Arsenal

TWELVE

“That’s it, then.”

Tombstone Magruder scrawled his initials in the upper-right-hand corner of the message, releasing it for transmission. He leaned back in his chair, tossed the pencil on the table, and looked impassively at the men surrounding him. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll take the heat for it.

You people are just following orders.”

The SEAL OIC-officer in Charge shook his head.

“That plan’s got my name all over it. Admiral. With all due respect, I wouldn’t mind getting hung for that one little bit.”

“You may get your chance,” Tombstone snapped. He glanced at the standard Navy-issue black clock up on the bulkhead. “And sooner than you want.”

“Admiral, at the risk of sounding like an optimist,” Batman broke in, “this is a damned fine operational plan.

It’s classic. We get our people out, take ownership of the airspace, then proceed inward to strike our objectives.

They’ll be studying this one at the War College.”

“They study Grenada, too, for what it’s worth.” Tombstone shifted his gaze to Bird Dog. “They do, don’t they?

And Beirut as well.”

Bird dog nodded, “i think this one will work, Admiral.

Tombstone stood and started pacing back and forth. Had it been any other officer. Batman decided, it would have been a sign of nerves.

But with Tombstone it was more an indication of the pent-up rage and anger seething through him, a physical release of that which kept him from exploding in temper. It was from such small physical activities that Tombstone got his reputation for being utterly unflappable and granite-faced.

“We need to get going,” Sikes said finally. “If we want to leave on time.” He glanced uncertainly from Batman to Tombstone.

Batman nodded slightly, giving permission. “Get your people ready.”

With another gesture. Batman cleared the room of the rest of the personnel, indicating that they should go to their racks and get some sleep while they could. When they were alone, he walked over to his old lead and said, “Don’t sweat the load. Tombstone. You know this has got as good a chance of working as anything.”

Tombstone wheeled on him. “If it were simply a matter of taking out those missile structures, do you think I’d be worried? Hell, even that damned Bird Dog could figure out how to do that! There’s no mystery to how we operate.” His mouth clamped into a thin, taut line.

“Yeah. What? What is it that’s got you so wound up about this plan?”

Batman pressed, already suspecting that he knew the answer. Should he say it? No, with a man like Tombstone, it was better to let him come to his own conclusions about when to publicly air a matter. If Batman mentioned Pamela first, it would simply drive his old lead against the wall, cementing his silence for good.

Batman felt Tombstone’s eyes searching his face, looking for something there. The younger admiral willed himself into immobility. Finally, Tombstone nodded, and the tension seemed to drain out of his body. He flung himself down on the flat leatherette couch against one wall, onto his back, feet propped up on the far armrest. The sudden change in posture was as disconcerting to Batman as having Tombstone actually smile.

“Don’t get diplomatic on me. Batman,” Tombstone said finally. He turned his head and stared over at his old wingman, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“We’ve known each other too long for this. You know what it is.”

“Then you say it first. Tombstone,” Batman challenged.

“Anytime I bring it up, you start back pedaling on me.”

“Pamela Drake.” Tombstone pronounced the name quietly, neutrally.

“That’s what it is. And that downed pilot, too.

Thor. Both of them but especially Pamela.”

“Can they get her out?”

Tombstone shrugged. “The SEALs seem to think so. And if they can’t damn it. Batman, you know I’ll do it. I’m going to quit thinking with my dick. She’s there illegally, against all U.S. policy, and interfering with our operations.

If they can’t get her out, I’ll send a strike in anyway.”

“And Thor?” Batman’s voice was hard and cold. “What about him?”

Tombstone levered himself up and swung his feet back down on the floor.

“Same answer, for a different reason.

Major Hammersmith’s paid to take chances. He’s a Marine; he understood the risks he was taking. I’ll try my best to get him out, but if I can’t …”

“You’ll go ahead with that strike, too.” Batman had not realized how much he wanted to believe that wasn’t true.

