time, an american military installation in europe will be incinerated. and without your frigate glover, sent to spy on the islamic peoples of the region, you will have no inkling where that installation will be." "just what do you think you're going to do?" "the same thing america once did to japan. only this time with a little help from one of your so-called 'non-nuclear' allies." hansen pulled up short. was this the nightmare every u.s. president had feared--a nuclear device in the hands of terrorists. no, this took it one step further; the terrorists had just seized the means to deliver the device. it was that nightmare compounded. he glanced at ed briggs, whose face had just turned ashen. they both were thinking the same thing: what kind of military action was possible? the answer was not going to be simple. then he turned back to the phone. "listen, i want . . ." he paused, because the line had gone dead. : p.m. "how does an eta of hours sound to you?" dimitri spiros was using an unsecured radio, but he had no choice. "that'll give us about twenty-nine hours. enough time to get everything together." "i'll have the welcome mat out." vance's radio voice was interrupted periodically with static. the man sounded stressed out, but spiros had already interrogated him about the overall situation. "our plan right now is to come in by seaplane, set down two klicks to the north, and stage the actual insertion using zodiacs. pierre wants to get everything together here in athens by hours tomorrow. that's firm. we'll have a briefing and then--you know the rest." "try not to overfly this place. it's pretty small and there are lots of islands down in this part of the world." "michael, i'm greek, for godsake." he bristled. "we'll make it, seas permitting. and the weather looks like a go for now." "all right, here's the drill. right now there are friendlies in command and down at launch. you have the plans for that, right?" "right. and how about the bates motel?" "the living quarters? at the moment i think they've got some friendlies in there, too, but it's currently cut off from the rest of the facility, no communications of any kind, and it's not heavily guarded. we can worry about it last. the heavy hitters and the hardware will be at the two other places." "what else do you know?" spiros pressed. "it gets even better. these guys have got at least one nuclear device. all signs are they have plans--probably to use the cyclops system for delivery." "i don't like the sound of that," spiros said. "who's leading it?" "this is the very best part. i think it might be ramirez." "sabri? the hyena?" "could be." he snorted in disbelief. "no way. the kommissar has had him dead for three years." "the hyena has many lives. i actually got a look at him. plastic surgery, maybe, but i've got a feeling it's none other than." there was a pause as vance seemed to be checking something. "you know, we probably should cut this short. these guys have long ears. but just a word of warning: don't underestimate what he's capable of. i saw him shoot a staffer here in cold blood, just to get everybody's attention. when the time comes, things are going to get rough." "that's how we're used to playing. until somebody shows us a better way." "well, there's a good chance they're planning to arm at least one of the vehicles. after that it's anybody's guess." "nuclear blackmail?" "could be. anyway, the fun part is, i got hold of the triggering mechanisms. for about five minutes." "and then you politely gave them back?" "it's a long story." "aren't they all," spiros said. then, "well, do us all a favor, stay alive till we can make the insertion." "that's an idea i could get with." "by the way, do you have anything on their schedule? when does the balloon go up?" "i don't know. you might hear something at your end. ramirez has got to be talking to somebody by now. demands, the usual. we need to find out what he wants. maybe it'll all be over by the time you get here." "don't count on it. these things take a while. in the meantime, i'll get pierre to have hans chat up the kommissar. if germany's intel computer files have anything, he can probably pull it out quick enough." "i do have another information source." vance paused. "a new partner. and she's tough." "she? what the hell are you talking about? michael, this is not really the time for such things." "i should get to fraternize with the hostages. one of the perks. otherwise what do i get out of this job? she also happens to be the one who runs this place. she gave ramirez the slip." a laugh sounded over the line, mixed with the static. "incidentally, she doesn't think too much of your security job." "very funny." spiros's gruff voice suggested he didn't mean it. "but maybe you should send her back inside. might actually be safer there." "highly doubtful." "all right. what about bates?" "the word is he's still okay. but they know who he is and i expect they'll put on the pressure when the time comes. there's an old professor here, too, the guy who dreamed this whole thing up, and they've got him. name's mannheim. first name isaac. why don't you find out anything you can about him. i had him here with me, but when i went down to reconnoiter, he disappeared. my guess is he wandered off and got himself taken." "sounds like you're on the case. let's synchronize and talk again tomorrow at hours, local." "okay. we're counting on you. don't mind telling you i'm scared. we're outgunned and ramirez has started killing people." "michael, we're working as fast as we can. just be by a radio tomorrow." dimitri spiros switched off the microphone and lapsed into troubled thought. : p.m. events were getting serious enough that the operation had been moved down to the situation room, in the white house basement. scarcely twenty feet on a side, it was dominated by a teak conference table, with leather-bound chairs lining the walls. although it appeared cramped by corporate standards, especially when the full national security council met, its close quarters intensified the focus needed for international crisis management. besides, in the new age of electronic decisions, it was state-of-the-art, making up in technology what it lacked in spaciousness. installed behind the dark walnut panels that covered three of the walls was the latest in high-tech electronic equipment, including a variety of telecommunications terminals, video monitors, and apparatus for projecting and manipulating images on the large screen on the fourth wall--normally concealed by a drawn curtain but now open and ready. "we'll have to work through joint special operations command," the president was saying as he looked around the room. the five people there were intensely at work--their coat jackets crumpled across the chairs, shirt sleeves pushed back, ties loosened or off. they included chief of staff morton davies, special assistant for national security affairs ted brock, and head of the joint chiefs ed briggs. "so we're about to find out if this country has any counterterrorist assault capability." special operations command had been created in the eighties after the string of embarrassing communication snafus during the grenada invasion. headquartered at macdill air force base in florida, it had overall control and supervision of america's major commando units. "i guess the first decision they'll have to make," he continued, "is who we should send in." there were two options. the navy had a -frogman unit, sea-air-land team six, operating out of the little creek naval amphibious base near norfolk, virginia. seal team six specialized in underwater demolitions, clandestine coastal infiltrations, hand-to-hand operations. the other unit trained to carry out hostage-rescue missions was delta force, headquartered in a classified installation at fort bragg. the seals were high profile, whereas everybody denied the very existence of delta's assault team--called "shooters" in military parlance. delta force was probably the worst-kept secret in america. "shouldn't we hold up a minute and talk first about the hostages?" morton davies wondered aloud. "how much risk is there?" "there's always risk," hansen declared. "with anything you do in this office, there's always a downside. what was it harry truman said about the place where the buck stops? well, i've got an uncomfortable feeling i'm about to find out what he was talking about." he turned and hit the intercom. "alicia, get hold of admiral cutter and tell him to get over here. we've got to get special operations in on this asap." "yes, sir," came the quick reply. despite the migraine now increasing her tension, she continued to offer johan hansen total support. in fact, she rejoiced at the opportunity. his wife, off somewhere dedicating flower parks in america's inner cities, certainly provided none. that, at least, was what alicia winston preferred to think. "another worry i've got," the president continued after he had clicked off the intercom, "is how to keep this out of the press as long as possible. if there's any truth to their bomb hints, we'll need to try and minimize the panic factor. from here on, every aspect, even the smallest insignificant detail, is classified. top secret." 'the israelis will most certainly get with that," ted brock observed wryly, nervously cleaning his horn-rims for what seemed the tenth time that hour. the strain was all over his face. "now," the president continued, "satcom is on andikythera. do we have any kh- photoint of the island here yet?" "it's in, mr. president," briggs said, then pushed two green buttons on an electronic console on the conference table. a photo came up on the screen behind them, a dull black-and-white rectangle. 'that's it?" hansen said, annoyed. he scanned the photo, then looked around. "ed, there's not enough detail here to use. how long before we can get some computer enhancement of this? a blowup." "i thought you would want that," briggs answered, "so i've already made the arrangements. we're on-line to nsa. we should be able to get it in about ten minutes." "then we'll wait." he switched off the screen and turned back. "okay, we have to start planning our first move. for the moment let's talk about logistics. if we have to make an insert, what do we need?" "well, to begin with, isa would have to have twenty-four hours, minimum, to get somebody in there on the ground to gather enough intel to support a move," briggs announced, almost apologetically. the president sighed. isa was the army's intelligence support activity, which provided intelligence for delta force and seal team six. as an intelligence organization, isa was required to secure central intelligence agency approval before entering foreign countries--which meant institutional gridlock and bureaucratic tie-ups before they could even get started. "then forget it. we'll just have to use satellite photoint and pray. the next problem is, who can we get there and how long would it take?" he knew that the air force's special operations wing and the army task force supported long-range missions by delta force and the seals. were they ready? "well, let's back up a second,'' briggs interjected. "we can't just send in a task force cold. they'd need to practice an assault on something resembling the same kind of terrain." no country in europe, the president knew, had ever given permission for american commando bases on their territory. so why would they suddenly permit an assault rehearsal? "that's going to be a tough sell. we're talking about greek soil. but if these terrorists really have a nuclear device, then the government of greece might well take an interest in what happens to it. still, we don't know for sure. it'd be--" "they'd damned well better take an interest," briggs declared. "if these terrorists plan a demonstration bombing, they could just be thinking about the air and naval facility at souda bay. which would mean taking out the western end of crete. every anti-american in the world would doubtless cheer. they'd claim that our presence in a country makes it a military target. there'd be a groundswell of sentiment worldwide to send us packing. everywhere." the chief of staff was thinking. "do you suppose these fuckers have really got a bomb? what did he mean about checking with our closest allies?" the president had already been pondering that. "well, the israelis have a nuclear arsenal, of course, but they also have enough safeguards to take care of anything. they even shot down one of their own planes once when it accidentally strayed over the dimona plutonium-reprocessing facility. nobody is going to steal one of theirs. the same goes for south africa." "so who does that leave?" stubbs asked. he had a feeling he already knew. "let's save the obvious for last," hansen answered. "and let me give you a quick briefing on who's in the bomb business on this planet. it just happens to be a particular interest of mine." he leaned back. "in the middle east proper, only one country presently has full capability. that is, obviously, israel. they have, in fact, a lot more bombs than anybody realizes. their plutonium-reprocessing plant at dimona extracts plutonium from the spent fuel in their research reactor there, and cia claims they've got at least two hundred strategic nuclear weapons. normal plutonium bombs need eight kilograms of the stuff, but we think they've come up with a sophisticated way to make one with five. then there're the tactical nukes. they've got nuclear artillery shells, nuclear landmines in the golan heights, and hundreds of low-yield neutron bombs. that's more or less common knowledge, but what's less well known is that they've also got fusion capability-- h-bombs. which, god help us, i assume is not our problem here today. then there's libya, though they're still trying to get enough enriched uranium together to become a credible threat. having only one or two bombs means that if you start anything, somebody else is going to finish it, so you need a lot before you get going. iraq, thankfully, has been put out of business. of course, there's still india, which has plenty of unrestricted plutonium and they've even claimed they could make a bomb in a month. we happen to think they've already done it. because . . ." he paused. "because we know damned well pakistan has." "there's your non-caucasian in the fuel supply," davies noted. "the fuckers." the special assistant for national security affairs, theodore brock, who happened to be black, did not find davies' alabama good-old-boy remark especially amusing. "exactly," hansen continued, wondering when he would have a good public excuse to send davies to greener pastures. 'that's got to be the 'ally' the bastard was talking about. it's a muslim country, and their controls are a joke. it's the obvious choice." brock agreed solemnly. "we can start with an inquiry through their embassy. but it's going to be sticky." the president nodded, wishing he had a hot line to the desk of every head of state in the world. it would make this kind of crisis so much more manageable. part of the problem, he thought, was how do you ask somebody if they've lost something that they've never admitted having in the first place? a marvel of diplomacy was in order. still, he would have to do it. at worst, a denial wouldn't prove the terrorists did not have a bomb, but if the answer was affirmative, then knowing the size of the device could be crucial. "we're receiving the enhanced satellite photos now." briggs was pulling the first sheet off the machine. "looks like ten-meter grids." he scanned over it. "but i don't see much. there're two big rockets here, but they seem to be all right." "which is in line with their threat to use them," hansen observed dryly. "i don't suppose a surgical air strike is possible?" briggs wondered aloud. if the gulf war had shown anything, it was the power of air superiority. hansen tried unsuccessfully to smile. "you're asking me to go to the greek government and ask them if they would mind terribly if we bombed one of the islands in their aegean tourist paradise, their cash cow. and, by the way, we'd probably kill a few hundred greek civilians in the process. but we'd explain that we need to do this because i got an unsettling phone call. with no proof of anything." he sighed. "keep thinking. this has to be a commando insertion. and, frankly, i'd just as soon athens got a phone call after it happened, not before. for a lot of reasons." "you know, there's something funny right here." briggs was bent over, squinting. "here, next to what appears to be a radar complex." he looked up. "gentlemen, i think i've located our hind. or what's left of it. looks like it was smashed into the side of the mountain, just below where the radars are." "let me have a look." the president stepped over. "you mean there?" he picked up a magnifying glass. "i'm no expert, but whatever it is, it's big. it could be a soviet assault helicopter, you're right." "there appear to be two other choppers on the site as well." briggs continued to study the photo. "one down here on the helipad looks to be a light commercial model. but there's another one over here, down by the launch vehicles. it's bigger." the president looked. "you're right. i see them. that big one down by the vehicles is probably how they brought in the damned bomb, if they actually have one. most likely the hind wasn't up to the job, maybe took some fire from the glover. so they used a second one to deliver the package. nice logistics." "too damned nice. i'm beginning to believe this is in no way a hoax." "roger." ted brock had been on the phone and now was hanging up. "that was special operations command, sir. cutter's people want to use a delta task force, but they'll need at least forty-eight hours to get them in place for an operation." "forty-eight hours!" hansen exploded. "our crack counterterrorist assault force needs two days just to get into position to do what they're trained for?" "well, we'll be using an air force c- to deploy the deltas to souda bay. and then they'd need at least two combat talons for the final insertion. those are all kept down at the air force's first special operations wing, you know, hurlburt field in florida." "i know that, ted," hansen said. brock nodded sheepishly, then continued. "well, after the insertion, they'd need support from our long-range hh- pave-low choppers, but only three are flying at the moment. and--" "i get the picture." the president cut him off. "transportation is lousy and half the equipment we need is somewhere else or in maintenance. any other bad news?" "one thing, an assault would have to be at night. it's the only way that makes any sense. which means more special equipment. if they go in during daylight, it's going to be a slaughter of the hostages, particularly if these bastards are armed the way we have to assume. and from the looks of everything so far, i'd say they know how the game is played. which means that even if we do our best, it's going to be tricky. they're going to assume we're coming. the way i figure it, even with no rehearsals, forty-eight hours would be tight." "we invest millions training the finest counterterrorist units in the world and then they can't be deployed in less than half a week?" he exhaled angrily, remembering a classified internal pentagon study that claimed the best time to launch a successful assault with the least number of casualties among hostages was within twenty-four hours of their capture. "it's a goddamn outrage." "forty-eight hours, minimum, mr. president. and even so, that's pushing it." he squirmed. "there's a lot of paperwork that'll have to be processed, and--" "well, tell cutter to get the special forces mobilized and moving," hansen interjected. "in the meantime, our job is going to be to try and find out what happened. do they really have a nuke, and if they do, how in hell did they get it and what are they planning to do with it?" chapter ten : p.m. "it's very simple," ramirez said to jean-paul moreau. after the phone call, he had sent mannheim to the bates motel and returned to launch. let washington stew awhile. they were probably now trying to figure out how to get their antiterrorist units into greece. their nightmare logistics would be fun to watch. "we have to find them. and get him. alive if possible, but we can't be fussy. the time to do it will be just after midnight, when we're finished here." moreau disagreed. "i'd say the sooner the better. the longer they're free, the more problems they can cause." crossing ramirez was not something to be done lightly, but he felt strongly that the operation was not going as smoothly as it should have. it was time for a little damage control. "well, he's probably back on the mountain," ramirez said calmly. "if you want to, then go on up and get him. take the rpg- ; it's light. but be careful you don't damage anything." he was right about the weight. at slightly over ten kilos, the rpg- was one of the best bangs-for-the-ounce around. it was a guerrilla special, a soviet-designed mm launcher that loosed a rocket with an oversize hollow-charge rocket-warhead mm in diameter. fired from the shoulder, it was deadly against lightly armored vehicles and structures. used on personnel, it was lethal. they had brought along a pakistani clone of the latest soviet model, a two-piece version that was easy to move about, yet assembled quickly. "but remember," ramirez went on, "so far all we have to show for trying to take out this nuisance is a wrecked helo. don't botch it again." "that was because you left the work to german amateurs," moreau remarked dryly. "this time i'll take care of it myself. personally." "i'm counting on that," ramirez said, his eyes expressionless behind his gray shades. : p.m. "we'll be working together, kid," dore peretz was saying. "we're a team." he swept back his mane of salt-and-pepper hair, then moved next to georges lefarge. the young engineer didn't like anything about the israeli, right down to the cheap aftershave he was wearing, but he had to admit the guy seemed unfazed by all the hardware that controlled big benny, the fujitsu supercomputer. it was a correct assessment. dore peretz was definitely in his element. he had taken his ph.d. from the university of chicago in , then returned to israel to accept a high-paying research job at the weizman institute, israel's top- secret nuclear facility near tel aviv. during the next seven years he had advanced to the level of senior institute scientist, becoming an expert in every technology connected with nuclear weapons. from the specialty of mass destruction he graduated to another hot topic--the emerging preeminence of smart weapons. conventional delivery technologies, the war in the gulf had shown, were no match for the new "smart" antimissile systems. it was back to the drawing board. what israel needed in her arsenal was the next generation of weaponry. he had gone on to head up a research team that played computerized war games, studying the "what ifs" of whole new generations of technologies matched against each other. the end result of this fascination was that he became a computer and missile-guidance expert--which, when added to his knowledge of nuclear weapons, made him a double-threat man. it also made him perfect for what sabri ramirez wanted to do. when ramirez found him, he already had departed the institute, and also for reasons that suited ramirez perfectly. whereas dore peretz had an iq off the scale, his social development was considered--even by those who tried to like him--as scarcely progressed beyond the infantile. his was an independent . . . make that irreverent . . . temperament that was bound to clash with the bureaucracy of a straitlaced place like the institute. he had particular trouble fitting in with the deadly- serious, high-security environment that surrounded military contract research. the problem had been obvious from the first day he arrived, but his genius was such that it had been overlooked and worked around by both sides. his final rupture with the israeli defense establishment resulted from what--to his mind--was a totally compelling event. he had personally developed a computer-assist program that provided special procedures for the quick arming of a nuclear device in case israel found itself facing an imminent attack. it was important, and it worked. he had expected, reasonably enough, a rousing financial tribute for this effort, or at the very least a citation. what he got instead was screwed. when the yearly summary of technical research arrived on his desk january last, he discovered the computer program had been "created" by the vice president in charge of his section, with the "assistance" of someone named dr. d. peretz. a reaming by an incompetent bureaucrat whom he had hated from the beginning was the last straw. he resigned in traditional style, papering the institute with a fusillade of memos that reviewed in detail the failings of its top management and then for good measure scrambling the electronic combination on his personal safe as he was readying to walk out the door. at that point he did not know what he wanted to do next, but he was damned sure it would not involve further interaction with a bureaucracy. being no dummy, he also fully anticipated the response to his outrage. and sure enough, he found he had transformed himself into a high- profile security risk that mossad suddenly found very interesting. israel's intelligence service remembered all too well the case of mordecai vanunu, the thirty-one-year-old technician who had worked at the plutonium separation facility at the dimona complex for nine years, then left in a huff and sold pictures and a detailed description of the facility to the london sunday times. mossad had no intention of letting it happen again. dore peretz was interrogated for weeks, threatened repeatedly, then placed under close surveillance. they had no grounds to arrest him, but they were going to intimidate the hell out of him. their harassment, however, achieved precisely the opposite effect. they galvanized his anger. in a degree of soul searching quite foreign to his normal mental activity, he found himself wondering why he owed israel such allegiance in the first place. this was their thanks for all his service. so why not give it back to the bastards, in spades? he became a "scientific adviser" to the plo. that only confirmed mossad's fears and intensified their harassment: his phone was tapped, his mail opened, his stylish tel aviv apartment repeatedly and blatantly searched in his absence. the overall effect was cumulative, rendering him an ever-more-vociferous critic of israel's conservative coalition government. it was at this time, when his name was being linked to the plo, that sabri ramirez got wind of him and knew he had found a gold mine--a disaffected, activist israeli nuclear and rocket expert looking for a cause. he sounded perfect, and he was. ramirez approached him at a demonstration supporting a palestinian homeland, and made him an offer he could not refuse. how would he like to get rich? he would not need to betray his country, merely lend his skills to help teach the americans a lesson. fuck israel, he had declared. then in a lower voice he had added--come to that, fuck the palestinians, who were basically a pain in the ass. acquiring personal wealth was a much more inspiring cause. he could not get work in israel, any kind of work, and he was fast running through his savings. ramirez advanced him thirty thousand american dollars on the spot, in crisp hundreds. he immediately dropped his plo affiliation and began lowering his profile--much to mossad's relief. their surveillance eased up as they gratefully turned to more pressing matters, and four months later he took advantage of his new freedom to slip into jordan one night and from there make his way, a week later, to beirut. it was in that ravaged city that he and sabri ramirez worked out the technical details of the plan. . . . which thus far had gone perfectly. "we'll be modifying the payload," he announced, turning to the keyboard. "therefore the weight will be different, so we'll have to factor that into the sort program on the fujitsu and run it again." shit, lefarge thought, he knows about sort. which probably means he knows everything he needs to make vx- fly. : p.m. "i have a question," michael vance was saying. they were still resting on the hill, and he felt himself fighting back waves of exhaustion. "could they get that vehicle down there off the ground without you being in command?" "i hate to admit it"--calypso andros exhaled ruefully and leaned back against the tree--"but they probably could. we've already had a final test of the power-up, everything. the fujitsu has all the controls set. there's nothing left to do except initiate the launch routine and then let the computer take over." "so bill was about to be rich." he grinned, then picked up a small white stone and flung it down the hill. "he might even have been able to pay off our bet. if i'd won." "what bet was that?" "long ago and in another country." he shrugged, hardly caring anymore. "it was a damned stupid stunt. we had a sailor's bet, and i lost. as it happens, your new guests here pitched in to help. but those are the breaks." "well, let's talk about the real world." she seemed scarcely to hear what he had said. or maybe she wasn't interested. vance sensed she was trying to feign normality, adopting a facade that denied the horror of watching her young technician being shot dead. "do you think they're going to kill anybody else?" what should i say? he wondered. feed her a comforting lie, or tell her the truth? he looked her over and decided on the latter. "hate to say it, but if it's really ramirez, he'll kill anybody he vaguely feels like. i saw him hit a u.s. frigate with a swatter. you've got to call that mass murder. a ton of casualties, and for no good reason. he caught himself before he said more, the memory still chilling. "then again, i'd guess he's not going to take out anybody important or technically crucial, at least for now. which should include bates and mannheim. he's got to be figuring he can use the big names for headlines and leverage, if he needs it." "i can't believe that the u.s. isn't going to send in the marines, especially when they find out he's got a bomb." "don't get your hopes up. there are a couple of problems with that. the first is that they may not be allowed on greek soil, and even if they are, it could take several days for them to mount an operation." "that's one." she looked at him. "what's the other?" "the other is that if the u.s. should decide to mount an assault, it could well turn into a bloodbath. i'm almost wishing they don't. delta force and the seals are well trained, but as far as anybody knows, they've never been used to carry out a straight hostage-rescue. they'd probably come in here like john wayne and tear this place apart. i don't even want to think about the carnage." his voice trailed off. "take it from me. the people arm is sending in are better suited for the job at hand. they also can deploy a lot quicker than the u.s. government." "well, somebody better come. and soon." she had caught a strand of her tangled hair and was twisting it, distractedly making the tangle worse. "what do you think these thugs really want?" "i'd guess money's part of the package. but since ramirez doesn't seem to be trying to extort satcom, at least not yet, he probably has something bigger in mind." he slowly turned to her. "tell me something. these vehicles are intended to go into orbit, right? but what if one didn't make it." he had a sudden thought. "or what if one of them did make it, and then the orbital trajectory got altered somehow? retrofire and reentry. you could set it down pretty much where you wanted, couldn't you?" she stared at him uncertainly. "what are you suggesting?" "that there are two ways to play this. somebody could use these vehicles to deliver a bomb someplace. or they could be used to put a bomb into orbit, to be delivered later." he leaned back. "am i right or not?" her eyes darkened, and she suddenly found herself sorry she had ever come back to greece. for this. then she caught herself and answered him. "i suppose either one is possible. the reentry trajectory is precisely controlled. in fact, we power it down, more or less like the space shuttle." "and the whole thing can be done within an hour or so, right? that is, once it's in orbit." "a low-earth insertion means a full orbit of about ninety minutes for a satellite." she was thinking. "if the vehicle itself stays in orbit, then--" "everything would still be controlled from down here, correct?" "we beam power up to the vehicle using the cyclops. that's the whole idea." she was thinking. "what you're saying is, once they get a vehicle, and a bomb, into orbit, they've got a loaded gun pointed at any place they choose." "doesn't that sound like the worst-case scenario?" "they'll never pull it off." it was more a hope than a statement of fact. "how are you going to stop them? if ramirez thinks you're not cooperating, then all he has to do is start killing more of your staff until you do." he looked down the hill, where the facility was now dark except for the yellow sodium lights around the storage sheds and the blaze of floods that illuminated the two vehicles. "but i definitely think they're going to try some kind of launch. you said they're being very careful not to disturb anything. so what are the possibilities?" "the easiest thing would be not to bother putting it into orbit at all," she answered after a moment. "in fact, number one or sabri ramirez or whoever he is had georges running some trajectory aborts. it all fits." "also, you've got two vehicles, and that box had enough detonators for several bombs. so, say they had two nuclear devices? they use the first one as a small demo, to prove they're serious. sort of like we did on hiroshima. and hold the second one in reserve. for more blackmail." he reached up and touched the bark of the tree above. "but any way you look at it, they seem to be dead serious about delivering a nuke somewhere. where?" "you know, there's a u.s. base not far from here." "souda bay?" "it's on crete." "so close they probably couldn't miss." he thought about it. "taking out that base could decimate the u.s. sixth fleet. it would be a very attention-getting demonstration. think they could really do it?" "crete would just be a short hop for vx- ." "it's easy and it's a nightmare. sounds pretty good for . . . uh-oh." he pointed down. moving through the shadows at the far edge of the facility, past the bright circles cast by the sodium lights, was a group of black figures. "guess it had to happen." : p.m. "but i'm still finishing the trajectory-default analysis i was supposed to do," lefarge said to dore peretz, hoping he could stall. "i'm only half--" "i'm telling you to abort those runs." the truth, peretz reflected, was that ramirez had jumped the gun on the trajectory analysis. maybe he just wanted to keep this computer jockey busy, or maybe he didn't understand the technical side of things well enough. in any case, it had to be redone since the crucial payload parameters were going to be new, a substantial weight differential that would impact the power input controls. "kill what you're doing and let me see what you've got so far. if you're on the right track, then we'll do a quick rerun with revised numbers." lefarge grimaced, then turned back to the keyboard and gave the order to abort, directing the output to the battery of printers. the quiet hum of zipping lasers began, barely audible above the ambient noise of the room. when the first printer finished, peretz ripped out the stack of paper and began looking it over. "all right." he nodded with satisfaction. "this is enough. the power inputs"--he pointed--"right here, will need to be reentered to conform to the altered weight coefficients of the new payload. i'll have to get them." he turned away and clicked on his black kenwood walkie-talkie. moments later he was asking somebody some technical questions. he then waited, humming to himself, while the answers were procured. finally he nodded and jotted them down on the bottom of the printout. "got it. you double-verified, right? okay. ten-four." he clicked off the handset and looked up. "all fixed." he walked back and laid down the paper on lefarge's desk. "okay, start over and run it with these." georges looked at the numbers. the new payload was . kilograms. there it was. what now? he knew the answer. he had no choice but to give peretz what he wanted. he had planned to make some changes in sort that would screw up the whole launch routine, but now, with the israeli looking over his shoulder, that was going to be impossible. this creep knew exactly how the program worked. he probably could spot any changes a mile away. cally, cally, where are you? are you okay? are you getting help? let me know where you are, at least. i can't stop these guys all by myself. he sighed, tugged at his wisp of beard, and called up the data input file for sort. then he began inserting the new parameters. around command the other staffers were perfunctorily carrying out housekeeping chores at their workstations, the routine checks and runs they did every day. lefarge suspected the stakes had just been raised, but he had no idea what they were. : p.m. she looked down. "where? i don't see anything." "over there. by the side of the sheds. there's a saying: in the darkness, only the shadows move. see them?" he rose and looked around. "guess we'd better start thinking up a plan here." although trees shielded the base of the mountain, the top had been cleared and flattened to accommodate the battery of antennas. the only possible protection was a low cinderblock structure on the side nearest the facility. "you're right," she said finally, squinting. "i do think i see something. yes. they look like they're headed our way. toward the trees and then right up the hill. oh, shit." the sight made something click in her head, and her fear turned again to anger. terrorists, she knew, always planned to wear down their captives, make them pliable. she wasn't going to let it happen. "looks like three or maybe four." who needed this? he sighed to himself. "uh-oh, i think i see something else. they're carrying something with them and i don't like the looks of what i think it is." as he stared down, he was wondering: how would they choose to try and take the mountain? a direct assault? a two- pronged pincer? or would they use some other technique? and what were they carrying? some of the hardware they'd brought in the hind? "at least we've got the high ground," he continued finally, trying to think through the odds. "let's hope that counts for something. it's mostly open, so we can see them." then he reflected on the downside. "but they can see us if we make a run for the top of the hill. it's too far. so there's not much we can do except just wait. the one little uzi isn't going to do much good." "let's think a minute," she said, turning and looking up the hill. 'they're about to pass through the trees down there, which should give us enough time to get to the blockhouse. . . ." she pointed. there at the dark crest was the cinderblock emplacement that housed the on-site operation controls for the radars. "let's go up there. i've just had an idea." "i'm game." he nodded, feeling his adrenaline starting to build again. "standing here is not going to do anything for us." it was a quick climb, through the slivers of granite outcropping that cut their way out of the shallow soil. when they reached the cinderblock structure, she punched in a security code on the keypad beside its black steel door and shoved it open. "if they haven't shut down the terminal in here yet, maybe i can get georges on the computer net. he can shunt over control of those servomechanisms up there and then . . ." he followed her inside. as he did, fluorescent lights clicked on to reveal an array of radar screens and a main computer terminal. "hey, can we kill the beacon?" he frowned. "whatever you're planning better be doable in the dark." "no problem." she activated the terminal, then pointed toward the door. "the light switch is right there. think you can handle it?" he clicked it off and let the wisecrack pass. then he turned back. "now what?" "god, i've never had anybody coming to kill me. the stories are right. it really does concentrate the mind." she began typing on the keyboard. "i had a thought. we're networked into the fujitsu from all over the facility with lan, so--" "and that's computer lingo for a local-area network, or something." "right." she nodded. "at one point we had to hook all the workstations together, for a special test. part of this area was connected into the network, so we could do some of the work from up here, but we always kept the larger servomechanisms on the main system, for safety reasons. georges set it all up so everything has to be operated from down there, where the power drain can be monitored. right now i need to get hold of him and have him do some things." she was still typing. and then she got what she wanted. : p.m. . . . hello, soho. bluebird needs a favor. can you switch on the servos? lefarge stared at the screen, not believing his eyes. cally was on the lan. a window had appeared at the lower right- hand of his screen, and her terminal id was . . . terrific, it was the blockhouse up the hill. he slipped a glance at peretz, standing over by the water cooler, then quickly typed in an acknowledgment. soho never lets bluebird down then came the specific directions. she was asking him to switch control of the servos for radar one over to her terminal. what was she doing? the radars were always controlled by big benny, the fujitsu here in command. he grimaced. switching the big radar over to her workstation was a tall order. and the israeli bastard was waiting for his sort run. so now the trick was to try to do both things at once. he split the screen and went to work. : p.m. "georges is a genius," she said, turning back, "but this may not actually be possible. nobody's ever done it before." "whatever you're planning had better be possible or we've got to begin thinking up a plan b, and quick." he was staring out the open door. "because our new friends are definitely on their way and ready for a close encounter." "georges has got to hook this terminal directly to the fujitsu--which isn't how we normally use it--and then give me control of the routine that runs the servos. in effect he has to put them on manual." "don't think you're going to manage it in time," he said. he was thinking this was no time to get experimental, but he decided to keep the thought to himself. instead he nervously checked the uzi. three rounds were left in the last remaining clip. he regretted all the random firing he had done over the last few hours. now every round had to be hoarded as though it were the last. on the other hand, maybe he was lucky just to have the damned uzi at all, along with the few puny rounds left. the trick now was to try not to have to use them. down below them the four black figures had already moved past the helicopter landing pad and were about to be swallowed up in the copse of trees that began at the base of the hill. but now a sliver of moon had appeared from behind a bank of clouds in the east, casting an eerie pale glow onto the scene. he found himself deeply wishing for an ir scope, which would be a great help, bring them right up. "i just lost them in the trees," he said, turning back. "which means we've got about five minutes left for whatever you've got in mind." "trust me." she was still typing. 'this workstation just logged onto the big system, so the main servo program is now accessible from here. georges, i love you. now all i have to do is try and override the internal checks that go through the fujitsu down in command." vance was staring, not quite sure what he was expected to say. "then what?" "hopefully it's a surprise," she laughed, a trifle grimly. just be quiet and let me work." then her voice swelled with nger. "the bastards. this is going to be a pleasure. after what they did to chris, maybe i'll get to return the favor." vance started to say something, but stopped when he noticed the first signs of motion at the edge of the copse of brush. the killers were emerging, and the sight gave him a chill. they're the hunters and we're the quarry, he thought, it's going to be like a giant turkey-shoot, played with automatics. "you know . . ." he turned back. '"here's still time for you to give yourself up. they'd probably rather have you live anyway. you could do the white-flag thing and i could use the confusion to try and make it into the brush down here, toward the shore. those guys are carrying something that looks suspiciously like heavy weaponry. but that's a riddle we don't want to solve empirically." "look, trust me," she shot back. "i know what i'm doing . . . i think. don't you have any faith?" "we may not know each other well enough to be having his conversation." "as a matter of fact, you're exactly right." she hurriedly finished typing. "okay, georges has the control set up now and we're on line. hang on." she reached down to flip a large red switch on the side of he console. immediately one of the large green cathode-ray tubes began to glow. what it showed, however, was not the usual sweeping line going round and round. instead it dismayed the crisp outline of the vx- space vehicle at the other end of the island. next she flipped another switch, then reached for a mouse that was connected to the keyboard. she zipped it across, and the focus of the radar picture changed, almost as though it were a zoom lens. the image of the vehicle became larger and smaller. he realized the radar could be focused. then she called in another routine. "i'm going to cut the power for a second, take it down cross the facility and onto the base of the mountain, and then i'll power up again." he watched as the outline of the island, in exquisite detail, swept over the screen. "i thought this thing was only for transmission. how can it be sending back images?" "there's the phased-array section for powering the vehicle with microwaves--that's part of the cyclops--but we also have to have a guidance section, for keeping the beam on track. the cyclops is the gun, but the guidance radar here is what we use to aim it." she was concentrating on the screen "now, where do you think our friends are down there?" 'they're probably halfway up the hill by now." "let's take a look." she brought down the focus, then began scanning. "hold on." he stayed her hand, bringing the mouse to halt, and then pointing to the lower left corner of the large screen. "didn't something move just then, right there?" "where?" there." he took the mouse and guided the image to center screen. "where is that in the real world? it's got to be close." she zipped the mouse again, bringing up the detail. a number scrolled at the bottom of the screen. "four hundred meters, to be exact." : p.m. as moreau emerged from the last copse of cypress, he scanned the mountain, towering upward in the moonlit night, and wondered where the bastard would be holed up. there was one obvious place--in the cinderblock control house. yeah, ten to one that's where he had to be. the guy was stupid, riding a lucky streak. it was over. on the other hand, he thought, there's no reason not to take this slow. just in case. the fucker wasn't _that_ stupid. he looked down as a limb of thorny bramble caught his black trousers, tearing a hole near the knee. "_je m'en fiche!_" although he lived by terrorism, jean-paul was a confirmed denizen of paris's _rive gauche_ and he had little use for roughing it here on this godforsaken island in the bowels of the aegean. who needed it? on the other hand, tonight's expedition promised some diversion. it was always a pleasure to take out some jerk who was specializing in making a bloody nuisance of himself. if he could assassinate the chairman of renault, he figured, he could handle this asshole guard. moreau had brought along stelios tritsis, reasoning that a native greek could best guide them up this rugged mountain, but he also had helling's two stasi fuck-ups. _merde! _what a lousy idea it had been to include them in the first place. ramirez had lost sight of his better judgment. he looked back to check them over. they were carrying he rpg- , as ordered, but he doubted they had the slightest idea how it was fired. though possibly they were teachable retardates. he revolved and stared up the mountain, wondering whether the blockhouse contained any technical apparatus that he had to be wary of. maybe, he thought, i'd better just use a stun grenade. . . . what was that? he checked through the ir scope of his kalashnikov just to be sure: one of the giant radar dishes was turning. what in hell did that mean? then he caught a flicker of light from the blockhouse. so he bastard was in there. but was he trying to pull something? okay, time to get serious. the place is well away from the radars and antennas. so just send a stun grenade through the door and take out the fucker's eardrums. no frags: no muss, no fuss. then clean up the place at leisure. he motioned for schindler and maier to bring up the launcher. : p.m. "what are you doing?" peretz asked. he sensed the lad at he terminal was up to something because he'd split the screen and was typing in a second batch of commands on the lower half. cc to ian net.rad "just some systems cleanup." lefarge tried to lie as convincingly as he knew how. expn to jrad "better not try to bullshit me, pal. it could be very unhealthy." lefarge was already aware of that. but he kept on typing trying to look as casual as he could. almost, almost there. : p.m. "the bastard is in the blockhouse. there." moreau motioned for the first german stasi, schindler. "but get a move on. he may be up to something." with moreau directing them, they quickly slipped the two sections of the launcher together to form a single tube approximately a meter and a half in length. the rocket grenade on the forward end looked like a round arrowhead while the back was flared to dissipate the exhaust gases. the sight and rangefinder occupied the center, and just in front of that was the handgrip and trigger. when they had finished, he checked it over, then surveyed the mountain, where the heavy servomechanisms controlling the radars continued to rotate. wait a minute, he told himself with a sudden chill in his groin. something's wrong. he's tilting the radar dishes _down._ _mon dieu! _"get ready." : p.m. "we just ran out of time," vance said, slamming the door shut. "looks like they've got a grenade launcher. if they can manage to blast through this door, it's going to ruin our day once and for all." "georges is still on-line, and i'm turning the servos as fast as i can." her voice betrayed the strain. "well, get on with it. they're setting up to fire. i'd guess you've got about thirty seconds to pull off this miracle of yours." "i think a hundred and sixty degrees will do it," she said, her voice now deceptively mechanical, all business. suddenly he could envision her running this facility and barking orders right and left. "we're at one-twenty now. i just don't know if i can focus it in time. georges always handled this." she was tapping on the keyboard, some message to lefarge. a cryptic reply appeared on the screen, next to what appeared to vance to be computer garbage. then the motion of the giant servomechanisms seemed to pick up speed. the radar antennas were swiveling around, and down. "we're almost ready. let me get georges to transfer the power controls to full manual." "christ!" he cocked his uzi. "look," she exploded. "i'm doing my part. how about you doing yours? slow them down." "i don't want to waste any rounds until it's absolutely necessary." but it looked like that time had come. he opened the door again and stepped through. down below, the moon glistened on the rocks, and one of the gunmen was aiming a grenade launcher. "how long--?" "just a couple more seconds now. . . ." "it's now or never." he took careful aim on the man holding the launcher. "i'm going to count to five." that was when he heard her say, "got it." : p.m. "all right," moreau barked, "fire on three." schindler had just finished fine-adjusting the crosshairs, the rangefinder portion of the complex optical sight. with inflight stability for the rocket provided by tail fins that folded out after launch, the rpg- had a -meter range against static targets. though a crosswind could affect the accuracy, tonight, thankfully, there was none. this one couldn't miss, if there wasn't a sudden gust. he tested the trigger confidently, sights on the open doorway, and hoped moreau was right when he claimed the concussion grenade would render anybody inside totally incapacitated. his eyes on the target, he failed to notice a flashing green light that had just clicked on next to the main antenna up above, atop the mountain. . . . . . . when jet fighters are launched from carriers, it is standard practice to turn off an aircraft's radars until the planes are airborne, the reason being that the energy in the intense electromagnetic radiation can literally knock a man flat with an invisible wave. memorable things happened to the eyes and ears. in this case, however, the radar could have no such total effect, since the random clumps of trees down the hill scattered and diffused the energy. it was, however, one of the most powerful radars on earth. . . . : p.m. vance watched as something hit the men below, something that seemed like a giant, invisible mallet. they stumbled backward, while a grenade rocketed harmlessly into the night sky. "congratulations." he lowered his uzi. "i'm impressed. i think our new friends down there are, too. yep, you made a very definite impression. now, how about leaving that thing on long enough for us to get out of here and back up the hill? maybe just fry the bastards for a while." "how does eight minutes sound to you?" "should be time enough for us to scurry back down the rabbit hole. maybe take a moonlight swim in a tunnel." he was liking her more and more all the time. not a bad piece of work. "i'll tell georges to cut the power in eight," she said. then she added, "look, why don't we head for the hotel. you look bushed." "you mean go down to the bates motel?" i'm being invited to a motel by this woman? he smiled. i must be dreaming. "we can cut around by the shore. that's probably the last place anybody is going to look for us now." "sounds good." it did. he was dead tired and hungry. tomorrow was going to be a long, long day. "the other reason i want to go down is to try and find isaac," she added. "the half-cracked professor?" "well, he only seems that way. behind all those eccentricities is a mind you wouldn't believe. but whatever we find, i think we both need to knock off for a while and get recharged." "let's give it a try. i think everybody's brain, and nerves, could use a breather. i know mine could." "we're out of here." she was already typing instructions into the keyboard. chapter eleven : p.m. fayette-nam--as they called fayetteville, north carolina, in the s-- hosts the largest army base in the world: fort bragg, home of the xviii airborne corps. breaking the monotony of the harsh red carolina clay around it, the town sports a variety of go-go bars, honkytonks, and tattoo parlors to refresh and spiritually solace the base's hundred thousand personnel. known far and wide as a "macho post," fort bragg houses front-line units ready to mobilize on a moment's notice. during the persian gulf crisis, they were among the first to ship. the post deserves its macho reputation for a number of reasons, not the least being a highly classified square-mile compound, referred to locally as the ranch, that nestles in a remote and secure corner of its sprawling , acres. there, protected by a twelve-foot-high fence, with armed guards and video cameras along the perimeter, is the nerve center for delta force, america's primary answer to terrorism. now part of the joint special operations command--informally known as "jay-soc"-- delta force is the pick of the u.s. special forces, a unit of some seventy men specifically organized, equipped, and trained to take down terrorist situations. of course, delta force formally does not exist-- "the only delta we know about is the airline," goes the official quip. although they rarely have an opportunity to display their capability, delta personnel practice free-fall parachute jumps from thirty thousand feet, assault tactics on aircraft using live ammo and "hostages," high- tech demolitions, scuba insertions, free-climbing techniques on buildings and rock faces-- all the skills needed to take terrorists by surprise, neutralize them, and rescue hostages. the leadership of this nonexistent organization occupies a large windowless concrete building topped by a fifty-foot communications bubble--which recently replaced delta's former shabby quarters in the old fort bragg stockade. since the late s, delta force has been led by major general eric nichols, a fifty-three-year-old special forces veteran of vietnam who holds an advanced degree in nuclear engineering. he is short--barely five feet ten--with darting gray eyes and an old scar down his left cheek. he also moves with the deftness of a large cat. like his hand- picked men, he is highly intelligent, physically honed to perfection, and possessed of a powerful survival instinct. his only weakness is a taste for cuban cigars, which he satisfies with montecristos smuggled to him by resistance forces on the island--acquaintances whose identity no conceivable amount of torture could extract. when nichols breached the open doorway of the new officers' lounge, those in attendance were deep in a cosmic game of five-card stud, with two--lieutenant manny jackson and captain philip sexton--particularly engrossed, hoping desperately that the hand they now had in play would somehow miraculously recoup their staggering losses for the evening. he paused a moment, involuntarily, and surveyed the men, feeling a surge of pride, as always, in the way they carried themselves. a bearing that in others might have seemed arrogance on them only affirmed their competent self-assurance. and why not? usually fewer than half a dozen volunteers finished out of a class of fifty: a lightweight like chuck norris wouldn't stand a chance. mostly in their early thirties, with the powerful shoulders of bodybuilders, the "shooters" of delta force did not resemble run-of- the-mill service types. for one thing, since they had to be ready for a clandestine op at a moment's notice, they deliberately looked as unmilitary as possible, right down to their shaggy civilian haircuts. although they wore olive-drab one-piece jumpsuits during daily training, here--informally "off the ranch"--it was sports shirts, tattered jeans, and sneakers. naturally he noticed the poker game--bending the regs was, after all, delta force's modus operandi--and he just as routinely suppressed a smile. he simply wouldn't "see" it. but with the monetary stakes he counted on the table, he realized that his news could not have come at a worse time. on the other hand, legitimate ops were few and far between, and they were always eager for action. some real excitement, at last. he knew every man in the vinyl- trimmed gray room would feel a rush of adrenaline. he took a deep breath and broke up the party. "heads up, you screw-offs." it was his everyday formal greeting. "bad news and good news. report to the briefing room at hours, with all personal gear. be ready to ship." there was a scramble to salute, followed by a frenzied bustle to collect the money still lying on the table. in seconds everybody was reaching for his jacket. they had only fifteen minutes, but they were always packed. the briefing room was a windowless space next to the ranch's new headquarters building. it contained a long metal table in the center, blackboards and maps around the walls, and the far end was chockablock with video screens and electronic gear. as the unit members filed in, they noticed that maps of the eastern mediterranean now plastered the left-hand wall. next to these they saw blowups of kh- photos of a small island, identified only by latitude and longitude coordinates. "all right, listen up," nichols began, almost the instant they had settled. he had just fired up a brand-new cuban montecristo and was still trying to get it stoked to his satisfaction. "i've picked twenty- three men. i'll read off the list, and if you don't hear your name, you're dismissed." he read the list, watched much of the room clear, and then continued. "okay, you're god's chosen. i picked the guys i happen to think are best suited to the way i see the op shaping up. to begin with, we're going to be airborne by hours, which a check of your watches will inform you is less than an hour away. which means no bullshit between now and when we ship out. we'll be flying bess--everybody's favorite c- -- with two in-flight refuelings. destination officially classified, but if you guessed souda bay i'd have to say 'no comment.' wherever it is we're going, we're scheduled in at hours local tomorrow. for now i want to go over the general outlines of the op. there'll be a detailed briefing after we land. in the meantime, i've put together a packet of maps and materials for everybody to study on the plane. i suggest you hone your reading skills. now, here's what i'm authorized to tell you." they listened intently and without interruption as he proceeded to give a rundown. they would be making a scuba insertion onto a greek island-- operational maps with the general geography were in the packet--where an unknown number of hostiles had seized an american industrial facility and were holding hostages. he then provided a rough description of the satcom facility using satellite maps. they would rehearse the insertion at an appropriate location in the vicinity and then chopper to a carrier some twenty klicks south of the island, where they would undergo their final prep. it was a thorough, if circumspect, briefing--which was what they expected. since its inception, delta had always operated on a top- security basis. information always came as late into an operation as possible, on the theory that it was a two-edged sword and lives were at stake. frequently the command did not divulge the real background and strategic purpose of an op until after its conclusion, thereby avoiding sending in men with extractable information. questions? right away they all had plenty. what was the layout of the facility on the island? how many hostiles were there? how were they equipped? what was the disposition of the hostages? how many? was their objective merely to extract the friendlies, or were they also ordered to "neutralize" all the hostiles? answer: you'll get a further briefing at the appropriate time. the biggest question of all, however, was why the urgency? why was delta being called in to take down a situation that had no military dimensions. where were the civilian swat teams? if this was merely an industrial matter, why wasn't somebody negotiating? they knew "bess" was already being loaded with the gear the brass would think they would need. in addition, however, each man had certain nonissue items, something to take along as a talisman for luck--a backup handgun strapped onto the ankle, an extra knife. carrying such paraphernalia was against the regs, of course, but major general nichols always took such niceties in stride. if the job got done, he had selective blind spots as far as such things were concerned. nichols actually knew a lot more than he had told his men. he had already planned the op in his head. for the insertion, backup would be provided by two apaches that would be armed and ready to carry out a rocket attack on the facility radars and the two launch vehicles. once they had secured the hostages, they were going to treat the terrorists to a goddamn big surprise. there would be no place to hide. if he had to, he was prepared to blow the place to hell. let the insurance companies worry about it. : p.m. the electric sign meeting in progress over the door to the situation room had been illuminated for hours. inside, hansen sat in a tall swivel chair at one end of a long table staring at a detailed map of the eastern mediterranean now being projected on the giant screen at the end of the room. in the subdued, recessed lighting, half-drunk cups of cold coffee stood around the central teakwood table. a fourth pot was already brewing in the kitchenette, while the rotund chairman of the joint chiefs, edward briggs, had resorted to doing knee bends to stay alert. "all right," hansen was saying, "we've got the special forces in the game. that gives us a military option. but i'm wondering . . . maybe we should just go ahead and evacuate souda. at the minimum get the sixth fleet out of there. as a safety precaution. we could manufacture some exercise that would at least get most of our assets clear." if the bastards had a nuke, he was thinking, a well-placed hit could make pearl harbor look like a minor skirmish. right now the entire complement of carriers in the mediterranean was there, not to mention destroyers, frigates, and a classified number of aircraft. the destruction would run in the untold billions; the loss of life would be incalculable. "where would we deploy them?" briggs rose, bent over one last time to stretch his muscles, then straightened. "assuming we could get them clear within twenty-four hours, which would be pushing our luck, we'd have to figure out what to do next." "well, assuming there's available draft, we could deploy some of them around the island. we'd give those bastards who hijacked the place a little something to occupy their minds. might make them think long and hard about getting back to beirut or wherever the hell they came from." "you're talking about a tall order. i don't think we could really mobilize and evacuate the base in that kind of time frame. and even if we could, our operations in the med would be disrupted to the point it would take us months to recover." "well, ed," the president snapped, "those are the kinds of problems you're supposedly being paid to solve. if we're not mobile, then what the hell are we doing in the med in the first place?" the question was rhetorical, but it stung--as intended. "i'll see if i can get a scenario ready for you by hours tomorrow." he tried not to squirm. they both knew he had already cut the orders deploying fort bragg's special forces to souda, to be ready in case an assault was needed. the last resort. "in the meantime, i certainly could arrange for the base to go on a practice alert--cancel all leave and get everybody on a ship-out basis." "i think you should do that, at the very least." should i inform the greek government? hansen wondered again. no, let's see if this can be handled without opening a can of worms about whose sovereign rights are uppermost here. the relationship with greece had, for all its ups and downs, been generally cordial. with any luck they would never have to be involved or, with supreme good fortune, even know. . . . "then have alicia get johnson over at the pentagon on the line," briggs said, "and he can cut the orders. we've never moved this fast before, so we're about to find out where our glitches are. don't be surprised if there aren't plenty." "just be happy if the american taxpayer never finds out what he's getting for his money," the president responded. "and speaking of money, we've been faxed a string of account numbers for a bank in geneva. this is going to have to come out of a budget somewhere, so who do i stiff to pay off these bastards? or make them temporarily think i'm paying them off. it's got to be some discretionary fund that has minimal accountability. and i don't want the cia within a mile of this: that place is like a sieve." briggs pondered. "i can probably come up with the money by juggling some of the active accounts in procurement. cash flow is a marvelous thing if it's handled right. you can rob peter to pay paul, and then make peter whole by robbing somebody else. then the end of the fiscal year comes around and you withhold payment from some contractor while you hold an 'investigation.'" he smiled. "believe me, there are ways." the president wasn't smiling. "don't tell me. i don't think i want to hear this. but if you're going to play bingo with the books, then you'd damned well better do it quick, and on the qt." "that'll be the easiest part. i've already got some ideas." "just make sure i don't end up with another iran-contra brouhaha on my neck. i won't be able to plead senility and let a few fall guys take the rap." briggs had foreseen as well the glare of television lights in the senate hearing room. worse still, it did not take too challenging a flight of imagination to figure out who would end up being the patsy. he would have to fall on his sword to protect the presidency. washington had a grand tradition of that. he could kiss good-bye to a comfortable retirement in arizona next to a golf link. "you can be sure i will take the utmost care, mr. president." and he was smiling even though hansen was not. "all right, now about the special forces. once we get them to souda bay, i want a quick rehearsal and then i want them deployed just offshore, on the kennedy, ready to move. which means that whatever support they'll need has to be ready by the time they arrive. what have you got on that?" "a task force shipped out for souda tonight, mr. president. their c- is already in the air. the problems are at the other end. once they're in-theater, we're still looking at a prep time of twelve hours, minimum. there's just no way they can mount an assault any sooner than that." the president winced, already thinking about his other problem. if they did have a nuclear device, or devices, whose was it? the signs all pointed in one direction. the israelis claimed the stolen iranian hind had stopped over in pakistan. there probably was no need to look any further. but now he needed somehow to get a confirmation. or was the threat of a bomb just a hoax? he had a meeting at ten o'clock in the morning with the pakistani ambassador. it would have to be handled delicately, with a lot of circumlocutions and diplomatic niceties, but he damn well intended to get some plain answers. : p.m. "so this is the bates motel i've heard so much about," vance said, casting a glance down the dull, cinderblock walls. "hitchcock's version had a lot more character." "you're right," cally agreed. "but wait till you see what it's like upstairs. it sort of gives new meaning to the phrase no frills.' a hell of a place to cut corners, given all the money bill poured into this facility, but he said he wasn't building a resort." she gestured around the utilities room, where a maze of insulated steam and hot-water pipes crisscrossed above their heads like a huge white forest. "anyway, welcome back to the slightly unreal real world." "maybe what we need is less reality, not more. but if you can find us a beer, i think i could start getting the hang of the place. let's just try not to bump into anybody." "okay, my feeling is that if we stay out of level three, upstairs, we'll be all right. that's got to be where they're holding everybody who's not on duty. locked away for safekeeping." they had entered level one via a trapdoor in the stone water conduit that picked up waste heat from the environmental control unit in the residential quarters. around them now was silence, save for the clicks and hums of motors and pumps. "all right, who do we see about something to eat?" he had just finished drinking deeply from a spigot on one of the incoming cold-water pipes. even though he was still soaking wet from the trip through the conduit, he was feeling severely dehydrated and the water tasted delicious, as though it had come from a well deep in the island's core. it had. "you see me," she replied. "we're going to head straight for the kitchen. there's got to be something edible there. so let's take the elevator up and see what's on the menu. i think today was supposed to be calamari." "i'd settle for a simple american t-bone if you've got one in the freezer. the more american the better. i'm sort of down on greece at the moment." "you can have pretty much what you want here. as long as it's not a pizza or a decent hamburger." she was pushing the button to summon the elevator. the lights above the door told the story of the facility: three levels, with the top being the living quarters; level two being services such as food preparation and laundry; level one, utilities. "hit two," she said as the bell chimed, and she stepped on, taking one last glance about the basement. the elevator whisked them up quickly, then opened onto another empty hallway. "you know," she said, her voice virtually a whisper, "this corridor is almost always full of people. i guess they really do have everybody confined to quarters. lucky us." "they're thorough, and they know what they're doing. they--" that's when he noticed the line of explosives that had been placed along the wall next to the elevator, neat yellow bars of semtex, wrapped in cellophane. the first was wired to a detonator, which was in turn connected to a digital timer. "hello, take a look." he nodded down. "guess my wild hunch was right. they're not planning to leave any witnesses when this is over. when they're finished, they'll just pack everybody in here and blow up the place. nice and tidy. won't even interfere with the computers, just in case they need to keep them running for a while after they leave." he bent down and examined the timer, now scrolling the minutes in red numbers. it was set to blow in just over twenty-nine hours. "guess we just got the inside track on their timetable." "my god," she said, looking at the device as though it were a cobra. "can't we just turn it off?" "sooner or later we'd better, but it's still got plenty of time left on it." his voice turned slightly wistful. "tell you the truth, i'd rather some of the guys from arm did it. i'm slightly chicken when it comes to bomb-squad operations. cut the wrong wire and . . . eternity takes on a whole new perspective." he shrugged. "also, there's a chance it's booby-trapped somehow. the thing's a little too obvious, sitting out here in plain view. when something looks too easy, i always get suspicious. maybe for no reason, but . . ." he motioned her away. "i suggest we forget about that for now and focus on finding a steak. i also wouldn't fling a hot shower back in your face." "that's only on level three. it may have to wait." she took his arm. "come on. i don't like being around bombs, even if they have timers." she led the way down the abandoned corridor, its lighting fluorescent and its floor covered with gray industrial carpet. there was a total, almost palpable silence about the place that made it feel all the more eerie and abandoned. it seemed utterly strange and alien. "the kitchen is in here," she said, pushing open a large steel door. vance stepped in and surveyed it: all the fixtures needed for a mess that served several hundred people three meals daily. in fact, it looked as though the evening's cleanup operation had been halted in mid-wash. dirty pots sat cold on the big industrial stoves, and piles of half-peeled vegetables were on the wide aluminum tables. the storage lockers, refrigerators, and freezers were located across the room, opposite. "by the way." he had a sudden thought. 'this place must have tv monitors somewhere, am i right? every other place here does." "well, you're right and you're wrong. it does, but they're on the blink. it always seemed like a stupid idea anyway, almost like spying, and then one day somebody just cut the wires. probably one of the cooks. i never bothered getting them fixed. i just couldn't think of any good reason to bother." "well, for once laziness paid off. maybe we're safe here for a while." he had opened the freezer. "hello, lady luck has decided to get with the program." he was pulling out two thick steaks. "care to join me?" "those are there for bill," she noted, then laughed. "i'd still rather have a pizza, but i don't guess he'll mind if we dip into his private stock." "so i repeat the question." he was already unwrapping two, both thick. "yes, of course. i'm famished." she shivered. "and i also wouldn't mind a set of dry clothes." "maybe one of these will warm you up." he was popping the steaks into a gleaming white microwave for a quick thaw. "right." "and while dinner is coming along, how about drawing me a diagram of what's up there. maybe we can go up later, take a look around." "let's eat first. i'm too wired to think." she switched on one of the large, black electric grills. "my vote is that we just sit tight for now." and why not? this man with the sexy eyes and healthy laugh attracted her. mercurial in his spirits, he appeared willing to take chances. just the way she remembered her father. and alan. but she wondered why he was here risking his life for a bunch of total strangers. even alan wouldn't have done that. "you know, mike vance, i have to tell you, you don't look much like a commando." "guess what? i'm not." "you know what i mean. for that matter, you don't look like the guys who came and installed our wonderful security system. i'd like to know your real story." "how are retired archaeologists supposed to look? but i wasn't good enough at it, or maybe i was too good at it--i'm not sure which--and as a result i ended up doing what i really wanted to for a living. running a sailboat business." he looked her over. "you seem to like what you're doing, too. and from what i've seen, i'd say bill's getting a bargain, no matter what he's paying you." she laughed. "i'd say you're an even better bargain. he's getting you for free." "freebies are only a deal if they pan out." he lifted their steaks out of the microwave and flipped them onto the grill. they immediately sizzled deliciously, a sound he had loved since he was a child growing up in pennsylvania. it all mingled together with the scent of trees and summer. "god, those smell great." she came over to take a look. "i think the aroma is giving me some backbone. there's nothing like the smell of grease." "i figured you'd come around." he patted her chastely on the back, half imagining it was farther down, then lifted one of the steaks to see how they were going. well. just like his spirits. but now she was moving off again into a space of her own. she scrutinized his weathered face, feeling a little hopeful that maybe, finally, she had run across somebody like alan. though she still hardly knew a damned thing about him. "with people i meet for the first time, i like to play a little game," she said finally. "it's always interesting to try and guess. what are they really like? does character show?" "what happens if you guess right?" he nudged a steak. "do you own their soul? like some primitive tribes think a photograph captures their spirit?" "guess you'll have to find out, won't you?" she checked him over again. "okay." he smiled and gave her the same look back. "but it's only fair if we both get to play. so, if one of us hits the truth, what happens then. do we get to go for double jeopardy?" "be warned. the prince who learns the princess's secrets can end up getting more than he bargained for." she came back, full of feeling. then she paused for a second, thinking, and began. "all right, i get to go first. woman's prerogative. and i want to start with the sailboat-- what did you call it? _odyssey_ _ii_?--and what it says about you. i think it means you're a doer, not a talker. i like that." "maybe." he felt uncomfortable, not sure what to say, so he decided to let it pass. "now it's my turn." he leaned back and examined her, hoping to get it right. make a good first impression. ignore the fact she's a knockout, he lectured himself, at least for now. look for the inner woman. "you like it here," he started. "but the isolation means everybody knows everybody. no privacy. and you're a very private person. so--to use that famous cliche--you bury yourself in your work. you could be happier." "that goes for you, too," she quickly began, a little startled that his first insight had been so close to the mark. "and you're a loner. the good news is . . . i think you're pretty loyal. to friends. to women. the downside is you keep your friends to a close circle." "hey, i'd almost think you've been reading my mail." he seemed vaguely discomfited. "but i'll bet you suffer from the same malady. you made some tight friends early on, but not much in that department since. they're all engineers, and mostly you talk shop. oh, and no women. you want them but you don't respect them enough. they're not as committed as you are. in fact, your last good friend was in college. sometimes you have trouble getting next to anybody." "well, for the record i'll admit that my best friend was from before college, and it's a he. georges." she decided to skip over the matter of alan harris. he had been a friend as well as a lover. a good friend, or so she thought. once. "but i think the buzzer just went off. game over." "whoa, don't bail out now, just when it's getting good. this was your idea, remember? and i'm not through." he leaned back. "okay, let's really get tough. go personal. you figure falling for some guy might just end up breaking your heart. maybe it already happened to you once or twice. so these days you don't let things go too far." he rubbed at his chin as he studied her. "how'm i doing?" "the rules of the game don't include having to answer questions." she took a deep breath. mike vance was definitely better at this than she'd reckoned. "but if you want to keep going, we'll have round two. back to you. i'd guess you're always in control, or you want to be. so what happens is, you co-opt the things and people around you, make them work for you. and from the way things have gone so far, i'd say luck seems to be on your side; some people are like that and you're one of them." "don't be too sure." he checked the steaks again, then flipped them over. they were coming along nicely, the fat around the edge beginning to char the way he liked. "luck always has a way of running out eventually." "tell me about it . . ." she said, letting her voice trail off. "but i'd also guess you're a homebody in your soul. you like a roaring fire and a glass of wine and a good book over going out to paint the town." "and you're probably just the opposite. you want to be out in the sun and wind and rain. sitting around bores you." "guilty." he nodded. "now for round three. that glass of wine you have with the book is probably something tame. say, chablis." "you drink . . . mmmm, let me see. scotch is too mundane. i'll bet it's tequila. straight." "you're psychic. but you missed the lime." "oh, i almost forgot the most important thing." she grew somber. "you like a good battle. so taking on these thugs is going to be the most fun you've had all week." "that's where you just went off the track." his eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling. "we're definitely on the wrong end of the odds here. these bastards are dug in, they've probably got a-bombs, and we know for sure they've got a lot of helpless people in their grasp. that's not a recipe for heroics. it's more like one for pending tragedy." he paused, deciding it was definitely time to change the subject. "speaking of tragedies, it would be a major one if we didn't have a greek salad to go with those steaks." he walked over and checked the fridge. sure enough, there was a massive bowl of ripe, red tomatoes sitting next to a pile of crisp cucumbers. most important of all, there was a huge chunk of white feta cheese. yep, the chef had to be greek. and up there, on a high kitchen shelf, were rows and rows of olives, curing in brine. throw them all together with a little oregano, lemon juice, and olive oil, and the traditional side dish of greece was theirs. "just the stuff." he pulled down a jar of olive oil and one of dark greek olives. then he selected some tomatoes and a cucumber and went to work. "you know, you're not a half-bad greek chef. my mother would have loved you. you're making that salad exactly the way she used to." she made a face. "every day. god, did i get sick of them. all i wanted to eat was french fries. so when i finally got away, off at college, i practically lived on cheeseburgers and pizza for years after that." "shame on you. this is very wholesome. very good for your state of mind." he finished slicing the tomatoes, then opened the fridge and fished out a couple of brown bottles of the local beer. "retsina would be the thing, but this will have to do." he looked over. "by the way, how're the steaks coming?" "looks like our feast is ready." she pulled them off the grill and onto plates. "how long has it been since you ate?" "think it's about two days now." he finished tossing the salad and served them each a hearty helping. "didn't realize how famished i was till i smelled those t-bones broiling." he popped the caps on the beers and handed her one. "bon appetit. better eat hearty, because this may be the last food we're going to see for a while." she took a bite, then looked up, chewing. "it's delicious. and i want to say one more thing about our game a while ago." she stopped to swallow. "and i mean this. it's always a little sad when i see a person who can do a lot of things but doesn't really find total satisfaction in any of them. nothing they ever do really makes them happy. and i think that's you, really. i'll bet that whenever you're doing one thing, you're always thinking about some other things you could be doing. which means you're never really content. you always want more." "that's pretty deep stuff." he had launched hungrily into his steak. "maybe you're right, but i'm not going to come out and admit it. it's too damning. so let me put it like this. maybe i happen to think it's possible to care about a lot of things at once. that's--" "such as?" "well, okay, i'll give you a 'for instance.' i like sailing around these islands, but all the time i'm doing it, i'm thinking about what it must have been like two, three thousand years ago. the archaeology. it's intrigued me as long as i can remember. my dad was the same; he spent his life digging around in crete. i thought that was the most marvelous thing in the world, so i did it, too. for years. even wrote a book about that island once. i loved the place. still do." "that's funny. i was born practically in the shadow of crete, and yet i've only been there a couple of times." she sighed. "well, what happened? i mean to your love affair with crete. sounds like that's what it was." "maybe i loved the place too much. i don't know." he paused to take a drink of the beer, cold and refreshing. "well, when you love somebody, or something, you want to find out everything there is to know about them. but when i did that, and told what i'd concluded was the real story, or what i passionately believed was the real story, nobody wanted to hear it. i had some ideas about the island's ancient age of glory that didn't jibe with the standard theories. made me very unpopular in the world of academia. scholars don't like their boats to be rocked." "and you let that get you down?" she snorted. being a woman, she'd had an uphill battle all her life. men could be such babies sometimes. "see, when the world's against you, that's when you're supposed to fight hardest. that's always been my rule. i'm not a quitter. ever." he winced and stopped eating. "hey, i'm back, aren't i? in greece." he looked at her, impulsively wanting to touch her again. "but it's nice to have somebody like you to pitch in and help. maybe we'll manage something together." "maybe you should have had somebody around the first time." god, he was really reminding her of alan. the same buttons. "maybe you're not as tough as you think." "adversity depresses me. like bad weather. i prefer life without too many psychodramas." and this greek fireball, he told himself, had psychodrama written large all over her. still . . . "then the question now is what i should do." she looked at him, taking a last bite. "go back, or stay with you." "we need to learn from _ulysses'_ experience with the cyclops," vance said, clicking back into the real world. "the one-eyed giant had trapped him and his crew and was devouring them one by one. so how did they overcome him? they got him plastered on some good greek wine, then put out his eye with a burning post. that done, they proceeded to exploit his disability." "what are you saying?" she frowned. "this guy is killing off your people, right? pierre is coming in with his crew to try and take this place down, but in the meantime it would be good if we took a shot at putting out their eyes." "put out their eyes?" she was still puzzled. "it's a metaphor. it would be extremely helpful if we could blind them enough that they didn't know arm was coming in. couldn't 'see' the team. maybe shut down the radars, something." "michael"--it was the first time she had used his name, and she liked it--"that's why we're in this mess in the first place. there are no radars that could spot an insertion. that's how these bastards got in here in the first place. bill gets the saddam hussein military preparedness award. there is no radar to monitor the shore." he laughed. "okay, but now that oversight has turned into a plus. what's good for the goose is good for the you- know-what. if there are no peripheral radars, then they're not going to know where pierre and the boys make their insertion." "right. the bad guys are already blind. it's got to make a difference." 'then what we need to do"--he was thinking aloud--"is to get them all together in one place." 'they're not going to let it happen." she was questing, too. "unless . . . unless we can make it happen. something . . ." "keep thinking," he said. "i don't have any ideas either, but somebody better come up with one." "well, let's go back up on the mountain before they find us here," she said finally, clearly itching to get going and do something. "we're going to screw these guys, wait and see." vance nodded, wishing he could believe it as confidently as she did. : p.m. sabri ramirez stood watching as the last of the krytron detonators was secured in the ganglia of wiring that surrounded the explosive octol sphere. now one of the bombs was armed. he liked the looks of it. the next-- "they haven't come back yet," wolf helling said, interrupting his thoughts. "do you think there was a problem?" he was warily watching the bomb and its timer being assembled, trying to calm his nerves. this was not like playing with a yellow lump of sematach. one false move and you would be vaporized. any man who pretended it didn't scare him was a liar, or worse, a fool. maybe both. the bomb did not frighten ramirez; his mind did not dwell on risk. he assumed the pakis knew their job--they damned well better. no, his current concern also was what had happened to moreau. he had expected his unit to return before now. so far they had taken over an hour on what should have been a simple operation. with hostages dispersed in three locations, ramirez feared that things were getting spread thin. gamal had been keeping watch over the guards and the off-duty shifts on level three of the accommodations facility, while peretz was holding things together in command, but still it would be better if four of the team were not out chasing over the island trying to find some rogue guard. he had tried to reach them on his walkie-talkie, but so far he had not been able to raise anybody. that was particularly troubling. why should all the radios suddenly go dead? "if there was some difficulty up the hill, surely they're handling it." ramirez tried to push aside his misgivings. he actually felt it was true, or should be true. he had checked out moreau's credentials carefully, investigating beyond the popular myth, and what he had found did nothing to diminish the legend of the blond demon, jean-paul. . . . "now, we're ready to secure this baby into the payload container," abdoullah was saying. "i measured it already, and it should fit with no problem. but we'll need to hook up the detonators with the telemetry interface, and for that we need peretz' input. he'll use the fujitsu in command to blow this thing, but it all has to be synchronized with the trajectory control." "he's there now," ramirez said, "updating the trajectory runs. that's scheduled to be completed in"--he checked his watch--"about twenty minutes. when he gets through, we can go ahead with the detonators. everything is on schedule." for some reason abdoullah did not like the precise tone of ramirez's voice. right, he thought, everything is on schedule. so when shujat and i have finished our part, what then? will we be "accidentally" gunned down, the way rais was? you claimed that was a screw-up, but you're not the kind of guy who makes that kind of mistake. okay, so maybe rais got careless. was that your way of making an example of him? he motioned shujat to help lift the first shiny sphere into the heat- resistant teflon payload container. on a conventional launch, the container was designed to be deployed by radio command when the vx- vehicle had captured low earth orbit. the nose of the vehicle would open and eject it, after which the satellite payload would release. this launch, however, was-- "hey, they're back," helling announced, watching the door of the clean room open. ramirez looked up, and realized immediately that something was wrong. jean-paul moreau's eyes seemed slightly unfocused, and his sense of balance was obviously impaired --a man stumbling out of a centrifuge. he also was rubbing at his ears, as though his head were buzzing. "what in hell happened?" he had never seen anyone with quite this set of symptoms before. they looked like men who had been too close when a homemade bomb went off. "the bastard was up on the hill, and he managed to get control of one of the radars. let me tell you, there's nothing like it in the world. you feel your head is going to explode. i can barely hear." he then lapsed into french curses. stelios tritsis still had said nothing. he merely watched as rudolph schindler and peter maier set down the rpg- and collapsed onto the floor. "then let him go for now." ramirez wanted to kill them all, then and there. "but get that damned thing out of here." he indicated the grenade launcher. "and the rest of you with it. take turns getting some sleep and report back to me at hours. we'll soon have our hands full. the natives here are going to start getting restless. when that happens, the next man who fucks up will have to answer to me." they all knew what that meant. : p.m. dore peretz had just finished checking over the trajectory analyses and he was satisfied that guidance would not pose a problem. with sort controlling the trajectory at lift-off, a vehicle could be set down with pinpoint accuracy. midcourse correction, abort--the whole setup was going to be a cakewalk. the kid lefarge was good, good enough to make him think he could do without the andros bitch. right now nothing indicated that it could not all be handled from right here in command, with the staff at hand. okay, he thought, one more chore out of the way. now it's time to start setting up the telemetry hookup with the radio-controlled detonators. . . . chapter twelve : p.m. "is there anything we need to go over again?" pierre armont inquired, looking around the dusty, aging athens hangar with a feeling of wary confidence. the weather-beaten benches and tables were cluttered with maps of andikythera and blueprints of the satcom facility, scattered among half-empty bottles of ouzo and metaxa. he had just completed his final briefing, which meant the time had come to board the cessna seaplane that would be their insertion platform. the team seemed ready. hans had come through with the troops they needed; reggie sat bleary- eyed but prepared, nursing a final brandy; the brothers voorst of the royal dutch marines were austerely sipping coffee; dimitri spiros was quietly meditating on the condition of the equipment; and marcel of the belgian esi was sketching one last paper run-through of the insertion. when nobody spoke, armont glanced at his watch and frowned. this final briefing had gone longer than expected, but he had to cover more than the usual number of complexities. for one thing, the hostages apparently were scattered all over the place, always a problem. unless the team could strike several locations simultaneously, the element of surprise would be forfeited. that meant the insertion had to be totally secure, giving the team time to split up, get positioned, and stage the final assault with split-second coordination. carrying out one op was dicey enough: he was looking at three, all at once. the alternate strategy would be to focus exclusively on ramirez. take him out first, blow their command structure, and hope the others would fold. the decision on that option would have to be made in about two hours, just before they set down the plane two kilometers west of the island and boarded the zodiacs for insertion. that was when vance was scheduled to radio his intel on the disposition of the hostiles and the friendlies. what a stroke of luck to have him there, a point man already in place to guide the team in. "all right, then," spiros said, finally coming alive, "let's do a final check of the equipment. we need to double-inventory the lists and make sure everything got delivered. i don't want to hear a lot of crap from you guys if somebody can't find something later on." the others nodded. dimitri had had to scramble to get all the hardware together, and reginald hall had had to make some expensive last-minute arrangements to obtain a set of balaclava antiflash hoods for everybody. when there were hostages everywhere, the safest way to storm the terrorists was with nonlethal flash grenades, which produced a blinding explosion and smoke but did not spew out iron fragments. but their use required the assault to function in the momentarily disruptive environment they created. the hoods, which protected the wearer's face and eyes from the smoke and flash, were crucial. and since your local hardware store did not stock them, he had borrowed a set from the greek dimoria eidikon apostolon, a swat unit of the athens city police trained to provide hostage rescue, securing six on a "no questions asked" basis, even though everybody there knew they had only one use. word of the hostage-taking down on andikythera had not yet leaked out to the world, so dea had not been consulted. but their record of security at the athens hellinikon airport was so miserable he doubted they ever would be considered for a job like this. though the dea had trained with the german gsg- , the british sas, and the royal dutch marines, they still were basically just cops. a real antiterrorist operation would be out of their league. dea had no illusions about that, and they also knew that spiros was with arm, arguably the best private antiterrorist organization in the world. so if they granted dimitri a favor, they knew they could someday call on arm to repay in kind. in the antiterrorist community, everybody was on the same team. everybody understood the meaning of quid pro quo. most of the rest of the equipment had been retrieved from the arm stocks the organization kept stored in athens. governments frowned on the transportation of heavy weaponry around europe, so the association found it convenient to have its own private stocks at terminals in london, paris, and athens. it made life simpler all around. reggie hall had dictated the equipment list as he drove in to london in his black jaguar, cursing the glut of traffic on the a . once he reached the arm office there, a small inconspicuous townhouse in south kensington, he faxed the list to athens, then caught a plane. dimitri had checked out the list against the arm inventory in the warehouse and quickly procured whatever was lacking. it had been packaged into crates, then taken by lorry to this small side terminal of the hellinikon airport, ready to be loaded on the unobtrusive cessna seaplane he had leased for the operation. by that time the rest of the team had already started arriving. then, two and a half hours ago, pierre had begun the briefing. a counterterrorist operation always had several objectives: protecting the lives of hostages and procuring their safe release, isolating and containing the incident, recovering seized property, and preventing the escape of the offenders. but this time there was a twist to the usual rules. in a special-threat situation like this, possibly involving nuclear weapons, the recovery of those devices was the paramount priority. the way armont had planned the assault, arm could manage with a seven- man team instead of the nine most special-reaction outfits normally used. he would be team leader, which meant his responsibilities included supervision as well as being in charge of planning and execution, controlling cover and entry elements, and determining special needs. since vance was already on the ground, he would be point man, providing reconnaissance and recommending primary and alternate routes of approach. the point man in an assault also led the entry element during approach and assisted the defense men in the security. finally, he was expected to pitch in and help with the pyrotechnics as needed. the defense man would be marcel, the belgian, who would cover for the voorst brothers during the assault and provide security for vance during the approach. he would also double as point man when required and protect the entry team from ambush during approach. another duty was to cover the entry element during withdrawal and handle the heavy equipment. hans would serve as the rear security man, following the entry element during movement and providing close cover during withdrawal. he would be second in command, and also would bring in whatever equipment was needed. since reggie was a crack shot, the best, he would be the standoff sniper, maintaining surveillance on the subject area from a fixed position, monitoring radio frequencies, and providing intelligence on hostile movements. he also would neutralize by selective fire anybody who posed an imminent threat to the entry team. spiros would be the observer, keeping a record of everything for an after-action summary, providing security for reggie, and assisting in locating hostile personnel. he would relieve hall as necessary, and handle the cs or smoke if pierre signaled for it. that was it for assignments. everybody would be doing more or less what they always did. so far so good. the next item was intelligence. normally you tried to gather as much as you could on-scene, and presumably vance was taking care of that. for the rest of it, armont had dug up blueprints for all the buildings from the files, and on the plane from paris he had meticulously numbered the levels, sectorized the windows, and labeled all the openings, ventilation shafts, et cetera. at the briefing just completed, he had used the blueprints to designate primary and secondary entry-points. he would fine-tune his strategy with vance by radio once they had made the insertion; and then, after he had located all the terrorists and confirmed the situation of the hostages, they would use the blueprints to plan the assault. next came the equipment. since the assault would be at night, they would need vision capabilities. that included m a x binoculars, starlight scopes, and infrared scopes. then the radios, which had to be multi-channeled, with one channel reserved strictly for the team, and have cryptographic (secure voice) capability. the surveillance radio package--compact in size, with a short antenna--included a lapel mike, push-to-talk button, and earpiece. all members of the team would have a radio, worn in a comfortable position and out of the way. as usual they would employ strict communication discipline, using their established call signs and codes as much as possible. other personal equipment included chemical light wands, luminous tape, gloves, protective glasses, disposable inserts for hearing protection, black combat boots, lightweight body armor, balaclavas, flashlights, knives, first-aid pouches. insertion gear included grapple hooks, several hundred feet of half-inch fibrous nylon rope, locking snaplinks, and rappelling harnesses. finally there was the weaponry. everybody would carry a . caliber automatic pistol and a . caliber revolver with a special four-inch barrel. the assault team would use h&k mp s except for armont and hall: pierre preferred a steyr-mannlicher aug and reggie had brought along an enfield l a , in addition to his usual ak- . then, just in case, they had the heavy stuff: m mm launcher systems, m - and m a shotguns, modified pump shotguns, and mm psds. god help us, armont thought, if we need all this. naturally there also were grenades. they had plenty of the standard m fragmentation type, but since these frequently were next to useless in a hostage situation, they planned to rely more on stun grenades and smoke grenades. the same was true of the an-m incendiary hand grenade, a two-pound container of thermite that burned at over four thousand degrees fahrenheit for half a minute. it was fine for burning up a truck, but not recommended for a room full of hostages. better for that was the m smoke grenade, which spewed white phosphorus over an area of about fifteen yards. smoke, of course, could work both ways, also slowing up the deploying team. last but not least were the tear-gas grenades. to temporarily neutralize an entire room, arm had long used the m tear-gas grenade, which dispersed cn, chloraceteophenone. it was not a gas but a white crystalline powder similar to sugar that attacked the eyes, causing watering and partial closing, and simulated a burning sensation on the skin. if conditions seemed to require, they sometimes used a stronger chemical agent called cs--military shorthand for orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile. it, too, was a white crystalline powder similar to talc that produced immediate irritating effects that lasted from five to ten minutes. the agent (in a cloud form) caused a severe burning sensation of the chest. the eyes closed involuntarily, the nose ran, moist skin burned and stung--thereby rendering anybody in the immediate area incapable of effective action. he would choose which one to use when the time came. . . . after hans had helped dimitri double-inventory the equipment list, armont looked over the dark-brown crates one last time, then gave the go-ahead for loading. one good thing, he thought: since andikythera is greek, we won't be crossing any international borders; nothing will have to be smuggled through customs. reggie, impatient as always, was eyeing the clock at the far end of the hangar. "we've already filed the fight plan. i think it's time we made this a go op. what time is the next radio check with vance?" "that's scheduled for hours," armont answered. "after we're airborne. we'll go over the blueprints and compare them against the disposition of the friendlies and hostiles using his intel. then we can decide the best way to take the place down." the boys are getting itchy, he told himself. they want to get this over with and get back to their lives. who can blame them? this screw-up never should have happened in the first place. spiros let the client set the parameters for a job--which violates the first rule. he is going to have a lot to answer for when this is over. but settling that will have to wait till later. "all right," he said, starting up the cessna's metal stairs and heading for the cockpit. "let's get tower clearance and roll." : p.m. the technicians in command were all sprawled across their desks, demoralized and still in shock. georges lefarge shared their mood. cally had disappeared hours ago, and he was beginning to think he was on his own. the trajectories that peretz wanted computed were finished. now the israeli wanted to work on the telemetry. and he wanted to do it himself. he had taken his place at the console and started programming a new set of instructions into big benny, the fujitsu supercomputer. it looked as if he was coordinating some of the trajectory telemetry with the electronic signaling to the vehicle, and he was setting some sort of timer. lefarge pondered the significance of these actions. he wants something to happen when the vx- aborts and begins descent, he told himself. and it has to be done with split-second timing. what can he be planning? he felt helpless as he sat watching, the control room around him now silent and listless. locked out of his own computer, he felt rudderless and lost. he was realizing computers were a friend that could easily be turned against you. it was a moment of recognition that brought with it pure anguish. : a.m. dr. abdoul kirwani, ambassador of the islamic republic of pakistan to the united states of america, sat rigidly facing the small desk in the oval office. when the call requesting a meeting had come from johan hansen's chief of staff the previous evening, he had hastily sent a secure telex to islamabad to inquire if he needed any updating. he did. and it was a disaster. "it's past due time we met personally, mr. ambassador," president johan