Attack on the Queen

1

“Sir. you asked to be awakened at sixteen hundred.”

“Very well, comrade,” answered a soft, scratchy voice from the stateroom’s black void.

As the junior ensign who delivered this curt wake-up call stepped back from the doorway to resume his duties, Capt. Shen Fei’s eyes popped open. A thin sliver of light emanated from the outside passageway and Shen glanced up at the softly glowing luminescent dials mounted in the partition at the foot of his bunk. A single practiced glance was all that was needed to determine that the Lijiang remained on a southwesterly course, at a depth of forty eight meters, and a forward speed of twenty-three knots. He was thankful that his two-hour nap had been sound, and he took a second more to continue the pleasant dream he had been enjoying. His lovely Mei-li had prepared a picnic on the banks of the River Li, the same tributary that his current command was named after. A native of nearby Guilin, Mei-li appeared in all her natural beauty, with the limestone hills of her birth, the perfect setting. It was a gorgeous midsummer afternoon, and after a delicious lunch of dumplings, they sat back to watch a passing fisherman work his cormorants. Then, completely out of the blue, Mei-li made the first amorous advance and an incredibly sensuous session of lovemaking followed. Unfortunately, it was just as this act was about to be consummated that the ensign’s voice called him to duty.

Shen Fei’s heart was heavy with longing as he sat up groggily and swung his bare feet onto his cabin’s linoleum deck. Dressed only in his skivvies, he lazily stretched his muscular arms overhead, while wondering how his dream would have ended if it had been allowed to extend to its natural conclusion.

He stood and switched on the stateroom’s central light, knowing that such dreams were as close as he’d be able to get to his new bride for the next couple of months. They had only just begun this patrol, and summer would have turned to fall by the time they returned to Chinese soil.

His stomach’s protests brought the forty-three year-old naval officer back to present reality. He was ravenously hungry, having skipped lunch. After completing a hasty toilet routine, he quickly dressed himself in a well-worn pair of blue coveralls and headed for the wardroom.

Shen’s comfortable, one-piece garment was known as a poopy suit. It had been given to him by the crew of the USS Hyman G. Rickover, an American, Los Angeles-class attack submarine. The official seal of this warship, complete with its COMMITTED TO EXCELLENCE logo, W3S Cmbossed OH 3 colorful patch that was sewn above his left breast pocket. For a Navy officer of the People’s Liberation Army, the PLAto wear such a uniform while on official duty was unheard of. Yet Shen was proud of this practical gift, and he’d never forget the events leading up to the memorable day he actually spent at sea aboard the American warship.

Shortly after graduating at the top of his class at the Dailan Naval Academy, Shen was invited to continue his postgraduate work at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. This in itself was a great honor, and Shen readily accepted the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The exchange program that allowed his unprecedented visit was brand new, and Shen did his best to be a worthy representative. His fluency in English enabled him to participate in an international forum, whose unclassified focus was naval engineering advances in the Third World.

In the weeks following the forum’s conclusion, Shen was given his own dormitory room and free access to the Naval Academy’s excellent library. Since his passion was history, he devoured book after book on America’s long standing naval tradition. The exploits of John Paul Jones ignited his imagination, and he spent many a long night discussing the great Revolutionary War hero with his fellow midshipmen.

The father of one of these students happened to be a senior officer in the United States Navy’s Office of Public Information. With his invaluable assistance, Shen was invited to visit the Norfolk Naval base in Virginia, where the USS Hyman G. Rickover was waiting to take him on a day trip.

One of only a handful of Chinese officials ever allowed to embark on such a sophisticated warship, Shen would never forget the great hospitality that the Rickover’s officers and enlisted men graciously extended. Unable to tour the engineering, radio, or sonar spaces because of security limitations, Shen was most satisfied just to get a chance to know this crew of brave Americans, and the proud tradition they represented.

He returned to China an outspoken exponent of closer PRC American relations. An audience with their new president allowed him to personally describe his enlightening experience aboard the Rickover. Chen listened intently to each detail, and left Shen with a promise to do his best to champion the cause of peaceful cooperation with the United States.