Deep down, he’d known this was exactly what Tombstone would order, and why Tombstone had been sent up to the battle force. Even before he himself had suspected it, Batman’s superiors had known that he might flinch from this last and deadliest military decision. He tried to feel resentment, but all he felt was relief. Relief that the decision was someone else’s, an unwillingness to face the ultimate reckonings of life and death that took place in the correlation of forces.

“I think-I think I’m happy with one star. Admiral,” Batman said slowly.

He stood, walked to the center of the room, and offered a hand to his old lead.

Tombstone took Batman’s hand, used it to lever himself up from the couch, then turned the grip into a warm handshake. “You never know what you’ll do until you’re there, shipmate. You know it’s the right decision. It’s the same one you’d make if you were in my shoes.”

“Let’s get some sleep, Stoney,” Batman said. “If tomorrow is as long a day as I think it’s going to be, we’ll need it.”

Colonel Santana ran his hand over the.45 pistol holstered on his hip. The gun was smooth, gleaming better cared for than 90 percent of the houses and people living in his country. But his life did not depend on people right no wit depended on this gun. And on the temper of the man seated opposite him.

Santana left his fingers resting gently on the butt as he glared at the Libyan. “Your plan is not working. The Americans are here in force and have already penetrated and destroyed our deception.”

Kaliff Mendiria lounged lazily in the chair, seemingly unaware of the gun at Santana’s hip. He lifted one hand and waved away Santana’s concerns with a light flip of his fingers. “You think short-term, my friend. That is why our partnership is so good. You have experience and are excellent in executing the immediate, the tactical. But for the longer-range planning, you need an outside viewpoint to balance your impetuousness. Ah, that hot Cuban blood it has landed you in trouble more than once, has it not?” The Libyan took a deep breath, then yawned. “It is growing late.

I suggest we retire until tomorrow morning.”

Santana jerked the pistol from his holster and slammed it down on the table, butt first. The nine-inch barrel pointed menacingly in Mendiria’s direction. Not at him directly no, Santana was not willing to make that threat just yet but certainly in that direction. “What of the missiles!

You promised them by now.”

Mendiria frowned. “You threaten me, then demand concrete evidence of our friendship? Is this how Cuba thinks?”

“We had a deal,” Santana said tightly. “A distraction here, so that you could proceed with your plans in Africa. We have drawn the American battle group away from the Mediterranean as you requested, and what good has it done us? Merely invited a missile launch that decimated an empty field.”

“An empty field,” Mendiria echoed. “And do you suppose that if we had already delivered the missiles to you, they would have been in that field? Undoubtedly so. You see, Santana, you simply must learn to look ahead.”

Santana paused uncertainly. Was it possible? Had the swarthy African sitting across from him actually foreseen the American strike at Cuban soil, and planned around it?

He studied the Libyan more closely now, cataloging his features. An ugly man, but one with a compelling sense of power about him that even Santana only rarely dared to brook.

Santana holstered the pistol and sat down in the chair opposite the Libyan. “So. Enlighten me, then. Explain to me how this is all a part of your plot, how every movement is accounted for and proceeding exactly as planned. I’m ready to believe, Mendiria just not yet convinced.”

The Libyan leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his elbows. His piercing eyes were half hooded with sleepy eyelids, the mouth slightly slack and barely covering the even row of white teeth.

“And this is why you keep me up so late at night?” He shook his head.

“Let me explain this to you one more time. Then either shoot me or start cooperating, I don’t care which one but quit waking me up in the middle of the night with your stupid nightmares.

“The Americans are here, occupied by what they perceive as the Cuban problem. Your soil is vulnerable, my friend, especially with reinforcements so close at hand. But now that the Americans have actually conducted a first strike, the balance of world opinion will shift in your favor. The United States will find neither support nor approval for further action against Cuba. And you you have lost nothing.

Turned up a few dirt clods, perhaps missing a few agricultural workers, but that is it. And furthermore, you have this excellent videotape of American Special Forces intruding on your soil. That is bound to weaken support for America within the Caribbean basin. This opens new opportunities for you and for us.”