hansen was saying. "i regret that the press of affairs over the last month forced me to postpone receiving you sooner. state tells me your credentials are impeccable and you're doing a first-class job of getting up to speed." abdoul kirwani nodded his thanks, modestly but with ill- concealed pride. he was a tall, elegant man with a trim mustache and deep, inquisitive eyes. some said he could have been a double for omar sharif. a deeply guarded secret was that he cared more about the ragas of indian classical music than he did about diplomacy. he had made no secret, however, of his admiration for johan hansen. the american president's refocus of the superpower's priorities was a refreshing breath of rationality and sanity in an irrational, insane world. all of which made this particular meeting even more distressing. "thank you, mr. president. my government wishes me to express its appreciation for the excellent cooperation we have received and the traditional american hospitality my family and i have enjoyed since we arrived. shireen, i must say, loves this country as much as i do. she studied at smith many years ago, and is especially fond of new england." he smiled. "we pakistanis always yearn for places with a cool climate." "then perhaps someday you'll accord me the honor of letting christin and me show you my new presidential hideaway in the berkshires." hansen smiled back, chafing to cut the diplomatic bullshit. "perhaps sometime this autumn. we think it's one of the most beautiful spots on earth." "we would be most honored." he nodded again, reading the president's mind-state perfectly. "now." hansen could contain himself no longer. "i want you to understand, mr. ambassador, that what i am about to say is not directed toward you personally. my staff tells me you have been a private advocate, for some years now, of reducing and even eliminating nuclear weapons worldwide. that, as you know, is my desire as well. so you and i see eye to eye. unfortunately, however, we live in a world where realities still assume precedence over noble ambitions." "i agree with you, mr. president, sadly but wholeheartedly." the pakistani ambassador nodded lightly, dreading what he knew was about to come. so the u.s. already knows, he realized. this disaster is going to turn out even worse than i'd feared. "the topic of nuclear proliferation brings us, i am afraid, to the subject at hand. you will forgive me if we set aside our views on the scenic american countryside for another day. time, unfortunately, is short. i think you will understand why when you hear what i have to say." hansen leaned back in his heavy chair, hoping he had given the right signals. he had been entirely sincere when he said he liked kirwani and did not relish the task immediately at hand. "mr. ambassador, you will not be surprised to learn that this country is well aware of the gross violations of the nuclear nonproliferation treaty that have taken place since pakistan refused to sign in . the entire world knows about your uranium hexafluoride plant at dera ghazi khan, and the kahuta facility where it is enriched using german centrifuges. we also know what that enriched uranium"--he glanced down at his notes--"in the ninety-five percent range, is being used for. however, we have not been able to dissuade your government from the course it has taken." he paused. "quite frankly, there's not a hell of a lot we could do about it without having to make some very undiplomatic accusations against our staunchest ally on the asian subcontinent." kirwani turned slightly pale. although he worried about india's growing nuclear capacities as much as the next pakistani, he still did not particularly like the idea of his country having its own secret nuclear program, developed in part to counter india's. the world needed more dialogue, he believed, not more destruction. however, he wasn't being paid to defend his personal views. "mr. president, i'm not authorized to discuss the strategic security arrangements of my country, as i am sure you can appreciate." "yes," hansen said, "i can appreciate a hell of a lot, mr. ambassador. for instance, i can appreciate the multi-billions in military and economic assistance we've lavished on pakistan over the years. there are those in this administration who think that gives us the right to a hearing. you know, back when ronald reagan was president, his administration argued that we could slow down pakistan's nuclear program by giving you every other possible kind of military aid. so we poured in everything you asked. however, all that aid seems not to have slowed your government's nuclear efforts for so much as a minute. "in fact," hansen went on, the memory still making him seethe, "what you did was turn to china for the data you needed to manufacture nuclear weapons without testing. that was the thanks we got. then--" "an unproven accusation, mr. president," kirwani interjected lamely. "yes, china denied it, too, but the reagan administration took it seriously enough that they halted formal approval of a trade pact with china for almost a year in retaliation. we had hard evidence, believe me. and then--" "mr. president, we are not, i'm sure, here to give each other history lectures. certainly neither of us has forgotten that during those years there were , soviet troops in afghanistan, just over our border. we had legitimate security concerns that could not always--i am speaking hypothetically, of course--be addressed with a strictly conventional deterrent." kirwani tried to smile. "you do understand, of course, that this conversation is entirely hypothetical." "of course, so let's travel a little farther into never-never land. what we do know is that the soviet threat in afghanistan is now a thing of the past; world conditions have changed dramatically; and there are those in congress who may choose to wonder why pakistan still has any justification to stockpile--hypothetically, of course--these 'unconventional' weapons. american aid is not written in stone. now, is that diplomatic enough for you, mr. ambassador?" "we are allies, mr. president," kirwani replied calmly, "and allies work in concert toward mutual goals, each bringing to their alliance whatever contribution can further the ends of both. i do hope your government believes it has received as much as it has contributed over the years." hansen tried not to smile. we never "receive" as much as we "contribute," he was thinking. but then that's how the damned game is played. "in the interest of diplomacy, mr. ambassador, i suggest we move this 'theoretical' discussion along. we have reason to believe that a certain number of 'unconventional' weapons may now be in hands neither of us would wish. the question is, how many weapons are involved and what is their yield?" ambassador kirwani had been expecting the inquiry. it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. the government in islamabad was beside itself, appalled that controls had been so lax and that now the world was going to know exactly the extent of pakistan's nuclear program. before this ghastly situation was resolved, years of secrecy were going to be blown away. yet in truth part of him was half-relieved that the cat was out of the bag, finally. for either india or pakistan to loose nuclear weapons on the asian subcontinent would be to unleash the wrath of allah upon billions of innocents. it was truly unthinkable. "you do understand, mr. president, that before this conversation continues we must both agree that it never took place. furthermore, even if it should take place, it would be purely hypothetical." after hansen nodded grimly, kirwani continued. "we both know the israelis have had uranium bombs, not to mention hydrogen bombs, for many years and yet they have never admitted it publicly. by maintaining a diplomatic fiction they have kept their arab neighbors quiet on the subject. they are never called to account. the government of pakistan merely asks to be accorded the same latitude to conduct our security arrangements as we best see fit. the israelis know it is not in their interest to rattle nuclear sabers, and we know that as well." he edged forward in his chair. "that is, assuming we possessed such sabers, which i in no way acknowledge." "i think we're beginning to understand each other." hansen nodded. "so perhaps that counts as progress. of course this conversation never took place, and lest you're wondering, i don't have the oval office bugged, the way that idiot nixon did. i believe terms like 'confidentiality' and 'off the record' still have meaning." kirwani found himself yearning for a cigarette, though he knew smoking was forbidden here in this presidential sanctuary. "very well, then, speaking hypothetically and confidentially, i am authorized to inform your government that we have reason to believe that there may be two uranium bombs, in the fifteen-kiloton-yield range, that may be . . . in the wrong hands somewhere in the world. needless to say, my government is extremely concerned about this and is currently taking steps to establish a full . . . accounting of the situation." kirwani realized it sounded lame. but his government had authorized him to deliver those words only. "god help us," hansen sighed. it's true. or maybe just a coincidence. "when were these hypothetical weapons found to be missing?" "if such a thing were to be true," kirwani continued, ever cautious; "it might well have been just over a week ago." a final pause. "and we have no idea where they are." : a.m. ramirez watched with satisfaction as abdoullah and shujat began loading the first device into the payload capsule. shujat had carefully attached the wiring of the krytrons to a "black box" of computer chips, which was itself connected to a radio receiver, part of the telemetry for vx- . with the bomb primed, the unsuspecting satcom crew could now move the weapon--its fifteen kilograms of weapons- grade u waiting to be imploded upon itself--up the gantry and into the satellite bay of vx- . that completed, work would begin on preparing the second device, which was going to serve as a backup. when peretz finished, only the computer would know the location of the first target. total security, which meant nobody would be able to activate any antimissile defense systems. all of europe would be at risk, though the real target would in fact be among the most obvious. with the u.s.'s entire mediterranean sixth fleet now anchored at souda bay, a nuclear explosion there would change the equation of power throughout europe and the middle east. it was high time. the so-called eastern bloc had turned its back on its muslim friends in the region, leaving them to fend for themselves. the east had betrayed the arab cause, just as it had betrayed him. in the old days, eastern european governments hired him in desperation, then half the time tried to kill him after he had carried out their objectives. even a long-term purchaser of his services, romania's nicolae ceausescu, had eventually turned against him. but he had seen it coming, even back when he had been the personal gun-for-hire of that late strongman, enjoying the hospitality of his plush seaside resort. that time, his beretta mm had saved the day. and now, here, now that the launch time for the first vehicle was drawing near, he was feeling more and more comfortable about the mm under his jacket. this ad hoc collection of operatives he had brought along was going to start getting edgy, more so as the hours ticked by. the first to crack, he knew, would be the two remaining pakistani engineers. but they were amateurs, which meant they posed no real threat. more than that, their usefulness was soon going to be at an end. . . . no, they weren't the problem now. the problem was going to be egress when this was all over. but the old man who had been the president's professor years ago was a hostage made in heaven. and then, of course, there was the ceo, bates. nobody was going to shoot down a chopper with those two luminaries aboard. although egress was the long-term consideration, there also was a short-term concern. salim was reporting from command that the radio had a lot of scrambled traffic. the airwaves were beginning to have the feeling of an assault in the making. . . . "okay, we're ready," shujat announced, standing back to admire his handiwork: the armed bomb nestled in its case, surrounded with bubble- wrap. the truck that would take it from the clean room to the gantry area was standing alongside the bench. the weapon itself, accompanied by its electronics, weighed over a hundred kilograms, but they used a forklift to lower it down. very carefully. shujat was nervous. although octol was an extremely stable compound, which made it an ideal explosive to implode the enriched uranium, still . . . your instincts said to be careful. one nice thing about a nuke, though: if it went off accidentally, you'd never know. you'd be vaporized before your neurons and synapses had a chance to get their act together. you were gone, baby. atoms. "take it up and get it on the vehicle," ramirez ordered. "from now on we work straight through." the two pakistanis nodded and began slipping a large plastic covering around the crate. the clean-room procedure, which they were following, involved encasing a satellite payload in a sterile plastic wrap to protect it from contamination when it was being transferred to the gantry area. they zipped up the plastic, after which shujat unsealed the airlock door and returned to help abdoullah roll the white three- wheeled truck through. down the hallway they glided, with all the insouciance of two grocery boys delivering a case of beer. the launch facility was compact and efficient, and the gantry elevator was only some fifty meters from the clean room. the hallway itself was now deserted, as all the satcom personnel were dutifully in their prescribed work areas. via computer messages peretz had advised the satcom tech crews that the arlington office had put the launch schedule on a crash basis and everybody had to stay at his post. there had been grumbling, but everybody was determined to get with the program. after all, satcom was a team. an electronic eye opened the sealed doors leading into the gantry area. it, too, was spotlessly clean, with technicians busying to ready the elevator. everything was being prepared for a countdown. ramirez looked the scene over, straightening his tie. how ironic, and amusing, to have all these fresh-faced young americans doing your bidding. the sense of power, and irony, was delicious. "this is the new payload," he announced, with the authority that had long since become second nature. "open the elevator and take it up." j.j. was there and he looked ramirez over again, still wondering who this guy was. dr. andros hadn't been around for a while, and all of a sudden this asshole was calling the shots. was he bill bates' new second-in-command? it didn't make any sense, but then something funny was definitely going on. the communications system with command was all screwed up; nobody could reach dr. andros; everybody was ordered to stay at their posts and not take a break; and there had even been what sounded like gunfire from the sector where the clean room was. none of these things boded well. but he said nothing, just nodded in acquiescence and opened the door leading to the gantry module. the two new satcom technicians, who had also shown up with the new aic (asshole in charge), rolled on the cart-- which was carrying some mysterious new payload. the gantry elevator itself operated inside a mobile tower that rolled on rails, thereby allowing it to be motored next to the vehicle and--at the lower level--opened into the launch facility. from the lower level, technicians could insert the payload module, which then would be hoisted to the top of the gantry and inserted into the vehicle's nose cone. when the vehicle was fully prepped and ready for launch, they would roll the gantry, with its elevator, some fifty meters down the track. until thirty minutes earlier, the gantry elevator had been stationed at the midpoint of the vehicle, where technicians were loading the "propellant" and making the final adjustments to the quartz mirrors and nozzles. now that they had finished that task, they could begin the countdown. only the payload remained to be installed. j.j. watched as the technicians secured the trolley, its plastic- wrapped package, and the two new dudes--a couple of camel jockeys some of the guys said they thought they'd seen at berkeley--into the module and closed the door. in half an hour's time it would be installed and the countdown could begin. : p.m. willem voorst was at the controls of the cessna as they powered through the aegean night, their heading as they closed rapidly on andikythera. he was holding their altitude at five hundred meters, their airspeed just under a hundred knots, barely above stall. when they were about ten klicks out, he would take the plane down to two hundred meters, then set down about two kilometers northeast of the island. the last stage of the insertion would be via two zodiac rubber raiding craft and then, finally, scuba. everything still looked like a go. reggie was leading hans and the rest of the team through a final review of the facility blueprints, while armont was in the cockpit, on the sideband radio to vance. . . . "roger, sirene," vance was saying, "we're in the communications blockhouse, up on the mountain, so we're a little out of touch, but our best guess is that terror one is still down at launch. everybody else is scattered all over the facility. that suggests an obvious option." "copy, ulysses," armont replied. "that means plan b. we'll have to take down that point, and then secure the devices. behead the dragon, then see what's left." "my hunch," vance concurred, "is that if you take out ramirez the rest of them will fold. he's their main man. but i suggest extreme caution. he's a pro." "copy that, ulysses. hang on while i put you on standby. don't go away." "i copy." armont paused to search the sea below with his ir goggles while he scanned the military frequencies. neither pleased him. a new storm was growing, building in intensity, and it would complicate matters. but even worse, the military frequencies on the radio were abuzz. "reggie, something's going on around here and i don't like it," he shouted back to the cabin, his voice strong above the roar of the engines as he scanned frequencies. "there's too much radio traffic in the area, all scrambled. what do you think? i'm worried the americans are--" then it came. the radio crackled in crisp military english. "unidentified aircraft, this is united states navy warship yankee bravo. you are entering a controlled sector. this airspace is currently off limits to civilian aviation. please identify yourself. repeat, we must have your id and destination." "shit," armont blanched. he turned back to the cabin and motioned for dimitri spiros to come to the cockpit and take the headset. "give them the cover. we're a medical charter. delivering emergency blood supplies to apollonion general in heraklion. strictly civilian." spiros nodded, took the headset, and settled himself in the copilot's seat. 'this is icarus aviation's delta one. we have an approved flight plan from athens to iraklion, crete. what's the problem, yankee bravo?" "icarus delta one, we've got an exercise under way for the next seventy-two hours. no civilian aircraft are allowed within a sector from latitude ° ' to ° ' and longitude ° ' to ° '. we're going to vector you back to athens." spiros switched off his mike and yelled back at armont. "problem. looks like the u.s. navy's cordoned off andikythera. it's hot. doesn't sound like they're going to take no for an answer." "so that's what all the radio activity was about." armont's dark eyes flashed satisfaction that at least one mystery was solved, but they quickly turned grim. "well, we've got to go in. give them the cover again and insist it's an emergency. they can check it out. it's all in the flight plan we filed." which was, of course, bogus. the routing was intended to take them directly over andikythera, where they would ditch. "see if they'll buy the 'medical emergency' story and give us an iff and clearance," he continued. "but whatever happens, we're damned sure not going to turn back." "i'll give it a shot," spiros yelled, "but i don't think it's going to happen. they're going to insist we exit from the area, then file another flight plan that takes us around it. standard." "well, try anyway," armont barked, knowing that the greek was right. things were definitely headed off the track. spiros clicked on the mike. "yankee bravo, we have a flight plan filed with athens control. nobody advised us this airspace was off limits. we're making an emergency delivery of blood plasma to the apollonion general hospital in iraklion. we filed a manifest with the flight plan. it's a perishable cargo and we have to have it in their hands by hours tomorrow." "sorry about that, delta one, but this airspace has been quarantined to all civilian traffic as of hours. no matter what's on your manifest. you're going to have to radio athens and amend your filing." spiros shrugged, clicked off his mike, and glanced back with an "i told you so" look. "now what? they've acquired us on radar, so there's no way we can proceed. we try it and they'll scramble something and escort us out of the area at gunpoint. i'd say we're reamed." it was a tough call, but armont made it without hesitation. he strode toward the cockpit and shouted to voorst, "take her down to three hundred meters. and get ready." the dutchman nodded as armont stepped back to the cabin. "okay, gentlemen, listen up. we have to make a decision and i think we'd better vote on it. we've got three options. we can cancel the op and turn back; we can go on the deck and try our luck at evading their radar; or we can abort and take our chances. if we do that, they'll probably mount a search, but with any luck we'll be written off. i say we do it. word of warning, though--if we screw this one up, the organization is going to take some heat." the men looked at each other, each doing his own quick calculus. it wouldn't be the first time arm had found itself having to work outside the system to save the system. frequently the group or government that hired them ended up--for political expediency--formally denouncing whatever they had done. but it was a flap accompanied by a wink, and it always dissipated after any obligatory moral indignation was ventilated. this time, however, if the op went sour it might not be so easy to explain away. reginald hall, the most conservative of them all, looked the most worried. he had a good civilian cover and he wanted to keep it that way. "you know, if we get picked up and detained, it's going to be bloody sticky. half of the new chaps at special projects these days think i raise radishes for a living. it would be bloody awkward to end up in a greek jail, or worse. don't think i'd get invited to the queen's birthday anymore." hans was smiling. "reggie, you old fossil, let me get this straight. you don't mind getting killed on an op, but you don't want to get embarrassed socially. i'd say you've got a priorities problem." "the difference," hall replied testily, "is that i can control what happens on a regular op. but now you're saying we might have to fight our way through the u.s. navy just to get in. that's bloody imprudent, mates." "well," armont interjected, shouting as he gazed around the cabin, "i'm waiting. we're still about thirty klicks out, which means that if we ditch her now, an insert tonight is out of the question. plus, we'll be exposed. i'm waiting to hear a veto. if we're going to risk everybody's balls just to save vance, it's got to be unanimous. whatever we do, we do together." he paused. "i know what you're thinking--can vance handle it for another twenty-four hours? personally, i think he can put together enough moves to gain us the time, but who knows." he looked around with an air of finality. "okay, i take it silence is consent." that was when willem shouted from the cockpit. "pierre, we've just acquired an 'escort.' about fifteen klicks out and closing fast." "all right, lads," armont ordered. "time to get the show going. break out the zodiacs and assemble your gear." the cabin erupted in action. they had been expecting to deplane at sea, but this was not how they had planned to do it. "i've suspected all along we were a bunch of damned fools," armont laughed as he strode toward the cockpit. "now i know for sure." he glanced at his watch. "sixty seconds." he passed spiros as he reclaimed the copilot's seat next to willem voorst. "what was our eta for andikythera?" "we would have made the set-down site in twenty-three more minutes." "okay, i've got to alert michael." he flicked on the sideband. "ulysses, do you copy?" "loud and clear, sirene." "looks like we've got a problem, old buddy. the trusty usn has shut down the airspace around the island. closed it to commercial traffic." "don't like the sound of that. it's getting a little lonesome down here." "from the look of things, it may get worse. we're going to have to slip the original insertion. we'll need another twenty-four hours. can you hang on that long?" "hey, i'm making new friends all the time. no problem. the downside is that the rockets may start going up. i'm still trying to get a handle on that end of it. now it sounds like i may have to look into trying to reschedule things a little." "we need a breather," armont said. "our options don't look too good at this end. but we'll be there, so don't believe anything you hear on the radio. all things may not be what they appear." "copy that. have a nice day." "roger." armont clicked off the mike. "all right." he turned and motioned spiros back to the cockpit. "tell them we're losing radio contact. and our navigation gear is going. say we're going to have to reduce altitude and fly with a compass and visuals. maybe that will muddy things long enough to get us down." dimitri spiros hit the radio and delivered the message. to total disbelief. "that's a crock, delta one. assume a heading of three-four-zero immediately and get the hell out of this airspace. immediately. do you acknowledge?" "transmission breaking up," spiros replied, toggling the switch back and forth as he did to add some credibility to his assertion. "that's more bullshit, delta one. either you acknowledge or--" spiros switched off the microphone. "we've got to put her in. now." : p.m. captain jake morton was piloting the f- d super tomcat and he honestly couldn't believe this was all that serious. he and his radar-intercept officer, frank brady, had been scrambled on short notice and, though he relished the chance to clock a little flight time, he felt in his bones that this was a red herring. he didn't even have a wingman, which told him that command on the kennedy probably wasn't too excited either. the blip on the vsd, vertical simulation display, was some tin can cruising just above the chop down there, pulling around a hundred knots and now losing altitude. obviously just some civilian asshole, who wasn't going to make it unless he pulled out damned soon. he had to be close to stall. problem was, though, the bogey had responded to the kennedy's radio room with some "medical charter" malarkey and then shut down. what was that all about? and now? were these guys really having radio and nav problems, like they'd said, or were they about to try something funny, some amateur attempt at evasion? well, he thought, if that's their game, they're pretty fucking dumb. so what the hell was the real story? he'd learned one thing in fifteen years of navy: when you didn't know what could happen, you planned for the worst. he switched on the intercom and ordered brady to turn on the television-camera system (tcs), the f- 's powerful nose video, and use the radar to focus it, bringing up the image from down below for computer optimization. "yankee bravo, this is birdseye," he said into his helmet mike. 'that bogey that id'd itself as icarus delta one has still got a heading of about two-seventy, but now he's definitely losing altitude. in fact, he's practically in the drink. we're trying to get him on the tcs and take a look." "roger," came back the voice. "we've lost radio contact. advise extreme caution. whoever the hell he is, he's a bogey. i want him the hell out of this airspace. don't waste time with the tcs. get a visual." "copy, yankee bravo, want me to fly down for a look-see?" "confirmed, birdseye. and assume you've got a hostile on your hands. caution advised. repeat, assume he's a hostile." "roger. we copy." morton tapped the stick and his f- banked into a steep dive, , pounds of steel plummeting downward. what am i doing? he asked himself again as he watched his altimeter begin to spin. i buzz the guy and i'll probably scare hell out of him. he'll wind up in the soup for sure. and if he still doesn't respond, then what? am i supposed to shoot down a civilian? the very thought made his new mustache itch, a clear sign of nerves. such things had been done before, but captain jake morton had never done them and he had no interest in starting a new trend in his career. he had a wife and kids he still had to look in the face. on the other hand, a close encounter would definitely get their attention. but then, these were international waters, and the legality of interdicting civilian traffic was not all that obvious, and might be even less obvious in a court of law some faraway day. particularly if it really was a medical emergency situation like those bozos down there claimed. could make for exceptionally bad press. which didn't do a thing for promotions in the u.s. navy. : p.m. "all right," armont said, reaching for the microphone. "we've got to confirm with mike. he's got to know what's going on." he flicked the dial on the radio. "ulysses, do you read? come in." "i copy. what's the story?" "insert is a definite abort. repeat, abort insert. we're expecting some company. red, white, and blue." "that's going to blow everything." "you've got a roger, ulysses." "how far are you from andikythera?" "looks like about twenty klicks," armont answered. "you were timed for . can vou still make it tonight at all?" "doubtful. even with the two zodiacs and outboards, by the time we reached there it'd be almost daylight. we may have to revise the insert, plus twenty-four." "how about your gear?" vance's voice betrayed his concern. "we'll need hardware. the hostiles are loaded for bear. you--" "we'll do what we can. we don't like it either. . . . uh- oh." he had just glanced at the radar. "company's here, ulysses. stay up on this frequency." "copy." armont turned to voorst. "okay, we've got to ditch now. that's probably an f- "--he pointed to the radar screen-- "and he's going to be on us in less than two minutes. we have to give him something to talk about back in the briefing room." willem voorst was staring through the cockpit windscreen at the dark, choppy sea skimming by just below the fuselage. "hang on." the arm gear was packed in waterproof containers, and the zodiac rafts were by the doors, ready to eject. willem loosened his flight helmet and dropped the flaps. "i hope this baby is insured by somebody." "it's insured," armont said, grimacing to think of the paperwork that lay ahead. "we just had a malfunction. that's my professional opinion." : p.m. the storm had cut visuals to a minimum, and the puddle hopper down there was still not responding. morton figured if giving the guy a flyby didn't get his attention, then command would want to hand him a little heat, say a tracer from the tomcat's mm cannon. he prayed it wouldn't come to that, because that might well cause the guy to pee in his pants and go down for sure. what the hell was going on, anyway? the wing had shipped out of souda, battle-ready, with less than an hour's notice. there still hadn't been a briefing. the whole thing was some top-secret exercise nobody could figure. and now this bullshit. he thought again about the rumor going around the flight deck of the kennedy that an awacs had been brought up from saudi to monitor all air traffic in the area. what the hell was that about? command had dropped a hint about terrorists, but this whole mobilization seemed like using a phoenix missile on a mosquito. then, just as he had feared, the radio crackled again. "birdseye, this is the tao. i've just got you authorization to lay a tracer alongside that bogey if he refuses to acknowledge your flyby." "please repeat for verify." morton had expected it, but he wasn't about to jeopardize his career over a misunderstood radio transmission. "you have positive authorization to lay one tracer in the vicinity of icarus delta one. monitor her response and we will advise follow-up procedure." "roger. but first let me try to raise them on the radio one last time." that cooks it, morton told himself. guess they want to play hardball with these assholes. whatever this so- called "exercise" is all about, somebody upstairs is taking it all very seriously. but then who knew? maybe those guys down there were terrorists. word had already reached the kennedy's lower decks about the glover being shot all to hell in a false-flag attack, which meant caution was the byword. the rumor mill also had it that terrorists had seized one of the small greek islands in this area. was that it? was the navy's quarantine intended to keep them from bringing in reinforcements? to interdict them if they tried to get away? had the u.s. navy been made into a watchdog?--a pretty lowly station after the glories in the gulf. he spoke over the cockpit intercom, the ics, advising brady of the authorization. it was a formality, since frank had monitored all the radio talk. brady said, "shit," then flipped on the f- 's weapons station and armed it. "we're hot." : p.m. the radio crackled again, and this time willem voorst flicked a switch so the entire cabin could hear. "delta one, this is captain jake morton, united states navy. i'm giving you one last warning. you have been instructed to alter your heading to three-four-zero and exit this airspace. if you do not comply, i am authorized to employ whatever degree of force is necessary to make sure you do not proceed. what is your intention? i repeat, what is your intention?" "all right," armont said, "this is it." the pontoons bounced across the chop as voorst touched down. he reversed the props and in seconds had brought the cessna to an abrupt halt, its frail fuselage bobbing like a cork. with the storm coming up, the sea was rougher than it looked. hans immediately opened the door, then nodded back to the cabin and reached for the line attached to the first raft. he had done this dozens of times before, but it always was scary. you had to watch out for the motor, inflate the raft from the doorway, then get your gear in, all the while keeping hold of the line. do it wrong and you could lose the whole thing. "okay, reggie," armont yelled, "time to earn your share." "what bloody share? it's fifteen percent of nothing." hall sighed and stared out the cessna's open doorway. even in the dim moonlight he could see the whitecaps thrown up by the chop, and he felt his testicles tighten. "this is going to be a hell of an insertion." he re- cinched the straps of the backpack containing his gear. armont watched him swing out and down, knowing he hated the moment, then motioned for hugo voorst to step up to the doorway. "hurry. we may be eating some cannon fire any time now." voorst moved up quickly. he glanced toward the cockpit one last time, then seized his gear and dropped down. his brother, who was still setting the charge, would be the last out. "our new escort is going to have us dead to rights in about sixty seconds," willem announced from up front. "everybody out, now." armont was securing the last of the gear needed for the insertion and the assault, readying it to be passed through the hatch, while willem voorst was finishing with the charge of c- . armont looked around the cabin one last time, hoping they had gotten everything they absolutely needed. several crates of backup gear would have to be left, but unexpected contingencies went with the territory. with that sober last thought, he signaled to voorst, who was ready with the detonator. "set it for forty-five seconds. that should be enough." as the dutchman nodded, he reached for the rope and dropped. willem spun the dials on the timer, then wrapped it against the dull orange stick of c- and tossed it into the copilot's seat. in seconds he was at the open doorway, swinging down the line and into the dark below. : p.m. now morton was really puzzled. the pilot had just gone into the drink. what had happened? maybe, he was thinking, he should call in a huey for a rescue op? no, this setup was starting to smell to high heaven. they had refused to change their heading, so the bastards had to be up to no good. no legitimate civilian aircraft would ignore a u.s. navy wave-off. . . . now . . . finally he could make a visual, rough through the downpour, but it looked like . . . it was a fucking seaplane. so instead of responding to orders to vector out of the airspace, they had settled in. wiseguys. well, even with the stormy sea down there, they still could take off, leave the same way they came in, and nothing would be made of it. first, though, they needed a short lesson in aviation protocol. "frank, let me handle this. i'm going to get their fucking attention." using his right thumb, he toggled the weapons selector on the side of the throttle quadrant down from sp/ph, past sw, and into the setting marked guns. the mm cannon was primed with two tracers, which should give the bastards something to think about. now the red radar lock on his hud was flashing. that asshole down there, whoever it was, was in for a big fucking surprise . . . his thumb was about to depress the red "fire" button when the first explosion came: down below a giant fireball illuminated the night sky, followed by secondaries! jesus! medical supplies, right! that innocent-looking little cessna was a flying munitions bin. they really _were _terrorists. a pillar of black smoke now covered the entire area. he ordered brady to switch off the weapons station, and then, his hand trembling, he toggled his oxygen regulator up a notch, trying to catch his breath as he pulled back on the stick. : p.m. "ulysses," armont's voice was coming over the radio, mixed with static. "do you copy?" at least they're okay, vance thought. "transmission is lousy, sirene. what happened?" "we had to take a swim. about twenty klicks too soon." "which means we definitely scratch the original eta, right? does the twenty-four still look firm?" "assuming we don't get any more surprises. this one is turning into a bitch." "don't they all?" vance said. "everybody is in good shape. so nothing else has changed." vance looked around the mountain and wished he could believe that. the whole thing could have been over in another three or four hours. now the terrorists had time to arm the vehicles and maybe even get one up. life was about to get a lot more complicated. he finally spoke into the mike. "let's keep in radio contact. the deployment here keeps changing. who knows what it'll be like by then." "we roger that." armont spoke quickly to somebody else, then came back. "there should be plenty of time to chat." "for you, maybe, but i'm not so sure how much spare time there's going to be on this end. i'll try to hold everything down till tomorrow, but it's going to be tough. if you can't raise me, then just proceed as planned. i'll be expendable." "that's a touching sentiment, ulysses, but you know that's not the way we work. our people always come first." "keep thinking that way. it's an inspiring concept." "okay, we'll review procedures and wait to hear from you. that's all for now." "roger. have fun." he sighed. : a.m. up ahead through the dark rain loomed the rugged atoll of an island. it was not large enough to have any vegetation; it really was only a giant granite outcropping that nearly disappeared every time a breaker washed over it. this, pierre reflected with chagrin, is going to be our staging area, as well as our new home for a full day. a little camouflage would handle the problem of detection by any snooping usn flyovers, but the boys weren't going to get much sleep. "this is a hell of a deployment base," reggie was saying, his voice barely audible over the sputter of the two out- boards. the two black zodiac rafts were now side by side, keeping together. his normally florid complexion had turned even more deeply ruddy from the cold and frustration. "how in bloody hell did it come to this?" armont was so frustrated he could barely manage a civil answer. "it came to this because we let a client spec a job. we left a piece of security to the client, always a bad idea." he climbed over the side of the zodiac, splashing through the surf, and began securing the first line to a jagged outcropping. around them the cold waves of the aegean lapped through the rain. dawn was hours away, and there was nothing to do now--except recriminate. dimitri spiros, who had installed the security system for the satcom facility, waded ashore looking as sheepish as he felt. he had only himself to blame for the penetration, he knew, and he had no intention of trying to defend it now. "what can i say?" he grimaced and caught the line hans was tossing to him. "i should have put my foot down. sometimes pleasing the client up front means not pleasing him at the end. if something goes wrong, it's always your fault, not his. human nature. i didn't listen to my own better judgment. bates claimed they had enough security, and i let him get away with it." "it's in the past now," armont said, biting his tongue. "we all keep learning from our mistakes. just as long as the education doesn't get too expensive." hans was setting up the camouflage that would cover them during the daylight hours to come. they had prepared for most contingencies and had brought enough camouflage netting to cover them and the rafts, which they now had dragged onto the atoll to serve as beds. they would take turns sleeping, letting whoever felt like it grab a few winks. now armont was staring into the dark sky, thinking . . . thinking there must be a better way to pay for your caviar. chapter thirteen : p.m. "we're on our own," vance said, clicking off the mike and looking around the darkened blockhouse. "marooned." cally, who had been listening to the radio exchange, already had other things to think about. she was engaged by the computer terminal, checking out the status of the facility. "hate to tell you this, but it's worse than you know." she was staring at the screen. "they've taken over the fujitsu. they've locked out all the other workstations and there's a countdown in process. look! somebody's on big benny who knows all about sort." "about _what_? sort?" "sort's the program that sets up the automatic lift-off sequence. once it's started, it proceeds like clockwork. the cyclops comes up to power; the radars are all switched on; and the vehicle's electronics go to full alert status. the main console in command controls everything and nothing can prevent the launch from proceeding unless it's stopped from there." "how long have we got?" "it's in the abbreviated mode. that's a six-hour countdown." he looked at her. "so you're saying we've got roughly six hours to get down there and stop it?" "six hours on the nose." "how about your friend, georges?" "he's logged off the computer. like i said, it's somebody else. they must have brought along their own specialist. guess they came prepared." "one more problem," vance observed with a sigh. "first ramirez, and then this one. guess we'll have to neutralize him, too. if that's the only way to stop the launch. this is getting dirtier all the time." "there's no way to do it except get into command," cally went on. "but even then shutting it down's not that simple. once it goes into auto mode, you can't just flip a switch. but still, that's the only place--" "you're talking about a frontal assault that could get bloody," vance said. "they might kill more of your technicians. no, the assault will have to wait for arm. we're going to need to work a different way." he paused. "maybe it's time we blew up something." "you mean--?" "what's the definition of a terrorist? it's somebody who uses well- placed acts of violence to disrupt society's normal functions, right? murder one and frighten a thousand. a terrorist is somebody who takes on a more powerful organization by hit-and-run tactics. scaring them." "so?" she looked at him quizzically, her dark eyes puzzled. "well, they've taken over the facility now, which means they're the establishment, and we're the outsiders. the tables are turned, which means we have to become terrorists against them." "but--" "we don't have much to work with, so we're going to have to do some improvising." he turned thoughtful, scratching at his chin. "how about some 'mollys'--throw together some gasoline, sulfuric acid, sugar . . . and maybe a little potassium chlorate for ignition?" "mollys? you mean--" "molotov cocktails. and if you design them for acid ignition, then you can blow them with a bullet. not a bad little standoff bomb." "i'm not so keen on blowing up equipment. it's hard enough to get things to work around here when we try." "ditto the fiber-optics cables, i suppose?" "that would be even worse. we'd be down for months." "okay, nothing crucial." he strolled to the open doorway and looked down the hill, pondering. "we just need to put something out of commission that could be fixed easily later on. and you know what: i think i see the perfect target." "what are you talking about?" she rose, stepped over, and followed his gaze. "right down there. that gantry. it's the only way to prep the satellite payload, right? maybe we could take that out. it would keep them from installing a bomb, put them out of business without damaging the vehicle. nothing serious. they won't be able to use it, but you can put it back into operating condition in a couple of days, with the right parts. think that's possible?" she seemed disposed to the concept, though still none too keen. "okay, but i've got a better idea. how about just blowing up a portion of the rails it moves on? then they couldn't roll it away from the vehicle to launch." "sounds intelligent to me, but i've got a hunch we'd better not wait too long." he was feeling energized after the steak. "matter of fact, i'd say there's no time like the present. where can we find some chemicals? even the kitchen would be a place to start." "i've got a better idea," she interjected. "there's a construction shed. it might have something left from back when." then why don't we go down and have a look?" he mused. "figure out if there's anything we can liberate." that's fine with me." she sighed, not sounding as though she meant it. "all we have to do is manage to get down there without being spotted and killed." "i don't know how much more excitement i can take." he definitely felt out of control, human prey, and he hated every minute of it. "that goes for me, too." but she was already switching off the workstation. by now the trek down the hill was getting to be all too familiar--the bristly greek scrub, the rough outcroppings. some night birds twittered nervously, but otherwise only their labored breathing broke the silence. the harshness of the terrain made him think again about the greek character, ancient and modern. to stand up to a land like this, you had to be tough. which brought his thoughts again to the dark-haired woman by his side. once in a while you ran across somebody with whom you absolutely clicked. he believed in love at first sight--he had been an incorrigible romantic all his life--and this was definitely the feeling he had now. and he thought-- well, hoped--she felt the same. could it be true? maybe it was just the fact they were working together. they were both strong- willed, and he sensed real potential for friction. "what are you going to do when this is all over?" she was asking, a wistful tone entering her voice. "just go back to sailing?" "you sound as though you already assume it's going to be over." he laughed, in spite of himself. was she thinking the same thing? "i admire your optimism. but to tell you the truth, if we live through this, i'm hoping to try my _odyssey_ trek all over again." he took her hand as they navigated the stones. "want to come along? make it a twosome?" "maybe." her tone said she was intrigued, and she didn't drop his hand. "it sounded pretty heroic." "well, it was mainly just . . . a challenge." he shrugged, continuing on down the dark trail. "calling it heroic is maybe a bit much." "no way." her voice had a wonderful finality. "i think your attempt to recreate the voyage of ulysses was a heroic undertaking. period." she paused. "you know, maybe i shouldn't tell you this, but you remind me an awful lot of somebody i used to know." "who's that?" "his name doesn't matter, but it was alan harris. he was a biochemistry professor. tall like you, older than me. i guess i made a fool of myself over him, looking back." vance didn't know quite what to say. "what happened?" "what do you think happened? older guy, smart, lovesick student looking for . . . never mind. when i think about it, i don't know whether to laugh or cry." then her mood abruptly changed. "okay, the construction shed is right over there." she was pointing through the dark and the light spatters of rain that had suddenly appeared. was it beginning to storm again? "it's always locked, but it's got its own separate computer control, so it won't be shut down like everything else. all anybody has to do to get in is just to code in a requisition. that's how we keep inventory." he led the way, keeping to the shadows. "well, can you tell it to 'open sesame' and let us in?" she nodded, then entered a small portico next to the entryway. there, on a terminal, she typed in the code that would disconnect the heavy electronic locks on the shed's door. moments later he heard a click and watched the green diodes on the locks start to glow. next it swung open and the fluorescent lights came on to reveal a perfect high-tech fabrication shop, with rows of precision machine tools lined up in neat rows, the floors spotless. looking around, he wondered what kind of chemicals he could scrounge. there had to be something. . . . : a.m. "everything checks here," wolf helling said, looking at the wide board of lights in launch control. 'the pakis went up on the elevator and wired in the device. nobody here had any inkling what it is." he was speaking on his walkie-talkie to dore peretz, who was still operating the fujitsu out of command. "i think we're ready." 'then you d better roll the gantry the hell back, away from the vehicle," peretz' voice barked. "my next item in the countdown is to test the alignment on the cyclops, make sure the vehicle is receiving power." "okay," helling replied. 'the electronics are all in a positive state of mind here, but i guess you can't be too safe. by the way, how's everybody doing there? having any trouble?" "our guests are getting with the program," came the answer. "i've even got an engineer friend here named georges who's going to be a great help when the time comes. small attitude problem, but nothing i can't manage." "well, keep them all frightened. it's the best way. i'll get started with the rollback. should only take a few minutes." "go for it," dore peretz said. : a.m. vance felt the cold steel rails, glistening lightly in the thin moonlight, and wondered how long it would take to set the charge. he also wondered if his impromptu bomb would work as planned. it should. in the shop cally had led him directly to a cache of british- made gelignite, left over from the days of excavation. he had shaped a so-called "diamond" charge which, when wrapped around a rail and detonated with a fuse, would produce shock waves that would meet at the center, then be deflected at right angles, shattering the metal. it was a little-known bomber's trick--one he learned from willem voorst--that usually produced total deformation and fracture. he had insisted that she let him handle this one alone, claiming there was no need to endanger two people, and finally she had agreed. dr. calypso andros: she had already proven she could take control of a situation, like the one up the mountain, and handle it. that cool would come in handy later. he also liked her new york street smarts. yet beneath it all, he sensed something was wrong. she mentioned some guy named alan, then clammed up. funny. reminding a woman of some old boyfriend could be a mixed blessing. sometimes you got to take credit for the other guy's failings. . . . well, that cuts both ways. admit it, he finally lectured himself. calypso andros reminds you of eva borodin. she was the temperamental slavic beauty who had been the love--on and off--of his life. that was the bottom line. he still wore her wedding ring. he had loved her more than anything, and after she left he had tried everything he could think of to help forget her. none of it had worked. even now, here, the thought of her kept coming back. . . . but enough. concentrate on the job at hand and get going. quickly he began securing the soft explosive. although his instinct still was just to blow the whole gantry and have done with it, he agreed with cally that that was a no-no. the idea was sabotage, not demolition. the difference might not be all that subtle, but there was a difference. the gantry, a huge derrick on wheels, was illuminated by intensely focused floodlights from a battery across from the vehicles. the tracks were about sixty meters long, which suggested the distance it had to be away from vx- before the vehicle could lift off. so if he could destroy the tracks close enough, the gantry would be stuck in place, making a launch impossible. the gelignite should do it, he told himself. the charge was going to wrap almost perfectly around the rails. this ought to be a snap. . . . at that moment, he felt a tremor in the rails and looked up to see the lights on the gantry flicker as its motors revved to life. then it started rolling; like a monolith, slow and assured, it began inching away from the vehicle and toward him. : a.m. "okay, it's moving back," helling said. "i guess this thing--" suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the gantry halted, its steel wheels screeching to a stop along the tracks. "what happened?" ramirez's eyes narrowed as he gazed out through the viewing window. a red indicator had come up on the console, flashing. the gantry, bathed in floodlights, was just standing there, stubbornly still. "the control went into a safety mode." the german was staring at the console. "according to the lights here, the track sensors shut it down. maybe the rails are obstructed." : a.m. good safety system, vance thought. he could feel them now, beneath the explosive--electronic sensors on the tracks, a thin line of parallel wires held by insulators, had detected his tampering and halted the gantry. wait a minute, he suddenly thought, maybe i don't have to blow the track after all. why not just short-circuit these wires and let the thing's own safety system shut it down? they may not figure out for hours what the problem is. with a grin he began going along the track, feeling his way through the dark as he twisted the parallel safety tripwires together every few feet, making certain they shorted. : a.m. "well, we don't have time to tinker with it now," ramirez declared, feeling his pique growing. "there's only a problem if it's a malfunction of the motors, and they don't report a problem." he pointed down to the console. "so just switch it over to manual." helling stirred uneasily. "i'm not sure it's such a good idea to override the safety system. we don't know--" "when i'm in need of your views, i'll ask for them." ramirez cut him off. "now go to manual and get on with it." wolf helling was a risk-taker, but only when he knew the downside. if the gantry motors shut down, he figured there probably was a reason. on the other hand, the first device already had been loaded onto vx- , all systems checked, the preflight punch lists taken care of. maybe it was better to go ahead and keep ramirez's mind at ease rather than worry too much about the technicalities. after all, unanimity was as important as perfection. "if you say so," he declared finally. "but it's risky. i take no responsibility for this." he flipped the gantry control motors to override and shoved the operating lever forward. . . . outside the glass partition the huge gantry again began to inch along its steel tracks, moving away from the vehicle. "see," ramirez said coldly and with satisfaction. "it was probably a malfunction of the indicator lights. we don't have time to troubleshoot every little glitch that crops up. now increase the speed and let's get on with it." wolf helling, his precise prussian mind clicking, was liking ramirez's recklessness less and less. on the other hand, he knew better than to contradict the temperamental south american he'd hired on with. "let's keep the speed the way it is. and i think i ought to go out and check the track, just to be sure." "if you want to, but don't take too long." : a.m. uh-oh. vance felt the tracks suddenly shiver. then with what sounded like a painful grind of metal on metal, the gantry started moving again. they'd decided to override the safety shutoff. okay, he thought, back to the original plan. he turned and retraced his steps to the place where he had left the gelignite, feeling along the track until his fingers touched it. it was still in place, but there was no time now to set up a fuse. which meant there was only one other way to blow it. quickly he secured the diamond-shaped patch more tightly around the steel, then looked up to check the gantry. it was now about five meters away, its wheels inching along the rails with a ponderous inevitability as its electric motors hummed. he pulled out his sailor's tin of matches and withdrew one. relieved it was still dry, he scraped the match across the bottom of the can and it flamed in the dark. next he quickly pressed the wooden end into the soft gelignite, making a target he could see from a distance. after checking it one last time, he rose and dashed for the safety of the nearest shed, pulling the uzi from his belt and chambering a round. he leaned against a darkened wall and took careful aim, on semi-auto. the gantry was only a meter away from the charge when he finally squeezed off a round. it kicked up a spray of gravel next to the rails, the small stones glistening in the floodlights like small shining stars as they erupted slightly to the left of where he had placed the charge. damn. he knew the match could be seen, as well as the flare of the uzi, but maybe nobody was watching. in any case, he adjusted his aim and quickly fired again. but this time he had moved the sight too far to the right. again the gravel splayed, another sparkle under the lights, but once more nothing happened. now the gantry's wheels were about to pass directly over the explosive. if the thing was going to be immobilized, he had one shot left. he took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. . . . to the sound of a dull click. his last round had misfired. : a.m. "something's going on out there," ramirez yelled, grabbing helling's arm. "i saw flashes of light. somebody's shooting. see it? over there." he was pointing. "that's exactly why i wanted to check it out." at last, helling thought. maybe now he'll listen to reason. "look, i'm going to shut this damned thing down right now. till we know what's going on." he hit the control and applied the brakes. : a.m. he had just squandered his last rounds and his chance to cripple the gantry. he sighed involuntarily. _c'est la vie._ at that instant, however, whoever was manning the controls locked the wheels and there was the loud screech of metal on metal. he watched the wheels slide across the patch of gelignite, creating instantaneous frictional heat. immediately a blinding white flare erupted from the tracks, followed by the loud crack of an explosion. he watched as the first steel wheel was sheared away and the gantry lurched awkwardly forward. next the axle ground into the gravel next to the track as the motion of the giant tower tilted it askew. it had not toppled over, but it was leaning dangerously. whatever might be required to repair it, the gantry was no longer functional. satcom was shut down for the foreseeable. he was less than happy with his handiwork. cally's going to kill me-- that was his first thought--after her long diatribe about not doing any big damage. then he watched as it got worse. the gantry jerked again as the axle cracked from the stress and began slowly to heel. like the slow crash of a tumbling redwood--he almost wanted to shout "timberrrr"--it toppled forward, landing with an enormous crash that shook the very ground around him. angle-iron and lights splintered into the granite-strewn soil that separated the launch pad from the rest of the facility. now the gantry lay like a fallen giant. . . . as he watched, he slowly recognized he had achieved nothing but malicious damage. by collapsing, the gantry was now out of the way, below the sight lines between the cyclops system on the mountain and the vehicle. they still could launch. vx- must already be armed, he realized; the bomb is aboard and set to fly. : a.m. "goddammit i warned you it was a mistake," helling exploded, still stunned by the view out the window. the gantry had just heeled over and collapsed onto the track. "at least it fell out of the way," bamirez declared calmly. "no problem." he cursed himself for not taking helling's advice. for once the german had been right. "nothing's changed. we launch on schedule. but right now we have some unfinished business." "what--?" "that bastard from up on the mountain. he had to be the one responsible. i know it was him. i can smell it." he drew out his mm beretta and clicked off the safety, then angrily motioned for helling and headed out the door. "come on, let's get the son of a bitch. i'm going to kill him personally." : a.m. now what? vance rose and started walking toward an opening he saw that led into the underground launch facility. maybe, he was thinking, he could slip into launch control and somehow sabotage the vehicle itself. a dark tunnel branched off on his right--the lights were off--so he probably could go directly okay, he thought, assume one of the bombs must already be installed on the first vehicle and ready for launch. but given all the krytron detonators the pakistani had, there could well be more. maybe you should try and find them, see what you can learn. could there be a way to disable the weapon now poised up there without having to reach it? maybe disarm it electronically? he tried to guess what the firing mechanism could be. clearly if you were planning to deliver a nuke, you were going to need some way to control the detonation. so how did it work? maybe a pressure apparatus that could blow it on the way down, during the reentry phase? why not? as the vehicle encountered denser and denser atmosphere, pressure could activate a switch that sensed the altitude and instigated detonation at a preprogrammed height. or . . . another possibility was a radio-controlled device connected to the guidance system in the computer. that would be trickier, but it might ultimately be more reliable. it also might be easier to abort. in fact, the whole thing might be doable from here on the ground. . . . but what if he got caught? his uzi was empty; cally had his walther; and nothing now stood between him and the terrorists except his own . . . bad luck. as he edged into the darkened tunnel, he felt the coolness envelop him. the whole operation now felt as though it were in a shroud. . . . he was almost at the end when he heard the steel door behind him slam shut. he whirled to look, but nothing betrayed any sign of life. instead there was only stony silence, punctuated by the mechanical hum of the facility's underground environmental control system. but as he turned back, two figures stood in the doorway ahead. oh, shit! he hit the floor just as it started, a ricochet of bullets slapping around him. then, as abruptly as the fusillade had begun, it stopped. he was so astonished to still be alive he barely heard the voice from the smoky doorway cut through the sudden silence. then it registered, accent and all. "is that you, my friend?" a pause. "you are like the cat with nine lives, and until a second ago you had used only eight. i assume your ninth got you through my colleagues' burst of impetuosity just now. but i want to see you before i kill you." "your counting system needs work," vance said, still in shock. he gingerly pulled himself up off the floor, fully expecting to be shot then and there. the thought made him giddy, feeling like a zen master living as though already dead. "i've got eight and a half left." "so it is you." the accent was unmistakable. "don't make me sorry i didn't let wolf here finish you just now. however, this matter is personal. i want the satisfaction of doing it myself." vance stepped into the light. "sabri ramirez. i can't really say it's a pleasure to meet you." the giddy feeling was growing. "i feel like i'm going to need a shower, just being in the same space." ramirez stared at him, startled. "how do you know who i am?" "i'll bet half the bozos who came with you don't know, do they?" vance looked him over, feeling his life come back. stand up and take it like a man. "back from the dead. it's a miracle." "yes, i am back. but you soon will be entering that condition, and i doubt very much you will be returning." vance's mind flashed a picture of ramirez strafing the navy frigate, shooting the satcom technician. not to mention, he was planning to detonate a nuclear device somewhere in the world. not a man given to idle threats. he was also known to love torture, part of his personal touch. "incidentally," ramirez went on, "perhaps you should pass me that uzi. i assume the clip is empty, but it's liable to make my friend wolf here nervous." "wouldn't want that, would we." vance handed it over, metal stock first. "thank you." ramirez took it and tossed it to the emaciated, balding man standing next to him. "by the way, you know my name but i still do not know yours." "vance. mike vance." why not tell him? he thought. it hardly matters now. "vance . . . that name rings a bell . . . from somewhere . . ." the thoughtful look turned slowly to a smile. "ah yes, as i recall you work free-lance for arm." he paused, the smile vanishing as he mentioned the name. "so tell me, are they planning to try to meddle here? that would be a big mistake, mr. vance, i can assure you." more bad news, vance thought. ramirez is no fool. he must have known we did the security for this place. "i've got a feeling they're going to be interested in what happens to me, if that's what you mean." ramirez moved closer, looking squarely in his face. "you know, the eyes of a man always tell more about him than any words he can say. and your eyes give you away. you're lying, and you're scared." he stepped back and smiled. "and i'll tell you something," vance continued, meeting his stare. "when i look in your eyes, i don't see anything. but even a hyena can know fear. your time will come." it was pointless bravado, but it felt good to say it. "we'll see who can know fear." ramirez scowled angrily at the use of the nickname he hated. "we will also learn something about your tolerance for pain, mr. vance. in very short order. you are not very popular with some of my men." "they're not very popular with me." the defiance just kept coming; he wasn't sure from where. "and i've got some other news for you. you're about to find out that andikythera is a very small, vulnerable objective." "you persist in trying to antagonize me, mr. vance. i could easily have had you killed just now, and spared myself this pointless interview." "why didn't you?" the giddy feeling was coming back. "i wanted to show you how stupid you really are." he's right about that, vance told himself. i think i've just proved it. "but your nine lives have run out. i'm afraid i'm no longer interested in this conversation." he turned away and motioned for wolf helling. "let me just shoot him and get it over with," the german said. "not just yet," ramirez replied after a moment's thought. "no, i think jean-paul would enjoy softening him up first." : a.m. "mr. president," the voice said, "have you made your decision yet?" john hansen felt his anger growing. the voice on the other end of the phone exuded the self-assurance of a man who was holding something unspeakably horrible over your head. either he could bluff with the best of them, or he knew exactly what he was doing. which was it? he looked over at theodore brock, who had been at his desk, just down from the oval office, early, arranging for the wire transfers of the funds to geneva. the eight hundred million dollars had been placed in a numbered account in a branch of the union bank of switzerland, just in case. the objective, however, was never to take the final step and transfer it into the accounts the terrorist had designated in banco ambrosiano. brock now sat on the couch across, fiddling with his glasses. a cup of coffee sat next to him, untouched. "we've accepted your proposal, in principle," hansen replied, nervously drumming his fingertips on the desk. he scarcely could believe the words were emerging from his mouth. "we have some conditions of our own, concerning the hostages, but i think it's possible to come to terms, given time. arrangements are being made concerning the money." "according to the procedures i faxed you?" the voice asked. "not entirely," hansen went on, beginning what was going to be his own gamble. "the funds will have to be handled through our embassy in switzerland. it may take a few days." there was a moment of silence on the other end, then, "you don't have a few days, mr. president. time has run out. you have to make a decision. either you honor our demands or you must be prepared to accept the consequences. and i assure you they are terrible. which will it be?" "it is going to be neither," hansen replied coolly, sensing he still had leverage. "it is in both our interests to satisfy our objectives. including the safety of the hostages on the island. if we have to work together to accomplish that, then we should. it's the logical, rational way to proceed." "mr. president, this world is neither logical nor rational," came back the voice, now noticeably harder. "the timetable does not allow latitude for delays. you--" "let me put it like this," hansen interjected, trying to catch him off balance. "you have the choice of doing it the way it can be done, or not doing it at all. which do you want it to be?" "i've given you an ultimatum," the voice replied tersely, its sense of control returning. "the only question left is whether or not you intend to honor it." hansen stole a glance at his wristwatch, thinking. he needed to stall for time, but clearly it wasn't going to be so easy. the special forces had reached souda bay, but they would not be in position to begin an assault for several more hours. "i told you i'm working on it," he said finally. "these things take--" "the funds can be wire-transferred in minutes to the geneva accounts i listed for you." the voice was growing cocky. "there's no need for brown paper bags and unmarked bills." hansen suddenly felt his anger boil, his composure going. sometimes it was better to go with your gut than with your head. then the scenario could be played out on your own terms. the hell with this bastard. why not just call his bluff? he wasn't going to use the weapon, or weapons, even if he had them. he would gain nothing by that. the threat of using a bomb was his only bargaining chip. "you know," he said, "i'm thinking maybe i don't want to play your game at all." "that is a serious error in judgment, mr. president. i am not playing games." "as far as i'm concerned, you are." hansen looked up to see alicia ushering ed briggs into the office. god, he thought, do i look as haggard as he does? "i'm offering you a deal." his attention snapped back to the phone and he continued. "give me another day to arrange for the money. another twenty-four hours. that's the best you're going to get." "we both know that is a lie," came back the voice. "if you expect me to accept that, you are an even bigger fool than i imagined. since you don't appear to believe my seriousness, the time has come for a demonstration." "i'm waiting. the chances of you delivering a nuke, which is what i assume you have, are about the same as washington being hit by a meteorite. the odds are a lot better that you'll just blow yourself up. criminals like you are long on tough talk and short on technology." "this conversation is getting us nowhere. so just to make sure we understand each other, let me repeat the terms once again. the eight hundred million must be wired to the accounts i listed at the geneva branch of banco ambrosiano within the next five hours. if it is not, the consequences will be more terrible than i hope you are capable of imagining. the loss of life and property will be staggering." "keep him talking," briggs whispered across. "keep a line open. dialogue the fucker till--" hansen cleared his throat and nodded. "look, if you'll just hold off a few more hours, maybe something can be done about the problems with the money. you have to try and understand it's not that easy . . ." his voice trailed into silence and he looked up. "the bastard cut the line, ed. he's gone." he cradled the hand piece. "shit." will the son of a bitch be ruthless enough to use one of those nukes? he was wondering. you can't really know, he answered himself. with a lunatic, you damned well never know. : a.m. bill bates was still in his office, trying to do some heavy thinking and put his problems into sequential order. the first problem was that the bastards were killing his people, mostly just to make an example and instill terror. the next one he wasn't so sure about, but from what he had seen in his occasional glimpses of control, cally was missing. apparently she had gone off with the fucker who called himself number one and hadn't come back. was she down at launch? doing what? well, calypso andros was a tough cookie. they might pressure her and threaten her, but she would stand up to them. these terrorists were just cowards with automatics; he could smell that much a mile away. the next problem was satcom itself. he hated to find himself thinking about it at a time like this, but the company was built on a pyramid of short-term debt--construction loans that could be rolled over and converted to long-term obligations only if the test launch proceeded as scheduled. it already had been postponed once, and the banks were getting nervous. if these thugs derailed the cyclops for any length of time, the banks were going to move in and try to foreclose on all the computers and equipment. the litigation would stretch into the next century. satcom. on the brink. high-risk all the way, but what a dream. almost there, and now this. he found himself thinking about his wife, dorothy. she had been supportive--she always was--from the very first. maybe after eighteen years of struggle she had had misgivings about gambling everything on this one big turn of the roulette wheel, but she had kept her thoughts to herself. which was only one more reason why he loved her so. she had been all their married life, always there with a real smile and a hug when the going got the roughest. it made all the difference. but now, now that the whole enterprise was in danger of going down the tubes, he felt he had let her down. for the first time ever. even his briar pipe tasted burned out, like ashes. he had taken every cent he could beg or borrow and had gambled it all on space. only to have a group of monsters barge in and wreck everything. now what? he honestly didn't know. he had flown an a- intruder in vietnam, but hand-to-hand with terrorists was something else entirely. the bastards had shut down all the communications gear when they moved in. the phones were out, the radio, and even his personal computer terminals had been shunted out of the system. he could count and he knew what automatic weapons could do. no, this one was out of his control. he glanced around his office, paneled in light woods and hung with photographs of dorothy and the two boys--his favorite was during a regatta in chesapeake bay. there also were photos of the cyclops system and the vx- vehicle, the latter caught in the austere light of sunrise, the blue aegean in the background. he shook his head sadly, rose, and made his way out into the cavernous room that was command. the fluorescent lights glared down on a depressing sight--the staff disheveled and living in stark fear--one armed hood at the computer, another lounging by the doorway. . . . : a.m. georges lefarge looked up to see bates coming out of his office and into the wide, vinyl-floored expanse that was command. he assumed the ceo had been sitting moodily in his office, dwelling on the imminent foreclosure of satcom's creditors. he must have been puffing up a storm on his pipe because a cloud of smoke poured out after him. and he looked weary--his eyes told it. nobody down at launch control knew they had been taken over by terrorists. peretz had carefully made sure that all communications from command were monitored and controlled. number one had gone down there, but he apparently had managed to fool everybody into thinking he and all his hoods were satcom consultants. one thing you had to say for them, they were masters of deceit. number one could pass for a high- powered european executive, and he was playing the authority thing to the hilt. "are you bastards having fun?" bates walked over and addressed dore peretz. the israeli looked up and grinned. "more than that, we're making history. fasten your seat belt, 'cause your first test launch is going to be a real show-stopper. a one-of-a-kind." "this facility doesn't need any more 'show-stoppers,' as you put it, pal." bates looked him over with contempt. "we were doing just fine before you barged in." "live a little, baby." peretz beamed back. "lie back and enjoy it." "let me break some news to you, chum. this organization isn't going to just roll over and give you the store. now i want to talk to that greaseball who calls himself number one. it's time we got some consideration for my people here. they need food and they need to be rotated so they can get some rest. there's going to be hell to pay, and in short order. i can guarantee it." "hey, man, ease up." peretz leaned back, then rotated away from the console. "everybody's okay. don't start getting heavy. we're just about ready to party." "right." bates walked past, headed for the door. "i want to see what you fuckers have done to my people down at launch. i'm going over there." "you're not going anywhere, asshole," peretz declared, "so just sit down and make yourself comfortable." he turned and signaled the iranian lounging at the door, barking something to him in farsi. the man was carrying his uzi by the strap, almost as though it were a toy, but in a second he clicked to attention, brought it up, and chambered a round. bates glared at him, then turned away, knowing when he was licked. he might try and take the bastard, but it probably wasn't worth the risk. not yet. the time would come. chapter fourteen : a.m. "isaac, wake up." she shook him, trying to be as quiet as possible. outside a new storm was building, but the large barracks room in level three of the bates motel was dark and deserted, with the staff all now mobilized for the upcoming launch. 'thank god i found you." his eyelids fluttered, and then he slowly raised up and gazed at her, his look still somewhere between sleep and waking. he seemed to be in a drug-induced, or shock-induced, torpor. "what? . . . cally, is that you?" "isaac, there's been a disaster. i don't know where bill is, but the gantry's been destroyed. he blew it up. jesus, when i told him to be careful and--" "cally." he finally managed to focus on her presence. then he looked around. "what's going on? where--?" "everybody's down at launch," she interjected impatiently. 'these hoods have taken over the cyclops and they've started a countdown. i want to get you out of here, and then try to radio someone. now." "what . . . what are you talking about?" he was still staring at her groggily. "radio who?" "the people who set up the original security system. they-- "arm?" "they're coming in. to get rid of these hoodlums." "well, good luck. but the man who saved me, what was his name? he mentioned something about it. then he disappeared. i don't--" "that's who blew up the gantry. his name is vance." she quickly recounted the story. "i told him not to blow it up, but he didn't listen. all he accomplished was to make things worse." she was so outraged she could barely speak. the idiot! the fuck-up! mannheim's mind seemed to be clearing. "a countdown. but why would georges--?" "he isn't involved, at least i don't think so. he's been replaced by one of their people. they've taken over big benny, somebody who knows how to run sort." mannheim exhaled. "then, what are we supposed to do?" "it gets worse. not only is the gantry gone, but i'm afraid they've taken mike prisoner." "mike?" he was still trying to get his bearings. "vance." she was suddenly embarrassed by the implied familiarity. isaac, she noted, hadn't missed it, and he raised an eyebrow. "look," she continued, "he may be dead by now, who knows. but i want to get you out of here, and then try to raise arm on the radio. they were going to delay everything for a day, but now they've got to get in here and stop the launch." she paused, shaking from the strain. "isaac, i'm not as strong as i thought i was." her voice quavered. "i'm scared to death. for you, for bill, for georges, for mike. for all of us. even worse, i'm scared for the world." "what do you mean?" he was finally coming alive. with a faint groan he rubbed his glassy eyes and brushed back his mane of white hair. "i've got a sneaking suspicion that those bastards have put a nuclear weapon in the payload bay of vx- ." "good god. and now you say the gantry is gone? how will we get it down?" "look, let's not worry about that part just yet. we just have to stop them from going through with the countdown. we can disarm the bomb later." "all right, then." he was on the side of his bed, searching for his shoes. "get me out of here." she led him out into the darkened hallway. the separate rooms were all locked, giving no clue who was still around. where was the satcom security staff? she suddenly wondered. were they locked up in their own safe little enclave somewhere? wherever they were, they wouldn't be any help now. they undoubtedly were unarmed and demoralized. with a sigh she pushed open the door and they stepped out into the storm. wind was tearing across the island, bringing with it the taste of the aegean, pungent and raw. it felt cool, a refreshing purge after the stuffiness of the bates motel. the rain lashed their faces, cleansing away some of the feeling of the nightmare, and she knew that the few wild goats that had not been captured and removed would now be huddled in the lee behind a granite ledge they liked, bleating plaintively. there was a wildness, a freeness about andikythera, as the winds tore across and through the granite outcroppings--and the sea churned against the timeless rocks of the shore--that made it feel like nowhere else on earth. get practical, she ordered herself, forget the romance. the storm would probably be over well before morning, but in the meantime it would just make things that much harder for arm to reach the island. if they made it at all, it would be around dawn, just in time to watch the launch. damn vance. : a.m. "somebody's on the frequency," hans declared abruptly. the arm team had been settled in for just slightly over an hour, trying to keep plastic sheets over them to ward off the rain as they attempted to alternate taking naps. however, in spite of the weather he had kept open the single-sideband frequency vance had been using, just in case. up until now, it had been a continuous hiss of empty static. "what the hell . . . ?" armont pulled back the plastic, wiped the rain from his eyes, and lifted a questioning eyebrow. around them the dark aegean churned against their granite islet. "vance's crazy to be on the radio now. he'd better have a blasted good reason." "it's not him. it sounds like a woman." hans had a puzzled look on his face as he handed pierre the headset, shielding it haphazardly from the rain. "he mentioned something about a woman when we talked yesterday," spiros said, snapping out of his morose reverie. "maybe it's the same one. she was with him then." "well, whatever's going on, i think we all should hear this." armont unplugged the headphones from the radio, then turned up the volume, the better to overcome the rain and roar of surf. "sirene, do you read me?" the voice was saying. "oh, god, please answer." "i copy," spiros said into the microphone. he was as puzzled, and troubled, by this development as by all the rest. "who the hell is this?" "thank god," came back the voice. "you can't wait. you've got to come in now." "i repeat," spiros spoke again, "you must identify yourself. otherwise i will shut down this frequency." "they've started a countdown. they plan a launch in less than six hours. and mike is gone. i don't even know if he's dead or alive." spiros glanced around at the others, wondering what to do. the frequency was being compromised, but probably it was worth the risk. his instincts were telling him she was for real. "miss, whoever you are, you must identify yourself." he paused a moment, thinking. then he asked, "where is ulysses?" "i told you, he's disappeared. he screwed up and destroyed the gantry, and then he vanished. but i think they've already loaded a bomb in the payload bay of vx- ." spiros clicked off the microphone. "she knows vance's code name. but half the aegean probably knows that by now." he clicked the mike back on. "i'm giving you one more opportunity to identify yourself, or this conversation will be terminated." "i'm cally andros, project director for satcom. i was with michael vance when he talked to somebody in athens named dimitri yesterday morning. and i was with him a couple of hours ago when he was talking to you. how do you think i knew this frequency? what in hell do i have to do to convince you people that the assault can't wait? they have a countdown in progress. i don't know what they plan to do, but there's a very good chance a bomb is going somewhere." "i think she's legit," spiros said, clicking off the microphone again. "it adds up. sounds like mike was trying to shut them down and must have managed to muck things up. i thought he was better than that. but this is very bad news." by now everybody was rousing, intent on the radio conversation. a storm was coming down, and now the whole plan was about to get revised. again. worse still, the insert would have to be managed without a point man. unless . . . "dr. andros," armont began, "please tell me precisely what happened to michael vance. i want to know if he is still alive, and if so, where he is." she told him what she knew, in a way that was repetitive and rambling. it also was convincing. "do you think they can launch in this kind of weather?" "the storm will probably let up by daybreak. that's how the weather usually works here. i don't think it's going to be a problem." "all right," armont interjected. "looks like we'd better come in. i would ask you where you are now, but that might compromise your safety. i do have one more request, though. could you stay by the radio and assist us after insertion, telling us--as best you know--how the hostiles are deployed? it could be very helpful. and possibly save a lot of lives." "yes, i'll do anything you want me to. but you can't wait until tomorrow night. if you do, there may not be any point in coming at all." "then stay up on this frequency," armont said, and nodded to the others. "you'll be hearing from us." it was a gamble, taking the word of some anonymous voice on the radio, but sometimes you had to go with your instincts. as he looked around, they all agreed. : a.m. "did you get it?" radioman first class howard ansel asked. the radio room at gournes had been particularly hectic the last few hours, but he was glad he had thought of scanning single-sideband. ansel was twenty- eight and had eyes that reminded people of the german shepherds he raised back home in nebraska. "it's on the tape," big al replied, lifting off his headphones and scratching at his crew cut. "but i don't have the goddamnedest idea what it means." "doesn't matter. it was somewhere off andikythera. which means it's automatically classified top secret. whatever the hell's going on, it sounds like some bad shit. what was that about a launch? going in? is this some kind of priority exercise?" "who the hell knows? but we've got orders." he picked up the phone and punched in the number for his supervising officer. : a.m. armont felt the cold surf slam against his leg as they slipped the two black zodiacs back into the swell, taking care to avoid the jagged rocks along the water's edge. the surf was washing over them, and everything felt cold and slippery. reginald hall was the first to pull himself aboard, after which he looked back, as though trying to account for everybody and everything. the weather was starting to clamp down now, faster than anybody could have expected. "pierre, _vite, vite_," hans was already in the second zodiac, tossing a line across. their "insertion platforms," both equipped with small outboard motors, were lashed together with a nylon line. "hurry up." he turned and used an oar to hold the raft clear. "we need to get moving before this thing gets ripped to pieces." neoprene was tough, but there were limits. willem voorst tossed the last crate of equipment into the second craft, then grasped a line hugo had thrown and pulled himself aboard. dimitri spiros went next, and then armont. the wind and current were already tugging them toward the south, so the outboards would have some help in battling the choppy sea. reggie hall was muttering to himself as he tried to start the engine. he bloody well didn't fancy anything about the way things were going. everything about this op was starting to give him the willies. when this much went wrong this soon, you hated to think about what things would be like when the going really got tough. as they motored into the dark, willem voorst kept an eye on the eastern horizon, watching for the first glimmer, and prayed the storm would keep down visibility. he also monitored the compass and hoped they could stay on course. where had the weather come from? the woman who had said her name was andros was probably right, though; this one would blow out by dawn, but in the meantime it was a hell of a ruckus. and the reception coming up on the island wasn't going to be brandy and a dry bed, either. "you know," reggie was yelling, "this bloody weather might even be a help with the insertion. if it keeps up, it could be the perfect cover." "what we really have to hope," armont shouted back, "is that a storm like this might force them to delay the launch. she said it wouldn't, but who knows. still, we can't count on it. by the way, how're we doing?" "i think we've already made a kilometer or maybe a klick and a half," hans yelled. "if we can keep making this kind of headway, we should make landfall just before hours. in time to join everybody for morning coffee." he looked around. "this has got to be the stupidest thing we've ever tried to do. we're just motoring into a shitstorm." he shook his head, and the raindrops in his hair sprayed into the dark. "i can't fucking believe we're doing it. i really can't fucking believe it." : a.m. "damn," major general nichols said, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. he was on the kennedy, in mission planning, talking on secured satellite phone to jsoc control in the pentagon. "gournes picked up some radio traffic on sideband. some assholes are talking about trying to go in. whoever the hell they're working for, they could screw things up royally." he spoke again into the receiver. "do you have a lead on where they are?" he nodded. "right, my thinking exactly. which means they probably blew up that plane as a diversion. and our f- jockey suckered for it." he paused again. "no, we're not scheduled to go in for another twenty-four hours. but that may have to be pushed up. i'd say we have two choices. either we interdict these dingbats, or we just go ahead and get it over with, take out the launch vehicle and--" he paused again. "what do you mean, we can't?" his eyes narrowed. "don't give me that 'classified' bullshit. i've got top secret clearance and i damned well have a 'need to know.' " a long pause ensued. "jesus! now you tell me. 'nuclear material'? what the hell does that mean? you're planning to send in my boys to take down a nuke! this is the first i've heard . . . thanks a lot for telling me. good christ!" he paused once more. "okay, let me think. i'll get back to you." he settled the phone back in its cradle and looked around mission planning, the gray walls covered with maps. "shit, this whole thing is coming apart." "what is it?" general max austin asked. he was two-star, with steel- gray hair. as the base commander for souda, he had been placed in charge of operation lightfoot, code name for the action to retake andikythera. even though they had known each other for fifteen years, nichols was not necessarily pleased to have this remf, rear-echelon motherfucker, running the show. austin had been given the undemanding post on crete for a year mainly as an excuse to bump up his rank in preparation for retirement. "the whole op is rapidly going to hell in a handbag," nichols said. "the pentagon conveniently left one small fact out of my briefing papers. i'd kill somebody, if only i knew who." he looked up. "max, we may have to send the deltas in tonight. just get this damned thing over with." "that's not possible," austin declared without hesitation. "this operation can't go off half-cocked. you of all people ought to know that." "well, sometimes circumstances don't wait around for the textbooks. the gournes sigint team just intercepted some radio traffic. somebody's out there talking, and they know more than we do. they're probably free- lance clowns, most likely mercenaries, but they're claiming the bad guys may be about to launch one of the vehicles, within the next few hours. so they're planning to hit the place tonight." "well, they won't stand a chance," austin said. "i agree, but what they can do is royally fuck up our insertion. they'll disrupt the hell out of everything and probably get a lot of the hostages killed." "okay," austin mused, sipping at his coffee, "we've got two problems here. maybe they should be handled separately. first we interdict these guys going in, and then we decide what to do next." 'the best way to solve them both at once, two birds with one stone, is with a preemptory strike on the island," nichols insisted again. "right now. tonight. we just go in and take the place down." "no way, eric," austin interjected. 'that's going to skew the risk parameters in our ops analysis. we'd have to scrap our computer simulation and virtually start over. hell, that alone could take us three hours." all those fancy analyses are best employed wiping your bum, nichols heard himself thinking, almost but not quite out loud. we've got nobody on the ground, so we're working with satellite intel, and sigint--which ain't giving us shit 'cause those bastards aren't talking on their radios. "let me make sure i heard it right a minute ago," nichols went on. "we can't just take out the launch vehicles, a surgical strike, because there's a chance there could be nuclear material on board?" "you've got it right. i'd hoped not to have to tell you. so consider this classified. the whole op has been jacked up to a vega one. we've never had anything that serious before." that's nuclear, nichols told himself. well, he figured, why not. if the terrorists did have a bomb. "this damned thing is hot," austin continued. "they don't get any hotter. so there's no way in hell i'm going to go around procedures. if you and your boys don't do this clean, it's going to mean our next command, yours and mine, will be somewhere within sight of tierra del fuego. if there's a nuclear incident here, the greek government would probably tear up our mutual-defense treaty and convert the base at souda into a souvlaki stand. am i making myself clear?" "if i hear you right, what you're saying is, no way can we afford to fuck this one up." "i've always admired your quick grasp of the salient points in a briefing. so, we're going to do this by the goddamn book; we're going to dot every goddamn 'i' and cross every goddamn 't' and get every goddamn detail of this op, right down to the color of our goddamn shoelaces, approved, signed off, and ass-kissed in triplicate. that iranian hostage disaster did not exactly make a lot of careers. again i ask you, eric, am i getting the fuck through?" "in skywriting. the only small problem i see, sir, is that while everybody is carefully protecting their pension, those assholes on the island may start slaughtering hostages, or put this 'nuclear material'-- which i have just learned about in such a timely fashion--into goddamn orbit. and then my deltas are going to be in the middle of a shitstorm they easily could have prevented if they'd been given the chance. they're my boys, and i don't really take kindly to that happening. _sir_." he reached in his breast pocket for a cigar, the chewing of which was his usual response to stress. "so what exactly do you propose we do?" austin asked. "the most obvious first thing would be to interdict this bunch of mercenary jerkoffs and keep them from going in there and getting a lot of people killed. i say we should find them and stop them, using whatever force it takes. there are enough civilians in harm's way as it is." he leaned forward. "look, if we have to dick around waiting on the pentagon before we can go in, at least we can stop these mercenary assholes. it has to be done. and we don't need some computer study before we get off our ass. i want to take them down, and nobody has to even know about it. if it comes out in some debriefing someday, we'll worry about it then." "all right, maybe i agree with you," austin sighed. "they should be interdicted. what do you want? a pave-low?" "just give me an sh- . to pick them up. i'm going to put the love of the lord into these amateurs, then bring them in. hell, they're probably well-intentioned, just doing what somebody paid them to do." and who could blame that somebody, he found himself thinking, if it takes the u.s. of a. this long to cut through its damned bureaucracy and mount an operation. "all right, i'll give you a seahawk," austin said. "it can be prepped and ready to go by"--he glanced at his watch--" hours. will that be enough?" "guess it'll have to be." by that time, he was thinking ruefully, we could be taking the island. and with that thought he decided to hell with protocol and fired up his well-chewed cigar. "look, eric, i know what you're thinking," austin said after a pause. "that an old fart like me is cramping your guys' style. and, dammit, maybe there's a grain of truth in that-- hell, more than a grain. but here's the downside. if your deltas go in half-cocked and get cut up, we're going to get blamed. on the other hand, if they don't go in till washington says so, then, yes, maybe it'll be too late, but it's going to be on somebody else's service record, not ours. i'm protecting your boys, whether you see it or not. if we only go in on orders, then the deltas are not going to be the ones taking the heat if this thing falls apart." "just get me the damned chopper," nichols said quietly. : a.m. mannheim looked at her. "cally, we need to try and find him. this vance fellow. if his friends are going to try and come in, then they'll need him to help them. he'll know what they require a lot better than you will." she found herself nodding grimly, agreeing. isaac mannheim was no dummy. "they must either have captured him or shot him," she said. "or both. he would have come back by now unless there was a problem. but if he's still alive, then they probably have him down at launch. and it's going to be very dangerous for us to go down there, isaac." "i'm an old man. maybe i've outlived my usefulness." it was strange talk for isaac mannheim, but he was turning wistful, perhaps even defeated. "i do know one thing. he risked his life for me. i owe it to him to at least find out what happened. so let me go by myself." she did not like the sound of that. "look, maybe i--" "no, not you. they've got to be looking for you. but they probably just think i'm an old fool"--he laughed--"and maybe they're right. at any rate, at least i can go down there and wander around a bit. everybody knows i'm harmless. as long as it doesn't look like i'm going anywhere, i don't think they'll bother with me. at least not right now. if they're busy with the countdown, they're not going to trouble with a deranged old man. i'm small potatoes." "isaac, you're a very big potato." she wanted to hug him. "but you're also just about the most wonderful man i know. i love you to death. just be careful, please?" now it was his turn to smile, the old face showing its wrinkles more than ever. "i'm not dead yet. and with any luck i won't be for a while." he looked at his watch. "by the way, when do you think those friends of his are likely to show up?" 'they didn't say, but i expect they might get here in a couple of hours." "well, dr. andros, we're not licked yet. with any luck there won't even be a launch. maybe the weather. in the meantime, why don't i check the empty storage bays in launch. just a hunch." he rose and kissed her, then began to shuffle down the hill. : a.m. "i'd guess he's at about a thousand meters now," pierre was saying. above them the sh- f seahawk was sweeping past, clearly on a recon. "maybe he won't pick us up, not with the swell this high." armont didn't really believe his own words. the seahawk carrier-based helo, the u.s. navy's preeminent asw platform, had come in hard from the south and it was searching. the question was, what for? whatever it was, the guy was all business. and given his aps- radar-- not to mention his forward-looking ir capabilities--eluding detection was going to be tough. 