Now that Shen had become the youngest commanding officer in the PLA Navy’s submarine fleet, new realities tempered his once youthful enthusiasm. Security concerns kept him from staying in close contact with his former friends in America. He had new responsibilities, the most important of which was guaranteeing China’s sovereignty. Though the Cold War was over, new international battle lines had been drawn in the areas of trade and commerce. Foreign meddling in China’s international workings couldn’t be tolerated, and even though the United States might have had good intentions, this was an area of control that couldn’t be compromised.

The tantalizing aroma of freshly prepared food led Shen down the cable-lined passageway to the nearby wardroom. The soft hum of the ventilation blowers and the muted drone of the nuclear reactor’s coolant pump provided the background score for this short transit.

These sounds, which disappeared from a submariner’s conscious senses through constant exposure, unconsciously soothed Shen and crew. All is right, they reminded them.

An ensign, his white coveralls stained with grease, approached him from the aft hatch. The young sailor alertly bowed his head slightly, and stepped aside so that his captain could pass down the narrow walkway.

The PLA Navy had long ago abandoned the custom of saluting on a vessel as cramped as the Lijiang. The warship’s eighty-five-man crew coexisted in a relatively informal, classless atmosphere, though the boat’s fifteen officers did have separate quarters and their own wardroom. This rather luxurious wood-paneled compartment acted as both a place to eat meals and a meeting room for briefings, studying, or just relaxing.

As Shen approached the wardroom, he could hear the familiar soft strains of an erhu solo coming from the compartment’s Japanese stereo.

Seated at the far end of the rectangular table, enjoying this melodious music and engrossed in a platter filled with dumplings was Guan Yin, the boat’s commissar. A balding, potbellied native of Shanghai, the Lijiang’s political officer never skipped a meal, often utilizing the wardroom as his unofficial office. Without missing a bite, the commissar nodded, while Shen took his customary place at the opposite end of the table.

“Good afternoon, comrade,” greeted Shen cordially. “What magical dish has our esteemed cook managed to put together today?”

“You won’t be disappointed, Captain,” Guan Yin answered. “My own mother could take a lesson in cooking dumplings from Comrade Chi.” /

Almost on cue, a slightly built, bespectacled figure dressed in a spotlessly clean white uniform joined them. An effervescent smile graced the senior cook’s smooth-shaven face as he placed a ceramic pot of steaming tea and an empty porcelain cup in front of the newly arrived officer.

“Do I surmise that someone here is hungry?” asked the personable cook with a wink. “And here I just went and prepared a wokful of enchanted shrimp.”

“Ah, my very favorite!” exclaimed Shen. “Bring it on, comrade, as ‘well as plenty of rice and some of those delicious-looking dumplings that the commissar is enjoying.”

“My, you do have an appetite this afternoon, Captain,” noted Chi, who turned and passed through the hatch leading to the adjoining galley.

Shen poured himself a cup of tea and listened as the background music built to a gradual crescendo. It was a haunting tune, evoking visions of home, and perfectly accompanied the cup of flavorful oolong that he thoughtfully sipped.

Noting Shen’s apparent interest in the music, Guan Yin washed down his dumplings with a mouthful of tea and asked, “Have you ever visited Xihui Park in Wuxi, comrade?”

Shen shook his head no and the commissar continued. “Too bad. It’s one of the most beautiful sites in all the motherland, especially its famous Erquan pool. In fact, it was this pool that inspired the great composer Hua Yanjun to compose this particular piece of music, aptly entitled, “The Moon Mirrored in the Pool.”

“This erhu solo has a sad quality to it,” observed Shen, refilling his cup.

“What more would you expect from a master musician who spent all of his life poor, and a good part of it blind, as well?” added the commissar.

Shen sipped his tea and listened as the music faded. Another mournful folk song replaced it, this one dominated by an expertly played gaohu, a bowed string instrument much like the erhu.