“But the missiles,” Santana began.

Mendiria cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Are on their way, even as we speak. Do you think we would leave them here for the American attack to destroy? Are you so confident of your ability to hide them that you would risk all in this matter?” The Libyan shook his head disapprovingly.

“No, we will keep you from such mistakes. As soon as matters are settled in my country, we will off-load the missiles to you. They are even now a bare three hundred miles away from here, nestled in the hold of a merchant ship.”

“What exactly is happening in your country that requires the Americans to be otherwise occupied?” Santana asked bluntly. It was the question that had lingered unasked in every discussion he’d had with the Libyan, and one that the Libyan had never volunteered the answer to. Now, sensing the Libyan’s willingness to reassure him, Santana asked for the first time.

Mendiria shook his head. “You have no need to know, but I will tell you this much: There are certain border disputes that are even now being resolved in a manner favorable to us. Certain … political considerations … that are being realigned to be more in keeping with a modern, powerful Libya.”

“A coup?” Santana asked.

“A realignment,” Mendiria corrected. He smiled, teeth flashing in the dim light. “There are many of us who believe that Libya should take a more active role in world affairs.

With our natural resources, our strategic coastline well, there are many opportunities for a nation such as Libya, especially under an enlightened leadership. If the United States is preoccupied with her backyard, it gives us a free hand in ours, the Mediterranean.”

“The missiles,” Santana insisted.

“In two days,” Mendiria said finally, grudgingly giving up the delicate cat-and-mouse game. “We will unload them in two days. And then, you may make whatever use you wish of them.”

The ship steamed back and forth in her firing basket like a caged tiger. Six knots on gentle seas induced a slow, hypnotic roll. The few sailors still in their racks were lulled into even deeper sleep, while three decks below complex fire control circuitry compensated for the motion in the targeting data it fed to the launchers.

Within the bowels of the ship, technicians eased themselves into the narrow interspaces between weapons, carefully making last-minute checks and adjustments to the warheads. A few of the tubes still showed smoke smudges from the earlier fire, but the delicate wiring and structural supports were undamaged.

An undercurrent of tension and excitement throbbed throughout the ship, a reflection of the eagerness of the new and untried crew to finally, after what seemed like decades of testing, make the boat demonstrate the capabilities of their platform. No ship in history, save perhaps the old-style battleships, had ever possessed such a massive load of firepower and deadly weaponry. And this was the crew that would make it work.

In Combat, the tactical action officer paced back and forth in front of his console, chained like a dog to it by the cord running from his headset to the internal communications system. He listened to the myriad reports rapping crisply out over the circuit, glanced around to make sure every station was manned, then turned to his captain. “All stations report ready. Captain.” He hunched his shoulders a bit, distracted by a bead of sweat trickling down his back.

“Very well. Commence firing weapons package number eight-two-nine, at will.” Captain Heather made it sound like a routine order, his voice calm and deadly professional, but the pain was clawing away at the edges of his self-control.

Still, it evidently worked. His words had a steadying effect on the young TAO, who nodded.

“Firing weapons package number eight-two-nine, aye, Captain.” The TAO turned back to his console, slipped into the chair, and turned his key in the lock. The SPY-1 computer took over from there.

For the next ninety seconds, being inside Arsenal was like rolling down a hill in a steel garbage can. The hull rang and shivered with multiple explosions as Tomahawk cruise missiles were ejected from their vertical launch tubes. Each missile came out impossibly slowly, seemed to hover over the deck for a few minutes, scorching the nonskid and gray paint with hellfire from its propulsion section, then picked up speed and darted out toward the horizon. Within moments of leaving the ship, the missiles were traveling too fast and far for the naked eye to follow.

But the SPY-1 system held radar contact on each one, sorting out the tiny pulses of returned radar energy, comparing them with the launch vector and destination of every missile, and assigning a serial number to each green lozenge blip on the screen. The launching went quickly, and completely without incident. When it was finally over, the TAO turned back to the captain. “Weapons package complete, Captain. All stations report no damage.”