'they must have figured out we scammed them," reggie declared. "i was afraid it was going to catch up with us. what with the electronic assets the u.s. has got deployed in this region, you'd almost have to expect it. probably the fucking radio. which means we've got to keep silence from here on in. damn." armont squinted through the dark. "let's wait and see what happens. as far as i know, those things don't carry any cannon, just a couple of asw torpedoes. we're a pretty small fish. let's hold firm for now." they hunkered down and motored on, watching as the navy chopper growled on toward the north. maybe, everybody was thinking, the crew had missed them. maybe they were after somebody else. maybe . . . no, it was coming back again, sweeping, on a determined mission to locate something. "they're going to pick us up sooner or later," willem voorst predicted. "it's just a matter of time." the wind and sea were growing ever more unruly. but that was not going to save them. they all knew it. "i've got a terrible idea," reggie said, almost yelling to be heard. "it's going to mean we go in with a bare-bones complement of equipment, but i'm beginning to think we don't have any choice." "what are you suggesting?" armont asked, his voice almost swept away by the storm. "we cut loose one of the rafts, leave a radio transmitting a mayday. by the time they realize they've been had, we'll be at the island." "what about their ir assets?" armont wondered back. "okay, good point. so we set a flare, and maybe attach a couple of life jackets with a saltwater beacon. that'll engage their ir." "and what do we do? this motor will still have an ir signature." hall thought a moment. "we could cover everything with some of the plastic camouflage. that should cut down the heat signature enough." "reggie, i don't think that's such a hot idea," spiros yelled, the rain in his face. "we're not going to be able to shake them that easily." "don't be so sure. there's a good chance a decoy would keep them off our scent for a while. might just give us enough time, mates." the seahawk had swept past again, banked, and now was coming back. clearly working a grid, maybe getting her electronics up to speed. nothing about it boded particularly well--for some reason it was lit, a long white streak in the dark. long and lean and ideal to drop asw drogues, the carrier-based sikorsky sh- f incorporated , pounds of avionics and was even designed to carry nuclear depth bombs, though the choppers were never "wired" for the weapon. its maximum cruising speed was mph, with a one-hour loitering capability. given time, it would find them. "willem, how much farther do you reckon we've got to go to make the island?" armont shouted over the growing gale and the roar of the two outboards. "my guess is we're looking at another eight or ten kilometers. but i vote with reggie. we've got no choice but to try a decoy setup. let's keep this raft--the engine is running better--and start moving over whatever gear we absolutely have to have." he knew there might well be some dispute over that, with each man having a pet piece of equipment he deemed himself unable to live without. but the men of arm were pragmatists above all, and they would bend over backward to reach a consensus. they began sorting the gear, hastily, and the selections being made cut down their assault options. balaclavas would be kept, along with rappelling harnesses and rope. the heavier ordnance had to be left, the grenade launchers and shotguns. they quickly pulled over a case of tear-gas grenades, but the others they left. radios, of course, had to be saved, and the heckler & koch mp s and the mac- s. no uzis: those were for cowboys. each man had his own handgun of choice, but the rounds of ammo were cut down to a bare minimum. as they sorted the gear, they were making an unspoken strategic decision concerning how the insertion would be structured. without the heavy firepower, they would be fighting a guerrilla war, focusing on taking out ramirez, and hoping the firefight would be over in seconds. if it lasted more than fifteen minutes, they were finished. the result might well be an assault more risky than it otherwise would have been. but, as reggie was fond of saying, you can't have everything. sometimes you can't even come bloody close. : a.m. "seahawk one, this is bravo command. come up with anything yet?" it was the radio beside delta captain philip sexton, who was flying copilot in the seahawk. lieutenant manny jackson was pilot, while the airborne tactical officer was lieutenant james palmer ii and the sensor operator was lieutenant andrew mcleod. "any hint of unintelligent life down there?" "andy says the damned radar's picking up too much chop, yankee bravo. don't think we're going to find these bastards. it's the proverbial needle in the you-know-what. this baby finds subs, not dinghies. looks like all we're getting so far is fish scatter. just noise." "then you might want to see if the ir will give you anything," came nichols's voice. "the fuckers have clamped down, total radio silence, but they've got to be there somewhere." "roger, we copy. don't know if we've got the sensitivity to pick up a thermal, though. not with this weather and sea." "copy that. so try everything you've got, even sonar. or the mag anomaly detector. hell, try all your toys. these bastards are close to slipping through, and no way can that be allowed to happen." "you've got a rog, sir," sexton replied. "i'll have andy give the ir a shot and see what we get." : a.m. "they're staying right on us," hugo voorst observed, looking up. "they don't have us yet, but they've probably figured out we'd make a beeline for andikythera, so all they have to do is just work the corridor for all it's worth." "then let's get on with it." armont nodded through the rain. "do we have everything you think we might need?" "we've got everything we can bloody well keep afloat," reggie yelled back. "we're leaving half of what we need." he knew that seven men in the single zodiac, together with their gear, was going to be pushing it to the limit. the sea was still rising, which meant they would be bailing for their lives as soon as they cut loose. "all right, then, willem, set the timer on the flares." armont shook his head sadly. "if we keep having to abandon equipment," hall could be heard grumbling, "this is going to be a damned expensive operation. where in bloody hell is it going to end? when we're down to a bow and arrow each?" "it's beginning to feel that way now," willem voorst groused. he had finished and was clambering into the single raft. with his weight aboard, it listed precariously, taking water as the waves washed over. he settled in, grabbed a plastic bucket, and started bailing. now the seahawk was coming down the line again, making an even slower pass. time had run out. "all right, cut her loose," armont ordered. the radio they left had been set to broadcast a mayday; the engine was locked at full throttle; and a couple of life jackets with saltwater- activated beacons had been tied to a line and tossed overboard. the flares had been set to a timer, giving them three minutes to put some blue water between them and the decoy. with a sigh, dimitri spiros leaned out and severed the last connecting line. : a.m. "i've just picked up a mayday," jackson yelled. "from somewhere in this quadrant. i think we've located our bogey, and he's in trouble." he banked the seahawk, trying to get a fix. "not surprising with these seas." he gave the instruments a quick check. "they can't be far away. andy, anything happening on ir?" "nothing to write home about. there's--jesus! it looks like . . ." he glanced out the cockpit window. "the hell with the ir. we've got a visual on this baby. he's right down there." he pointed. "see it? let's take her in and see what we can see." "you've got it." jackson hit the collective and banked, heading down. yep, he thought, no doubt about it. there was an emergency flare. maybe the fuckers had capsized. maybe there was a god. : a.m. "i think they went for it," armont declared, his voice almost lost in the storm. it's going to take them a while to figure out the raft is empty, and then some more time to make sure there's nobody in those life jackets. i think we've milked maybe half an hour out of this." "then we're home free," dimitri said, staring toward the dark horizon. "we should make landfall just before first light" "one thing, though," reginald hall reflected. "we can't risk any more radio contact. we're clearly being monitored. so whatever happened to michael, he's on his own." armont said nothing in reply, merely scanned the turbulent skies. maybe, he thought, the weather had worked to their advantage, had saved them from interdiction by the u.s. navy. but would it be enough to delay the launch? he was beginning to think the storm might clear in time--given the way aegean downpours tended to come and go--and not even put a dent in the schedule. : a.m. ramirez walked into command, wondering. peretz was at the main workstation, the one normally controlled by georges lefarge, and he was wearing a big grin, the stupid one he sported so often. so what was the problem? he had sent a computer message to launch, saying they needed to talk. what was this about? he suspected he already knew. the room was busy, resounding with the clatter of key boards, the whir of tape drives, the buzz of fans, the hum of communication lines, the snapping of switches. above them a digital clock showed the countdown, clicking off the hours, minutes, and seconds, while next to it were the three master video screens: the first giving the numerical status of the cyclops power-up sequence, the second depicting the fujitsu's latest orbital projection, being lines across a flat projection of the globe, and the third showing a live feed from the base of vx- , where the antlike images of satcom launch control staffers could be seen methodically readying the vehicle, not having any idea what was about to go up. "got a little item to go over with you," peretz said, in arabic, not looking up from his screen. "a minor business matter." "what's on your mind?" ramirez asked in english. "we're all busy." peretz glanced in the direction of salim, who was standing by the door, keeping a watchful eye on the staffers. salim, he knew, spoke farsi as a first language and english as a second. like many iranians, he had not deigned to learn arabic. peretz, on the other hand, spoke it fluently. furthermore, he had brushed up on it in his recent experiences with the palestinians. ramirez, of course, had spoken it for almost twenty years, finding it indispensable for his business dealings in the islamic world. "the time is overdue for us to have a business chat," peretz continued in arabic, revolving around in his chair. "i've been thinking over the money. it strikes me that the split ought to be 'to each according to his ability,' if you know what i mean. you're a card-carrying marxist, right?" "if you insist," ramirez replied, immediately realizing he had been right about the direction the conversation was going to take. he also understood the reason for the arabic. "you may have the quotation in reverse, but i assume you did not call me down here to discuss the finer points of collectivist ideology." "nobody ever called you dumb, friend," peretz went on, now settling comfortably into the mellifluous music of the arabic. he actually liked the language better than hebrew, understood why it was the perfect vehicle for poetry. "so i expect you won't have any trouble understanding this.'' he was handing ramirez a plain white business envelope, unsealed. sabri ramirez suppressed an impulse to pull out his beretta and just shoot the fucker between the eyes. the only thing that surprised him was why this extortion--for that surely was what it was--had been so long in coming. peretz had been planning this move all along. after a moment's pause, he took the envelope and held it in his hand, not bothering even to look down at it. instead he let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the rows of video terminals, some with data, some with shots of the working areas, together with the lines of shell- shocked staffers. then his gaze came back to peretz, a novice at the trade. this inevitable development, in fact, almost saddened him. he had, over the past couple of months, acquired almost a fondness for the israeli. he even had come to tolerate his irreverent humor, if that's what it could be called. thus he had begun to wonder, in a calculated way, if they might have a partnership that could continue beyond the current episode. a good tech man was hard to find. . . . "do i need to bother opening this?" he said finally. "why don't i just guess. at this point you feel your services have become indispensable, so you want to restructure the distribution of the money. you want to cut out the others, and i suppose there's even a chance you want to cut me out as well." "cut you out?" peretz grinned again. "never crossed my mind. the way i see it, we're business partners, baby, colleagues. i'd never, ever try and screw a partner, surely you know that. what do you take me for? no, man, i just think there's no point in giving monetary encouragement to all these other assholes." "and what if i don't choose to see it your way?" ramirez kept his voice calm. "well, there could be a lot of problems with the countdown, if you know what i mean. there's only one guy around here who could fix it. so i think teamwork is essential. you do your part and i do mine. the old 'extra mile.'" "your 'extra mile,' i take it, is to finish the job you were hired for in the first place." ramirez found keeping his voice even to be more and more difficult. but he had to bide his time. a quick glance at salim told him that the iranian did not have an inkling of what was going on. "you might say that." again the inane grin. "and mine is to restructure the dispersals of the money afterwards." ramirez's eyes had just gone opaque behind his gray shades. "something like that." "not 'afterwards.' now. it's all in the envelope." 'tell you what," ramirez said finally, his anger about to boil over. "i'm going back to launch, and i'll take this with me. what's the point in opening it here, raising questions." "you'd better take this problem seriously, believe me," peretz interjected, vaguely unnerved by ramirez's icy noncommittal. "i'm not kidding around." "oh, i take you quite seriously, dr. peretz." he was extracting a thin cigar from a gold case. "i always have. you will definitely get everything you deserve." "i intend to." : a.m. isaac mannheim stumbled through the torrential rain, wondering if the terrorists were stupid enough to try a launch in this kind of weather. actually, he found himself thinking, it might just be possible. the guidance system would be tested to the limit, but if the weather eased up a little . . . the aboveground structures for launch were just ahead, including the two pads with the vehicles sprouting into the sky. from the looks of things, they were both unharmed, with vx- clearly prepped and ready for launch. then he paused to examine the collapsed gantry and shook his head in dismay, heartsick at the sight. that was going to cost a fortune to repair. he shrugged sadly and moved on. he knew it was going to be a beehive of activity inside the tech areas now. the entire satcom staff was on duty, which was standard for a "go" power-up situation. which meant that they had to be holding vance somewhere out of the way. the question was where. where? he tried to think. there were some spare-parts bays, locations where items that constantly needed replacing could be held ready to hand. but everything was clicking now, with those areas pretty much out of the loop. so . . . maybe that would be the place to start checking. the main entry-points for the bays were, naturally enough, from the inside. but there also was a large loading dock on the south that allowed gear to be delivered directly from the warehouse. maybe that would be the logical place to try and slip in. he was feeling better now, energized. why not go in, have a look. : a.m. jean-paul moreau punched him again, then waited for a response. there wasn't one, but only because michael vance was near to passing out. they had taken him not to the bates motel but to an unused room at the periphery of launch. its original purpose wasn't clear, but whatever it was, it no longer appeared to be used for anything--the ideal location to beat somebody's brains half out. "you have a remarkably low tolerance for this, you sleazy _batard_." vance merely moaned. he had been trying mystical techniques for blocking out the pain. god, he hated pain. so he attempted to focus his mind on something else, on little things like working on his boat, on making love, on caribbean sunsets. instead what he got was the vision of a nuclear bomb going off somewhere, and the anger he had felt when ramirez and his thugs blew up the u.s. frigate. still, any emotion, any feeling he could muster, seemed to drive back the pain, make it more endurable. now he was focusing as best he could on the long-haired, blond french goon who was pummeling him. whack. love. whack. hate. whack. anger. boiling, seething anger. it was almost working. almost. he moaned again. then for one last time he tried to smile. "jesus, what sewer did ramirez dredge to come up with you guys?" "good. good. keep talking," moreau said. "sounds mean you are still alive. it means you still can feel." and he hit him again, hard in the stomach, taking his breath away once more. the moans had become airless grunts. jean-paul moreau had readily accepted the job of softening up the fucker who had caused them so much trouble. it was intended to be a partial compensation for his having endured the radar treatment, and also it felt good to be able to work over the very son of a bitch who had done it. there was, indeed, justice in the world. justice that you made for yourself. he was now making his own justice, and it felt terrific. vance knew he couldn't take much more of a pounding without passing out. moreau was a professional who didn't specialize in breaking bones; instead he confined himself to internal trauma. that seemed to be his particular area of expertise. he also was careful to make sure his victim remained conscious. which meant, vance knew, that this part of the program was drawing to a close. he couldn't handle much more pain, the fact of which he knew this french thug with the streaming blond hair was well aware. what, he wondered, was the point anyway? sadism? ramirez was still waiting in line to dish out his own particular brand of revenge. and ramirez had forgotten more about dispensing pain than this creep would ever know. . . . thunk. another blow to the stomach took his breath away once more. he felt his consciousness swim back and forth, scarcely there any more. when was this going to end? he would have signed away anything just to stop the punishment for a few seconds, and he was on the verge of throwing up. surely it had to be over soon. he felt like a boxer who had just gone fifteen rounds with no referee. time for the bell. his battered mind tried to put together a guess about what was next. maybe after this eurotrash had had his fun, ramirez would show up for the coup de grace. it would almost be welcome. or maybe nothing was going to happen. maybe ramirez would just leave him to be blown up with the rest of the facility. where was pierre? if arm wasn't coming in for another whole day, who knew where this disaster was headed. what was cally doing? and bill? were they safe? he cursed himself again for screwing up the golden opportunity to deactivate the gantry and bring the proceedings to a halt. instead of doing what he had planned, he tried to take a shortcut. now he realized that had been a major mistake. and now, with arm not coming in for another whole day, the only chance left was to try and stall. : a.m. the wind was howling and rain spattered on the loading dock--it should have been protected, but you can't do everything--as mannheim briskly made his way up the metal steps. the large sliding door was locked, but he still had the magnetized card that clicked it open. a button on the wall started it moving along the rollers . . . just enough to slide through . . . there, he was in. inside was a long hallway cluttered with various crates-- either just delivered or ready to be removed, he was not sure --and he had to feel his way along, not wanting to risk turning on the lights. for an instant, as he stumbled among the sharp corners, he really felt his age. this was not something for a retired engineering professor to be muddling with. he should be back in cambridge growing orchids in his greenhouse. what in blazes was he doing . . . ? then he noticed the light emerging from under one of the doors, and as he stepped closer, he heard two voices. one of them belonged to the man who had saved him, michael vance. the other . . . the other had to be one of the terrorists. now what? : a.m. "you know, i hate to spoil all the fun you're having." vance tried to look at moreau, but he could barely see through the swelling of his puffy eyelids. "but i've got some unsettling news. you and the rest of ramirez's hoods are about to be in a deep situation here. the minute you try to send that bomb up, you can tip your hat and kiss your ass good-bye. better enjoy this while you can." "what do you mean?" "that nuke you've got primed. it pains me to tell you, pardon the joke, but your gang isn't exactly the crew of rocket scientists you think you are. the second the cyclops laser hits the first vehicle, there's going to be a lift-off, all right. only it's likely to be this island that's headed for orbit. and you with it. why in hell do you think i was trying to stop it?" was it true? he wondered. think. try to make it sound convincing. "what are you talking about?" moreau's blue eyes bristled. "just thought you ought to know the bottom line. if you're planning to liberate the oppressed masses or whatever, this is a hell of a way to start. by nuking yourself. that should really impress everybody with your dedication." "you are going to die anyway, so what do you care?" "got a point there. guess i'm just wasting my time. but there are a few people here on the island that i like--you, incidentally, are not among them--and i would kind of hate to see them get blown away because of your fucking incompetence." he paused, trying to breathe. "as it happens, i had a chat with the project director. she told me how that system works. the nuts and bolts are a little complicated, but it boils down to what happens inside the rocket when the cyclops laser starts up. surely you know the energy in the cyclops creates plasma in the vehicle--that's loose atoms--which becomes the propellant." vance looked at him. "you do know that, don't you?" moreau nodded, almost but not quite understanding what he was talking about. "good, because the interesting part comes next. you don't create this atomic soup called plasma without generating a lot of electromagnetic noise--in other words, radio garbage." you know, he thought to himself, it's getting to sound better and better all the time. "these technical things do not concern me," moreau declared with a shrug. "they may not concern you, pal, but they might concern the bomb. what if one of the radio signals produced just happens to be the one that triggers its detonator? and believe me, with the smorgasbord of radio noise that plasma produces, the chances are easily fifty-fifty. i hope you feel lucky, asshole." "i don't believe you." he sat down, in a spare chair, beginning to appear a little uncertain. "you hotshots are a little over your head here. maybe you ought to pass that information to the chief." anything to get him out of here, vance was thinking. anything to give me a little time to recover. "i suggest you think about it." he struggled to rise, but then realized he was tied into the chair. 'congratulations. i think you just about beat me to a pulp." "it was my pleasure." moreau looked him over, his expression now definitely troubled. "now i should beat you again for lying." "if it's all the same, i think you might be smart to keep me conscious for a while longer. maybe i can tell you how to solve your problem." "if you are so wise, then tell me now." moreau said. "with all due respect, i don't talk to messenger boys." he tried to shift his weight, but his body hurt no matter what he did. "you wouldn't understand anyway. it's too technical. why don't you let me have a chat with that genius you've got running the computer? he's the only one around here who could possibly understand what i'm talking about." and he's the one, vance told himself, who now holds the key to everything. remove him and their whole house of cards crumbles. "you mean the israeli." he fairly spat out the words. "he's--" "so, this operation is multinational." "peretz is handling the computer." "peretz. is that his name?" now we're getting somewhere, vance thought. if i can get in the same room with the bastard, maybe i can rearrange his brain cells. "he is supposed to be a computer specialist." moreau's voice betrayed his contempt. "maybe he is. but he thinks he knows everything. whenever anybody tries to tell him anything, he just laughs and makes bad jokes. he won't listen to you." "well, why don't we give it a shot anyway?" moreau examined him closely, still skeptical but beginning to have second thoughts. "why would you want to do this, anyway? help us?" "like i told you, i figure you're going to end up detonating that bomb somewhere. frankly i'd just as soon it wasn't fifty feet from where i'm standing, make that sitting. i do have a small sense of self- preservation left. so why don't you do everybody a favor and let me talk to this peretz? he has to change the radio frequency that detonates the bomb to digital mode. if that thing is controlled with plain old uhf the cyclops may just set it off before it ever leaves the pad." vance knew he was talking over this thug's head. he was talking over his own head. but who knew? his fabrication might even be true. the story, though, probably could use some work. "look," he said finally, "why don't you raise him on that walkie-talkie and let me talk to him?" moreau frowned at the idea. "we've gone to radio silence except for emergencies." "i'd say this qualifies." "that remains to be seen." he paused. "i'll go and tell him what you said. then he can decide for himself what he wants to do." "i don't want to belabor the obvious here, but time is running a little short." "i'll be back. if he says you are lying, i may just kill you myself." whereupon he opened the door and walked straight into a befuddled isaac mannheim. chapter fifteen : a.m. they had used the same insertion procedure off beirut three years earlier, so there was nothing about this that was new. standard procedure. as had been planned all along, they donned scuba gear at five hundred meters out, packed their equipment in waterproof bags, and entered the churning water. after the raft was punctured, obliterating all evidence, the seven men of arm set out, underwater, for the rugged shoreline of andikythera. their scuba gear was invisible against the dark sea as, one by one, they emerged through the breakers and into the last remnants of rain from the storm. they faced a short ledge of surf-pounded rocks immediately abutted by a sheer granite cliff--exactly what they expected, indeed what they wanted. they were greeted by silence from up above, which gave lope that the insertion had gone undetected. so far. they were in, with the only problem being they no longer had vance to serve as point man. they would be proceeding blind. but not too blind. back in athens they had studied the schematics of the facility carefully and had concluded the most vulnerable insertion point would be launch control. added to that, ramirez was last reported to be there, and the objective was to take him out as quickly and efficiently as possible. that also was the place where they believed they could shut down the operation quickest and get their hands on the weapons. everything came together: hit launch. they had discussed renewing radio contact with the woman named andros, in hopes she might be able to give them an update on the disposition of the hostiles and friendlies. but they decided to wait and see first if they could handle it alone. radio security was nonexistent, as they had already discovered. for now, the downside of breaking radio silence outweighed the upside. later, perhaps, when it no longer mattered. after he had pulled off his scuba gear, armont took out his ir scope and surveyed the top of the cliff and the coastline. both looked clear. "all right, it's going to be light soon," he whispered. "let's get up there and get to work." dimitri spiros nodded, then began donning an old satcom uniform he had brought, left over from his days on the island, hoping to pass himself off as a company staffer if need be and get in position to act as point man--since vance was not part of the picture now. spiros would guide the unit in, using a secure radio to coordinate the overall operation with pierre, and with reggie, who would be standoff sniper. by the time dimitri was finished, they were ready. marcel tossed a grapple up the side of the steep cliff and it lodged somewhere near the top. next spiros tested the line, then started making his way up, inserting silent spikes into the crevasses as he climbed. the granite was firm, with enough irregularities to hold onto. when he reached the top and signaled the all-clear, the others immediately followed, with hans bringing up the rear after he had secured the gear with ropes, ready to hoist. as the last black satchel topped the cliff, they went to work, breaking out the hardware they would need. the light of dawn had opened just enough for everybody to see what they were doing, yet remain little more than shadows in the early mist. or was it fog? the dark made it hard to tell, but it was a magic moment that would not last long. since reggie was the standoff sniper, he normally would have begun installing his ir scope, but now, with dawn so near, the need for ir capability was problematical. not being seen was as great a concern as seeing. just ahead, barely visible, was the rota-barb fence. since spiros had installed it, he strode ahead and did the honors, cutting the razor wire quickly and efficiently. with daylight approaching, there was no time for niceties such as scaling; they would just have to take the chance that the security system was no longer operative. they carried the equipment through, then scouted the approach. up the rocky hill they could see two silver spires, now illuminated with spotlights. after a few moments of thoughtful silence, reggie hall nodded and pointed toward an outcropping of rocks located near the north entrance to launch control, indicating with hand signs that they would provide the best location for overall surveillance. he would set up there, a look-down spot from where he could handle the standoff- sniper chores, ready at any time to neutralize any hostiles who might emerge from launch. it also was a good spot from which to monitor hostile radio traffic. having done this many times before, they were ready. armont and hans, together with the brothers voorst, would lead the assault, while marcel would be at the rear of the entry element, serving as defense man, covering for them and providing security. as point man, spiros would supply backup for marcel if things got hot or if somebody tried to ambush the entry team during approach and entry, or during withdrawal. the greek would also be in charge of directing any pyrotechnics. in addition to acting as commander, armont would assume his usual role as security man, providing covering fire for the entry element during the assault and more close cover during withdrawal. he also would be in charge of any other equipment they might need. since the assignments reflected arm's standard configuration, with everybody in their usual slot, there was no need to squander time reviewing who would be where. . . . in moments they were ready, silencers attached, poised to move through the dark, early morning haze. it was providing a small semblance of cover, but not for long. they hoped they could take launch control fast enough that there would be no time for the terrorists to use hostages as human shields. if that happened, there was sure to be bloodshed. just to be on the safe side, armont did a quick run-through of the assault with hand signals. he was just finishing when reggie hall's radio came alive in a burst of static. "sirene, please come in." it was a woman's voice. "do you read?" "blast," he whispered, his face rapidly turning florid in the dim mist. "didn't we tell her radio silence was essential?" he quickly switched on the microphone. "ulysses one, get off this channel. sirene is here." "thank god. but you've got to try and find mike. isaac went to look for him, but he hasn't come back." "you mean mannheim?" armont took the microphone. "where did he go?" "he said he was going to try the empty loading bays down at launch," she said. "he hasn't come back, so maybe he found him. could you try there?" reggie turned to armont with a questioning look that needed no words. it was, simply, what do we do now? on this one, armont had no better idea than anyone else. they all knew where the loading bays were, since the blueprints had made that plain enough. the problem was the sequence. should they go ahead with the assault as planned, to take the time to try to find him and pull him out? her intel on his location was just a guess, but it was a start. arm's rules always had been that their own people came first. so if they knew where vance might possibly be, nothing else mattered. according to the rules, they had to drop everything and try to pull him out. even if it jeopardized the operation. those were the rules. no exceptions. for that matter, armont suddenly thought, why not try and bring her in out of the cold, too? then they would have a personal guide to the whole layout. it seemed to make a lot of sense, particularly since radio security was already shot to hell. he clicked on the microphone again. "can you meet us there? where you think he is?" "copy. give me eight minutes." and the radio clicked off. i hope we've got eight to spare, armont thought, checking his krieger watch. the minutes were ticking away. "okay, we'll change the plan," he whispered. "we'll make the insertion through the loading bays." he nodded to hans and the voorst brothers, and without so much as a word they tightened their black hoods and headed up through the mist. : a.m. she heaved a sigh of relief as she put down the microphone and prepared to stumble down the hill. she realized she had violated protocol by breaking radio silence, but she was almost as worried about michael vance as she was about the facility. and it was a disturbing realization. or maybe not so disturbing. true, he had screwed up, but then everybody did that from time to time. even alan . . . there it was again. but come on, the resemblance was almost scary. and she was also beginning to hate him for the same reasons she had hated alan. it was the anger, and maybe the guilt. . . . she had told them eight minutes. so get moving. it was going to be tight. first find mike, and isaac. if that was possible. and then go on to the real business of the morning. whoever was on the fujitsu had to be stopped, even if it meant more damage to the facility. the cost no longer mattered. satcom could be rebuilt, everything. but if one of those third world bombs were set off somewhere, it would be another hiroshima. the horror of it would be unthinkable. she prayed a short prayer, something she hadn't done in twenty-five years, and started down the hill. : a.m. out the wide windows of launch control the searchlight- illuminated spires of vx- and vx- gleamed through the early mist. sabri ramirez studied them, thinking about logistics. with all the scrambled radio traffic in the area, he had a sneaking suspicion--more than a suspicion-- that a special forces assault was being set up. but that's what all the hostages were for. everything was on schedule, just as planned. according to peretz, the last tests of the telemetry had been completed and the countdown was proceeding without a hold. outside, in the vast bay that was launch, technicians buzzed, a sea of white coats. lines of workstations showed voltage and amperage values for the power buildup in the coil. calculations of wind shear were being made, and preliminary tests were being run on the guidance system. the "orbops" team, orbital operations, was busy running up orbital and attitude numbers, readying their input commands. the irony was, they still didn't have a clue they were about to send up a nuclear device. american ingenuity turned on itself, in a fearsome symmetry. . . . 'take a look at what i found." ramirez whirled, hearing the voice, and was startled to see jean-paul moreau coming in through the doorway of launch control leading the old jew professor, isaac mannheim. where did he come from? the old man was supposed to be sedated and sequestered away for safekeeping in the living quarters. guess it hadn't worked. here he was, bumbling about. on the other hand, maybe this was a stroke of timing. he was about to be needed again, and this saved the trouble of having to go and get him. "where was he?" "wandering around the loading docks," jean-paul said, still shoving mannheim ahead of him. "i think there's a technical question we need to run by him." "what?" "that bastard vance just claimed that the cyclops laser may set off the device when it starts up. i didn't get it exactly. he wants to talk to peretz. something about plasma and stray radio frequencies." "sounds like an invention to me," ramirez said, looking mannheim over. the old man, his baseball cap askew, was clearly as mad as a loon. what would he know about anything? on the other hand, he was a scientist, so it wouldn't hurt to ask. "well, what about it, herr doctor professor?" he walked over and straightened the old man's cap. "is your laser going to produce random radio signals?" "of course not," mannheim declared. 'that's what is so ideal about this system. there's nothing to interfere with the telemetry. no static. no-- " "i thought so," moreau muttered, cutting him off. with a flourish of his blond hair, he turned to go back to the loading bay. "i'm leaving him here. vance was lying. just as i thought. he's going to regret--" the walkie-talkie on ramirez's belt crackled and he grabbed it instantly. "what do you want? i ordered radio silence." "firebird one, this is hacker," came the voice of peretz. "i turned on the security system for a look-see, and lo and behold i think there's a possible penetration in progress. down on the south shore. in sector fifty-six of the fence. could be a malfunction, but maybe somebody ought to check it out." ramirez groaned silently. was this the assault he had been half expecting? if so, it was coming quicker than he had planned. which meant that having mannheim here was definitely a stroke of luck. "wait." he motioned for moreau, who had turned and was headed through the doorway. "i want you here till we find out what this is. could be a false alarm, but then maybe not." okay, he thought quickly, where is everybody? time to batten down. peretz, of course, was in command, along with salim. wolf helling was here in launch, coordinating telemetry between peretz and the pakistanis. stelios was keeping tabs on the prisoners now in the living quarters, the bates motel. jamal was on patrol around the perimeter--why hadn't he noticed anything?--together with the two stasi. and jean-paul was here. the first thing to do would be to raise jamal on the radio and have him check out the situation there in the south. and if it really was a penetration, then the two most expendable members of the team right now were the stasi. they were the cannon fodder. let them earn their share. "all right," he said to peretz, "we'll check it out. ten- four." while jean-paul watched, he quickly raised jamal on the walkie-talkie and repeated what peretz had said. "it could be a malfunction of the sensors, but who the hell knows. if this is the real thing, then we'll have to take steps. but once we escalate, everything is going to get more complicated." "i'll have schindler check it out and get back to you in three minutes," jamal barked back. "we'll keep the line open till i know for sure what's going on." "all right, but you'd better get ready for trouble. my hunch is that this may be the beginning. if it is, then we've got our work cut out. you know what i mean." he clicked it off, then turned to jean-paul. "okay, forget about vance for now. i want you to go over to command and help salim get the security into shape. i'm not sure he knows what the hell he's doing." "check," jean-paul moreau said. "i'll take care of everything." he walked out the door and into launch, then headed for the tunnel leading to command. ramirez, he knew, had a contingency that was supposed to stop an assault in its tracks. he only hoped it would work as planned. : a.m. as she moved down the hill, dawn was beginning to show dimly through the fog to the east, promising an early morning clearing of the skies. the prospect made her fearful. the dark had been better, a shroud to cover mistakes. now, without the fog, she would be almost as exposed as the barren rocks that pockmarked the hillside. the birds this morning were strangely silent, as though they knew ill doings were afoot. even the pale, fog-shrouded glimpse of vx- and vx- down at the other end of the island had never seemed more plaintive. she had worked for almost three years to put those vehicles into space, and now she had to try and stop the very thing she had been aiming for all that time. she had told the arm team she could be there in eight minutes, but now she realized that was optimistic. though she was moving as fast as she could manage, hugging the line of the security fence, the island seemed to be getting bigger all the time. and smaller. the fence, which had seemed so reassuring when it was installed, wove among the trees and rocks as it went down the hill, almost a meandering presence. but it was not hard to follow, even in the reduced visibility of the half-dark and fog. the trick, she realized, was going to be finding the arm team. or maybe they would find her. finding things was what they were supposed to be good at. . . . thank god. there was somebody up ahead, barely visible through the dim light. only one, however, which immediately made her wonder. she paused, drew a deep lungful of the fresh morning air, and waited to see what he would do. for one thing, he was moving along as though he was searching, yet with an air of owning the terrain. shit, it was one of ramirez's men, out on patrol. she recognized him. it was one of the european hoods who had barged into command the fateful evening now half a lifetime away. quickly she tried to melt into the shadow of a tall bush, but she was too late. his head jerked around and he saw her. up came an automatic. he was dressed in black, and as he approached her, he flashed a crooked smile, then produced a german accent. "so, it's you. we've been missing you." "which one of them are you?" she didn't know what else to say. "i am max schindler," he replied, in heavily accented english. he was at least thirty pounds overweight, the hard-earned rewards of a lifetime of potatoes and strudel. he looked like a puffing, black balloon. "number one vill be pleased to have you return to us. he thought you were an assault." he laughed as he gestured her forward with the weapon. "come on. this morning, i think, is going to go quickly. just another couple of hours and the real excitement will begin." "i can hardly wait." "good"--it sounded more like goot--"you are going to have a circle-side seat." he seemed extremely pleased with himself, both with his own humor and with the fact that he had been the one who would be bringing her back. "you mean ringside. great." the time was already flashing by, she thought--the eight minutes she had given arm were undoubtedly up--which meant they probably would be changing plans again, working their way. would they just forget about her and move on? "tell me, how did a smart guy like you end up working for a maniac like ramirez?" "who?" 'the guy you call number one. i hear he's really sabri ramirez. didn't you know?" the german's startled look betrayed his disbelief. his small, pig-like eyes narrowed. "who told you such a thing?" "just a little birdie." schindler shrugged, unconvinced, then pushed her on. "that's impossible. everybody knows sabri ramirez has been dead for two, maybe three years." well, she thought, with any luck he soon will be. "whatever you say," she continued. "it's absurd. ramirez was south american. number one is from beirut. now come on, hurry. just keep your hands where i can see them." schindler was almost shoving her around a rocky outcrop. "we have to get up to launch before he gets impatient and sends somebody else out looking." "well, if you're in such a big rush, there's a quicker way to get into launch than the way we're going. we can just enter through the loading bays"--she pointed--"up there. we don't have to go all the way around." "are they unlocked?" he looked up and squinted through the mist. the bays were distinguishable by tall metal doors that were sized to accommodate some of the large vehicle components that had been delivered over the past couple of years. they could just be seen now, dark silhouettes against the horizon. "the big doors are probably locked, but there's a side entrance that's always open." she paused. "do what you want. but i guarantee you it's quicker than going around." "all right"--he nodded, a quick bob of his beefy neck-- "you lead the way." what she really was thinking about was the rocks and trees covering that back route. this german blimp escorting her would be no match if she simply took matters into her own hands and made a dash. why not? it was a desperate move, but this was a desperate moment. "wait . . ." she bent over, as though to tie a shoelace, and when she came up, she was swinging. schindler was tired, and perhaps because of that he was caught completely off guard, staggering backward. it was the moment of disorientation she needed. she grabbed at the uzi, hoping to wrench it from his grasp. he may have been surprised, and overweight, but he had lost none of his dogged stasi tenacity. his one- handed grip tightened on the weapon as his other hand flew up to defend his face. now she had one hand on the breech of the automatic, and with the other she reached out and seized the muzzle. it was the leverage she needed to swing the butt of the metal stock up against his jaw. the blow caught him with his mouth open, smashing his lower lip against his teeth and slicing his tongue. he emitted a moan and yanked the uzi away with both hands. but now calypso andros was already stumbling through the brush, up the hill and into the fog. schindler felt his bleeding lip as he recovered his balance, and he fleetingly considered just taking her out with a quick burst, nice and simple. though number one had insisted she be returned alive, he told himself he was mad enough he didn't care. he wanted to kill the bitch. but the second he took to make that calculation proved to be crucial. she had gotten into the heavy brush that ringed the hill farther up. _scheisse_. he plunged after her, puffing and seething. it was one thing not to have found her; it was another to have had her within his grasp and then let her escape. he would be a laughingstock, again. wolf helling, who had given him this job, would be humiliated once more. it was unacceptable, unthinkable. the rocks along the fenceline were jagged, cutting into his boots as he half ran, half stumbled through the dim light. she was up there, somewhere. she had said something about the loading bay, so she probably was headed there. in any case, there weren't that many places to hide. it was just a matter of time. just a matter of time. . . . : a.m. ramirez was talking to peretz again on his walkie-talkie. "i've been monitoring the scrambled radio traffic, and i've begun to have a sixth sense about the situation. i think we're about to have some uninvited guests from the u.s. special forces; ten to one it's delta. are you ready?" "jean-paul just came in, and he says we're totally secure, baby. satcom thoughtfully lined this place with steel. ain't nobody gonna waltz into this little enclave of ours without a press pass. rest easy, man. keep cool." "well, i'm thinking i should send you some more backup, just in case." what i really should do is shoot you and just use the backup. "by the way, how does the schedule look?" "the countdown's now being handled entirely by the computer. so far there are no holds. lift-off is coming up exactly as scheduled." "good," ramirez spoke back, "keep me updated on a ten- minute framework." he paused, thinking. "incidentally, is there any way we possibly could speed it up?" "things are pretty tight as they stand. there might be some shortcuts, but i'm not sure i know this system well enough to start fooling around. if it ain't broke, don't fix it, know what i mean?" "an original sentiment," ramirez responded dryly. "but don't be surprised at anything that may happen here in the next ninety minutes. there may be a setup for an assault, but i'll take care of it." "it's a tough game coming down here. but ain't nobody gonna fuck with us, 'cause we got all the big cards." "they may try it, though. so make sure that place is tight, and have jean-paul and salim double-check all the entries. the chances are good we're going to take a hit, and soon." "no problem from down here. i told you we're covering it." what do you know, you smart-ass? ramirez asked himself grimly. "all right, but as soon as jamal checks in, i'm sending him over there, too. and one of the stasi. stelios can handle the living quarters by himself. just keep the countdown going, no matter what else happens." "okay, but the only way this thing is gonna fly is if you made those bank arrangements the way i wanted. one hand washes the other, as the saying goes. otherwise, i'm just going to shut the whole thing down. i mean it, man." "it has been taken care of," ramirez said. "i faxed geneva. they'd just opened that desk, but i should have a confirmation back in a few minutes." with that announcement he clicked off the mike. and smiled. peretz' memo had explained he wasn't demanding blackmail; what he wanted was more like an equitable readjustment of the take. and why not? the memo had reasoned. without his computer skills, nothing could have been possible. he wanted written proof that when the ransom money came in, it would automatically be split, with half going to a new account he specified. what an amateur. it was almost depressing. : a.m. she stumbled through the brush wondering where they were. they must have come in from the south, which meant they were already near the entrance to the loading bay. go for that, she told herself, pushing on. the bramble was scraping her face and hands, tearing her clothes. she was going to look like she'd been run through a shredder, she thought. a bloody mess. then she heard something whiz by, the first shot, and knew the german was closing in, his weapon on semiauto. with a rush of desperation, she threw herself on the ground and tried to merge with the damp leaves and underbrush. and she felt terrible. mike had screwed things up, but she hadn't done much better. then, out of the mist just up the hill, a figure appeared. two figures. three. moving with quick, catlike motions. she wanted to yell, to warn them, but maybe all she would be doing was alerting the damned german hood trying to kill her. no, they were supposed to be professionals, so let them handle it their own way. then she heard another whiz of a round singing by and saw a fleck of dirt fly up only inches from where she lay. again the hard crack of the german's automatic followed. all right, arm. you're supposed to be such hotshots. do something and do it now! the three dark figures answered the shots as though they were in a ballet, all dropping to a crouch virtually in unison. they were using silencers, so the rounds came as a series of dull thunks, but each figure fired only once, or at most, twice. and when she turned to look back, her pursuer was nowhere to be seen. . . . no, he was slumped over a bush, motionless. as one of the hooded figures came up to her and began lifting her to her feet, two of the others advanced cautiously on the german. their caution, however, was unnecessary. he was as lifeless as the granite rocks around them. well, she thought, these guys sure know how to treat a lady. : a.m. jamal cursed the morning fog that had settled in, understanding it was probably moisture left over from the storm. then he checked his watch and realized that schindler was overdue. which was typical. he was beginning to wonder how the german nation had acquired its famous reputation for punctuality. and efficiency. both were, in his opinion, grossly undeserved. helling's recommendation that those three screw-ups be brought along did not reflect well on his judgment. he clicked on his walkie-talkie. "firebird six, do you copy? is everything cq where you are? it's check-in time." there was no answer. the jerk had gone down by the south security fence, where something was amiss. was he in trouble? everybody was tied up now, getting ready for the launch. he wondered if they were going to find themselves shorthanded, not having as much firepower as they needed. "firebird six, come in. cut the games." again silence. which gave him a very bad feeling. there was no reason for the radio to conk out suddenly. the rule was they always kept their channels open. this was trouble. time to alert ramirez. either schindler had fucked up, or they had been penetrated. : a.m. major general eric nichols was so relieved he scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry, and he rarely had been seen to do either. actually, his feeling was more one of surprise. for once something was going right. after diddling and dabbling for almost ten hours, the pentagon--fort fuck-up--had actually made a decision. it was so unprecedented it might even merit a place in the annals of military history. such rare moments were to be savored. maybe they had gotten tired of running computer "risk analyses." or maybe their damned computer had broken down. whatever the reason, however, the exalted pay grades upstairs had decided to get off dead center and just let him assault the damned island. the op was a go. the civilian assholes had been headed off at the pass, which meant one less thing to worry about. now all that remained was to figure how to get the boys in safely and take down the place. and at last he knew there were nukes. great communication system the army had, making sure everybody had been briefed and was totally up to speed. christ! he sat still a moment after setting down the phone, breathing a short prayer. although appearances would not suggest it, he was in fact a religious man at the core. he had been close enough to death enough times to conclude that there were indeed no atheists in foxholes, and he figured what was good enough for foxholes was good enough for the rest of the time. besides, what harm did it do? "all right." he turned and glanced at max austin. "i guess the computer has got everything planned. looks like we can go in after all. how's that for efficiency? just as it gets bright enough for my guys to be risking their asses, we get the green light. i'd say that's just about perfect timing." austin nodded slowly, then rose to check the teletype machine to see if the orders had really come through. this op was going to be by the book or not at all. if it turned into a nuclear incident, there were going to be inquiries up the wazoo. "looks like it's really going down," austin said, yanking off a sheet. "so i'll cut the orders and get us mobilized here. how long before you can get your boys in the air?" "well, since this is going to have to be a daylight op, we might as well use the apaches and not fuck around. we'll just hit the bastards with enough firepower to take out the command-control radars up on the hill. that ought to shut down any chance they could get anything launched. then we've just got a hostage situation to deal with, and if we have to, we can just starve them out. it'll only be a matter of time. maybe, god willing, we can keep the friendly casualties to a minimum." austin did not like the image of the headlines nichols's assault plan suddenly conjured up. any heavy property damage and there was going to be hell to pay. "i don't like it, eric," he said. "the word i get is that we're not to damage the infrastructure any more than is absolutely essential. which means no first strikes on command-and-control. this isn't iraq, for godsake; this is american property." "you're saying my main orders are to save the infrastructure?" nichols's tone was deliberately wry. "you've got it. i want you to get in there fast, take down the hostiles, and get this situation the hell over with. that's the best way to put this problem behind us and fast. the last thing this man's army needs is a month's worth of gory headlines. some quick casualties can look unavoidable and be over with in a day. a long-drawn-out situation can make us all look like jerks." "i can't believe i'm hearing this." "you didn't hear a damned thing, at least not from me. but if you know what's good for the army, and for the country, you'll get in there and take down the place in a morning, neutralize the hostiles with extreme prejudice, and let the army write the headlines with a press release." nichols knew what he was hearing: the groundwork for "deniability." and he despised it. this kind of "cover your ass" bullshit was one of the things that gave him such contempt for desk jockeys. "all right," he said smoothly, covering his disgust, "if you want to play it that way, then we can sure as hell do it. i don't suppose my opinion in the matter is of a hell of a lot of interest to the pentagon." "truthfully, no." "okay." he leaned back. "doing it the pentagon's way, there would be two points we need to assault. there's the computer control center, and then there's the launch facility. there're probably terrorists at both, so we've got to take down both locations simultaneously. and both, unfortunately, are underground, which also means we've got to figure out how to get in, get down there, and do it fast." "what would be your insertion strategy, given what we've just discussed?" "well, i've already got the alternatives rehearsed. right now i think we should stage a diversionary landing on the coast by a seal team, then use the confusion to let the main assault team insert from choppers. my main worry is not the hostages, but getting my own boys shot up going in. it's going to be a cluster-fuck if some of those bastards can get a bead on the task force that's arriving by chopper. could mean a lot of casualties. let something go wrong and i don't even want to think about how many of my men could get chewed up. but we've been rehearsing that assault option and i think we can get twenty men on the ground in about ninety seconds." the difference, he was thinking, was that he had been planning to do it under cover of darkness. to suddenly have to revise the entire strategy and try and take down the place in broad daylight was calling every assumption into question. but there was no time to try and devise yet another assault. shit. all because washington kept changing its signals, and when it did get them straight, somebody came up with this bullshit about minimizing property damage. it was a goddamn outrage. but that's what you had to expect when remfs got mixed up in planning an op. shit. "well, twenty men should do it," austin said. "and there'll always be backup from the seal team that's providing the coastal diversion. they'll be there, in-theater so to speak." "right." you don't know fuck-all about how an op like this goes down, nichols was thinking, and you have the balls to sit there and tell me how to deploy my resources. on the other hand, it sounds easy. too easy. that's what's wrong with it. the place would appear to be a crackerbox. but these bastards are pros, so they must already have thought through everything we have. time to plan ahead of them. "all right," nichols concluded, rising. "i'll have everybody airborne in fifteen minutes." : a.m. vance twisted around and tried to see his watch. he couldn't make out the hands, but they both seemed to be pointing in the general direction of down. whatever that meant exactly, the time had to be getting on toward dawn. the six hours that cally had talked about, the six hours left before the liftoff: how much of that time was left? it had to be half gone. what now? maybe his cock-and-bull story had impressed the french hood enough to get him out of the room for a while, but it wasn't going to cut any ice with anybody who knew anything about lasers. sooner or later, he was going to come back. not something to let the mind dwell on. one thing was sure: he felt like he had been run over by a truck. the blood from the beating was slowly starting to coagulate, crusting on his face. it had begun to itch, and something where his liver used to be was emitting stabbing bursts of pain. it would come, then subside, then come again. he tried to focus his eyes on the room, the piles of empty crates, wondering if maybe a sharp object was protruding somewhere, maybe something he could use to cut away at the cord that held his hands. nothing, and it was a stupid idea anyway, left over from too many b movies. but now his mind was beginning to attempt to function with a little more rationality, and along with that came the glimmerings of an idea. the bomb was aboard one of the vehicles and a countdown was under way, now being handled by bill's supercomputer. there was no obvious way to stop it. maybe, however, there was a not-so-obvious way. a last- minute reprieve. assuming he ever got the chance. he groaned and leaned back, wondering . . . what happened next came so fast he couldn't really comprehend it at the time. only later could he roughly reconstruct the dizzying confluence of events. but that was as it should have been. the door was suddenly slammed wide, and two smoke grenades plummeted into the room, followed by a flash grenade. next, through the smoke and confusion three men dressed in black pullovers plunged through the opening and dropped to their knees, mp s at the ready. jesus! he gasped for breath, blinded by the flash grenade but still trying to see through the billowing cs that was engulfing everything. in what seemed like less than a second, one of the men appeared by his side, and he saw a knife blade flash. a hand was slapped over his mouth as another rough set of hands yanked him from the chair. his legs were numb from the bindings, but they came alive as his weight went back onto them. terra firma had never felt better. the men's faces were all covered in balaclavas, but one of them gave two sharp clicks and, on that signal, they began to drag him out the door. he knew better than to say a word. the whole operation had been carried out with clockwork precision and in perfect silence--except for the destruction of the door. had there been any terrorists in the room, they would have been dead, scarcely knowing what had happened. as they entered the hallway, one of the men pulled back his antismoke hood. "you look like hell," willem voorst said. "can you walk?" "in a manner of speaking." he felt pain shooting up through his wobbly legs. "i suppose i should ask what took you so long, only it hurts to talk. you weren't scheduled in for another day. what happened?" "we moved up the timetable, though you'd be amazed how many people didn't want us to show up," marcel remarked, his belgian calm returning. "the entire u.s. navy, to be exact. we were made to feel very unwanted." "that's going to seem like a welcome wagon compared to what's coming up." he paused and tried to inhale the comparatively smokeless air of the hallway. "what's the plan? do you want to try and take out launch control, or do you want to move on command? . . ." that was when he saw cally. "how did you get down here?" "somebody had to lead these guys in," she said matter-of- factly. her face was scratched and her shirt torn. "no thanks to you. all we have to thank you for is blowing up the gantry" he just groaned. "things got complicated." "but you waited until it moved over the explosive before you blew it. i saw the whole thing. how could you be so crazy!" her anger was boiling. "that wasn't what we agreed to." "like i said, things---" "please, give me a break. if you worked for me, i'd fire you on the spot." it was clear she meant every word. "so after you screwed that up, what was i supposed to do? i had no choice but to get on the radio. now look at the mess we're in. what happened?" "to tell you the truth," vance answered, "i'm not even quite sure myself." "great. just great." "it's a jungle out there." "no kidding." "later. i'll tell all," he said lamely, wanting desperately to change the subject. "right now, though, there's the matter of ramirez. and by the way, it is him. we had a one-on-one." "what did he tell you?" armont asked, his interest suddenly alive. "did he say what he wanted out of all this? ransom or what?" "we didn't make it that far. a personality conflict got in the way." "no hint? nothing?" "just that he knows exactly what he's doing. they're going to launch an atomic bomb. kill a lot of people somewhere. and i don't think the payment of ransom is going to make them call it off. they're going to take the money, then go ahead and do it anyway." he rubbed a hand across his face, trying to feel a cut, then drew it away and examined the blood in the half-light, not quite sure what he was seeing. "but i still think that if we take him out, the rest of them will fold." he looked at cally, trying to meet the outraged glare she was bestowing on him. "any idea where he is now?" 'the last i knew, he was in launch," she said, still visibly fuming. "then i guess that's the first objective." "jesus, do you want to go in shooting?" she looked around at the motley men of arm. "those are my people in there, you know, my friends. it could be a bloodbath." "doesn't have to be." spiros had pulled back his balaclava and was shaking vance's hand with an air of genuine contrition. maybe trying to cheer him up after cally andros's blast. "michael, i'm damned sorry about all this. the whole thing is my fault, really." "spilt milk," vance replied. "now we have to look ahead." "well, it's my spilt milk, as you say," spiros declared, "and i want to clean it up myself. if all we need to do is take down ramirez, i think i can get in there and maybe do it without too much in the way of pyrotechnics." "what do you mean?" armont asked. "let me go in by myself, alone. i've got a uniform, so i'll just be another greek mechanic. at least we should try that first. see what i can do." "dimitri, that's a heroic offer," armont said, "but--" "no, it's not heroic, it's realistic. it's a chance, but one i think we should take." "we don't stay in business by taking chances," armont declared, vetoing him on the spot. "we go in as a team." "all or nobody," hans said. "it may not always be best, but those are the rules." "exactly." armont closed out the subject. "all or nothing. so let's get out the blueprints and start assigning the entry-points." chapter sixteen : p.m. "it's him," alicia's voice came back over the intercom in the oval office. by now it looked as disheveled as the situation room in the basement. "what?" hansen said. "the son of a bitch is on the phone again? at this hour?" "what do you want me to do?" she asked. "just a minute." he clicked off the intercom and returned to his other call. "caroline, i don't know. just play it by ear and do the best you can. press secretaries get paid for giving non-answers. tell the goddamn post we have no comment. try and make a deal. say you'll give their team an exclusive, deep background, just for them, if they'll hold off another few hours to give us time to sort this out. tell him we promise not to give the times anything fit to print until after their deadline tomorrow. the late edition." he paused. "you're probably right, but give it a shot anyway. look, i've got to go." he reached over and pushed a second button on the console. "yes." "mr. president," came the voice, its accent more pronounced now, "i know you think you can recover this facility with an assault, but i want to assure you that any such action would be a very costly mistake." "the only mistake that's been made so far was made by you. going there in the first place." hansen glanced at the listing of his commitments for the next day. ted would have to cancel all of them. this wasn't how the presidency was supposed to be. nobody told him he would be spending days on end negotiating with a criminal threatening mass murder. "let me put it like this," the voice went on. "if there is an assault, all i have to do is retire to the lower level of the facility and then detonate one of the nuclear devices i now have armed. it's radio- controlled." "if you want to commit suicide, then go ahead," hansen said. what kind of bluff was that? he wondered. "let me put your mind at ease," came the voice, as measured and secure as it was foreboding. "my revolutionary colleagues and i will be at the main power coil, which is buried at least three hundred feet below the bedrock here. it is a ready-made bomb shelter. any invading force, however, would be vaporized, along with all the civilians." "you'd never escape," hansen shot back. "what's the point?" "that remains to be seen. but what you have to ask yourself is whether you are prepared to have a nuclear disaster in the aegean." on that point, hansen admitted to himself, the son of a bitch had a point. the political costs, not to mention the economic costs, would be staggering. "look," he said, "you're proposing a scenario neither of us wants. it would be irresponsible and immoral. though i suppose those points don't disturb you very much." "let me help your thought processes. you have twenty minutes, starting now. if at the end of that time you can't assure me that the assault has been called off--please don't bother to deny that one is imminent-- then what will happen will be on your hands." he paused. "incidentally, i also will bring professor mannheim to the phone then, and you can explain to him why he is about to die. i am putting this line on hold. you now have nineteen minutes and forty seconds." the phone went silent. hansen stared at ed briggs, sitting bleary-eyed across on the couch, then returned his gaze to the desk, noting the time on the digital clock. : a.m. "alpha leader, this is seal one," crackled the radio. "bearing two- zero-niner. range five hundred meters. no hostile fire." "roger," nichols replied. "continue inbound." he clicked off his walkie-talkie, then turned around and yelled to the men in the back of the huey. "okay, heads up. the assault is now in progress. we go in at hours." the deltas nodded as they checked their watches and spare ammo clips. the twenty-three men were all wearing black pullover hoods, each with a thin plastic microphone that looked like a phone operator's. over these they had kevlar helmets with protective goggles and light balaclavas, while their bulletproof assault vests included pockets filled with grenades and extra ammo for their h&k mp assault submachine guns. nichols was using a squad of ten navy seals to stage a diversionary assault on the shoreline, the same kind of diversion that had been employed so successfully by the seals in the war to liberate kuwait. after leaving the carrier, they would approach the island at forty mph in a pair of fountain- speedboats, powered by , -hp mercruiser engines. about one kilometer offshore, they were scheduled to disembark into two motorized zodiac rubber raiding craft that they had lashed to the bow. if all went according to plan, they would hit the coastline in full view and provide diversionary fire, giving the real assault team an opening to take the two main objectives. that's when the serious action would begin. nichols and his men would then come in using army choppers--two hh- k huey gunships and two ah- a apaches. the hueys would hover and drop off the insertion teams, while the apaches would provide backup firepower that--with their mm chain guns, hellfire missiles, and mm folding-fin rocket pods--could easily be mistaken for the end of the world. the assault was timed down to the second. three minutes after the diversionary seal action began, the two hueys would set down in the middle of the island and pour out the real assault teams, one team to storm command and the other to hit launch control, massively. he figured if they took both at once, there would be no place for the terrorists to hide. that was the best way they knew to accomplish their first objective, which was to neutralize any nuclear devices safely. the outstanding unknown, of course, was the location of those devices, and their state of readiness. you had to assume terrorists weren't suicidal, nichols told himself . . . but yet, what about beirut and the marine barracks, demolished by a suicide mission? such things were never outside the realm of possibility. so if these crazy fuckers decided to go out in a blaze of glory, it wouldn't exactly be a first. . . . "alpha leader." the radio came alive again. "seal one objective secure. no sign of any hostiles down here." "copy, seal one." shit, nichols thought. the bastards didn't go for it. they're battening down, planning to make a stand. and why not? they've got hostages. they think we're not going to hit the place. they've got another thing coming. it's just going to be bloodier than we had hoped. if they start using the hostages for human shields . . . "request permission to advance toward launch control," came the radio again. "if we're going to provide that diversion, we're going to have to go in." why not? nichols thought. we're already improvising, but maybe the bastards can still be drawn out. it's worth a try. "roger, seal one," he said, checking his watch. "watch yourself. it could be a setup." he knew the seals were lightly armed, with only a german heckler & koch submachine gun each, plus a couple of m s specially equipped with m grenade launchers, the so-called "bloop tube." still, those boys could raise some hell. "confirmed." "copy. we'll slip in here for five. kick hell out of anything that's not nailed down." "roger, alpha leader. if they show their heads, they're gonna know we're in town." : a.m. "all right," armont declared, "we make the insert here." he tapped his finger on the blueprint. "we hit the nerve center of launch with flash- bangs and tear gas, and take it down. if we're lucky, ramirez will still be there, and that should be the end of it. he always controls an operation totally. nobody else will have any authority. that's his style. if we handle it surgically, there shouldn't be any major casualties among the friendlies." the area around launch control was still foggy, illuminated mainly by the lingering spotlights on two vehicles. no technicians were in evidence, since the final stages of the countdown were underway and nothing remained to be done to the exterior of vx- . the dry ice "propellant" had been installed and now the action was underground, where the subterranean energy-storage system, the superconducting coil, was being primed. at this point, most of the staffers were monitoring the last-minute computer checks of the in-flight systems. "sounds good," reggie said, pointing to a spot on the blueprint. "i'll position myself right there, where i'll have a clear shot at the main points of ingress and egress. now let's move it before somebody checks in with the security system and picks up our penetration." everybody else agreed, signifying it by a last-minute review of weapons and gear. everybody, that is, except michael vance, who had been thinking, and worrying, about the irreversible step that a frontal assault would represent. what if ramirez had left launch and gone back to command? the man had a habit of keeping on the move. it was an innate part of his inner nature. "you know . . ." he rubbed at his swollen face and winced at the pain. "i'd like to suggest a different tack. a sort of 'look before you leap' approach." "what do you mean?" armont asked distractedly, anxious to get the assault under way while there was still a lingering cover of fog and semi dark. "pierre, before the team assault, why don't you let me test the waters a bit. see if i can't be a decoy long enough to make them show their hand." "care to explain exactly what you have in mind?" armont asked, always willing to listen, if skeptically. "they know i'm here. they don't know about the team, at least not yet. and, more to the point, we don't know if ramirez is really in there or not. but assuming he is, instead of storming the place, why not let me first see if i can't draw him out, at least give us a preview of his resources." "how would anybody go about doing that?" reggie was double-checking the sight on his enfield l a assault rifle, still anxious to get moving. "well," vance went on, "he wants me. so maybe this is not the worst time to use our heads instead of hardware. why not use _me _as bait?" "michael," armont interjected, "whatever you have in mind, you've done enough already. this isn't your fight, and i can't in good conscience ask you to do anything more. you just take care of those bruises and let us handle it from here on out. tell you the truth, you look like hell." vance paused, trying to get a grip on his own feelings. "all right, maybe it's just a vendetta on my part, unprofessional, but the real truth is i'd like the chance to take him down myself." he realized he had truly come to hate ramirez, a killer without a conscience who deserved anything he got. "besides, there's another reason. i think he's got an old professor in there somewhere, and i confess a certain fondness for the man, in spite of all his bungling. if you rush the place, god only knows what he's liable to do. probably get himself killed." "i can understand you might feel you have a personal stake in this," reggie hall said finally, "but what exactly do you think you can do? remember the old saying, shakespeare or somebody, a hero is the bloke who died a-wednesday." "i don't plan to try and get killed. but why not let me take some flash grenades and a gun? go up there by the gantry and generate a little excitement. if he's still there, maybe i can draw him out. he won't realize i've got backup. you take it from there." "i'm not sure i like it," armont grumbled, slamming a clip into his automatic. "if you ask me, there's been too damned much impromptu strategy on this op already." "on the other hand, michael has a point," hans interjected with germanic logic. "if we can separate ramirez from the hostages, it could prevent a lot of danger to the friendlies. my only worry is that if it doesn't work, then we've blown the element of surprise. all of a sudden we've got a firefight on our hands." "we've got a firefight anyway," marcel observed, "no matter what happens. so why not?" "i agree it's a gamble," vance paused. "but the alternative could be a genuine disaster." he took an mp from the bag of hardware they had brought and checked the clip. "does anybody strenuously object?" "i do," cally finally spoke up, her anger at him seeming to soften. "we'll probably have to come and pick up the pieces. but you're right about isaac. knowing him, he's liable to just walk into a line of fire, out of sheer absentminded-ness." "all right." vance looked around. "while the fog is still in, i want to go up." he was pointing. why wait for a vote? nobody seemed to be strongly against it. "i'll come in from up there"--he pointed--"by the base of what's left of the gantry, and try to draw him out. if nothing else, it'll be diversion. if it doesn't work, you can still go in." "all right, you win," armont said. his eyes betrayed his lingering misgivings. "but you're making yourself a target, so don't try any heroics. if ramirez does show his face, let us take it from there. this isn't your game." willem voorst nodded and pulled out an extra vest, already festooned with grenades. he handed it to vance, who slipped it on and secured it, wincing silently from the pain in his rib cage. "just be bloody careful," reggie hall said. that and nothing more. british understatement. calypso andros had no such reserve. her hair plastered across her face, she reached up and impulsively kissed him on a swollen cheek. then she whispered good luck. : a.m. "alpha leader, this is seal one. i think we've spotted some hostiles." with a smile, nichols clicked his radio to transmit. he was in the lead huey, now hovering slightly more than a kilometer away from the shoreline of andikythera. "i copy, seal one. what's your status?" "we're ready to get acquainted. are you synchronized?" "roger," nichols's terse voice replied back. "i want all hell to break loose. and any bad guys you can pin down or neutralize will be much appreciated. we insert in ninety seconds." "we roger that, alpha leader. seal one team on full auto." nichols turned to his pilot, manny jackson. "okay, it's a go. i want us on the ground in nine-zero seconds." : a.m. vance moved quickly up the hill, toward the toppled gantry. already he had a view of the wide sloping window that was the center of launch control, and he could see figures there, though not clearly enough to know if ramirez was one of them. maybe they were satcom staffers or . . . no. there was ramirez, talking on the phone. and standing beside him was the man vance had come to love . . . isaac mannheim. the old professor looked haggard, a perfectionist man who had despaired. he clearly had lost touch with time and place. then ramirez handed him the phone and barked something at him. dejectedly he took it and started speaking. damn. any half-competent sniper could take out ramirez here and now. he thought he was safe, and he had never been more exposed. but this was not a job for an amateur, not with mannheim so close. okay, he thought, guess this is going to have to happen the hard way. he extracted a flash grenade from the vest willem had given him and got ready to pull the pin. : a.m. "johan, he'll do it," isaac mannheim was saying into the handset that ramirez had thrust into his face. 'they have two devices. one is on vx- , ready for launch, and the other one is here. they say they've rigged a radio-controlled detonator on it. he's going to use it if you don't do whatever it is he wants." "let me talk to the son of a bitch again," hansen said. "all right, johan. please talk to him." mannheim handed back the receiver. his hand was shaking. "have you made a decision, mr. president?" ramirez inquired. "yes, goddammit. i've got an open line to gournes. you can listen while i issue the order to hold off the assault for six hours. does that satisfy you?" "it will do for a start," ramirez said. "then we can talk about the money." and he listened as hansen spoke tersely through the secure communications link to mission control on the kennedy. what he did not hear in hansen's conversation was the incredulity on the other end of the line. but the assault is already under way, general max austin was declaring, stunned. they were in communication with nichols, and the seals were about to open fire on the hostiles. "just scrub the operation," hansen barked. "that's an order." "that was a wise decision," ramirez said, listening. "now about the money." "check with the bank in fifteen minutes," hansen said, a note of resignation in his voice. "it will be deposited. now, i want you out of there, all hostages safe, and those weapons disarmed and left." "you have nothing to worry about," ramirez declared, scarcely able to contain his sense of triumph. "you have made a decision for humanity." "just get the hell gone. and don't try my patience." this time it was hansen's turn to abruptly break the connection. ramirez was cradling the receiver, savoring his triumph, when a blinding flash erupted from the direction of the fallen gantry. and there, in the momentary glare, stood michael vance. : a.m. the leader of the seals, lieutenant devon robbins, spoke into his thin microphone. "can you see them? we could use an ir scope." the seals had split into two teams, as was their practice, and he was leading the first. "hard to make out much in this fog," came back his point man, lieutenant philip pease, who was leading the second team. pease was exactly twenty meters away, all but invisible because of his dark commando gear. he was studying the men up the hill with a pair of x mm steiner stereo-optic binoculars. though they were designed for low light, he still could not see clearly. "but they're dressed in black, and they look like they're armed." "what else can you id?" "they're not together, exactly. it's almost as though they're deploying for something." "what the hell are they doing outside in the first place? does it mean the fuckers haven't gotten around to taking over the launch facility yet? maybe they're getting set up for their next move." "can't confirm anything, seal one. just too much damned fog. . . . wait, yeah, they've got assault rifles of some kind. looks like some big-time shit. that's a definite confirm." "do they look like they're setting up?" "all i can tell for sure is they're moving, spreading out. something's about to go down. got to be baddies. who else could they be?" "all right, seal two, our mission is to create a diversion, shake them up, and let nichols's chopper teams handle the heavy lifting. those apaches can make a man give his heart to jesus." "you've got a rog on that, seal one. but if we're here to make an impression, i say let's give them a big navy welcome. time for a close encounter." "we came to play. get--" a flare blossomed from somewhere up in the vicinity of the vehicles, illuminating the fog into a huge white cloud, vast and mysterious. "what in hell!" yelled pease's voice on the radio. "that was farther up. maybe it's a two-point assault." "looked like it was over to the left. can you tell what happened?" "must have been a flash-bang. these assholes brought their own boombox." "okay, seal two, we've got a mission. first things first. for now we just neutralize those bastards in black. looks like half our hostiles are outside and in the clear. on the count of three." the seals all clicked off the safeties on their mp s and took aim, wishing they could see something more than dark, vague outlines in the fog. : a.m. how the hell, ramirez wondered, did vance get on the loose again? moreau was supposed to have taken care of him. had he screwed up, too? i should have just let wolf kill him in the first place and had done with it. this time, i'll just handle it myself. he checked his pockets, making sure he had extra clips for his beretta mm and then he headed through the door leading into the open bay of launch. the satcom systems engineers and ground-control specialists, not privy to the wide windows of launch control, had no idea what had just happened outside. they were too busy worrying about the fog, making the final checks of the electronics, monitoring the countdown clicking off. and all of them had laid side bets on whether the launch, now scheduled for less than an hour and a half away, would be able to proceed. the wagering leaned toward the fog clearing in time. ramirez strode past the bustling gray satcom uniforms with a single- mindedness that characterized his every move. how the hell, he was wondering, did michael vance get on the island in the first place? he was one of the back-office support types for arm, a financial guy. nobody had ever id'd him in an assault. it made no sense that he was here, when none of the rest of the arm operatives were around. why vance, who was a nobody? all the same, he had specialized in screwing up things ever since the initial penetration. he had managed to wreck the hind, destroy the gantry, make a general nuisance of himself. the time had come to put a stop to the annoyance and then get moving. if the money had been delivered, as hansen had claimed, then it was time to move on to the next phase. just take care of a few banking transactions, then put the egress plan into motion. he hit the lock control on the door, which had long since been defaulted to manual, and strode out, his beretta ready. the problem now was finding that bastard vance in the fog, but the reflected light off the spots illuminating the vehicles was going to provide visibility. besides, the bastard was a cowboy, took chances right and left. he also didn't seem to be a particularly competent marksman. . . . : a.m. "there he is," pierre armont said, peering through the fog with his tasco infocus zoom binoculars. they did not require focusing, and with a touch of a lever he jacked up the power from six to twelve. "i want the sucker myself. we missed him in beirut, but this time . . ." up above, sabri ramirez was gliding along the side of the fallen gantry, an automatic in his hand. ramirez, armont knew, was famous for his beretta mm, used to such deadly effect over the years. it was his trademark, always employed for assassinations. but now, finally, after all the years. there was the hyena, exposed and clear. one shot. one shot would do it. "he's mine." armont leveled his mp , captured ramirez in the sight, and clicked it to full auto. vance was a genius. he had lured the hyena from his lair. take him out, and the whole op would be over in time for morning coffee. : a.m. ramirez was edging down the side of the gantry, the cold angle-iron against his back, when there was an eruption of gunfire down the hill. it was controlled, professional fire that seemed to be coming from two locations. an assault. well, fuck hansen. the president had lied, claiming he had called it off. had he lied about the money, too? the fleeting thought made him seethe. but one problem at a time. he quickly ducked behind the fallen gantry, disappearing into the shadows. one more phone call, then a check with geneva. if the money hadn't been transferred, souda bay and the american sixth fleet were both going to disappear in a nuclear cloud. in fact, they were anyway. what better way to cover an egress? : a.m. "what in--" armont emitted a curse as all hell broke loose behind them. a fusillade of automatic-weapons fire rained around, from somewhere in the direction of the shoreline. it was almost like covering fire, not well directed, and since everybody on the arm team had long made a practice of minimizing exposure at all times, he didn't expect immediate casualties. but what in hell! had ramirez's terrorist team encircled them, drawn them in? he felt like an idiot. "hostile fire!" he gave the signal to get down and take cover, swinging his hand from above his head to shoulder level, but that was nothing more than redundant instinct. the arm team was already on the ground, ready to return fire if so ordered. nobody, however, was wasting ammo on the darkness. the team had little enough to spare, and besides--why give away your position and create a target? the third consideration was that arm never fired on an unknown. they were, after all, civilians and answerable. an army could wreak whatever havoc it pleased and later blame everything on the heat of battle. arm had to be damned sure who it was taking down. by the time armont's yell died away, everybody on the team had already found cover behind the random outcroppings of rocks. everybody, that is, except hugo voorst, who spun around and stumbled backward, moaned, then collapsed. : a.m. "hold your fire! goddammit, hold your fire." the seal leader, lieutenant devon robbins, was pressing in his earpiece, incredulous at what he was hearing. around him the team was on the ground, in firing position, keeping the terrorists up the hill pinned down. next would come the assault. "roger, alpha leader, i copy. does anybody know what's going on with this whole fucked-up op? . . . i copy." he looked around. "we just got aborted." "what the fuck do you mean," the seal next to him, john mccleary, said. he was slamming another clip into his mp . "the team is extracted. now." robbins could scarcely believe his own words. "you have got to be fucking kidding," came the radio voice of lieutenant philip pease. "we've got the assholes. a couple of grenades from the blooper and then we take them. they're history." "hey, i just report the orders, i don't give them," robbins replied. "immediate egress. that's the word. who the fuck knows?" "but what about the choppers? nichols is coming in with the apaches." "goumes says they're scrubbed, too. everybody's on hold. nichols just about ate the fucking radio. he's going apeshit." "well, the hell with gournes," came a third voice, through a black pullover. "maybe we had a 'radio failure.' the fuckers are pinned down. let's just go ahead and take them down. the whole op is blown. now they're going to know we're coming in." "they probably figured on it anyway," robbins said, clicking on the safety of his mp . "but who the hell cares. we're out of here. flint, you've got the rear. use it. i'm on point. let's hit the beach. in five. pass it on." he switched on his radio. "listen up. anybody not in a zodiac in five mikes swims." : a.m. georges lefarge had been studying peretz, trying to figure out what was going on. one thing was sure: the countdown was about to switch into auto mode--which meant the priming of the superconducting coil would begin. when that happened, the cyclops would be entering a very delicate, and dangerous, phase. shutting it down after auto mode commenced required the kind of familiarity with the system he was sure peretz did not have. mess up then and you could literally burn out the huge power storage ring buried deep in the island's core--which was why the fujitsu was deliberately programmed to thwart any straightforward command to abort. ironically, the fail-safe mechanism was designed not to shut down the cyclops, but rather to carry through. at this stage, the only way to abort the launch sequence safely was to bleed off the power using the cyclops's main radar, the way they had done early last night. to simply flip a switch and turn everything off would be to risk melting the multimillion-dollar cryogenic storage coil down under. the whole thing was as bizarre as it was real. by continuing the countdown until everything went into auto mode, peretz was creating a monster of inevitability. he was currently trying to explain this to the israeli, hoping the guy could conceive the gravity of what he was about to do. "you don't understand," he was pleading, his voice plaintive above the clicks of switches and buzz of communications gear in command, "you're going to risk--" "hey, kid, chill out." peretz did not bother to look up from his terminal. a strip-chart recorder next to him was humming away as voltage and amperage checks proceeded. "but look." georges pointed to the screen of an adjacent workstation. "you've got less than three minutes left to abort the power-up. after the auto-test sequence it's doing now is finished, the superconducting coil starts final power-up. that's when everything switches to auto mode. it's all automatic from then on. for a very good reason." "hey, that's why we're here, kid." peretz was grinning his crazy grin. 'this is not some fucking dry run. this is the big one. i've got no intention of shutting it down. we're gonna launch, dude." dore peretz knew exactly what the critical go/no-go points in the countdown were; he had researched the cyclops system extensively. he also knew that after auto mode, there would be no altering the orbital abort and the timing of the detonation. once auto mode began, he was home free. he could split. the trajectory he had programmed with sort was not for souda bay but for low orbit. one orbit. the abort had been preset. the bomb was going to be delivered right back here on andikythera. it was brilliant. get the money in place, get out, and then wipe out the island, all evidence of the operation. including sabri ramirez. the world would then think that all the terrorists were dead. and they would be--all, that is, except dr. dore peretz. in truth, he was thinking, this was almost the most fun he'd had in years. the actual most fun had been the memo he had presented to sabri ramirez concerning the new split of the money. all along he had thought the phrase fifty-fifty had a nice solid ring. what point was there in spreading the ransom all over the place? giving it to a bunch of assholes? which was why dore peretz had, two weeks earlier, established an account in the same geneva bank where ramirez was having the money delivered. the memo had instructed ramirez to advise the bank to move half the money into that account as soon as it arrived. and when funds were deposited into that account, the bank was instructed to move them yet again--well beyond the reach of anybody. all he needed now was proof that ramirez had faxed the bank with the new instructions. so had he? the time had come to check in with the bastard and find out. then it was over. all he would have to do after that was commandeer the chopper and get the hell out. the only missing link was somebody to fly the sikorsky, and the perfect choice for that little task was in the next room, a certain vietnam fighter-pilot turned ceo. . . . he motioned for georges lefarge. "okay, everything's set. auto mode. we've got exactly sixty-eight minutes to liftoff. is that enough excitement for you?" lefarge did feel something of a thrill, in spite of his better judgment. he didn't know why peretz would want to abort the flight-- which he knew was what sort had been programmed to do--but at least vx- was going up. and when you worked on a project like this, there was only one real payoff--when the vehicle left the pad. all the months, years, of preparations led up to that final moment. . . . "i want bates," peretz declared, pointing toward the closed office door. "so, go and get him. that's an order. it's time he got in on the fun. after all, this is his baby. georges turned away from his useless workstation, still shaken by the sight of auto mode clicking in, and walked back toward the door. bates had been locked in there, mainly to keep him quiet. but now things were starting to happen. several members of the terrorist group had come in, started readying weapons, and were acting nervous. well, georges thought, maybe they're worried the u.s. might just get off its ass and come in, do something about this outrage. the terrorists had plenty of heavy weapons, and now they were checking them out and slapping in clips of ammunition. bill bates was not going to like what he saw. . . . he opened the door and motioned for bates to come out. he slowly rose from his chair, looking beat and haggard, and came. georges's first impression was that he was missing a large slice of his old zip. he looked like a man near defeat-- exhausted, even disoriented. "how are you feeling?" peretz asked. "how do you think?" bates growled, looking around at all the assembled terrorists now readying their weapons. the place was turning into an armed camp. "just a friendly inquiry," peretz went on, flashing his empty grin. "we're about to start the fireworks up at launch, and i didn't want you to miss out on any of it." he paused to check the countdown scrolling on the terminal in front of him. "so . . ." he continued, turning back, "i think it's time we three--you, me, and georges here--took a small stroll and checked out how things are going." "mind telling me what in blazes you're up to?" bates demanded. his voice was still strong even though he had lost much of the spring in his step. "if you fuckers have killed any more of my people, i'm going to see to it personally that--" "take it easy, man," peretz interjected. "as long as nobody causes any trouble, then nobody gets hurt." he turned and motioned for jean-paul moreau. "keep an eye on this place. he swept his arm over the sea of technicians and systems analysts. "everything's right on target with the countdown." it was an impromptu private joke, a spur-of-the-moment thing, that he found delightful. jean-paul moreau, his reflexes now slowing slightly from lack of sleep, did not get the joke, and he did not like the feeling he was getting. dore peretz was a canny little fucker, and he suddenly seemed in a great hurry to get out of command. was the _batard_ up to something? it was puzzling, and troubling. he adjusted his blond ponytail and gazed around the room, now a cacophony of preflight activity. keeping everybody in line was the least of his problems. these white-shirted engineers were so scared that if you said jump, they'd all stand up and ask how high. no, what bothered him was not knowing what the damned israeli had up his sleeve. peretz was planning something, probably intending to leave somebody to hold the bag. and it wasn't hard to figure out who that somebody was. . . . "you know," he said to peretz, "everybody has orders to stay at their posts and keep security, in case there's an assault. you pulling out of here is not part of the plan." "hey, i've been handling this thing so far, and the launch is set. now i need to check on the telemetry and data hookups at launch--if that's okay with you. i've taken care of my end, so now all you've got to do is keep any of these assholes from getting on the computer and trying to screw things up. nobody so much as touches a keyboard, got it?" "got it." moreau nodded, hating the little son of a bitch even more. "good," he said, turning back to bates. "okay, baby, we're gone." chapter seventeen : a.m. hugo voorst was lying propped against a rock, his shoulder bandaged with white strips of gauze from the first-aid kit. now that the flow of blood had been staunched, marcel was injecting him with a shot of morphine to quell the looming pain. happily the hit was clean, just a flesh wound and nothing serious, but he would be of no further use on the mission. worse still, he actually had become a liability. the only thing to do was to leave him where he was, with an h&k machine pistol for protection, and proceed. you didn't like to abandon anybody, but . . . voorst, for his own part, mainly felt sheepish. giddy though he was, the result of mild shock, his dutch stoicism was still holding up. "i'll be all right," he was saying, a slow grin covering his face as the narcotic kicked in. "sorry to be a party pooper." "you got lucky," hans soothed, checking the bandage one last time. "you get to take a little time off. but you may still have a chance to give us some backup if things get hot." armont had not said anything, leaving the kidding around to the younger men. they needed it to keep up their macho. the hard truth was, the whole operation was rapidly turning into a disaster of the first magnitude. everything possible had gone wrong. and now he had no idea where vance was. the situation had gone red, the odds deteriorating rapidly. ramirez had been lured out, but he had been saved by the _deus ex machina _of an unexpected but short-lived attack from their rear. what had that been all about? then he noticed a glint in the sky, through the early dawn, and realized it was a helo, far in the distance, banking as its pilot began turning back. he looked more carefully and counted four. all egressing. "take a look." he pointed toward the cluster of tiny dots slowly diminishing in the dim sky. "looks like somebody showed up just long enough to screw us, then aborted. and now mike is back in the belly of the beast." he turned and peered at the fog-swathed floodlights, now growing pale as dawn began arriving in earnest. around them the dull outlines of trees and rocks were lightening into greens and granite- grays. "with the damned rocket still sitting up there ready to blast off. "all right," he continued after a thoughtful pause, "we know where ramirez is, but after all the shooting around here, the idea of a nice clean insertion will have to go by the boards." he returned his gaze to launch control. "no way in hell could we take launch by surprise now. ramirez has got to know something is brewing. which means we're going to have to do things the old-fashioned way. bad news for the hostages if they don't know how to get out of the way, but we've got to deal with the bomb, no matter what." there was muttering and grumbling. arm men did not fancy excessive gunfire. they had all long passed that age of youthful denial when men thought they were invulnerable. they had seen too much. "by the way," armont abruptly interrupted everybody's chain of thought, "what happened to the woman who was here, dr. andros? was she hit?" nobody had noticed, up until that point, that she was absent. they quickly checked the rocks around the area, but she was nowhere to be found. "forget about her," he finally decreed. "if she doesn't want to stay with us, then she's not our problem." he thought a minute. "maybe we should break radio silence and see if we can raise vance. he took a unit with him." "i'm against it," willem voorst declared. "as a matter of fact, i'm against doing anything. if the u.s. is planning to come in here and take down this place, then why should we risk our own ass. let's just get in a secure position and let them do our work for us. we've never had that kind of help before. it might be refreshing. i think michael can take care of himself. why--" "no, we can't wait for them, whoever it was." armont cut him off. "i don't know what the hell they were really up to. and besides, if that little demonstration we just had was any indication, their mode is going to be to shoot first and ask questions later. so we have to finish our job, just get it over with. and i'll tell you what i think. since launch is a muck-up now, our best bet is to keep ramirez off guard for a while and go ahead and take down command. immediately, before they realize what's going on. with any luck, maybe they won't be expecting it." he looked around. "make a three-point entry, flash-bangs and tear gas. just blow out the place." he paused to let the words sink. "well," he continued finally, "does anybody disagree?" there were nervous frowns, but nobody did. instead, they began silently collecting their gear. : p.m. hansen had returned to the basement situation room, where maps and operation plans cluttered the teakwood table and littered meal trays, grease encrusting on the white china, were piled up in the corner. no stewards were allowed in the room, and nobody else was going to clean up. he had not slept for a day and a half, and he was now showing a ragged shadow of beard. ted brock had heard some of his aides upstairs commenting to each other _sotto voce_ that he had never seemed older. "all right," he said. "i've called off the assault and given the bastard six hours to clear out. i've also released the money, had it wired to the account he wanted. so maybe now he'll leave quietly. our deal is that he frees the hostages unharmed, disarms the bombs, and gets the hell out of there. but i'll tell you something else: he's not going to live to spend a dime. the minute he's airborne, his ass is ours. i want him shot out of the sky, and the hell with the consequences." "he'll probably take some civilians along with him," briggs said. "hostages. we could be looking at some dicey press." "all right, then, so we won't shoot him down; we'll just force him down, the way we handled that libyan passenger jet with terrorists aboard. there was official flack for a week or so from the usual quarters, but off the record everybody was applauding. when you do the right thing, the world makes allowances for how you manage it." briggs remained skeptical, but he kept his thoughts to himself. he wanted to have as little to do with the operation as possible. sooner or later there would be loss of life, he was sure of it, and the chances were the losses would be massive. he had no interest in making the history books as the author of a civilian massacre, terrorists or no terrorists. "all right, mr. president, i'll tell the deltas to keep their powder dry until we play this one out." he had already heard from general max austin, who said nichols was fit to be tied, eating his cigars instead of smoking them. who could blame him? to have a commander-in-chief micromanaging an anti-terrorist op violated every known canon of military strategy. there might be a more surefire recipe for disaster, but it was hard to conjure one offhand. hansen, for his own part, recognized the pitfalls of giving the terrorists more time. however, he hoped it would end up being the rope-- make that false confidence--that would hang them. he had wired the "ransom" money to the numbered account at banco ambrosiano, as requested. there, his intelligence on the ground was reporting, the eight hundred million had been split and transferred to several other accounts. then portions of it had been immediately wired out--to a destination not yet known, though it damned well would be. what, he wondered, was that all about? were the terrorists in the process of screwing each other? it was a possibility. everything was a possibility. but it also was smart, because it made recovering the funds that much more difficult. they were, in effect, laundering it even before they had made their getaway. these characters, whoever they were, were taking no chances. : a.m. "load it on now," ramirez was saying. "we're taking it with us." he flashed a smile from behind his aviator shades. "you never know when you'll need a nuke." abdoullah couldn't believe his luck. he had been sure that number one intended to try and kill him. but now it turned out to be the others, the ones he'd sent over to command, that he planned to leave in the lurch. dawn was breaking, but there still was enough early fog to mask their movements partially. it was definitely time to get the show on the road. one of the bombs had been installed on the vx- vehicle and a countdown was under way. when that bomb devastated souda bay, nobody was going to be worrying about a lone chopper somewhere over the med. and with the other weapon still in their hands, the whole operation was going like clockwork. the money was in place --he was now rich--and they were packing to leave. the bomb they were now loading actually made him think. maybe, he mused fleetingly, he could just kill number one and return it. it would be the final revenge for what the bastard did to rais. no, that was stupid. better to just take the money and run. lose the heroics. in fact, given how things had gone so far, the whole thing was almost too good to be true. in fact, that bothered him a little. more than a little. he had seen too much double-dealing already to believe anything number one said or did. he trusted dore peretz even less. the israeli, he was sure, had a private agenda of his own. he always seemed to. maybe he was planning to divert the bomb and take out tel aviv. he was crazy enough. but who cared? they were getting out. better still, number one had indicated he intended to take the old professor, the jew, with them. with him on board, number one had declared, there was no danger that the u.s. president would order the chopper shot down. the old guy made a perfect passport. but with souda bay being incinerated as they made their egress, it hardly seemed to matter. . . . he grasped the lever on the forklift and, aided by shujat, hoisted the bomb through the cargo hatch, guiding the edges of the crate. it weighed almost as much as they did together, but by now they were used to managing it. interestingly, it still was wired to its radio- controlled detonator, with the explosive charges intact. he had the momentary thought that it should be disconnected, but now there was no time. that was something that should be done with extreme care. maybe he would take care of it after takeoff, when they were airborne. "be careful," ramirez went on. "but don't waste time. the vehicle is going up, and then we're going to be out of here. in less than an hour." : a.m. "team two cq," came hans' voice on the walkie-talkie. he and marcel were in the overhead ventilation duct above command, which had been depicted in great detail in the blueprints. hugo voorst had been left to fend for himself, while willem had split off with dimitri spiros, forming team three. "team three cq," willem reported next. "ingress looks like a go." he and dimitri were at the rear exit, which passed through bill bates' office. they had entered through the tunnel that connected bates' office and the living quarters. the door had been set with c- and was ready to blow. "copy. team one cq," armont whispered into his own radio. he and reginald hall were now in the outer lobby, and just ahead of them stood the doors that led into command. together the teams formed a three- pronged attack that would seal off all egress. "take down anybody with anything in their hands. and watch out for michael. i don't think he's in there, but you never can tell." "if he is," willem voorst's voice said, "he'll know what to do." as they waited, reggie gazed around reception in disgust. the deserted guard desk looked as though it had been strafed by an automatic, almost as if the terrorists intentionally were wreaking as much destruction as possible. "cheeky bastards," he muttered under his breath. "why do these terrorist blokes always think they've got to trash a place?" "reggie," armont whispered back, "these gentlemen did not attend eton. you have to learn to make allowances. and right now they appear to be trying to deliver an atomic bomb into somebody's backyard, which would tend to suggest they're not model citizens. one has to expect a disheartening want of tidiness in such an element." he checked his watch. "all right, get ready." ahead of them the doors to command were closed--who knew if they were locked or even booby-trapped? but it didn't matter. the c- had already been attached around the frame. exploding it and the other door opposite would serve as a diversion, drawing the first fire and giving hans and marcel the moment they needed to make their own ingress, rappelling in under cover of flash grenades and mopping up. that was the plan, at any rate. a three-point entry, with flash grenades and tear gas. it usually worked. armont clicked on his walkie-talkie again and checked his watch. "all teams alert. assault begins in three-zero seconds. starting now." : a.m. peering down into the room through the overhead grating, hans felt his palms grow sweaty. this was the moment he always hated. even after all his years with the assault squads, spezialen-satztrupp, in gsg- , he had never gotten over this moment of soul-searching panic. twenty seconds. he glanced up from his watch, then tested the rope he and marcel would use to rappel down into the room. finally he adjusted the hood of his balaclava one last time in an attempt to quell his nerves. it never worked, of course, and it wasn't working now. still, he always did it. more helpful was checking the clip on his mp . he had a spare taped to the one now loaded, making it possible to just flip them over. a third was taped to his wrist. it should be enough. ten seconds. that was the moment--it always happened--when he felt his mouth go dry. bone dry. : a.m. reggie, who normally served as standoff sniper, almost always used an old ak- he had had for fifteen years and kept honed to perfection. nothing fancy, just deadly accuracy. today, however, he was keeping it in reserve, since this was close quarters. at the moment he was going with his sentimental british favorite, an enfield l a assault rifle that was the last product of the old enfield arsenal. its special sling meant it could be carried behind his back, and it was short, virtually recoilless, and a marvel to behold on full-automatic. for his own part, armont had a steyr-mannlicher aug assault rifle, augmented with a beta hundred-round c-mag supposedly only available to government organizations. he didn't like to bother changing clips, which annoyed him as a waste of precious time, and the circular, hundred-round dual magazine gave him--so he claimed--all the firepower he needed. besides, he liked to say, if a hundred rounds weren't enough to take down an objective, then you hadn't planned it right and deserved to be in the shit. he gave five clicks into his walkie-talkie, which meant five seconds, then stood back as reggie got ready to blow the c- . : a.m. "looks like you got it right," peretz said with a crooked smile. he was examining a fax whose letterhead read banco ambrosiano, geneva. ramirez had just passed it over, and the correct account number was there, together with the amount in dollars. his piece of the money, his bigger piece, had been transferred to the separate account he had specified. by now, according to the instruction he had left, it was already on its way out. home free. he counted the zeroes again, not quite believing it. the villa he had set his heart on was his. he had just acquired four hundred million dollars. some _countries _weren't worth that much, for godsake. "your generosity is touching." he folded the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket. he had left ironclad instructions at the bank. the minute the funds were transferred, they would be wired to a bank in nassau, bahamas, a bank known only to him. that way, ramirez would have no chance to fiddle the money back. ramirez said nothing, merely smiled. the fact was, this little israeli creep was an amateur. five minutes after he had wired the instructions, he had sent a second fax, countermanding them. that was the last thing to worry about. more important was that peretz had left his post at command and come down here to gloat. so it was a good thing he had sent jean-paul and jamal over there to keep an eye on things. they also had taken the last stasi, peter maier, with them. schindler had disappeared, presumably lost when the u.s. began its aborted attack. they had proved to be useless, a fact he was going to point out to wolf helling just before he shot him between the eyes. this crude attempt at blackmail by peretz was perfectly in character, had in fact been telegraphed from the start. which was why all the contingency plans had been necessary. given peretz' particularly obnoxious demand, he was tempted to move the plan ahead and just shoot the son of a bitch now. unfortunately, though, he might still be needed. so the best course for the moment was just to let him think he had gotten away with it. besides, it was a trifle early to finish thinning the ranks. all in due time. . . . : a.m. it could have been the sound of a single explosion, even though it had taken place at the two opposite entries to command. then, as one, team one and team three were inside, just behind the harmless explosions of flash grenades and charges of cs they had blasted into the room. willem voorst of team three was in first position as he virtually pounced through the door just blown away with c- , which now was a curtain of smoke. while he sprayed the ceiling with rounds, sweeping left to right, dimitri spiros was in second position, automatically sweeping right to left. "get down," voorst yelled in english, hoping the civilians would be quick. staffers dove for the gray linoleum, many yelling in pure terror. in voorst's experience, a couple of curious morons always wanted to stand up and watch the action, frequently a lethal form of entertainment. this time, however, everybody fortuitously hit the floor. on the far right, salim khan yelled and brought up his uzi, mesmerized by the balaclava-covered face of voorst, but the dutchman was already far ahead of the game, and a single burst from his mp dropped him, taking away the left side of his face. the bearded iranian pilot never realized what had happened, pitching forward without so much as a final prayer. one away, voorst thought. but that was an easy one. an amateur. on the opposite side of the room, armont was in first position and hall was in second--both poised to take down anybody who showed hostile intent. together with team three at the back, their two-point entry was like a wagnerian crescendo that began a piece of music instead of ending it. the melody was still to come. armont squinted through the hood of his balaclava into the billowing cs that was enveloping the room. the confusion that obscured the difference between friend and foe dismayed him. arm had had no photos of the terrorists to work with, no intelligence--other than the id of ramirez--concerning their physical appearance. the back of his mind, however, was telling him that they all were dressed in black, just as the members of the arm team were. so everybody with a gun looked alike; the difference boiled down to who was shooting at whom. reggie, in number-two position, had the best eyes of any of them, and he had moved in behind armont, those eyes sweeping the room. try not to waste the bloody place, he was lecturing himself. show some class. with the surprise still fresh, it now was time for team two to appear, completing the three-point assault. through the smoke two black figures appeared out of nowhere, rappelling down into the very middle of the chaos. first came hans, followed by marcel, both holding the rope in one hand, an mp in the other. while willem voorst and dimitri spiros were still firing, hoping to draw the attention of the hostiles away from team two, hans rotated on his rope, and took measure of the room. he had less than a second to get his bearings and to analyze the immediate threat from hostiles, the peril to friendlies, and the one-time opportunities a quick window of surprise offered. the main thing was to try to cut down the most senior, experienced hostile in the room. in the millisecond before his feet touched the floor, he saw what he had hoped for: a man dressed in black, with long blond hair tied back in a pony tail, carrying an uzi. better yet, he recognized him. jesus! it was jean-paul moreau. interpol wants that bastard, he told himself, but they want him alive. and there's a private bank-consortium bounty on his head of five hundred thousand francs. he's found money. alive. : a.m. "what the hell!" ramirez glanced at the tv monitor that was next to the array of instruments and video screens looking out onto the launch pad. peretz whirled to look, as did bill bates. the scene was command and the image had grown fuzzy, as though the room were filled with smoke. but there was no mistaking the chaos. satcom staffers were on the floor, while flashes of light darted across the screen as the camera automatically panned back and forth. jesus! bates thought. it looks like nam. it's an assault. who could it be? had the u.s. decided to get off its butt and start protecting its citizens? they damned well had taken their time about it. . . . now he could see who was doing the shooting, and most of it seemed to be coming from pairs of men dressed in black. there were-- abruptly the screen went blank, switching to video noise. the panning camera had been drilled by somebody's stray round. : a.m. through the chaos of the flash grenades and the tear gas moreau had missed seeing hans and marcel rappelling down. instead he paused for half a second, then hit the floor and rolled, ponytail flying, intending to get as many of the hostages as possible between him and the two members of the assault team at the front. he figured the firepower would come from there. the rear entry, with the two guys firing at the ceiling, was the diversion, intended to throw everybody off. he knew better. you never looked where the other side wanted you to. that was playing into their hands. he got off a burst from his uzi, leaving a line of craters in the cinderblock walls next to the front door. wide and high. bad placement. but the game wasn't over; it was just beginning. now he had repositioned himself so that a terrified cluster of satcom staffers were between him and the front, and a line of terminals protected him from the rear. good. in the momentary pause, he slammed a new clip into the uzi. these assholes aren't going to shoot up the hostages, he told himself. that wasn't how professionals worked. and these guys, wearing balaclavas, were professionals. they were fast, moving quickly, and not providing a real target. _merde_. but now you've got the advantage. just concentrate and take them out, one by one. you've been in tougher spots before. dimitri spiros, approaching from the rear, also had seen him, the blond-haired terrorist who rolled behind a line of workstations. but spiros had not recognized him; to the greek he was merely another hostile to be taken down. he switched his mp to semiauto and carefully took aim between the terminals, waiting for the creep to show himself. hans was not planning to wait. as his boots touched the floor, he took aim and got off a single round, carefully wounding moreau in the right bicep. the french terrorist spun around, startled, but he sensed no pain. instead he felt satisfaction at knowing, now, where the third entry-point had been. life had just been simplified. a three-point entry: standard, no problem. all you had to do was keep your wits. he whirled and got off a burst toward hans and marcel, sending them diving to the floor, then returned his attention to the pair at the front. but now those two _batards _had taken cover. where was jamal? salim was dead, the stupid iranian. good riddance. but where was his brother? why wasn't he helping? as it happened, during the first few seconds of the assault, jamal khan had been making his own calculations. he had been figuring an assault was overdue, and he had been prepared for it for several hours now. he had long since donned a bulletproof vest, and he had made sure he had two uzis at hand, both loaded, together with five spare clips. the moment the first flash grenades went off, he rolled beneath a row of workstations and shoved a handkerchief over his face, ready for the tear gas he was sure would come next. now he was surrounded by a frightened cluster of satcom staffers. the perfect shield. marcel had also surveyed the room as he rappelled in, and--by previous arrangement--he had focused on the right half, whereas hans took the left. he had seen jamal's roll and started to cut him down with a blast, but then he thought better of it: there were too many friendlies to take a chance on ricocheting lead. just get into position and do it right. pierre armont also had seen jamal duck out of sight, and he felt his heart sink. the element of surprise had been used with all the effect it could, and the result had been one terrorist killed and one wounded. now they were entrenching. bad, very bad. . . . then a man on the other side of the room shouted something in german, choking from the cs, stood up, and brought around an uzi. that one was stupid; he had identified himself and he was wide open. armont dropped him with a single burst, before he could even get off a round. clearly an amateur terrorist, he was standing in the clear, and armont's well-placed rounds sent him into a macabre dance of death. hans watched with satisfaction. okay, he thought, that's two. now what about moreau. it would be nice to take him alive, help salvage something from this damned expensive disaster. moreau, however, had no intention of being taken alive; in fact, he had no intention of being taken at all. he had rolled into the shelter of a computer workstation and begun to spray the entrance indiscriminately. fortunately the shots were wild, posing no threat to the arm team or anybody else unless by ricochet. by now hans had taken cover behind the terminals situated in the center of the room. this wasn't the movies, with the assault team standing tall and shooting from the hip, particularly with all the friendlies milling in the haze of tear gas. besides, there were plenty of hostiles, including the young arab who had provided himself a secure redoubt behind a row of workstations, surrounded by hostages. he knew that stray bullets could not be tolerated. what to do? if moreau kept this up, he would have to be taken down, lethally, and damn the money. a shame, really. the scene was rapidly turning into a standoff. the worst thing that could happen. but first things first. determined to bag moreau alive, he lobbed another canister of cs across the room and into the clump of people and hostages where the frenchman was. a half-second later it exploded, spraying its noxious powder across a full quarter of the room, and as that was happening, he threw another flash grenade. the friendlies would be blinded and overcome, he knew, but the effects would only last for a few minutes and by that time everybody could be dragged into the open air. it was better than being mowed down in a hail of fire. the two grenades had the desired effect insofar as they momentarily disoriented moreau. and they gave hans the opening he needed to get in behind the row of terminals against the wall where the french terrorist crouched. it was the last, best chance he would have to take the bastard alive. moreau was on the floor now, gasping from the cs as he tried to get an angle on what was happening. he knew he was going to be rushed, but he wasn't sure from which direction. and as hans moved in, that hesitation proved to be a profound, primal mistake. before he could plan his next move, the german was on him, an mps against his neck. he tried to bring up his own uzi, but by the time he had it halfway around, hans had kicked it aside and intercepted the move. with a yelp of pain moreau twisted away, trying to recover, and managed to slam his left leg against hans, knocking him off balance. both were now cursing loudly, mingling their epithets with threats. the battle would have been even, had it not been for the fact that hans was wearing an encumbering balaclava. hans's flash grenade had illuminated the entire room with its blinding explosion, and now dimitri spiros was making an end run along the far wall, just below the huge projection tv screens, trying to encircle jamal before he had a chance to recover completely from the glare. across the room, reggie saw what was happening and opened fire into the ceiling, hoping to keep the iranian pinned down, or at the very least draw his fire. confusion reigned. willem voorst, who was in the center, analyzed the situation with a clearer eye. the damned little arab was not going to be taken down easily. spiros was heading into danger. not thinking. "dimitri, no!" 