The song made him think of Mei-li again. His bride had tried to play the gaohu once. Thankfully, only once. By her own admission, she was terrible at it. But she had succeeded in making the instrument a lasting reminder of her modesty and great passion for all aspects of life.

Shen exhaled a long, forlorn sigh as Chi Chiang emerged from the galley, tray in hand. Shen eagerly unwrapped his chopsticks and dug into a platter heaped with large shrimp, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, diced peppers and onions, all topped with a garlic-flavored sweet and-sour sauce and served on a thick bed of white rice.

“I’ll be right back with your dumplings,” promised the cook, who next addressed the commissar. “Anything more for you, sir?”

Guan Yin was watching Shen attack his meal, and he conveyed his response with a wave of his pudgy hand. With Chi’s exit the commissar pushed away his now empty plate and picked up a nearby notebook and pen.

“I’ve been making a list of those officers and enlisted men who have missed two or more Komsomol meetings this week,” said Guan. “Your name and that of Senior Chief Wang appear on this list most prominently.”

This observation caused Shen to momentarily lower his chopsticks and reply in mid bite “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Comrade Commissar, but both the senior chief and I have been extremely busy insuring the integrity of this vessel. Must I remind you that we’ve only just come out of a major refit?”

As if to underscore this comment, a loud electronic ring sounded. Shen reached under the table’s lip, pulled out a red telephone handset and put it to his ear.

“Captain here,” he said into the transmitter. After a brief pause to listen to his caller, Shen again addressed the handset, this time making sure to meet the commissar’s inquisitive stare. “I understand, Chief. When you get a chance, I’d like to see the final readings. And please, pass on a ‘job well done’ to the maneuvering watch.”

Shen hung up the receiver and took the time to fully devour a mouthful of shrimp before explaining the nature of this call. “That was Chief Wang with the latest rad count. The radiation spike we encountered last watch appears to have been an anomaly of some sort. And as for that Party disloyalty that you speak of — here it’s the chiefs second complete watch in a row and not a word of complaint from him.”

“It’s not Party disloyalty that I’m concerned with, Captain,” returned the political officer, a light sheen of perspiration matting his furrowed forehead. “As senior leaders aboard the Lijiang, I’m depending upon your presence at my Komsomol meetings to set an example for the junior crew members.”

Shen Fei returned to his food, while Guan Yin dared to add, “And one other area that I’m having problems with is your insistence on wearing that Yankee uniform.”

Shen could hardly believe what he was hearing. He disgustedly lowered his chopsticks. “We’ve been through this before, comrade. The admiralty is aware of my desire to wear this poopy suit while on patrol, and I’ll proudly do so until officially notified otherwise.”

Guan made a brief note on his pad before replying. “I beg to differ with you, Captain. Admiral Liu’s latest directive insists that the proper uniform code be strictly enforced while on naval patrol.”

“You know as well as I that this directive isn’t meant to be applied to submarine duty,” Shen retorted. “The unique nature of our workspace allows us greater freedom of dress than our comrades in the surface fleet.”

The commissar realized that it was a waste of breath to further argue this point. He completed yet another entry into his notebook before lightly muttering, “At the very least, your so-called poopy suit displays the patch of one of America’s exploited minorities. The great Admiral Rickover was a contemporary of our own Admiral Liu. His birthright as a Jew was condemnation to second-class-rank status, to the waning days of his long U. S. Navy career.”

Not willing to give this comment the benefit of a reply, Shen directed his attention back to his meal. He polished off the last of the shrimp, then went to work on the newly arrived dumplings. He tried his best to enjoy them, but found his enraged thoughts focused elsewhere.

How dare the fat political officer question the true degree of Shen’s loyalty to the Party! If he weren’t one of the faithful, why else would he dedicate the best years of his life to protecting the motherland’s maritime interests? To be given command of the PLA Navy’s most sophisticated nuclear-powered attack submarine was an honor in itself. Surely it spoke well of the immense trust his superiors placed in him. For this ignorant slob of a man to even hint at any dogmatic impropriety on Shen’s part was the ultimate insult, and he winced at the thought of having to be cooped up with such a pompous fool for the rest of their patrol.