Captain Heather tried to grin. “Feels better when you get to do it yourself, doesn’t it? Now let’s just hope those men make it into shore.”

“Men?” The TAO looked puzzled. For just a moment, he thought the captain might have finally lost his mind. But no, glancing at the self-satisfied visage, he knew better. TAO or not, there were still things the captain knew that he didn’t.

“Jesus! Will you look at that?” Sikes pointed toward the horizon. “Looks like they started their Fourth of July celebration a little early.” He smiled, a cold, twisted line to his lips. The amusement never reached his eyes.

Behind him in the RHIB, three other SEALs shifted slightly to keep their balance as they also turned to watch.

“Makes for a nice diversion, doesn’t it?” one of them said to no one in particular. “Beats a helicopter gunship, anyway.”

“Yeah, like you’d know anything about them,” Huerta said mildly. “Boy, I was taking helicopter gunships into areas that didn’t have any names while you were still sucking on your mama’s tit. You use ‘em right, there’s nothing that beats it.” He turned back to the horizon as three new far-off explosions echoed in the air. A trace of respect crossed his face. “Have to admit, though, this is nice.”

“Let’s see if it works first.” Sikes’s voice was still grim.

“How will we know if it works?” Garcia asked, more out of curiosity than any real need to know.

Huerta and Sikes exchanged an amused look. Huerta turned back to the younger sailor. “If there are people standing on the beach waitin’ to offer us a friendly greeting when we show up, it didn’t work.”

Huerta smiled. “And it won’t be the first time nor the last that that’s happened to a SEAL.”

“Lost contact over land,” the TAO reported. He slipped one of the earphones off so that he could listen to the chatter inside the compartment. The sailors were starting to talk now, breaking into professional discussions of how the launch had been executed as well as exchanging congratulations.

“Good work.” The captain’s voice was warm. “Nice to have the first operational test out of the way, isn’t it?”

The TAO nodded. “Sir, you mentioned some men. ” he ventured.

The captain smiled, real relief crossing his face. “Let’s just say that we’re doing our part for a SAR mission and leave it at that.”

“Okay, gents, just like last time. You know the drill.” Sikes touched his gear, verifying the tightness of the connections, then took a hard look at Garcia. Behind him, Huerta and Carter were performing similar services for each other.

Finally, satisfied that all their gear was operational, they slipped into the warm water and headed for shore.

Twenty miles to the southeast, the other team was repeating the same maneuver. The diversion to the north, in the form of Arsenal’s cruise missiles bombarding isolated military targets, drew Cuban forces away from both landing zones, at least to the extent of available reserves.

But, as Sikes had noted, there was always somebody who didn’t get the word.

“Helluva good swim.” Sikes forced the words out, trying to disguise his urgent desire to suck in deep, gasping breaths.

To his right, Huerta smiled slightly, recognizing the deception.

“You might start finding time from now on to break away from that paperwork for more IT,” Huerta mused. He took the entrenching tool out of his backpack, unfolded it, and began digging a shallow hole near the base of one tree. He’d already taken his cammies out of the waterproof pack, carefully reversing the vent that allowed him to pump air out of the plastic container. He stood, stripped off his wet suit, and folded it carefully before putting it in the hole. He then slipped into his cammies.

The other SEALs followed suit, metamorphosing from waterborne warriors to land commandos. Versatility was one of the most critical qualities of any SEAL team.

After the preliminaries, they set off east, traveling in a widely spaced, snaking line toward their objective. Huerta took point and vanished into the shadows. Sikes caught an occasional glimpse of him, sometimes just the slightest hint of movement, but never saw the man in profile against the sky, or the slightest glimmer of equipment. It was as though he was a ghost, an unnatural presence stalking the land.

Sikes tried his best to follow suit, knowing that in the arcane science of this type of warfare, he was hopelessly outclassed.