'the little fucker," spiros yelled. he was already moving, impossible to stop. his greek passion had superseded his better judgment, for he was not wearing his bulletproof vest--a container of those had been left inadvertently when the seaplane went down--and he was in no position to put himself in harm's way. jamal was coughing and choking from the cs, but he had not yet been totally immobilized. he saw dimitri, a hooded figure in the smoke, and responded by instinct, bringing around his uzi and getting off a burst. although spiros had seen it coming and tried to duck and roll, he was not quick enough. two rounds caught him in the chest, but not before he had gotten off a well-practiced three-round burst from his mp . one of the slugs entered the center of jamal's neck, above his bulletproof vest, and literally ripped his throat open. the muslim radical who had helped kill two hundred and eighteen defenseless marines in beirut collapsed in a pool of blood, having exacted one last price. dimitri spiros was down, gravely wounded. willem voorst was at his side in an instant. he took one look, then rose and sent another blast of automatic fire into the iranian jamal, whose life blood was already ebbing rapidly. it was an impulsive act of anger definitely out of character for arm, but the vengeance of the moment seemed to call for something. jesus, hans thought as he watched the tragedy unfold, still grappling with moreau, this is turning into a disaster. how did we manage such a screw-up. and how many more of the bastards are there? they're like vermin who keep showing up, just when you think you've got them all. the area around him had become a cacophony of gasping, coughing satcom staffers, many moaning in fear, all near shock. but it works both ways, hans thought. if there are any more terrorists hiding among the terminals, they're probably in the same condition. now, though, there was no motion anywhere in the room. it looked to be over. "clear," marcel said, the first, his voice garbled by the balaclava. hans crunched a knee against jean-paul moreau's face and heard him moan. "you little fucker," he yelled in french, and slugged him as hard as he could. it had the desired effect. moreau's body went limp, but hans, wanting to take no chances, immediately yanked his arms around behind his back and handcuffed him. "clear," he yelled, still breathless. "clear," called reggie, but not before looking around one last time, squinting through the smoke. he thought, hoped, it was true. a bloody great mess, that's what the assault had been, and ramirez was still on the loose. "objective cq," armont announced finally, even as he surveyed the scene with bitterness and horror. dimitri had screwed up twice, unforgivable, and now he was on the critical list, hemorrhaging from the two holes in his chest, barely conscious, with blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth. while willem voorst was already bent over him, trying to begin stabilizing the crisis, armont moved quickly to his side. "hang on, cheri. can you hear me?" spiros nodded, though whether it was in answer to the question no one could tell. "don't move. the blueprints show there's an emergency medical facility here. they probably have a supply of plasma. we'll pull you through." this time spiros tried to smile and raised his hand slightly, but armont gently took it and laid it back on the floor. "save your strength. we may need you again before this is over." then he rose up and looked around the room. "start clearing everybody out of here. and make sure there aren't any more of these fuckers hiding among the friendlies." was it a clean job? he wondered. did we hit any civilians? there was enough gunfire to create a real possibility that somebody got nicked, or worse. he watched as hans began shouting orders for the evacuation. the air in the room was starting to be slightly breathable again, and everybody seemed able to move. three terrorists lay dead, and a fourth wounded and handcuffed. all wore black pullovers. maybe, he thought, just maybe we had a little bit of luck on our side after all. it was about time. but who could talk about luck with dimitri lying there on the floor, gravely critical. god damn the whole operation. it was spiros's fault, but this was no time to recriminate. he looked like his lung was punctured. in fact, that was an optimistic prognosis. it could be much worse. . . . well, armont thought with relief, the satcom people seem okay. chalk up one for marksmanship. guess that's why we get paid so well. he looked up at the large computer screen being projected on the wall at the end of the room, which showed a countdown in progress. ramirez's scheme was still on track, though there was still almost half an hour's time left. what now? "all right," he declared, "let's make up a stretcher and get dimitri down to their medical room." hans pulled a syringe from the medical kit he always had with him and gave the greek a heavy shot of morphine in his inner thigh. in moments it had surged through his system, causing his eyes to glaze and the moaning to stop. willem checked the wound again, then took some more gauze pads and continued working. he figured if spiros could be gotten on intravenous plasma within the next fifteen minutes he might survive. willem voorst was finishing the construction of a makeshift stretcher from chairs and cushions, while hans was checking over the civilians as he ushered them out into the hallway, making sure none were injured . . . and too deeply in shock to realize it. he also was running an interrogation. "who here knows how to stop the countdown? just shut the damned thing off?" nobody offered up his or her services, possibly because nobody wanted to be held responsible for causing a meltdown in the multimillion- dollar storage coil. there also was a more practical reason. "georges lefarge was in charge of the countdown," a coughing, nervously shaking young man finally volunteered. "he's not here now. the israeli guy took him over to launch." he paused. "but the fujitsu is in auto mode now. we can't just flip a switch, at least not without doing horrific damage to the coil. it has to be discharged through the cyclops." "then can you do that?" hans asked. "not without cally or georges here," he replied decisively. "you screw it up and you're talking millions of dollars." he shrugged. "no way would i attempt it without somebody's say-so." his voice trailed off. hans pondered this, then shrugged. "okay, you're saying everybody here is scared to tinker with the cyclops. so we'll still have to take down launch and get to the vehicle." he glanced back toward the smoky room, thinking aloud. "but we were going to have to anyway, to get ramirez. once we're there, maybe we can find a way to disable the vehicle some other way." the staffer looked dubious. "i don't know how. there's only one real way to do it, by bleeding off the cyclops. anything else would be too dangerous. maybe--" "hans," armont was shouting, interrupting them. "come and help willem carry dimitri through the tunnel. do you remember where the medical room was from the blueprints?" "i memorized everything," he shouted back. "what do you think i get paid for?" 'then get on with it. maybe there'll be somebody there who can help out. otherwise, you two just became doctors." "i'll save him," willem declared, trying to sound as confident as he could. he knew, as they all did, that it would be a long shot. "but what are you going to do now? we still have to get ramirez." "i'm aware of that," armont snapped back. "but first we've got to get these people out of here and somewhere safe." then he had a thought. "maybe you should take them with you. over to the bates motel. we could make that our collection point for friendlies." "all right," hans agreed, partially, "but this is no time to split up. you'd better come with us. if we run across any more of these assholes, we'll need backup." armont nodded, realizing it made some sense. "okay, then get the people." hans looked down and checked over jean-paul moreau. the frenchman was bleeding, too, but nothing about his wound appeared to be serious. a tourniquet should hold him. "some of them can carry out our friend here." for a moment he considered telling armont who their captive was, but then he decided to do it later. moreau might be more useful if he didn't realize he had been recognized. then, with armont on point and leading the way, they headed through the tunnel that connected bill bates' office to the living quarters. minutes later command sat as empty as a tomb, impotent and useless as the countdown continued to scroll, the fujitsu working the will of dore peretz. chapter eighteen : a.m. "hansen lied," ramirez was saying as he took one last glance at the snowy tv monitor, which moments earlier had shown the chaos in command. "the son of a bitch lied. he didn't call off the assault after all. it was just a stalling tactic." he turned to peretz, anger deep in his eyes. "we've been double-crossed." "what do you care what happens to those assholes?" peretz remarked calmly, flashing his pale grin. "good riddance. let's just take the old guy, like we planned, and get the hell out of here. we've got the money, so who gives a shit." "you have an inelegant but concise way of putting things," ramirez concurred. "but there's a final phone call i need to make. i want hansen to know what will happen if he tries to interdict us." "well, while you're doing that, i'll check out the chopper," peretz went on. "when we split, i don't want any problems." "is that why you brought him?" ramirez pointed at bates. "might as well have someone with some aviation experience look it over." peretz smiled again. "besides, i think we may have just lost salim in all that excitement over in command. so we're going to need a pilot, right? what better than a war hero." william bates had been monitoring this exchange, not quite understanding the underlying dynamics. he did perceive, however, that peretz was playing the scene as though he were in a game, and it looked like a contest with only a single winner. number one, however, was not the kind of guy who struck you as a loser. but then peretz didn't seem like the losing type either. the israeli was one wily son of a bitch, and he had something up his sleeve. was he intending to screw number one somehow and get away with all the marbles? just how he intended to do that was not yet clear, but there was no mistaking his faked attempt at calm. if number one didn't catch it, he was dumber than he looked. and he didn't look dumb. what, he wondered, had happened to mike? did the message lefarge had passed along, "ulysses has landed," mean he was on the island somewhere? and if he was here, had he called in arm? were they the ones who had just stormed command, not the u.s.? whoever did it, they hit the wrong place. the murdering bastard who called himself number one was here, and he was about to get away scot-free. : a.m. vance wanted to kick himself. he'd screwed up again, managing to blind himself with his own flash grenade. and having done that, he'd thought it the better part of discretion to take cover and hope pierre and the team could take out ramirez with a clear shot. instead, ramirez got away. why didn't they get him? instead they got into some kind of firefight. heck, he thought, if i'd known they were going to blow it, i could have tried to take him out myself, half blind or no. now, though, ramirez was back in launch, in the control room. worse still, he told himself, i've really screwed things up. i blew the element of surprise. now what? he sat down, feeling like a prisoner of the fog, and began to engage in extensive self-recrimination. he was afraid to use the radio, and he didn't know where the arm team was. everything had to be rethought. . . . "michael, is that you? are you all right?" cally was a pale apparition in the half-light, now working her way around the remains of the gantry. "i'm terrific." "thank goodness. i almost gave up on finding you." "what happened down there?" he was relieved to see her, but otherwise he still felt miserable. also, he wondered if she was still angry. "we got ambushed by somebody. from the direction of the shoreline. i didn't know there were so many of them." she looked back down the hill, puzzled. "it was strange. there was a lot of firing, and then it just stopped. but one of your guys got hit." "who?" our first casualty, he thought. the disaster grows. "i don't know his name. i think he was dutch." "willem or hugo?" vance loved them both and felt his heart turn. "i don't know, but it looked like he's going to be all right. i decided not to stick around." "so you don't know where they went? pierre and the team." "haven't a clue." vance sighed. "okay, the way i see it, we've only got one chance left. but i have to get bill to help." "that's going to be next to impossible. they're still holding him in command." "not any more. i think i saw him through the window there a couple of minutes ago." he pointed. "there in launch." "that's not a good sign." she sighed. "it could mean they may be getting ready to leave. and they're probably going to take him with them." "then we've got to break protocol. get on the radio and try to locate pierre." : a.m. "look, you bastard," the president was saying into the phone. "i've done everything you asked. i've deposited the money and pulled back all american forces for six hours. now you're going to live up to your end of the agreement. you're going to disarm those weapons and get the hell out of there. no hostages. i personally guarantee you safe passage." if he'll believe that, hansen was thinking, he's still writing letters to santa. "who do you think you're talking to?" ramirez asked. "there's a force on the island right now, that's got my people under fire. i no longer can take responsibility for anything that happens." "i don't know what you're talking about," hansen replied, genuinely puzzled. had the deltas countermanded his orders? carried out a rogue operation? if so, there was going to be hell to pay. "if there's somebody there, they're not part of the american armed forces. that's your problem, not mine." "it is your problem. i want you to put a stop to it." "how the hell am i supposed to do that, exactly?" what can he be talking about? hansen was still wondering. "if you can't handle your situation, then maybe you'd better go back to terrorist school. i've kept up my end." ramirez proceeded to tell the president two things. first, when the sikorsky took off from the landing pad, isaac mannheim was going to be on board, a hostage. he was their insurance. that much was true. the second was a lie. "the other thing you should know is that we have armed a nuclear device and secured it on the island. the detonation sequence is radio- controlled. if there is any interference with our egress, no matter at what point, we will not hesitate to detonate it." "you do that," hansen said, "and you'll be tracked to the ends of the earth. that's something i can guarantee you for absolute certain." he had visions of his presidency going down in ruins. and if the story of the money ever came out, the headlines . . . "then you also have the power to guarantee that it doesn't happen. think about it." with which cryptic farewell, the connection was severed, for the last time. the fact that a fifteen-kiloton nuclear bomb was about to obliterate souda bay, crete, and the sixth fleet in a matter of minutes was not mentioned. : a.m. "ulysses to sirene. do you read me?" when his radio crackled, armont was in the medical facility of the bates motel, watching as a plasma iv was attached to dimitri's arm. he immediately grabbed for it. "i copy, mike, but make this quick. are you all right?" "never better. where are you guys? sorry to break radio silence, but i think ramirez may be getting ready to pull out. could be now or never." "we took down command," armont said into his walkie- talkie. "neutralized four of the bastards and cleared it. looks to be a clean job as far as the friendlies are concerned. a minor miracle, considering. and when we got here to the motel, there was a greek, one of them, but we took care of him." "nice work." 'that's the good news. they're all here with us now, and they seem okay." he leaned out and took a peek down the hall. the satcom systems engineers were all collapsed on the floor, drinking cokes from the machine at the end. "there's bad news, too. in the first place, nobody there would shut off the countdown. they're just afraid to do it. has to do with melting some kind of coil. the bird is still going up." "what's the second place? the other bad news?" "dimitri got shot up. he's in pretty bad shape. we're in the emergency room now, just keeping him alive. we've got to evacuate him out of here and soon." "i hear you," vance replied back. "but the only way i know of right now is with one of the helos, either the agusta or their sikorsky. how long can he hold on? we still need to take out ramirez. i haven't given up." "michael, the airspace is closed around the island. totally shut down. i guarantee it. there's no way he could get a chopper out. he's trapped, going nowhere. we're staying with dimitri till we're sure he's stabilized, and then we'll come down there and handle that son of a bitch. all in time." "all right," vance said. "take care of dimitri. in the meantime, let me see what i can do at this end. and while you're there, you might want to sweep that place for explosives. i think they were planning to get everybody inside and blow it. i found some c- on a timer down on the second level. by the elevator. there may also be some more of them hanging around there, so be careful." "only way we know." : a.m. major general eric nichols was in the kennedy's mission control room, fit to be tied. now he was beginning to understand how the attempted rescue of the american embassy hostages in tehran could have turned into such a disaster. he lit a cigar and tried to relax. the op would be back on track in--he checked his watch--another five and a half hours. unless, of course, the orders got changed again. then the blue phone on his desk rang. . . . "well, i'll be damned," he said, hanging up a few moments later. "i knew this was going to be a cluster-fuck, but i think we've just expanded the term." he looked over the deltas waiting with him. "would you believe it's back on? something happened, who knows what. but the sons of bitches are pulling out, and they've threatened to nuke the place if anybody tries to stop them. we're ordered to get in there before anybody can get off the ground, keep them from having the chance. i don't know if we're going to make it. he grinned. "but i'll tell you one thing. this time we're going to just take the place down once and for all. and the hell with micromanaging from fort fuck-up or anywhere." "fuckin' a, s_ir_," lieutenant manny jackson declared, reaching for his flight jacket. "i say we just do a standoff with hellfire missiles. take out their damned space vehicles and any choppers they've got. then they can just stick their nukes up their ass." "sorry, jackson, but that's still our last resort. if we hit the vehicles, there's the risk of nuclear material getting loose. no, what we're going to do is take down their radar power source, the so-called cyclops, and any choppers they have, which ought to put them out of business. and if that doesn't cause the bastards to throw in the towel, then we'll call in a tomcat and lay a couple of laser-guided missiles right into those underground bunkers." nichols had studied the satellite photo intelligence they had, as well as site plans and blueprints obtained from satcom's executive offices in arlington, and he knew exactly where a missile would have the best chance of penetrating command and launch control. there might be some civilian casualties, but they sure as hell wouldn't have the nukes in there. a quick, decisive operation. "all right," he added in conclusion, "let's rock and roll. and this time there's going to be no recall, i don't care who tries." : a.m. "how does it look?" peretz was asking. he and bill bates had just climbed aboard the sikorsky, cold and gray in the light fog. bates had already checked it over from the outside. it was military, and it appeared to be on loan from the pakistani air force, with the markings clumsily painted over. but it appeared to be in pristine shape. good maintenance. "let me see." he walked to the cockpit and looked over the rows of instruments. nothing obvious seemed amiss. "if there's fuel, it should be able to fly. after all, it got in here from somewhere." peretz nodded with satisfaction, then clicked on his walkie-talkie. "firebird one, bates says there may be some problems with the nav gear. he wants to start it up and give it an instrument check. probably just feeding me some kind of bullshit, so why don't you send out helling for a minute? he should be in on this." "what?" bates mumbled. "i didn't--" "i copy you," came back ramirez's voice. "what seems to be the problem?" "probably no big deal. claims it's the in-flight computer. something to do with flight control." "all right," ramirez replied. "i'll send wolf out if you think you need him." the walkie-talkie clicked off, to the accompaniment of static. "what are you talking about?" bates looked up, feeling a chill. "i don't see anything here that looks like a problem. who the hell knows if the in-flight computer is--" "just shut up," peretz barked. "now, start the engines." "but--" "just do what i tell you." he was now grasping a walther mm with what appeared to be boundless self-assurance. "you're the boss." bates nodded, settling into the cockpit. he suddenly realized that something not on the schedule was about to go down. all along he'd had a feeling peretz was up to something. now it was more than a feeling. with a tremble of apprehension he hit the ignition button, then started spooling up the power on the main rotor. everything seemed to be working normally, just as it should. this old crate, he figured, had a lot of hours on the engines, but there was nothing to suggest any kind of problem. coming toward them now, across the tarmac, was the famous german terrorist, wolf helling. bates glanced through the windscreen and looked him over, thinking he looked annoyed. he had the hard face and eyes of a killer, the kind of face you could only earn the hard way. suddenly the whole scenario clicked into place. this israeli character was about to try and pull a fast one on everybody. he had set the vehicle to launch and now he was getting out. but what about the german? was he in on the scam? probably not, from the disgruntled look he had. besides, this guy peretz was the quintessential loner. he had his marbles and the hell with everybody else. "what's the problem?" helling asked as he stepped lightly up the metal steps of the sikorsky. "is something--?" he never had a chance to finish the sentence, as a dull thunk punctuated the placement of a mm round directly between his eyes. the half-bald leader of germany's notorious revolutionare zellen pitched into the chopper, dead before he reached the floor pallet. "fucking nazi," peretz said to no one in particular. "i've been waiting a long time." then he stepped over the body and headed for the cockpit. "okay, it's about to be post time, baby." "you're going to bug out, aren't you?" bates had turned around and was staring at him. "you son of a bitch, you've got vx- set to launch and now you're leaving while the leaving's good." "it's not going to be that simple," he responded calmly. "but we are about to make an unscheduled departure. you will be flying." "and get shot down?" bates said, rising and walking back from the cockpit. "come on, this place has got to be surrounded." he had hoped, now feared, it was so. surely the word on these terrorists was all over the world by now. "you have got to be kidding. no way am i taking this bird up. you're on your own, pal. i refuse." "that would be a serious mistake, health-wise." peretz smiled back. "because if you give me the slightest hint of trouble, you're going to enjoy the same fate as this nazi klutz, starting with your kneecaps. i would advise you to be cooperative." he smiled again. "do what you want," bates said, not quite feeling his own bravado. "but you'll be flying it yourself." "don't press me, asshole," peretz said. "besides, there's a nuclear weapon in that crate there." he pointed. "nobody's going to lay a finger on us." : a.m. "do you know how to handle this?" vance handed cally the mp he was carrying. he had brought it up the hill to try to take out ramirez, but after the fiasco with the flash grenades, he hadn't fired a shot. "i've got a pretty good idea," she replied, some of the old pique coming back. "somebody'd better use it. besides, it doesn't exactly require postgraduate research." "sometimes it takes some thought to keep from getting killed." he sighed, then proceeded to show her how the safety worked. "okay, what i need is for you to give me some cover when i make the move. call it our last-ditch effort." "what are you going to do?" "what else? it's time i had a talk with ramirez. if you can't lick them, join them." "you're kidding." she laid down the automatic and glared. "you're going to just give up?" "no, i'm going to offer him a deal. maybe it'll work, and maybe not. but i don't know what else to do." she stared at him incredulously. "what kind of deal?" "i don't know yet. i'm making this up as i go along. but maybe if i can get in close to him, i can try to slow him down." what would happen, he was wondering, if ramirez saw him again? just shoot him on sight? it was possible, but then again maybe not. it was worth a try. "but you've got to help. create a diversion that'll give me an opening." "all right, then." she shrugged. "just tell me what you want me to do." now he was fiddling with his walther, checking how many rounds were left in the clip. there were two. he cocked it, then slipped it into the back of his belt, pulling down the shirt over it. "see that window there?" he was pointing toward the glassed-in viewing station of launch control that overlooked the pad and the vehicles. "i want to get him there, where you can see us both. then when i give a signal, a thumbs-up, i want you to open fire." "on you both?" she looked incredulous. "how about trying very hard not to hit either one of us. just start firing and distract them. then i'll try to take care of ramirez. somehow." "you know, i don't know why you're doing this, but it seems awfully dangerous." "maybe i'm trying to make amends for being such a screw-up." he was half serious. "that's very noble, but frankly i think we'd better wait for your friends from arm." she picked up the automatic and examined it again, then looked him over. 'to be brutally honest, they've got a slightly better track record." "good point. except now they've got a casualty to worry about, and we're running out of time. so this has to be solo." he kissed her, this time on the lips. "wish me luck." "you're really going to do it, aren't you?" "i'm going to try." he finished tucking in his shirt. "you're crazy. you won't listen to anybody." "sometimes that's a help." he kissed her again, more lightly than he wanted to. was she still mad? it was hard to tell, but she was definitely distant. "okay, get ready. and for god's sake, don't hit me. fire wide." "wide?" she grinned. "extremely wide." : a.m. "thought you might be getting lonesome." vance had walked into launch control, directly through the entrance next to where the fallen gantry had been. ramirez had met him, with his beretta mm trained on him from the instant he came in the doorway. "always the joker, mr. vance." ramirez did not appear to think he was very humorous. "i see you're roaming around again, like a cat." "nine lives, remember." "yes, i should have put an end to them earlier." he gestured vance forward with the automatic. they now were in launch control, the wide windows looking out over the vehicles. "but then i wanted you to myself." "here i am." he felt a chill. was ramirez just going to shoot him before he had a chance to do anything? the terrorist, however, seemed to have other things on his mind. "you know, you've been missing out on a lot of the fun. there was something of a ruckus in command just now. as it happens, it was on that tv there." he pointed to a monitor, its screen now filled with snow. "a decidedly second-rate entertainment, but i watched awhile anyway." "sounds exciting. want to tell me what happened?" "the broadcast encountered technical difficulties before the end. for all i know, the show may still be going on. but perhaps i should break some news to you. that assault force, whoever they were, merely saved me the trouble of tidying up myself." "you were planning just to murder all your helpers anyway, right?" he settled into a sculptured chair next to a console, as casually as he could manage. "neatness. guess i should have thought of that." "you should have thought of a lot of things, mr. vance." "and how about you? did the ransom money come through? i assume this operation had a price tag attached." he laughed. "of course the money came through. all eight hundred million. what do you take me for?" "respectable chunk of change. so why in hell are you going to still launch an a-bomb?" even vance was impressed by his perfidy. "that's not very sporting." "i'm not a sporting person." "that's hardly a news flash." he felt his outrage spilling over. "mind telling me the target?" "not at all. i'm going to incinerate the u.s. air and naval base at souda bay. the americans don't care anything about civilians, as they have shown any number of times, but they are very attached to their sixth fleet." "jesus, you're totally mad." it was worse than he had imagined. "you're going to kill hundreds, thousands. how in hell can you do that?" "easily. as a matter of fact, it's as good as done. in a few minutes." he checked his watch, then glanced up and examined vance a moment. "it looks like jean-paul did a fairly good job. i should have told him to just finish it." "he got close enough, believe me." "looking at you, i'd have to agree." he smiled, eyes behind his gray shades. "all right, mr. vance, i assume you came back in here for a reason. what is it?" "the truth is, i'm dropping by to see if we couldn't talk over a deal." "i don't really think so." "you may be able to set off a bomb, but the way things stand, no way are you going to get out of here in one piece." he was trying out the speech he had been rehearsing. "in case you didn't realize it, the u.s. navy has the airspace around the island totally closed down. the skies over the eastern med are currently an f- parking lot. but if you'll put a stop to all this insanity, release the hostages, then--" "don't try to bluff me, mr. vance." he gestured him forward. "come, take a look at my collateral." he led the way across to a second row of workstations, these on the side and closer to the window. "when i leave, which is imminent, i will have company. a certain professor. i think you've met him." and sure enough, there in the comer sat isaac mannheim, looking as though the world had already ended. the old man appeared to be in a dark space of his very own, his face pitifully sunk in his hands. "it can't be stopped," he was mumbling, almost incoherently. "damn them. there should be a special rung in hell for them." "don't worry," vance assured him. "there is." he turned back to ramirez. "it isn't going to work. the u.s. is not going to be bluffed." he hoped it was true. somehow, though, he didn't feel all that confident. ramirez was smart, very smart, and the u.s. had a history of screwing these things up. just outside the window vx- awaited, primed and about to lift off. unlike the space shuttle, it had no clouds of white condensate spewing out; instead, it stood serene and austere, its payload prepared to wreak havoc on thousands of unsuspecting u.s. citizens. the loss of life would be staggering. "he got johan to call off the assault," mannheim continued, interrupting his thoughts. "it was because of me. he wanted to save me. he did, but he only made things worse. he should have just let them kill me and have done with it." vance examined him and stifled a sigh. now he had mannheim to worry about. he didn't want cally to start shooting up the place with him in the room, so he couldn't go to the window and signal her the way he had planned. what to do? "look," he said finally, turning to ramirez, "if you need insurance, why not just take me and let mannheim go? you and i have some unfinished business. he's not part of it." "he will go, all right. with me on the helicopter. you, on the other hand, are . . ." ramirez glanced out the wide window and fell silent as he studied the sikorsky. the main rotor was starting to power up, and something about that seemed not to sit well with him. suddenly he seemed galvanized. he glanced at his watch, then checked the safety on his beretta. vance watched this, wondering what to do. was this the golden moment to try and take him? there were only the pakis outside to worry about. . . . but ramirez was already moving, grabbing mannheim by the arm. abruptly he stopped, turned, and took aim at vance, somewhere precisely between his eyes. vance blanched. jesus! go for the walther and get it over with. but before he could move, ramirez laughed and slipped the hand holding the beretta into his pocket, then gave a nod of his head, beckoning. "mr. vance, i think i would like to have you join us after all. you're right. we still have a few matters to settle." he stepped aside and motioned. "but the time has come to bid farewell to andikythera." ramirez was still dragging mannheim along as they passed through launch, pausing only to nod lightly toward the two pakistanis, who immediately snapped to attention and followed. amidst all the excitement of the pending launch, nobody seemed to notice. they passed through the outer door and onto the tarmac as an ensemble, ramirez holding mannheim by the arm and guiding him. : a.m. bill bates looked through the sikorsky's wide windscreen and saw them coming. the time had arrived, he realized immediately, to make a move. now or never. the israeli's attempt to pull out early had just been cut off at the pass, so why not see what would happen if the scenario got shut down entirely? he reduced the power, listening to the engines wind down, and rose. "guess my part of this is over," he announced. "you've got a go system, so have a nice day. i'll be seeing you around." peretz' eyes momentarily flashed confusion, but he was wily enough to recover immediately. "your help has been much appreciated," he smiled quickly. "thank you for checking everything out." should i tip off number one, bates asked himself. no, that flicker is nobody's fool; he's already way ahead of this little twerp. and the second he sets foot in here and sees that dead german hood, there's going to be a lot of heavy-duty explaining to do. now peretz was moving jauntily down the sikorsky's folding steps, carrying his walther with an air that proclaimed nothing amiss. time to get out of here, bates told himself. there's going to be hell to pay. he rose and headed down the stairs after peretz as rapidly as he could. "mike, where've you been?" he waved at vance. "we can't go on meeting like this. what do you say we just pack it all in and go sailing?" "fine with me," vance yelled back. "no time like the present." at that moment, a shot rang out from somewhere in the direction of the fallen gantry, whereupon peretz whirled, leveled his walther into the mist, and got off a burst on full auto. emptying the clip. the scene froze, like a tableau. vance's first thought was that peretz had overreacted. nervous. and probably with good reason. but at least cally was trying to do her share. the problem was, the quarters were too close. the two pakistanis were still standing on the tarmac, not quite understanding what was happening, but ramirez sized up the situation in an instant. he shoved mannheim up the steps ahead of him, ducked into the protection of the sikorsky's open door, and then turned back. peretz was slower, caught standing on the foggy tarmac next to the bottom step. when he realized his walther's clip was empty, he fished another out of his pocket and quickly began trying to insert it. "that won't be necessary, dr. peretz." ramirez's voice was like steel. "let me take care of it." whereupon he leveled his beretta mm and shot a startled abdoullah squarely between the eyes. before shujat realized it, he shot him, too, point blank in the left temple. "what in hell are you doing?" peretz yelled, watching them fall. he was still trying to shove a new clip into his automatic, but now he was losing his touch and it jammed. "that's not how we--" "i suppose you thought me some kind of fool," ramirez replied, shifting his aim. "it's time i laid that fond illusion of yours to rest once and for all." "i don't appreciate your tone of voice." peretz was still struggling frantically with his walther. "and i don't appreciate you trying to make off with this helicopter. we have just lost a crucial element of our relationship, the element of trust." "i never knew our 'relationship' had all that much trust in it." peretz looked up defiantly. "we had a business arrangement. i've kept up my end to the letter." vance watched the exchange with mixed emotions. he realized that peretz, being no idiot, knew the situation had just gone critical. he had begun stalling for time. it wasn't going to work. but after ramirez finishes with this computer clown, he told himself, bill and i are next. and with that thought, he reached around under his shirt and circled his fingers around the walther. he had been right. "it's over, you little son of a bitch." ramirez fired point blank into peretz' chest. the israeli jerked backward, stumbled, and crashed, slamming his head against the hard asphalt. he didn't move. uh-oh, vance thought. now it's our turn. he was standing next to bates, while around them were three bodies of terrorists. ramirez, however, was safely inside the open doorway, out of range for cally. does she realize what's about to happen? she must have, because just as ramirez leveled his black beretta to finish off what he had started, there was another burst of fire from the direction of the gantry. it was the diversion vance needed. he dove for the tarmac, rolled, and extracted the walther he had shoved into his belt. come on, baby, keep giving me cover. "mike," bates yelled, seeing the pistol as he, too, dove for the tarmac, "shoot the bastard. now." vance aimed for the doorway, but it was already closing, the steps coming up. sabri ramirez was not a man to engage in gunplay for the fun of it. he was about to be gone. a second later the main rotor, which had been idling, immediately began to whine into acceleration. "we blew it," bates boomed, his voice now almost drowned by the huge ge turboshafts. "the hyena," vance muttered, pulling himself up off the asphalt. "headed back to his lair. and there's not a damned thing anybody can do about it." "not with isaac on board," bates concurred. "sorry i yelled. you really didn't have a chance." he was shielding himself from the downdraft as he tried to stand up. "the fucker is getting away without a scratch. looks like he pulled it off." "right," vance said, watching the giant sikorsky begin to lift. "but maybe there's one thing left we can do. how about trying to remove that bomb"--he pointed up at vx- --"before that thing goes up?" "what in hell are you talking about?" bates turned to squint at the silver spire. 'there's no way." "well, i don't know, what about using the agusta? it's probably still flyable." he had turned back to watch the sikorsky bank into the thinning fog. ramirez was just barely visible through the windscreen, smiling as he disappeared into the mist. "there's no time. peretz told me that vx- is set to lift off at seven forty-eight. the bastard had it timed exactly." bates glanced at his watch. 'that's just a few minutes." "no balls," vance snorted. "bill, for godsake, let's give it a shot. maybe we can at least disable it, turn it into a dud." bates was still dubious as he gazed upward. "buddy, i don't want to be hovering over that thing when the cyclops kicks in. do you realize--" "come on, where's your backbone." he waved to cally, who was now coming around the corner of the gantry. 'thanks for not shooting me." "when i saw ramirez start killing everybody, i assumed you two were next. it was then or never." she looked exhausted. "you assumed right. we were on the hit list. thanks." he kissed her on the forehead, where her hair was still plastered. "now will you help me talk some sense into this guy? i say we could at least try to mess up the bomb before the cyclops launches it. they've got it programmed for souda bay." "you're kidding." bates was transfixed. "that's what he claimed. come on, let's . . . hang on a second." he turned and trotted over to the doorway of launch, where he seized a coil of electrical wire. "this may come in handy." coming back, he punched bates' arm. "let's give it a try. no guts, no glory." "souda bay. christ!" bates glanced again at his watch. "mike, we've got less than nine minutes." : a.m. "i copy," nichols said into his mike. "when did the chopper lift off?" "the awacs picked it up at . . . just after hours," came the voice from the kennedy. it was general max austin. "the bastards are bugging out." "so what do we do now? try and intercept them?" "we're taking care of that from here. fixed-wing. first, though, we've got to figure out if there really are hostages aboard, like they claim. but don't worry about it. there's nowhere they can hide. your mission is still the same. secure the facility. there could still be some of them left, so just interdict anything that tries to egress." "that's a confirm. if it moves, it fucking dies." chapter nineteen : a.m. dawn had arrived, though the mantle of light fog was still adding a hazy texture to the air. the sun-up had a freshness that reminded vance of the previous morning, the first glimmerings of daybreak. now, though, visibility was hampered by the residual moisture in the air, just enough to give the world a pristine sheen. what would the morning look like, vance wondered, if a nuclear device exploded at souda bay on nearby crete? it was a possibility difficult to imagine, but the results were not. bates began spooling up the power, and slowly the blue-and-white striped agusta mark ii started lifting off the pad. fortunately it had been prepped the previous day and was ready to fly. "this is going to be dicey, mike," bates yelled back from the cockpit, his voice just audible above the roar of the engines. "i don't know how exactly you expect to manage this." "i don't know either," vance yelled in reply. "try and see if you can hover just above the payload bay. very gently." cally was helping him circle the insulated wire about his waist, then his crotch, making a kind of seat. finally he handed her the free end and shouted, "here, can you secure this around something?" "around what?" she yelled back. "anything that looks sturdy. and then hang onto it." "ever done this before?" she had found a steel stmt by the door. "i haven't." "are you kidding! that makes us equally experienced." "well, remember one thing--the downdraft from the main rotor is going to buffet you like crazy. be prepared." "right." he was already trying mental games to avoid vertigo. the closest thing he could think of was looking out the windows of a tall building, and even that scared him. he liked working close to the ground. very close. as bates guided the agusta quickly down toward the launch pad and the vehicles, visibility was no more than a quarter of a mile. and since he had not bothered switching on the radar, he was totally unaware of the two apache ah- s now approaching from the south at mph. it was a mistake. : a.m. "sir, we've just picked up some new action on the island," manny jackson, in the first apache, said into his radio. he could scarcely wait to get in and take down the island. these camel-jockey terrorists needed to be taught a lesson once and for all. he had lost a cousin, nineteen years old, in the beirut bombing, and this was the closest he was ever going to get to a payback. "guess there were more of the bastards. ten to one they're taking up another chopper." "no way are we going to allow that to happen," nichols declared. he was in the lead huey, two kilometers back. "the first batch may have got away, but not these. from now on, nobody down there moves a hair. we're about to teach them a thing or two about air supremacy." "they don't seem to be going anywhere. just moving down the island. what do you think it means?" he was wondering what a lot of it meant. why was souda bay being evacuated? they weren't calling it that, but an evacuation was exactly what was under way. a big hurry-up to get the fleet into blue water, all nonessentials ordered to take a day off with pay, a sudden token of "thanks" from uncle sammy for jobs well done. bullshit. . . . "probably picking up hostages," came back nichols's voice. "who the hell knows? but our mission is to make sure they don't leave the ground." "you've got it, sir." he reached down to the weapons station and flipped the red switch that armed the hughes mm chain gun. its twelve hundred rounds, he figured, should be enough to handle the problem. : a.m. "what in blazes is he doing?" pierre armont wondered aloud. he was standing with beginald hall at the southern entrance of the satcom living quarters, the bates motel, gazing out over the launch pad and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. five minutes earlier they had watched in dismay as the sikorsky lifted off. now this. "looks to be some damn-fool trapeze stunt," reggie hall muttered, shaking his head. "he's going to get himself killed. what in bloody hell?" he caught his breath as he watched vance begin rappelling down some kind of thin line dangling out the open door of the chopper, spiraling from the downdraft of the main rotor. it was something of a circus aerial act--definitely not recommended for civilians. he clearly didn't have the slightest idea how to use his arms to stabilize the spin. a rank amateur. . . . what was that sound? his senses quickened and he turned to squint at the southern horizon. through the light fog he could hear the faint beginnings of a dull, familiar roar, and he realized immediately it was choppers coming in. he quickly pulled out his tasco binoculars and studied the morning sky--two helos, both looking like ungainly spiders. yes, they had to be apaches. what else. great, he thought, once more the u.s. has got its timing dead on. the first time they showed up and managed to keep us from getting ramirez, and this time they decide to drop in just after his sikorsky took off, probably taking him and the last of his goons out, undoubtedly with a few hostages for good measure. from all appearances, he had gotten away. again. it was sickening. now the gunships were dropping altitude and moving in, boldly, with the authority their firepower commanded. he wondered if the teams on board might actually be unaware that ramirez had escaped. "we ought to go out and signal them in," armont said. "let them know how useless--" warning flares erupted from the hughes mm in the nose of the first apache, missing the agusta by no more than fifty meters. "christ! they don't know who the friendlies are." he immediately canceled his impromptu plan to head out and wave. the u.s. army was in no mood to dialogue. "do they think mike's a terrorist?" reggie asked, incredulous. but even as he said it, he realized that must be exactly what they thought. they were going to try to force down the agusta. or shoot it down. "reggie, draw their fire!" armont yelled. almost by instinct, he raised his steyr-mannlicher assault rifle and opened up on the lead helicopter, going for the well-protected ge turboshaft on the left. "don't try to kill anybody, for godsake. just distract them." 'this is insane," declared willem voorst, who had come out to see what all the excitement was about. "what are you doing? i don't want to go to war with the united states of america." then he noticed the blue-and-white agusta hovering over vx- , vance dangling, and put it all together. without a further word he aimed his mp and got off a burst, watching as it glinted harmlessly off the second apache's left wing. miraculously it worked. the army's favorite helicopters were huge, with a main rotor almost fifty feet in diameter, but they could turn on a dime and these did. they came about and opened fire with their chain guns on the cinderblock portico where armont and hall and voorst were ensconced. the mm rounds tore around them, sending chunks of concrete flying, but the structure was temporarily solid enough to provide protection. armont ducked out and got off another burst, keeping on the heat, then back in again. now the agusta was hovering just above the nose of the vx- vehicle, and vance had disappeared on the other side. what, armont wondered again, could he possibly be doing with the vehicle . . . ? then the answer hit him, as transparent as day. _merde!_ he's going to try and retrieve the bomb. good christ, he thought, the man has gone mad. he may know how to trace hot money halfway around the globe, but he doesn't know zip about a nuclear device. he'll probably set the thing off by accident and blow the entire island to-- a spray of cannon fire kicked up a line of asphalt next to where he was standing, and he retreated for cover deeper behind the cinderblock portico. they're not going to fool around long with that chain gun, he told himself. we're going to be looking at rockets soon, and then it's game up. "we've done what we can for michael," he yelled, getting off one last burst. "we've got to get back inside before they get tired of playing around and just fry this place." "i hear you," willem voorst agreed, already headed deeper inside. "mike's on his own." : a.m. vance had never been more scared in his life. this made a day at a stormy helm seem like a sunday stroll. the down-draft was spinning him violently now, a lesson that rappelling was not for the faint of heart. then he remembered some basic physics and held out his arms, helplessly flapping like a wounded bird. but it was enough, as his spin immediately slowed. he was dizzy now, but when he came around, he got an overview of the launch facility, and the glimpse made him realize that something had gone terribly wrong. what were those? two apache helicopters were hovering and they were firing on . . . on the bates motel. just beyond the fallen gantry. why! ramirez and all his goons were gone or dead. bill bates, who also had seen it all, had a better understanding of what was under way. it was a massive failure of communications. thinking as quickly as he could, he started negotiating the agusta around, situating vx- between him and the apaches. the fucking delta force had come in like gangbusters and was shooting at the wrong target. there was no time to try to raise them on the radio, and besides, he only had two hands. down below, vance slammed against the hard metal of the nose, and then rotated, one-handed, to try to take measure of what to do next. it wasn't going to be easy, that much was sure. the payload bay was sealed with a teflon ring, which was itself secured with a series of streamlined clamps that were bolted from inside, designed for automated control. but . . . there also was lettering next to a thumb-operated hatch that read emergency release. he flipped it open and, bracing himself against the side of the silver cone to try to overcome the destabilizing down- draft, looked in. a red button, held down for safety by another thumb latch, stared back. what the heck, he thought, you've got nothing to lose. he flipped the thumb safety, and then--bracing himself to try to slow his erratic spin-- slammed a heel into the button. nothing happened for a second, but then the teflon clamps on the cargo bay began to click open one by one. up above him, cally was yelling something, but he couldn't make out her voice above the roar of the engines. anyway, whatever it was, it would have to wait. there was only one thing left to do, and he had to press on. the clamps were now released, but the cargo bay was still closed. . . . at that moment, he began experiencing yet another failure of nerve. there could only be a minute left, two at most, and he didn't have the slightest idea what to do next. then he noticed the heavy release levers, positioned beneath the teflon clamps and circling the three sides of the streamlined door. once more bracing himself against the slippery side of the nose, he began clicking them open, starting on the left and working his way around. time is surely running out, he told himself. this could end up being the stupidest stunt ever attempted. the roar of the agusta above was so deafening he could barely think. he felt all of his forty-nine years, a weight crushing down on him with the finality of eternity. . . . then the last clamp snapped free, and he watched as the door opened by itself, slowly swinging upward. it was heavy, shaped like the pressure door on an airplane fuselage, and designed to withstand the frictional heat of space flight. but the spring mountings on the recessed hinges were intended to open and close automatically. and there sat a metallic sphere outfitted with a jumble of connectors and switches. so that's what a bomb looks like, he marveled. it was somehow nothing like he had imagined, if he had had time to imagine. now bates had lowered the helo just enough to allow him to slide inside and take the weight off the line. finally he could breathe, but again the matter of passing seconds had all his attention. if the vehicle really was going up at : , then there probably was less than a minute left now to get the device unhooked and out. he looked it over, puzzling, and decided on one giant gamble, one all- or-nothing turn of the wheel. it was a terrifying feeling. quickly he untied the wire from around his waist, and began looping it around the metal sphere: once, twice, three times. there was no time, and no way, to disconnect the telemetry, so the device would simply have to be ripped out. one thing was sure: if it blew, he would never be the wiser. when he had the wire secure, or as secure as he could make it, he looked out the door and gave cally a thumbs-up sign, hoping she would understand. she did. she turned and yelled something to bates, and a moment later the agusta began to power out as the pitch of the blades slowly changed. the line grew taut, then strained against the sides of the bomb, tightening his knots. will the wire hold? he wondered, and does this little toy helo have enough lift to yank this thing out of here? it's like pulling a giant tooth. then there was a ripping sound as the connectors attached to the sphere began tearing loose. so far so good, he thought. at least the telemetry is now history. if the vehicle goes up now, it'll be orbiting a dud. mission partly accomplished. then the bomb pulled away from its last moorings and slammed against the side of the door, leaving him pinned against the frame, unable to breathe. but he instinctively grabbed the line and wrapped his legs around the sphere, just as it rotated and broke free. as it bumped against the doorframe of the payload bay, he barely missed hitting the closing door, but he ducked and swung free, into the open air, riding the device as though it were a giant wrecking ball. : a.m. "those bastards firing on us have gone inside," philip sexton yelled. "let them wait. let's stop the damned chopper from egressing." he was pointing through the windscreen of the apache. "orders are to keep everybody on the ground." manny jackson hit the pedals. nothing to it. there, almost in his sights, was the striped agusta chopper, with a terrorist hanging beneath it. probably fell out. he was hanging on to something, though what it was you really couldn't tell through the thin mist. it didn't matter. the guy was open and in the clear. this was the beginning of what was going to be a marvelous operation, taking these bastards down. with a feeling of immense satisfaction, he reached for the weapons station. and then his world went blue. : a.m. cally stared out the open door of the agusta and felt her heart skip a beat. a beam of energy, so strong it ionized the air and turned it deep mauve, seemed to be engulfing michael. staring down, she was almost blinded by its intensity. he was there, she was sure, but where she could not tell. then it shut off for a second, and she realized it had been directed toward the base of vx- . next came an enormous clap of thunder as the splintered air collapsed on itself, sending out shock waves. just like lightning, she thought. the cyclops is sending energy as though it were lightning. . . . then the blue flashed again, and this time it began microsecond pulses, like a massive strobe light. all the action was now highlighted in jerky snippets of vision, as unreal as a disco dance floor. the air around the beam was being turned to plasma, ionized pure atoms . . . but the next burst of energy came from the propulsion unit of vx- , which slowly began discharging a concentrated plume out of its nozzles, a primal green instead of the usual reds and oranges of a conventional rocket. the cyclops had just gone critical, right on the money, ionizing the dry-ice propellant in vx- . would the impulse be enough to lift it off? she wondered. was isaac's grand scheme going to work? years had been spent planning for this moment. she felt her heart stop as she waited for the answer, totally forgetting the man who was dangling just below the chopper, bathed in the hard, pulsing strobes. : a.m. as manny jackson grappled for the collective, blinded by the intense monochromatic light engulfing him, a clap of thunder sounded about his ears, deafening him to the roar of the apache's turboshafts. what in hell! had one of the nuclear devices been detonated? no, his instincts lectured, he was still alive. if it had been a nuke, he would be atoms by now, sprayed into space. this had to be something else. now his vision was returning, the blue receding into quick flashes, and the chopper seemed to be stabilizing. maybe, he thought, i'm not going to be permanently blind. but i've got to get this bird on the ground. we'll just have to take our chances. then the realization of what had happened finally sank in. the damned cyclops laser had switched on. they had arrived too late. . . . he was thrown against the windscreen as the apache slammed into the asphalt and collapsed the starboard leg of the retractable gear. "jesus!" he turned back to the cabin, forehead bleeding, and yelled, "everybody okay?" the assault team was still strapped in, and nobody seemed the worse for the bumpy landing. the apache was a tough bird, hero of tank battles in iraq. "no problem," came back a chorus of yells. they were already unfastening their straps and readying their weapons. "all right," he bellowed, killing the power. "everybody out. let's take cover and kick ass." : a.m. vance heard the thunder and felt the shock wave almost simultaneously. he gripped the wire, trying to hold on, and felt it cut deep into his palms. the pain seemed to work in opposition to the numbing effects of the shock wave that had buffeted him, assaulting his eardrums and his consciousness. for a moment he forgot where he was, shut out all thought, and just hung onto the wire with his last remaining energy. in the agusta up above, bates was struggling with the controls, trying to keep stabilized as the pressure pulse from the cyclops swept down the island. the dangling bomb, and vance, were serving as a counterweight, holding the small commercial helo aright. it was all that kept it from flipping as the sudden turbulence assaulted the main rotor. the energy that filled the air now had yet another release. as his eardrums recovered, vance heard a new roar, deeper and throatier than the sound of the agusta, welling up around him. down below, wave after wave of pressure pulses were drumming the air, and he watched spellbound as vx- shuddered, then began to inch upward into the morning sky. it was a gorgeous sight, the lift-off of the world's first laser-driven space vehicle. was cally watching this moment of triumph? he wondered. she should be ecstatic, even in spite of all the rest. but would the vehicle make it to orbit? he suddenly asked himself. with the payload gone, wouldn't the weight parameters be all out of whack. but then maybe it didn't matter. the mere fact that it was going up should be enough to cover bates' contractual obligations with his investors. that was down the road. he was so mesmerized by the sight of the lift- off that he had totally forgotten he was wrapped around a nuke, hanging on for all he had as the asphalt loomed fifty feet below, like slim pickens riding the bomb down in that famous closing scene from kubrick's dr. strangelove. then the pain in his hands refocused his attention. the bomb down below, he figured, was now permanently inoperable. but ramirez still had mannheim as a hostage, and he had made good his escape. which meant he was still in the terrorists' catbird seat. using innocents for a shield rather than slugging it out fair and square. as the cyclops continued to pulse, and vx- edged upward into the morning mist, bates steered the agusta toward the old landing pad where it had originally been parked. in moments he had eased down the bomb, just as though settling in a crate of eggs, no more than twenty feet from where they had taken off five minutes earlier. it was a marvel of professionalism. as the weapon bumped onto the asphalt, vance had a sudden thought. the damned thing was useless now, and harmless. but what about the other one, the one ramirez had taken with him in the sikorsky? "michael, are you all right?" cally had leapt from the open door of the agusta, looking as disoriented as he had ever seen her. "you were only a few feet away when the cyclops turned on. for a minute there, i couldn't even see you. what was it like?" "try the end of the world. like a thousand bolts of lightning, all aimed at one place." "a perfect description." she smiled and reached to help him stand up. "i'd never realized there'd be a thunderclap when it switched on at full power. god, what a sight." she was beaming at the thought, exhilarated that all satcom's work had been vindicated. "you know," he said, "speaking of the end of the world, we came pretty close. i hate to think what would happen if a bomb actually went off on crete." "i've got a sinking feeling the end of the road wasn't going to be crete at all," bates declared, stepping down from the agusta. "i've been thinking. something that little israeli prick let drop as we were coming out to start up the sikorsky finally sank in. he was rambling on about retargeting the vehicle. you know, i think it was going to come back here. he had the trajectory set to begin and end right here on andikythera. after he bugged out, of course." "nice," vance said. "i actually kind of admire his balls. he was going to nuke ramirez." "and us." "that part's a little harder to like, i grant you." he turned and gazed down toward the two apaches that had landed. "by the way, what were those all about? the delta force saving us?" "who knows?" he seemed to have a sudden thought. "let me get on the radio and try to call them off. before they actually end up killing somebody." "while you're doing that, i'd like to try and raise pierre. find out what's happening at his end." "there's a walkie-talkie in the cockpit," bates said. "use it." : a.m. "michael, thank god it's you," armont said into the mike. "guess what, we almost went to war against the u.s. special forces. we have just surrendered. incidentally, nice work up there. or maybe you just got lucky." he laughed. "seeing you rappelling leads me to suggest that you probably ought to stick to other lines of work." "i hear you," vance said. "by the way, the bad news is ramirez got away." "so he was in the sikorsky?" armont sighed with resignation. "blast, i was afraid of that." "well, this may not be over yet. the vehicle got up, but we're not quite sure where it's headed, bomb or no bomb. i want to try to get into command, or what's left of it, and try to find out. before some delta cowboy fires a hellfire missile in there." "good idea," armont agreed. "it would also be nice to keep a handle on ramirez's getaway chopper. but i assume somebody will interdict him. the almighty u.s. navy owns this airspace, as we found out the hard way." "don't count on anything. he took along mannheim as a hostage. insurance. this guy is no slouch. i'd be willing to bet he's got something up his sleeve. one thing he's got is at least one more bomb. bill saw it on the chopper. and he might be just crazy enough to use it, god knows where." "then i don't know what the u.s. can do if he's got a hostage, and a bomb. they're sure as hell not going to shoot him down. where do you think he's headed?" "that's question number two, but if we can get into command, maybe we can figure out a way to track him from there. somehow." "good luck," armont said quietly, and with feeling. "and stay in touch." : a.m. dore peretz' chest still felt like it was on fire, a burning sensation that seemed to spread across the entire front of his torso; in fact, he felt like shit. and he had almost been blinded by the intense blue laser strobes that had purged the island when the cyclops kicked on. however, in all the confusion surrounding the lift-off of vx- , nobody had bothered to wonder where he was. that part suited him fine. donning the bulletproof vest around midnight had been the best idea of his life. . . . no, that wasn't true. the best of all was coming up. sometimes, he thought, life could have a moment so delicious it made up for all your past disappointments. and you could either seize that moment, or you could forever let it pass, wondering what it would have been like. not this one, baby. as he passed through the lobby, he noticed the security door leading into command had been blown away with some kind of military explosive. probably c- . curious, he paused and assessed the damage. hey, the television down in launch hadn't really done the assault justice. must have been one hell of a show. then he stepped inside and checked out the scene. jesus! the place was a mess, showed all the signs of a bloody assault. luckily, however, the emergency lights were working, their harsh beams perfect for what he wanted to do now. there was definitely plenty of evidence of gunfire, flecked plaster from the walls, and over there . . . christ! it was jamal, or what was left of jamal. little fucker's neck looked like he'd had a close encounter with a chain saw. not far away was salim, shot in the face. then, on the other side of the room, was the body of the last german stasi, peter maier. his demise had come neatly, right between the eyes. smooth piece of work, you had to admit. the only asshole unaccounted for was jean-paul moreau. so what happened to that arrogant french prick? did he escape, get captured? . . . who gave a shit? meditations on fate, the absolute. the truth was, it was more than a little chilling to see the bodies of three dudes you'd come in with only a day before. . . . well, fuck it. these other guys had known the risks. if they didn't, then they were jerks. down to business. he knew what he was looking for, and he had left it next to the main terminal. and there it was. while he was working, he would block out the ache in his chest by thinking about the money. hundreds of millions. tax free. even if you spent ten million a year, you could never spend it all. what a dream. then he had an even more comforting reflection. everybody had seen him shot. they wouldn't find the body, but they would naturally assume he was dead, too. he would have the money, and he would be officially deceased. he almost laughed, but then he sobered, recalling he had only a scant few minutes to wrap things up. he slipped the component into its slot, then rummaged around for the connectors. he had left them dangling when he removed the black box, and they were conveniently at hand. they were color-coded, and besides, he had a perfect photographic memory and knew exactly what went where. seconds later the diodes gleamed. on line. okay, baby, let's crank. the real radio gear, he knew, was in bates' office, which stood at the far end of the room, its door blown away. bates had plenty of transmission and receiving equipment in there, so that would be the perfect place to take care of business. he picked up the device, now ready, and carried it with him, heading over. the main power switch that controlled bates' radios had been shut off, but it was just outside the door and easy to access. he pushed up the red handle, and walked on through, watching with satisfaction as the gear came alive. over by the desk was bates' main radio, a big magellan, already warming up. life was sweet. he clicked on the receiver stationed next to the transmitter and began scanning. ramirez, he figured, would probably be on the military frequencies now, spewing out a barrage of threats about blowing up andikythera. that had been the agreed-upon egress strategy, assuming the confusion created when the bomb took out souda bay wasn't enough. and sure enough, there he was, on . megahertz, just as planned. peretz decided to listen for a minute or so before breaking in. "i won't bother giving you our coordinates," came his voice, "since we show a radar lock already. i warn you again that any attempt to interfere with our egress will mean the death of our hostage and a nuclear explosion on the island." how about that, peretz thought. the getaway scenario is still intact, right down to the last detail. gives you a warm feeling about the continuity of human designs. he and sabri ramirez had planned it carefully. the sikorsky would be taken to fifteen thousand feet, its service ceiling, whereupon anybody left would be shot. the controls would then be locked, and they would don oxygen masks and jump, using mt- x parachutes, the rectangular mattress-appearing chutes that actually are a non-rigid airfoil. mt-lxs had a forward speed of twenty-five miles per hour and could stay up long enough to put at least that many miles between the jump point and the landing. they were, in effect, makeshift gliders, and they presented absolutely no radar signature. while the sikorsky continued on its merry way, on autopilot, they would rendezvous with the boat that was waiting, then be off to sicily, with nobody the wiser. the chopper would eventually crash into the ocean halfway to cypress, leaving no trace. the only part about that plan that bothered dore peretz from the first was whether sabri ramirez was intending to kill him along with the rest of the exit team. nothing would prevent it. there was supposed to be some honor among thieves, but . . . enough nostalgia. the moment had come to have a little fun. he flicked on the mike. "yo, my man, this is your technical associate. do you copy?" there was a pause in the transmission, then ramirez's voice came on, loud and clear. "get off this channel, whoever you are." "hey, dude, is that any way to talk? we have a little business to finish. by the way, how's the weather up there? chutes still look okay?" "what in hell," came back the voice, now abruptly flustered as the recognition came through. "where are you?" "dead, i guess. but hey, i'm lonesome. maybe it slipped your mind i was supposed to be part of the evacuation team." "what do you want?" "want? well, let's see. how about starting with a little respect." "fuck you, peretz." "now, is that any way to talk? if that's how you feel, then i just thought of another small request. i also want you to transfer your part of the money into my account at banco ambrosiano. as a small gesture of respect. i want you to get on the radio and see about having it arranged. or i might just blow the scenario for you." he had to laugh. there was radio silence as ramirez appeared to be contemplating this alternative. it clearly was unpalatable. "you've got a problem there, my friend. one of time. i'm sure we're being monitored, so let me just say there's been a change of plans. you would have been part of it, but unfortunately . . ." "hey, asshole, there's no change of plans. you figured it for this way all along. but now there is going to be a change. i hate to tell you what the new scenario is . . . yo, hang on a sec." he had looked up to see bill bates and michael vance entering the office. "come on in and join the fun, guys." he waved his walther and grinned. "we're about to have a blast." vance walked through the door, bloody and exhausted. "and i thought ramirez was the only one who could manage to return from the dead." he tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. "either he was using blanks, or you were wearing a bulletproof vest. somehow i doubt it was the former. so what happened? have a business disagreement with your partner in crime?" peretz was grinning. "that's how it is in life sometimes, man. friendship is fleeting." he gestured them forward. bates had moved in warily, still stunned by the carnage among the workstations in command. "i suppose i have you and ramirez to thank for tearing up the place out there." he walked over to the desk. "nice to see that my radio gear is back on and working." "it's working fine," peretz replied, then waved his walther toward the couch opposite the desk. "now sit the fuck down. both of you." "you're staring at beaucoup hard time, pal." vance did not move. "i can think of several countries who're going to be fighting over the chance to put you away. this might be a propitious moment to consider going quietly." "quietly?" there was a mad gleam in his eye. "i never did anything quietly in my life. you're in luck, asshole. you're about to have a front-row seat at history in the making." he turned back to the radio and switched to transmit. "yo, my man, looks like we have nothing more to say to each other. which means it's time for a fond farewell." what's he about to do? vance wondered. he's about to screw sabri ramirez, but how? then it dawned. there was one bomb left, and bill had said it was on the sikorsky. probably radio-controlled, and peretz had a radio, right there. god help us! "hey," he almost yelled, "get serious. what you're about to do is insane. you don't use a nuke to take out a single thug. even a thug like sabri ramirez. you've gone crazy." in fact, vance told himself, peretz was looking a little, more than a little, mad. he had a distant fix in his visage that was absolutely chilling. the world had been waiting decades now for a nutcake to get his hands on a nuclear trigger. maybe the wait was over. "look, peckerhead, i'm sorry if you find this unsettling." peretz was still holding the walther. "however, don't get any funny ideas." he laughed. "you know, it's almost poetic. for years now israel has been the world's biggest secret nuclear power, but nobody ever had the balls to show our stuff. i'm about to become my nation's most daring ex- citizen." he turned back to the radio. "you still there, asshole?" there was no reply. the radio voice of sabri ramirez didn't come back. "he's jumped." peretz looked up and grinned a demented grin. "he's in the air. perfect. now he'll get to watch." he plugged in the device he had been carrying, a uhf transmitter. then he flicked it to transmit, checked the liquid crystals that told its frequency, and reached for a red switch. "no!" vance lunged, trying to seize the walther as he shoved peretz against the instruments. the crazy son of a bitch was actually going to do it. peretz was strong, with the hidden strength of the terminally mad, and after only a second, vance realized he didn't have a chance; he was too beat up and exhausted. bill bates, too, was suffering from absolute fatigue, but he also leapt forward, grappling with peretz and trying to seize his automatic. with vance as a distraction, bates managed to turn the pistol upward. peretz was still gripping it like a vise, however, and at that moment it discharged, on automatic, sending a spray of rounds across the ceiling. vance tried to duck away, and as he did, peretz kneed him, shoving him to the floor. bates, however, still had a grip on his right wrist, holding the pistol out of range. again it erupted, another hail of automatic fire, but as it did, bates managed to shove peretz against the desk, grabbing his right elbow and twisting. the walther came around, locked on full automatic, and caught dore peretz in the side of his face. as blood splattered across the room, bates staggered back, while peretz collapsed onto the desk with a scream, then twisted directly across the transmitter. he was dead instantly. and as he crumpled to the floor, almost by magic, the background noise from the radio on the sikorsky stopped, replaced by a sterile hiss. "thank god," bates whispered, breathless, and reached to help vance up. "are you okay, mike?" "i think so," he mumbled, rising to one trembling knee. "at least we--" the room shook as a blistering shock wave rolled over the island. outside, the distant sky above the eastern mediterranean turned bright as the midday sun. fifteen thousand feet above the aegean, a blinding whiteness appeared unlike anything a living greek had ever seen. chapter twenty : a.m. "my god," the president muttered, settling the red phone into its cradle. "they did it. the bastards detonated one of them. nsa says their sigint capabilities in the med just went blank. an electromagnetic pulse." "i don't believe it," morton davies declared. sitting on the edge of his hard chair, the chief of staff looked as incredulous as he felt. "we're tracking their helicopter with one of the awacs we brought up from rijad. the minute they set down, we're going to pick them up, rescue mannheim and any other hostages, and nail the bastards. they know they can't get away, so why . . . ?" "he'd threatened to nuke the island," hansen went on, "but i assumed that had to be a bluff. why in hell would he want to go ahead and do it? it didn't buy him anything at this stage." edward briggs was on a blue phone at the other end of the situation room, receiving an intelligence update from operations in the pentagon. as he cradled the receiver, he looked down, not sure how to tell johan hansen what he had just learned. mannheim. "what's the matter, ed? i don't like that look. what did--?" "mr. president." he seemed barely able to form the words. "our people just got a better handle on . . . it wasn't andikythera." "what?" hansen jerked his head around, puzzlement in his deep eyes. "what do you mean? good christ, not souda bay! surely they didn't--" "the detonation. our awacs flying out of southern turkey monitored it at around fifteen thousand feet. as best they can tell. they still--" "what!" 'they say it looked to be about seventy miles out over the eastern med, in the direction of cypress. which is exactly where they were tracking-- " "you mean . . ." his voice trailed off. 'that's right," briggs said finally. "they think it was the helicopter. the one they were flying out. an old sikorsky s- series, we believe. it--" "what are you saying?" hansen found himself refusing to believe it. 'that those idiots nuked themselves?" what the hell was the pentagon talking about? . . . my god. isaac was-- "doesn't exactly figure, does it?" briggs nodded lamely. 'the electromagnetic pulse knocked out all our non-hardened surveillance electronics in the region, but souda's intel section was hard-wired into our backup sat-net and they claim they triangulated it. everything's sketchy, but that seems to be what happened." "i can't believe it," hansen said, running his hands over his face. they were trembling. "the whole situation must have gotten away from him. that's . . . the only way. it must have been a macabre accident. christ!" "a damned ghastly one," briggs agreed. "but i think you're right." "it's the only explanation that makes any sense," hansen went on. "he probably decided to take one of the bombs with him, hoping to try this again, and something went haywire." he suddenly tried a sad smile. "you know, i warned that son of a bitch he didn't know what he was doing, that he'd probably end up blowing himself up. truthfully, i didn't really think it would actually happen, though." he turned back to briggs. "the pakistanis said the weapons they had were about ten or fifteen kilotons. how big is that, ed, in english?" "okay," briggs said, pausing for effect, "that would be like a medium- sized tactical, i guess." truthfully he wasn't exactly sure. "well," hansen mused, "i'm still convinced they intended it for souda bay. and if they'd succeeded . . . but as it stands, i guess it was more like a small upper-atmosphere nuclear test. a tactical nuke, you say? the very term is an obscenity. but, you know, nato had those all over germany not so long ago, on the sick assumption that the german people couldn't wait to nuke their own cities." after a long moment, during which a thoughtful silence held the room, hansen continued. "tell me, ed. what kind of impact would a weapon like that actually have at that altitude?" "my guess is the effects will be reasonably contained." he was doing some quick mental calculus. "okay, if you were directly under it, you'd have been about three miles away, so you'd have taken a shock wave that would have knocked out windows. and maybe produced some flash burns. but we had the region cleared of civilian traffic, so maybe we're okay on that score." "what about fallout?" hansen asked. "well, at that altitude the radioactive contamination should be mostly trapped in the upper atmosphere and take several days to start settling. by that time, it'll probably be diluted to the point it'll be reasonably minimal. nothing like chernobyl. hell, i don't know the numbers, mr. president, but then again he was over some fairly open waters. besides, like i said, we had a quarantine on all civilian air and sea traffic--guess we see now what a good idea that was--so maybe we can be optimistic." "the bloody fools just committed hara-kiri, and took isaac with them." he found himself thinking about the warning his aged father had given him that the job of president would age him half a lifetime in four years. he now felt it had happened in two days. "there's more," morton davies said, clicking off a third phone and glancing at the computerized map now being projected on the giant screen at the end of the room. "satcom's laser-powered rocket did go up. that's all they know for certain, but they think it's going into orbit. whatever the hell that means." "what about the deltas?" hansen asked finally, remembering all the planning. "and the assault? did they--?" "right. good question." he beamed. "jsoc command reports that the deltas are on the island now and have it secured. they even retrieved the bomb that those bastards were planning to put on satcom's rocket. they managed to get it removed before the launch." "how?" "i haven't heard yet, but at least we can take pride in the fact that this country's antiterrorist capabilities got a full-dress rehearsal. and they were up to the job." the president nodded gravely, not quite sure what, exactly, had been proved. that america could go in with too little, too late? if so, it was sobering insight. "all right, morton, get caroline in here first thing in the morning. i want her to schedule a television speech for tomorrow night. prime- time. i don't know what i'll say, other than our special forces minimized the loss of life. it's going to sound pretty lame." "and what about the money? is that going to get mentioned?" hansen laughed. "not in a million years. that money's going to be traced and retrieved today, or else. the swiss know when to play ball. and by the way, nobody here knows anything. about any of this. no leaks, or off-the-record briefings. and i mean that. the less said, the better." "that might apply to the whole episode, if you want my opinion," davies observed. "you know, morton, yes and no." he turned thoughtful. "maybe some good can come of this disaster after all. it might just be the demonstration we all needed to start the process of putting this nuclear madness to rest, once and for all. the genie managed to slip out of the bottle for a couple of days, and now we see how it can happen. i think it's time we got serious about total disarmament and on-site inspection." edward briggs always knew hansen was a dreamer, but this time he was going too far. he did not like the idea of america scrapping its nuclear arsenal, even if everybody else did the same. "that's going to mean a lot of wheeling and dealing, mr. president. it's going to be a hard sell in some quarters." right, hansen thought. and the hardest sell of all was going to be the pentagon. "well, dammit, nothing in this world is easy. but this is one move toward sanity that may have just gotten easier, thanks to that idiot on the island. i'm going to rework that speech i've got scheduled for the general assembly. we lined up the security council, including the permanent members, for the right reasons once before. i'm going to see if we can't do it again. this time i think we've got an even better reason." : a.m. "all right, we can evacuate them on a huey," eric nichols was saying. "they'll take care of them on the kennedy, courtesy of the u.s. government. but just who the hell are you?" he was in the upper level of the satcom living quarters, talking to a man in a black pullover who was packing a pile of greek balaclavas into a crate. what in blazes had gone on? he had arrived in the lead huey, to find one of the apaches crash-landed, only one satcom space vehicle left, and the deltas on the ground, futilely searching for terrorists. but instead of terrorists, they had only come across this group of men in black pullovers, who had surrendered en masse. turned out they were friendlies. and now this guy had just asked for a huey to take out a couple of their ranks who had been shot up, one pretty badly. "my name is pierre armont," replied the man. he seemed to be the one in charge, and he had a french accent. "i mean, who the hell _are _you? and all these guys? cia?" nichols couldn't figure any of it. two minutes after he landed, a shock wave pounded the island. then when he tried to radio the kennedy, to find out what in good christ had happened, he couldn't get through. there was no radio traffic, anywhere. he had a sinking feeling he knew what that meant. and now, these clowns. they didn't look like regular military, but there was something about the way they moved. . . . "we're civilians," armont said cryptically. "and we're not here. you don't see us." 'the hell i don't. what in blazes do you mean?" nichols didn't like wiseacres who played games. the problem was, these guys clearly weren't desk jockeys, the one type he really despised. no, they seemed more like a private antiterrorist unit, and he didn't have a ready-made emotion for that. "as far as you and the u.s. government are concerned, we don't exist," armont continued. "it's better if we keep things that way." nichols looked around and examined their gear, trying to figure it. the stuff was from all over the place--german, british, french, greek, even u.s. and not only was it from all over the globe, it was all top notch, much of it supposedly not available to civilians. where . . . and then it hit. "you're the jokers we were trying to keep from coming in." "you did a pretty good job of slowing us down." armont nodded. "not good enough, it would seem." he laughed, a mirthless grunt. "you're a crafty bunch of fuckers. i'll grant you one thing, though. at least you knew enough not to put up with micromanaging from the other side of the globe. you ended up doing exactly what we would have if anybody had let us. vietnam all over again." he was reaching into his pocket for a montecristo. he pulled out two. "care to join me? castro may not be able to run a country for shit, but he can still make a half-decent cigar." "thank you," armont said, taking it. he hated cigars. "by the way, i'm eric nichols." "i know," armont said. "jsoc." he had followed nichols's career for years, always with an idea in the back of his mind. "i also know you've got one more year till retirement, but you don't seem like the retiring type." nichols stared over the lighted match he was holding out and smiled. "tell me about it." then he looked around at the men of arm, the pile of balaclavas and mp s, vests of grenades. and discipline, plenty of discipline. it was a sight that did his heart good. "your boys look like they've been around." "in a manner of speaking." whereupon pierre armont proceeded to give major general eric nichols an overview of the private club known as the association of retired mercenaries. including the financial dimension. nichols nodded slowly, taking deep, thoughtful puffs on his montecristo. he was already way ahead of the conversation. "i think we might need to have a talk when all this is over. a look into the future." "it would be my pleasure," armont said. "dinner in paris, perhaps. i know the perfect restaurant." he did. les ambassadeurs, in the hotel crillon. french, though not too french. rough-hewn americans like nichols always got slightly uneasy when there was more than one fork on the table and the salad came last. "sounds good to me," nichols said. "just as long as i won't be getting any asshole phone calls from the pentagon while we talk." "i can virtually guarantee it," armont replied. "but in the meantime, we do need a favor or two from you. for starters, we would much prefer to just be numbered among the civilians here." he smiled. "that is, after all, what we are. civilians with toys." "and some pretty state-of-the-art ones at that," nichols said, looking around again. "but i sometimes have problems with my vision, can't always be sure what i'm seeing. like right now, for instance. i can't seem to see a damned thing." "oh, and one other favor," armont continued, nodding in silent appreciation. "we took one of the terrorists alive, a certain jean-paul moreau, who is wanted in a string of bank robberies all over france. it's action directe's idea of fund-raising. we'd like to remove him back to paris. there're some . . . parties there who will pony up enough bounty to cover the costs of this operation and make us whole. how about it? for purposes of your mission debriefing, can you just say the precise number of hostiles remains to be fully established? when we get back to paris, he's going to fall out of a bus on the rue de rivoli and be captured." he paused, hoping. the americans might not go for this one. "we would be particularly grateful. and so would several financial institutions i could name." nichols drew again on his cuban cigar, starting to like this frog a lot. "why the hell not? if you're not here, then i can't very well know _who _you take out, can i? never heard of the guy." "thank you very much," armont said, and he meant it. this was indeed a man he could work with. "i'm glad we see the situation eye to eye." "somebody at least ought to come out of this cluster-fuck whole," nichols reflected wistfully. "jesus, what a disaster." armont had turned to watch as the deltas began easing dimitri onto a metal stretcher. he seemed alert, and he even tried to lift a hand and wave. armont waved back and shouted for him to take it easy. "by the way, that greek civilian over there is named spiros. he runs a security business out of athens and never leaves town, which is why he wasn't here." "got it." nichols nodded. "guess a lot of things didn't happen today." he looked around. "but i've still got one question. we've already counted about half a dozen dead hostiles. so if nobody was here, then who exactly took down all these terrorist motherfuckers?" "well," armont explained, "we both know delta force doesn't exist either. so maybe this greek sunshine gave them terminal heatstroke and they all just shot themselves." "yeah," nichols concurred with a smile, "damnedest thing." : a.m. "georges, what do you think?" cally asked. "can it be saved?" "well, first the good news. the fujitsu is okay." he wheeled around from the workstation. command was a shambles, but he had managed to find one auxiliary terminal that would still function. that workstation, and the lights, were on, but not much else. "it was buried deep enough in the bedrock that it escaped the emp, the electromagnetic pulse, from the blast. if we'd lost our sweetheart, we'd be dead in the water." "any telemetry?" "yep." he smiled. "the tapes were on. we had doppler, almost from liftoff. the cyclops computed our acceleration from it, and the results look to be right on the money. the not-so-good news is that the last telemetry we recorded, just before the bomb went off and the cyclops crashed, showed that vx- was about three minutes away from capturing orbit. i think we probably made it, but i still can't say. however, since big benny was already reducing power, getting ready to shut it off anyway, maybe, just maybe we got lucky." she sighed. "when will you know for sure?" "right now i'm trying to get arlington on-line and tied into here. i'm hoping we can patch into their satellite receiving station. anyway, i should know in a few minutes, assuming the vehicle is still sending back telemetry." "care to venture a guess?" she collapsed into a chair next to him. this was the first time she had been in command for several hours and it seemed almost strange. whereas the staff over at launch control had opened the champagne immediately after lift-off, still not fully aware of all the behind-the-scenes drama, the command technicians were too shell-shocked to think, and they were only now slowly drifting back in. not the people in launch, though. all they knew for sure was that they had done their job, even if the gantry had collapsed for some mysterious reason. vx- left the pad without a hitch. they had a success. "well, if i had to lay odds," georges went on, "i'd guess we captured orbit, but it's going to be erratic. however, if we can get the cyclops up and running again, maybe we can do a midcourse correction." he tapped something on the keyboard. "yet another first for the never-say- die satcom team." she had to laugh. "you look pretty cool, soho, for somebody who just lived through world war three." he tried unsuccessfully to smile. "hey, don't go by appearances. i tried to open a pepsi just now and my hands were shaking so badly i finally just gave up and went to the water fountain. cally, i'm a wreck. i'm still quivering. god." he pulled at his beard, then absently added, "i'm going to shave this off. what do you think? it isn't me." "it never was." she had refrained from telling him that earlier, but now he seemed to want to talk about trivia, maybe just to take his mind off all the heaviness around. and there were two new things she did not want to tell him. the first was that millions of dollars were riding on his every keystroke. the second was that she was thinking a lot right now about somebody else. : a.m. "mike, i can't believe it," bates said, hanging up the phone. the one in his office was among the few still working, and it had been ringing off the wall. "know who that was?" vance had not been paying heavy-duty attention. he had been thinking about the woman out there now talking to the computer hacker with the scraggly beard. "what? sorry, bill, i wasn't listening." "hey," he laughed. "your mental condition isn't what it might be. tell you the truth, you look like a guy who just mixed it with a twenty- horsepower fan, and lost. you really ought to go over to medical and get your face looked after." "the deltas are probably still over there. if i showed up, i might just get arrested. don't think i could handle an interrogation right now. better to hide out for a while longer." the fact was, he still felt too disoriented to think about how he must look. he hurt all over, and he almost didn't care. "whatever you say." bates shrugged. "anyway, that guy on the phone just now was a jap by the name of matsugami. he just happens to run nasda." "what's that?" vance asked, trying to clear his mind enough to remember the initials. the information was back there somewhere, but he just couldn't reach it. "you really are out of it, buddy. you of all people ought to know perfectly well it's their national space development agency. he says they're disgusted with all the failures they've been having with the american and european commercial rockets. he wants to talk about a contract for satcom to put up their next three broadcast satellites. that means we get to haggle for six months while they try to trim my foreskin, but i think we'll get the job. laser propulsion is suddenly the hottest thing since day-glo condoms. that bastard who took us over just gave us a billion dollars of publicity." he laughed. "i'd almost like to kiss what's left of his ass, except it's probably somewhere in the ozone about now." "well, congratulations." "wait till cally hears about this. she just may go into orbit herself." "you've been on the phone for an hour." after peretz was carried out, he had collapsed onto the couch in bates' office and tried to go to sleep, but the goings-on had made it impossible. bates had been talking nonstop. "what else is happening out there in the world ramirez was planning to nuke?" "he did nuke it. he just didn't manage to nuke it the place he intended." bates leaned back in his chair. "well, it turns out good news travels fast. since vx- is up, our two prime banks in geneva are suddenly engaged in intimate contact between their lips and my nether parts. 