As the background music switched to a rousing folk melody entitled “Dance of the Yao People,” Shen fought to control his rising emotions. The mere idea of having an officer like Guan Yin aboard the Lijiang was an anachronism. The rank of commissar belonged to a past decade, when Communism was still in the process of being introduced into the PRC. In the early days of their republic, the political officer was an instrumental part of every military unit. Their vital responsibilities in those exciting days were to teach Socialist principles and policies, and insure Party loyalty. Aboard submarines, they were in charge of chairing the triweekly Komsomol meetings, and helping the senior officers with morale.

But did the commissar have a place in today’s navy? Shen Fei thought not, equating such individuals as being totally useless to the operation of the ship. They took up vital living space, and consumed vast quantities of limited foodstuffs. Considerably vast, in Guan’s case. Much like the United States Navy, they’d be much better off giving responsibility for the crew’s esprit de corps to the executive officer, and retiring the rank of commissar to the realms of history.

The arrival of a junior orderly broke Shen’s bitter chain of thought.

This newcomer to the Lijiang was little more than a skinny teenager. It was obvious that he was nervous as he approached Shen, stood ramrod straight, and loudly cleared his dry throat before speaking.

“Sir, I have a message for you from Lieutenant Commander Deng.”

Shen could hear the strained tension in the young sailor’s voice. He remembered well his own first visit to the officers’ wardroom two decades ago, and tried his best to ease the youngster’s anxieties. “At ease, sailor,” ordered Shen in his best fatherly tone. “Now, what’s this message all about?”

The young man eagerly replied, “Sir, I’ve been instructed to inform you that we’ve penetrated the Spratly Island exclusion zone, and that we’re proceeding to patrol zone Alpha.”

Shen was expecting this and he responded accordingly. “Very well, sailor. Inform the XO that I’ll be joining him in the control room as soon as I’m finished here.”

“Yes, sir,” returned the youngster with a smart nod.

Before he could make good his exit, Shen interceded. “By the way, lad, what’s your name and where are you from? I don’t believe I’ve seen you aboard the Ujiang previously.”

The orderly was surprised at his captain’s interest and the tone of his voice relaxed slightly. “I’m Seaman Gui Yongjing, and my hometown is Shaoshan in Hunan Province.”

“Shaoshan, you say?” interrupted the sub’s commissar. “What an honor it is for you to have been born in our beloved Chairman’s hometown, Seaman Gui. Yet I see from my notes that you’ve failed to attend the last two Komsomol meetings. Surely you realize that you bring disgrace on your family name by missing these all-important sessions.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” stuttered the embarrassed enlisted man. “This is my first submarine assignment, and it’s taking me time to get settled.”

“Excuses mean nothing when it comes to one’s political enlightenment, comrade,” warned Guan Yin.

Shen sensed the lad’s discomfort and he quickly chimed in. “Seaman Gui, if you’d be so good as to deliver my message to the XO.” “At once, sir,” said the sailor, who looked greatly relieved as he pivoted smartly and exited.

Shen finished the last of his dumplings, and stood up to leave the compartment himself. Yet before he made good his departure, the commissar left him with one last parting shot.

“That young sailor is a perfect example of the bad example that you’re setting, comrade. How can we expect to get him to attend my Komsomol meetings, if his own captain pays them no heed?”

Shen ignored this comment, ducked out into the adjoining passageway, and proceeded up the amidships stairwell to the deck above. This put him immediately outside the sub’s control room. He took a step inside the darkened compartment, and halted momentarily to allow his eyes time to adjust. Lit in red to protect the men’s night-vision, the control room was the heart of the Lijiang. It was here, inside a space the size of a small apartment’s living room, that the sub was driven, its depth controlled, course navigated, and weapons fired.