Finding the concrete building where their objective was supposedly housed was simple. At that hour of the night, men’s spirits and attention spans are at their lowest. With the sun still hours away, even in the southern tropical climate, sentries around the world found it difficult to concentrate on the graduated shades of black and shadow around them. If anyone were still on watch, not drawn off to the north by the diversion, that is. The SEALs were counting on the Arsenal ship’s evening the odds.

They clustered together under a small clump of bushes and conferred in soft whispers and hand movements. Their intelligence said that Miss Drake was hardly here against her will, although the Cubans might have been less than cooperative in letting her go. Too, given the prior incursion of the SEALs onto their island, it might be reasonable to expect a heavier guard on her. While they publicly hooted about any threat that a Cuban security force might pose to a team of SEALs, privately each man knew that an armed guard of any kind could pose a problem. That, and your luck going sour on you at the worst possible moment.

A few minutes of observing the compound did much to allay their fears.

Although the base blazed with lights, there was evidently only one patrol, and he was a slackard at best, criminally negligent at worst.

The Cuban patrolled at regular intervals, pacing his way easily around the compound in continuous circles. With a nightscope, Huerta watched him, noting how the man kept his attention centered on the lighted areas, never peering beyond the fence into the dark shadows surrounding the compound.

The Cuban nodded, satisfied. It was doable.

With the arrival of the team outside the compound, leadership of the evolution had shifted to SEAL3. Sikes waited until he saw the hand signal, nodded acknowledgment, then darted silently forward. He was wearing the nighttime version of woodland green cammies, a combination of burnt green and dark gray that made him part of the night. He darted twenty feet across open land, then settled down into the grass surrounding the fence. A few quick experiments told him their intelligence was accurate it wasn’t electrified, a relief, even though the SEALs had come prepared to deal with that eventuality if necessary.

Garcia joined him moments later and pulled an insulated set of wire snips out of his back pocket. Two minutes later, there was a SEAL-sized hole in the wire fence.

Sikes and Garcia squiggled through it, found cover, and waited for Huerta and Carter to join them. Operating in teams of two, they proceeded leapfrog fashion through the dark and shadows, blending in with the night when they could, taking cover when they couldn’t.

The security guard was almost painfully easy to avoid.

The cement building was locked from the outside by a heavy padlock.

Nothing fancy, nothing complicated, but effective. They made a quick circuit of the building, verifying that there were no windows in it, then turned back to the problem of the lock. A shot from a pistol would have destroyed it, but even their silencers would have been easily detectable in the quiet Cuban night.

Garcia produced the snips that had dealt with the fence around the compound and fitted them experimentally around the lock’s shaft. He bore down, squeezing the blades together, but made little impression on the metal. Huerta watched patiently for a few moments, then gently shoved him aside.

He took the handles to the snips in his two massive paws, his hands enveloping them completely. Sikes watched in awe as Huerta bore down, knots of muscles and blood vessels popping out at odd angles all over his hands and arms. The metal blades whined slightly as they bit into the steel, complained, and suddenly met with a sharp click.

Huerta twisted the rest of the lock off the door and tossed it to Garcia. Sikes shook his head, then put his hand on the doorknob.

It is always difficult to tell how hostages will react, even more so when they are members of the media. There is a well-known phenomenon, the Stockholm Syndrome, in which hostages begin identifying with their captors, to the extent of even resisting rescue. Sikes wondered if such would be the case with Miss Drake.

He shook his head. No, no way. Their biggest problem would be getting her out without letting her catch it all on film. These reporters just who the hell did they think they were? A spur of anger cut through his concentration, distracting him. She was here by her own actions, but her willful disobedience of her nation’s embargo on Cuba was now endangering his life and that of his men, plus the team on the other side of the island headed for the downed pilot.

Was it worth it? No, she probably wasn’t but the pilot sure as hell was.

He shoved the door open quietly and stepped into the room, still a ghost. It was stark, furnished only with a bed and linen. A door off to the right appeared to lead to a bathroom.