'roll over your obligations? _mais oui, monsieur bates. certainement. avec plaisir. _will you need any additional capitalization? we could discuss an equity position.' the cocksuckers. it was almost a shame to piss away that weapon on empty space. i could have thought of a much better use." "hallelujah." he felt his spirits momentarily rise, though not his energy. "maybe this means all that stock you paid me for the boat will end up being worth the paper it's printed on. truthfully, i was beginning to worry." "told you it'd all work out," he grinned. "no faith. come on, amigo, i've got to break the news to the troops." he strode to the door, or the opening that was left after the c- had removed the door, and surveyed the remains of command. the technicians and systems analysts were filing back in, but mostly it was a scene of purposeful lethargy. the horror of the last day and a half had taken a terrible toll. eyes were vacant, hair unkempt, motions slow and aimless. several of those who had previously quit smoking were bumming cigarettes. he whistled with two fingers, and the desultory turmoil froze in place. "okay, everybody," he said, his voice not quite a shout. "it's official. we're back in business. you've all still got a job." the glassy-eyed stares he received back suggested nobody's thoughts had extended that far yet. nobody was in a particular mood to let themselves think about the future. "that's the good part," bates went on, oblivious. "the other news is there won't be bonuses or stock dividends this year. we'll be lucky just to service our debt. but anybody who hangs in there for twelve months gets half a year's pay extra, as a bonus. i'll do it out of my own pocket if i have to. and if you play your cards right, we could be talking stock options, too." there were a few smiles and thumbs-up signs, more to hearten bates, whom they revered, than to celebrate. nobody had the capacity left to feel particularly festive. at the same time, nobody was about to abandon ship. not now, now that they were needed more than ever. vance was leaning on the wall behind him, watching it all and thinking. okay, so bill was about to be rich, and satcom had gotten enough free publicity to last into the next century. but the real notoriety should be going to the question that had haunted the world for four decades: what would happen if terrorists got their hands on a nuclear device? this time the consequences--although intended to be devastating--had in fact been peripheral, an inconsequential detonation somewhere halfway into space. but the question that still hung over the world was, what would happen the next time? it was a question bill bates had too much on his mind today to think about. maybe he never would. : a.m. j.j. shook his head in disgust as he looked over the shambles that was the gantry. dr. andros had just phoned from command, asked him to undertake a preliminary assessment of the condition of the facility, just to ballpark the extent of damage. the assignment was already depressing him. still, from what he could see so far, things could have been worse. there was no obvious physical injury to vx- or to the transmission antennas up on the hill, though the testing and corrections could take weeks. the gantry was a total loss, no doubt about that, but otherwise the major physical structures on the island appeared unscathed. the main reason, naturally, was that almost everything important--including the superconducting coil and the fujitsu--was well underground. the main scene now was all the bodacious helicopters, hueys, on the landing pad and all the army commandos milling around. jesus! how did everybody in launch control miss what was really going on? looking back, the whole thing was fishy from the word go. now the army types were collecting the bodies of the terrorists and acting like they had cleaned up the place all by themselves. guess that was going to be the official story. . . . mr. bates had already come down to launch, shook everybody's hand, and thanked the crews for hanging in there. he looked a little shook up, but he wasn't talking like it. totally upbeat. you had to love the guy. he also delivered the news that as soon as things settled down, satcom was going to kick some ass in the space business. jordan jaegar looked up at the brilliant greek sunshine and grinned in spite of himself. shit, he couldn't wait. : a.m. "it's all been handled," armont was saying. vance had finally decided to venture out of bates' office and see how things were going. the bates motel had taken some heavy gunfire around the entrance, but it was still usable, with the arm team milling around and readying to depart. down below, the sea had never looked bluer. "nobody knows anything. our favorite state of affairs." vance was still trying to take it all in. "how's spiros doing?" "they took him out on one of the hueys," armont said. "hugo went, too." "are they going to be all right?" "hugo's okay. he even knocked back a couple of guinnesses before he left, saying they would help ease the stabbing pain. can you believe? as for dimitri, the deltas had a medic along, and he gave him a better than fifty-fifty shot. said nothing vital seemed beyond repair." "thank goodness for that at least." "poor guy, he felt personally responsible for the whole mess. i think that was why he sort of lost his better judgment there for a second when we rushed command and got careless." "it can happen," vance said. looking back, he decided he had lost sight of better judgment several times over the past few hours. the rest of the arm team was checking out the gear and tying crates, all the while working on their second case of beer. departure was imminent. "well," vance added finally, "it was a nightmare, start to finish. what more can you say." "well, not entirely," armont observed, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. "bates is going to let us use the agusta to fly back to paris. and when we get there, one of the terrorists who got blown up is going to suddenly reappear. jean-paul moreau." "know him well," vance said, remembering the beating and his sense of hopelessness at the time. "better not let me see the bastard. he might not make it back to paris in one piece." "well, michael, that would be very ill-advised. he's worth a small fortune. if the greeks were to get hold of him, he could piss on the court system here and keep it mucked up for years, so we're taking him straight back to paris." he paused to glance around. "nichols is giving us an apache escort as far as international airspace will permit. but you don't know anything about any of this. keep your nose clean." "nichols?" the name didn't mean anything, but then his mind was still mostly in neutral. "major general eric nichols. no reason you should know him. runs the deltas. good man, by the way. first rate. i've had my eye on him for a number of years. could be he'll end up being our first yank. well, our second besides you." "so this was really a recruiting drive." vance laughed. suddenly he was feeling almost giddy again, this time from the release of all the stress. "you take them where you can get them." armont nodded, then looked around and whistled. "okay, everybody, bring down the agusta and start loading the gear. we're gone." he turned back to vance. "how about you? coming?" "no," he said, almost not even catching the question. "think maybe i'll stick around. make sure bill is okay. you know, unfinished business." "right." armont laughed. "i think i saw your 'unfinished business,' michael. don't you think she might be a little young for you. you're starting to get like me now, middle-aged." "well, working for arm doesn't help, but then you do have a gift for pointing out the obvious." the way he felt, starting over looked tougher all the time. "on the other hand, why not. as a romantic frenchman, i can only wish you _bonne chance_." he patted him on the back. "what more can i say." "thanks." vance had to smile. armont was gallant to the end, and a man who prided himself on knowing what things mattered in life. "at my age, you need all the luck you can get." "_merde_. in this life you make your own luck." with which pronouncement he shook hands, then yelled for hans to bring over the list of gear for one last inventory. : p.m. it was the end of the day and he could genuinely have used a tequila, double, with a big mexican lime on the side. instead, however, he had something else on the agenda. after an early dinner with bill bates, he had talked calypso andros into a stroll down to the harbor, there to meditate on the events of the past two days. they had agreed in advance not to talk about isaac mannheim's death; cally declared he would have wanted it that way. his life was his legacy. "i wonder if this island will ever be the same again," she was saying as she leaned back against a rock. "you know, it was peaceful once, before satcom took over--there actually were sheep, a whole herd--but even then it had a kind of purposefulness that was just the opposite of chaos. we're the ones who disrupted it. satcom. we remade it in our image, and we tempted fate." she sighed. "god, this whole disaster almost seems like a bad dream now. i wonder if the island will ever know real peace again. there'll always be the memory to haunt everybody." "you know, when ulysses came back to his island, he discovered it had been taken over by a bunch of thugs. so he took away their weapons, locked the doors, and straightened things out. it set a good precedent." "well, it didn't exactly happen that cleanly this time, but we did get them all. every last one. and about half of them, you took care of yourself. one way or another." "please," he stopped her. "let's don't keep score. it's too depressing." "i'm not depressed. at least not about them. they came in here and murdered people right and left. they deserved whatever they got. good riddance. the human race is better off." "that's pretty tough," vance said. "on the other hand, whereas they claimed to be terrorists, they really were just extortionists. at least ramirez and peretz were. for them this was all about money. kidnapping and ransom. so maybe you're right. the penalty for kidnapping is death. they were looking at the max, no matter what court ended up trying them." "i'd say arm just spared greece or somebody a lot of trouble and expense. performed a public service." "i suppose that's one way to look at it." he smiled. "but somehow i don't think pierre's going to get so much as a thank-you note. it never happens. things always get confused like this at the end, but as long as he and the boys come out whole, they don't care." his voice trailed off as he studied the sea. along the coast on either side, the pale early moon glinted off the breakers that crashed in with a relentless rhythm. yes, a bomb had exploded somewhere up there in space, but the aegean, even the jagged rocks around the island, still retained their timeless serenity. the greek islands. he never wanted to leave. right now, though, he was trying to work up his nerve to talk seriously with dr. cally andros--and the words weren't coming. how to start . . .? "are you still here?" she finally broke his reverie. "or are you just gazing off." "sorry about that." he clicked back. "i was thinking. wondering if you'd still be interested in . . . in what we talked about yesterday." "what?" she looked puzzled, then, "oh, you mean--" "taking a sail with an old, slightly beat-up yacht-charter operator." "you're beat up, there's no denying it." she laughed. "i hope you keep your boats in better shape." she looked him over and thought again how much he reminded her of alan. the mistake that affair represented was not one to be repeated blindly. then again . . . "but i don't consider you old. experienced, maybe, but still functioning." "is that supposed to mean yes?" "it's more like a maybe." she touched his hand. "what were you thinking about, exactly?" "what else? the _odyssey_ thing." he looked out at the horizon, then back. "seems to me it deserves another try. _oh, the pearl seas are yonder, the amber-sanded shore; _ if you'll pardon my attempt to wax poetic." she smiled. "plagiarist. i know that one. and i also know there's another line in it that goes, _troy was a steepled city, but troy was far away. _ far away. get it? or maybe it doesn't even really exist at all." "oh, it exists all right. you just have to want to find it." he picked up a pebble and tossed it toward the surf, now rapidly disappearing in the dusk. "so what are you trying to say?" "i'm saying that maybe troy was a real place and maybe not. but that's almost beside the point. what it really is is a symbol for that something or somebody we're all looking for. whatever special it is we each want. like when i came here to work for satcom. space was my troy. it was what i wanted. and when you tried to re-create the voyage of ulysses, you were thinking you could make something that was a myth into something that was real. big impossibility." "you're saying the search for troy is actually just an inner voyage, and i got caught up in trying to make it literal. the boat and all." "well, that's what myth is really about, isn't it? we make up a story using real, concrete things to symbolize our inner journey." "you're saying ulysses could have sailed up a creek, for all it mattered?" 'that's exactly what i'm saying." she leaned back. "shit, i want a pizza so bad right now i think i'm going crazy." vance was still pondering her put-down of his _odyssey_ rerun, wondering if maybe she wasn't onto something. maybe he had learned more about himself in two days on the island than he would have learned in two years plying the aegean. "all right," she said finally. "i'm sorry. i've busted your chops enough. you asked if i'd like to take a sail, and i said maybe. the truth is, i would, but i've also got a journey of my own in mind." "what do you mean?" "well, before i tell you, maybe i'd better make sure you meant it. for one thing, what are you going to sail in?" "good question." up until that moment he had not given much thought to personal finance. the truth was, he was broke. "i don't know if i can scrape up enough money to build an _odyssey_ _iii_. it's a problem." "well, i'll tell you what i think. i think bill owes you at least a boat for all you did." he shrugged, not quite agreeing with her on that point. you don't pitch in to help out an old friend, then turn around and send him an invoice. "maybe, maybe not. but in any case, it would be minus the ten grand i owe him for the bet i lost." "come on"--she frowned--"that's not fair." "maybe not, but a deal's a deal. poseidon was the god of the sea, and the god of anger. this is greece, so maybe the old gods are still around. maybe i tempted poseidon and pissed him off. anyway, the sea got angry, and that's how it goes. the way of the gods. ten big ones." "well," calypso andros said, "speaking of gods, aphrodite was the goddess of love and beauty. the greeks were smart enough to give you a selection. so you ought to think about burning some incense to her next time. or something. maybe fall in love. i hear she likes that, too." "good suggestion." he glanced over. "michael, i feel so rootless," she said finally, leaning against him, strands of hair across his shoulder. "not close to anybody, really. now that satcom doesn't need my mothering any more, i want to try and start a few things over . . . and the place i want to start is naxos. _my _odyssey." he just nodded, understanding. "i want to go back to my old home," she went on, almost a sad confession. "i haven't been there for over twenty years. we had such a beautiful little whitewashed house. looked out on a bay. it was tiny, but i still sneak back there in my dreams. i want to make sure it survived." "don't think you have to worry. the shock wave was probably well dissipated by the time it hit paros and naxos. fact is, i doubt it did any real damage to any of the islands." 'then why don't we go there together? your _odyssey_ and mine." "it's a done deal." "good." she straightened, suddenly becoming businesslike. "just as soon as we find out about vx- . if it made orbit and if anything is salvageable. georges should know by tomorrow morning. then i want to split for a while." "it would do us both good. have to. and you know, since we're definitely going to need some transportation, i think i'm getting an idea." he nodded down toward the twenty-eight-foot morgan, pristine white, bobbing at anchor in the harbor. "looks pretty seaworthy to me. think bill would mind?" "with all the satcom stock i've got now?" she reached out and touched his face. "i'll just fire him if he says a word." * * * books by thomas hoover nonfiction zen culture the zen experience fiction the moghul caribbee wall street _samurai_ (the _samurai_ strategy) project daedalus project cyclops life blood syndrome all free as e-books at www.thomashoover.info third planet by murray leinster [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of tomorrow april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the aliens had lost their lives to nuclear war--but their loss might be the salvation of earth! i it was, as usual, a decision on which the question of peace or atomic war depended. the council of the western defense alliance, as usual, had made the decision. and, as usual, the wda coordinator had to tell the com ambassador that the coms had won again. the wda would not risk atomic war over a thirty-mile shift of a national border in southeast asia. "perhaps," said the com ambassador politely, "it will be easier for you personally if i admit that our intelligence service has reported the decision of your council." he paused, and added, "in detail." the coordinator asked wearily, "how much detail?" "first," said the ambassador, "you are to insist that no decision has been reached. you are to play for time. if i do not agree, you are to offer to compromise. if i do not agree, you are to accept the settlement we suggested. but you are to ask urgently for time in which to remove the citizens we might feel ought to be shot. this is not an absolute condition, but you are to use every possible means to persuade me to grant it." the coordinator ground his teeth. but the council wouldn't go to war for a few thousand citizens of an asiatic country--who would probably be killed in the war anyhow. there would be millions killed in western countries if the war did come. "i have much respect for you," said the ambassador politely, "so i agree to three days of delay during which you may evacuate disloyal citizens by helicopter. on the fourth day our troops will move up to the new border. it would be unfortunate if there were clashes on the way." "we can't get them out in three days!" protested the coordinator. "it's impossible! we haven't enough copters!" "with warning to flee," said the ambassador, "many can reach the new border on foot." the coordinator ground his teeth again. that would be a public disgrace--and not the first one--for the wda for not protecting its friends. but the public in the western nations did not want war. it would not allow its governments to fight over trivial matters. its alliance could not make threats. on the other hand, the public in the com nations had no opinions its governments had not decreed. the com nations could threaten. they could even carry out threats, though made for trivialities. so the wda found itself yielding upon one point after another. eventually it would fight, and fight bravely, but too late. the coordinator said heavily, "you will excuse me, mr. ambassador. i have to see about getting as many copters as possible to southeast asia." * * * * * some hundreds of light-years away, the survey ship _lotus_ floated in space, a discreet number of millions of miles from the local sun. it was on a strictly scientific mission, so it would not be subject to com suspicion of having undesirable political intentions. at least they hadn't demanded to have an observer on board. com intelligence reports were notoriously sound, however, and possibly spies had assured their employers that the _lotus's_ mission was bona fide. her errand was the mapping and first-examination of a series of sol-type solar systems. this was the ninth such system on the list. the third planet out from the sun, here, lay off to starboard. it was near enough to have a visible disk to the naked eye, and moderate magnification showed ice-caps and permanent surface markings that could be seas and continents. as was to be expected, it was very much like a more familiar third planet out--earth. the skipper gave nolan the job of remote inspection while the gross examination of the system went on. nolan had a knack for such work, and much of it naturally fell to him. "okay!" he said resignedly, "another day, another world!" "my private nightmare," said the skipper, with humor, "is bug-eyed monsters. try not to find 'em here, nolan. eh?" he'd said that eight times before on this voyage. nolan said, "my private nightmare is getting home and finding out that while we've been finding new worlds for men to live on, they've started a war and made earth a place to die on. try to arrange that it doesn't happen before we get home. eh?" he'd said that eight times before on this voyage, too. "i wish us both luck. nolan," said the skipper. "but that ball out yonder looks plausible as a nest for bug-eyed monsters!" he shook his head and went out. he was still being humorous. nolan set up his instruments and went to work. as he worked, he tried to thrust away the thoughts that came to everybody on earth every day. they were as haunting, some light-centuries from earth, as back at home. there was the base the coms were building on the moon. the wda had an observatory there, but the coms were believed to be mounting many more rockets than telescopes. and there was that unsatisfying agreement made between the coms and wda just before the _lotus_ took off. each promised solemnly to notify the other of all space take-offs before they happened. the idea was to prevent a mistake by which a pearl-harbor-style attack might be inferred when it wasn't really happening. the fact that it could be prepared against was evidence of the kind of tension back on earth. but the _lotus_ was far from home. she lay some seventy-odd millions of miles out from the sol-type star fanuel alpha, whose third planet nolan was to look over. he sent off a distance-pulse and took angular measurements of the planet's disk. the ratio of polar to equatorial diameters was informative. the polar flattening said that the day lasted about thirty hours. almost like earth's. the equatorial diameter of miles was much like earth's. the inclination of the axis of rotation indicated seasons--not exaggerated, but much like the seasons on the third planet of sol. the size of the ice-caps indicated the overall planetary temperature. there were clouds. in fact, there was a cloudmass in the southern hemisphere that looked just like an earthly tropic storm undergoing the usual changes as it went away from the equator. this was very much like earth! and the dark masses which were seas.... * * * * * nolan frowned. those mud-colored patches were water. undoubtedly. a narrow-band light filter proved it. but the areas which were neither sea nor cloud mass? there were three levels of brightness to be seen on the disk outside the polar areas. one was sea-bottom. one was cloud. the other.... nolan fretted a little. there was something wrong. the solid ground surface of the planet was too light in color. it was such items that a person with a knack for it would notice sooner than a man without the knack. vegetation should be more nearly midway between sea-bottom and cloud mass in color. nolan fitted in the chlorophyll filter. on the planet of a sol-type sun, vegetation had to use chlorophyll or else. through this filter the clouds would show, of course. they were white and reflected all colors of light. but no color that chlorophyll didn't reflect could pass through the filter. the cloud masses showed clearly. nothing else appeared. the filters would have shown vegetation. it didn't. it said there wasn't any. nolan stepped up the magnification. he saw other things. he didn't like them. he got some maximum-magnification pictures and interpreted them with increasing grimness. he went to make his report just as the system constants began to reach the skipper. the local sun's mass was . sols. the solar rotation period was thirty-four days. there were sunspots of perfectly familiar kinds. the lauriac laws about the size and distribution of planets in a sol-type system were borne out. one was small, and its sunward side was probably at a low red heat. this was like mercury. planet two, like its analogue venus in the home system, would be resolutely unoccupiable by man. planet four--analogous to mars--was smaller than three and had a very thin atmosphere. there were gas-giants in orbits six and seven. then a novelty lauriac's laws predicted things about fifth planets, too, but they'd never been verified because fifth planets were unstable. they blew up. only fragments--asteroids--had so far been noted where fifth planets of sol-type suns ought to be. but there was a fifth planet here, rolling magnificently through emptiness. it matched the lauriac predictions. it had an atmosphere, which should contain oxygen. it was the first sol-system fifth planet ever observed. there was a babble in the skipper's office as the discoverers of the fifth planet told him about it. nolan said curtly, "i've something more urgent to report. planet three ought to be like earth. it was. it isn't, any longer. it's dead!" nobody paid attention. there was a fifth planet! it was unparalleled! all the theories about the absence of fifth planets could now be checked! "i'm telling you," said nolan sharply, "that the third planet's dead! it was alive, and something happened to it! it has seas and clouds and ice-caps, and they're water! but its land surface is pure desert! where life can exist, it does. always! life did exist here. now it doesn't." he turned to the skipper, "maybe bug-eyed monsters killed it, skipper. it looks to me like murder!" then they stared at him. he spread out his pictures. he pointed out this item and that. they were conclusive. nobody else might have realized the facts behind them quite so soon, but when put together they fitted. "familiar, eh?" asked nolan sardonically. "you recognize the pictures like them before. they weren't made with cameras, like these, but artists drew them from descriptions of what would happen. here it's happened! i think," he added, looking at the skipper, "that this is more important than fifth planets. i think we'd better go over and get what information we can and take it home. death like this implies life a lot like men. if non-human creatures can do something as human as this, we'd better get the word back home so something can be done to get ready before we find them--or they find us." the skipper went carefully over the pictures. on one he put his finger on a feature nolan hadn't mentioned. he seemed to wince. "i think you win, nolan," he said painfully. "we'll send a drone down. i doubt we can land, but this ought to be checked. immediately. maybe i should add--inconspicuously." * * * * * "confidentially," said the com ambassador to the coordinator of the wda, "confidentially i agree that it is a trivial matter. but we are a new nation. our people lack perspective. they rejoice in the strength and vigor of the nation of which they are citizens. they will not allow that nation to display what they consider weakness in any matter. one has to allow for a certain exuberance in the people of a nation newly freed from the tyranny of capitalists and warmongers such as still enslave the people of your countries. we cannot yield in this matter." the coordinator said: "to be confidential in my turn, we both know that what you just said simply isn't true. your government decides what its public shall think. it makes sure they don't think anything it doesn't want them to." the com ambassador shrugged his shoulders. he was very polite. he did not even pretend to resent being called a liar. "now, my country intends to move forward in this matter in ten days," he observed. "and it would be deplorable if our soldiers were fired on." ii it turned out that it wouldn't have mattered if the _lotus_ had sent screaming notifications of its presence throughout all nearby space. there were detectors out, of course, but they reported absolutely nothing as the _lotus_ moved on toward planet three. there was static from storms upon the planet. it grew louder as the survey ship approached. but there was no sign of anything alive. the _lotus_ cruised some two hundred miles above seas and cloud masses and desert, photographing as she followed a search pattern that covered all the sunlit hemisphere. there were mountains in the tropics which by all the rules of meteorology should have had rain forests at their feet. they didn't. there was a river system which ran like the nile for a thousand miles or more, through deserts like those of egypt. there should have been at least a ribbon of vegetation along its banks. there wasn't. where it reached the sea was an enormous delta. a drone went down and reported temperatures and humidity and the composition of the atmosphere, and the radiation background count. one would have thought the records those of earth. the background count was a trifle high-- . instead of . --but there was eighteen per cent of oxygen in the atmosphere. the only oddity, there, was nearly a full per cent of helium. when the drone came up it brought samples of soil and sea water. there was no life in either. the soil was mostly mineral dust, but an electron microscope disclosed abraded fractions of pollen grains and the like. the sea water sample had evidently been picked up by the drone's dredge from some shallow. there were tiny, silicious shells in it. plankton. they had been alive, but were so no longer. "i think," said nolan, "that i make a landing. right?" the skipper said crossly, "yes. you're the best man for it. you notice things. but i doubt you'll learn very much." he tapped the written report that the radiation background count was . . "it happened a long time ago. a long, long time ago!" then he said with a totally unsuccessful attempt at humor, "try and find out that it was bug-eyed monsters, eh? it looks too much like earth! i'd rather blame monsters than men!" nolan growled and went to prepare for the landing. two other men would go with him, of course. the _lotus_ wouldn't descend. it cost fuel to make landings. unless there was some remarkable specimen that a drone couldn't handle the ship would stay aloft. so a drone took three of them down to ground, a second drone following with equipment. they had weapons, of course. men never land anywhere without weapons. they had the material for a foam-house camp. they had a roller-jeep, running on huge inflated bags. it would run efficiently on anything from sand to swamp mud, and float itself across bogs or rivers. they had cameras and communicators. nolan had picked crawford for geology and kelley for communications. they could get other specialists from the ship, if desirable. the ground where they landed was desert: nothing more. there were enormous dunes like gigantic frozen swells of sand. sometimes there were miles between crests. they landed close to the mud banks northern ice-cap to avoid the deep gorges in which rivers ran farther south. on the first day they set up their camp. mountains reared to the north of them, covered almost to their bases with ice. these they need not explore. instruments would do most of the landing-party work, in any case. but they inflated small balloons and sent them skyward, to learn about currents of the upper air, and crawford took painstaking photographs of dune formations, and they set up a weather radar. they checked the water recovery from the camp's air-conditioner. it would supply their needs. when night drew near, with all instruments recording, they watched the sunset. * * * * * it was amazing how splendid and how magnificent a sunset could be. not many men see sunsets these days. the three of them, aground at the ice-cap's edge, saw enormous mile-long dunes reaching away as far as it was possible to see. they cast black shadows. then glories of crimson and gold rose from the western horizon of this dead and empty world. there was ice and snow upon the mountains, and unbelievable tints and blends of colors appeared there. after a long, long time the light faded away. then there was nothing to see but the stars, and nothing to listen to at all. this world was dead. they went in their camp-house and shut out the dark and the silence. on the second day, nolan went in search of permafrost. their instruments faithfully recorded everything they needed except such items as this. nolan found permanent ice in a valley of the northern mountains. it was perpetually frozen ground which might not have thawed in a thousand thousand years. he dug down through surface ice to the permanently frozen soil beneath it. that soil was not desert sand. and preserved in it nolan found the blackened roots of plants, and the blackened blades of something like grass, and even some small, indefinite objects which had been seeds or fruit. they hadn't died with the planet. they were far older than that catastrophe. but they were proof that once this world lived and throve. during what was left of the day-light, nolan and kelley went south to a river gorge and photographed it for the record. the river had cut a gorge a full two hundred feet deep in the wind-deposited dust which was everywhere. there were now-dry gullies which undercut the dune-sides and at times dumped mud into the slowly flowing liquid of the river. there were no colorings save dust and mud. the river itself was mud. it flowed very, very slowly and without elation. they came back depressed. an airless planet holds no life, but it defies life to establish itself. a methane-ammonia planet fights the intrusion of men with monstrous frigid storms. but this world was designed for life. that it was dead was tragedy. its rivers flowed sullen, syrupy mud which moved reluctantly toward the lifeless seas. kelley wouldn't look at the sunset this second night. he went into the camp and turned on music. crawford watched for a little while only. there were clouds. there were breezes. one knew that here and there rain fell in gentle showers which should have nourished grasses and flowers and filled the air with fragrance. but instead it fell upon impalpable dust and turned it to mud which flowed slowly into gullies and into rivers which were also mud and moved onward, until perhaps after years the soil would become part of a mud-bank in the ocean. nolan came into the foam-walled house and said shortly, "we'll finish up tomorrow and leave." kelley said abruptly. "nobody's made any guess about why everything died, here. but we all know!" crawford said reflectively, "it must've taken a lot of intelligence to murder this planet. when d'you suppose it happened?" "ten thousand--twenty thousand years ago," said nolan. "the whole place must have been radioactive, air and all. but if they used cobalt the background count could be down to . in ten or twenty thousand years." "we haven't," said kelley, "seen any craters. even the pictures from out in space didn't show bomb-craters." "when everything died and turned to dust," said nolan, "there'd be dust storms. there still must be. they'd cover anything! there was a terrific civilization in part of what's now the sahara, back on earth. by pure accident they've found a patch of highway and a post-house. everything else is covered up. cities, highways, dams, canals.... and that's heavy sand instead of fine dust! the _lotus_ found some shadows on a photo. they want us to look and see what cast them. we'll look at it tomorrow and then leave." crawford said deliberately: "we three have had a preview of what earth will be like before too long! i wonder if it would do any good on earth to show them what we've found?" "it's being argued on the ship," said nolan. "some say we'd better suppress the whole business." crawford considered. "the coms aren't a very believing people," he said slowly. "but our people are. if we report this, our people will believe it. but the coms can tell their people it is lies. our people will want peace more than ever if they see what a war will mean. but the big-shot coms will just take that as a reason to demand some more concessions, and more, and more. like demanding to build a base on the moon...." "i'm going to bed," said nolan. he added ironically, "i hope you have pleasant dreams!" * * * * * he did go to bed, but he slept very badly. the others slept no better. all three of them were up before sunrise. they saw it. and to nolan the coming of the light seemed somehow like an eager arrival of the new day, anxious to see if some tiny thread of green somewhere lifted proudly from brown earth to greet it. but none ever did. or would. "we should be through by noon," said nolan. they set out in the jeep. they abandoned the camp. they would abandon the jeep, too, presently, when they went up the ship that waited in orbit. they headed west, and kelley took over the microwave set that sent a wide-fanning beacon skyward. the _lotus_ was in orbit now. every ninety minutes she was overhead. she'd completed the mapping of the planet. every square foot of its surface had been photographed from aloft. they drove. the ungainly inflated bags which took the place of wheels rolled unweariedly, at first over dew-wetted dust and then over the minor gullies which, so near the ice-cap, were not yet gorges. they went on for twenty miles, and the abomination of desolation was all about them. "we shouldn't tell about this back home," said kelley abruptly. "if the com people saw it, they'd know that no--" his tone was ironic--"national aspiration justified the risk of this. but they wouldn't see it. and our people might look at it and decide that anything was better than this. but it isn't." nolan said nothing. he didn't believe that the discovery of this dead planet could be kept a secret for very long. the mountains drew back to northward and the desert took their place. the _lotus_ went by overhead, unseen. but it gave a message to kelley. "we're on course," he reported. "the ship just said so. ten miles more." in ten miles they came upon a city, or what had been one. it was partly buried in the omnipresent dust. that is, they saw part of a city's remnants showing in the mile wide trough between dunes hundreds of feet high. there were other remnants between two other dunes, and still more in yet other troughs beyond. structures of stone had existed, and portions of them remained. they had cast shadows the _lotus_ had discovered from aloft. the stone remains were abraded by the dust-carrying winds of a hundred centuries. their roofs had been crushed when monster dunes formed over them. they had been reexposed to the sunshine when winds moved the dunes away. there was no metal left. no glass. no artifacts. they had been buried tens or hundreds of times, and uncovered as many. there was nothing left but skeletons of stone which cast angular shadows, though their fragments were rounded by centuries of patient wind erosion. it had been a very great city, but nolan made the only observation that could tell anything about its occupants. "the builders of this city," he said tonelessly, "used doors about the same size we do." and that was all they could find out. presently: "new york will be like this eventually," said crawford. "and chicago. and everywhere else." kelley spoke suddenly into the microwave transmitter. he said sharply to the ship, invisibly overhead: "yes! send down the drone! we've had it!" * * * * * the council-member from brazil made an impassioned speech in the supposedly secret meeting of the western defense alliance. he pointed out with bitter factuality that no past yielding to com demands had gained anything. further yielding would be suicidal. he made a fierce demand that the wda present a united front against this fresh diplomatic pressure. that it refuse, flatly and firmly and with finality, to make a single concession on a single point. it was a good speech. it was an excellent speech. it and others like it should have been made a long time before. the coordinator of the western defensive alliance nodded at its end. "i agree," he said, "with every word the representative from brazil has spoken. i think we all agree. the practical thing to do, of course, is to send a combined expeditionary force to maintain the independence of sierra leone. this force should be formed of contingents from every western defense alliance nation, and it should have orders to prevent the entry of com troops into sierra leone territory. i do not think that anything less will prevent the extinction of another member nation of the western defense alliance. will any council member propose such action for a vote?" there was a pause. then babblings. it would mean war! it would mean atomic war! tens or hundreds of millions of human beings would die over a matter affecting less than two hundred thousand! it was ridiculous! public opinion-- the council meeting ended with no vote upon the matter. without even a proposal on which a vote could be taken. two days later, com troops from one of the african com nations moved in and occupied sierra leone. a great many of its citizens were shot, some for opposing the new state of affairs, but some seemingly just on general principles. iii the _lotus_ went on toward planet five, leaving a world which should have been alive and wasn't, to go to a world which should not exist, but did. on the way there was argument which became embittered. in theory, the discoveries made by a survey ship became automatically available to all the world. but the discovery of three in the state it was in would have political results on earth. it was--and is--a fact that nobody really believes in death until he sees a dead man. and nobody can believe in the destruction of a planet unless he's seen the corpse or color photographs of it. but that was precisely what the _lotus_ had to carry back to earth. the wda nations would see those pictures and read the facts. they would believe in atomic war and the complete sterilization of a world. the com nations would not see the pictures. they would continue to believe that the west--the wda--was decadent and enslaved to tyrannical warmongers, and obviously could not resist the splendid armed forces of the com association. and they wouldn't really believe there could be more than isolated, crazy resistance to their valiant troops. so they'd back their leaders with enthusiasm, and the western peoples at most would be merely desperate. the _lotus_ arrived at planet four--which by the lauriac laws should have been similar to mars. it was almost its twin. it had ice-caps of hoarfrost and its atmosphere was thin and barely contaminated by oxygen. a base could be maintained here, of course, provided one had a source of supply. a base here, incidentally, would have much the value of the com base on luna. the _lotus_ did not find that base. it found no cities or signs of settlement. but it did find a bombcrater, miles across and it seemed miles deep. there was an accumulation of reddish dust at its bottom, trapped from the thin winds that blew over this half-frozen world. the _lotus_ went on to planet five. the sun, so far out, was very small and its warmth was barely perceptible. but there was vegetation. the surface temperature was above freezing. the lauriac laws had predicted that the central metallic core would be small, and the greater part of its mass should be stony. the radioactives in earth's thin rocky crust produce a constant flow of heat from the interior to the surface. it is considered that it is enough heat to melt a fraction of an inch of ice in a year. on this planet, with a crust many hundreds instead of mere scores of miles thickness, the internal heat was greater. the world was not frozen, and life existed here. it was a pallid, unnatural sort of life which had developed to live in starlight with a feeble assist from a very bright nearby star which happened to be its sun. there was a base here, too. kelley located it when he found a resonant return of certain frequencies from the ground. it was not a reflection, but resonance. and so they found the base. it had been built by engineers the humans on the _lotus_ could only admire. there were gigantic doors which could admit the _lotus_ herself. they were rusted shut and had to be opened with explosives. there were galleries and tunnels and laboratories. there were missile launchers and missile-storage chambers. there was a giant dome housing a telescope men had not even dreamed of equalling. it was not an optical telescope. ultimately they found a mortuary, where the members of the garrison were placed when they died. the _lotus_ was not equipped for the archeological and technological studies the base called for. its function was to scout out things for especially qualified expeditions to study. and, of course, there was the political situation back on earth.... * * * * * on the fourth day after landing, the skipper sent for nolan. the skipper sweated a little. "nolan," he said querulously, "we've found something." "a bug-eyed monster?" asked nolan dourly. "no." the skipper mopped his forehead. "back yonder, on three, you took a few looks from twenty million miles and figured out what had happened there. we'd have worked it out eventually, but you saw it at once. you're lucky that way. now we've found something. it's an--instrument. we're short on time. come with me and make some guesses." he led the way, explaining jerkily as he went. the thing was in a room by itself, with its own air system and apparently its own food store. it was inside four successive systems of locked doors--all of them inches-thick stainless steel. it was intended that the last door could be opened from inside. it was evidently the very heart of the armed base on planet five. anything sealed up like that would have to be either incredibly valuable or incredibly dangerous. nolan followed through the shattered doors, and presently the skipper made a helpless gesture. there was the discovery. it looked more like an old-fashioned telescope than anything else. it had a brass barrel, and it was very solidly mounted, and there were micro-micro adjustments to point it with almost infinite exactitude. it had been sealed in a completely air-tight environment, and what moisture was present had combined with other metals. it wasn't rusted. there was an eyepiece, placed in an improbable position, and there was a trigger. it wasn't like a gun-trigger, but it couldn't have any other purpose. there was no porthole for it to fire through. the compartment in which it had been sealed was deep underground. nolan said uneasily: "it's a weapon, of course." "of course!" said the skipper. he mopped his forehead. "i--i think we should take it home. it might make a difference to wda. but we don't know what it does! it could be a mistake...." nolan walked around it. he saw that it could be aimed in almost any direction. but not quite. there was a direction that stops prevented it from pointing to. nolan said: "what's in that direction?" the skipper jumped. when nolan asked the question he began to suspect many answers. he said in a stricken voice, "that's where the missiles were launched--and where the others are stored." nolan stared at the thing. it looked hateful. it had the savage feel of a frozen snarl. "the power-pile?" the skipper nodded. he mopped his face again. "right alongside. we figured they wanted to shield the rest of the base from radioactives." nolan said carefully: "it could be that they wanted to shield the radioactives from something in the base. maybe something that would act on radioactives is involved." he said painfully, "men can't change the rate of fission except by building up a critical mass. but maybe--possibly bug-eyed monsters could." the skipper perspired. he'd have worked out the same thing in the long run, but nolan saw it right away. he went away and got the ship's engineers. they brought an x-ray for finding flaws in metal. they took pictures of the inwards of the brass-barreled instrument in its place. they traced two separate, incomprehensible circuits. but they were separate. * * * * * at long last the skipper nodded permission for nolan to try the eyepiece, to see what it showed with heavy metal and much soil and vegetation atop it. they taped the trigger so it could not be moved. the controls affecting the eyepiece they left free. the skipper almost dripped sweat as nolan turned on the eyepiece circuit, peering in. for a long time he saw nothing whatever. then a tiny disk moved slowly into the eyepiece's field. it was barely larger than a point. nolan moved one of the eyepiece controls. the disk enlarged. it enlarged again. a tiny red dot appeared in the center of the field of vision. as the disk enlarged, the red dot grew larger and became a tiny red circle. nolan fumbled. he shifted the position of the instrument with a micro-control. he moved the faintly glowing disk until it was enclosed in the red circle. he enlarged.... presently the disk was very large, and the red circle ceased to enlarge. it enclosed only a part of the disk. nolan felt cold chills down his spine. he swallowed and asked for the angular relationship of planet four to three. the skipper sent someone to find it out. but nolan had found planet four before the answer came. the first disk was in some fashion a representation of planet three--the earthlike world which was dead. the second was a representation of four. there was a bright spot near the equator of four--the equator being located by the flattening of the poles. it would be just about where a gigantic atom-bomb crater still existed. nolan drew back and took a deep breath. "apparently," he said unsteadily, "this eyepiece detects radioactives, converting something that i can't imagine into visible light after it's passed through a few feet of metal and a good many more of dirt. there's a red ring which makes me think of a gun-sight. and there's a trigger. skipper, would you send half an ounce or so of ship-fuel out to space in a drone? i think we're going to have to pull this trigger." the skipper wrung his hands. he went away. and nolan stood staring at nothing in particular, appalled and sickened by the thoughts that came to him. presently the skipper came back and mumbled that a drone was on the way up. nolan searched for it with the eyepiece. he found it. the sensitivity of the eyepiece was practically beyond belief. what it worked on--what it transmuted and amplified to light--was wholly beyond his imagination. the drone went four thousand miles out. nolan absently asked for somebody to be posted out of doors, watching the sky. he got the vivid spark that was the half ounce of ship-fuel in the center of the red luminous ring. he turned his eyes away and pulled the trigger. there was no sound. there was no vibration. there was no indication in the underground room that anything at all had happened. there was only a violent flare in the eyepiece, from which nolan had just drawn back. someone came shouting from out of doors that there had been an intolerable flash of brilliance in the sky. a few moments later the word came that the drone control board indicated that the drone had ceased to exist. * * * * * the com ambassador sighed a little when he saw the expression on the coordinator's face. interviews with the titular head of the alliance of all western nations became increasingly a strain on his politeness. but the coordinator said grimly: "i think i can guess what you're here to tell me!" the com ambassador said politely: "it is painful to--ah--beat around the bush. may i speak plainly?" "do," said the coordinator. "our base on the moon," said the ambassador with a fine air of frankness, "some time ago reported military preparations on earth, among the wda nations. those preparations could have no purpose other than an unwarned attack upon us. we felt it necessary, then, to take countermeasures of preparation only. we modified the plans for our moon base to have it contain not only the telescopes and such observational equipment, but to have an adequate armament of missiles. it is now so armed." the coordinator whitened a little, but he did not look surprised. "well?" "i have to inform you," said the com ambassador, "that any military action directed against any com nation, or its troops, or the union of com republics, will be met by atomic bombardment from the moon as well as--ah--our standard military establishments. this, of course, does not mean war. to the contrary, we hope that it will end the possibility of war. we trust that all causes of tension between our nations will one by one be removed, and that an era of perpetual peace and prosperity will follow." the coordinator's lips twisted in an entirely mirthless smile. "military action against com troops," he observed, "means resistance to invasion or occupation, doesn't it?" "it would be wiser," said the ambassador carefully, "to protest than to resist. at least, so it seems to me." the coordinator of the western defense alliance said: "tell me something confidentially, mr. ambassador. how long before you expect--no. you wouldn't answer that. ah! how long do you think it will be before i am shot?" the com ambassador said politely: "i would hesitate to guess." * * * * * the _lotus_ started back to earth with the enigmatic weapon fastened firmly in its cargo hold. great pains had been taken to keep it from being knocked or shocked or battered in its transfer to the ship. firmly anchored, nolan had insisted that the stops, which prevented it from being aimed below the horizon or toward the radioactives in the base, be adjusted so it could not be aimed at the _lotus's_ own engines or fuel-stores. there were no missiles to worry about, of course. even this precaution, however, roused doubt and uneasiness, especially among the scientific staff. it was highly probable that when the _lotus_ reported in from space, the coms would ask to examine such specimens as she brought back. the request would be expressed as scientific interest, but a refusal would be treated as a concealment of dire designs. there were those on the ship who felt that the weapon should be dismantled and made to seem meaningless, to avoid any chance of a humiliating squabble with the coms. the skipper roared at them. it was the only time on the voyage when he displayed anger. but he glared at those who proposed the act of discretion. he drove them out of the cabin in which the suggestion was made. he turned to nolan, who definitely was not a party to it. his manner changed. he said querulously: "nolan, why do you want that thing mounted so it could be used if necessary?" "that's the way it was mounted on planet five. to box it or case it might injure it. to take it apart might mean that it could never be got together in working order again." "is that the real reason?" demanded the skipper. "it's a good reason, but is it the real one?" "no," admitted nolan. "it isn't." the skipper fumed to himself. "we might get home," he said fretfully, "and find things just as we left them. then there'd be no harm in the mounting. we'd at least try to diddle the coms and get it ashore without their knowing it was important. we might get home and find that war'd broken out and earth was dead like the third planet back yonder, only not all yet turned to desert. then the mounting wouldn't matter. nothing would! or we could find that the coms had smashed the west and were all cockahoop about what they'd managed to do in a sneak attack. so it had better stay mounted. i covered everything, didn't i?" nolan wasn't feeling any better than anybody else on the _lotus_. the jitters that affected everybody but conditioned coms had been bad when the _lotus_ went about its business. but when the ship headed for home, nerves got visibly worse. they didn't know what they'd find there. with the third planet of fanuel alpha in mind, it was all too easy to believe in disaster. "there's one thing," said nolan painfully, "that bothers me. i've been trying to think like a com top brass. the wda is a well meaning organization, and it's gained time, no doubt. but aside from the com missiles, ninety-five per cent of the atomic warheads on earth are in the hands of just one wda nation. it happens to be ours. it's been bearing most of the load of defense costs for the west. it's the richest country in the world. there's practically no poverty in it." "what has poverty to do with a possible war?" demanded the skipper. "everything," nolan said uncomfortably. "the coms take over a country. they march in. there are rich people and poor people. the coms start to humiliate and destroy the rich. the poor people hated them. so the coms are popular long enough to get things going right. but if they tried that in our country--" "it wouldn't work," said the skipper. "not for a minute." "it wouldn't," agreed nolan. "most of our people think of themselves as well to do, and the rest can hope to become so. so the coms would have to try to govern two hundred million indignant and subversive underground resisters. they couldn't hold down such a country. they wouldn't try!" the skipper blinked. "if you mean they'd leave our country alone--" "i don't," said nolan. "they'd destroy it. they'd have to. so they might as well destroy it out of hand and destroy most of the fighting potential and a lot of resolution in the west. a well handled atomic-missile bombardment and some luck, and they could take over the rest of the world without trouble. i think that's the practical thing for them to do. i think they'll do it if they can." the skipper grimaced. then he said, almost ashamedly: "maybe we're talking nonsense, nolan. maybe we've just got bad cases of nerves. maybe things have gotten better since we left. we could arrive back home and find nobody even dreaming of war any more!" "that," said nolan, "would scare me to death. that would be the time to make a sneak attack!" which was pessimism. but nothing else seemed justified. it was not even easy to be hopeful about the value of the fifth-planet weapon to the western defensive alliance. the wda couldn't use it in a preventive war. their people wouldn't allow it. the initiative would always remain with the coms. the _lotus_ moved earthward. she carried a more deadly instrument for war than men had ever dreamed of. but the ship's company daily jittered a little more violently. the war might have been fought and be over by now. if it had, the coms would have won it. * * * * * the coordinator for the wda handed the com ambassador his passport. "i'm sorry you've been recalled," he said heavily, "because i think i see the meaning of the move." "i am only called home for conference and instructions," said the ambassador politely. "i shall miss our friendly chats. we have had a very fine personal relationship, though we have disagreed so often." the coordinator absently shifted objects on his desk. he said suddenly: "mr. ambassador, have i ever lied to you?" the ambassador raised his eyebrows. then he smiled. "never!" he said pleasantly. "i have marveled!" the coordinator took a quick, sharp breath. "i shall not lie now," he said abruptly. "i hope you will believe me, mr. ambassador, when i tell you one of our best-kept military secrets." the ambassador blinked and then shrugged politely. "you always astonish me," he said mildly. "your high command," said the coordinator grimly, "has decided not to try to take over the nation around us. it is considered impractical. so this nation is to be destroyed, to shatter the backbone of the wda and make resistance anywhere else unthinkable." the ambassador said reproachfully: "ah, but you begin to believe your own propaganda!" "no," said the coordinator. "i have simply told you the facts you undoubtedly already know. now i tell you our best-kept military secret. we know that we cannot deal with you. we know that you might be successful in an overwhelming, unwarned attack. we know that if you decide upon war, it will be directed primarily at this nation. so we have set up some very special atomic bombs where it is extremely unlikely that you will find them. they are 'dirty' bombs. they are designed to make the maximum possible amount of radioactive dust--of fallout. timing mechanisms are set to detonate them. every day a man goes and sets back the timing mechanism in each place where a bomb is established. on the day that a man fails to do so the bombs will certainly explode." the coordinator said almost briskly: "we calculate that the bombs will make the atmosphere of the whole earth lethally radioactive. they will raise the background count on earth to the point where nothing can live: no plant, no animal, no fish in any sea. this will only happen if this nation is destroyed. it will fight if it is attacked, of course, but your chances of substantial success are good. but if you are successful the earth will die. i may add that the people of the com nations will die also, to the last individual." the ambassador started to his feet. "but you could not do that!" he protested white-lipped. "you cannot!" the coordinator shrugged and shook his head. "i have not lied to you before, mr. ambassador. i do not lie to you now." then he said formally: "i hope you have a pleasant journey home." iv the _lotus_ came out of the usual sequence of arrival-hops no more than six light-seconds from earth. a million miles, more or less; perhaps four times the distance of the moon. nolan examined the planet's sunlit face and said steadily: "nothing's happened yet." there was almost agonized relief. only the skipper did not seem to relax. he went stolidly to the control-room and got out the scrambler card that matched just one other scrambler card in the world. he put it in the communicator. to speak to earth by scrambler would be an offense. it would be protested by the coms. they would insist that a survey ship should have nothing secret to report and that anything secret must be inimical to the com association of nations. the skipper formally reported in, in the clear, and then insisted on completing his report by scrambler. he did complete it, over the agitated protest of the ground. then there was silence. he mopped his forehead. "nolan, better get down to the eyepiece. the coms could send something up to blast us. i'll get the detectors out. you be ready! you're sure you can handle things?" "this is a little bit late to raise the question," said nolan. "i think i can do it, though." he went down into the hold. he turned on the eyepiece. he saw the distinct, luminous disk which was earth in the not-at-all-believable field of the impossible instrument. he saw points--not dots--of extremely vivid light. obviously the size of a radioactive object did not determine the brightness of its report to the weapon from planet five of fanuel alpha. something else controlled the brilliance. he saw the groupings of many dimensionless points of light. there were the patterns which meant the silos holding the monster atomic missiles of the west. he could distinguish them from the much more concentrated firing-points of the com nations. the oceans had few or no bright points at all. there were only so many atomic-powered ocean-going vessels. nolan could tell well enough which were the western accumulations of radioactives for defense purposes, and which were the com stores of warheads. his throat went dry as he realized the power in his hands. neither he or anyone else could make one blade of grass grow, but he could turn the third planet of this sun into a desert and a dreariness like the third planet of another sun far, far away. the skipper came into the hold. he locked the entrance door behind him. "i got to the coordinator," he said in a shaking voice. "i started enough trouble by reporting by scrambler. he talked to me. i showed him pictures. he's telling the coms most of what i reported, saying that if they like they can try to blast us. if they try, and don't succeed, we can try to figure out what to do next." * * * * * the com premiership was in some ways the equivalent of the office of coordinator of the western defense alliance. but the men who held the two posts were quite unlike and the amount of authority they could exercise was vastly different. the com premier read, again, the newly arrived message from the coordinator. the high officials he'd sent for came streaming into the room. most of them had flimsies of the message in their hands. the premier beamed at them. "you have the news," he said humorously. "the wda coordinator first threatened to make all earth's air radioactive if we attacked the--ah--leading member of the wda and destroyed it. he has evidently decided that this threat is not strong enough. so he assures us that a western survey ship has come back from an exploring voyage with a cargo of artifacts from a non-human civilization. among the artifacts there is what he says is the absolute weapon. he says that the skipper who has brought it back claims that it can end the tension between the wda and us--by ending us!" the premier chuckled. "he invites us to verify the skipper's claim by attempting to blast the survey ship, whose coordinates of position he gives us. i think he has made a rather substantial error of judgment." his eyes twinkled as he looked from one to another of the high officials he had summoned. "we accepted the invitation," said the premier. "naturally! general?" he looked at a tall general officer with twin silver rockets in his lapels. the general said proudly: "yes, excellency! our space-radar located an object at the survey ship's stated position. we sent six rockets with atomic warheads at it. we used satellite-placing rockets for maximum acceleration. they are well on their way now. of course they can be disarmed or destroyed as well as maneuvered to intercept this survey ship if it attempts to flee. they will reach the target area in just under three hours." the premier nodded, very humorously. "since we accepted their invitation, naturally the western staff concludes that we are disturbed. that we will wait to see what our rockets learn. it would be interesting, but our scientists tell me that the alleged weapon is impossible. utterly impossible! so it is merely a trick.... and we will not wait for our rockets to arrive. we might be late for our dinners, and we would not like that!" the high officials made sounds of amusement. "so we put our own ending to the comedy," said the premier blandly. "the circuits are joined?" he asked the question of a craggy-faced service-of-supply colonel. the colonel managed to nod, and was stricken numb by the importance of the gesture. "then," said the premier humorously, "we will destroy our enemy." he waddled across the room. he put a pudgy forefinger on a button. he pushed it. even here, deep underground, there were roaring sounds as rockets took off for the west. all over the com nations, carefully distributed rocket-firing sites received signals from the one pushbutton. they sent bellowing monsters up into the sky. * * * * * three com rockets reached their targets, and nolan never quite forgave himself for it. they were murderous. they wiped out cities. but that was all. the rest of the rockets went off prematurely. a spread of half a hundred, crossing the north pole, detonated just out of atmosphere. others went off over the atlantic. not a few made temporary suns above the pacific. nolan brought moving specks within the thin red circle of his instrument, and pulled the trigger. the points flamed momentarily and left patches of luminosity behind them. and that was that. but they continued to rise. on earth they made noises like dragons. there was panic from their starting points. those first out had not reached their targets! so the com launching-sites flung more and more missiles skyward. one of them reached a city of the west. a second. a third. the only possible answer was to blast them as they rose. then to blast them before they rose. nolan's task became the terribly necessary one of preventing radioactives from moving away from com territory and into wda nations--specifically one wda nation. he did not think of the consequences of his actions except in terms of preventing excessively bright mathematical points of light from getting to the areas where there were so many fewer points of similar light which did not move at all. he tried to stop only those that moved. but three got by him, and he could do nothing but detonate all the radioactives in com territory. he had to! when that was done, there were six warheads coming up from earth. he detonated them. there were massed warheads moving toward earth from the moon. it seemed that they practically tore space apart that they went off together. then the moon base began to fire rockets, hysterically, at the _lotus_, and it was necessary to detonate the radioactives in the moon base. it had been estimated that an atomic war might be over in three hours. but prophecies are usually underestimates. between the first and last explosions on earth, in space and on the moon--there was a truly gigantic crater where the com base had been--some thirty-seven minutes elapsed. then the war was over. there were some survivors in com territory, of course. but they couldn't retaliate for the destruction of their nations. their own bombs had done the destruction. they couldn't even gloat that the rest of earth shared their catastrophe. it didn't. most of the bombs exploded high, and over ocean. no less than three-fifths of all fallout landed in the sea and sank immediately. for the rest, the background count on earth nowhere went above . , and people could be protected against that. the survey ship _lotus_ came gingerly down to ground. there was no longer any reason for tension. its crew reported in and scattered to the various places they called home. they were very glad to be back. in the course of time they were all suitably bemedalled and admired and told that their names would live forever. of course, it was not true. nolan didn't pay much attention to this. he left the survey. he went to live in a small town. he married a small-town girl. and he never, never, never took any one of the excursions so many wda people took to see the result of atomic explosions in com territory, when their attempt to murder one western nation backfired. nolan had caused that backfiring. he very passionately did not want to see its results. he'd seen all he wanted of that sort of thing on the third planet of a sol-type sun, some light-centuries from earth. preferred risk by edson mccann illustrated by kossin [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction june, july, august, september . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] winner of the $ , galaxy-simon & schuster novel contest, this taut suspense story asks the challenging question: how dangerous would it be to live in a rigidly risk-free world? the liner from port lyautey was comfortable and slick, but i was leaning forward in my seat as we came in over naples. i had been on edge all the way across the atlantic. now as the steward came through the compartments to pick up our blue plate ration coupons for the trip, i couldn't help feeling annoyed that i hadn't eaten the food they represented. for the company wanted everyone to get the fullest possible benefit out of his policies--not only the food policies, but blue blanket, blue bolt and all the others. we _whooshed_ in to a landing at carmody field, just outside of naples. my baggage was checked through, so i didn't expect to have any difficulty clearing past the truce-team customs inspectors. it was only a matter of turning over my baggage checks, and boarding the _rapido_ that would take me into naples. but my luck was low. the man before me was a fussbudget who insisted on carrying his own bags, and i had to stand behind him a quarter of an hour, while the truce-teams geigered his socks and pajamas. while i fidgeted, though, i noticed that the customs shed had, high up on one wall, a heroic-sized bust of millen carmody himself. just standing there, under that benevolent smile, made me feel better. i even managed to nod politely to the traveler ahead of me as he finally got through the gate and let me step up to the uniformed company expediter who checked my baggage tickets. and the expediter gave me an unexpected thrill. he leafed through my papers, then stepped back and gave me a sharp military salute. "proceed, adjuster wills," he said, returning my travel orders. it hadn't been like that at the transfer point at port lyautey--not even back at the home office in new york. but here we were in naples, and the little war was not yet forgotten; we were under company law, and i was an officer of the company. it was all i needed to restore my tranquility. but it didn't last. * * * * * the _rapido_ took us through lovely italian countryside, but it was in no hurry to do it. we were late getting into the city itself, and i found myself almost trotting out of the little train and up into the main waiting room where my driver would be standing at the company desk. i couldn't really blame the neapolitans for the delay--it wasn't their fault that the sicilians had atomized the main passenger field at capodichino during the war, and the _rapido_ wasn't geared to handling that volume of traffic from carmody field. but mr. gogarty would be waiting for me, and it wasn't my business to keep a regional director waiting. i got as far as the exit to the train shed. there was a sudden high, shrill blast of whistles and a scurrying and, out of the confusion of persons milling about, there suddenly emerged order. at every doorway stood three uniformed company expediters; squads of expediters formed almost before my eyes all over the train shed; single expediters appeared and took up guard positions at every stairwell and platform head. it was a triumph of organization; in no more than ten seconds, a confused crowd was brought under instant control. but why? there was a babble of surprised sounds from the hurrying crowds; they were as astonished as i. it was reasonable enough that the company's expediter command should conduct this sort of surprise raid from time to time, of course. the company owed it to its policyholders; by insuring them against the hazards of war under the blue bolt complex of plans, it had taken on the responsibility of preventing war when it could. and ordinarily it could, easily enough. how could men fight a war without weapons--and how could they buy weapons, particularly atomic weapons, when the company owned all the sources and sold only to whom it pleased, when it pleased, as it pleased? there were still occasional outbreaks--witness the recent strife between sicily and naples itself--but the principle remained.... anyway, surprise raids were well within the company's rights. i was mystified, though--i could not imagine what they were looking for here in the naples railroad terminal; with geigering at carmody field and every other entry point to the principality of naples, they should have caught every fissionable atom coming in, and it simply did not seem reasonable that anyone in the principality itself could produce nuclear fuel to make a bomb. unless they were not looking for bombs, but for people who might want to use them. but that didn't tie in with what i had been taught as a cadet at the home office. * * * * * there was a crackle and an unrecognizable roar from the station's public-address system. then the crowd noises died down as people strained to listen, and i began to understand the words: "... where you are in an orderly fashion until this investigation is concluded. you will not be delayed more than a few minutes. do not, repeat, _do not_ attempt to leave until this man has been captured. attention! attention! all persons in this area! under company law, you are ordered to stop all activities and stand still at once. an investigation is being carried out in this building. all persons will stand still and remain where you are in an orderly fashion until this investigation...." the mounting babble drowned the speaker out again, but i had heard enough. i suppose i was wrong, but i had been taught that my duty was to serve the world, by serving the company, in all ways at all times. i walked briskly toward the nearest squad of expediters, who were already breaking up into detachments and moving about among the halted knots of civilians, peering at faces, asking questions. i didn't quite make it; i hadn't gone more than five yards when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder, and a harsh voice snarled in the neapolitan dialect, "halt, you! didn't you hear the orders?" i spun, staggering slightly, to face an armed expediter-officer. i stood at attention and said crisply, "sorry. i'm thomas wills, claims adjuster. i thought i might be able to help." the officer stared at me for a moment. his cheeks moved; i had the impression that, under other circumstances, he would have spat on the floor at my feet. "papers!" he ordered. i passed him my travel orders. he looked them over briefly, then returned them. like the customs expediter at carmody field, he gave me a snap salute, militarily precise and, in a way i could not quite define, contemptuous. "you should just stay here, adjuster wills," he advised--in a tone that made it a command. "this will be over in a moment." he was gone, back to his post. i stood for a moment, but it was easier to listen to his orders than to obey them; the neapolitan crowd didn't seem to take too well to discipline, and though there was no overt resistance to the search squads, there was a sort of brownian movement of individuals in the throng that kept edging me back and away from where i had been standing. it made me a little uncomfortable; i was standing close to the edge of a platform, and a large poster announced that the milan express was due to arrive on that track at any moment. in fact, i could hear the thin, effeminate whistle of its diesel locomotive just beyond the end of the platform. i tried to inch my way from the edge. i dodged around an electric baggage-cart, and trod heavily on someone's foot. * * * * * "excuse me," i said quickly, looking at the man. he glared back at me. there was a bright spark in his eyes; i could tell little about his expression because, oddly enough in that country of clean-shaven faces, he wore a heavy, ragged, clipped beard. he wore the uniform of a porter. he mumbled something i could not quite catch, and moved as if to push me away. i suppose i put up my arm. my papers, with the company seal bright gold upon them, were still in my hand, and the bearded man caught sight of them. if there had been anger in his eyes before, there was now raging fury. he shrilled, "beast! animal!" he thrust at me blindly and leaped past me, out of the shelter of the bags; he went spinning furiously through the crowd, men and women ricocheting off him. i heard a harsh bellow: "there he goes! zorchi! zorchi!" and i could hear the bearded man shrieking curses as he hurtled up the platform, up toward the oncoming train, over to the edge--and off the platform to the tracks! he fell less than a yard in front of the slim nose of the diesel. i don't suppose the speed of the train was even five miles an hour, but the engineer hadn't a chance in the world to stop. while i watched, struck motionless, along with all the others on that platform, the engine passed over the huddled form. the brakes were shrieking, but it was much, much too late. even in that moment i thought he would not be killed--not instantly, at least, unless he died of loss of blood. the trunk of his body was safely in the well between the tracks. but his legs were sprawled over a rail. and the slow click-click of the wheels didn't stop until his uniformed body was far out of sight. it was shocking, sickening, unbelievable. and it didn't stop there. a strange thing happened. when the man had dived into the path of the train, there was a sudden fearful hush; it had happened too suddenly for anyone to cry out. and when the hush ended, there was only a momentary, instinctive gasp of horror. then there was a quick, astonished babble of voices--and then cheers! and applause, and ringing bravos! i didn't understand. the man had thrown himself deliberately under the train. i was sure of it. was that something to cheer? * * * * * i finally made it to where the regional director was waiting for me--nearly an hour late. it was at a hotel overlooking the bay, and the sight was thrilling enough to put the unpleasant accident i had seen out of my mind for a moment. there was nothing so beautiful in all the world, i thought, as the bay of naples at sunset. it was not only my own opinion; i had seen it described many times in the travel folders i had pored over, while my wife indulgently looked over my shoulder, back in those remote days of marriage. "la prima vista del mundo," the folders had called it--the most beautiful sight of the world. they had said: "see naples, and die." i hadn't known, of course, that marianna would die first.... but that was all behind me. after marianna's death, a lot of things had happened, all in a short time, and some of them very bad. but good or bad, i had laid down a law for myself: i would not dwell on them. i had started on a new life, and i was going to put the past in a locked compartment in my mind. i had to! i was no longer an ordinary civilian, scraping together his blue heaven premiums for the sake of a roof over his head, budgeting his food policies, carrying on his humdrum little job. i was a servant of the human race and a member of the last surviving group of gentleman-adventurers in all the world: i was an insurance claims adjuster for the company! all the same, i couldn't quite forget some of the bad things that had happened, as i walked into the hotel dining room to meet the regional director. * * * * * regional director gogarty was a huge, pale balloon of a man. he was waiting for me at a table set for four. as he greeted me, his expression was sour. "glad to meet you, wills. bad business, this. bad business. he got away with it again." i coughed. "sir?" i asked. "zorchi!" he snapped. and i remembered the name i had heard on the platform. the mad-man! zorchi, luigi zorchi, the human jellyfish. "wills, do you know that that man has just cashed in on his _twelfth_ disability policy? and not a thing we could do to stop him! you were there. you saw it, didn't you?" "well, yes, but--" "thought so. the twelfth! and your driver said on the phone it was both legs this time. both legs--and on a common carrier. double indemnity!" he shook his enormous head. "and with a whole corps of expediters standing by to stop him!" i said with some difficulty, "sir, do you mean that the man i saw run over by the train was--" "luigi zorchi. that's who he was. ever hear of him, wills?" "can't say i have." gogarty nodded his balloon-like head. "the company has kept it out of the papers, of course, but you can't keep anything from being gossiped about around here. this zorchi is practically a national hero in naples. he's damn near a millionaire by now, i guess, and every lira of it has come right out of the company's indemnity funds. and do you think we can do anything about it? not a thing! not even when we're tipped off ahead of time--when, what, and where! "he just laughs at us. i know for a fact," gogarty said bitterly, "that zorchi knew we found out he was going to dive in front of that express tonight. he was just daring us to stop him. we should have! we should have figured he might disguise himself as a porter. we should--" i interrupted, "mr. gogarty, are you trying to tell me this man _deliberately_ maims himself for the accident insurance?" gogarty nodded sourly. "good heavens," i cried, "that's disloyal!" gogarty laughed sharply and brought me up standing. there was a note to the way he laughed that i didn't like; for a moment there, i thought he was thinking of my own little--well, indiscretion. but he said only, "it's expensive, too." i suppose he meant nothing by it. but i was sensitive on the subject. before i could ask him any more questions, the massive face smoothed out in a smile. he rose ponderously, greeting someone. "here they are, wills," he said jovially. "the girls!" * * * * * the headwaiter was conducting two young ladies toward us. i remembered my manners and stood up, but i confess i was surprised. i had heard that discipline in the field wasn't the same as at the home office, but after all--gogarty was a regional director! it was a little informal of him to arrange our first meeting at dinner, in the first place. but to make a social occasion of it was--in the straitlaced terms of the home office where i had been trained--almost unthinkable. and it was apparent that the girls were mere decoration. i had a hundred eager questions to ask gogarty--about this mad zorchi, about my duties, about company policy here in the principality of naples--but it would be far out of line to bring up company matters with these females present. i was not pleased, but i managed to be civil. the girls were decorative enough, i had to admit. gogarty said expansively, all trace of ill humor gone, "this is signorina dell'angela and miss susan manchester. rena and susan, this is tom wills." i said stiffly, "delighted." susan was the blonde one, a small plump girl with the bubbly smile of a professional model. she greeted gogarty affectionately. the other was dark and lovely, but with a constant shadow, almost glowering, in her eyes. so we had a few drinks. then we had a few more. then the captain appeared with a broad menu, and i found myself in an embarrassing position. for gogarty waved the menu aside with a gesture of mock disgust. "save it for the peasants," he ordered. "we don't want that blue plate slop. we'll start with those little baby shrimps like i had last night, and then an antipasto and after that--" i broke in apologetically, "mr. gogarty, i have only a class-b policy." gogarty blinked at me. "what?" i cleared my throat. "i have only class-b coverage on my blue plate policy," i repeated. "i, uh, i never went in much for such--" he looked at me incredulously. "boy," he said, "this is on the company. now relax and let me order. blue plate coverage is for the peasants; i eat like a human being." it shook me a little. here was a regional director talking about the rations supplied under the company's blue plate coverage as "slop." oh, i wasn't naive enough to think that no one talked that way. there were a certain number of malcontents anywhere. i'd heard that kind of talk, and even worse, once in a while from the class-d near-uninsurables, the soreheads with a grudge against the world who blamed all their troubles on the company and bleated about the "good old days." mostly they did their bleating when it was premium time, i'd noticed. but i certainly never expected it from gogarty. still--it was his party. and he seemed like a pretty nice guy. i had to allow him the defects of his virtues, i decided. if he was less reverent to the company than he should have been, at least by the same token he was friendly and democratic. he had at least twenty years seniority on me, and back at the home office a mere claims adjuster wouldn't have been at the same table with a regional director. and here he was feeding me better than i had ever eaten in my life, talking as though we were equals, even (i reminded myself) seeing to it that we had the young ladies to keep us company. * * * * * we were hours at dinner, hours and endless glasses of wine, and we talked continually. but the conversation never came close to official business. the girl rena was comfortable to be with, i found. there was that deep, eternal sadness in her eyes, and every once in a while i came up against it in the middle of a laugh; but she was soft-voiced and pleasant, and undeniably lovely. marianna had been prettier, i thought, but marianna's voice was harsh midwest while rena's-- i stopped myself. when we were on our after-dinner liqueurs, rena excused herself for a moment and, after a few minutes, i spotted her standing by a satin-draped window, looking wistfully out over a balcony. gogarty winked. i got up and, a little unsteadily, went over to her. "shall we look at this more closely?" i asked her. she smiled and we stepped outside. again i was looking down on the bay of naples--a scene painted in moonlight this time, instead of the orange hues of sunset. it was warm, but the moon was frosty white in the sky. even its muddled reflection in the slagged waters was grayish white, not yellow. there was a pale orange halo over the crater of mount vesuvius, to our left; and far down the coast a bluish phosphorescence, over the horizon, marked pompeii. "beautiful," i said. she looked at me strangely. all she said was, "let's go back inside." gogarty greeted us. "looking at the debris?" he demanded jovially. "not much to see at night. cheer up, tom. you'll see all the damage you want to see over the next few days." i said, "i hope so, sir." gogarty shook his head reprovingly. "not 'sir,' tom. save that for the office. call me sam." he beamed. "you want to know what it was like here during the war? you can ask the girls. they were here all through. especially susan--she was with the company's branch here, even before i took over. right, susan?" "right, sam," she said obediently. gogarty nodded. "not that rena missed much either, but she was out of town when the sicilians came over. weren't you?" he demanded, curiously intent. rena nodded silently. "naples sure took a pasting," gogarty went on. "it was pretty tough for a while. did you know that the sicilians actually made a landing right down the coast at pompeii?" "i saw the radioactivity," i said. "that's right. they got clobbered, all right. soon's the barges were in, the neapolitans let them have it. but it cost them. the company only allowed them five a-bombs each, and they had to use two more to knock out palermo. and--well, they don't like to tell this on themselves, but one of the others was a dud. probably the only dud a-bomb in history, i guess." he grinned at rena. astonishingly, rena smiled back. she was, i thought, a girl of many astonishing moments; i had not thought that she would be amused at gogarty's heavy-handed needling. * * * * * gogarty went on and on. i was interested enough--i had followed the naples-sicily war in the papers and, of course, i'd been briefed at the home office before coming over--but the girls seemed to find it pretty dull. by the time gogarty finished telling me about the sicilian attempt to trigger mt. vesuvius by dropping an a-bomb into its crater, rena was frankly bored and even susan was yawning behind her palm. we finally wound up under the marquee of the restaurant. gogarty and the blonde politely said good night, and disappeared into a cab. it was clearly up to me to take rena home. i hailed a cab. when i made up my new insurance schedule at the home office before coming over, i splurged heavily on transportation coverage. perhaps i was making up for the luxuries of travel that life with marianna hadn't allowed me. anyway, i'd taken out class aa policies. and as the cab driver clipped my coupons he was extremely polite. rena lived a long way from the hotel. i tried to make small talk, but she seemed to have something on her mind. i was in the middle of telling her about the terrible "accident" i had seen that evening at the station--suitably censored, of course--when i observed she was staring out the window. she hadn't been paying attention while i talked, but she noticed the silence when i stopped. she gave a little shake of the head and looked at me. "i'm sorry, mr. wills," she said. "i am being rude." "not at all," i said gallantly. "yes." she nodded and smiled, but it was a thoughtful, almost a sad, smile. "you are too polite, you gentlemen of the company. is that part of your training?" "it's easy to be polite to you, miss dell'angela," i said by rote. yes, it was part of our training: _a claims adjuster is always courteous_. but what i said was true enough, all the same. she was a girl that i enjoyed being polite to. "no, truly," she persisted. "you are an important officer in the company, and you must have trained long for the post. what did they teach you?" "well--" i hesitated--"just the sort of thing you'd expect, i guess. a little statistical mathematics--enough so we can understand what the actuaries mean. company policies, business methods, administration. then, naturally, we had a lot of morale sessions. a claims adjuster--" i cleared my throat, feeling a little self-conscious--"a claims adjuster is supposed to be like caesar's wife, you know. he must always set an example to his staff and to the public. i guess that sounds pretty stuffy. i don't mean it to be. but there is a lot of emphasis on tradition and honor and discipline." she asked, rather oddly, "and is there a course in loyalty?" "why, i suppose you might say that. there are ceremonies, you know. and it's a matter of cadet honor to put the company ahead of personal affairs." * * * * * "and do all claims adjusters live by this code?" for a moment i couldn't answer. it was like a blow in the face. i turned sharply to look at her, but there was no expression on her face, only a mild polite curiosity. i said with difficulty, "miss dell'angela, what are you getting at?" "why, nothing!" her face was as angelic as her name. "i don't know what you mean or what you may have heard about me, miss dell'angela, but i can tell you this, if you are interested. when my wife died, i went to pieces. i admit it. i said a lot of things i shouldn't have, and some of them may have reflected against the company. i'm not trying to deny that but, you understand, i was upset at the time. i'm not upset now." i took a deep breath. "to me, the company is the savior of humanity. i don't want to sound like a fanatic, but i am loyal to the company, to the extent of putting it ahead of my personal affairs, to the extent of doing whatever job the company assigns to me. and, if necessary, to the extent of dying for it if i have to. is that clear?" well, that was a conversation-stopper, of course. i hadn't meant to get all wound up about it, but it hurt to find out that there had been gossip. the dell'angela girl merely said: "quite clear." we rode in silence for a while. she was staring out the window again, and i didn't especially want to talk just then. maybe i was too sensitive. but there was no doubt in my mind that the company was the white hope of the world, and i didn't like being branded a traitor because of what i'd said after marianna died. i was, in a way, paying the penalty for it--it had been made pretty clear to me that i was on probation. that was enough. as i said, she lived a long way from the gran reale. i had plenty of time for my flare-up, and for brooding, and for getting over it. but we never did get around to much idle conversation on that little trip. by the time i had simmered down, i began to have disturbing thoughts. it suddenly occurred to me that i was a man, and she was a girl, and we were riding in a cab. i don't know how else to say it. at one moment i was taking her home from a dinner; and at the next, i was taking her home from a date. nothing had changed--except the way i looked at it. * * * * * all of a sudden, i began to feel as though i were fourteen years old again. it had been quite a long time since i had had the duty of escorting a beautiful girl--and by then i realized this was a really _beautiful_ girl--home at the end of an evening. and i was faced with the question that i had thought would never bother me again at least a decade before. should i kiss her good night? it was a problem, and i thought about it, feeling a little foolish but rather happy about it. but all my thinking came to nothing. she decided for me. the cab stopped in front of a white stucco wall. like so many of the better italian homes, the wall enclosed a garden, and the house was in the middle of the garden. it was an attractive enough place--class a at least, i thought--though it was hard to tell in the moonlight. i cleared my throat and sort of halfway leaned over to her. then she turned and was looking up at me, and the moonlight glinted brightly off what could only have been tears in her eyes. i stared. she didn't say a word. she shook her head briefly, opened the door and was gone behind the gate. it was a puzzlement. why had she been crying? what had i done? i reviewed my conduct all the way back to the hotel, but nothing much came of it. perhaps i had been brusque--but brusque enough to bring tears? i couldn't believe it. curious new life! i fell asleep with the pale moon shining in the window, brooding about the life i was just beginning, and about the old life behind me that was buried in the same grave with marianna. ii the naples branch of the company lay in the heart of the city. i took a cab to a sort of dome-roofed thing called a _galleria_, and walked under its skeletal steel ceiling to my new office. once the _galleria_ had been roofed with glass, but the glass had powdered down from the concussion of the mt. vesuvius bomb, or the capodichino bomb, or one of the other hammerblows the sicilians had rained on the principality of naples in the recent unpleasantness. i entered the office and looked around. the blonde girl named susan appeared to double as the office receptionist. she nodded efficiently and waved me to a fenced-off enclosure where sam gogarty sat, plump and untroubled, at an enormous desk. i pushed open the swinging gate. gogarty looked at me icily. "you're late," he said. _he_ had no hangover, it was clear. i said apologetically, "sorry, i'm--" "never mind. just don't let it happen again." it was clear that, in the office, business was business; the fact that we had been drinking together the night before would not condone liberties the morning after. gogarty said, "your desk is over there, wills. better get started." i felt considerably deflated as i sat down at my desk and stared unhappily at the piles of blue and yellow manifolds before me. the company had trained me well. i didn't need to be coached in order to get through the work; it was all a matter of following established techniques and precedents. i checked the coverage, reduced the claim to tape-code, fed the tapes into a machine. if the claim was legitimate, the machine computed the amounts due and issued a punch-card check. if there was anything wrong, the machine flashed a red light and spat the faulty claim out into a hopper. and there were plenty of claims. every adult in naples, of course, carried the conventional war-and-disaster policy--the so-called blue bolt coverage. since few of them had actually been injured in the war, the claims were small--mostly for cost of premiums on other policies, under the disability clauses. (for if war prevented a policyholder from meeting his blue plate premiums, for instance, the company itself under blue bolt would keep his policies paid--and the policyholder fed.) but there were some big claims, too. the neapolitan government had carried the conventional blue bolt policies and, though the policy had been canceled by the company before hostilities broke out--thus relieving the company of the necessity of paying damages to the principality of naples itself--still there were all the subsidiary loss and damage claims of the neapolitan government's bureaus and departments, almost every one of them non-canceling. it amounted to billions and billions of lire. just looking at the amounts on some of the vouchers before me made my head swim. and the same, of course, would be true in sicily. though that would naturally be handled by the sicilian office, not by us. however, the cost of this one brief, meager little war between naples and sicily, with less than ten thousand casualties, lasting hardly more than a week, must have set the company's reserves back hundreds of millions of dollars. and to think that some people didn't like the company! why, without it, the whole peninsula of italy would have been in financial ruin, the solvent areas dragged down with the combatants! naturally, the regional office was understaffed for this volume of work--which is why they had flown in new adjusters like myself. * * * * * i looked up from my desk, surprised. susan was standing next to me, an aspirin and a paper cup of water in her hand. "you look like you might need this," she whispered. she winked and was gone. i swallowed it gratefully, although my hangover was almost gone. i was finding in these dry papers all the romance and excitement i had joined the company's foreign service for. here before me were human lives, drama, tragedy, even an occasional touch of human-interest comedy. for the company was supporting most of naples and whatever affected a neapolitan life showed up somehow in the records of the company. it was a clean, _dedicated_ feeling to work for the company. the monks of the middle ages might have had something of the same positive conviction that their work in the service of a mighty churchly empire was right and just, but surely no one since. i attacked the mountain of forms with determination, taking pleasure in the knowledge that every one i processed meant one life helped by the company. it was plain in history, for all to see. once the world had been turbulent and distressed, and the company had smoothed it out. it had started with fires and disease. when the first primitive insurance companies--there were more than one, in the early days--began offering protection against the hazards of fire, they had found it wise to try to prevent fires. there were the advertising campaigns with their wistful-eyed bears pleading with smokers not to drop their lighted cigarettes in the dry forest; the technical bureaus like the underwriter's laboratory, testing electrical equipment, devising intricate and homely gimmicks like the underwriter's knot; the fire patrol in the big cities that followed up the city-owned fire department; the endless educational sessions in the schools.... and fires decreased. then there was life insurance. each time a death benefit was paid, a digit rang up on the actuarial scoreboard. was tuberculosis a major killer? establish mobile chest x-rays; alert the people to the meaning of a chronic cough. was it heart disease? explain the dangers of overweight, the idiocy of exercise past forty. people lived longer. health insurance followed the same pattern. it had begun by paying for bills incurred during sickness, and ended by providing full medical sickness prevention and treatment for all. elaborate research programs reduced the danger of disease to nearly nothing. only a few rare cases, like that of marianna.... i shook myself away from the thought. anyway, it was neither fire nor health insurance that concerned me now, but the blue bolt anti-war complex of the company's policies. it was easy enough to see how it had come about. for with fire and accident and disease ameliorated by the strong protecting hand of the company, only one major hazard remained--war. and so the company had logically and inevitably resolved to wipe out war. * * * * * i looked up. it was susan again, this time with a cardboard container of coffee. "you're an angel," i said. she set the coffee down and turned to go. i looked quickly around to make sure that gogarty was busy, and stopped her. "tell me something?" "sure." "about this girl, rena. does she work for the company?" susan giggled. "heavens, no. what an idea!" "what's so strange about it?" she straightened out her face. "you'd better ask sam--mr. gogarty, that is. didn't you have a chance to talk to her last night? or were you too busy with other things?" "i only want to know how she happened to be with you." susan shrugged. "sam thought you'd like to meet her, i guess. really, you'll have to ask him. all i know is that she's been in here quite a lot about some claims. but she doesn't work here, believe me." she wrinkled her nose in amusement. "and i won't work here either, if i don't get back to my desk." i took the hint. by lunch time, i had got through a good half of the accumulation on my desk. i ate briefly and not too well at a nearby _trattoria_ with a "b" on the blue plate medallion in its window. after the dinner of the night before, i more than half agreed with gogarty's comments about the blue plate menus. gogarty called me over when i got back to the office. he said, "i haven't had a chance to talk to you about luigi zorchi." i nodded eagerly. i had been hoping for some explanations. gogarty went on, "since you were on the scene when he took his dive, you might as well follow up. god knows you can't do worse than the rest of us." i said dubiously, "well, i saw the accident, if that's what you mean." "accident! what accident? this is the twelfth time he's done it, i tell you." he tossed a file folder at me. "take a look! loss of limbs--four times. internal injuries--six times. loss of vision, impaired hearing, hospitalization and so on--good lord, i can't count the number of separate claims. and, every one, he has collected on. go ahead, look it over." * * * * * i peered at the folder. the top sheet was a field report on the incident i had watched, when the locomotive of the milan express had severed both legs. the one below it, dated five weeks earlier, was for flash burns suffered in the explosion of a stove, causing the loss of the right forearm nearly to the elbow. curious, i thought, i hadn't noticed anything when i saw the man on the platform. still, i hadn't paid too much attention to him at first, and modern prosthetic devices were nearly miraculous. i riffled through the red-bordered sheets. the fifth claim down, nearly two years before, was-- i yelped, "mr. gogarty! this is a fraud!" "what?" "look at this! 