Pamela Drake was asleep. She was lying on her stomach, her head cushioned in one elbow, the pillow partially shielding her eyes. It also covered her ear, making it unlikely that she’d heard them enter the room. He motioned the other men in, out of immediate line of sight, then quietly shut the door so that it would appear normal from the outside. The only problem would be if the sentry came close enough to observe that the lock was now missing from the door. Given his brief observation of the man’s performance, he doubted that was a probability.

Crossing the room in a few steps, Sikes knelt quietly by the bed. He shook the mattress slightly, trying to rouse her without bringing her to full consciousness. Many times he’d found that actually touching sleeping hostages had startled them so much that they’d screamed, thus bringing unwanted attention to the rescue operation.

Pamela moaned and rolled over onto her back, and her eyelids fluttered.

He shook the bed again.

Her eyelids slammed upward and she rolled to the right, freezing as she saw the man kneeling next to her bed. He felt her eyes travel over his uniform quickly, noting the lack of insignia.

“SEALs?” she finally whispered.

He nodded grudging approval of her quiet voice and quick grasp of the situation. Whatever else she was, this woman was no dummy. Time for you to go home, ma’am.”

Pamela sat up in bed, gathering the sheet around her defensively.

“What makes you think I want to go home?”

Sikes rocked back on his heels. “The admiral thought” “Tombstone, was it?” Her voice was sharp and slightly louder. “Coming to rescue the fair damsel again, is he? Well, you just head back and tell the admiral that I think I can take care of myself. I got in here on my own, I can get out. Now go away. You’re interrupting my beauty sleep.” She lay down again and turned her back to him, pulling the sheets up around her neck.

Sikes sighed. This mission was becoming more of a pain in the ass every second. “Ma’am, I don’t think I can let you do that,” he said gently. “There’s some things you need to know.”

“Are you going to make me leave by force?” she asked, still not turning to face him.

“There’s a strike inbound on the base. We don’t recommend you stick around for it.”

“I already survived one.”

“You won’t survive two.” Sikes made his voice deadly certain. “Not from our weapons they’re as accurate as you report them to be. If they hit what they’re supposed to, this area’s going to be lousy with nuclear debris.”

“We’re shooting a nuclear weapon?”

He saw her go stiff under the sheet. “Not us. Conventional munitions only. But what’s stored in those weapons is dirty weapons, ma’am, real dirty. Some nukes, maybe some biological. Certainly some chemical ones. And they’re all capable of reaching the United States. You want to come back when it’s all over, hell, I’ll help you talk them into it.

But for now, I think you’re going to want to be out of here when it goes down. At least long enough to find out what’s in those boxes.”

“You saw my report?”

The question surprised him, but not for long. He forced himself to sound calm. “It was used for an intelligence briefing, ma’am. I figure,” he said, an idea suddenly occurring to him, “that that’s what you intended. That wasn’t a mistake, was it? Getting all that in the background?”

Finally, she rolled over to look at him. The smile creeping across her face lit it up like a child’s at Christmas. “You noticed that, did you?” There was no mistaking the self satisfaction in her voice.

He nodded. “We all did. It takes a pro to keep their wits about ‘em during something like that. That information will help save lives, ma’am.” And so this is the way you skin this particular cat, he thought, wondering if he’d find his Psychology 101 classes more useful in this mission than any swimming skills.

“Dirty weapons?” she quizzed. “Could we” He shook his head again.

“No, ma’am, the only thing we can do now is leave. There are a lot of people putting a lot on the line to afford you this opportunity, so I suggest you take it. You’ve done your part for the war, now let us do ours.” He stood and held out a hand to her, suddenly uncertain as to exactly what she was wearing beneath the sheet, and wondering whether the SEAL team was really ready to transport a naked female out of the compound undetected.

She flipped her sheet back, and he was relieved to see her in a dark T-shirt and a set of sweats. A pair of blue and white fluorescent running shoes were peeking out from under the bed. She slipped them on quickly.

“Did you mean that? About getting me back in?” she asked as she tied her right shoe. She looked up at him, a winsome smile lighting her face. “I’d really like that if you did.”

“I’ll try, if the debris isn’t too deadly. Best we get back to the shop and let them make that determination before you go back in, though. You’ve reported from some dangerous places, but I don’t want one of them to be a plague quarantine hospital.”

She looked slightly paler, but still determined. “We’ll see,” she said enigmatically, standing next to him.

Pamela grabbed her equipment bag and followed them to the door. She paused at the threshold, glancing around suspiciously. Sikes motioned to her impatiently. “Come on we know what we’re doing.”

She stepped across the threshold and stopped again.

“What about the pilot?”

The air between the SEAL team members crackled with tension. Was it possible? Of course it was they should have suspected it, planned for it. “Pilot?” Sikes said, stepping close to her and whispering. The question wasn’t necessary he knew which one she meant.

Pamela pointed impatiently. “The Marine Corps pilot. I saw him yesterday I think they’re keeping him over there.”

Five hundred yards away, a small building blazed with lights. It was surrounded by another fence, and a mongrel looking dog roamed restlessly inside of it.

Good thing we’re downwind, Sikes thought. It’s sheer luck that he wasn’t alerted by our motion. If he’d caught our scent, he’d be barking his damned head off.

The SEALs held a hasty huddle. The SEAL team to the east thought they were heading to Major Thor’s rescue, but clearly the Cubans had screwed that plan up. And since his team was already here, they had very few options. Come back with both hostages or don’t come back at all.

While the admiral hadn’t said it, that had been the secret resolve of each member of the team.

“So we go get him,” Huerta said finally, settling the matter. “Dogs, lights no big deal.” He looked toward Sikes as though seeking permission a courtesy, both men knew, but one that was appreciated.

“You two head back toward the coast with Miss Drake. Sikes and I will go after the jarhead. That work?”

Sikes nodded. As much as he hated splitting up the team, it was the only course of action that made sense. They could not risk Miss Drake’s life no matter how much he despised what she’d done by taking her on the rescue mission.

“No way.” The objection came from the expected quarter.

Although her voice was still a low whisper, Pamela Drake was livid.

“There’s a good chance we won’t make it,” Sikes said calmly. He already knew it was futile to argue. He motioned to Garcia to key up his communications equipment.

“I think maybe I have more faith in you than you do.” The reporter regarded him solemnly, no trace of mockery or sarcasm on her face.

“Call the other team,” Sikes said finally. “Abort their mission.

We’ll grab the pilot and scoot.”

“When SEALs go out to get someone, that someone generally gets gotten.

So let’s gowe’re wasting time.”

She pointed at the dog. “That’s your first problem. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to want to be up close and personal for your solution.”

“They should be back on the beach by now,” Batman said.

“This timetable is tight too tight, maybe.” He thought about the many SEAL operations he’d participated in, how the damnedest sure bets could go wrong at the worst possible time. The risk factor was enormously greater than that of a combat air patrol in an F-14.

“They designed the schedule. Admiral. I’m sure it’s something they can live with.” Lab Rat’s voice sounded a good deal more convinced then he himself felt. “Anyway, there’s nothing that we” “Commander?”

An enlisted technician looked up from his bank of electronic monitoring equipment. “I think you’d better see this.”

Lab Rat darted over to the console, checked the screen in front of the technician. “Oh, shit.”

Batman joined him behind the technician. He studied the array of figures and scrolling information, incomprehensible to someone not inculcated into the arcane traditions of Intelligence. “What is it?”

Lab Rat shook his head. “Missile launch indications.

They’re getting ready. We should see thermal blooms any second, once the preliminaries are out of the way.”

“Damn it all to hell!” Batman slammed his hand down on the console.

“We need another two hours to get them back aboard. Launching a diversionary small-scale strike with men on the ground is one thing, but I don’t want them there for the main attack. But if we’re going to prevent a strike on the continental U.S we’ll have to move it up.

Damn the Cubans damn them!” He glared at Lab Rat for a moment, then the anger drained out of his face. “They’re not going to make it, are they?”

Lab Rat shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. Admiral.

I just don’t know.”