'on st october, the insured suffered severe injuries while trapped in a rising elevator with faulty safety equipment, resulting in loss of both legs above knees, multiple lacerations of--' well, never mind the rest of it. but look at that, mr. gogarty! he already lost both legs! he can't lose them twice, can he?" gogarty sat back in his chair, looking at me oddly. "you startled me," he complained. "wills, what have i been trying to tell you? that's the whole point, boy! no, he didn't lose his legs twice. it was _five_ times!" i goggled at him. "but--" "but, but. but he did. wait a minute--" he held up a hand to stop my questions--"just take a look through the folder. see for yourself." he waited while, incredulously, i finished going through the dossier. it was true. i looked at gogarty wordlessly. he said resentfully, "you see what we're up against? and none of the things you are about to say would help. there is no mistake in the records--they've been double and triple-checked. there is no possibility that another man, or men, substituted for zorchi--fingerprints have checked every time. the three times he lost his arms, retina-prints checked. there is no possibility that the doctors were bribed, or that he lost a little bit more of his leg, for instance, in each accident--the severed sections were recovered, and they were complete. wills, _this guy grows new arms and legs like a crab_!" i looked at him in a daze. "what a fantastic scientific discovery!" i said. * * * * * he snorted. "fantastic pain in the neck! zorchi can't go on like this; he'll bankrupt the company. we can't stop him. even when we were tipped off this time--we couldn't stop him. and i'll tell you true, wills, that platform was loaded with our men when zorchi made his dive. you weren't the only adjuster of the company there." he picked a folded sheet of paper out of his desk. "here. zorchi is still in the hospital; no visitors allowed today. but i want you to take these credentials and go to see him tomorrow. you came to us with a high recommendation from the home office, wills--" that made me look at him sharply, but his expression was innocent "you're supposed to be a man of intelligence and resourcefulness. see if you can come up with some ideas on dealing with that situation. i'd handle it myself, but i've got--" he grimaced--"certain other minor administrative difficulties to deal with. oh, nothing important, but you might as well know that there appears to be a little, well, popular underground resentment toward the company around here." "incredible!" i said. he looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. "well," he said, "it's quitting time. see you in the morning." i had a lonely dinner at the same cheap restaurant where i'd had my lunch. i spent an hour in my room with my company-issued _adjuster's handbook_, looking for some precedent that had some sort of bearing on the case of a man who could grow new arms and legs. there wasn't anything, of course. i went out for a walk ... and still it wasn't nearly time for me to retire to bed. so i did what i had been avoiding doing. i looked in the phone book for rena dell'angela's number. there was, it developed, a benedetto dell'angela at the address she'd given the cab driver; but the phone was disconnected. so i wandered around some more, and then i went to sleep, dreaming about benedetto dell'angela. i saw him as a leather-faced, white-bearded and courtly old gentleman. rena's father, surely. possibly even her elder brother. certainly not her husband. it was a dull finish to the first full day of my rich, exciting new life.... * * * * * the "minor administrative difficulties" got major. so i didn't get to see zorchi the next day, after all. a junior adjuster named hammond--he was easily sixty, but the slow-moving, unenterprising type that would stay junior till the day he died--came white-faced into the office a few minutes after opening and huddled with gogarty for a quarter of an hour. then gogarty called me over. he said, "we're having a spot of trouble. hammond needs a little help; you're elected. draw what you need, take a couple of expediters along, report back to me this evening." hammond and i stopped at the cashier's office to draw three dispatch-cases full of lira-notes. outside, an armored car was waiting for us, with a full crew of six uniformed expediters. we raced off down the narrow streets with the sirens wailing, climbing the long hill road past the radioactive remains of capodichino, heading out toward the farmlands. hammond worriedly filled me in on the way. he had got in early to his branch office that morning, but no earlier than the first of a long line of policyholders. there had, it appeared, been some kind of rumor spread that the company was running out of money. it was preposterous on the face of it--after all, who _printed_ the money?--but you can't argue with a large group of people and, before the official hour of opening the branch, there were more than a hundred in the knotted line outside the door. hammond had rushed into the naples office for help, leaving his staff to do the best they could. he said gloomily, staring out through the view-slits at the farmlands and vineyards we were passing through, "i just hope we still have a branch office. this is a bad spot, wills. caserta. it got bombed out, you know; the whole southern end of the town is radioactive. and it has a long history of trouble. used to be the summer royal seat of the old italian monarchy; then the americans used it for a command headquarters in the war mussolini got into--the first atom war. it's been fought over time and again." i said reasonably, "but don't they know the company has all the resources in the world?" "sure they do--when they're thinking. right now they're not thinking. they've got it in their heads that the company isn't going to pay off. they're scared. you can't tell them anything. you can't even give them checks--they want cash on the line." i said, "that's pretty silly, isn't it? i mean--ugh!" i retched, as i suddenly got a whiff of the most unpleasant and penetrating odor i had ever encountered in my life. it was like death and destruction in gaseous form; a sickly sweet, clinging stink that oozed in through the pores of my skin to turn my stomach. "wow!" i said, gasping. hammond looked at me in bewilderment; then he grinned sourly. "new here, aren't you?" he inquired. "that's hemp. they grow the stuff for the fibers; and to get the fibers out, they let it get good and rotten. you'll get used to it," he promised. i tried. i tried pretty hard to get used to it; i hardly heard a word he said all the rest of the way in to caserta, i was trying so hard. but i didn't get used to it. * * * * * then i had my mind taken off my troubles. the branch was still doing business when we got there, though there were easily three or four hundred angrily shouting policyholders milling around in front of it. they scattered before us as the armored car came racing in; we skidded to a stop, siren blasting, and the expediters leaped out with their weapons at the ready. hammond and i climbed out of the armored car with our bags of money. there was an audible excitement in the crowd as the word spread back that the company had brought in enormous stores of lire, more than any man had ever seen, to pay off the claims. we could hear the chatter of many voices, and we almost could feel the tension slack off. it looked like the trouble was over. then there was a shrill whistle. it sounded very much like the alarm whistle of one of our expediters but, thinking back, i have never been sure. perhaps it was a nervous expediter, perhaps it was an agent provocateur in the crowd. but, whoever pulled the trigger, the explosion went off. there was a ragged yell from the crowd, and rocks began whizzing through the air. the pacifists in the mob began heading for the doorways and alleys around; women screamed, men shouted and bellowed, and for a moment it looked like we would be swamped. for not very many of them were pacifists, and there were at least a hundred screaming, gesticulating men lunging at us. one cobblestone shattered the theoretically unbreakable windshield of the truck next to my head; then the expediters, gas guns spitting, were ringing around us to protect the money. it was a short fight but vicious. by the time the first assault was repulsed there were at least fifty persons lying motionless in the street. i had never seen that sort of violence before. it did something to my stomach. i stood weaving, holding to the armored car, while the expediters circled the area around the branch office, firing hurry-up shots at the running rioters. hammond looked at me questioningly. "that smell," i said apologetically. he said only, "sure." true, the fetid aroma from the hemp fields was billowing all around us, but he knew as well as i that it was not the smell that was bothering me. in a few moments, as we were locking the bags of money into the office safe, red-crossed vehicles bearing the company insignia appeared in the street outside, and medics began tending to the victims. each one got a shot of something--an antidote to the sleep-gas from the expediters' guns, i guessed--and was loaded unceremoniously into the ambulances. hammond appeared beside me. "ready for business?" he asked. "they'll be back any minute now, the ones that can still walk. we'll be paying off until midnight, the way it looks." i said, "sure. that--that gas doesn't hurt them any, does it? i mean, after they go to the hospital they'll be all right, won't they?" hammond, twirling a pencil in his fingers, stared broodingly at the motionless body of one policyholder. he was a well-dressed man of fifty or so, with a reddish mustache, unusual in that area, and shattered rimless glasses. not at all the type i would expect to see in a street fight; probably, i thought, a typical innocent bystander. hammond said absently, "oh, sure. they'll be all right. never know what hit them." there was a tiny sharp _crack_ and the two halves of the pencil fell to the floor. he looked at it in surprise. "come on, wills. let's get to work." iii of course i still believed in the company. but all the same, it was the first time since i went to work for the company that i had even had to ask myself that question. that long, long day in hammond's puny little branch office, sweltering in the smell of the hemp fields, pushing across the mountains of lire to the grim-faced policyholders left me a little less sure of things. nearly all of the first hundred or so to pass my desk had been in the crowd that the expediters had fired on. a few had fresh bandages to show where stones had missed the expediters, but found targets all the same. nearly all of them were hostile. there was no casual conversation, very few "_grazies_" as they received their payments. but at last the day was at an end. hammond snapped an order to one of the clerks, who shoved his way through the dwindling line to close the door and bang down the shutters. i put through the last few applications, and we were through. it was hot and muggy out in the streets of new caserta. truce teams of expediters were patrolling the square, taken off their regular assignments of enforcing the peace between naples and sicily to keep down caserta's own mobs. hammond suggested dinner, and we went to a little blue plate in the palace itself. hammond held class-a food policies, but he was politeness itself; he voluntarily led the way to the class-b area. we presented our policy-cards to the waiter for canceling, and sat back to enjoy the air conditioning. i was still troubled over the violence. i said, "has there been any trouble around here before?" hammond said ruefully, "plenty. all over europe, if you want my opinion. of course, you never see it in the papers, but i've heard stories from field workers. they practically had a revolution in the sudeten strip after the prague-vienna affair." he stopped talking as the waiter set his meal-of-the-day in front of him. hammond looked at it sourly. "oh, the hell with it, wills," he said. "have a drink with me to wash this stuff down." * * * * * we ordered liquor, and hammond shoved his class-a card at the waiter. i am not a snoop, but i couldn't help noticing that the liquor coupons were nearly all gone; at his present rate, hammond would use up his year's allotment by the end of the summer, and be paying cash for his drinks. dinner was dull. hammond made it dull, because he was much more interested in his drinking than in me. though i was never much of a drinker, i'd had a little experience in watching others tank up; hammond i classified as the surly and silent type. he wasn't quite rude to me, but after the brandy with his coffee, and during the three or four straight whiskies that followed that, he hardly spoke to me at all. we left the blue plate in a strained silence and, after the cooled restaurant, the heat outside was painful. the air was absolutely static, and the odor from the hemp fields soaked into our clothes like a bath in a sewer. overhead it was nearly dark, and there were low black clouds. "we'd better get going," i ventured. "looks like rain." hammond said nothing, only grunted. he lurched ahead of me toward the narrow street that led back to the branch office, where our transport was waiting. the distance was easily half a mile. now i am not terribly lazy, and even in the heat i was willing enough to walk. but i didn't want to get caught in a rain. maybe it was superstition on my part--i knew that the danger was really slight--but i couldn't forget that three separate atomic explosions had gone off in the area around caserta and naples within only a few months, and there was going to be a certain amount of radioactivity in every drop of rain that fell for a hundred miles around. i started to tell hammond about it, but he made a disgusted noise and stumbled ahead. it wasn't as if we had to walk. caserta was not well equipped with cabs, but there were a few; and both hammond and myself ranked high enough in the company to have been able to get a lift from one of the expediter cars that were cruising about. there was a flare of lightning over the eastern mountains and, in a moment, the pounding roll of thunder. and a flat globule of rain splattered on my face. i said, "hammond, let's wait here for a lift." surprisingly he came along with me. if he hadn't, i would have left him in the street. * * * * * we were in a street of tenements. it was almost deserted; i rapped on the nearest door. no answer, no sound inside. i rapped again, then tried the door. it was locked. the next door--ancient and rickety as the first--was also locked, and no one answered. the third door, no one answered. by then it was raining hard; the knob turned under my fingers, and we stepped inside. we left the door ajar, on the chance that a squad car or cab might pass, and for light. it was almost dark outside, apart from the light from the lightning flashes, but even so it was darker within. there was no light at all in the narrow, odorous hall; not even a light seeping under the apartment doors. in the lightning flare, hammond's face was pale. he was beginning to sober up, and his manner was uneasy. we were there perhaps half an hour in that silent hall, watching the rain sleet down and the lightning flare and listening to the thunder. two or three times, squad cars passed, nosing slowly down the drenched streets, but though hammond looked longingly at them, i still didn't want to get wet. then the rain slowed and almost simultaneously a civilian cab appeared at the head of the block. "come on," i said, tugging at his arm. he balked. "wait for a squad car," he mumbled. "why? come on, hammond, it may start to pour again in a minute." "no!" his behavior was exasperating me. clearly it wasn't that he was too niggardly to pay for the cab; it was almost as if he were delaying going back to the branch office for some hidden reason. but that was ridiculous, of course. i said, "look, you can stay here if you want to, but i'm going." i jumped out of the doorway just in time to flag the cab; it rolled to a stop, and the driver backed to where i was standing. as i got in, i looked once more to the doorway where hammond was standing, his face unreadable. he made a gesture of some sort, but the lightning flashed again and i skipped into the cab. when i looked again he was invisible inside the doorway, and i told the driver to take me to the branch office of the company. curious; but it was not an end to curious things that night. at the branch office, my car was waiting to take me back to naples. i surrendered my travel coupons to the cab driver and jumped from one vehicle to the other. before my driver could start, someone appeared at the window of the car and a sharp voice said, "un momento, signore 'ammond!" i stared at the man, a rather badly dressed neapolitan. i said angrily, "hammond isn't here!" the man's expression changed. it had been belligerent; it now became astonished and apologetic. "a thousand times excuse me," he said. "the signore 'ammond, can you say where he is?" i hesitated, but only for a moment. i didn't like the little man peering in my window, however humble and conciliatory he had become. i said abruptly, "no." and my driver took off, leaving the man standing there. i turned to look back at him as we drove off. it was ridiculous, but the way he was standing as we left, holding one hand in his pocket, eyes narrowed and thoughtful, made me think that he was carrying a gun. but, of course, that was impossible. the company didn't permit lethal weapons, and who in all the world would challenge a rule of the company? * * * * * when i showed up in the naples office the next morning, susan had my coffee ready and waiting for me. i said gratefully, "bless you." she chuckled. "that's not all," she said. "here's something else you might like. just remember though, if anyone asks, you got it out of the files yourself." she slipped a folder under the piles of forms on my desk and disappeared. i peered at it curiously. it was labeled: "policy bnt- kt- , blue bolt comprehensive. insuree: renata dell'angela." i could have been no more grateful had she given me the company mint. but i had no chance to examine it. gogarty was calling for me. i hastily swallowed my coffee and reported for orders. they were simple enough. the appointment with zorchi that i hadn't been able to keep the day before was set up for right then. i was already late and i had to leave without another glance at rena's file. the hospital zorchi honored with his patronage was a marble-halled palace on the cliffs that rimmed the southern edge of the bay of naples. it was a luxurious, rich man's hospital, stuffy with its opulence; but the most opulent of all was the plush-lined three-room suite where zorchi was. a white-robed sister of some religious order led me into a silent elevator and along a statued hall. she tapped on a door, and left me in the care of a sharp-faced young man with glasses who introduced himself as mr. zorchi's secretary. i explained my business. he contemptuously waved me to a brocaded chair, and left me alone for a good half hour. by the time zorchi was ready to see me, i was boiling. nobody could treat a representative of the company like an errand boy! i did my best to take into consideration the fact that he had just undergone major surgery--first under the wheels of the train, then under the knives of three of naples' finest surgeons. i said as pleasantly as i could, "i'm glad to see you at last." * * * * * the dark face on the pink embroidered pillow turned coldly toward me. "che volete?" he demanded. the secretary opened his mouth to translate. i said quickly, "scusí; parlo un po' la lingua. non bisogno un traduttore." zorchi said languidly in italian, "in that case, mario, you may go. what do you want with me, weels?" i explained my duties as a claims adjuster for the company, pointing out that it was my task, indeed my privilege, to make settlement for injuries covered by company policies. he listened condescendingly. i watched him carefully while i talked, trying to estimate the approach he might respond to if i was to win his confidence. he was far from an attractive young man, i thought. no longer behind the shabby porter's uniform he had worn on the platform of the station, he still had an unkempt and slipshod appearance, despite the heavy silken dressing gown he wore and the manifest costliness of his room. the beard was still on his face; it, at least, had not been a disguise. it was not an attractive beard. it had been weeks, at the least, since any hand had trimmed it to shape and his hair was just as shaggy. zorchi was not impressed with my friendly words. when i had finished, he said coldly, "i have had claims against the company before, weels. why is it that this time you make speeches at me?" i said carefully, "well, you must admit you are a rather unusual case." "case?" he frowned fiercely. "i am no case, weels. i am zorchi, if you please." "of course, of course. i only mean to say that--" "that i am a statistic, eh?" he bobbed his head. "surely. i comprehend. but i am not a statistic, you see. or, at best, i am a statistic which will not fit into your electronic machines, am i not?" i admitted, "as i say, you are a rather unusual ca--a rather unusual person, mr. zorchi." he grinned coldly. "good. we are agreed. now that we have come to that understanding, are we finished with this interview?" i coughed. "mr. zorchi, i'll be frank with you." he snorted, but i went on, "according to your records, this claim need not be paid. you see, you already have been paid for total disability, both a lump sum and a continuing settlement. there is no possibility of two claims for the loss of your legs, you must realize." he looked at me with a touch of amusement. "i must?" he asked. "it is odd. i have discussed this, you understand, with many attorneys. the premiums were paid, were they not? the language of the policy is clear, is it not? my legs--would you like to observe the stumps yourself?" * * * * * he flung the silken covers off. i averted my eyes from the white-bandaged lower half of his torso, hairy and scrawny and horribly _less_ than a man's legs should be. i said desperately, "perhaps i spoke too freely. i do not mean, mr. zorchi, that we will not pay your claim. the company _always_ lives up to the letter of its contracts." he covered himself casually. "very well. give the check to my secretary, please. are you concluded?" "not quite." i swallowed. i plunged right in. "mr. zorchi, what the hell are you up to? how do you do it? there isn't any fraud, i admit it. you really lost your legs--more than once. you grew new ones. but how? don't you realize how important this is? if you can do it, why not others? if you are in some way pecu--that is, if the structure of your body is in some way different from that of others, won't you help us find out how so that we can learn from it? it isn't necessary for you to live as you do, you know." he was looking at me with a hint of interest in his close-set, dull eyes. i continued, "even if you can grow new legs, do you _enjoy_ the pain of having them cut off? have you ever stopped to think that some day, perhaps, you will miscalculate, and the wheels of the train, or the truck, or whatever you use, may miss your legs and kill you? that's no way for a man to live, mr. zorchi. why not talk freely to me, let me help you? why not take the company into your confidence, instead of living by fraud and deceit and--" i had gone too far. livid, he snarled, "ass! that will cost your company, i promise. is it fraud for me to suffer like this? do i enjoy it, do you think? look, ass!" he flung the covers aside again, ripped at the white bandages with his hands--blood spurted. he uncovered the raw stumps and jerked them at me. i do not believe any sight of my life shocked me as much as that; it was worse than the caserta hemp fields, worse than the terrible _gone_ moment when marianna died, worse than anything i could imagine. he raved, "see this fraud, look at it closely! truly, i grow new legs, but does that make it easier to lose the old? it is the pain of being born, weels, a pain you will never know! i grow legs, i grow arms, i grow eyes. i will never die! i will live on like a reptile or a fish." his eyes were staring. ignoring the blood spurting from his stumps, ignoring my attempts to say something, he pounded his abdomen. "twelve times i have been cut--do you see even a scar? my appendix, it is bad; it traps filth, and the filth makes me sick. and i have it cut out--and it grows again; and i have it cut out again, and it grows back. and the pain, weels, the pain never stops!" he flung the robe open, slapped his narrow, hairy chest. i gasped. under the scraggly hair was a rubble of boils and wens, breaking and matting the hair as he struck himself in frenzy. "envy me, weels!" he shouted. "envy the man whose body defends itself against everything! i will live forever, i promise it, and i will always be in pain, and someone will pay for every horrible moment of it! now get out, get out!" i left under the hating eyes of the sharp-faced secretary who silently led me to the door. * * * * * i had put zorchi through a tantrum and subjected myself to as disagreeable a time as i'd ever had. and i hadn't accomplished a thing. i knew that well enough. and if i hadn't known it by myself, i would have found out. gogarty pointed it out to me, in detail. "you're a big disappointment to me," he moaned sourly. "ah, the hell with it. what were you trying to accomplish, anyway?" i said defensively, "i thought i might appeal to his altruism. after all, you didn't give me very explicit instructions." "i didn't tell you to remember to wipe your nose either," he said bitterly. he shook his head, the anger disappearing. "well," he said disconsolately, "i don't suppose we're any worse off than we were. i guess i'd better try this myself." he must have caught a hopeful anticipatory gleam in my eye, because he said quickly, "not right now, wills. you've made that impossible. i'll just have to wait until he cools off." i said nothing; just stood there waiting for him to let me go. i was sorry things hadn't worked out but, after all, he had very little to complain about. besides, i wanted to get back to my desk and the folder about rena dell'angela. it wasn't so much that i was interested in her as a person, i reminded myself. i was just curious.... once again, i had to stay curious for a while. gogarty had other plans for me. before i knew what was happening, i was on my way out of the office again, this time to visit another neapolitan hospital, where some of the severely injured in the recent war were waiting final settlement of their claims. it was a hurry-up matter, which had been postponed too many times already; some of the injured urgently required major medical treatment, and the hospital was howling for approval of their claims before they'd begin treatment. this one was far from a marble palace. it had the appearance of a stucco tenement, and all of the patients were in wards. i was a little surprised to see expediters guarding the entrance. i asked one of them, "anything wrong?" he looked at me with a flicker of astonishment, recognizing the double-breasted claim adjuster uniform, surprised, i think, at my asking him a question. "not as long as we're here, sir," he said. "i mean, i was wondering what you were doing here." the surprise became overt. "vaults," he said succinctly. * * * * * i prodded no further. i knew what he meant by vaults, of course. it was part of the company's beneficent plan for ameliorating the effects of even such tiny wars as the naples-sicily affair that those who suffered radiation burns got the best treatment possible. and the best treatment, of course, was suspended animation. the deadly danger of radiation burns lay in their cumulative effect; the first symptoms were nothing, the man was well and able to walk about. degeneration of the system followed soon, the marrow of the bone gave up on its task of producing white corpuscles, the blood count dropped, the tiny radiant poisons in his blood spread and worked their havoc. if he could be gotten through the degenerative period he might live. but, if he lived, he would still die. that is, if his life processes continued, the radiation sickness would kill him. the answer was to stop the life process, temporarily, by means of the injections and deep-freeze in the vaults. it was used for more than radiation, of course. marianna, for instance-- well, anyway, that was what the vaults were. these were undoubtedly just a sort of distribution point, where local cases were received and kept until they could be sent to the main company vaults up the coast at anzio. i wasn't questioning the presence of vaults there; i was only curious why the company felt they needed guarding. i found myself so busy, though, that i had no time to think about it. a good many of the cases in this shabby hospital really needed the company's help. but a great many of them were obvious attempts at fraud. there was a woman, for instance, in the maternity ward. during the war, she'd had to hide out after the capodichino bombing and hadn't been able to reach medical service. so her third child was going to be a girl, and she was asking indemnity under the gender-guarantee clause. but she had only class-c coverage and her first two had been boys; a daughter was permissible in any of the first four pregnancies. she began swearing at me before i finished explaining these simple facts to her. i walked out of the ward, hot under the collar. didn't these people realize we were trying to help them? they didn't appear to be aware of it. only the terribly injured, the radiation cases, the amputees, the ones under anesthetic--only these gave me no arguments, mainly because they couldn't talk. * * * * * most of them were on their way to the vaults, i found. my main job was revision of their policies to provide for immobilization. inevitably, there are some people who will try to take advantage of anything. the retirement clause in the basic contract was the joker here. considering that the legal retirement age under the universal blue heaven policy was seventy-five years--calendar years, not metabolic years--there were plenty of invalids who wanted a few years in the vaults for reasons that had nothing to do with health. if they could sleep away two or three decades, they could, they thought, emerge at a physical age of forty or so and live idly off the company the rest of their lives. they naturally didn't stop to think that if any such practice became common the company would simply be unable to pay claims. and they certainly didn't think, or care that, if the company went bankrupt, the world as we knew it would end. it was a delicate problem; we couldn't deny them medical care, but we couldn't permit them the vaults unless they were either in clearly urgent need, or were willing to sign an extension waiver to their policies.... i saw plenty of that, that afternoon. the radiation cases were the worst, in that way, because they still could talk and argue. even while they were being loaded with drugs, even while they could see with their own eyes the blood-count graph dipping lower and lower, they still complained at being asked to sign the waiver. there was even some fear of the vaults themselves--though every living human had surely seen the company's indoctrination films that showed how the injected drugs slowed life processes and inhibited the body's own destructive enzymes; how the apparently lifeless body, down to ambient air temperature, would be slipped into its hermetic plastic sack and stacked away, row on row, far underground, to sleep away the months or years or, if necessary, the centuries. time meant nothing to the suspendees. it was hard to imagine being afraid of as simple and natural a process as that! although i had to admit that the vaults looked a lot like morgues.... i didn't enjoy it. i kept thinking of marianna. she had feared the vaults too, in the childish, unreasoning, feminine way that was her characteristic. when the blue blanket technicians had turned up the diagnosis of leukemia, they had proposed the sure-thing course of putting her under suspension while the slow-acting drugs--specially treated to operate even under those conditions--worked their cure, but she had refused. there had been, they admitted, a ninety-nine and nine-tenths per cent prospect of a cure without suspension.... it just happened that marianna was in the forlorn one-tenth that died. i couldn't get her out of my mind. the cases who protested or whined or pleaded or shrieked that they were being tortured and embalmed alive didn't help. i was glad when the afternoon was over and i could get back to the office. * * * * * as i came in the door, gogarty was coming in, too, from the barbershop downstairs. he was freshly shaved and beaming. "quitting time, tom," he said amiably, though his eyes were memorizing the pile of incomplete forms on my desk. "all work and no play, you know." he nudged me. "not that you need reminding, eh? still, you ought to tell your girl that she shouldn't call you on office time, tom." "call me? rena called me?" he nodded absently, intent on the desk. "against company rules, you know. say, i don't like to push you, but aren't you running a little behind here?" i said with some irritation, "i don't have much chance to catch up, the way i've been racing around the country, you know. and there's plenty to be done." he said soothingly, "now, take it easy, tom. i was only trying to say that there might be some easier way to handle these things." he speared a form, glanced over it casually. he frowned. "take this, for instance. the claim is for catching cold as a result of exposure during the evacuation of cerignola. what would you do with that one?" "why--pay it, i suppose." "and put in the paper work? suppose it's a phony, tom? not one case of coryza in fifty is genuine." "what would you do?" i asked resentfully. he said without hesitation, "send it back with form cbb- a . ask for laboratory smear-test reports." i looked over the form. a long letter was attached; it said in more detail than was necessary that there had been no laboratory service during the brief war, at least where the policyholder happened to be, and therefore he could submit only the affidavits of three registered physicians. it looked like a fair claim to me. if it was up to me, i would have paid it automatically. i temporized. "suppose it's legitimate?" "suppose it is? look at it this way, tom. if it's phoney, this will scare him off, and you'd be saving the company the expense and embarrassment of paying off a fraudulent claim. if it's legitimate, he'll resubmit it--at a time when, perhaps, we won't be so busy. meanwhile that's one more claim handled and disposed of, for our progress reports to the home office." * * * * * i stared at him unbelievingly. but he looked back in perfect calm, until my eyes dropped. after all, i thought, he was right in a way. the mountain of work on my desk was certainly a log-jam, and it had to be broken somehow. maybe rejecting this claim would work some small hardship in an individual case, but what about the hundreds and thousands of others waiting for attention? wasn't it true that no small hardship to an individual was as serious as delaying all those others? it was, after all, that very solicitude for the people at large that the company relied on for its reputation--that, and the iron-clad guarantee of prompt and full settlement. i said, "i suppose you're right." he nodded, and turned away. then he paused. "i didn't mean to bawl you out for that phone call, tom," he said. "just tell her about the rule, will you?" "sure. oh, one thing." he waited. i coughed. "this girl, rena. i don't know much about her, you know. is she, well, someone you know?" he said, "heavens, no. she was making a pest out of herself around here, frankly. she has a claim, but not a very good one. i don't know all the details, because it's encoded, but the machines turned it down automatically. i do know that she, uh--" he sort of half winked--"wants a favor. her old man is in trouble. i'll look it up for you some time, if you want, and get the details. i think he's in the cooler--that is, the clinic--up at anzio." he scratched his plump jowls. "i didn't think it was fair to you for me to have a girl at dinner and none for you; susan promised to bring someone along, and this one was right here, getting in the way. she said she liked americans, so i told her you would be assigned to her case." this time he did wink. "no harm, of course. you certainly wouldn't be influenced by any, well, personal relationship, if you happened to get into one. oh, a funny thing. she seemed to recognize your name." _that_ was a jolt. "she what?" gogarty shrugged. "well, she reacted to it. 'thomas wills,' i said. she'd been acting pretty stand-offish, but she warmed up quick. maybe she just likes the name, but right then is when she told me she liked americans." i cleared my throat. "mr. gogarty," i said determinedly, "please get me straight on something. you say this girl's father is in some kind of trouble, and you imply she knows me. i want to know if you've ever had any kind of report, or even heard any kind of rumor, that would make you think that i was in the least sympathetic to any anti-company groups? i'm aware that there were stories--" he stopped me. "i never heard any, tom," he said definitely. i hesitated. it seemed like a good time to open up to gogarty; i opened my mouth to start, but i was too late. susan called him off for what she claimed was an urgent phone call and, feeling let-down, i watched him waddle away. because it was, after all, time that i took down my back hair with my boss. * * * * * well, i hadn't done anything too terribly bad--anyway, i hadn't _meant_ to do anything bad. and the circumstances sort of explained it, in a way. and it was all in the past, and-- and nothing. i faced the facts. i had spent three solid weeks getting blind drunk, ranting and raving and staggering up to every passer-by who would listen and whining to him that the company was evil, the company was murderous, the company had killed my wife. there was no denying it. and i had capped it all off one bleary midnight, with a brick through the window of the company branch office that served my home. it was only a drunken piece of idiocy, i kept telling myself. but it was a drunken piece of idiocy that landed me in jail, that had been permanently indorsed on every one of my policies, that was in the confidential pages of my company service record. it was a piece of idiocy that anyone might have done. but it would have meant deep trouble for me, if it hadn't been for the intercession of my wife's remote relative, chief underwriter defoe. it was he who had bailed me out. he had never told me how he had found out that i was in jail. he appeared, read the riot-act to me and got me out. he put me over the coals later, yes, but he'd bailed me out. he'd told me i was acting like a child--and convinced me of it, which was harder. and when he was convinced i had snapped out of it, he personally backed me for an appointment to the company's school as a cadet claims adjuster. i owed a considerable debt of gratitude to my ex-remote-in-law, chief underwriter defoe. * * * * * while i still was brooding, gogarty came back. he looked unhappy. "hammond," he said bitterly. "he's missing. look, was he drunk when you left him last night?" i nodded. "thought so. never showed up for work. not at his quarters. the daily ledger's still open at his office, because there's no responsible person to sign it. so naturally i've got to run out to caserta now, and what susan will say--" he muttered away. i remembered the file that was buried under the papers on my desk, when he mentioned susan's name. as soon as he was out of the office, i had it open. and as soon as i had it open, i stared at it in shock. the title page of the sheaf inside was headed: signorina renata dell'angela. age ; daughter of benedetto dell'angela; accepted to general class-aa; no employment. there were more details. but across all, in big red letters, was a rubber stamp: _policy canceled. reassigned class-e._ it meant that the sad-eyed rena was completely uninsurable. iv phone or no phone, i still had her address. it was still daylight when i got out of the cab, and i had a chance for a good look at the house. it was a handsome place by day; the size of the huge white stucco wall didn't fit the _uninsurable_ notation on rena's claim. that wall enclosed a garden; the garden could hardly hold less than an aa house. and class-es were ordinarily either sent to public hostels--at the company's expense, to be sure--or existed on the charity of friends or relatives. and class-es seldom had friends in class-aa houses. i knocked at the gate. a fat woman, age uncertain but extreme, opened a little panel and peered at me. i asked politely, "miss dell'angela?" the woman scowled. "che dice?" i repeated: "may i see miss dell'angela? i'm a claims adjuster for the company. i have some business with her in connection with her policies." "ha!" said the woman. she left it at that for a moment, pursing her lips and regarding me thoughtfully. then she shrugged apathetically. "momento," she said wearily, and left me standing outside the gate. from inside there was a muttering of unfamiliar voices. i thought i heard a door open, and the sound of steps, but when the fat woman came back she was alone. silently she opened the door and nodded me in. i started automatically up the courtyard toward the enclosed house, but she caught my arm and motioned me toward another path. it led down a flowered lane through a grape arbor to what might, at one time, have been a caretaker's hut. i knocked on the door of the hut, comprehending where rena dell'angela lived as a class-e uninsurable. rena herself opened it, her face flushed, her expression surprised--apprehensive, almost, i thought at first. it was the first time i had seen her by daylight. she was--oh, there was no other word. she was lovely. she said quickly, "mr. wills! i didn't expect you." i said, "you phoned me. i came as soon as i could." she hesitated. "i did," she admitted. "it was--i'm sorry, mr. wills. it was an impulse. i shouldn't have done it." "what was it, rena?" she shook her head. "i am sorry. it doesn't matter. but i am a bad hostess; won't you come in?" * * * * * the room behind the door was long and narrow, with worn furniture and a door that led, perhaps, to another room behind. it seemed dusty and, hating myself as a snooping fool, i took careful note that there was a faint aroma of tobacco. i had been quite sure that she didn't smoke, that evening we had met. she gestured at a chair--there only were two, both pulled up to a crude wooden table, on which were two poured cups of coffee. "please sit down," she invited. i reminded myself that it was, after all, none of my business if she chose to entertain friends--even friends who smoked particularly rancid tobacco. and if they preferred not to be around when i came to the door, why, that was their business, not mine. i said cautiously, "i didn't mean to interrupt you." "interrupt me?" she saw my eyes on the cups. "oh--oh, no, mr. wills. that other cup is for you, you see. i poured it when luisa told me you were at the gate. it isn't very good, i'm afraid," she said apologetically. i made an effort to sip the coffee; it was terrible. i set it down. "rena, i just found out about your policies. believe me, i'm sorry. i hadn't known about it, when we had dinner together; i would have--well, i don't know what i would have done. there isn't much i can do, truthfully; i don't want you thinking i have any great power. but i wish i had known--i might not have made you cry, at any rate." she smiled an odd sort of smile. "that wasn't the reason, mr. wills." "please call me tom. well, then, why did you cry?" "it is of no importance. please." i coughed and tried a different tack. "you understand that i do have _some_ authority. and i would like to help you if i can--if you'll let me." "let you? how could i prevent it?" her eyes were deep and dark. i shook myself and pulled the notes i'd made on her policies from my pocket. in the most official voice i could manage, i said, "you see, there may be some leeway in interpreting the facts. as it stands, frankly, there isn't much hope. but if you'll give me some information--" "certainly." "all right. now, your father--benedetto dell'angela. he was a casualty of the war with sicily; he got a dose of radiation, and he is at present in a low-metabolism state in the clinic at anzio, waiting for the radiogens to clear out of his system. is that correct?" "it is what the company's report said," she answered. * * * * * her tone was odd. surely she wasn't doubting a company report! "as his dependent, rena, you applied for subsistence benefits on his blue blanket policies, as well as war-risk benefits under the blue bolt. both applications were refused; the blue blanket because your father is technically not hospitalized; the blue bolt, as well as all your other personal policies, was cancelled, because of--" i stuttered over it--"of activities against the best interest of the company. specifically, giving aid and comfort to a known troublemaker whose name is given here as slovetski." i showed her the cancellation sheet i had stolen from the files. she shrugged. "this much i know, tom," she said. "why?" i demanded. "this man is believed to have been instrumental in inciting the war with sicily!" she flared, "tom, that's a lie! slovetski is an old friend of my father's--they studied together in berlin, many years ago. he is utterly, completely against war--any war!" i hesitated. "well, let's put that aside. but you realize that, in view of this, the company can maintain--quite properly in a technical sense--that you contributed to the war, and therefore you can't collect blue bolt compensation for a war you helped bring about. you were warned, you see. you can't even say that you didn't know what you were doing." "tom," rena's voice was infinitely patient and sad. "i knew what i was doing." "in that case, rena, you have to admit that it seems fair enough. still, perhaps we can get something for you--even if only a refund of your premiums. the company doesn't always follow the letter of the law, there are always exceptions, so--" her expression stopped me. she was smiling, but it was the tortured smile of prometheus contemplating the cosmic jest that was ripping out his vitals. * * * * * i asked uncertainly, "don't you believe me?" "believe you, tom? indeed i do." she laughed out loud that time. "after what happened to my father, i assure you, tom, i am certain that the company doesn't always follow the law." i shook my head quickly. "no, you don't understand. i--" "i understand quite well." she studied me for a moment, then patted my hand. "let us talk of something else." "won't you tell me why your policy was cancelled?" she said evenly, "it's in the file. because i was a bad girl." "but why? why--" "because, tom. please, no more. i know you are trying to be just as helpful as you can, but there is no help you can give." "you don't make it easy, rena." "it can't be easy! you see, i admit everything. i was warned. i helped an old friend whom the company wanted to--shall we say--treat for radiation sickness? so there is no question that my policy can be cancelled. all legal. it is not the only one of its kind, you know. so why discuss it?" "why shouldn't we?" her expression softened. "because--because we do not agree. and never shall." i stared at her blankly. she was being very difficult. really, i shouldn't be bothering with her, someone i barely knew, someone i hadn't even heard of until-- that reminded me. i said, "rena, how did you know my name?" her eyes went opaque. "know your name, tom? why, mr. gogarty introduced us." "no. you knew of me before that. come clean, rena. please." she said flatly, "i don't know what you mean." she was beginning to act agitated. i had seen her covertly glancing at her watch several times; now she held it up openly--ostentatiously, in fact. "i am sorry, but you'd better go," she said with a hint of anxiety in her voice. "please excuse me." well, there seemed no good reason to stay. so i went--not happily; not with any sense of accomplishment; and fully conscious of the figure i cut to the unseen watcher in the other room, the man whose coffee i had usurped. because there was no longer a conjecture about whether there had been such a person or not. i had heard him sneeze three times. * * * * * back at my hotel, a red light was flashing on the phone as i let myself in. i unlocked the play-back with my room key and got a recorded message that gogarty wanted me to phone him at once. he answered the phone on the first ring, looking like the wrath of god. it took me a moment to recognize the symptoms; then it struck home. the lined gray face, the jittery twitching of the head, the slow, tortured movements; here was a man with a classic textbook case of his ailment. the evidence was medically conclusive. he had been building up to a fancy drinking party, and something made him stop in the middle. there were few tortures worse than a grade-a hangover, but one of those that qualified was the feeling of having the drink die slowly, going through the process of sobering up without the anesthetic of sleep. he winced as the scanning lights from the phone hit him. "wills," he said sourly. "about time. listen, you've got to go up to anzio. we've got a distinguished visitor, and he wants to talk to you." "me?" "you! he knows you--his name is defoe." the name crashed over me; i hadn't expected that, of all things. he was a member of the council of underwriters! i thought they never ventured far from the home office. in fact, i thought they never had a moment to spare from the awesome duties of running the company. gogarty explained. "he appeared out of nowhere at carmody field. i was still in caserta! just settling down to a couple of drinks with susan, and they phoned me to say chief underwriter defoe is on my doorstep!" i cut in, "what does he want?" gogarty puffed his plump cheeks. "how do i know? he doesn't like the way things are going, i guess. well, i don't like them either! but i've been twenty-six years with the company, and if he thinks.... snooping and prying. there are going to be some changes in the office, i can tell you. somebody's been passing on all kinds of lying gossip and--" he broke off and stared at me calculatingly as an idea hit him. then he shook his head. "no. couldn't be you, wills, could it? you only got here, and defoe's obviously been getting this stuff for weeks. maybe months. still--say, how did you come to know him?" * * * * * it was none of his business. i said coldly, "at the home office. i guess i'll take the morning plane up to anzio, then." "the hell you will. you'll take the night train. it gets you there an hour earlier." gogarty jerked his head righteously--then winced and clutched his temple. he said miserably, "oh, damn. tom, i don't like all of this. i think something happened to hammond." i repeated, "happened? what could happen to him?" "i don't know. but i found out a few things. he's been seen with some mighty peculiar people in caserta. what's this about somebody with a gun waiting at the office for him when you were there?" it took a moment for me to figure out what he was talking about. "oh," i said, "you mean the man at the car? i didn't know he had a gun, for certain." "i do," gogarty said shortly. "the expediters tried to pick him up today, to question him about hammond. he shot his way out." i told gogarty what i knew, although it wasn't much. he listened abstractedly and, when i had finished, he sighed. "well, that's no help," he grumbled. "better get ready to catch your train." i nodded and reached to cut off the connection. he waved half-heartedly. "oh, yes," he added, "give my regards to susan if you see her." "isn't she here?" he grimaced. "your friend defoe said he needed a secretary. he requisitioned her." * * * * * i boarded the anzio train from the same platform where i had seen zorchi dive under the wheels. but this was no sleek express; it was an ancient three-car string that could not have been less than fifty years out of date. the cars were not even air-conditioned. sleep was next to impossible, so i struck up a conversation with an expediter-officer. he was stand-offish at first but, when he found out i was a claims adjuster, he mellowed and produced some interesting information. it was reasonable that defoe would put aside his other duties and make a quick visit to anzio, because anzio seemed to need someone to do something about it pretty badly. my officer was part of a new levy being sent up there; the garrison was being doubled; there had been trouble. he was vague about what kind of "trouble" it had been, but it sounded like mob violence. i mentioned caserta and the near-riot i had been in; the officer's eyes hooded over, and about five minutes after that he pointedly leaned back and pulled his hat over his eyes. evidently it was not good form to discuss actual riots. i accepted the rebuke, but i was puzzled in my mind as i tried to get some sleep for myself. what kind of a place was this naples, where mobs rioted against the company and even intelligent-seeming persons like renata dell'angela appeared to have some reservations about it? v i slept, more or less, for an hour or so in that cramped coach seat. i was half asleep when the train-expediter nudged my elbow and said, "anzio." it was early--barely past daybreak. it was much too early to find a cab. i got directions from a drowsing stationmaster and walked toward the vaults. the "clinic," as the official term went, was buried in the feet of the hills just beyond the beaches. i was astonished at the size of it. not because it was so large; on the contrary. it was, as far as i could see, only a broad, low shed. then it occurred to me that the vaults were necessarily almost entirely underground, for the sake of economy in keeping them down to the optimum suspendee temperature. it was safe enough and simple enough to put a man in suspended animation but, as i understood it, it was necessary to be sure that the suspendees never got much above fifty degrees temperature for any length of time. above that, they had an unwelcome tendency to decay. this was, i realized, the first full-scale "clinic" i had ever seen. i had known that the company had hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them scattered all over the world. i had heard that the company had enough of them, mostly in out-of-the-way locations, to deep-freeze the entire human race at once, though that seemed hardly reasonable. i had even heard some ugly, never-quite-made-clear stories about _why_ the company had so many clinics ... but when people began hinting at such ridiculous unpleasantness, i felt it was my duty to make it clear that i wanted to hear no subversive talk. so i had never got the details--and certainly would never have believed them for a moment if i had. * * * * * it was very early in the morning, as i say, but it seemed that i was not the first to arrive at the clinic. on the sparse grass before the main entrance, half a dozen knots of men and women were standing around apathetically. some of them glared at me as i came near them, for reasons i did not understand; others merely stared. i heard a hoarse whisper as i passed one group of middle-aged women. one of them was saying, "benedetto non é morte." she seemed to be directing it to me; but it meant nothing. the only comment that came to my somewhat weary mind was, "so what if benedetto isn't dead?" a huge armed expediter, yawning and scratching, let me in to the executive office. i explained that i had been sent for by mr. defoe. i had to wait until mr. defoe was ready to receive me and was finally conducted to a suite of rooms. this might have once been an authentic clinic; it had the aseptic appearance of a depressing hospital room. one for, say, class-cs with terminal myasthenia. now, though, it had been refitted as a private guest suite, with an attempt at luxurious drapes and deep stuffed armchairs superimposed on the basic adjustable beds and stainless steel plumbing. i hadn't seen defoe in some time, but he hadn't changed at all. he was, as always, the perfect model of a company executive of general-officer rank. he was formal, but not unyielding. he was tall, distinguished-gray at the temples, spare, immaculately outfitted in the traditional vest and bow tie. i recalled our first meeting. he was from the side of marianna's family that she talked about, and she fluttered around for three whole days, checking our blue plate policies for every last exotic dish we could squeeze out to offer him, planning the television programs allowed under our entertainment policies, selecting the most respectable of our friends--"acquaintances" would be a better description; marianna didn't make friends easily--to make up a dinner party. he'd arrived at the stroke of the hour he was due, and had brought with him what was undoubtedly his idea of a princely gift for newly-weds--a paid-up extra-coverage maternity benefit rider on our blue blanket policies. we thanked him effusively. and, for my part, sincerely. that was before i had known marianna's views on children; she had no intentions of raising a family. * * * * * as i walked in on defoe in his private suite at the clinic, he was standing with his back to me, at a small washstand, peering at his reflection in a mirror. he appeared to have finished shaving. i rubbed my own bristled chin uneasily. he said over his shoulder, "good morning, thomas. sit down." i sat on the edge of an enormous wing chair. he pursed his lips, stretched the skin under his chin and, when he seemed perfectly satisfied the job was complete, he said as though he were continuing a conversation, "fill me in on your interview with zorchi, thomas." it was the first i'd known he'd ever _heard_ of zorchi. i hesitantly began to tell him about the meeting in the hospital. it did not, i knew, do me very much credit, but it simply didn't occur to me to try to make my own part look better. i suppose that if i thought of the matter at all, i simply thought that defoe would instantly detect any attempt to gloss things over. he hardly seemed to be paying attention to me, though; he was preoccupied with the remainder of his morning ritual--carefully massaging his face with something fragrant, brushing his teeth with a maddening, old-fashioned insistence on careful strokes, combing his hair almost strand by strand. then he took a small bottle with a daub attached to the stopper and touched it to the distinguished gray at his temples. i spluttered in the middle of a word; i had never thought of the possibility that the handsomely grayed temples of the company's senior executives, as inevitable as the vest or the watch chain, were equally a part of the uniform! defoe gave me a long inquiring look in the mirror; i coughed and went on with a careful description of zorchi's temper tantrum. defoe turned to me and nodded gravely. there was neither approval nor disapproval. he had asked for information and the information had been received. he pressed a communicator button and ordered breakfast. the microphone must have been there, but it was invisible. he sat down at a small, surgical-looking table, leaned back and folded his hands. "now," he said, "tell me what happened in caserta just before hammond disappeared." talking to defoe had something of the quality of shouting down a well. i collected my thoughts and told him all i knew on the riot at the branch office. while i was talking, defoe's breakfast arrived. he didn't know i hadn't eaten anything, of course--i say "of course" because i know he couldn't have known, he didn't ask. i looked at it longingly, but all my looking didn't alter the fact that there was only one plate, one cup, one set of silverware. * * * * * he ate his breakfast as methodically as he'd brushed his teeth. i doubt if it took him five minutes. since i finished the caserta story in about three, the last couple of minutes were in dead silence, defoe eating, me sitting mute as a disconnected jukebox. then he pushed the little table away, lit a cigarette and said, "you may smoke if you wish, thomas. come in, susan." he didn't raise his voice; and when, fifteen seconds later, susan manchester walked in, he didn't look at all impressed with the efficiency of his secretary, his intercom system, or himself. the concealed microphone, it occurred to me, had heard him order breakfast and request his secretary to walk in. it had undoubtedly heard--and most probably recorded--every word i had said. how well they did things on the upper echelon of the company! susan looked--different. she was as blonde and pretty as ever. but she wasn't bubbly. she smiled at me in passing and handed defoe a typed script, which he scanned carefully. he asked, "nothing new on hammond?" "no, sir," she said. "all right. you may leave this." she nodded and left. defoe turned back to me. "i have some news for you, thomas. hammond has been located." "that's good," i said. "not too badly hung over, i hope." he gave me an arctic smile. "hardly. he was found by a couple of peasants who were picking grapes. he's dead." v hammond dead! he had had his faults, but he was an officer of the company and a man i had met. dead! i asked, "how? what happened?" "perhaps you can tell me that, thomas," said defoe. i sat startledly erect, shocked by the significance of the words. i said hotly, "damn it, mr. defoe, you know i had nothing to do with this! i've been all over the whole thing with you and i thought you were on my side! just because i said a lot of crazy things after marianna died doesn't mean i'm anti-company--and it certainly doesn't mean i'd commit murder. if you think that, then why the devil did you put me in cadet school?" defoe merely raised his hand by bending the wrist slightly; it was enough to stop me, though. "gently, thomas. i don't think you did it--that much should be obvious. and i put you in cadet school because i had work for you." "but you said i knew something i was holding back." defoe waggled the hand reprovingly. "i said you might be able to tell me who killed hammond. and so you might--but not yet. i count heavily on you for help in this area, thomas. there are two urgent tasks to be done. hammond's death--" he paused and shrugged, and the shrug was all of hammond's epitaph--"is only an incident in a larger pattern; we need to work out the pattern itself." he glanced again at the typed list susan had handed him. "i find that i can stay in the naples area for only a short time; the two tasks must be done before i leave. i shall handle one myself. the other i intend to delegate to you. "first we have the unfortunate situation in regard to the state of public morale. unfortunate? perhaps i should say disgraceful. there is quite obviously a nucleus of troublemakers at work, thomas, and gogarty has not had the wit to find them and take the appropriate steps. someone else must. second, this zorchi is an unnecessary annoyance. i do not propose to let the company be annoyed, thomas. which assignment would you prefer?" i said hesitantly, "i don't know if mr. gogarty would like me to--" "gogarty is an ass! if he had not blundered incessantly since he took over the district, i should not have had to drop important work to come here." i thought for a second. digging out an undercover ring of troublemakers didn't sound particularly easy. on the other hand, i had already tried my luck with zorchi. "perhaps you'd better try zorchi," i said. "try?" defoe allowed himself to look surprised. "as you wish. i think you will learn something from watching me handle it, thomas. shall we join signore zorchi now?" "he's _here_?" defoe said impatiently, "of course, thomas. come along." * * * * * zorchi's secretary was there, too. he was in a small anteroom, sitting on a hard wooden chair; as we passed him, i saw the hostility in his eyes. he didn't say a word. beyond him, in an examination room, was zorchi, slim, naked and hideous, sitting on the edge of a surgical cot and trying not to look ill at ease. he had been shaved from head to knee stumps. esthetically, at least, it had been a mistake. i never saw such a collection of skin eruptions on a human. he burst out, faster than my language-school italian could follow, in a stream of argument and abuse. defoe listened icily for a moment, then shut him up in italian as good as his own. "answer questions; otherwise keep quiet. i will not warn you again." i don't know if even defoe could have stopped zorchi under normal conditions. but there is something about being naked in the presence of fully dressed opponents that saps the will; and i guessed, too, that the shaving had made zorchi feel nakeder than ever before in his life. i could see why he'd worn a beard and i wished he still had it. "dr. lawton," said defoe, "have you completed your examination of the insured?" a youngish medical officer of the company said, "yes, sir. i have the slides and reports right here; they just came up from the laboratory." he handed a stapled collection of photographic prints and papers to defoe, who took his own good time to examine them while the rest of us stood and waited. defoe finally put the papers down and nodded. "in a word, this bears out our previous discussion." lawton nodded. "if you will observe his legs, you will see that the skin healing is complete; already a blastema has formed and--" "i know," defoe said impatiently. "signore zorchi, i regret to say that i have bad news for you." zorchi waved his hand defiantly. "_you_ are the bad news." defoe ignored him. "you have a grave systemic imbalance. there is great danger of serious ill effects." "to what?" snarled zorchi. "the company's bank account?" "no, zorchi. to your life." defoe shook his head. "there are indications of malignancy." "malignancy?" zorchi looked startled. "what kind? do you mean cancer?" "exactly." defoe patted his papers. "you see, zorchi, healthy human flesh does not grow like a salamander's tail." * * * * * the phone rang; impeccable in everything, defoe waited while dr. lawton nervously answered it. lawton said a few short words, listened for a moment and hung up, looking worried. he said: "the crowd outside is getting rather large. that was the expediter-captain from the main gate. he says--" "i presume he has standing orders," defoe said. "we need not concern ourselves with that, need we?" "well--" the doctor looked unhappy. "now, zorchi," defoe went on, dismissing lawton utterly, "do you enjoy life?" "i despise it!" zorchi spat to emphasize how much. "but you cling to it. you would not like to die, would you? worse still, you would not care to live indefinitely with carcinoma eating you piece by piece." zorchi just glowered suspiciously. "perhaps we can cure you, however," defoe went on reflectively. "it is by no means certain. i don't want to raise false hopes. but there is the possibility--" "the possibility that you will cure me of collecting on my policies, eh?" zorchi demanded belligerently. "you are crazy, defoe. never!" defoe looked at him for a thoughtful moment. to lawton, he said: "have you this man's claim warranty? it has the usual application for medical treatment, i presume?" he nodded as lawton confirmed it. "you see, mr. zorchi? as a matter of routine, no claim can be paid unless the policyholder submits to our medical care. you signed the usual form, so--" "one moment! you people never put me through this before! did you change the contract on me?" "no, signore zorchi. the same contract, but this time we will enforce it. i think i should warn you of something, though." he riffled through the papers and found a photographic print to show zorchi. "this picture isn't you, signore. it is a picture of a newt. the doctor will explain it to you." the print was an eight-by-ten glossy of a little lizard with something odd about its legs. puzzled, zorchi held it as though the lizard were alive and venomous. but as the doctor spoke, the puzzlement turned into horror and fury. "what mr. defoe means," said lawton, "is that totipotency--that is, the ability to regenerate lost tissues, as you can, even when entire members are involved--is full of unanswered riddles. we have found, for instance, that x-ray treatment on your leg helps a new leg to form rapidly, just as it does on the leg of the salamanders. the radiation appears to stimulate the formation of the blastema, which--well, never mind the technical part. it speeds things up." his eyes gleamed with scientific interest. "but we tried the experiment of irradiating limbs that had not been severed. it worked the same way, oddly enough. new limbs were generated _even though the old ones were still there_. that's why the salamander in the photo has four hands on one of its limbs--nine legs altogether, counting that half-formed one just beside the tail. curious-looking little beast, isn't it?" * * * * * defoe cleared his throat. "i only mention, signore, that the standard treatment for malignancy is x-radiation." zorchi's eyes flamed--rage battling it out with terror. he said shrilly, "but you can't make a laboratory animal out of me! i'm a policyholder!" "nature did it, signore zorchi, not us," defoe said. zorchi's eyes rolled up in his head and closed; for a moment, i thought he had fainted and leaped forward to catch him rather than let his legless body crash to the floor. but he hadn't fainted. he was muttering, half aloud, sick with fear, "for the love of mary, defoe! please, please, i beg you! please!" it was too much for me. i said, shaking with rage, "mr. defoe, you can't force this man to undergo experimental radiation that might make a monster out of him! i insist that you reconsider!" defoe threw his head back. "_what, thomas?_" he snapped. i said firmly, "he has no one here to advise him--i'll take the job. zorchi, listen to me! you've signed the treatment application and he's right enough about that--you can't get out of it. _but you don't have to take this treatment!_ every policyholder has the right to refuse any new and unguaranteed course of treatment, no matter what the circumstances. all you've got to do is agree to go into suspension in the va--in the clinic here, pending such time as your condition can be infallibly cured. do it, man! don't let them make you a freak--demand suspension! what have you got to lose?" i never saw a man go so to pieces as zorchi, when he realized how nearly defoe had trapped him into becoming a guinea pig. whimpering thanks to me, he hastily signed the optional agreement for suspended animation and, as quickly as i could, i left him there. defoe followed me. we passed the secretary in the anteroom while dr. lawton was explaining the circumstances to him; the man was stricken with astonishment, almost too paralyzed to sign the witnessing form defoe had insisted on. i knew the form well--i had been about to sign one for marianna when, at the last moment, she decided against the vaults in favor of the experimental therapy that hadn't worked. outside in the hall, defoe stopped and confronted me. i braced myself for the blast to end all blasts. i could hardly believe my eyes. the great stone face was smiling! "thomas," he said inexplicably, "that was masterful. i couldn't have done better myself." vi we walked silently through the huge central waiting room of the clinic. there should have been scores of relatives of suspendees milling around, seeking information--there was, i knew, still a steady shipment of suspendees coming in from the local hospitals; i had seen it myself. but there were hardly more than a dozen or so persons in sight, with a single clerk checking their forms and answering their questions. it was too quiet. defoe thought so, too; i saw his frown. now that i had had a few moments to catch my breath, i realized that i had seen a master judoist at work. it was all out of the textbooks--as a fledgling claims adjuster, i had had the basic courses in handling difficult cases--but not one man in a million could apply textbook rules as skillfully and successfully as defoe did with zorchi. push a man hard and he will lunge back; push him hard enough and persistently enough, and he will lunge back farther than his vision carries him, right to the position you planned for him in the first place. and i, of course, had been only a tool in defoe's hand; by interceding for zorchi, i had tricked the man into the surrender defoe wanted. and he had complimented me for it! i couldn't help wondering, though, whether the compliment defoe gave me was part of some still subtler scheme.... defoe nodded curtly to the expediter-captain at the door, who saluted and pressed the teleswitch that summoned defoe's limousine. * * * * * defoe turned to me. "i have business in rome and must leave at once. you will have to certify zorchi's suspension this afternoon; since i won't be here, you'll have to come back to the clinic for it. after that, thomas, you can begin your assignment." i said uncertainly, "what--where shall i begin?" one eyebrow lifted a trifle. "where? wherever you think proper, thomas. or must i handle this myself?" the proper answer, and the one i longed to make, was "yes." instead i said, "not at all, mr. defoe. it's only that i didn't even know there was an undercover group until you told me about it a few moments ago; i don't know exactly where to start. gogarty never mentioned--" "gogarty," he cut in, "is very likely to be relieved as district administrator before long. i should like to replace him with someone already on the scene--" he glanced at me to be sure i understood--"provided, that is, that i can find someone of proven competence. someone who has the ability to handle this situation without the necessity of my personal intervention." the limousine arrived then, with an armed expediter riding beside the chauffeur. defoe allowed me to open the door for him and follow him in. "do you understand me?" he asked as the driver started off. "i think so," i said. "good. i do not suppose that gogarty has given you any information about the malcontents in this area." "no." "it may be for the best; his information is clearly not good." defoe stared broodingly out the window at the silent groups of men and women on the grass before the clinic. "your information is there," he said as they passed out of sight. "learn what you can. act when you know enough. and, thomas--" "yes?" "have you given thought to your future?" i shifted uncomfortably. "well, i've only been a claims adjuster a little while, you know. i suppose that perhaps i might eventually get promoted, even become a district administrator--" he looked at me impersonally. "dream higher," he advised. * * * * * i stood watching after defoe's limousine, from the marquee of the hotel where he had left me to take a room and freshen up. _dream higher._ he had the gift of intoxication. higher than a district administrator! it could mean only--the home office. well, it was not impossible, after all. the home office jobs had to go to someone; the super-men who held them now--the defoes and the carmodys and the dozen or more others who headed up departments or filled seats on the council of underwriters--couldn't live forever. and the jobs had to be filled by someone. why not me? only one reason, really. i was not a career man. i hadn't had the early academy training from adolescence on; i had come to the service of the company itself relatively late in life. the calendar legislated against me. of course, i thought to myself, i was in a pretty good position, in a way, because of defoe's evident interest in me. with him helping and counseling me, it might be easier. i thought that and then i stopped myself, shocked. i was thinking in terms of personal preferment. that was not the company way! if i had learned anything in my training, i had learned that advancement was on merit alone. advancement _had_ to be on merit alone ... else the company became an oligarchy, deadly and self-perpetuating. shaken, i sat in the dingy little hotel room that was the best the town of anzio had for me and opened my little black book. i thumbed through the fine-printed pages of actuarial tables and turned to the words of millen carmody, chief underwriter, in the preface. they were the words that had been read to me and the others at our graduation at the home office, according to the tradition: _remember always that the company serves humanity, not the reverse. the company's work is the world's work. the company can end, forever, the menace of war and devastation; but it must not substitute a tyranny of its own. corruption breeds tyrants. corruption has no place in the company._ they were glorious words. i read them over again, and stared at the portrait of underwriter carmody that was the frontispiece of the handbook. it was a face to inspire trust--wise and human, grave, but with warmth in the wide-spaced eyes. millen carmody was not a man you could doubt. as long as men like him ran the company--and he was the boss of them all, _the_ chief underwriter, the highest position the company had to offer--there could be no question of favoritism or corruption. * * * * * after eating, i shaved, cleaned up a little and went back to the clinic. there was trouble in the air, no question of it. more expediters were in view, scattered around the entrance, a dozen, cautious yards away from the nearest knots of civilians. cars with no official company markings, but with armor-glass so thick that it seemed yellow, were parked at the corners. and people were everywhere. people who were quiet. too quiet. there were some women--but not enough to make the proportion right. and there were no children. i could almost feel the thrust of their eyes as i entered the clinic. inside, the aura of strain was even denser. if anything, the place looked more normal than it had earlier; there were more people. the huge waiting room was packed and a dozen sweating clerks were interviewing long lines of persons. but here, as outside, the feeling was wrong; the crowds weren't noisy enough; they lacked the nervous boisterousness they should have had. dr. lawton looked worried. he greeted me and showed me to a small room near the elevators. there was a cocoon of milky plastic on a wheeled table; i looked closer, and inside the cocoon, recognizable through the clear plastic over the face, was the waxlike body of luigi zorchi. the eyes were closed and he was completely still. i would have thought him dead if i had not known he was under the influence of the drugs used in the suspension of life in the vaults. i said: "am i supposed to identify him or something?" "we know who he is," lawton snorted. "sign the commitment, that's all." i signed the form he handed me, attesting that luigi zorchi, serial number such-and-such, had requested and was being granted immobilization and suspension in lieu of cash medical benefits. they rolled the stretcher-cart away, with its thick foam-plastic sack containing the inanimate zorchi. "anything else?" i asked. lawton shook his head moodily. "nothing you can help with. i told defoe this was going to happen!" "what?" he glared at me. "man, didn't you just come in through the main entrance? didn't you see that mob?" "well, i wouldn't call it a mob," i began. "you wouldn't _now_," he broke in. "but you will soon enough. they're working themselves up. or maybe they're waiting for something. but it means trouble, i promise, and i warned defoe about it. and he just stared at me as if i was some kind of degenerate." * * * * * i said sharply, "what are you afraid of? right outside, you've got enough expediters to fight a war." "afraid? me?" he looked insulted. "do you think i'm worried about my own skin, wills? no, sir. but do you realize that we have suspendees here who need protection? eighty thousand of them. a mob like that--" "eighty _thousand_?" i stared at him. the war had lasted only a few weeks! "eighty thousand. a little more, if anything. and every one of them is a ward of the company as long as he's suspended. just think of the damage suits, wills." i said, still marveling at the enormous number of casualties out of that little war, "surely the suspendees are safe here, aren't they?" "not against mobs. the vaults can handle anything that might happen in the way of disaster. i don't think an h-bomb right smack on top of them would disturb more than the top two or three decks at most. but you never know what mobs will do. if they once get in here--and defoe wouldn't listen to me!" as i went back into the hall, passing the main entrance, the explosion burst. i stared out over the heads of the dreadfully silent throng in the entrance hall, looking toward the glass doors, as was everyone else inside. beyond the doors, an arc of expediters was retreating toward us; they paused, fired a round of gas-shells over the heads of the mob outside, and retreated again. then the mob was on them, in a burst of screaming fury. hidden gas guns appeared, and clubs, and curious things that looked like slingshots. the crowd broke for the entrance. the line of expediters wavered but held. there was a tangle of hand-to-hand fights, each one a vicious struggle. but the expediters were professionals; outnumbered forty to one, they savagely chopped down their attackers with their hands, their feet and the stocks of their guns. the crowd hesitated. no shot had yet been fired, except toward the sky. * * * * * the air whined and shook. from low on the horizon, a needle-nosed jet thundered in. a plane! aircraft never flew in the restricted area over the company's major installations. aircraft didn't barrel in at treetop height, fast and low, without a hint of the recognition numbers every aircraft had to carry. from its belly sluiced a silvery milt of explosives as it came in over the heads of the mob, peeled off and up and away, then circled out toward the sea for another approach. a hail of tiny blasts rattled in the clear space between the line of expediters and the entrance. the big doors shook and cracked. * * * * * the expediters stared white-faced at the ship. and the crowd began firing. an illegal hard-pellet gun peppered the glass of the doors with pock-marks. the guarding line of expediters was simply overrun. inside the waiting room, where i stood frozen, hell broke out. the detachment of expediters, supervising the hundreds inside leaped for the doors to fight back the surging mob. but the mob inside the doors, the long orderly lines before the interviewing clerks, now split into a hundred screaming, milling centers of panic. some rushed toward the doors; some broke for the halls of the vaults themselves. i couldn't see what was going on outside any more. i was swamped in a rush of women panicked out of their senses. panic was like a plague. i saw doctors and orderlies struggling against the tide, a few scattered expediters battling to turn back the terrified rush. but i was swept along ahead of them all, barely able to keep my feet. an expediter fell a yard from me. i caught up his gun and began striking out. for this was what lawton had feared--the mob loose in the vaults! i raced down a side corridor, around a corner, to the banked elevators that led to the deeps of the clinic. there was fighting there, but the elevator doors were closed. someone had had the wit to lock them against the mob. but there were stairs; i saw an emergency door only a few yards away. i hesitated only long enough to convince myself, through the fear, that my duty was to the company and to the protection of its helpless wards below. i bolted through the door and slammed it behind me, spun the levers over and locked it. in a moment, i was running down a long ramp toward the cool immensities of the vaults. if lawton had not mentioned the possible consequences of violence to the suspendees, i suppose i would have worried only about my own skin. but here i was. i stared around, trying to get my bearings. i was in a sort of plexus of hallways, an open area with doors on all sides leading off to the vaults. i was alone; the noise from above and outside was cut off completely. no, i was not alone! i heard running footsteps, light and quick, from another ramp. i turned in time to see a figure speed down it, pause only a second at its base, and disappear into one of the vaults. it was a woman, but not a woman in nurse's uniform. her back had been to me, yet i could see that one hand held a gas gun, the other something glittering and small. i followed, not quite believing what i had seen. for i had caught only a glimpse of her face, far off and from a bad angle--but i was as sure as ever i could be that it was rena dell'angela! * * * * * she didn't look back. she was hurrying against time, hurrying toward a destination that obsessed her thoughts. i followed quietly enough, but i think i might have thundered like an elephant herd and still been unheard. we passed a strange double-walled door with a warning of some sort lettered on it in red; then she swung into a side corridor where the passage was just wide enough for one. on either side were empty tiers of shelves waiting for suspendees. i speeded up to reach the corner before she could disappear. but she wasn't hurrying now. she had come to a bay of shelves where a hundred or so bodies lay wrapped in their plastic sacks, each to his own shelf. dropping to her knees, she began checking the tags on the cocoons at the lowest level. she whispered something sharp and imploring. then, straightening abruptly, she dropped the gas gun and took up the glittering thing in her other hand. now i could see that it was a hypodermic kit in a crystal case. from it she took a little flask of purplish liquid and, fingers shaking, shoved the needle of the hypodermic into the plastic stopper of the vial. moving closer, i said: "it won't work, rena." she jumped and swung to face me, holding the hypodermic like a stiletto. seeing my face, she gasped and wavered. i stepped by her and looked down at the tag on the cocooned figure. _benedetto dell'angela, napoli_, it said, and then the long string of serial numbers that identified him. it was what i had guessed. "it won't work," i repeated. "be smart about this, rena. you can't revive him without killing him." rena half-closed her eyes. she whispered, "would death be worse than this?" i hadn't expected this sort of superstitious nonsense from her. i started to answer, but she had me off guard. in a flash, she raked the glittering needle toward my face and, as i stumbled back involuntarily, her other hand lunged for the gas gun i had thrust into my belt. only luck saved me. not being in a holster, the gun's front sight caught and i had the moment i needed to cuff her away. she gasped and spun up against the tiers of shelves. the filled hypodermic shattered against the floor, spilling the contents into a purple, gleaming pool of fluorescence. * * * * * rena took a deep breath and stood erect. there were tears in her eyes again. she said in a detached voice: "well done, mr. wills." "are you crazy?" i crackled. "this is your father. do you want to kill him? it takes a doctor to revive him. you're an educated woman, rena, not a witch-ridden peasant! you know better than this!" she laughed--a cold laugh. "educated! a peasant woman would have kicked you to death and succeeded. i'm educated, all right! two hundred men, a plane, twenty women risking themselves up there to get me through the door. all our plans--and i can't remember a way to kill you in time. i'm too educated to hate you, claims adjuster wills!" she choked on the words. then she shook her head dully. "go ahead, turn me in and get it over with." i took a deep breath. turn her in? i hadn't thought that far ahead. true, that was the obvious thing to do; she had confessed that the whole riot outside was a diversion to get her down in the vaults, and anyone who could summon up that sort of organized anti-company violence was someone who automatically became my natural enemy. but perhaps i was too educated and too soft as well. there had been tears on her face, over her father's body. i could not remember having heard that conspirators cried. and i sympathized a little. i had known what it was like to weep over the body of someone i loved. despite our difficulties, despite everything, i would have done anything in the world to bring marianna back to life. i couldn't. rena--she believed--could revive her father. i didn't want to turn her in. i _shouldn't_ turn her in. it was my duty _not_ to turn her in, for hadn't defoe himself ordered me to investigate the dissident movement of which she was clearly a part? wouldn't it be easier for me to win her confidence, and trick her into revealing its secrets, than to have her arrested? the answer, in all truth, was _no_. she was not a trickable girl, i was sure. but it was, at least, a rationale, and i clung to it. * * * * * i coughed and said: "rena, will you make a bargain?" she stared drearily. "bargain?" "i have a room at the umberto. if i get you out of here, will you go to my room and wait for me there?" her eyes narrowed sharply for a second. she parted her lips to say something, but only nodded. "your word, rena? i don't want to turn you in." she looked helplessly at the purple spilled pool on the floor, and wistfully at the sack that held her father. then she said, "my word on it. but you're a fool, tom!" "i know it!" i admitted. i hurried her back up the ramp, back toward the violence upstairs. if it was over, i would have to talk her out of the clinic, somehow cover up the fact that she had been in the vaults. if it was still going on, though-- it was. we blended ourselves with the shouting, rioting knots. i dragged her into the main waiting room, saw her thrust through the doors. things were quieting even then. and i saw two women hastening toward her through the fight, and i do not think it was a coincidence that the steam went out of the rioters almost at once. i stayed at the clinic until everything was peaceful again, though it was hours. i wasn't fooling myself. i didn't have a shred of real reason for not having her arrested. if she had information to give, i was not the type to trick it out of her--even if she really was waiting at the umberto, which was, in itself, not likely. if i had turned her in, defoe would have had the information out of her in moments; but not i. she was an enemy of the company. and i was unable to betray her. vii dr. lawton, who seemed to be chief medical officer for anzio clinic, said grimly: "this wasn't an accident. it was planned. the question is, why?" the expediters had finished driving the rioters out of the clinic itself, and gas guns were rapidly dispersing the few left outside the entrance. at least thirty unconscious forms were scattered around--and one or two that were worse than unconscious. i said, "maybe they were hoping to loot the clinic." it wasn't a very good lie. but then, i hadn't had much practice in telling lies to an officer of the company. lawton pursed his lips and ignored the suggestion. "tell me something, wills. what were you doing down below?" i said quickly, "below? you mean a half an hour ago?" "that's what i mean." he was gentle, but--well, not exactly suspicious. curious. i improvised: "i--i thought i saw someone running down there. one of the rioters. so i chased after her--after _him_," i corrected, swallowing the word just barely in time. he nodded. "find anything?" it was a tough question. had i been seen going in or coming out? if it was coming out--rena had been with me. i took what we called a "calculated risk"--that is, i got a firm grip on my courage and told a big fat and possibly detectable lie. i said, "nobody that i could find. but i still think i heard something. the trouble is, i don't know the vaults very well. i was afraid i'd get lost." apparently it was on the way in that i had been spotted, for lawton said thoughtfully, "let's take a look." we took a couple of battered expediters with us--i didn't regard them as exactly necessary, but i couldn't see how i could tell lawton that. the elevators were working again, so we came out in a slightly different part of the vaults than i had seen before; it was not entirely acting on my part when i peered around. lawton accepted my statement that i wasn't quite sure where i had heard the noises, without argument. he accepted it all too easily; he sent the expediters scouring the corridors at random. and, of course, one of them found the pool of spilled fluorescence from the hypodermic needle i had knocked out of rena's hand. * * * * * we stood there peering at the smear of purplish color, the shattered hypodermic, rena's gas gun. lawton mused, "looks like someone's trying to wake up some of our sleepers. that's our standard antilytic, if i'm not mistaken." he scanned the shelves. "nobody missing around here. take a look in the next few sections of the tiers." the expediters saluted and left. "they won't find anyone missing," lawton predicted. "and _that_ means we have to take a physical inventory of the whole damn clinic. over eighty thousand suspendees to check." he made a disgusted noise. i said, "maybe they were scared off before they finished." "maybe. maybe not. we'll have to check, that's all." "are you sure that stuff is to revive the suspendees?" i persisted. "couldn't it just have been someone wandering down here by mistake during the commotion and--" "and carrying a hypodermic needle by mistake, and armed with a gas gun by mistake. sure, wills." the expediters returned and lawton looked at them sourly. they shook their heads. he shrugged. "tell you what, wills," he said. "let's go back to the office and--" he stopped, peering down the corridor. the last of our expediters was coming toward us--not alone. "well, what do you know!" said lawton. "wills, it looks like he's got your fugitive!" the expediter was dragging a small writhing figure behind him; we could hear whines and pleading. for a heart-stopping second, i thought it was rena, against all logic. but it wasn't. it was a quavery ancient, a bleary-eyed wreck of a man, long past retirement age, shabbily dressed and obviously the sort who cut his pension policies to the barest minimum--and then whined when his old age was poverty-stricken. lawton asked me: "this the man?" "i--i couldn't recognize him," i said. * * * * * lawton turned to the weeping old man. "who were you after?" he demanded. all he got was sobbing pleas to let him go; all he was likely to get was more of the same. the man was in pure panic. we got him up to one of the receiving offices on the upper level, half carried by the expediters. lawton questioned him mercilessly for half an hour before giving up. the man was by then incapable of speech. he had said, as nearly as we could figure it out, only that he was sorry he had gone into the forbidden place, he didn't mean to go into the forbidden place, he had been sleeping in the shadow of the forbidden place when fighting began and he fled inside. it was perfectly apparent to me that he was telling the truth--and, more, that any diversionary riot designed to get _him_ inside with a hypodermic and gas gun would have been planned by maniacs, for i doubted he could have found the trigger of the gun. but lawton seemed to think he was lying. it was growing late. lawton offered to drive me to my hotel, leaving the man in the custody of the expediters. on the way, out of curiosity, i asked: "suppose he had succeeded? can you revive a suspendee as easily as that, just by sticking a needle in his arm?" lawton grunted. "pretty near, that and artificial respiration. one case in a hundred might need something else--heart massage or an incubator, for instance. but most of the time an antilytic shot is enough." then rena had not been as mad as i thought. i said: "and do you think that old man could have accomplished anything?" lawton looked at me curiously. "maybe." "who do you suppose he was after?" lawton said off-handedly. "he was right near bay , wasn't he?" "bay ?" something struck a chord; i remembered following rena down the corridor, passing a door that was odd in some way. was the number on that door? "is that the one that's locked off, with the sign on it that says anybody who goes in is asking for trouble?" "that's the one. though," he added, "nobody is going to get in. that door is triple-plate armor; the lock opens only to the personal fingerprint pattern of defoe and two or three others." "what's inside it that's so important?" he said coldly, "how would i know? i can't open the door." and that was the end of the conversation. i knew _he_ was lying. * * * * * i had changed my bet with myself on the way. i won it. rena was in the room waiting for me. she was sound asleep, stretched out on the bed. she looked as sober-faced and intent in her sleep as a little girl--a look i had noticed in marianna's sleeping face once. it was astonishing how little i thought about marianna any more. i considered very carefully before i rang for a bellboy, but it seemed wisest to let her sleep and take my chances with the house detective, if any. there was none, it turned out. in fact, the bellboy hardly noticed her--whether out of indifference or because he was well aware that i had signed for the room with an official travel-credit card of the company, it didn't much matter. he succeeded in conveying, without saying a word, that the blue sky was the limit. i ordered dinner, waving away the menu and telling him to let the chef decide. the chef decided well. among other things, there was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. rena woke up slowly at first, and then popped to a sitting position, eyes wide. i said quickly, "everything's all right. no one saw you at the clinic." she blinked once. in a soft voice, she said, "thank you." she sighed a very small sigh and slipped off the bed. i realized as rena was washing up, comparisons were always odious, but--well, if a strange man had found marianna with her dress hitched halfway up her thigh, asleep on his bed, he'd have been in for something. what the "something" would be might depend on circumstances; it might be a raging order to knock before he came in, it might only be a storm of blushes and a couple of hours of meticulously prissy behavior. but she wouldn't just let it slide. and rena, by simply disregarding it, was as modest as any girl could be. after all, i told myself, warming to the subject, it wasn't as if i were some excitable adolescent. i could see a lovely girl's legs without getting all stirred up. for that matter, i hardly even noticed them, come to think of it. and if i _did_ notice them, it was certainly nothing of any importance; i had dismissed it casually, practically forgotten it, in fact. she came back and said cheerfully, "i'm hungry!" and so, i realized, was i. we started to eat without much discussion, except for the necessary talk of the table. i felt very much at ease sitting across from her, in spite of the fact that she had placed herself in opposition to the company. i felt relaxed and comfortable; nothing bothered me. certainly, i went on in my mind, i was as free and easy with her as with any man; it didn't matter that she was an attractive girl at all. i wasn't thinking of her in that way, only as someone who needed some help. i came to. she was looking at me with friendly curiosity. she said, "is that an american idiom, tom, when you said, 'please pass the legs'?" * * * * * we didn't open the champagne: it didn't seem quite appropriate. we had not discussed anything of importance while we were eating, except that i had told her about the old man; she evidently knew nothing about him. she was concerned, but i assured her he was safe with the company--what did she think they were, barbarians? she didn't answer. but after dinner, with our coffee, i said: "now let's get down to business. what were you doing in the clinic?" "i was trying to rescue my father," she said. "rescue, rena? rescue from what?" "tom, please. you believe in the company, do you not?" "of course!" "and i do not. we shall never agree. i am grateful to you for not turning me in, and i think perhaps i know what it cost you to do it. but that is all, tom." "but the company--" "when you speak of the company, what is it you see? something shining and wonderful? it is not that way with me; what i see is--rows of my friends, frozen in the vaults or the expediters and that poor old man you caught." there was no reasoning with her. she had fixed in her mind that all the suspendees were the victims of some sinister brutality. of course, it wasn't like that at all. suspension wasn't death; everyone knew that. in fact, it was the antithesis of death. it _saved_ lives by taking the maimed and sick and putting them mercifully to sleep, until they could be repaired. true, their bodies grew cold, the lungs stopped pumping, the heart stopped throbbing; true, no doctor could tell, on sight, whether a suspendee was "alive" or "dead." the life processes were not entirely halted, but they were slowed enormously--enough so that chemical diffusion in the jellylike blood carried all the oxygen the body needed. but there was a difference: the dead were dead, whereas the suspendees could be brought back to life at any moment the company chose. but i couldn't make her see that. i couldn't even console her by reminding her that the old man was a mere class e. for so was she. i urged reasonably: "rena, you think something is going on under the surface. tell me about it. why do you think your father was put in suspension?" "to keep him out of the way. because the company is afraid of him." i played a trump card: "suppose i told you the _real_ reason he's in the vaults." * * * * * she was hit by that, i could tell. she was staring at me with wonder in her eyes. "you don't have to speculate about it, rena. i looked up his record, you see." "you--you--" i nodded. "it's right there in black and white. they're trying to save his life. he has radiation poisoning. he was a war casualty. it's standard medical practice in cases like his to put them in suspension for a while, until the level of radioactivity dies down and they can safely be revived. now what do you say?" she merely stared at me. i pressed on persuasively: "rena, i don't mean to call your beliefs superstitions or anything like that. please understand me. you have your own cultural heritage and--well, i know that it looks as though he is some kind of 'undead,' or however you put it, in your folk stories. i know there are legends of vampires and zombies and so on, but--" she was actually laughing. "you're thinking of central europe, tom, not naples. and anyway--" she was laughing only with her eyes now--"i do not believe that the legends say that vampires are produced by intravenous injections of chlorpromazine and pethidine in a lytic solution--which is, i believe, the current technique at the clinics." i flared peevishly: "damn it, don't you want him saved?" the laughter was gone. she gently touched my hand. "i'm sorry. i don't mean to be a shrew and that remark wasn't kind. must we discuss it?" "yes!" "very well." she faced me, chin out and fierce. "my father does not have radiation poisoning, tom." "he does." "he does not! he is a prisoner, not a patient. he loved naples. that's why he was put to sleep--for fifty years, or a hundred, until everything he knew and loved grows away from him and nobody cares what he has to say any more. they won't kill him--they don't have to! they just want him out of the way, because he sees the company for what it is." "and what is that?" "tyranny, tom," she said quietly. * * * * * i burst out, "rena, that's silly! the company is the hope of the world. if you talk like that, you'll be in trouble. that's dangerous thinking, young lady. it attacks the foundations of our whole society!" "good! i was hoping it would!" we were shouting at each other like children. i took time to remember one of the priceless rules out of the adjusters' handbook: _never lose your temper; think before you speak_. we glared at each other in furious silence for a moment before i forced myself to simmer down. only then did i remember that i needed to know something she might be able to tell me. organization, defoe had said--an organization that opposed the company, that was behind hammond's death and the riot at the clinic and more, much more. "rena, why did your friends kill hammond?" her poise was shaken. "who?" she asked. "hammond. in caserta. by a gang of anti-company hoodlums." her eyes flashed, but she only said: "i know nothing of any killings." "yet you admit you belong to a subversive group?" "i admit nothing," she said shortly. "but you do. i know you do. you said as much to me, when you were prevented from reviving your father." she shrugged. i went on: "why did you call me at the office, rena? was it to get me to help you work against the company?" she looked at me for a long moment. then she said: "it was. and would you like to know why i picked you?" "well, i suppose--" "don't suppose, tom." her nostrils were white. she said coldly: "you seemed like a very good bet, as far as we could tell. i will tell you something you don't know. there is a memorandum regarding you in the office of the chief of expediters in naples. i do not choose to tell you how i know of it, but even your mr. gogarty doesn't know it exists. it is private and secret, and it says of you, 'loyalty doubtful. believed in contact with underground movement. keep under close but secret surveillance'." * * * * * that one rocked me, i admit. "but that's all wrong!" i finally burst out. "i admit i went through a bad time after marianna died, but--" she was smiling, though still angry. "are you apologizing to _me_?" "no, but--" i stopped. that was a matter to be taken up with defoe, i told myself, and i was beginning to feel a little angry, too. "all right," i said. "there's been a mistake; i'll see that it's straightened out. but even if it was true, did you think i was the kind of man to join a bunch of murderers?" "we are not murderers!" "hammond's body says different." "we had nothing to do with that, tom!" "your friend slovetski did." it was a shot in the dark. it missed by a mile. she said loftily: "if he is such a killer, how did you escape? when i had my interview with you, and it became apparent that the expediters were less than accurate, the information came a little late. you could easily have given us trouble--slovetski was in the next room. why didn't he shoot you dead?" "maybe he didn't want to be bothered with my body." "and maybe you are all wrong about us!" "no! if you're against the company, i _can't_ be wrong. the company is the greatest blessing the world has ever known--it's made the world a paradise!" "it has?" she made a snorting sound. "how?" "by bringing countless blessings to all of us. _countless!_" she was shaking with the effort of controlling her temper. "name one!" i swore in exasperation. "all right," i said. "it ended war." she nodded--not a nod of agreement, but because she had expected that answer. "right out of the textbooks and propaganda pieces, tom. tell me, why is my father in the vaults?" "because he has radiation poisoning!" "and how did he get this radiation poisoning?" "how?" i blinked at her. "you know how, rena. in the war between naples and--the war--" * * * * * rena said remorselessly, "that's right, tom, the war. the war that couldn't have existed, because the company ended war--everybody knows that. ah, tom! for god, tell me, why is the world blind? everyone believes, no one questions. the company ended war--it says so itself. and the blind world never sees the little wars that rage, all the time, one upon the heels of another. the company has ended disease. but how many deaths are there? the company has abolished poverty. but am i living in riches, tom? was the old man who ran into the vaults?" i stammered, "but--but, rena, the statistical charts show very clearly--" "no, tom," she said, gentle again. "the statistical charts show _less_ war, not no war. they show _less_ disease." she rubbed her eyes wearily--and even then i thought: marianna wouldn't have dared; it would have smeared her mascara. "the trouble with you, tom, is that you're an american. you don't know how it is in the world, only in america. you don't know what it was like after the short war, when america won and the flying squads of senators came over and the governments that were left agreed to defederate. you're used to a big and united country, not little city-states. you don't have thousands of years of intrigue and tyranny and plot behind you, so you close your eyes and plunge ahead, and if the charts show things are getting a _little_ better, you think they are perfect." she shook her head. "but not us, tom. we can't afford that. we walk with eyes that dart about, seeking danger. sometimes we see ghosts, but sometimes we see real menace. you look at the charts and you see that there are fewer wars than before. we--we look at the charts and we see our fathers and brothers dead in a little war that hardly makes a ripple on the graph. you don't even see them, tom. you don't even see the disease cases that don't get cured--because the techniques are 'still experimental,' they say. you don't--tom! what is it?" i suppose i showed the pain of remembrance. i said with an effort, "sorry, rena. you made me think of something. please go on." "that's all of it, tom. you in america can't be blamed. the big lie--the lie so preposterous that it cannot be questioned, the thing that proves itself because it is so unbelievable that no one would say it if it weren't true--is not an american invention. it is european, tom. you aren't inoculated against it. we are." * * * * * i took a deep breath. "what about your father, rena? do you really think the company is out to get him?" she looked at me searchingly, then looked hopelessly away. "not as you mean it, tom," she said at last. "no, i am no paranoid. i think he is--inconvenient. i think the company finds him less trouble in the deep-freeze than he would be walking around." "but don't you agree that he needs treatment?" "for what? for the radiation poisoning that he got from the atomic explosion he was nowhere near, tom? remember, he is my father! i was with him in the war--and he never stirred a kilometer from our home. you've been there, the big house where my aunt luisa now lives. did you see bomb craters there?" "_that's a lie!_" i had to confess it to myself: rena was beginning to mean something to me. but there were emotional buttons that even she couldn't push. if she had been a man, any man, i would have had my fist in her face before she had said that much; treason against the company was more than i could take. "you can't convince me that the company deliberately falsifies records. don't forget, rena, i'm an executive of the company! nothing like that could go on!" her eyes flared, but her lips were rebelliously silent. i said furiously: "i'll hear no more of that. theoretical discussions are all right; i'm as broad-minded as the next man. but when you accuse the company of outright fraud, you--well, you're mistaken." we glowered at each other for a long moment. my eyes fell first. i said sourly, "i'm sorry if i called you a liar. i--i didn't mean to be offensive." "nor i, tom," she hesitated. "will you remember that i asked you not to make me discuss it?" she stood up. "thank you very much for a dinner. and for listening. and most of all, for giving me another chance to rescue my father." i looked at my watch automatically--and incredulously. "it's late, rena. have you a place to stay?" she shrugged. "n--yes, of course, tom. don't worry about me; i'll be all right." "are you sure?" "very sure." * * * * * her manner was completely confident--so much so that i knew it for an act. i said: "please, rena, you've been through a tough time and i don't want you wandering around. you can't get back to naples tonight." "i know." "well?" "well what, tom?" she said. "i won't lie to you--i haven't a place to go to here. i would have had, this afternoon, if i had succeeded. but by now, everything has changed. they--that is, my friends will assume that i have been captured by the company. they won't be where i could find them, tom. say they are silly if you wish. but they will fear that the company might--request me to give their names." i said crisply, "stay here, rena. no--listen to me. you stay here. i'll get another room." "thank you, tom, but you can't. there isn't a room in anzio; there are families of suspendees sleeping in the grass tonight." "i can sleep in the grass if i have to." she shook her head. "thank you," she repeated. i stood between her and the door. "then we'll both stay here. i'll sleep on the couch. you can have the bed." i hesitated, then added, "you can trust me, rena." she looked at me gravely for a moment. then she smiled. "i'm sure i can, tom. i appreciate your offer. i accept." * * * * * i am built too long for a hotel-room couch, particularly a room in a mediterranean coastal fleabag. i lay staring into the white italian night; the moon brightened the clouds outside the window, and the room was clearly enough illuminated to show me the bed and the slight, motionless form in it. rena was not a restless sleeper, i thought. nor did she snore. rena was a most self-possessed girl, in fact. she had overruled me when i tried to keep the bellboy from clearing away the dinner service. "do you think no other company man ever had a girl in his room?" she innocently asked. she borrowed a pair of the new pajamas defoe's thoughtful expediters had bought and put in the bureau. but i hadn't expected that, while the bellboy was clearing away, she would be softly singing to herself in the bath. he had seemed not even to hear. he had also leaped to conclusions--not that it was much of a leap, i suppose. but he had conspicuously not removed the bottle of champagne and its silver bucket of melting ice. it felt good, being in the same room with rena. i shifted again, hunching up my torso to give my legs a chance to stretch out. i looked anxiously to see if the movement had disturbed her. there is a story about an animal experimenter who left a chimpanzee in an empty room. he closed the door on the ape and bent to look through the key-hole, to see what the animal would do. but all he saw was an eye--because the chimp was just as curious about the experimenter. in the half-light, i saw a sparkle of moonlight in rena's eye; she was watching me. she half-giggled, a smothered sound. "you ought to be asleep," i accused. "and you, tom." i obediently closed my eyes, but i didn't stop seeing her. _it only she weren't a fanatic._ and if she had to be a fanatic, why did she have to be the one kind that was my natural enemy, a member of the group of irresponsible troublemakers that defoe had ordered me to "handle"? what, i wondered, did he mean by "handle"? did it include chlorpromazine in a lytic solution and a plastic cocoon? i put that thought out of my mind; there was no chance whatever that her crazy belief, that the company was using suspension as a retaliatory measure, was correct. but thinking of defoe made me think of my work. after all, i told myself, rena was more than a person. she was a key that could unlock the whole riddle. she had the answers--if there was a movement of any size, she would know its structure. i thought for a moment and withdrew the "if." she had admitted the riot of that afternoon was planned. it _had_ to be a tightly organized group. and she had to have the key. * * * * * at last, i had been getting slightly drowsy, but suddenly i was wide awake. there were two possibilities. i faced the first of them shakily--_she might be right_. everything within me revolted against the notion, but i accepted it as a theoretical possibility. if so, i would, of course, have to revise some basic notions. on the other hand, she might be wrong. i was certain she _was_ wrong. but i was equally certain she was no raddled malcontent and if she was wrong, and i could prove it to her, she herself might make some revisions. propped on one elbow, i peered at her. "rena?" i whispered questioningly. she stirred. "yes, tom?" "if you're not asleep, can we take a couple more minutes to talk?" "of course." i sat up and reached for the light switch, but she said, "must we have the lights? the moon is very bright." "sure." i sat on the edge of the couch and reached for a cigarette. "can i offer you a deal, rena?" "what sort of deal?" "a horsetrade. you think the company is corrupt and your father is not a casualty, right?" "correct, tom." "and i think the company is not corrupt and your father has radiation poisoning. one of us has to be wrong, right?" "correct, tom." "let's find out. there are ways of testing for radiation-sickness. i'll go into the clinic in the morning and get the answer." she also lifted up on one elbow, peering at me, her long hair braided down her back. "will you?" "sure. and we'll make bets on it, rena. if you are wrong--if your father has radiation poisoning--i want you to tell me everything there is to tell about the riot today and the people behind it. if i'm wrong--" i swallowed--"if i'm wrong, i'll get your father out of there for you. somehow. i promise it, rena." there was absolute silence for a long time. then she swung out of the bed and hurried over to me, her hands on mine. she looked at me and again i saw tears. "will you do that, tom?" she asked, hardly audible. "why, sure," i said awkwardly. "but you have to promise--" "i promise!" she was staring at me, at arm's length. and then something happened. she wasn't staring and she wasn't at arm's length. kissing her was like tasting candied violets; and the moon made her lovelier than anything human; and the bellboy had not been so presumptuous, after all, when he left us the champagne. viii dr. lawton was "away from his desk" the next morning. that was all to the good. i was not a hardened enough conspirator to seek out chances to make mistakes, and although i had a perfectly good excuse for wanting to go down into the vaults again, i wasn't anxious to have to use it. the expediter-officer in charge, though, didn't even ask for reasons. he furnished me with what i wanted--a map of the vaults and a radiation-counter--and turned me loose. looking at the map, i was astonished at the size of this subterranean pyramid. lawton had said we had eighty-odd thousand sleepers filed away and that had surprised me, but by the chart i held in my hand, there was space for perhaps ten times that many. it was beyond belief that so much space was really needed, i thought--unless there was some truth to rena's belief that the company used the clinics for prisons.... i applied myself to the map. and, naturally, i read it wrong. it was very simple; i merely went to the wrong level, that was all. it looked wrong as soon as i stepped out of the elevator. an elderly, officious civilian with a british accent barred my way. "you aren't one of us, are you?" i said, "i doubt it." "then would you mind?" he asked politely, and indicated a spot on the side of the hall. perhaps i was suggestible, but i obeyed his request without question. it was just as well, because a sort of procession rounded a bend and came down the corridor. there was a wheeled stretcher, with three elderly civilians puttering around it, and a bored medic following with a jar of something held aloft, feeding through a thin plastic tube into the arm of the man on the stretcher, as well as half a dozen others of more nondescript types. the man who had stopped me nearly ran to meet the stretcher. he stared into the waxy face and whispered, "it's he! oh, absolutely, it is he!" i looked and the face was oddly familiar. it reminded me of my childhood; it had a link with school days and the excitement of turning twelve. by the way the four old men were carrying on, however, it meant more than that to them. it meant, if not the second coming, at least something close to it. by then i had figured out that this was that rare event in the day of a clinic--a revival. i had never seen one. i suppose i could have got out of the way and gone about my conspiratorial business, and it is no credit to me as a conspirator that i did not. but i was fascinated. too fascinated to wonder why revivals were so rare.... * * * * * the medic looked at his watch and, with careless efficiency, plucked the tube out of the waxy man's arm. "two minutes," he said to one of the civilians. "then he'll be as good as he ever was. you've got his clothes and release papers?" "oh, definitely," said the civilian, beaming. "okay. and you understand that the company takes no responsibility beyond the policy covering? after all, he was one of the first men suspended. we think we can give him another year or so--which is a year more than he would have had, at that--but he's not what you'd call a grade a risk." "certainly," agreed the civilian. "can we talk to him now?" "as soon as he opens his eyes." the civilian bent over the man, who no longer looked waxy. his face was now a mottled gray and his eyelids were flickering. he had begun to breathe heavily and irregularly, and he was mumbling something i couldn't understand. the civilian whispered in his ear and the revived man opened his eyes and looked at him. it was like seeing the dead come to life. it was exactly that, in fact; twenty minutes before, no chemical test, no stethoscope or probing thumb in the eye socket could have detected the faint living glow in the almost-dead cells. and yet--now he looked, he breathed, he spoke. "i made it," were his first understandable words. "indeed you did!" crowed the civilian in charge, while all of the others murmured happily to each other. "sir, it is my pleasure to welcome you back to us. you are in anzio, italy. and i am thomas welbourne, at your service." the faint eyes sparkled. dead, near-dead or merely decrepit, this was a man who wanted to enjoy life. minutes out of the tomb, he said: "no! not young tommy welbourne!" "his grandson, sir," said the civilian. i had it just then--that face had watched me through a whole year of school. it had been in a frame at the front of the room, with half a dozen other faces. it had a name under it, which, try as i might, i couldn't recall; but the face was there all the same. it was an easy one to keep in mind--strong though sunken, ancient but very much alive. he was saying, in a voice as confident as any youth's, "ah, tommy, i've lived to see it! tell me, have you been to mars? what is on the other side of the moon? and the russians--what are the russians up to these days?" the civilian coughed and tried to interrupt, but the figure on the stretcher went on heedlessly: "all those years gone--what wonders must we have. a tunnel under the atlantic, i'll wager! and ships that fly a hundred times the speed of sound. tell me, tommy welbourne! don't keep an old man waiting!" * * * * * the civilian said reluctantly, but patiently, "perhaps it will take a little explaining, sir. you see, there have been changes--" "i know it, boy! that's what i'm asking you!" "well, not that sort of changes, sir. we've learned new virtues since your time--patience and stability, things of that sort. you see--" the interesting part was over and the glances of the others in the party reminded me that i didn't belong here. i stole off, but not before the man on the stretcher noticed me and made a sort of clumsy two-fingered salute of hail and farewell as i left. it was exactly like the gesture in his picture on that schoolroom wall, up next to the presidents and the greatest of kings. i found a staircase and climbed to another level of the boxlike clinic. the local peasants called the vaults "coolers" or "ice cubes." i suppose the reason had something to do with the fact that they were cool and rectangular, on the whole--perhaps because, like icebergs, the great bulk of the vaults was below the surface. but whatever you called them, they were huge. and the clinic at anzio was only one out of hundreds scattered all over the world. it was all a matter of viewpoint. to me, the clinics were emblems of the company's concern for the world. in any imaginable disaster--even if some fantastic plague struck the entire race at once--the affected population could be neatly and effectively preserved until medicine could catch up with their cures. to rena, they were prisons big enough to hold the human race. it was time to find out which of us was right. i hurried through the corridors, between the tiers of sleepers, almost touching them on both sides. i saw the faint purplish gleam where rena had spilled the fluid, and knelt beside the cocoon that held her father. the uv sterilizers overhead made everything look ghastly violet, but in any light, the waxy face under the plastic would have looked dead as death itself. i couldn't blame rena for weeping. i took out the little radiation counter and looked at it awkwardly. there was nothing complicated about the device--fortunately, because i had had little experience with them. it was a cylinder with a flaring snout at one end, a calibrated gauge at the side, marked in micro-roentgens. the little needle flickered in the green area of the dial. i held it to myself and the reading didn't change. i pointed it up and pointed it down; it didn't change. i held it to the radiation-seared body of benedetto dell'angela. and it didn't change. radiation-seared? not unless the instrument lied! if dell'angela had ever in his life been within the disaster radius of an atomic explosion, it had been so long before that every trace of radioactive byproduct was gone! rena was right! * * * * * i worked like a machine, hardly thinking. i stood up and hurriedly touched the ion-tasting snout of the counter to the body on the shelf above benedetto, the one above that, a dozen chosen at random up and down the aisle. two of them sent the needle surging clear off the scale; three were as untainted by radioactivity as benedetto himself. a few others gave readings from "mild" to "lethal"--but all in the danger area. _most were as untainted by radiation as benedetto himself._ it was possible, i told myself frantically, that there were mysteries here i did not understand. perhaps after a few months or a year, the radiation level would drop, so that the victim was still in deadly danger while the emitted radiation of his body was too slight to affect the counter. i didn't see how, but it was worth a thought. anything was worth a thought that promised another explanation to this than the one rena had given! there had been, i remembered, a score or more of new suspendees in the main receiving vault at the juncture of the corridors. i hurried back to it. here were fresh cases, bound to show on the gauge. i leaned over the nearest one, first checking to make sure its identification tag was the cross-hatched red one that marked "radiation." i brought the counter close to the shriveled face-- but i didn't read the dial, not at first. i didn't have to. for i recognized that face. i had seen it, contorted in terror, mumbling frantic pleas for mercy, weeping and howling, on the old class e uninsurable the expediters had found hiding in the vaults. _he_ had no radiation poisoning ... unless a bomb had exploded in these very vaults in the past twelve hours. it wasn't pleasant to stand there and stare around the vaults that were designed for the single purpose of saving human life--and to wonder how many of the eighty thousand souls it held were also prisoners. and it wasn't even tolerable to think the thought that followed. if the company was corrupt, and i had worked to do the company's business, how much of this guilt was mine? the company, i had said and thought and tried to force others to agree, was the hope of humanity--the force that had permanently ended war (almost), driven out disease (nearly), destroyed the threat to any human of hunger or homelessness (in spite of the starving old man who slept in the shadow of the crypt, and others like him). * * * * * but i had to face the facts that controverted the big lie. if war was ended, what about naples and sicily, and prague and vienna, and all the squabbles in the far east? _if there was no danger from disease, why had marianna died?_ rena had said that if there was no danger of disaster, no one would have paid their premiums. obviously the company could not have wanted that, but why had i never seen it before? sample wars, sample deaths--the company needed them. and no one, least of all me, fretted about how the samples felt about it. well, that was behind me. i'd made a bet with rena, and i'd lost, and i had to pay off. i opened the cased hypodermic kit rena had given me and examined it uncomfortably. i had never used the old-fashioned sort of needle hypodermic; i knew a little something about the high-pressure spray type that forced its contents into the skin without leaving a mark, but i was very far from sure that i could manage this one without doing something wrong. besides, there wasn't much of the fluid left, only the few drops left in the bottom of the bottle after rena had loaded the needle that had been smashed. i hurried back along the corridor toward benedetto dell'angela. i neared again the red-labeled door marked bay , glanced at it in passing--and stopped. this was the door that only a handful of people could open. it was labeled in five languages: "entrance strictly prohibited. experimental section." why was it standing ajar? and i heard a faint whisper of a moan: "_aiutemi, aiutemi._" someone inside was calling for help! if i had been a hardened conspirator, i would never have stopped to investigate. but, of course, i wasn't. i pushed the door aside, against resistance, and peered in. and that was my third major shock in the past quarter of an hour, because, writhing feebly just inside the door, staring up at me with an expression of pain and anger, was luigi zorchi. he propped himself up on his hands, the rags of his plastic cocoon dangling from his shoulders. "oho," he said faintly. "the apprentice assassin again." i found water for him at a bubble-fountain by the ramp; he drank at least a quart before i made him stop. then he lay back, panting, staring at me. except for the shreds of plastic and the bandages around the stumps of his legs, he was nude, like all the other suspendees inside their sacks. the luxuriant hair had already begun to grow back. * * * * * he licked his lips. more vigorous now, he snarled: "the plan fails, does it not? you think you have zorchi out of the way, but he will not stay there." i said, "zorchi, i'm sorry about all this i--i know more now than i did yesterday." he gaped. "yesterday? only _yesterday_?" he shook his head. "i would have thought a month, at the least. i have been crawling, assassin. crawling for days, i thought." he tried to shrug--not easy, because he was leaning on his elbows. "very well, weels. you may take me back to finish the job now. sticking me with a needle and putting me on ice will not work. perhaps you should kill me outright." "listen, zorchi, i _said_ i was sorry. let's let it go at that for a moment. i--i admit you shouldn't be here. the question is, how do you come to be awake?" "how not? i am zorchi, weels. cut me and i heal; poison me and i cure myself." he spat furiously. "starve me, however, and i no doubt will die, and it is true that you have come very near to starving me down here." he glowered at the shelves of cocooned bodies in the locked bay. "a pity, with all this pork and beef on the rack, waiting for me, but i find i am not a monster, weels. it is a weakness; i do not suppose it would stop any company man for a moment." "look, zorchi," i begged, "take my word for it--i want to help you. you might as well believe me, you know. you can't be any worse off than you are." he stared at me sullenly for a moment. then, "true enough," he admitted. "what then, weels?" i said hesitantly, "well, i'd like to get you out of here...." "oh, yes. i would like that, too. how shall we do it?" i rubbed the back of my neck thoughtfully, staring at him. i had had a sort of half-baked, partly worked out plan for rescuing benedetto. wake him up with the needle; find a medical orderly's whites somewhere; dress him; and walk him out. it wasn't the best of all possible plans, but i had rank enough, particularly with defoe off in rome, to take a few liberties or stop questions if it became necessary. and besides, i hadn't really thought i'd have to do it. i had fully expected--as recently as half an hour ago!--that i would find benedetto raddled with gamma rays, a certainty for death if revived before the half-life period of the radioelements in his body had brought the level down to safety. * * * * * that plan might work for benedetto. but zorchi, to mention only one possible obstacle, couldn't walk. and benedetto, once i took off his beard with the razor rena had insisted i bring for that purpose, would not be likely to be recognized by anyone. zorchi, on the other hand, was very nearly unforgettable. i said honestly, "i don't know." he nodded. "nor do i, weels. take me then to your defoe." his face wrinkled in an expression of fury and fear. "die i can, if i must, but i do not wish to starve. it is good to be able to grow a leg, but do you understand that the leg must come from somewhere? i cannot make it out of air, weels--i must eat. when i am in my home at naples, i eat five, six, eight times a day; it is the way my body must have it. so if defoe wishes to kill me, we will let him, but i must leave here _now_." i shook my head. "please understand me, zorchi--i can't even do that for you. i can't have anybody asking me what i was doing down in this level." i hesitated only briefly; then, realizing that i was already in so deeply that secrecy no longer mattered, i told him about benedetto dell'angela, and the riot that failed, and my promise. his reaction was incredulity. "you did not know, weels? the arms and legs of the company do not know what thoughts pass through its brain? truly, the company is a wonderful thing! even the peasants know this much--the company will do anything it must." "i admit i never guessed. now what?" "that is up to you, weels. if you try to take the two of us out, it endangers you. it is for you to decide." so, of course, i could decide only one way. i hid the hypodermic behind one of the bodies in bay ; it was no longer useful to me. i persuaded zorchi to lie quietly in one of the tiers near benedetto, slammed the heavy door to bay , and heard the locks snap. that was the crossing of the rubicon. you could open that door easily enough from inside--that was to protect any personnel who might be caught in there. but only defoe and a couple of others could open it from without, and the hypodermic was now as far out of reach as the moon. i opened benedetto dell'angela's face mask and shaved him, then sealed it again. i found another suspendee of about the same build, made sure the man was not radioactive, and transferred them. i switched tags: benedetto dell'angela was now elio barletteria. then i walked unsteadily to the ramp, picked up the intercom and ordered the medical officer in charge to come down. * * * * * it was not dr. lawton who came, fortunately, but one of his helpers who had seen me before. i pointed to the pseudo-barletteria. "i want this man revived." he sputtered, "you--you can't just take a suspendee out of his trance, mr. wills. it's a violation of medical ethics! these men are _sick_. they--" "they'll be sicker still if we don't get some information from this one," i said grimly. "are you going to obey mr. defoe's orders or not?" he sputtered some more, but he gave in. his orderlies took benedetto to the receiving station at the foot of the vault; one of them stood by while the doctor worriedly went through his routine. i sat and smoked, watching the procedure. it was simple enough. one injection, a little chafing of the hands and feet by the bored orderly while the doctor glowered and i stonily refused to answer his questions, and a lot of waiting. and then the "casualty" stirred and moaned. all the stand-by apparatus was there--the oxygen tent and the pulmotor and the heart stimulator and so on. but none of it was needed. i said: "fine, doctor. now send the orderly to have an ambulance standing by at the main entrance, and make out an exit pass for this casualty." "no!" the doctor shouted. "this is against every rule, mr. wills. i insist on calling dr. lawton--" "by all means," i said. "but there isn't much time. make out the pass and get the ambulance, and we'll clear it with dr. lawton on the way out." he was all ready to say no again when i added: "this is by direct order of mr. defoe. are you questioning his orders?" he wasn't--not as long as i was going to clear it with dr. lawton. he did as i asked. one of the advantages of the company's rigid regulations was that it was hard to enforce strict security on its personnel. if you didn't tell the staff that they were working for something needing covering up, you couldn't expect them to be constantly on guard. when the orderly was gone and the doctor had scrawled out the pass, i said cordially, "thank you, doctor. now would you like to know what all the fuss was about?" "i certainly would," he snapped. "if you think--" "i'm sorry," i apologized. "come over here and take a look at this man." * * * * * i juggled the radiation counter in my hand as he stalked over. "take a look at his eyes," i invited. "are you trying to tell me that this is a dangerously radioactive case? i warn you, mr. wills--" "no, no," i said. "see for yourself. look at the right eye, just beside the nose." he bent over the awakening body, searchingly. i clonked him with the radiation counter on the back of the head. they must have retired that particular counter from service after that; it wasn't likely to be very accurate any more. the orderly found me bending over the doctor's body and calling for help. he bent, too, and he got the same treatment. benedetto by then was awake; he listened to me and didn't ask questions. the blessings of dealing with conspirators--it was not necessary to explain things more than once. and so, with a correctly uniformed orderly, who happened to be benedetto dell'angela, pushing the stretcher, and with myself displaying a properly made out pass to the expediter at the door, we rolled the sham-unconscious body of luigi zorchi out to a waiting ambulance. i felt my pulse hammering as we passed the expediter at the door. i had thrown my coat over the place where legs should have been on "barletteria," and benedetto's old plastic cocoon, into which we had squeezed zorchi, concealed most of him. * * * * * i needn't have worried. the expediter not only wasn't suspicious, he wasn't even interested. benedetto and i lifted zorchi into the ambulance. benedetto climbed in after him and closed the doors, and i went to the front. "you're dismissed," i told the driver. "i'll drive." as soon as we were out of sight of the clinic, i found a phone, got rena at the hotel, told her to meet me under the marquee. in five minutes, she was beside me and we were heading for the roads to the north. "you win," i told her. "your father's in back--along with somebody else. now what? do we just try to get lost in the hills somewhere?" "no, tom," she said breathlessly. "i--i have made arrangements." she giggled. "i walked around the square and around, until someone came up to me. you do not know how many gentlemen came before that! but then one of my--friends showed up, to see if i was all right, and i arranged it. we go up the rome highway two miles and there will be a truck." "fine," i said, stepping on the gas. "now do you want to climb back and tell your father--" i stopped in the middle of the word. rena peered at me. "tom," she asked anxiously, "is something wrong?" i swallowed, staring after a disappearing limousine in the rear-view mirror. "i--hope not," i said. "but your friends had better be there, because we don't have much time. i saw defoe in the back of that limousine." ix rena craned her neck around the door and peered into the nave of the church. "he's kissing the book," she reported. "it will be perhaps twenty minutes yet." her father said mildly, "i am in no hurry. it is good to rest here. though truthfully, mr. wills, i thought i had been rested sufficiently by your company." i think we were all grateful for the rest. it had been a hectic drive up from anzio. even though rena's "friends" were thoughtful people, they had not anticipated that we would have a legless man with us. they had passports for rena and myself and benedetto; for zorchi they had none. it had been necessary for him to hide under a dirty tarpaulin in the trunk of the ancient charcoal-burning car, while rena charmed the swiss guards at the border. and it was risky. but the guards charmed easily, and we got through. zorchi did not much appreciate it. he swore a ragged blue streak when we stopped in the shade of an olive grove and lugged him to the front seat again, and he didn't stop swearing until we hit the appian way. when the old gas-generator limped up a hill, he swore at its slowness; when it whizzed along the downgrades and level stretches, he swore at the way he was being bounced around. i didn't regret rescuing zorchi from the clinic--it was a matter of simple justice since i had helped trick him into it. but i did wish that it had been some more companionable personality that i had been obligated to. benedetto, on the other hand, shook my hand and said: "for god, i thank you," and i felt well repaid. but he was in the back seat being brought up to date by his daughter; i had the honor of zorchi's company next to me.... there was a long latin period from the church, a response from the altar boy, and then the final _ite, missa est_. we heard the worshippers moving out of the church. the priest came through the room we were waiting in, his robes swirling. he didn't look around, or give any sign that he knew we were there, though he almost stepped on zorchi, sitting propped against a wall. a moment later, another man in vaguely clerical robes entered and nodded to us. "now we go below," he ordered. benedetto and i flanked zorchi and carried him, an arm around each of our necks. we followed the sexton, or whatever he was, back into the church, before the altar--benedetto automatically genuflected with the others, nearly making me spill zorchi onto the floor--to a tapestry-hung door. he pushed aside the tapestry, and a cool, musty draft came up from darkness. the sexton lit a taper with a pocket cigarette lighter and led us down winding, rickety steps. there was no one left in the church to notice us; if anyone had walked in, we were tourists, doing as countless millions of tourists had done before us over the centuries. we were visiting the catacombs. * * * * * around us were the bones of the christians of a very different rome. rena had told me about them: how they rambled under the modern city, the only entrances where churches had been built over them. how they had been nearly untouched for two thousand years. i even felt a little as though i really were a tourist as we descended, she had made me that curious to see them. but i was disappointed. we lugged the muttering zorchi through the narrow, musty corridors, with the bones of martyrs at our elbows, in the flickering light of the taper, and i had the curious feeling that i had been there before. as, in a way, i had: i had been in the vaults of the company's clinic at anzio, in some ways very closely resembling these catacombs-- even to the bones of the martyrs. i was almost expecting to see plastic sacks. we picked our way through the warrens for several minutes, turning this way and that. i was lost in the first minute. then the sexton stopped before a flat stone that had a crude, faded sketch of a fish on it; he leaned on it, and the stone discovered itself to be a door. we followed him through it into a metal-walled, high-ceilinged tunnel, utterly unlike the meandering catacombs. i began to hear sounds; we went through another door, and light struck at our eyes. i blinked and focused on a long room, half a dozen yards wide, almost as tall, at least fifty yards long. it appeared to be a section of an enormous tunnel; it appeared to be, and it was. benedetto and i set zorchi--still cursing--down on the floor and stared around. there were people in the tunnel, dozens of them. there were desks and tables and file cabinets; it looked almost like any branch of the company, with whirring mimeographs and clattering typewriters. the sexton pinched out the taper and dropped it on the floor, as people came toward us. "so now you are in our headquarters in rome," said the man dressed as a sexton. "it is good to see you again, benedetto." "and it is much better to see you, slovetski," the old man answered warmly. * * * * * this man slovetski--i do not think i can say what he looked like. he was, i found, the very leader of the "friends," the monarch of this underground headquarters. but he was a far cry from the image i had formed of a bearded agitator. there was a hint of something bright and fearful in his eyes, but his voice was warm and deep, his manner was reassuring, his face was friendly. still--there was that cat-spark in his eyes. slovetski, that first day, gave me an hour of his time. he answered some of my questions--not all. the ones he smiled at, and shook his head, were about numbers and people. the ones he answered were about principles and things. he would tell me, for instance, what he thought of the company--endlessly. but he wouldn't say how many persons in the world were his followers. he wouldn't name any of the persons who were all around us. but he gladly told me about the place itself. "history, mr. wills," he said politely. "history tells a man everything he needs to know. you look in the books, and you will learn of mussolini, when this peninsula was all one state; he lived in rome, and he started a subway. the archives even have maps. it is almost all abandoned now. most of it was never finished. but the shafts are here, and the wiring that lights us still comes from the electric mains." "and the only entrance is through the catacombs?" the spark gleamed bright in his eye for a second. then he shrugged. "why shouldn't i tell you? no. there are several others, but they are not all convenient." he chuckled. "for instance, one goes through a station on the part of the subway that is still in operation. but it would not have done for you, you see; rena could not have used it. it goes through the gentlemen's washroom." we chuckled, slovetski and i. i liked him. he looked like what he once had been: a history teacher in a company school, somewhere in europe. we talked about history, and civilization, and mankind, and all the other capitalized subjects. he was very didactic and positive in what he said, just like a history teacher. but he was understanding. he made allowances for my background; he did not call me a fool. he was a patient monk instructing a novice in the mysteries of the order, and i was at ease with him. but there was still that spark in his eye. rena disappeared almost as soon as we were safely in the tunnels. benedetto was around, but he was as busy as slovetski, and just as mysterious about what occupied him. so i had for company zorchi. we had lunch. "food!" he said, and the word was an epithet. "they offer this to me for food! for pigs, weels. not for zorchi!" he pushed the plate away from him and stared morosely at the table. we were given a room to share, and one of slovetski's men fixed up a rope-and-pulley affair so zorchi could climb into his bed unaided. he was used to the help of a valet; the first time he tried it, he slipped and fell on the stumps of his legs. it must have hurt. he shrieked, "assassins! all of them! they put me in a kennel with the apprentice assassin, and the other assassins make a guillotine for me to kill myself on!" we had a long talk with slovetski, on the ideals and principles of his movement. zorchi stared mutinously at the wall. i found the whole thing very interesting--shocking, but interesting. but zorchi was immune to shock--"perhaps it is news to you, weels, that the company is a big beast?"--and he was interested in nothing in all the world but zorchi. by the end of the second day i stopped talking to him entirely. it wasn't kind. he disliked me, but he hated everyone else in the tunnel, so he had no one to talk to. but it was either that or hit him in the face, and--although many of my mores had changed overnight--i still did not think i could strike a man without legs. and besides, the less i saw of zorchi, the more time i had to think about rena. * * * * * she returned on the third day, without a word of explanation to me of where she had been or what she had done. she greeted me and disappeared again, this time only for hours. then she came back and said, "now i am through, for a time. how have you liked our little hideaway?" i said, "it gets lonesome." "lonesome?" her brown eyes were wide and perfectly serious. "i had thought it would be otherwise, tom. so many of us in this little space, how could you be lonesome?" i took her hand. "i'm not lonesome now," i told her. we found a place to sit in a corner of the communal dining hall. around us the life of the underground movement buzzed and swirled. it was much like a branch of the company, as i have said; the work of this secret section seemed to be mostly a record-keeping depot for the activities that took place on the surface. but no one paid much attention to rena and me. what did we talk about? what couples have always talked about: each other, and everything, and nothing. the only thing we did _not_ talk about was my basic beliefs in regard to the company. for i was too troubled in my mind to talk about them, and rena sensitive enough not to bring them up. for i had, with all honor, sworn an oath of allegiance to the company; and i had not kept it. i could not, even then, see any possibility of a world where the company did not exist. for what the company said of itself was true: before the company existed, men lived like beasts. there was always the instant danger of war and disease. no plan could be made, no hope could be held, that could not be wiped out by blind accident. and yet, were men better off today? i could not doubt the truths i had been told. the company permitted wars--i had seen it. the company permitted disease--my own wife had died. somewhere there was an answer, but i couldn't find it. it was not, i was sure, in slovetski's burning hatred of everything the company stood for. but it could not be, either, in the unquestioning belief that i had once given. but my views, it turned out, hardly mattered any more; the die was cast. benedetto appeared in the entrance to the dining hall, peering about. he saw us and came over, his face grave. "i am sorry, mr. wills," he said. "i have been listening to radio napoli. it has just come over the air: a description of you, and an order for your arrest. the charge is--murder!" * * * * * i gaped at him, hardly believing. "murder! but that's not true; i certainly never--" benedetto laid a hand on my shoulder. "of course not, mr. wills. it is a fiction of the company's, beyond doubt. but it is a fiction that may cause your death if you are discovered, do not doubt that." i swallowed. "who--whom did i murder?" benedetto shrugged. "i do not know who he is. the name they gave was elio barletteria." that was the suspendee whose place zorchi had usurped. i sat back, bewildered. it was true, at least, that i had had some connection with the man. but--kill him? was it possible, i asked myself, that the mere act of taking him out of his plastic sack endangered his life? i doubted it, but still-- i asked benedetto. he frowned. "it is--possible," he admitted at last. "we do not know much about the suspendees, mr. wills. the company has seen to that. it is my opinion--only an opinion, i am afraid--that if this man barletteria is dead, it had nothing to do with anything you did. still--" he shrugged--"what difference does it make? if the company calls you a murderer, you must be one, for the company is always right. is that not so?" we left it at that, but i was far from easy in my mind. the dining hall filled, and we ate our evening meal, but i hardly noticed what i ate and i took no part in the conversation. rena and her father considerately left me alone; zorchi was, it seemed, sulking in our room, for he did not appear. but i was not concerned with him, for i had troubles of my own. i should have been.... after dinner was over, i excused myself and went to the tiny cubicle that had been assigned to zorchi and myself. he wasn't there. then i began to think: would zorchi miss a meal? the answer was unquestionably no. with his metabolism, he needed many times the food of an ordinary person; his performance at table, in fact, was spectacular. something was wrong. i was shaken out of my self-absorption; i hurried to find benedetto dell'angela, and told him that zorchi was gone. it didn't take long for us to find the answer. the underground hideout was not large; it had only so many exits. it was only a matter of moments before one of the men benedetto had ordered to search returned with an alarmed expression. the exit that led through the subway station was ajar. somehow zorchi had hitched himself, on his stumps, down the long corridor and out the exit. it had to be while we were eating; he could never have made it except when everyone was in one room. how he had done it did not matter. the fact remained that zorchi was gone and, with him, the secrecy of our hiding place. x we had to move. there was no way out of it. "zorchi hates the company," i protested. "i don't think he'll go to them and--" "no, wills." slovetski patiently shook his head. "we can't take a chance. if we had been able to recapture him, then we could stay here. but he got clean away." there was admiration in his eyes. "what a conspirator he would have made! such strength and determination! think of it, wills, a legless man in the city of rome. he cannot avoid attracting attention. he can barely move by himself. and yet, our men track him into the subway station, to a telephone ... and that is all. someone picks him up. who? a friend, one supposes--certainly not the company, or they would have been here before this. but to act so quickly, wills!" benedetto dell'angela coughed. "perhaps more to the point, slovetski, is how quickly we ourselves shall now act." slovetski grinned. "all is ready," he promised. "see, evacuation already has begun!" groups of men were quickly placing file folders into cartons and carrying them off. they were not going far, i found later, only to a deserted section of the ancient roman catacombs, from which they could be retrieved and transported, little by little, at a later date. by sundown, rena and i were standing outside the little church which contained the entrance to the catacombs. the two of us went together; only two. it would look quite normal, it was agreed, for a young man and a girl to travel together, particularly after my complexion had been suitably stained and my company clothes discarded and replaced with a set of rome's best ready-to-wears. it did not occur to me at the time, but rena must have known that her own safety was made precarious by being with me. rena alone had nothing to fear, even if she had been caught and questioned by an agent of the company. they would suspect her, because of her father, but suspicion would do her no harm. but rena in the company of a wanted "murderer"--and one traveling in disguise--was far less safe.... we found an ancient piston-driven cab and threaded through almost all of rome. we spun around the ancient stone hulk of the colosseum, passed the balcony where a sign stated the dictator, mussolini, used to harangue the crowds, and climbed a winding, expensive-looking street to the borghese gardens. rena consulted her watch. "we're early," she said. we had _gelati_ in an open-air pavilion, listening to the wheezing of a sweating band; then, in the twilight, we wandered hand in hand under trees for half an hour. then rena said, "now it is time." we walked to the far end of the gardens where a small copter-field served the class-a residential area of rome. a dozen copters were lined up at the end of the take-off hardstand. rena led me to the nearest of them. i looked at it casually, and stopped dead. "rena!" i whispered violently. "watch out!" the copter was black and purple; it bore on its flank the marking of the swiss guard, the roman police force. * * * * * she pressed my hand. "poor tom," she said. she walked boldly up to one of the officers lounging beside the copter and spoke briefly to him, too low for me to hear. it was only when the big vanes overhead had sucked us a hundred yards into the air, and we were leveling off and heading south, that she said: "these are friends too, you see. does it surprise you?" i swallowed, staring at the hissing jets at the ends of the swirling vanes. "well," i said, "i'm not exactly _surprised_, but i thought that your friends were, well, more likely to be--" "to be rabble?" i started to protest, but she was not angry. she was looking at me with gentle amusement. "still you believe, tom. deep inside you: an enemy of the company must be, at the best, a silly zealot like my father and me--and at the worst, rabble." she laughed as i started to answer her. "no, tom, if you are right, you should not deny it; and if you are wrong--you will see." i sat back and stared, disgruntled, at the purple sunset over the mediterranean. i never saw such a girl for taking the wind out of your sails. * * * * * once across the border, the guards had no status, and it was necessary for them to swing inland, threading through mountains and passes, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. it was little more than an hour's flight until i found landmarks i could recognize. to our right was the bright bowl of naples; far to our left, the eerie glow that, marked bombed-out new caserta. and ahead, barely visible, the faint glowing plume that hung over mount vesuvius. neither rena nor the guards spoke, but i could feel in their tense attitudes that this was the danger-point. we were in the lair of the enemy. undoubtedly we were being followed in a hundred radars, and the frequency-pattern would reveal our copter for what it was--a roman police plane that had no business in that area. even if the company let us pass, there was always the chance that some neapolitan radarman, more efficient, or more anxious for a promotion, than his peers would alert an interceptor and order us down. certainly, in the old days, interception would have been inevitable; for naples had just completed a war, and only short weeks back an unidentified aircraft would have been blasted out of the sky. but we were ignored. and that, i thought to myself, was another facet to the paradox. for when, in all the world's years before these days of the company, was there such complacency, such deep-rooted security, that a nation just out of a war should have soothed its combat-jangled nerves overnight? perhaps the company had not ended wars. but the _fear_ of wars was utterly gone. we fluttered once around the volcano, and dipped in to a landing on a gentle hump of earth halfway up its slope, facing naples and the bay. we were a few hundred yards from a cluster of buildings--perhaps a dozen, in all. i jumped out, stumbling and recovering myself. rena stepped lightly into my arms. and without a word, the guards fed fuel to the jets, the rotor whirled, and the copter lifted away from us and was gone. rena peered about us, getting her bearings. there was a sliver of a moon in the eastern sky, enough light to make it possible to get about. she pointed to a dark hulk of a building far up the slope. "the observatory. come, tom." * * * * * the volcanic soil was rich, but not very useful to farmers. it was not only the question of an eruption of the cone, for that sort of hazard was no different in kind than the risk of hailstorm or drought. but the mountain sides did not till easily, its volcanic slopes being perhaps steeper than those of most mountains. the ground under our feet had never been in cultivation. it was pitted and rough, and grown up in a tangle of unfamiliar weeds. and it was also, i discovered with considerable shock, warm to the touch. i saw a plume of vapor, faintly silver in the weak light, hovering over a hummock. mist, i thought. then it occurred to me that there was too much wind for mist. it was steam! i touched the soil. blood heat, at least. i said, with some difficulty, "rena, look!" she laughed. "oh, it is an eruption, tom. of course it is. but not a new one. it is lava, you see, from the little blast the sicilians touched off. do not worry about it...." we clambered over the slippery cogs of a funicular railway and circled the ancient stone base of the building she had pointed to. there was no light visible; but rena found a small door, rapped on it and presently it opened. out of the darkness came slovetski's voice: "welcome." once this building had been the royal vulcanological observatory of the kingdom of italy. now it was a museum on the surface, and underneath another of the hideouts of rena's "friends." but this was a hideout somewhat more important than the one in the roman catacombs, i found. slovetski made no bones about it. he said, "wills, you shouldn't be here. we don't know you. we can't trust you." he held up a hand. "i know that you rescued dell'angela. but that could all be an involved scheme of the company. you could be a company spy. you wouldn't be the first, wills. and this particular installation is, shall i say, important. you may even find why, though i hope not. if we hadn't had to move so rapidly, you would never have been brought here. now you're here, though, and we'll make the best of it." he looked at me carefully, then, and the glinting spark in the back of his eyes flared wickedly for a moment. "don't try to leave. and don't go anywhere in this building where rena or dell'angela or i don't take you." and that was that. i found myself assigned to the usual sort of sleeping accommodations i had come to expect in this group. underground--cramped--and a bed harder than the class-c blue heaven minimum. * * * * * the next morning, rena breakfasted with me, just the two of us in a tower room looking down over the round slope of vesuvius and the bay beneath. she said: "the museum has been closed since the bomb landed near, so you can roam around the exhibits if you wish. there are a couple of caretakers, but they're with us. the rest of us will be in conference. i'll try to see you for lunch." and she conducted me to an upper level of the observatory and left me by myself. i had my orders--stay in the public area of the museum. i didn't like them. i wasn't used to being treated like a small boy, left by his mother in a company day nursery while she busied herself with the important and incomprehensible affairs of adults. still, the museum was interesting enough, in a way. it had been taken over by the company, it appeared, and although the legend frescoed around the main gallery indicated that it was supposed to be a historical museum of the principality of naples, it appeared by examination of the exhibits that the "history" involved was that of naples vis-a-vis the company. not, of course, that such an approach was entirely unfair. if it had not been for the intervention of the company, after the short war, it is more than possible that naples as an independent state would never have existed. it was the company's insistence on the dismantling of power centers (as millen carmody himself had described it) that had created naples and sicily and prague and quebec and baja california and all the others. only the united states had been left alone--and that, i think, only because nobody dared to operate on a wounded tiger. in the temper of the nation after the short war, the company would have survived less than a minute if it had proposed severing any of the fifty-one states.... the museum was interesting enough, for anyone with a taste for horrors. it showed the changes in neapolitan life over the past century or so. there was a reconstruction of a typical neapolitan home of the early nineteen-forties: a squalid hovel, packed ten persons to the room, with an american g.i., precursor of the company expediters, spraying ddt into the bedding. there was, by comparison, a typical class-b blue heaven modern allotment--with a certain amount of poetic license; few class-b homes really had polyscent showers and auto-cooks. * * * * * it was the section on warfare, however, that was most impressive. it was in the far back of the building, in a large chamber anchored to bedrock. it held a frightening display of weapons, from a tiger tank to a gas-gun. bulking over everything else in the room, even the tank, was the thirty-foot height of a hell-bomb in a four-story display. i looked at it a second time, vaguely disturbed by something i hadn't quite placed--an indigo gleam to the metal of the warhead, with a hint of evil under its lacquered sheen.... it was cobalt. i bent to read the legend: _this is the casing of the actual cobalt bomb that would have been used on washington if the short war had lasted one more day. it is calculated that, loaded with a mark xii hydrogen-lithium bomb, sufficient radioactive cobalt- would have been transmuted to end all life on earth within thirty days._ i looked at it again, shuddering. oh, it was safe enough now. until the hydrogen reaction could turn the ordinary cobalt sheathing into the deadly isotope- , it was just such stuff as was used to alloy magnets and make cobalt glass. it was even more valuable as a museum piece than as the highly purified metal. score one for the company. they'd put a stop to that danger. nobody would have a chance to arm it and send it off now. no small war would find it more useful than the bomb it would need--and no principality would risk the company's wrath in using it. and while the conspiracy might have planes and helicopters, the fissionable material was too rigidly under company control for them to have a chance. the super hell-bomb would never go off. and that was something that might mean more to the company's credit than anything else. maybe it was possible that in this controversy _both_ sides were right. and, of course, there was the obvious corollary. i continued my wandering, looking at the exhibits, the rubble of the museum's previous history. the cast of the pompeiian gladiator, caught by the cinder-fall in full flight, his straining body reproduced to every contorted line by the incandescent ashes that had encased him. the carefully chipped and labeled samples from the lava flows of the past two centuries. the awe-inspiring photographs of vesuvius in eruption. but something about the bomb casing kept bothering me. i wandered around a bit longer and then turned back to the main exhibit. the big casing stretched upward and downward, with narrow stairs leading down to the lower level at its base. it was on the staircase i'd noticed something before. now i hesitated, trying to spot whatever it was. there was a hint of something down there. finally, i shrugged and went down to inspect it more closely. * * * * * lying at the base was a heavy radiation glove. a used, workman's glove, dirty with grease. and as my eyes darted up, i could see that the bolts on the lower servicing hatches were half-unscrewed. radiation gloves and tampering with the casing! there were two doors to the pit for the bomb casing, but either one was better than risking the stairs again where someone might see me. or so i figured. if they found i'd learned anything.... i grabbed for the nearer door, threw it open. i knew it was a mistake when the voice reached my ears. "--after hitting the home office with a thousand-kiloton bomb. it's going to take fast work. now the schedule i've figured out so far--god's damnation! how did you get in here, wills?" it was slovetski, leaning across a table, staring at me. around the table were benedetto and four or five others i did not recognize. all of them looked at me as though i were the antichrist, popped out of the marble at st. peter's basilica on easter sunday. the spark was a raging flame in slovetski's eyes. benedetto dell'angela said sharply, "wait!" he strode over to me, half shielding me from slovetski. "explain this, thomas," he demanded. "i thought this was the hall door," i stammered, spilling the first words i could while i tried to find any excuse.... "wills! i tell you, answer me!" i said, "look, did you expect me to carry a bell and cry unclean? i didn't mean to break in. i'll go at once...." in a voice that shook, slovetski said: "wait one moment." he pressed a bell-button on the wall; we all stood there silent, the five of them staring at me, me wishing i was dead. there was a patter of feet outside, and rena peered in. she saw me and her hand went to her heart. "tom! but--" slovetski said commandingly, "why did you permit him his liberty?" rena looked at him wide-eyed. "but, please, i asked you. you suggested letting him study the exhibits." benedetto nodded. "true, slovetski," he said gravely. "you ordered her to attend until our--conference was over." the flame surged wildly in slovetski's eyes--not at me. but he got it under control. he said, "take him away." he did not do me the courtesy of looking my way again. rena took me by the hand and led me off, closing the door behind us. as soon as we were outside, i heard a sharp babble of argument, but i could make out no words through the door. i didn't need to; i knew exactly what they were saying. this was the proposition: _resolved, that the easiest thing to do is put wills out of the way permanently_. and with slovetski's fiery eyes urging the positive, what eager debater would say him nay? * * * * * rena said: "i can't tell you, tom. _please_ don't ask me!" i said, "this is no kid's game, rena! they're talking about bombing the home office!" she shook her head. "tom, tom. you must have misunderstood." "i heard them!" "tom, _please_ don't ask me any more questions." i slammed my hand down on the table and swore. it didn't do any good. she didn't even look up from the remains of her dinner. it had been like that all afternoon. the great ones brooded in secret. rena and i waited in her room, until the museum's public visiting hours were over and we could go up into the freer atmosphere of the reception lounge. and then we waited there. i said mulishly: "ever since i met you, rena, i've been doing nothing but wait. i'm not built that way!" no answer. i said, with all of my patience: "rena, i heard them talking about bombing the home office. do you think i am going to forget that?" leadenly: "no, tom." "so what does it matter if you tell me more? if i cannot be trusted, i already know too much. if i can be trusted, what does it matter if i know the rest?" again tears. "_please_ don't ask me!" i yelled: "at least you can tell me what we're waiting for!" she dabbed at her eyes. "please, tom, i don't know much more than you do. slovetski, he is like this sometimes. he gets, i suppose you would say, thoughtful. he concentrates so very much on one thing, you see, that he forgets everything around him. it is possible that he has forgotten that we are waiting. i don't know." i snarled, "i'm tired of this. go in and remind him!" "no, tom!" there was fright in her voice; and i found that she had told me one of the things i wanted to know. if it was not wise to remind slovetski that i was waiting his pleasure, the probability was that it would not be pleasant for me when he remembered. i said, "but you must know something, rena. don't you see that it could do no harm to tell me?" she said miserably, "tom, i know very little. i did not--did not know as much as you found out." i stared at her. she nodded. "i had perhaps a suspicion, it is true. yes, i suspected. but i did not _really_ think, tom, that there was a question of bombing. it is not how we were taught. it is not what slovetski promised, when we began." "you mean you didn't know slovetski was planning violence?" she shook her head. "and even now, i think, perhaps you heard wrong, perhaps there was a mistake." i stood up and leaned over her. "rena, listen to me. there was no mistake. they're working on that casing. tell me what you know!" she shook her head, weeping freely. i raged: "this is asinine! what can there be that you will not tell? the company supply base that slovetski hopes to raid to get a bomb? the officers he plans to bribe, to divert some other nation's quota of plutonium?" she took a deep breath. "not that, tom." "then what? you don't mean to say that he has a complete underground separator plant--that he is making his own plutonium!" she was silent for a long time, looking at me. then she sighed. "i will tell you, tom. no, he does not have a plant. he doesn't need one, you see. he already has a bomb." * * * * * i straightened. "that's impossible." she was shaking her head. i protested, "but the--the _quotas_, rena. the company tracks every milligram of fissionable material from the moment it leaves the reactor! the inspections! expediters with geiger counters cover every city in the world!" "not here, tom. you remember that the sicilians bombed vesuvius? there is a high level of radioactivity all up and down the mountain. not enough to be dangerous, but enough to mask a buried bomb." she closed her eyes. "and--well, you are right, tom. i might as well tell you. in that same war, you see, there was a bomb that did not explode. you recall?" "yes, but--" "but it couldn't explode, tom. it was a dummy. slovetski is a brilliant man. before that bomb left the ground, he had diverted it. what went up was a hollow shell. what is left--the heart of the bomb--is buried forty feet beneath us." i stared at her, the room reeling. i was clutching at straws. i whispered, "but that was only a fission bomb, rena. slovetski--i heard him--he said a thousand-kiloton bomb. that means hydrogen, don't you see? surely he hasn't tucked one of those away." rena's face was an agony of regret. "i do not understand all these things, so you must bear with me. i know this; there has been secret talk about the milanese generators, and i know that the talk has to do with heavy water. and i am not stupid altogether, i know that from heavy water one can get what is used in a hydrogen bomb. and there is more, of course--lithium, perhaps? but he has that. you have seen it, i think. it is on a pedestal in this building." i sat down hard. it was impossible. but it all fell into place. given the fissionable core of the bomb--plus the deuterium, plus the lithium-bearing shell--it was no great feat to put the parts together and make a hell-bomb. the mind rejected it; it was too fantastic. it was frightful and terrifying, and worst of all was that something lurking at the threshold of memory, something about that bomb on display in the museum.... and, of course, i remembered. "rena!" i said, struggling for breath. i nearly could not go on, it was too dreadful to say. "rena! have you ever looked at that bomb? have you read the placard on it? _that bomb is cobalt!_" xi from the moment i had heard those piercing words from slovetski's mouth, i had been obsessed with a vision. a hell-bomb on the home office. america's eastern seaboard split open. new york a hole in the ocean, from kingston to sandy hook; orange flames spreading across connecticut and the pennsylvania corner. that was gone--and in its place was something worse. radiocobalt bombing wouldn't simply kill locally by a gout of flaring radiation. it would leave the atmosphere filled with colloidal particles of deadly, radioactive cobalt- . a little of that could be used to cure cancers and perform miracles. the amount released from the sheathing of cobalt--normal, "safe" cobalt--around a fissioning hydrogen bomb could kill a world. a single bomb of that kind could wipe out all life on earth, as i remembered my schooling. i'm no physicist; i didn't know what the quantities involved might mean, once the equations came off the drafting paper and settled like a ravening storm on the human race. but i had a glimpse of radioactive dust in every breeze, in every corner of every land. perhaps a handful of persons in cambodia or vladivostok or melbourne might live through it. but there was no question in my mind: if that bomb went off, it was the end of our civilization. i saw it clearly. and so, having betrayed the company to slovetski's gang, i came full circle. even judas betrayed only one. * * * * * getting away from the observatory was simple enough, with rena shocked and confused enough to look the other way. finding a telephone near mount vesuvius was much harder. i was two miles from the mountain before i found what i was looking for--a blue wing fully-automatic filling station. the electronic scanners clucked worriedly, as they searched for the car i should have been driving, and the policy-punching slot glowed red and receptive, waiting for my order. i ignored them. what i wanted was inside the little unlocked building--a hushaphone-booth with vision attachment. the important thing was to talk direct to defoe and only to defoe. in the vision screen, impedance mismatch would make the picture waver if there was anyone uninvited listening in. but i left the screen off while i put through my call. the office servo-operator (it was well after business hours) answered blandly, and i said: "connect me with defoe, crash priority." it was set to handle priority matters on a priority basis; there was neither fuss nor argument, though a persistent buzzing in the innards of the phone showed that, even while the robot was locating defoe for me, it was double-checking the connection to find out why there was no vision on the screen. it said briskly, "stand by, sir," and i was connected with defoe's line--on a remote hookup with the hotel where he was staying, i guessed. i flicked the screen open. but it wasn't defoe on the other end of the line. it was susan manchester, with that uncharacteristic, oddly efficient look she had shown at the vaults. she said crisply, and not at all surprised: "tom wills." "that's right," i said, thinking quickly. well, it didn't much matter. i should have realized that defoe's secretary, howsoever temporary, would be taking his calls. i said rapidly: "susan, i can't talk to you. it has to be defoe. take my word for it, it's important. please put him on." she gave me no more of an argument than the robot had. in a second, defoe was on the screen, and i put susan out of my mind. she must have said something to him, because the big, handsome face was unsurprised, though the eyes were contracted. "wills!" he snapped. "you fool! where are you?" i said, "mr. defoe, i have to talk to you. it's a very urgent matter." "come in and do it, wills! not over the telephone." i shook my head. "no, sir. i can't. it's too, well, risky." "risky for you, you mean!" the words were icily disgusted. "wills, you have betrayed me. no man ever got away with that. you're imposing on me, playing on my family loyalty to your dead wife, and i want to tell you that you won't get away with it. there's a murder charge against you, wills! come in and talk to me--or else the police will pick you up before noon." * * * * * i said with an effort, "i don't mean to impose on any loyalty, but, in common decency, you ought to hear--" "decency!" his face was cold. "you talk about decency! you and that dell'angela traitor you joined. decency! wills, you're a disgrace to the memory of a decent and honest woman like marianna. i can only say that i am glad--glad, do you hear me?--that she's dead and rid of you." i said, "wait a minute, defoe! leave marianna out of this. i only--" "don't interrupt me! god, to think a man i trusted should turn out to be judas himself! you animal, the company has protected you from the day you were born, and you try to destroy it. why, you pitiful idiot, you aren't fit to associate with the dogs in the kennel of a decent human being!" there was more. much, much more. it was a flow of abuse that paralyzed me, less because of what he said than because of who was saying it. suave, competent defoe, ranting at me like a wounded gogarty! i couldn't have been more astonished if the portrait of millen carmody had whispered a bawdy joke from the frontispiece of the handbook. i stood there, too amazed to be furious, listening to the tirade from the midget image in the viewplate. it must have lasted for three or four minutes; then, almost in mid-breath, defoe glanced at something outside my range of vision, and stopped his stream of abuse. i started to cut in while i could, but he held up one hand quickly. he smiled gently. very calmly, as though he had not been damning me a moment before, he said: "i shall be very interested to hear what you have to say." that floored me. it took me a second to shake the cobwebs out of my brain before i said waspishly, "if you hadn't gone through all that jabber, you would have heard it long ago." the midget in the scanner shrugged urbanely. "true," he conceded. "but then, thomas, i wouldn't have had you." and he reached forward and clicked off the phone. tricked! tricked and trapped! i cursed myself for stupidity. while he kept me on the line, the call was being traced--there was no other explanation. and i had fallen for it! i slapped the door of the booth open and leaped out. i got perhaps ten feet from the booth. then a rope dropped over my shoulders. its noose yanked tight around my arms, and i was being dragged up, kicking futilely. i caught a glimpse of the broad latin faces gaping at me from below, then two men on a rope ladder had me. i was dragged in through the bottom hatch of a big helicopter with no markings. the hatch closed. facing me was a lieutenant of expediters. the two men tumbled in after me and reeled in the rope ladder, as the copter dipped and swerved away. i let myself go limp as the rope was loosened around me; when my hands were free i made my bid. i leaped for the lieutenant; my fist caught him glancingly on the throat, sending him reeling and choking backward. i grabbed for the hard-pellet gun at his hip--he was pawing at it--and we tumbled across the floor. it was, for one brief moment, a chance. i was no copter pilot, but the gun was all the pilot i'd need--if only i got it out. but the expediters behind me were no amateurs. i ducked as the knotted end of the rope whipped savagely toward me. then one of the other expediters was on my back; the gun came out, and flew free. and that was the end of that. i had, i knew, been a fool to try it. but i wasn't sorry. they had too much rough-and-tumble training for me to handle. but that one blow had felt good. it didn't seem as worth while a few moments later. i was fastened to a seat, while the wheezing lieutenant gave orders in a strangled voice. "not too many marks on him," he was saying. "try it over the kidneys again...." i never even thought of maintaining a heroic silence. they had had plenty of experience with the padded club, too, and i started to black out twice before finally i went all the way down. * * * * * i came to with a light shining in my eyes. there was a doctor putting his equipment away. "he'll be all right, mr. defoe," he said, and snapped his bag shut and left the circle of light. i felt terrible, but my head was clearing. i managed to focus my eyes. defoe was there, and a couple of other men. i recognized gogarty, looking sick and dejected, and another face i knew--it was out of my home office training--an officer whose name i didn't recall, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant-general of expediters. that meant at least an expediter corps in naples! i said weakly, "hi." defoe stood over me. he said, "i'm very glad to see you, thomas. coffee?" he steadied my hands as i gulped it. when i had managed a few swallows, he took the cup away. "i did not think you would resist arrest, thomas," he said in a parental tone. i said, "damn it, you didn't have to arrest me! i came down here of my own free will!" "down?" his eyebrows rose. "down from where do you mean, thomas?" "down from mount--" i hesitated, then finished. "all right. down from mount vesuvius. the museum, where i was hiding out with the ringleaders of the anti-company movement. is that what you want to know?" defoe crackled: "manning!" the lieutenant-general saluted and left the room. defoe said, "that was the first thing i wanted, yes. but now i want much more. please begin talking, thomas. i will listen." i talked. there was nothing to stop me. even with my body a mass of aches and pains from the tender care of the company's expediters, i still had to side with the company in this. for the cobalt-bomb ended all loyalties. i left nothing important out, not even rena. i admitted that i had taken benedetto from the clinic, how we had escaped to rome, how we had fled to vesuvius ... and what i had learned. i made it short, skipping a few unimportant things like zorchi. and defoe sat sipping his coffee, listening, his warm eyes twinkling. i stopped. he pursed his lips, considering. "silly," he said at last. "silly? what's silly!" he said, "thomas, i don't care about your casual affairs. and i would have excused your--precipitousness--since you have brought back certain useful information. quite useful. i don't deny it. but i don't like being lied to, thomas." "i haven't lied!" he said sharply, "there is no way to get fissionable material except through the company!" "oh, hell!" i shook my head. "how about a dud bomb, defoe?" for the first time he looked puzzled. "dud bomb?" gogarty looked sick. "there's--there's a report on your desk, mr. defoe," he said worriedly. "we--well--figured the half-masses just got close enough to boil instead of to explode. we--" "i see." defoe looked at him for a long moment. then, disregarding gogarty, he turned back to me, shoved the coffee at me. "all right, thomas. they've got the warhead. hydrogen? cobalt? what about fuel?" i told him what i knew. gogarty, listening, licked his lips. i didn't envy him. i could see the worry in him, the fear of defoe's later wrath. for in defoe, as in slovetski, there was that deadly fire. it blazed only when it was allowed to; but what it touched withered and died. i had not seen defoe as tightly concentrated, as drivingly intent, before. i was sorry for gogarty when at last, having drained me dry, defoe left. but i was glad for me. * * * * * he was gone less than an hour--just time for me to eat a class-c meal a silent expediter brought. he thrust the door open and stared at me with whitely glaring eyes. "if i thought you were lying, thomas ..." his voice was cracking with suppressed emotion. "what happened?" i demanded. "don't you know?" he stood trembling, staring at me. "you told the truth--or part of the truth. there _was_ a hideout on vesuvius. but an hour ago they got away--while you were wasting time. was it a stall, thomas? did you know they would run?" i said, "defoe, don't you see, that's all to the good? if they had to run, they couldn't possibly take the bomb with them. that means--" he was shaking head. "oh, but you're wrong, thomas. according to the director of the albergo down the hill, three skyhook helicopters came over--big ones. they peeled the roof off, as easy as you please, and they lifted the bomb out and then flew away." * * * * * i said stupidly, "where?" he nodded. there was no emotion in his voice, only in his eyes. he might have been discussing the weather. "where? that is a good question. i hope we will find it out, thomas. we're checking the radar charts; they can't hide for long. but how did they get away at all? why did you give them the time?" he left me. perversely, i was almost glad. it was part of the price of switching allegiance, i was learning, that shreds and tatters of loyalties cling to you and carry over. when i went against the company to rescue benedetto, i still carried with me my adjusters' handbook. and i confess that i never lost the habit of reading a page or two in it, even in the catacombs, when things looked bad. and when i saw the murderous goal that slovetski's men were marching toward, and i returned to defoe, i still could feel glad that benedetto, at least, had got away. but not far. it was only a few hours, but already broad daylight when gogarty, looking shaken, came into the room. he said testily, "damn it, wills, i wish i'd never seen you! come on! defoe wants you with us." "come on where?" i got up as he gestured furiously for haste. "where do you think? did you think your pals would be able to stay out of sight forever? we've got them pinpointed, bomb and all." he was almost dragging me down the corridor, toward a courtyard. i limped out into the bright morning and blinked. the court was swarming with armed expediters, clambering into personnel-carrying copters marked with the vivid truce-team insignia of the company. gogarty hustled me into the nearest and the jets sizzled and we leaped into the air. i shouted, over the screaming of the jets, "where are we going?" gogarty spat and pointed down the long purple coastline. "to their hideout--pompeii!" xii no one discussed tactics with me, but it was clear that this operation was carefully planned. our copter was second in a long string of at least a dozen that whirled down the coastline, past the foothills of vesuvius, over the clusters of fishing villages and vineyards. i had never seen pompeii, but i caught a glimpse of something glittering and needle-nosed, up-thrust in the middle of a cluster of stone buildings that might have been the ruins. then the first ten of the copters spun down to a landing, while two or three more flew a covering mission overhead. the expediters, hard-pellet guns at the ready, leaped out and formed in a skirmish line. gogarty and a pair of expediters stayed close by me, behind the line of attack; we followed the troops as they dog-trotted through a field of some sort of grain, around fresh excavations, down a defile into the shallow pit that held the ruins of first-century pompeii. i had no time for archeology, but i remember tripping over wide, shallow gutters in the stone-paved streets, and cutting through a tiny villa of some sort whose plaster walls still were decorated with faded frescoes. then we heard the spatter of gunfire and gogarty, clutching at me, skidded to a halt. "this is specialist work," he panted. "best thing we can do is stay out of it." i peered around a column and saw a wide open stretch. beyond it was a roman arch and the ruined marble front of what once had been a temple of some sort; in the open ground lay the three gigantic copters defoe had mentioned. the vanes of one of them were spinning slowly, and it lurched and quivered as someone tried to get it off the ground under fire. but the big thing was in the middle of the area: the bomb, enormous and terrifying as its venomous nose thrust up into the sky. by its side was a tank truck, the side of it painted with the undoubtedly untrue legend that it contained crude olive oil. hydrazine, more likely! hoses connected it with the base of the guided-missile bomb; and a knot of men were feverishly in action around it, some clawing desperately at the fittings of the bomb, some returning the skirmish fire of the expediters. we had the advantage of surprise, but not very much of that. from the top of the ancient temple a rapid-fire pellet gun sprayed into the flank of the skirmish line, which immediately broke up as the expediters leaped for cover. one man fell screaming out of the big skyhook copter, but someone remained inside, for it lurched and dipped and roared crazily across the field in as ragged a take-off as i ever saw, until its pilot got it under control. it bobbed over the skirmish line under fire, but returning the fire as whatever few persons were inside it leaned out and strafed the expediters. then the skyhook itself came under attack as the patrol copters swooped in. the big ship staggered toward the nearest of them. it must have been intentional: we could see the faint flare of muzzle-blast as the two copters fired on each other; they closed, and there was a brutal rending noise as they collided. they were barely a hundred feet in the air; they crashed in a breath, and flames spread out from the wreckage. * * * * * and slovetski's resources still had not run out. there was a roar and a screech of metal, and a one-man cobra tank slithered out of one of the buildings and came rapidly across the field toward the expediters. gogarty, beside me, was sobbing with fear; that little tank carried self-loading rockets. it blasted a tiny shrine into rubble, spun and came directly toward us. we ran. i didn't even see the second expediter aircraft come whirling in and put the cobra tank out of action with its heavy weapons. i heard the firing, but it was swallowed up in a louder screaming roar. gogarty stared at me from the drainage trench we had flung ourselves into. we both leaped up and ran back toward the open field. there was an explosion as we got there--the fake "olive-oil" truck, now twenty yards from the bomb, had gone up in a violent blast. but we hardly noticed. for at the base of the bomb itself red-purple fire was billowing out. it screamed and howled and changed color to a blinding blue as the ugly squat shape danced and jiggled. the roar screamed up from a bull-bass to a shrieking coloratura and beyond as the bomb lifted and gained speed and, in the blink of an eye, was gone. i hardly noticed that the sound of gunfire died raggedly away. we were not the only ones staring unbelievingly at the sky where that deadly shape had disappeared. of the scores of men on both sides in that area, not a single eye was anywhere else. the bomb had been fueled; we were too late. its servitors, perhaps at the cost of their own lives, had torched it off. it was on its way. the cobalt bomb--the single weapon that could poison the world and wipe out the human race--was on its way. xiii what can you do after the end? what becomes of any plot or plan, when an indigo-gleaming missile sprays murder into the sky and puts a period to planning? i do not think there ever was a battlefield as abruptly quiet as that square in old pompeii. once the bomb had gone, there was not a sound. the men who had been firing on each other were standing still, jaws hanging, eyes on the sky. but it couldn't last. for one man was not surprised; one man knew what was happening and was ready for it. a crouching figure at the top of the ruined temple gesticulated and shouted through a power-megaphone: "give it up, defoe! you've lost, you've lost!" it was slovetski, and beside him a machine-gun crew sighted in on the nearest knot of expediters. pause, while the universe waited. and then his answer came; it was a shot that screamed off a cracked capital, missing him by millimeters. he dropped from sight, and the battle was raging. human beings are odd. now that the cause of the fight was meaningless, it doubled in violence. there were fewer than a hundred of slovetski's men involved, and not much more than that many expediters. but for concentrated violence i think they must have overmatched anything in the short war's ending. i was a non-combatant; but the zinging of the hard-pellet fire swarmed all around me. gogarty, in his storm sewer, was safe enough, but i was more exposed. while the rapid-fire weapons pattered all around me, i jumped up and zigzagged for the shelter of a low-roofed building. the walls were little enough protection, but at least i had the illusion of safety. most of all, i was out of sight. i wormed my way through a gap in the wall to an inner chamber. it was as tiny a room as ever i have been in; less than six feet in its greatest dimension--length--and with most of its floor area taken up by what seemed to be a rude built-in bed. claustrophobia hit me there; the wall on the other side was broken too, and i wriggled through. the next room was larger; and it was occupied. a man lay, panting heavily, in a corner. he pushed himself up on an elbow to look at me. in a ragged voice he said: "thomas!" and he slumped back, exhausted by the effort, blood dripping from his shirt. i leaped over to the side of benedetto dell'angela. the noise of the battle outside rose to a high pitch and dwindled raggedly away. * * * * * i suppose it was inertia that kept me going--certainly i could see with my mind's vision no reason to keep struggling. the world was at an end. there was no reason to try again to escape from the rubber hoses of the expediters--and, after i had seen the resistance end, and an expediter-officer appeared atop the temple where slovetski had shouted his defiance, no possibility of rejoining the rebels. without slovetski, they were lost. but i kept on. benedetto helped. he knew every snake-hole entrance and exit of all the hideouts of slovetski's group. they had not survived against the strength of the company without acquiring skill in escape routes; and here, too, they had a way out. it required a risky dash across open ground but, even with benedetto on my back, i made it. and then we were in old pompeii's drainage sewer, the arched stone tunnel that once had carried sewage from the roman town to the sea. it was a hiding place, and then a tunnel to freedom, for the two of us. we waited there all of that day, benedetto mumbling almost inaudibly beside me. in lucid moments, he told me the name of the hotel where rena had gone when the observatory was abandoned, but there seemed few lucid moments. toward evening, he began to recover. we found our way to the seashore just as darkness fell. there was a lateen-rigged fishing vessel of some sort left untended. i do not suppose the owner was far away, but he did not return in time to stop us. benedetto was very weak. he was muttering to himself, words that i could hardly understand. "wasted, wasted, wasted," was the burden of his complaint. i did not know what he thought was wasted--except, perhaps, the world. we slipped in to one of the deserted wharves under cover of darkness, and i left benedetto to find a phone. it was risky, but what risk mattered when the world was at an end? rena was waiting at the hotel. she answered at once. i did not think the call had been intercepted--or that it would mean anything to anyone if it had. i went back to the boat to wait with benedetto for rena to arrive, in a rented car. we didn't dare chance a cab. benedetto was sitting up, propped rigidly against the mast, staring off across the water. perhaps i startled him as i came to the boat; he turned awkwardly and cried out weakly. then he saw that it was i. he said something i could not understand and pointed out toward the west, where the sun had gone down long before. but there was still light there--though certainly not sunset. far off over the horizon was a faint glow! i couldn't understand at first, since i was sure the bomb had been zeroed-in on the home offices in new york; but something must have happened. from that glow, still showing in the darkness so many hours after the explosion as the dust particles gleamed bluely, it must have gone off over the atlantic. there was no doubt in my mind any longer. the most deadly weapon the world had ever known had gone off! xiv the hotel was not safe, of course, but what place was when the world was at an end? rena and i, between us, got her father, benedetto, upstairs into her room without attracting too much attention. we put him on the bed and peeled back his jacket. the bullet had gone into his shoulder, a few inches above the heart. the bone was splintered, but the bleeding was not too much. rena did what she could and, for the first time in what seemed like years, we had a moment's breathing space. i said, "i'll phone for a doctor." benedetto said faintly, "no, thomas! the company!" i protested, "what's the difference? we're all dead, now. you've seen--" i hesitated and changed it. "slovetski has seen to that. there was _cobalt_ in that bomb." he peered curiously at me. "slovetski? did you suppose it was slovetski who planned it so?" he shook his head--and winced at the pain. he whispered, "thomas, you do not understand. it was my project, not slovetski's. that one, he proposed to destroy the company's home office; it was his thought that killing them would bring an end to evil. i persuaded him there was no need to kill--only to gamble." i stared at him. "you're delirious!" "oh, no." he shook his head and succeeded in a tiny smile. "do you not see it, thomas? the great explosion goes off, the world is showered with particles of death. and then--what then?" "we die!" "die? no! have you forgotten the vaults of the clinics?" it staggered me. i'd been reciting all the pat phrases from early schooling about the bomb! if it had gone off in the short war, of course, it would have ended the human race! but i'd been a fool. the vaults had been built to handle the extreme emergencies that couldn't be foreseen--even one that knocked out nearly the whole race. they hadn't expected that a cobalt-cased bomb would ever be used. only the conspirators would have tried, and how could they get fissionables? but they were ready for even that. i'd been expecting universal doom. "the clinics," benedetto repeated as i stared at him. * * * * * it was the answer. even radio-poisons of cobalt do not live forever. five years, and nearly half of them would be gone; eleven years, and more than three-quarters would be dissipated. in fifty years, the residual activity would be down to a fraction of one per cent--and the human race could come back to the surface. "but why?" i demanded. "suppose the company can handle the population of the whole world? granted, they've space enough and one year is the same as fifty when you're on ice. but what's the use?" he smiled faintly. "bankruptcy, thomas," he whispered. "so you see, we do not wish to fall into the company's hands right now. for there is a chance that we will live ... and perhaps the very faintest of chances that we will win!" * * * * * it wasn't even a faint chance--i kept telling myself that. but, if anything could hurt the company, the area in which it was vulnerable was money. benedetto had been intelligent in that. bombing the home office would have been an inconvenience, no more. but to disrupt the world's work with a fifty-year hiatus, while the air purged itself of the radioactive cobalt from the bomb, would mean fifty years while the company lay dormant; fifty years while the policies ran their course and became due. for that was the wonder of benedetto's scheme: _the company insured against everything_. if a man were to be exposed to radiation and needed to be put away, he automatically went on "disability" benefits, while his policy paid its own premiums! multiply this single man by nearly four billion. the sum came out to a bankrupt company. it seemed a thin thread with which to strangle a monster. and yet, i thought of the picture of millen carmody in my adjuster's manual. there was the embodiment of honor. where a defoe might cut through the legalities and flout the letter of the agreements, carmody would be bound by his given word. the question, then, was whether defoe would dare to act against carmody. everything else made sense. even exploding the bomb high over the atlantic: it would be days before the first fall-out came wind-borne to the land, and in those days there would be time for the beginnings of the mass migration to the vaults. wait and see, i told myself. wait and see. it was flimsy, but it was hope, and i had thought all hope was dead. we could not stay in the hotel, and there was only one place for us to go. slovetski captured, the company after our scalps, the whole world about to be plunged into confusion--we had to get out of sight. * * * * * it took time. zorchi's hospital gave me a clue; i tracked it down and located the secretary. the secretary spat at me over the phone and hung up, but the second time i called him he grudgingly consented to give me another number to call. the new number was zorchi's lawyer. the lawyer was opaque and uncommunicative, but proposed that i call him back in a quarter of an hour. in a quarter of an hour, i was on the phone. he said guardedly: "what was left in bay ?" "a hypodermic and a bottle of fluid," i said promptly. "that checks," he confirmed, and gave me a number. and on the other end of that number i reached zorchi. "the junior assassin," he sneered. "and calling for help? how is that possible, weels? did my _avocatto_ lie?" i said stiffly, "if you don't want to help me, say so." "oh--" he shrugged. "i have not said that. what do you want?" "food, a doctor, and a place for three of us to hide for a while." he pursed his lips. "to hide, is it?" he frowned. "that is very grave, weels. why should i hide you from what is undoubtedly your just punishment?" "because," i said steadily, "i have a telephone number. which can be traced. defoe doesn't know you've escaped, but that can be fixed!" he laughed angrily. "oh-ho. the assassin turns to blackmail, is that it?" i said furiously, "damn you, zorchi, you know i won't turn you in. i only point out that i can--and that i will not. now, will you help us or not?" he said mildly, "oh, of course. i only wished you to say 'please'--but it is not a trick you company men are good at. signore, believe me, i perish with loneliness for you and your two friends, whoever they may be. listen to me, now." he gave me an address and directions for finding it. and he hung up. zorchi's house was far outside the city, along the road to new caserta. it lay at the bend of the main highway, and i suppose i could have passed it a hundred thousand times without looking inside, it was so clearly the white-stuccoed, large but crumbling home of a mildly prosperous peasant. it was large enough to have a central court partly concealed from the road. the secretary, spectacles and all, met us at the door--and that was a shock. "you must have roller skates," i told him. he shrugged. "my employer is too forgiving," he said, with ice on his voice. "i had hoped to reach him before he made an error. as you see, i was too late." we lifted benedetto off the seat; he was just barely conscious by now, and his face was ivory under the mediterranean tan. i shook the secretary off and held benedetto carefully in my arms as rena held the door before me. the secretary said, "a moment. i presume the car is stolen. you must dispose of it at once." i snarled over my shoulder, "it isn't stolen, but the people that own it will be looking for it all right. _you_ get rid of it." he spluttered and squirmed, but i saw him climbing into the seat as i went inside. zorchi was there waiting, in a fancy motorized wheelchair. he had legs! apparently they were not fully developed as yet, but in the short few days since i had rescued him _something_ had grown that looked like nearly normal limbs. he had also grown, in that short time, a heavy beard. the sneer, however, was the same. i made the error of saying, "signore zorchi, will you call a doctor for this man?" the thick lips writhed under the beard. "_signore_ it is now, is it? no longer the freak zorchi, the case zorchi, the half-man? god works many miracles, weels. see the greatest of them all--it has transmuted the dog into a _signore_!" i grated, "for god's sake, zorchi, call a doctor!" he said coldly, "you mentioned this over the phone, did you not? if you would merely walk on instead of bickering, you would find the doctor already here." * * * * * plasma and antibiotics: they flowed into benedetto from half a dozen plastic tubes like oil into the hold of a tanker. and i could see, in the moments when i watched, the color come back into his face, and the sunken eyes seem to come back to life. the doctor gave him a sedative that made him sleep, and explained to us that benedetto was an old man for such goings-on. but if he could be kept still for three or four weeks, the doctor said, counting the lire zorchi's secretary paid him, there was no great danger. if he could be kept still for three or four weeks. in scarcely ten days, the atmosphere of the planet would be death to breathe! many things might happen to benedetto in that time, but remaining still was not one of them. zorchi retired to his own quarters, once the doctor was gone, and rena and i left benedetto to sleep. we found a television set and turned it on, listening for word of the cobalt-bomb. we got recorded _canzoni_ sung by a reedy tenor. we dialed, and found the neapolitan equivalent of a soap opera, complete with the wise, fat old mother and the sobbing new daughter-in-law. it was like that on all the stations, while rena and i stared at each other in disbelief. finally, at the regular hourly newscast, we got a flicker: "an unidentified explosion," the announcer was saying, "far out at sea, caused alarm to many persons last night. although the origins are not known, it is thought that there is no danger. however, there has been temporary disturbance to all long-lines communications, and air travel is grounded while the explosion is being investigated." we switched to the radio: it was true. only the uhf television bands were on the air. i said, "i can't figure that. if there's enough disturbance to ruin long-distance transmission, it ought to show up on the television." rena said doubtfully, "i do not remember for sure, tom, but is there not something about television which limits its distance?" "well--i suppose so, yes. it's a line of sight transmission, on these frequencies at any rate. i don't suppose it has to be, except that all the television bands fall in vhf or uhf channels." "yes. and then, is it not possible that only the distance transmission is interrupted? on purpose, i mean?" i slammed my hand on the arm of the chair. "on purpose! the company--they are trying to keep this thing localized. but the idiots, don't they know that's impossible? does defoe think he can let the world burn up without doing anything to stop it--just by keeping the people from knowing what happened?" she shrugged. "i don't know, tom." i didn't know either, but i suspected--and so did she. it was out of the question that the company, with its infinite resources, its nerve-fibers running into every part of the world, should not know just what that bomb was, and what it would do. and what few days the world had--before the fall-out became dangerous--were none too many. already the word should have been spread, and the first groups alerted for movement into the vaults, to wait out the day when the air would be pure again. if it was being delayed, there could be no good reason for it. * * * * * the only reason was defoe. but what, i asked myself miserably, was millen carmody doing all this while? was he going to sit back and placidly permit defoe to pervert every ideal of the company? i could not believe it. it was not possible that the man who had written the inspiring words in the handbook could be guilty of genocide. rena excused herself to look in on her father. almost ashamed of myself, i took the battered book from my pocket and opened it to check on millen carmody's own preface. it was hard to reconcile the immensely reassuring words with what i had seen. and, as i read them, i no longer felt safe and comforted. * * * * * there seemed to be no immediate danger, and rena needed to get out of that house. there was nothing for benedetto to do but wait, and zorchi's servants could help him when it was necessary. i took her by the arm and we strolled out into the garden, breathing deeply. that was a mistake. i had forgotten, in the inconspicuous air conditioning of zorchi's home, that we were in the center of the hemp fields that had nearly cost me my dinner, so long ago, with hammond. i wondered if i ever would know just why hammond was killed. playing both ends against the middle, it seemed--he had undoubtedly been in with slovetski's group. rena had admitted as much, and i was privately certain that he had been killed by them. but of more importance was the stench in our nostrils. "perhaps," said rena, "across the road, in the walnut grove, it will not be as bad." i hesitated, but it felt safe in the warm italian night, and so we tried it. the sharp scent of the walnut trees helped a little; what helped even more was that the turbinates of the nostril can stand just so much, and when their tolerance is exceeded they surrender. so that it wasn't too long before, though the stench was as strong as ever, we hardly noticed it. we sat against the thick trunk of a tree, and rena's head fitted naturally against my shoulder. she was silent for a time, and so was i--it seemed good to have silence, after violent struggle and death. then she said: "strange man." "me?" "no. oh, yes, tom, if it comes to that, you, too. but i was thinking just now of zorchi. is it true, what you told me of his growing legs and arms so freely?" "i thought everyone in naples knew that. i thought he was a national hero." "of course, but i have never really known that the stories were _true_. how does it happen, tom?" i shrugged. "heaven knows, i don't. i doubt if even zorchi knows. his parents might have been involved in some sort of atomic business and got radiated, and so they produced a mutation. it's perfectly possible, you know." "i have heard so, tom." "or else it just happened. something in his diet, in the way his glands responded to a sickness, some sort of medicine. no one knows." "cannot scientists hope to tell?" "well--" it was beginning to sound like the seeds of one of our old arguments--"well, i suppose so. pure research isn't much encouraged, these days." "but it should be, you think?" "of course it should. the only hope of the world--" i trailed off. through the trees was a bright, distant glare, and i had just remembered what it was. "is what, tom?" "there isn't any," i said, but only to myself. she didn't press me; she merely burrowed into my arm. perhaps the wind shifted, and the smell of the hemp fields grew stronger; perhaps it was only the foul thought that the glaring sky had triggered that contaminated my mood. but where i had been happy and relaxed--the c-bomb completely out of my mind for the moment--now i was too fully aware of what was ahead for all of us. "let's go back, rena," i said. she didn't ask why. perhaps she, too, was feeling the weight of our death sentence. * * * * * we caught the evening newscast; its story varied little from the early ones. benedetto still slept, but zorchi joined us as we watched it. the announcer, face stamped with the careful blend of gravity and confidence that marks tele-casters all over the world, was saying: "late word on the bomb exploded over the north atlantic indicates that there is some danger that radioactive ash may be carried to this area. the danger zones are now being mapped and surveyed, and residents of all such sections will be evacuated or placed in deep sleep until the danger is over. "blue bolt policies give you complete protection against all hazards from this explosion. i repeat, blue bolt policies give you complete protection against all hazards from this explosion. check your policies and be sure of your status. there is absolutely no risk for any person carrying the basic blue bolt minimum coverage or better." i clicked off the set. "i wonder what the people in shanghai are hearing tonight," i said. zorchi had only listened without comment, when i told him about the bomb that afternoon; he listened without comment now. rena said: "tom, i've been wondering. you know, i--i don't have any insurance. neither has my father, since we were canceled. and we're not the only ones without it, either." i patted her hand. "we'll straighten this out," i promised. "you'll get your coverage back." she gave me a skeptical look, but shook her head. "i don't mean just about father and me. what about all of the uninsurables, all over the world? the bomb goes off, and everybody with a policy files down into the vaults, but what about the others?" i explained, "there are provisions for them. some of them can be cared for under the dependency-clauses in the policies of their next of kin. others have various charitable arrangements--some localities, for instance, carry blanket floater policies for their paupers and prisoners and so on. and--well, i don't suppose it would ever come to that, but if someone turned up who had no coverage at all, he could be cared for out of the loss-pool that the company carries for such contingencies. it wouldn't be luxurious, but he'd live. * * * * * "you see," i went on, warming to my subject, "the company is set up so the actual premiums paid are meaningless. the whole objective of the company is service; the premiums are only a way to that goal. the company has no interest other than the good of the world, and--" i stopped, feeling like a fool. zorchi was laughing raucously. i said resentfully, "i guess i asked for that, zorchi. well, perhaps what i said sounds funny. but, before god, zorchi, that's the way the company is set up. here--" i picked the handbook from the end-table beside me and tossed it to him--"read what millen carmody says. i won't try to convince you. just read it." he caught it expertly and dropped it on the floor before him. "so much for your chief assassin," he remarked pleasantly. "the words are no doubt honied, weels, but i am not at this moment interested to read them." i shrugged. it was peculiar how even a reasonable man--i have always thought of myself as a reasonable man--could make a fool of himself. it was no sin that habit had betrayed me into exalting the company; but it was, at the least, quite silly of me to take offense when my audience disagreed with me. i said, in what must have been a surly tone, "i don't suppose you are--why should you? you hate the company from the word go." he shook his head mildly. "i? no, weels. believe me, i am the company's most devoted friend. without it, how would i feed my five-times-a-day appetite?" i sneered at him. "if you're a friend to the company, then my best buddy is a tapeworm." "meaning that zorchi is a parasite?" his eyes were furious. "weels, you impose on me too far! be careful! is it the act of a tapeworm that i bleed and die, over and over? is it something i chose, did i pray to the saints, before my mother spawned me, that i should be born a monster? no, weels! we are alike, you gentlemen of the company and i--we live on blood money, it is true. but the blood i live on, man--it is my own!" i said mollifyingly, "zorchi, i've had a hard day. i didn't mean to be nasty. i apologize." "hah!" "no, really." * * * * * he shrugged, abruptly quiet. "it is of no importance," he said. "if i wished to bear you a grudge, weels, i would have more than that to give me cause." he sighed. "it all looked quite simple twenty-four hours ago, weels. true, i had worked my little profession in this area as far as it might go--with your help, of course. but the world was before me--i had arranged to fly next week to the parisian anarch, to change my name and, perhaps within a month, with a new policy, suffer a severe accident that would provide me with francs for my hobbies. why is it that you bring bad news always?" i said, "wasn't i of some little assistance to you at one time?" "in helping me from the deep-freeze? oh, yes, perhaps. but didn't you help me into it in the first place, as well? and surely you have already had sufficient credit for aiding my escape--i observe the young lady looking at you with the eyes of one who sees a hero." i said in irritation, "you're infuriating, zorchi. i suppose you know that. i never claimed any credit for helping you out of the clinic. as a matter of fact, i don't think i ever mentioned it. everyone assumed that i had just happened to bring you along--no one questioned it." he flared, "you let them _assume_, weels? you let them assume that zorchi was as helpless a side of pork as those other dead ones--you let them guess that you stuck me with a needle, so that it would seem how brave you were? is it not true that i had revived by myself, weels?" i felt myself growing angry. "of course! but i just didn't see any reason to--" "to divide the credit, is that it, weels? no, say no more; i have closed the subject. however, i point out that there is a difference between the rescue of a helpless hulk and the mere casual assistance one may be invited to give to a zorchi." i let it go at that. there was no point in arguing with that man, ever. so i left the room--ostensibly to look in on benedetto, actually to cool off a little. benedetto seemed fine--that is, the dressings were still in place, he had not moved, his breath and pulse were slow and regular. i took my time before i went back to the room where zorchi still sat waiting. he had taken advantage of the time to improve his mind. the man's curiosity was insatiable; the more he denied it, the more it stuck out all over him. he had thrown the handbook on the floor when i gave it to him, but as soon as i was out of sight he was leafing through it. he had it open on his lap, face down, as he faced me. "weels." there was, for once, no sardonic rasp to his voice. and his face, i saw, was bone-white. "weels, permit me to be sure i understand you. it is your belief that this intelligent plan of seeding the world with poison to make it well will succeed, because you believe that a signore carmody will evict defoe from power?" i said, "well, not exactly--" "but almost exactly? that is, you require this millen carmody for your plan?" "it wasn't _my_ plan. but you're right about the other." "very good." he extended the handbook to me. "there is here a picture which calls itself millen carmody. is that the man?" i glanced at the familiar warm eyes on the frontispiece. "that's right. have you seen him?" "i have, indeed." the shaggy beard was twitching--i did not know whether with laughter or the coming of tears. "i saw him not long ago, weels. it was in what they call bay --you remember? he was in a little bag like the pasta one carries home from a store. he was quite sound asleep, weels, in the shelf just below the one i woke up in." xv so now at last i knew why millen carmody had permitted defoe to turn the company into a prison cell for the world. he couldn't forbid it, because the dead can forbid nothing, and carmody was sleeping with the dead. no wonder defoe was so concerned with the naples sector! how long? how long had carmody been quietly out of the way, while defoe made his plans and took his steps, and someone in a little room somewhere confected "statements" with millen carmody's signature on them and "interviews" that involved only one man? it could not have been less than five or six years, i thought, counting back to the time when defoe's name first began to register with me as an ordinary citizen, before i had married his cousin. six years. that was the date of the prague-vienna war. and the year following, hanoi clashed with cebu. and the year after that, auckland and adelaide. what in god's name was defoe's plan? nothing as simple as putting carmody out of the way so that he could loot the company. no man could wish to be that rich! it was meaningless.... defoe could be playing for only one thing--power. but it didn't matter; all that mattered was that now i knew that carmody was an enemy to defoe. he was therefore an ally to rena and to me, and we needed allies. but how might we get carmody out of bay ? there weren't any good answers, though rena and i, with the help of grumbling comments from zorchi, debated it until the morning light began to shine. frontal assault on the clinic was ridiculous. even a diversionary raid such as rena had staged to try to rescue her father--only ten days before!--would hardly get us in through the triple-locked door of bay . even if slovetski's movement had still been able to muster the strength to do it, which was not likely. it was maddening. i had hidden the hypodermic rena had brought in bay to get it out of the way. undoubtedly it was there still--perhaps only a few yards from millen carmody. if fifty cubic centimeters of a watery purplish liquid could have been plucked from the little glass bottle and moved the mere inches to the veins of his arms, the problem would be solved--for he could open the door from inside as easily as zorchi had, and certainly once he was that far we could manage to get him out. but the thing was impossible, no matter how we looked at it. * * * * * i suppose i fell asleep sitting in that chair, because i woke up in it. it was in the middle of a crazy nightmare about an avenging angel with cobalt-blue eyes burning at me out of heaven; and i wanted to run from him, but i was frozen by a little man with a hypodermic of ice. i woke up, and i was facing the television set. someone--rena, i suppose--had covered me with a light spread. the set was blaring a strident tenor voice. zorchi was hunched over, watching some opera; i might as well have been a thousand miles away. i lay blearily watching the tiny figures flickering around the screen, not so much forgetting all the things that were on my mind as knowing what they were and that they existed, but lacking the strength to pick them up and look at them. the opera seemed to concern an egyptian queen and a priest of some sort; i was not very interested in it, though it seemed odd that zorchi should watch it so eagerly. perhaps, after all, there was something to his maudlin self-pity--perhaps i really did think of him as a monster or a dog, for i was as uneasy to see him watching an opera as i would have been to see an ape play the flute. i heard trucks going by on the highway. by and by it began to penetrate through the haze that i was hearing a _lot_ of trucks going by on the highway. i had no idea how heavily traveled the naples-caserta road might be, but from the sound, they seemed nearly bumper to bumper, whizzing along at seventy or eighty miles an hour. i got up stiffly and walked over to the window. i had not been far wrong. there was a steady stream of traffic in both directions--not only trucks but buses and private cars, everything from late-model gyromaxions to ancient piston-driven farm trucks. zorchi heard me move, and turned toward me with a hooded expression. i pointed to the window. "what's up?" i asked. he said levelly, "the end of the world. it is now official; it has been on the television. oh, they do not say it in just so many words, but it is there." i turned to the television set and flicked off the tape-relay switch--apparently the opera had been recorded. zorchi glared, but didn't try to stop me as i hunted on the broadcast bands for a news announcer. i didn't have far to hunt. every channel was the same: the company was issuing orders and instructions. every man, woman and child was to be ready within ten days for commitment to the clinic.... i tried to imagine the scenes of panic and turmoil that would be going on in downtown naples at that moment. * * * * * the newscaster was saying: "remember, if your basic blue bolt policy number begins with the letters a, b or c--if it begins with the letters a, b or c--you are to report to the local first aid or emergency post at six hundred hours tomorrow. there is no danger. i repeat, there is no danger. this is merely a precaution taken by the company for your protection." he didn't really look as though there were no danger, however. he looked like a man confronted by a ghost. i switched to another channel. an equally harried-looking announcer: "--reported by a team of four physicists from the royal university to have produced a serious concentration of radioactive byproducts in the upper atmosphere. it is hoped that the cloud of dangerous gases will veer southward and pass harmlessly through the eastern mediterranean; however, strictly as a precautionary measure, it is essential that every person in this area be placed in a safety zone during the danger period, the peak of which is estimated to come within the next fourteen days. if there is any damage, it will be only local and confined to livestock--for which you will be reimbursed under your blue bolt coverage." i switched to another channel. _local_ damage! local to the face of the earth! i tried all the channels; they were all the same. the company had evidently decided to lie to the human race. keep them in the dark--make each little section believe that only it was affected--persuade them that they would be under for, at most, a few weeks or months. was that, i wondered, defoe's scheme? was he planning to try somehow to convince four billion people that fifty years were only a few weeks? it would never work--the first astronomer to look at a star, the first seaman to discover impossible errors in his tide table, would spot the lie. more likely he was simply proceeding along what must always have been his basic assumption: the truth is wasted on the people. zorchi said with heavy irony, "if my guest is quite finished with the instrument, perhaps he will be gracious enough to permit me to resume aïda." * * * * * i woke rena and told her about the evacuation. she said, yawning, "but of course, tom. what else could they do?" and she began discussing breakfast. i went with her, but not to eat; in the dining hall was a small television set, and on it i could listen to the same repeat broadcasts over and over to my heart's content. it was--in a way--a thrilling sight. it is always impressive to see a giant machine in operation, and there was no machine bigger than the company. the idea of suspending a whole world, even piecemeal, was staggering. but if there had been panic at first in the offices of the company, none of it showed. the announcers were harried and there was bustle and strain, but order presided. those long lines of vehicles outside the window; they were going somewhere; they were each one, i could see by the medallion slung across each radiator front, on the payroll of the company. perhaps the trick of pretending to each section that only it would be affected was wise--i don't know. it was working, and i suppose that is the touchstone of wisdom. naples knew that something was going on in rome, of course, but was doubtful about the milanese republic. the romans were in no doubt at all about milan, but weren't sure about the duchy of monaco, down the riviera shore. and the man on the street, if he gave it a thought at all, must have been sure that such faraway places as america and china were escaping entirely. i suppose it was clever--there was no apparent panic. the trick took away the psychological horror of world catastrophe and replaced it with only a local terror, no different in kind than an earthquake or a flood. and there was always the sack of gold at the end of every catastrophe: blue bolt would pay for damage, with a free and uncounting hand. except that this time, of course, blue bolt would not, could not, pay at all. * * * * * by noon, benedetto was out of bed. he shouldn't have been, but he was conscious and we could not make him stay put--short of chains. he watched the television and then listened as rena and i brought him up to date. like me, he was shocked and then encouraged to find that millen carmody was in the vaults--encouraged because it was at least a handle for us to grasp the problem with; if we could get at carmody, perhaps we could break defoe's usurped power. without him, defoe would simply use the years while the world slept to forge a permanent dictatorship. we got the old man to lie down, and left him. but not for long. within the hour he came tottering to where we were sitting, staring at the television. he waved aside rena's quick protest. "there is no time for rest, my daughter," he said. "do not scold me. i have a task." rena said worriedly, "dear, you _must_ stay in bed. the doctor said--" "the doctor," benedetto said formally, "is a fool. shall i allow us to die here? am i an ancient idiot, or am i benedetto dell'angela who with slovetski led twenty thousand men?" rena said, "please! you're sick!" "enough." benedetto wavered, but stood erect. "i have telephoned. i have learned a great deal. the movement--" he leaned against the wall for support--"was not planned by fools. we knew there might be bad days; we do not collapse because a few of us are put out of service by the company. i have certain emergency numbers to call; i call them. and i find--" he paused dramatically--"that there is news. slovetski has escaped!" i said, "that's impossible! defoe wouldn't let him go!" "perhaps slovetski did not consult him," benedetto said with dignity. "at any rate, he is free and not far from here. and he is the answer we have sought, you understand." "how?" i demanded. "what can he do that we can't?" benedetto smiled indulgently, though the smile was strained. his wound must have been giving him hell; it had had just enough time to stiffen up. he said, "leave that to slovetski, thomas. it is his métier, not yours. i shall go to him now." well, i did what i could; but benedetto was an iron-necked old man. i forbade him to leave and he laughed at me. i begged him to stay and he thanked me--and refused. finally i abandoned him to rena and zorchi. zorchi gave up almost at once. "a majestic man!" he said admiringly, as he rolled into the room where i was waiting, on his little power cart. "one cannot reason with him." and rena, in time, gave up, too. but not easily. she was weeping when she rejoined me. * * * * * she had been unable even to get him to let her join him, or to consider taking someone else with him; he said it was his job alone. she didn't even know where he was going. he had said it was not permissible, in so critical a situation, for him to tell where slovetski was. zorchi coughed. "as to that," he said, "i have already taken the liberty of instructing one of my associates to be ready. if the signore has gone to meet slovetski, my man is following him...." so we waited, while the television announcers grew more and more grim-lipped and imperative. i listened with only half my mind. part of my thoughts were with benedetto, who should have been in a hospital instead of wandering around on some dangerous mission. and partly i was still filled with the spectacle that was unfolding before us. it was not merely a matter of preserving human lives. it was almost as important to provide the newly awakened men and women, fifty years from now, with food to eat and the homes and tools and other things that would be needed. factories and transportation gear--according to the telecasts--were being shut down and sealed to stand up under the time that would pass--"weeks," according to the telecast, but who needed to seal a tool in oil for a few weeks? instructions were coming hourly over the air on what should be protected in each home, and how it was to be done. probably even fifty years would not seriously damage most of the world's equipment--if the plans we heard on the air could be efficiently carried out. but the farms were another matter. the preserving of seeds was routine, but i couldn't help wondering what these flat italian fields would look like in fifty untended years. would the radiocobalt sterilize even the weeds? i didn't think so, but i didn't know. if not, would the italian peninsula once again find itself covered with the dense forests that caesar had marched through, where spartacus and his runaway slaves had lurked and struck out against the senators? and how many millions would die while the forests were being cleared off the face of the earth again to make way for grain? synthetic foods and food from the sea might solve that--the company could find a way. but what about the mines--three, four and five thousand feet down--when the pumps were shut off and the underground water seeped in? what about the rails that the trains rode on? you could cosmoline the engines, perhaps, but how could you protect a million miles of track from the rains of fifty years? so i sat there, watching the television and waiting. rena was too nervous to stay in one place. zorchi had mysterious occupations of his own. i sat and stared at the cathode screen. until the door opened behind me, and i turned to look. rena was standing there. her face was an ivory mask. she clutched the door as her father had a few hours before; i think she looked weaker and sicker than he. i said, for the first time, "darling!" she stood silent, staring at me. i asked apprehensively, "what is it?" the pale lips opened, but it was a moment before she could frame the words. then her voice was hard to hear. "my father," she said. "he reached the place where he was meeting slovetski, but the expediters were there before him. they shot him down in the street. and they are on their way here." xvi it was quick and brutal. somehow benedetto had been betrayed; the expediters had known where he had come from. and that was the end of that. they came swarming down on us in waves, at least a hundred of them, to capture a man, a girl and a cripple--zorchi's servants had deserted us, melting into the hemp fields like roaches into a garbage dump. zorchi had a little gun, a beretta; he fired it once and wounded a man. the rest was short and unpleasant. they bound us and gagged us and flew us, trussed like game for the spit, to the clinic. i caught a glimpse of milling mobs outside the long, low walls as we came down. then all i could see was the roof of the copter garage. we were brought to a tiny room where defoe sat at a desk. the underwriter was smiling. "hello, thomas," he said, his eyes studying the bruise on my cheek. he turned toward rena consideringly. "so this is your choice, eh, thomas?" he studied rena coolly. "hardly my type. still, by sticking with me, you could have had a harem." bound as i was, i started forward. something hit me in the back at my first step, driving a hot rush of agony up from my kidneys. defoe watched me catch my breath without a change of expression. "my men are quite alert, thomas. please do not try that again. once is amusing, but twice would annoy me." he sighed. "i seem to have been wrong about you, thomas. perhaps because i needed someone's help, i overestimated you. i thought long ago that beneath your conditioning you had brains. manning is a machine, good for taking orders. dr. lawton is loyal, but not intelligent. and between loyalty and intelligence, i'll take brains. loyalty i can provide for myself." he nodded gravely at the armed expediters. zorchi spat. "kill us, butcher," he ordered. "it is enough i die without listening to your foolish babbling." defoe considered him. "you interest me, signore. a surprise, finding you revived and with wills. before we're finished, you must tell me about that." i saw zorchi bristle and open his mouth, but a cold, suddenly calculating idea made me interrupt. "to get dell'angela out as an attendant, i needed a patient for him to wheel. zorchi had money, and i _expected_ gratitude when i revived him later. it wasn't hard getting lawton's assistant to stack his cocoon near benedetto's." "lawton!" defoe grimaced, but seemed to accept the story. he smiled at me suddenly. "i had hopes for you, then. that escape was well done--simple, direct. a little crude, but a good beginning. you could have been my number one assistant, thomas. i thought of that when i heard of the things you were saying after marianna died--i thought you might be awaking." i licked my lips. "and when you picked me up after marianna's death, and bailed me out of jail, you made sure the expediter corps had information that i was possibly not reliable. you made sure the information reached the underground, so they would approach me and i could spy for you. you wanted a patsy!" the smile was gleaming this time. "naturally, until you could prove yourself. and of course, i had you jailed for the things you said because i wanted it that way. a pity all my efforts were wasted on you, thomas. i'm afraid you're not equipped to be a spy." it took everything i had, but this time i managed to smile back. "on which side, defoe? how many spies know you've got millen carmody down in bay--" that hit him. but i didn't have time to enjoy it. he made a sudden gesture, and the expediters moved. this time, when they dragged me down, it was very bad. * * * * * when i came to, i was in another room. zorchi and rena were with me, but not defoe. it was a preparation chamber, racked with instruments, furnished with surgical benches. a telescreen was flickering and blaring unheeded at one end of the room. i caught a glimpse of scenes of men, women and children standing in line, going in orderly queues through the medical inspections, filing into the clinic and its local branch stations for the sleep drug. the scenes were all in naples; but they must have been, with local variations, on every telescreen on the globe. dr. lawton appeared. he commanded coldly: "take your clothes off." i think that was the most humiliating moment of all. it was, of course, only a medical formality. i knew that the suspendees had to be nude in their racks. but the very impersonality of the proceeding made it ugly. reluctantly i began to undress, as did rena, silent and withdrawn, and zorchi, sputtering anger and threats. my whole body was a mass of redness; in a few hours the red would turn to purple and black, where the hoses of the expediters had caressed me. or did a suspendee bruise? probably not. but it was small satisfaction. lawton was looking smug; no doubt he had insisted on the privilege of putting us under himself after i'd blamed him for zorchi's escape. i couldn't blame him; i would have returned the favor with great joy. well, i had wanted to reach millen carmody, and defoe was granting my wish. we might even lie on adjacent racks in bay . after what i'd told defoe, we should rate such reserved space! lawton approached with the hypospray, and a pair of expediters grabbed my arms. he said: "i want to leave one thought with you, wills. maybe it will give you some comfort." his smirk told me that it certainly would not. "only defoe and i can open bay ," he reminded me. "i don't think either of us will; and i expect you will stay there a long, long time." he experimentally squirted a faint mist from the tip of the hypospray and nodded satisfaction. he went on: "the suspension is effective for a long time--several hundred years, perhaps. but not forever. in time the enzymes of the body begin to digest the body itself." he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "i don't know if the sleeping brain knows it is pain or not. if it does, you'll know what it feels like to dissolve in your own gutwash...." he smiled. "good night," he crooned, and bent over my arm. the spray from the end of the hypo felt chilly, but not at all painful. it was as though i had been touched with ice; the cold clung, and spread. i was vaguely conscious of being dumped on one of the surgical tables, even more vaguely aware of seeing rena slumping across another. the light in the room yellowed, flickered and went out. i thought i heard rena's voice.... then i heard nothing. and i saw nothing. and i felt nothing, except the penetrating cold, and then even the cold was gone. xvii my nerves throbbed with the prickling of an infinity of needles. i was cold--colder than i had ever been. and over everything else came the insistent, blurred voice of luigi zorchi. "weels! weels!" at first it was an annoyance. then, abruptly, full consciousness came rushing back, bringing some measure of triumph with it. it had worked! my needling of defoe and my concealing of zorchi's ability to revive himself had succeeded in getting us all put into bay , where the precious hypodermic and fluid were hidden. after being pushed from pillar to post and back, even that much success was enough to shock me into awareness. my heart was thumping like a rusty cargo steamer in a high sea. my lungs ached for air and burned when they got it. but i managed to open my eyes to see zorchi bending over me. beyond him, i saw the blue-lighted sterilizing lamps, the door that opened from inside, and the racked suspendees of bay . "it is time! but now finally you awake, you move!" zorchi grumbled. "the body of zorchi does not surrender to poisons; it throws them off. but then because of these small weak legs, i must wait for you! come, weels, no more dallying! we have still work to do to escape this abomination!" i sat up clumsily, but the drugs seemed to have been neutralized. i was on the bottom tier, and i managed to locate the floor with my legs and stand up. "thanks, zorchi," i told him, trying to avoid looking at his ugly, naked body and the things that were almost his legs. "thanks are due," he admitted. "i am a modest man who expects no praise, but i have done much. i cannot deny it. it took greatness to crawl through this bay to find you. on my hands and these baby knees, weels, i crawled. almost. i am overcome with wonder at so heroic--but i digress. weels, waste no more time in talking. we must revive the others who are above my reach. then let us, for god, go and find food." somehow, though i was still weak, i managed to follow zorchi and drag down the sacks containing rena and carmody. and while waiting for them to revive, i began to realize how little chance we would have to escape this time, naked and uncertain of what state affairs were in. i also realized what might happen if lawton or defoe decided to check up on bay now! for the few minutes while rena revived and recognized me, and while i explained how i'd figured it out, it was worth any risk. then finally, carmody stirred and sat up. maybe we looked enough like devils in a blue hell to justify his first expression. * * * * * he wasn't much like my mental image of the great millen carmody. his face was like his picture, but it was an older face and haggard under the ugly light. age was heavy on him, and he couldn't have been a noble figure at any time. now he was a pot-bellied little man with scrawny legs and a faint tremble to his hands. but there was no fat in his mind as he tried to absorb our explanations while he answered our questions in turn. he'd come to naples, bringing his personal physician, dr. lawton. his last memory was of lawton giving him a shot to relieve his indigestion. it must have been rough to wake up here after that and find what a mess had been made of the world. but he took it, and his questions became sharper as he groped for the truth. finally he sat back, nodding sickly. "defoe!" he said bitterly. "well, what do we do now, mr. wills?" it shook me. i'd unconsciously expected him to take over at once. but the eyes of rena and zorchi also turned to me. well, there wasn't much choice. we couldn't stay here and risk discovery. nor could we hide anywhere in the clinic; when defoe found us gone, no place would be safe. "we pray," i decided. "and if prayers help, maybe we'll find some way out." "i can help," carmody offered. he grimaced. "i know this place and the combination to the private doors. would it help if we reached the garage?" i didn't know, but the garage was half a mile beyond the main entrance. if we could steal a car, we might make it. we had to try. there were sounds of activity when we opened the door, but the section we were in seemed to be filled, and the storing of suspendees had moved elsewhere. we shut and relocked the door and followed carmody through the seemingly endless corridors, with zorchi hobbling along, leaning on rena and me and sweating in agony. we offered to carry him, but he would have none of that. we moved further and further back, while the sight of carmody's round, bare bottom ahead ripped my feeling of awe for him into smaller and smaller shreds. he stopped at a door i had almost missed and his fingers tapped out something on what looked like an ornamental pattern. the door opened to reveal stairs that led down two flights, winding around a small elevator shaft. at the bottom was a long corridor that must be the one leading underground to the garage. opposite the elevator was another door, and carmody worked its combination to reveal a storeroom, loaded with supplies the expediters might need. he ripped a suit of the heavy gray coveralls off the wall and began donning them. "radiation suits," he explained. they were ugly things, but better than nothing. anyone seeing us in them might think we were on official business. zorchi shook off our help and somehow got into a pair. then he grunted and began pulling hard-pellet rifles and bandoliers of ammunition off the wall. * * * * * "now, weels, we are prepared. let them come against us. zorchi is ready!" "ready to kill yourself!" i said roughly. "those things take practice!" "and again i am the freak--the case who can do nothing that humans can do, eh, weels?" he swore thickly, and there was something in his voice that abruptly roughened it. "never zorchi the man! there are sicilians who would tell you different, could they open dead mouths to speak of their downed planes!" "he was the best jet pilot naples had," rena said quietly. it was my turn to curse. he was right; i hadn't thought of him as a man, or considered that he could do anything but regrow damaged tissues. "i'm sorry, luigi!" "no matter." he sighed, and then shrugged. "come, take arms and ammunition and let us be out of this place. even the nose of zorchi can stand only so much of the smell of assassins!" we moved down the passage, staggering along for what seemed to be hours, expecting every second to run into some official or expediter force. but apparently the passage wasn't being used much during the emergency. we finally reached stairs at the other end and headed up, afraid to attract attention by taking the waiting elevator. at the top, carmody frowned as he studied the side passages and doors. "here, i guess," he decided. "this may still be a less used part of the garage." he reached for the door. i stopped him. "wait a minute. is there any way back in, once we leave?" "the combination will work--the master combination used by the company heads. otherwise, these doors are practically bomb-proof!" he pressed the combination and opened the door a crack. outside, i could see what seemed to be a small section of the company car pool. there were sounds of trucks, but none were moving nearby. i saw a few men working on trucks a distance from us. maybe luck was on our side. i pointed to the nearest expediter patrol wagon--a small truck, really, enclosed except for the driver's seat. "that one, if there's fuel. we'll have to act as if we had a right to it, and hope for the best. zorchi, can you manage it that far?" "i shall walk like a born assassin," he assured me, but sweat began popping onto his forehead at what he was offering. yet there was no sign of the agony he must have felt as he followed and managed to climb into the back with rena and carmody. the fuel gauge was at the half mark and, as yet, there was no cry of alarm. i gunned the motor into life, watching the nearest workmen. they looked up casually, and then went back to their business. ahead, i could see a clear lane toward the exit, with a few other trucks moving in and out. i headed for it, my hair prickling at the back of my neck. * * * * * we reached the entrance, passed through it, and were soon blending into the stream of cars that were passing the clinic on their way out for more suspension cases. the glass doors of the entrance were gone now, and workmen were putting up huge steel ones in their place, even while a steady stream of cases were hobbling or being carried into the clinic. most of them were old or shabby, i noticed. the class-d type. the last ones to be admitted. we must have spent more time in the vault than i'd thought, and zero hour was drawing near. beyond the clinic, the whole of anzio was a mass of abandoned cars that seemed to stretch for miles, and the few buildings not boarded up were obviously class-d dwellings, too poor to worry about. i cursed my way through a jam-up of trucks, and managed to find one of the side roads. then i pressed down on the throttle as far as i dared without attracting attention, until i could find a safe place to turn off with no other cars near to see me. "where to?" i asked. we couldn't go back to zorchi's, since any expediter investigation would start there. maybe we'd never be missed, but i couldn't risk it. if we had to, we could use some abandoned villa and hide out, but i was hoping for a better suggestion. zorchi looked blank, and rena shrugged. "if we could only find nikolas--" she suggested doubtfully. i shook my head. i'd had a chance to think about that a little while the expediters took us to see defoe, and i didn't like it. the leader of the revolution had apparently been captured by defoe. according to benedetto dell'angela, he'd escaped. yet defoe hadn't tried to pump us about him. and when benedetto set out to meet him, the expediters had descended at once. it made an ugly picture. i had no wish to go looking for the man. "there's my place," carmody said finally. "i had places all over the world, kept ready for me and stocked. if defoe let it be thought that i had retired, he must have kept them all up as i'd have done. wait, let me orient myself. up that road." places all over the world, with food that was wasted, and with servants who might never see their master! and i'd been brought up believing that the underwriters were men of quiet, simple tastes! carmody's clay feet were beginning to crumble up to the navel! * * * * * the villa was surrounded by trees, on a low hill that overlooked an artificial lake. it had been sealed off, but the combination lock yielded to carmody's touch. there were beds made up and waiting, freezers stocked with food that sent zorchi into ecstasy, and even a complete file of back issues of the company paper. carmody headed for those, with the look of a man hunting his lost past. he had a lot of catching up to do. but it was the television set that interested me. it was still working, with taped material being broadcast. the appeal had been stepped up, asking for order and cooperation; i recognized the language as being pitched toward the lower classes now, though. and the clicking of a radiation-counter sounded as a constant background, with occasional shots of its meter, the needle well into the danger area. zorchi joined me and rena, dribbling crumbs of meat down his beard. he snorted as he caught sight of the counter. "there is a real one in the other room, and it registers higher," he said. "it is interesting. for me, of no import. doctors whom i trust have said defoe is wrong; my body can resist damage from radiation--and perhaps even from old age. but for you and the young lady...." he shut up at my expression, but the tape cut off and a live announcer came on before i could say anything. "a bulletin just in," he said, "shows that the government of naples has unanimously passed a moritorium on all contracts, obligations and indebtedness for the duration of the emergency. the company has just followed this with a declaration that it will extend the moritorium to include all crimes against the company. during the emergency, the clinics will be available to all without prejudice, director defoe said today." "a trap," rena guessed. "we wouldn't have a chance, anyhow. but, tom, does the other mean that--" "it means your father was wrong," i answered. "as of right now--and probably in every government at the same time--the company has been freed from any responsibility." it didn't make any difference, of course. benedetto had expected that everyone must secretly hate the company as he did; he hadn't realized that men who have just been saved from the horrible danger of radiation death aren't going to turn against the agency that saved them. and damn it, the company _was_ saving them, after its opponents had risked annihilation of the race. defoe would probably make sure the suspendees were awakened at a rate where he could keep absolute power, but not from any danger of bankruptcy. * * * * * carmody had come out and listened, attracted by the broadcast radiation clicking, apparently. now he asked enough questions to discover benedetto's idea, and shook his head. "it wouldn't work," he agreed with me. "even if i still had control, i couldn't permit such a thing. what good would it do? could money payments make food for a revived world, miss dell'angela? would bankrupting the only agency capable of rebuilding the earth be a thing of honor? besides, even with what i've read, i can see no hope. there's nothing we can do." "but if you can arouse the other underwriters against defoe," she insisted, "at least you can prevent _his_ type of world!" he shook his head. "how? all communications are in his hands. even if i could fly to the home office, most of the ones i could trust--and there apparently are a few defoe hasn't been able to retire--would be scattered, out of my reach. a week ago, there might have been a chance. now, it's impossible. impossible." he shook his head sadly and wandered back toward the library. i could see that in his secret thoughts, he was wishing we'd left him safely in the vault. maybe it would have been just as well. "cheer up," i told rena. "carmody's an old man--too old to think in terms of direct action, even when it's necessary. defoe doesn't own the world yet!" but later, when i located the books i wanted in the library and went out into the vine-covered bower in the formal garden, i wasn't as confident as i'd pretended. thinking wasn't a pleasant job, after all the years when i'd let others do my thinking for me. but now i had to do it for myself. otherwise, the only alternative was to plan some means of quick death for us all before the radiation got too intense. and i couldn't accept that. rena had managed something marianna couldn't have conceived--she'd quietly relinquished her fate into my hands, gambling on me with everything she had. whether i wanted to or not, i'd taken the responsibility. carmody was an old man; one who hadn't been able to keep defoe from taking over in the first place. and zorchi--well, he was zorchi. that night, the radiation detector suddenly took a sharp lift, its needle crossing over into the red. it was probably only a local rise. but it didn't make my thinking any more comfortable. * * * * * it was at breakfast that next morning when i finally took it up with carmody. "just what will the situation be at the clinic after they close down? how many will be kept awake? and what about their defenses?" he frowned, trying to see my idea. then he shrugged. "too many, tom. we had plotted out a course for such things as this a number of times in planning. and our mob psychologists warned that there'd inevitably be a few who for one reason or another wouldn't come in in time, but who would then grow desperate and try to break in. outlaws, looters, procrastinators, fanatics. that sort. so for some time, there should be at least twenty guards kept alert. and that's enough to defend a clinic. atomic cannon at every entrance, of course, and the clinics are bomb-proof." "twenty, eh? and how about defoe and lawton? will they sleep?" it seemed logical that they couldn't stay out of suspension for the whole fifty years or so. there'd be no profit to gaining a world after they were too old to use it. "not at first. there's a great deal of final administrative work to be done. there's a chamber equipped to keep a hundred or so men awake with radiation washed from the air, and containing adequate supplies, in cable contact with other clinics. they'll be there. later, they'll take shifts, with only a couple of men awake at a time, i suppose. they may age a little that way, but not much." he frowned again, and then slowly nodded. "it could be done, if we had some way to wait safely for six months. getting back in is no problem for me." "it's going to be done," i told him. "and a lot sooner. are you willing to take the chance?" "have i any choice?" he shrugged again. "do you think i haven't been sick at the idea of a man like defoe in command of the company for as long as he lives? tom, my family started the company. i've got an obligation to restore it to its right course. if there's any chance of keeping defoe from being emperor of the world, i've got to take it. if you can put me in a position where i can get the honest underwriters together again, where we can set up the company as it was--" "why? so this will happen all over again?" he looked shocked at rena's question. "i don't blame you for being bitter, miss dell'angela. but with defoe gone--" "the company made defoe possible. in fact, it made him and slovetski inevitable," i told him flatly. "that's its one great crime. whenever you take power completely out of the hands of the many, it winds up in fewer and fewer hands. those histories i was reading last night prove that. carmody, what do you know about your own company? or the world? leave the consolidation of power in company hands out of it, and what has happened to progress?" he frowned. "well, we've leveled off a bit. we had to. we couldn't risk--" "exactly. you couldn't risk research that would lead to increased longevity--too many pensioners. you couldn't risk going to mars--unpredictable dangers. you had to make the world fit actuarial charts. i remember seeing one of the first suspendees awakened. he expected things we could have done fifty years ago--and never will do. how many men today work their way out of their class? and why have classes so rigidly stratified? i've been reading your own speeches of nearly fifty years ago. i've got them here, together with some tables. like to see them?" * * * * * he took the papers silently and began going through them, his shock giving way to a grudging realization. maybe without the jolt of his awakening, he'd have laughed them off, but nothing was easy to dismiss with the hell brewing outside. at last he looked up. "tom, i'll admit the many times when i've been worried. i've considered starting research again countless times. i've been aware that dependence was growing too heavy on the company. but we can't just toss it aside. it did bring an end to major war, when such a war would have ruined the earth completely. it showed that nobody had to starve--that hardly anyone had to lack for any necessity, or die for lack of care. you can't throw that away." "you can throw away its unrelated power." i knew i didn't have the answers. all this had been growing slowly in my mind since i'd first found benedetto a political prisoner, but a lifetime wasn't enough to think it out, even with the books i'd found. but i had to try. "in the middle ages, they had morality and politics tied into one bundle, carmody. the church ruled. it wasn't good and they finally had to divorce church and state. maybe the same applies to administrative politics and economics. the company has shown what can be done economically. the church has survived as a great moral force outside material power. now let's see if we can't put things in perspective. "there's a precedent. the united states--the old government--was set up on the idea of balance of power: an elected congress for the people to handle legislative tasks, a selected president to handle executive affairs, and a judiciary mostly independent. on a world scale, as it can be done today--since the company has really made it one world--the same can be done, with something like the company to insure economics." "i suppose every man who had any idealism has thought the same," carmody said slowly. he sighed softly. "i remember trying to preach it to my father when i was just out of college. you're right. but can you set up such a perfect government? can i? tell me how, tom, and i'll give you your chance, if i can." zorchi laughed cynically, but that was what i'd hoped carmody might say. "all right," i told him. "we can't do it. no one man is fit to rule, ever, or to establish rule. oh, i had wish-dreams, a few days ago, i suppose, about what i'd do, _if_! but men have set out to establish new systems before, and done good jobs of it. read the constitution--a system put together artificially by expert political thinkers, and good for two hundred years, at least! and they didn't have our opportunities. for the first time, the world has to wait. get the best minds you can, carmody. give them twenty-five years to work it out. they can come up with an answer. and then, when the world is awakened, you can start with it, fresh, without upsetting any old order. is that your answer?" "most of it." there was a sudden light in his old eyes. "yes, the sleep does make the chance possible. but how are you going to get the experts and assemble them?" i pointed to zorchi. "hermes, the messenger of the gods. he's a jet pilot who can get all over the world. and he can move outside, without needing to worry about radiation." "so?" zorchi snorted again. "so, i am now your messenger, weels! do you think i would trouble myself so much for all of you, weels?" i grinned at him. "you defiantly speak of being a man. that makes you part of the human race. i'm simply taking you at your word." "so?" he repeated, his face wooden. "such a messenger would have much power, weels. suppose i choose to be zorchi the ruler?" "not while zorchi the man is also zorchi the freak," i said with deliberate cruelty. "go look at yourself." and suddenly he smiled, his lips drawing back from his teeth. "weels, for the first time you are honest. and for that as well as that i _am_ a man, i will be zorchi the messenger. but first, should we not decide on a plan of action? or do we first rule and then conquer?" "we wait first," i told him. on the wall, the radiation indicator clicked steadily, its needle moving further into the red. xviii the second day, the television went off the air with the final curt announcement that anyone not inside the clinics at noon would be left outside permanently. then the set went dead, leaving only the clucking and beeping of our own radiation indicator. i'd thrown it out twice and brought it back both times. civilization had ended on the third day, though all the conveniences in the villa went on smoothly, except for the meter reading that told us nothing could be smooth. it was higher than the predictions i had heard, though i still hoped that was only a sporadic local phenomenon that would level out later. in the face of that, it was hard to believe that even a few men would remain outside the clinics, though i was counting on it. we waited another twenty-four hours, forcing ourselves to sit in the villa, discussing plans, when our nerves were yelling for action. we had only an estimate to go on. if we got there too soon, there would be more awake than we could handle. too late and we'd be radiation cases, good for nothing but the vaults. it was a relief to leave at last, taking our weapons in the truck. we were wearing the radiation suits, hoping they'd protect us, and zorchi spent the last two days devising pads and straps to cushion and strengthen his developing legs. the world was dead. cars had been abandoned in the middle of the road, making driving difficult. the towns and villas were deserted, boarded up or simply abandoned. we might have been the last men on earth, and we felt that we were as we headed for anzio. this wasn't just a road, or naples--or all of italy. it was the world. then rena pointed. ahead, a boy was walking beside a dog, the animal's left rear leg bound and split as if it had been broken. i started to slow, then forced myself to drive on. as we passed, i saw that the boy was about fourteen, and his face was dirty and tear-streaked. he shook one fist at us, and came trudging on. "if we win, we'll have the door open when he gets there," rena said. "for him and his dog! if not, it won't matter how long it takes him. you couldn't stop, tom." it didn't make me feel any better. but now dusk was falling, and we slowed, waiting until it was dark to park quietly near the garage. in front of the entrance, i could see a small ring of fires, and by their light a few figures moving about. they were madmen, of course--and yet, probably less mad than others who must be prowling through the towns, looting for things they could never use. it seemed incredible that any one could be outside, but the psychologists had apparently been right. these were determined men, willing to wait for the forlorn chance that some miracle might give them a futile, even more forlorn chance to try battering down the great doors. maybe somewhere in the world, such a group might succeed. but not here. as i watched, there was a crackle of automatic gunfire from the entrance. the guards were awake, all right, and not taking chances on any poor devil getting too close. * * * * * there were no guards in the vault garage. we were prepared in case someone might be stationed inside the private entrance, as much prepared as we could be; since carmody had been listed as still living, an ordinary guard who recognized him would probably let us in first and then try to report--giving us time to handle him. but we were lucky. the door opened to carmody's top-secret combination. "we designed such combinations into a few doors in case of internal revolution locally while no underwriters were around. we never considered having an underwriter lead a revolution from outside," he whispered to us. the underground passage was deserted, and this time carmody led through another corridor, to a stairs that seemed to wind up forever. zorchi groaned, then caught himself. "it leads to the main reception room," carmody said. with the men outside, most of the guards who still remained awake might be there. but we had to chance it. we stopped when we reached the top, catching our breath while zorchi sank to the floor, writhing silently. then rena threw back the door, zorchi's rifle poked through, and i was leaping for the main door controls, hoping the memory i had was accurate. i was nearly to them when the two guards standing beside them turned. they yelled, just as my rifle spat. at that range, i couldn't miss. and behind, i heard zorchi's gun spit. the second guard slumped sickly to the floor, holding his stomach. i grabbed for the controls, while other yells sounded, and feet began pounding toward me. there was no time to look back. the doors were slowly moving apart and carmody was beside me, smashing a maul from the storeroom onto the electronic controls of the atomic cannon. i twisted between the opening doors. "we've seized the vaults," i shouted. "we need help. any man who joins us will be saved!" i couldn't wait to watch, but i heard a hoarse, answering shout, and the sound of feet. carmody's maul had ruined the door controls. but the other guards were nearly on us. i saw two more sprawled on the floor. zorchi hadn't missed. then carmody's fingers had found another of the private doors that looked like simple panels here. rena and carmody were through, and i yanked zorchi after me, just as a bullet whined over his head. behind us, i heard uncontrolled yelling as men from outside began pouring in. it was our only hope. they had to take care of the guards, who were still probably shocked at finding us _inside_. we headed for the private quarters where defoe would be, praying that there would be only a few there. * * * * * this passage was useless to us, though. it led from office to office for the doctors who superintended here. we came out into an office, watching our chance for the hall we had to take. i could see the men who had been outside in action now. a few had guns of some kind, but the clubs in the hands of the others were just as deadly in such a desperation attack; men who had seen themselves already dead weren't afraid of chances. about a score of the expediter guards were trying to hold off at least twice their number. then the hall seemed clear and we leaped into it. suddenly gongs began ringing everywhere. some guard had finally reached or remembered the alarm system. carmody cursed, and tried to move faster. the small private vault for the executives lay through the administration quarters and down several levels, before it was entered through a short passageway. carmody had mapped it for me often enough. but he knew it by physical memory, which was better than my training. he'd also taught me the combination, but i left the door to his practiced fingers when we came to it. the elevator wasn't up. we couldn't wait. we raced down the stairs that circled it. here carmody's age told against him, and he fell behind. rena and i were going down neck and neck with zorchi throwing himself along with us. he had dropped his rifle and picked up a sub-machine gun from one of the fallen guards, and he clung to it now, using only one hand on the rail. it was a reflection on a gun-barrel that saved us. the picked expediters were hidden in the dark mouth of the passageway, waiting for us to turn the stairs. but i caught a gleam of metal, and threw up my gun. instantly, zorchi was beside me, the sub-machine spitting as quickly as i could fire the first shot. "aim for the wall. ricochet!" the ambushers had counted too much on surprise. they weren't ready to have the tables turned, nor for the trick zorchi had suggested. here we couldn't fire directly, but the bouncing shots worked almost as well. there were screams of men being hit, and the crazed pandemonium of others suddenly afraid. shots came toward us, but the wall that protected them--or was supposed to--ruined their shooting. zorchi abruptly dropped, landing with a thud on his side. i grunted sickly, thinking he was hit. then i saw the sub-machine gun point squarely into the passageway. it began spitting out death. by the time we could reach him, the expediters were dead or dying. there had been seven of them. zorchi staggered into the passage, through the bodies, crying something. i jumped after him, blinking my eyes to make out what he had seen. then i caught sight of a door at the back being silently closed. it was a thick, massive slab, like the door to a bank vault. zorchi made a final leap that brought a sob of anguish as he landed on his weak legs, but his gun barrel slapped into the slit of opening. the door ground against it, strained and stopped. zorchi pulled the trigger briefly. * * * * * for a second, then, there was silence. a second later, defoe's voice came out through the thin slit. "you win. dr. lawton and i are alone and unarmed. we're coming out." the door began opening again, somewhat jerkily this time. i watched it, expecting a trick, but there was none. inside the vault, the first room was obviously for guards and for the control of the equipment needed to wash all contamination out of the air and to provide the place with security for a century, even if all the rest of the earth turned into a radioactive hell. lawton was slumped beside the controls, his head cradled in his arms. but at the sight of us, he stood up groggily, his mouth open, and shock on his face. defoe's eyes widened a trifle, but he stood quietly, and the bleak smile never faltered. "congratulations, thomas," he said. "my one fault again--i underrated the opposition. i wasn't expecting miracles. hello, millen. fancy meeting you here." "search the place," i ordered. carmody went past the two without looking at them, with rena close behind. a minute later, i heard a triumphant shout. they came back with a cringing man who seemed totally unlike the genial sam gogarty who had first introduced me to fine food and to rena. his eyes were on carmody, and his skin was gray white. he started to babble incoherently. carmody grinned at him. "you've got things twisted, gogarty. tom wills is in charge of this affair." he turned toward one of the smaller offices. "as i remember it, there should be a transmitting setup in here. i want to make sure it works. if it does, some of the underwriters are going to get a surprise, unless they're suspended." gogarty watched him go, and then sank slowly to a chair, shaking his head as he looked up at me. his lips twisted into bitter resignation. "you wouldn't understand, tom. all my life, worked for things. class-c, digging in a mine, eating class-d, getting no fun, so i could buy class-b employment. then class-a. not many can do it, but i sweated it out. thirty years living like a dog and killing myself with work and study. not even a real woman until i met susan, and she went to defoe. but i wanted it easier for the young men. i wanted everybody to have a good life. no harm to anyone. pull together, and forget the tough times. then you had to come and blow the roof off...." * * * * * i felt sick. it was probably all true, and few men could make it. but if that's what it took to advance under the company rules, it was justification enough for our fight. "you'll be all right, sam," i told him. "you'll go to sleep with the others. and when you wake up, you may have to work like hell again, but it'll be to rebuild the earth, not to ruin it. maybe there'll even be a chance with susan again." defoe laughed sardonically. "very nice, thomas. and i suppose you mean it. what's in the future for me?" "suspension until the new government gets organized and can decide your case. i'd like to vote now for permanent suspension." his face lost some of his amusement. then he shrugged. "all right, i suppose i knew that. but now will you satisfy my curiosity? just how _did_ you work the business with bay ?" "what happened to slovetski?" i asked. i couldn't be sure about some of my suspicions over benedetto's death, but i couldn't take chances that the man might still be loose somewhere, or else hiding out here until we were off guard. he shook his head. "i can answer, but i'm waiting for a better offer." "sam?" i asked. gogarty nodded slowly. "all right, tom. i guess you're the boss now. and i think i'm even glad of it. i always liked you. i'll answer about slovetski." defoe snarled and swung, then saw my rifle coming up, and straightened again. "you win once more, thomas. your great international rebel cooperated with us very nicely after we caught him. we arranged for him to receive all calls to his most secret hideout right here in this room. it netted us his fellow conspirators--including your father, miss dell'angela!" she gasped faintly, but her head came up at once. "nikolas was no traitor. you're lying!" "why should i lie?" he asked. "with the right use of certain drugs, any man can become a traitor. and dr. lawton is an expert on drugs." "where is he?" i asked. he shrugged. "how should i know? he wanted a radioactive world, so i let him enjoy it. we put him outside just before we closed the doors permanently." gogarty nodded confirmation. i turned it over. he might even have been one of the men waiting outside. but it wouldn't matter. without his organization and with a world where life outside was impossible, slovetski's power was finished. i turned to zorchi. "the men who broke in will be going crazy soon," i told him. "while rena finds the paging system and reassures them they'll all be treated in the reception room, how about getting lawton to locate and revive a couple of the doctors you know and trust?" * * * * * rena came back from the paging system, and zorchi prodded lawton with the gun, heading him toward the files that would show the location of the doctors. gogarty stood up doubtfully, but i shook my head. zorchi was able to handle a man of lawton's type, even without full use of his legs, and i couldn't trust gogarty yet. "you can give me a hand with defoe, sam," i suggested. "we'd better strap him down first." gogarty nodded, and then suddenly let out a shocked cry, and was cringing back! in the split second when both rena and i had looked away, defoe had whipped out an automatic and was now covering us, his teeth exposed in a taut smile. "never underestimate an opponent, thomas," he said. "and never believe what he says. you should have searched me, you know." the gun was centered on rena and he waited, as if expecting me to make some move. all i could do was stand there, cursing myself. i'd thought of everything--except the obvious! defoe backed toward the door and slipped around it, drawing its heavy weight slowly shut until only a crack showed. then he laughed. "give my love to millen," he said, and laughed softly. i jumped for the door, but his feet were already moving out of the passage. the door began opening again, but i knew it was too late. then, it was open. and amazingly, defoe stood not ten feet away. at the other end of the passage, a ragged bloody figure was standing, swaying slowly from side to side, holding a rifle. i took a second look to recognize nikolas slovetski. he was moving slowly toward defoe. and now defoe jerked back and began frantically digging for the automatic he must have pocketed. slovetski leaped, tossing the gun aside in a way that indicated it must have been empty. a bullet from defoe's automatic caught his shoulder in mid-leap, but it couldn't stop him. he crashed squarely on defoe, swinging a knife as the other went down. it missed, ringing against the hard floor. i'd come unfrozen by then. i kicked the knife aside and grabbed the gun from defoe's hands. slovetski lay limp on him, and i rolled the smaller man aside. * * * * * defoe was out cold from the blow of his head hitting the floor. gogarty had come out behind me and now began binding him up. he opened his eyes slowly, blinked, and tried to grin as he stared at the bonds. he swung his head to the figure on the floor beside him. "shall we go quietly, nikolas?" he asked, as gogarty picked him up and carried him back to the private vault. but his sarcasm was wasted on slovetski. the man must have been dying as he stumbled and groped his way toward the place where he knew defoe must be. and the bullet in the shoulder had finished him. rena bent over him, a faint sob on her lips. surprisingly, he fought his way back to consciousness, staring up at her. "rena," he said weakly. "benedetto! i loved him. i--" then his head rolled toward me. "at least, i lived to die in a revolution, thomas. dirty business, revolution. when in the course of human events, it becomes--" he died before he could finish. i went looking for lawton, to make sure defoe was suspended at once. he'd be the last political suspendee, if i had anything to do with it, but there would be a certain pleasure in watching lawton do the job. xix the doors of the reception hall were closed again, but there was no lock now. one of the two doctors whom zorchi had trusted was there now, waiting for the stragglers who came in slowly as a result of our broadcast. we couldn't reach them all, of course, but some could be saved. the men who had fought with us were treated and suspended. even the boy and his dog had finally reached us and been put away. in the main room of the executive vault, carmody was waiting for rena and me as we came in, haggard from lack of sleep, but somehow younger-looking than he had been since we had first revived him. he stood up, managing a tired smile. "the first work's done, tom," he said. "it wasn't too hard, once they learned defoe was suspended; a lot of the others were afraid of him, i guess. so far, i've only contacted the ones i can trust, but it's a beginning. i've gotten tapes of their delegation of authority to you as acting assistant chief underwriter. i guess the factor that influenced them most was your willingness to give up all hopes of suspension for the emergency. and having zorchi was a help, too--one man like him is worth an army now. i'll introduce you tomorrow." he stumbled out, heading toward the sleeping quarters. well, i had the chance i'd wanted. and i had his promise to put off suspension until things were running properly. with time to develop a small staff, and with a chance to begin the work of locating the men to study the problems that had to be solved, i couldn't ask for much more. zorchi grinned at me. "emperor weels!" he mocked. i grinned back. "if you ever say that seriously, luigi, i want you to say it with a bullet through my brain. i've seen enough cases of power corrupting." * * * * * for a second, he studied me. "if that day should come, then there shall be the bullet. but now, even i must sleep," he said. then he glanced at rena. "i have left orders that a priest should be wakened." she colored faintly. "you'll be best man, i suppose?" i asked. this time, even his beard couldn't conceal his amusement. "is zorchi not always the best man?" he asked as he left us alone. i stared at the vault that would be my home for the next twenty-five or fifty years--until i was an old man, and the rest of the world was ready to be awakened. "it's a lousy place to spend a honeymoon," i told rena. she leaned against me. "but perhaps a good place to bring up children," she said. "a place to teach them that their children will have a good world, tom. that's all a woman ever wants, i guess." i drew her to me. it was a good way to think of the future, whatever happened. and it _would_ be a better world, where the virtues of the company could be used. probably it wouldn't be perfect. even the best form of government all the experts could devise couldn't offer a permanent solution. but it could give men a chance to fight their way to a still better world. * * * * * [transcriber's note: there are two section v headings as per the orginal publication.] transcriber's note: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction january . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. _the atomic bomb meant, to most people, the end. to henry bemis it meant something far different--a thing to appreciate and enjoy._ time enough at last by lynn venable for a long time, henry bemis had had an ambition. to read a book. not just the title or the preface, or a page somewhere in the middle. he wanted to read the whole thing, all the way through from beginning to end. a simple ambition perhaps, but in the cluttered life of henry bemis, an impossibility. henry had no time of his own. there was his wife, agnes who owned that part of it that his employer, mr. carsville, did not buy. henry was allowed enough to get to and from work--that in itself being quite a concession on agnes' part. also, nature had conspired against henry by handing him with a pair of hopelessly myopic eyes. poor henry literally couldn't see his hand in front of his face. for a while, when he was very young, his parents had thought him an idiot. when they realized it was his eyes, they got glasses for him. he was never quite able to catch up. there was never enough time. it looked as though henry's ambition would never be realized. then something happened which changed all that. henry was down in the vault of the eastside bank & trust when it happened. he had stolen a few moments from the duties of his teller's cage to try to read a few pages of the magazine he had bought that morning. he'd made an excuse to mr. carsville about needing bills in large denominations for a certain customer, and then, safe inside the dim recesses of the vault he had pulled from inside his coat the pocket size magazine. he had just started a picture article cheerfully entitled "the new weapons and what they'll do to you", when all the noise in the world crashed in upon his ear-drums. it seemed to be inside of him and outside of him all at once. then the concrete floor was rising up at him and the ceiling came slanting down toward him, and for a fleeting second henry thought of a story he had started to read once called "the pit and the pendulum". he regretted in that insane moment that he had never had time to finish that story to see how it came out. then all was darkness and quiet and unconsciousness. * * * * * when henry came to, he knew that something was desperately wrong with the eastside bank & trust. the heavy steel door of the vault was buckled and twisted and the floor tilted up at a dizzy angle, while the ceiling dipped crazily toward it. henry gingerly got to his feet, moving arms and legs experimentally. assured that nothing was broken, he tenderly raised a hand to his eyes. his precious glasses were intact, thank god! he would never have been able to find his way out of the shattered vault without them. he made a mental note to write dr. torrance to have a spare pair made and mailed to him. blasted nuisance not having his prescription on file locally, but henry trusted no-one but dr. torrance to grind those thick lenses into his own complicated prescription. henry removed the heavy glasses from his face. instantly the room dissolved into a neutral blur. henry saw a pink splash that he knew was his hand, and a white blob come up to meet the pink as he withdrew his pocket handkerchief and carefully dusted the lenses. as he replaced the glasses, they slipped down on the bridge of his nose a little. he had been meaning to have them tightened for some time. he suddenly realized, without the realization actually entering his conscious thoughts, that something momentous had happened, something worse than the boiler blowing up, something worse than a gas main exploding, something worse than anything that had ever happened before. he felt that way because it was so quiet. there was no whine of sirens, no shouting, no running, just an ominous and all pervading silence. * * * * * henry walked across the slanting floor. slipping and stumbling on the uneven surface, he made his way to the elevator. the car lay crumpled at the foot of the shaft like a discarded accordian. there was something inside of it that henry could not look at, something that had once been a person, or perhaps several people, it was impossible to tell now. feeling sick, henry staggered toward the stairway. the steps were still there, but so jumbled and piled back upon one another that it was more like climbing the side of a mountain than mounting a stairway. it was quiet in the huge chamber that had been the lobby of the bank. it looked strangely cheerful with the sunlight shining through the girders where the ceiling had fallen. the dappled sunlight glinted across the silent lobby, and everywhere there were huddled lumps of unpleasantness that made henry sick as he tried not to look at them. "mr. carsville," he called. it was very quiet. something had to be done, of course. this was terrible, right in the middle of a monday, too. mr. carsville would know what to do. he called again, more loudly, and his voice cracked hoarsely, "mr. carrrrsville!" and then he saw an arm and shoulder extending out from under a huge fallen block of marble ceiling. in the buttonhole was the white carnation mr. carsville had worn to work that morning, and on the third finger of that hand was a massive signet ring, also belonging to mr. carsville. numbly, henry realized that the rest of mr. carsville was under that block of marble. henry felt a pang of real sorrow. mr. carsville was gone, and so was the rest of the staff--mr. wilkinson and mr. emory and mr. prithard, and the same with pete and ralph and jenkins and hunter and pat the guard and willie the doorman. there was no one to say what was to be done about the eastside bank & trust except henry bemis, and henry wasn't worried about the bank, there was something he wanted to do. he climbed carefully over piles of fallen masonry. once he stepped down into something that crunched and squashed beneath his feet and he set his teeth on edge to keep from retching. the street was not much different from the inside, bright sunlight and so much concrete to crawl over, but the unpleasantness was much, much worse. everywhere there were strange, motionless lumps that henry could not look at. suddenly, he remembered agnes. he should be trying to get to agnes, shouldn't he? he remembered a poster he had seen that said, "in event of emergency do not use the telephone, your loved ones are as safe as you." he wondered about agnes. he looked at the smashed automobiles, some with their four wheels pointing skyward like the stiffened legs of dead animals. he couldn't get to agnes now anyway, if she was safe, then, she was safe, otherwise ... of course, henry knew agnes wasn't safe. he had a feeling that there wasn't anyone safe for a long, long way, maybe not in the whole state or the whole country, or the whole world. no, that was a thought henry didn't want to think, he forced it from his mind and turned his thoughts back to agnes. * * * * * she had been a pretty good wife, now that it was all said and done. it wasn't exactly her fault if people didn't have time to read nowadays. it was just that there was the house, and the bank, and the yard. there were the jones' for bridge and the graysons' for canasta and charades with the bryants. and the television, the television agnes loved to watch, but would never watch alone. he never had time to read even a newspaper. he started thinking about last night, that business about the newspaper. henry had settled into his chair, quietly, afraid that a creaking spring might call to agnes' attention the fact that he was momentarily unoccupied. he had unfolded the newspaper slowly and carefully, the sharp crackle of the paper would have been a clarion call to agnes. he had glanced at the headlines of the first page. "collapse of conference imminent." he didn't have time to read the article. he turned to the second page. "solon predicts war only days away." he flipped through the pages faster, reading brief snatches here and there, afraid to spend too much time on any one item. on a back page was a brief article entitled, "prehistoric artifacts unearthed in yucatan". henry smiled to himself and carefully folded the sheet of paper into fourths. that would be interesting, he would read all of it. then it came, agnes' voice. "henrrreee!" and then she was upon him. she lightly flicked the paper out of his hands and into the fireplace. he saw the flames lick up and curl possessively around the unread article. agnes continued, "henry, tonight is the jones' bridge night. they'll be here in thirty minutes and i'm not dressed yet, and here you are ... _reading_." she had emphasized the last word as though it were an unclean act. "hurry and shave, you know how smooth jasper jones' chin always looks, and then straighten up this room." she glanced regretfully toward the fireplace. "oh dear, that paper, the television schedule ... oh well, after the jones leave there won't be time for anything but the late-late movie and.... don't just sit there, henry, hurrreeee!" henry was hurrying now, but hurrying too much. he cut his leg on a twisted piece of metal that had once been an automobile fender. he thought about things like lock-jaw and gangrene and his hand trembled as he tied his pocket-handkerchief around the wound. in his mind, he saw the fire again, licking across the face of last night's newspaper. he thought that now he would have time to read all the newspapers he wanted to, only now there wouldn't be any more. that heap of rubble across the street had been the gazette building. it was terrible to think there would never be another up to date newspaper. agnes would have been very upset, no television schedule. but then, of course, no television. he wanted to laugh but he didn't. that wouldn't have been fitting, not at all. he could see the building he was looking for now, but the silhouette was strangely changed. the great circular dome was now a ragged semi-circle, half of it gone, and one of the great wings of the building had fallen in upon itself. a sudden panic gripped henry bemis. what if they were all ruined, destroyed, every one of them? what if there wasn't a single one left? tears of helplessness welled in his eyes as he painfully fought his way over and through the twisted fragments of the city. * * * * * he thought of the building when it had been whole. he remembered the many nights he had paused outside its wide and welcoming doors. he thought of the warm nights when the doors had been thrown open and he could see the people inside, see them sitting at the plain wooden tables with the stacks of books beside them. he used to think then, what a wonderful thing a public library was, a place where anybody, anybody at all could go in and read. he had been tempted to enter many times. he had watched the people through the open doors, the man in greasy work clothes who sat near the door, night after night, laboriously studying, a technical journal perhaps, difficult for him, but promising a brighter future. there had been an aged, scholarly gentleman who sat on the other side of the door, leisurely paging, moving his lips a little as he did so, a man having little time left, but rich in time because he could do with it as he chose. henry had never gone in. he had started up the steps once, got almost to the door, but then he remembered agnes, her questions and shouting, and he had turned away. he was going in now though, almost crawling, his breath coming in stabbing gasps, his hands torn and bleeding. his trouser leg was sticky red where the wound in his leg had soaked through the handkerchief. it was throbbing badly but henry didn't care. he had reached his destination. part of the inscription was still there, over the now doorless entrance. p-u-b--c l-i-b-r---. the rest had been torn away. the place was in shambles. the shelves were overturned, broken, smashed, tilted, their precious contents spilled in disorder upon the floor. a lot of the books, henry noted gleefully, were still intact, still whole, still readable. he was literally knee deep in them, he wallowed in books. he picked one up. the title was "collected works of william shakespeare." yes, he must read that, sometime. he laid it aside carefully. he picked up another. spinoza. he tossed it away, seized another, and another, and still another. which to read first ... there were so many. he had been conducting himself a little like a starving man in a delicatessen--grabbing a little of this and a little of that in a frenzy of enjoyment. but now he steadied away. from the pile about him, he selected one volume, sat comfortably down on an overturned shelf, and opened the book. henry bemis smiled. there was the rumble of complaining stone. minute in comparison which the epic complaints following the fall of the bomb. this one occurred under one corner of the shelf upon which henry sat. the shelf moved; threw him off balance. the glasses slipped from his nose and fell with a tinkle. he bent down, clawing blindly and found, finally, their smashed remains. a minor, indirect destruction stemming from the sudden, wholesale smashing of a city. but the only one that greatly interested henry bemis. he stared down at the blurred page before him. he began to cry. the end electron eat electron by noel loomis (_editor's note: when we had read through this in-a-class-by-itself story, we exclaimed, "here's planet's scoop on the world!" what do you think? does mr. loomis answer the questions: "how will future wars be fought? will civilization be destroyed?"_) [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories spring . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] supreme general hoshawk, chief of staff, watched with piercing gray eyes while the president of the united states of the western hemisphere, jeffrey wadsworth, lay relaxed under a cosmic-ray lamp, with no covering but a towel over his loins. the surgeon-general of the hemispheric armies raised his hand, and the lamp receded. "is that enough?" hoshawk asked dryly. "it's the maximum, even for him," said the surgeon-general. "his reflexes will be faster than light itself." hoshawk grunted, his eyes narrow. as far as he could see, the speed of a man's reflexes, even of a man who was about to champion seven hundred million persons, wasn't as important as the man's loyalty or his sense of personal responsibility. and hoshawk did not have much use for wadsworth. augusto iraola of brazil, deputy president for south america, stepped forward from the group of forty men. he asked the president anxiously, "how do you feel?" iraola was old and bearded. "not bad," said the president, and his voice squeaked a little as it changed pitch. the minister of state, with a big portfolio under his arm, said, "shouldn't we prepare the vice president?" morrison, vice president for canada, spoke pedantically, "it would be a tragedy to lose president wadsworth. last month his i.q. was , nearly twenty points above any other member of the mutant college." hoshawk barely caught himself in time to repress a snort. a boy of sixteen, no matter what his i.q., was just a kid. you couldn't expect him to exhibit initiative or even to take things seriously. that was why hoshawk had almost broken with the hemispheric congress thirty years before--almost two of president jeffrey's lifetimes, hoshawk reflected wryly. the voice of the president, slightly amused, came to them. "i'm all right now," he said. "i think i ate too much ice cream last night. nine dishes." there were gasps. hoshawk held back his sarcasm, but he could not refrain from a triumphant glance at the ancient minister of state, who avoided his eyes. iraola was volatile. "sabotage!" he said. president wadsworth licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. "no, the new pineapple-avocado. very good, gentlemen. i recommend it." the neuro-analyst whipped a graph from his machine. hoshawk barely looked at the graph. "speed of reaction down to zero, point, nine zeros, three, four--three times normal speed. let's get on with the war." * * * * * the president's eyes had been fixed hopefully on hoshawk's grizzled face, and at hoshawk's words he relaxed. his muscles rippled an instant, and then he was standing. it was always a little shock to hoshawk to see him move. it wasn't right that any man, even a superior mutant, should be able to move faster than light-speed. you didn't dare to trust a man like that. forty august heads--all but hoshawk's--inclined as the president stood there, but the president just smiled at them and yawned and stretched luxuriously. hoshawk was annoyed, but there was nothing he could do about it. the hemispheric congress had set up the mutant college two hundred years ago, and every child with i.q. above and physique to match, became a member, for the sole purpose of selecting a president whose primary duty would be to fight a war, if it should come in his term, on one of the giant keyboards. this had been a concession to left-wing agitation that, if there was to be another war, it should be fought by the leaders and not by the ranks. the mutant college had been established when the hunyas had overrun europe and asia, and now for two centuries there had been no war, but only preparation for war, east against west, through systems of selection and training closely parallel, but with a difference that was forever in hoshawk's mind--if he was a capable man, the hunyas kept him for twenty-one years. and obviously you could depend a lot more on a man of thirty-five than you could on a boy of sixteen. forgacs, president of the hunyas, was thirty-three--an old man for a mutant, and smart and clever as only a mutant could be at that age. yesterday the hunyas had challenged. it was sudden, but not unexpected. there was no reason for delay. at six o'clock tonight the two hemispheres would match force, and by eight o'clock it would be over. * * * * * jeffrey wadsworth moved. one instant he was before them with a towel around the middle of his bronze body, the next instant he was standing there dressed in light plastic slippers, red trunks and a sleeveless blue shirt. if hoshawk hadn't been so old, he would have been envious of the president's physique. "gentlemen," jeffrey said, "i am ready to go to the chamber." he rubbed his bare midriff in the region of his stomach. "are you ill?" hoshawk asked quickly. "no," jeffrey watched the forty statesmen file out. "sire," said hoshawk, and his manner was respectful, for this boy of sixteen was his commander-in-chief, "i still wish we had trained a few thousand men in the use of weapons. i don't see how we can fight a war with electronic tubes." jeffrey looked at him gravely. "war with men is primitive. lives can't be replaced." hoshawk sputtered. "there's never been any civilized war." "this time there will be," jeffrey said confidently. "but--" "we'll win," jeffrey repeated. "we _must_ win." and hoshawk caught a flash of something deep in his eyes. hoshawk could not quite identify it, and yet he knew it spoke of the inner wisdom and conviction of the young. and in that direction, hoshawk reasoned, lay their weakness. "there'll be trickery from forgacs," hoshawk predicted. "quite possible," said wadsworth. "i don't trust him, myself. he challenged on a technicality." hoshawk was gratified to hear a worried note in the president's voice. "he claimed we violated the agreement of ," he said, probing, "by keeping scientific discoveries to ourselves." wadsworth answered quietly, "then he challenged because he himself had secrets that he believed more potent." "nevertheless," said hoshawk, "a few hundred men trained in the use of tanks--" jeffrey shook his head. "and revert to the primitive," he pointed out. "if the world is ever to get away from that kind of war, this is the time to prove it." "and if we lose, we do so at the expense of a hemisphere." "that's true," jeffrey said calmly. "but if we should win by using men and destroying lives, we would do so at the expense of a civilization. by the act of reverting to the use of human fighters, we would convince the world that war could not be fought electronically." they reached the door of the chamber. the president shook hands with iraola and with hoshawk. "wish me luck," he said lightly. they inclined their heads, and when they looked up, the president was seated on a beryllium stool that traveled a three-quarter circle before the great bank of keys like the keyboard of a giant organ. he pulled on a glass helmet and adjusted the sonic amplifiers to his mastoids. he flicked the oxygen valve open and shut, and then looked at it and listened intently. hoshawk saw an instant's doubt on the president's face. hoshawk wondered if the valve was leaking, and frowned. the chamber had been tested exhaustively, but with hundreds of thousands of circuits, cut-backs, by-passes, and relays, it was possible the oxygen valve had been overlooked. * * * * * jeffrey strapped himself into the chair. the chronometer showed five minutes before the hour. the president looked at the huge curved map of the atlantic, now aglow with light above the big keyboard. his eyes swept the thousands of ivory keys and he rubbed his hands together for a final limbering of his fingers. he spoke, and his intent voice came to them through the amplifier: "hhq." "north america is completely evacuated, sire, to the polar ice-cap. there is now no human being on the continent. the hunyas refused our request to declare new york an open city, and it was evacuated thirty minutes ago." the president called for a chronometer check. the instrument in the chamber had lost two hundredths of a second, and hoshawk could see that jeffrey was making a mental note of that. he was forced to admit that the young mutant was thorough. there were two minutes left. jeffrey sat straight before the great keyboard, poised an instant, and then his incredibly facile fingers played the keys, flashing from one bank to the next, shooting the chair to right and to left, while he watched the map above him and the great bank of lights on each side. then he leaned back, relaxed. hoshawk was glad now they were playing it safe. jeffrey had insisted on the midwest chamber in preference to the pacific or atlantic station. for this was modern war. there would be only one person killed. this was a war of electronics, deadly and final, but no one would be actually killed but the losing president. that was decreed by the six-continent council. it was one minute before the hour. the president pressed a key. the starter answered: "president wadsworth, are you ready?" "ready," said jeffrey in a high voice. hoshawk heard the starter's voice: "president forgacs, are you ready?" "ja," came the deep voice of the hunyas president. jeffrey flicked the oxygen valve for a second, snapped it off, and hoshawk saw him glance down at it. then jeffrey sat poised, all the alertness of his incredible mind bearing intently on the map before him. a bell sounded. the war was on! jeffrey did not move. he waited, and watched. ten trillion electronic tubes would flash their information on the map. he waited--one minute, two minutes, five minutes. the map was dark. so forgacs wanted him to move first. jeffrey flicked the oxygen and his chair shot to the left. his fingers blurred into movement. he shot back to the center of the keyboard and focused his entire intellect on the map. a dozen tiny red lights rose off the coast of newfoundland and raced eastward. each light represented a thousand rockets loaded with thirty tons of dtn. one of those rockets would wipe berlin from the earth--if it struck. but hoshawk knew the president did not expect them to reach europe. they did not. near the coast of holland they began to wink out. one got as far as cologne. if the chamber had been above ground instead of three hundred feet deep in solid rock, they would have felt the concussion, for dtn's powerful waves traveled at the speed of light. still there was no answer. jeffrey's fingers played for an instant on the keys. red lights rose from labrador, from near boston, from florida, and streaked east--not for berlin this time, but for marseilles. jeffrey was testing forgacs' explosive screen. it was wholly effective; one after the other, the trains of red lights winked out. but now there was an answer. from the bay of biscay red lights with black dots on them began to wink on as the mammoth tabulating machine in the room below recorded the information from thousands of hidden electronic tubes, totaled it, and presented it on the map. the president hardly watched them. his screen with its principal power-plant in philadelphia would stop the rockets, up to a total of some seventy-five octillion macro-ergs. on the off chance that forgacs would forget to close his screen after his rockets had passed it, jeffrey fired a salvo from the bahamas. forgacs answered with three salvos from brest, and jeffrey gave him back ten from long island, then hoshawk frowned as he saw the president rub his stomach. hoshawk had always opposed that abominable atavistic confection called ice cream. it was a game of incredibly swift calculation and rapier thrusts from strong point to strong point in the effort to break through the screen. once the screen should be broken, anything might happen. * * * * * jeffrey could see when his own screen was up, but their science had devised no way to detect the enemy's screen except by firing into it. jeffrey pressed a pedal with his left foot, and a thin golden line flashed on in a flattened arc from greenland down through the atlantic and curved around the falkland islands. jeffrey's screen was up. the biscay salvos began to wink out against it. jeffrey's hands began to flash. red lights winking up along the coast of europe and from north africa showed that forgacs was opening up. jeffrey cut in the oxygen for a second and flicked it off, then his left foot slashed at the pedal as he cut his screen to let his own rockets through and then threw it on again to stop the enemy. forgacs was beginning a drive on philadelphia, the site of the power plant. jeffrey was watching for an opening to marseilles, vulnerable for the same reason. jeffrey kept firing rockets, but his mutant mind would be racing ahead, calculating with infinite precision the times of discharge and times of arrival. it was apparent by now that forgacs' most powerful defenses were centered around marseilles, because forgacs was not using them. this meant he was not taking a chance on opening the marseilles sector of the screen. jeffrey calculated the probable interchange of batteries for some sixty moves ahead, hoshawk knew, then he began to fire the philadelphia batteries at intervals. the firing rose in intensity, and jeffrey's faster-than-light fingers played the great keyboard like a master organ. a bell sounded and his right foot threw on the western screen with its automatic cut-out. and all the time jeffrey fired his big philadelphia batteries at intervals with a definite rhythm--five, three, and six seconds. he shot to the right and manipulated a bank of keys and was back in the center almost instantaneously. he did not pause in his rocket salvos, but in three minutes and eight seconds his first salvo of one-ton atom bombs would reach the marseilles screen. if he had calculated correctly, the marseilles screen would be open for an instant just as the atom bombs reached it. he didn't think forgacs could resist the temptation to blast philadelphia with his marseilles batteries. presently a thousand red lights winked up from the screen at marseilles. but forgacs overlooked the atom bombs. they were slower than the rockets, and there was no way to tell, from the map, which was which. jeffrey shot a look at the chronometer, and hoshawk saw the atom bombs go through. a few seconds later the glow in marseilles began to redden, and hoshawk exulted. the atom bombs had done their work. the marseilles screen was weakening. jeffrey played the keys with fantastic speed. the war would soon be over. thousands of little red lights began streaking toward marseilles. at first they exploded in air as they hit the screen, but as the explosive force of the dtn began to drain the screen, those behind began to pour through. but there was a flash from philadelphia, and a shock went through hoshawk. something was wrong there. jeffrey hadn't intended that. forgacs had used atom bombs and had broken through when the screen was down. jeffrey's fingers snatched at the oxygen valve. he tore it off and threw it on the floor. he still held one important advantage. he was ahead of forgacs by forty seconds. philadelphia went out and the golden defensive screen began to fade, but jeffrey, tensely erect, stayed on the attack. hundreds of green lights began to rise around marseilles--great submarines, controlled by electronics and carrying tanks and guns and explosives. the green lights converged on marseilles. they got through the screen. now was the big gamble. jeffrey guessed that forgacs would operate from an underground chamber near marseilles itself. it wasn't a logical thing to do, and so forgacs would do it, believing that jeffrey would pass marseilles and go inland to find the chamber. jeffrey let him believe that. he sent eight thousand giant electron-controlled bombers through the marseilles gap and straight for berlin. the green lights started winking on the coast of france, showing the submarines were unloading amphibious tanks. jeffrey started them out across france at high speed. near paris they met heavy resistance from forgacs' tank-killers. but now jeffrey had more trouble. forgacs had slipped a salvo of atom bombs into the labrador power station, and the entire north quadrant of jeffrey's screen was down. and just at that instant, the automatic breaker failed and a tube burned out in the montevideo power station, and the southern half of south america was exposed. green lights began to wink up at the open spaces. * * * * * jeffrey was grim. it was near the end. dog eat dog. his flying fingers chose to ignore forgacs' attack, beyond firing millions of salvos of small rockets which were little better than a delaying action. there were only two targets in this war--the chambers. jeffrey released his trump--thirty-five hundred flying robot tanks. they rocketed through the marseilles screen and came on the city from the land side, firing eight-inch rockets and shooting flames out half a mile ahead. but this was a feint, too. from the sea now rose a great armada of robot submarine carriers that spewed out tanks that were little more than armored tank-cars filled with jellied xpr, which exploded always down, toward the center of gravitation. they poured out the jelly on the surface around marseilles for a distance of twenty miles until according to jeffrey's figures the ground was covered a foot thick. the flame-throwers roared into it and jeffrey stopped them there. then he fired his last salvo of atom-bombs from the bahamas. in the meantime, forgacs' tanks had overrun boston, searching for the american chamber. the lights began to wink out, and hoshawk knew that boston was being destroyed. orange lights, indicating bombers, were heading for chicago, and hoshawk knew that if jeffrey's guess on marseilles was bad, he had not much longer to live. he looked at the map. the atom-bombs were at marseilles. a glow showed around the twenty-mile circle that he had covered with jelly, and hoshawk knew the atom-bombs had landed. he knew that on the other continent, the most tremendous explosion in man's history was taking place. and when it was over there would be a mile-deep crater where marseilles had been, and anything, no matter how deep it was buried, would be destroyed by concussion. jeffrey still played the keys, but his eyes were on the orange lights approaching chicago. they reached chicago, perhaps directly over their heads, but hoshawk felt no bombs. a moment later the planes were still going westward. jeffrey called the starter. "does forgacs concede?" he asked. there was a moment's delay, then, "forgacs does not answer." the president let out an undignified whoop. he tore off the straps that held him in the chair, threw his helmet across the chamber. "we won!" the hemispheric diplomats were gathering excitedly in the corridor. jeffrey unsealed the chamber. hoshawk shook hands with him. "you did it," he said gruffly. "i apologize for ever thinking--" the chamber shuddered, and hoshawk paled, but jeffrey held up his hand. he glanced at the chronometer. "that was marseilles blowing up," he said. his feet moved and he was gone. in a moment he was back. "excuse me, gentlemen," he begged. "i've got to see the squad. just figured out a way to beat the blues. if you--" he stopped, frowned. he had felt it before they did--a distant blast. then they heard it--a dull explosion through three hundred feet of solid rock above them. the floor shuddered under their feet. it came again, and again, farther away. a pattern. then off somewhere else came another string of explosions. the forty august heads stared at the ceiling. mouths were open, but the president's mutant brain in seconds analyzed the possibilities and came up with the answer: "atom-bombs!" "impossible!" growled hoshawk. "forgacs' chamber was destroyed." the president was already back in the chamber. he pressed a key. "starter," came the answer. "forgacs' chamber is destroyed. you have won the war." hoshawk was behind him. "but he's still firing, isn't he?" "no." the president was icily alert. he pointed to the big map. there were no red pin-points that would indicate rockets or bombs coming from the european continent. "the chamber is gone. undeniably gone." a new pattern of bomb-bursts came from above. "chicago must be destroyed by now," said the president harshly. he pointed to a blacked-out area on the ground-glass screen above. "there are no detector tubes left above us. but look--orange lights. thousands of them coming from the sea on the maryland coast. and look there, to the right. one--two--fifteen thousand bombers coming!" hoshawk nodded as if he had known it all the time. "sure. he has men in those planes. live men who can observe and act independently. he's throwing hundreds of thousands of planes and submarine tractors and mobile bomb-throwers at us--all operated by men. and forgacs himself is here, leading them. we're whipped, sire! where is your civilization now?" * * * * * wadsworth was calm. he was taking it like a man, anyway. he threw a lever and poised at the great keyboard, then his mutant fingers began to work in blurred movement. hoshawk watched the screen above. the atlantic filled with long trains of red lights that arose from their american bases and streamed eastward. hoshawk blinked. "you're firing everything. and you've locked the controls." wadsworth didn't look up. "in five minutes," he said, "there won't be an ounce of explosive left in any emplacement in america." "but that's--" hoshawk started to say "foolish," but he changed it. "that won't help, sire. forgacs' equipment is all over here, now." but wadsworth leaned back. their golden explosive screen showed no longer on the map. already some of the emplacements had ceased to spew out red lights, and the tail-ends of their trains were disappearing to the east. hoshawk shuddered as he saw that now america was completely defenseless. but wadsworth spoke into his transmitter. "radio. give me special frequency three-hundred-eighty-one thousand, six hundred kilocycles. clear all air-lines." "yes, sire." the president pressed the scrambler button and then spoke. the words came out of the amplifier. "three tons of butter unloaded a fast curve day before tomorrow because the baby was yelling for its morning high-ball. the soap-suds are thick enough for whipping but who knows where or when." the president leaned back and smiled. "that's an order to all sixteen thousand mutants over the country to be on the alert at their predetermined stations." hoshawk frowned. "but everybody's been evacuated." "not the mutants. you see general, we ourselves haven't trusted forgacs." hoshawk's grim face lighted up. "do you mean you have secretly made some fighting equipment?" wadsworth shook his head. "no. we could have. there's a loophole in the twenty-one eighteen agreement. but we have observed the spirit--ah!" up on the ground-glass screen, purple lights had been flashing on at intervals over the united states, until now there were nineteen, and wadsworth spoke: "those represent transmitter stations equally spaced over the country. they are all manned by mutants." hoshawk actually snorted. "transmitter stations! you can't fight with words! and, anyway, there won't be any power at all within a half hour." "they each have their own power-plant," the president said quietly. hoshawk looked at the map again and groaned. the nation was almost covered by a canopy of orange lights marked with black crosses. "there must be at least a million bombers over us! they'll wipe out the whole country within an hour. if there's anything you can do, _do it_!" the president was pale, but he sat quietly. "stalled," hoshawk thought sardonically. it took something besides smartness to win a war. it took character, too. wadsworth pointed to the american shores. long lines of green and white and black and yellow dots coming from the sea, crawling in among the orange lights that swarmed over america like a gigantic swarm of hornets. "submarines, amphibian battleships, flame-throwers, tanks," he said. hoshawk stood erect. "if it were not against regulations, sire, i would be tempted to blow my head off. we shall be destroyed as a people and as a continent." the president's hands were clenched, but he answered slowly, "as a continent, perhaps. but the buildings can be built again. as a people--no, i don't think so. as a civilization, i hope we can be saved." hoshawk's eyes narrowed. "how?" he demanded. "those purple lights represent sonic transmitters. in other words, generating stations for sound frequencies above the narrow band which can be heard by humans. they were developed, built, and financed by graduate mutants. they broadcast on different frequencies that we have determined most effective in upsetting the equilibrium of unstable chemical compounds." "do you mean," asked hoshawk, "that you are going to try to detonate the explosives carried by forgacs' planes?" "his planes, and anything else that carries them. we have analyzed samples of his explosives to determine the critical frequency of each. these nineteen stations cover the country. any known explosive in the continental united states will be detonated when these stations go into operation." "what if forgacs has some unknown explosive?" wadsworth was solemn. "we take that chance," he said. "but the range of possible explosive combinations is well known, and something entirely different is unlikely. at any rate--" "they're starting to drop bombs!" hoshawk said. * * * * * the president watched the red glow around kansas city. his face was taut. "there will be many cities destroyed," he said. "but we must wait for all of forgacs' equipment to be within our continental limits. it must all be destroyed at once." "but the bombers are in action," said hoshawk. "denver is getting it now." wadsworth's eyes were on the coastlines. "it will be twenty minutes at least before we can open the transmitters. we may lose most of our cities by that time, but there is nothing we can do." the red glows began to spread. dallas and fort worth, new orleans, atlanta, miami, san diego and los angeles, san francisco, portland and seattle. the bombers were systematically destroying america's population centers. and still wadsworth waited. he sat tense before the map, watching the endless stream of lights come from the sea. but they were beginning to end. many were far inland, attacking the smaller cities, cleaning up the big ones. "the bombers won't be destroyed," said hoshawk, "if they've already dropped their bombs." "i think they will, for all practical purposes," said the president. "their ammunition, their signal flares--everything explosive will be detonated." "how can you cover them all at once?" "there are over nine hundred frequencies--but we don't know that they will be enough," jeffrey pointed out gravely. "we can only hope." hoshawk couldn't stand still any longer. he paced the floor before the map. "every city in america of more than a hundred thousand is gone--obliterated," he said tonelessly. "can't we ever--" "wait!" the president was alert. "the last line of flame-throwers is coming on land." he pointed to the black dots streaming up on the west coast. he spoke into the audio transmitter. he didn't bother with the scrambler now. "sonic stations on. emergency force. sonic stations on. emergency force. situation critical." he pointed to the map and sat back. within a few seconds the purple lights began to flash intermittently. "they're on," said the president. "but it will take a few minutes for them to reach full intensity. the sonic devices operate at high speeds--some at two hundred thousand r.p.m." hoshawk watched, almost without breathing. for the first time he was aware that the forty statesmen of the western hemisphere were watching through the glass windows of the chamber. at that instant purple glows began to surround the green lights, starting on the east coast of florida and spreading upward. "amphibian submarines," whispered the president. "their aerial torpedoes are exploding!" "and up around the great lakes," said hoshawk. "there it's amphibian tanks." the president sat, and watched. the glows spread. they absorbed flame-throwers, tractors, mine-heavers. the map of america was a clustered mass of lights, with the purple glow beginning to consume everything in its reach. "the planes," said jeffrey. "they're still untouched. they anticipated something like this." he barked into the microphone. "all stations, ascending frequency!" he ordered, and turned to hoshawk. "we don't know how effective this will be. it isn't as powerful as the static ranges. but--" "it is! they've got the range!" cried hoshawk. jeffrey looked. near albuquerque, new mexico, a cluster of orange lights was being consumed by the purple glow. jeffrey shot a glance at a dial. "all stations! all stations! frequency seventy-two thousand, nine eighty. emergency. frequency seventy-two thousand, nine eighty." and the purple glow rolled and spread and consumed forgacs' bombers by the thousands. at last wadsworth looked at the map, with nothing left but the dead embers of a mighty army. hoshawk shook hands with him and then looked for a place to sit down for a moment. "sire," he said at last, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue, "if it isn't presumptuous, i'd stand the check for a dish of that new ice cream." jeffrey looked at him and smiled. "you'd better have one yourself." hoshawk's grizzled face was solemn. "i'm going to," he said.