As his eyes adjusted to the red-tinted blackness, Shen made a brief stop at the helm. Here Senior Chief Wang was perched between the two seated planes men their collective glances riveted on the instruments mounted in the bulkhead before them. A hasty glance at these instruments showed Shen that they were now at a depth of fifty-three meters, traveling on a due-southerly course, at a speed of twenty-one knots. The senior chief was in the process of giving the outboard helmsman a lesson in properly catching the bubble. More of an art than a science, the mastering of this difficult technique was instrumental in keeping the sub at its ordered depth.

Shen waited for Wang to conclude his current remarks before interrupting. “Senior Chief, what in the world are you still doing on watch? Don’t you ever rest?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not really tired, Captain. Besides, rest is for the weak,” returned the grinning veteran.

Not about to argue otherwise, Shen could only shrug and continue on to his central command position on the periscope pedestal. The boat’s twin scopes were situated here, and between them the Lijiang’s officer of the deck kept his watch station. Their current OOD was It. Wu Han, their weapons officer. A serious, often glum Beijing native and fellow graduate of the Dailan Naval Academy, Lieutenant Wu greeted Shen with a curt nod.

“We’ve entered the exclusion zone, sir,” he reported matter-of factly “So I understand,” said Shen, who examined the sonar repeaters mounted into the cable-lined ceiling in front of them. A slight flutter on the broadband passive monitor caught his attention, and Shen reached overhead for the nearest intercom handset.

“Sonar, control,” he spoke into the transmitter. “What are our environmentals?”

“Control, sonar,” answered a familiar, high-pitched voice over the intercom. “Isothermal conditions are constant to three hundred meters, where the primary layer is located. We have flat calm conditions prevailing topside, with a pod of porpoises singing up a storm on bearing one-two-zero.”

Shen realized that these porpoises were most likely responsible for the sonar flutter he had spotted, and as he hung up the handset, a deep, bass voice broke from the aft portion of the compartment.

“Captain, we’ve got the expanded navigation chart of patrol zone Alpha ready.”

Shen turned and met the glance of his executive officer, It. Comdr.

Deng Biao. The XO had apparently just arrived in the control room himself, and stood beside the table holding the navigation plotting board.

The plot was located aft of the periscopes. This fully automated table was recently tied into the vessel’s new Navstar global positioning system. The OPS produced a three dimensional navigational fix accurate to within an incredible three meters. Shen joined his XO beside the plot as their navigator was busy placing a piece of tracing paper over the chart displaying their current patrol quadrant.

“Will we be proceeding to Point Luck as planned, sir?” asked the XO.

Although this was Shen’s second patrol with Lieutenant Commander Deng, he had yet to break the ice with his second in command, whom he found to be a competent officer, if somewhat cold and impersonal.

“What do you think, XO?” queried Shen, in an effort to build a dialogue with the tall, dark-eyed Hangzhou native.

Deng thought a moment before answering. “Though we can always initiate a random search, I think that we should give Point Luck a try. The Filipinos are a stubborn lot, who never seem to learn a lesson the first time around.”

“Then Point Luck it is,” agreed Shen. “Draw up the most efficient course to the site of our previous intercept, and make certain to give those uncharted shoals that we chanced upon on the western edge of the quadrant a wide berth.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The XO wasted no time in taking up a pencil and ruler to initiate this order.

Shen watched as their navigator assisted the XO with this plot. Two months before, during their previous patrol, the Lijiang had chanced upon more than a half-dozen Philippine fishing trawlers working the restricted Spratly waters. They were clearly trespassing inside the PRC’s self declared exclusion zone. When an armed patrol vessel flying the Philippine flag was located in their midst, the matter took on a new degree of seriousness.

It proved to be Adm. Liu Huangtzu who personally notified the Lijiang to surface and directly challenge the trespassers. Shen did as ordered, and a tense, twenty-four hour standoff ensued.

The crisis further intensified when the Philippine patrol vessel threatened to launch an antisubmarine rocket at the Lijiang.

International negotiations on the highest levels eventually succeeded in defusing this serious situation that found the Lijiang only a scant sixty seconds away from launching a torpedo salvo intended to eliminate the Philippine threat. This was as close to actual combat as Shen had ever come before. And when the trespassers eventually weighed anchor and headed for home, the crew of the Lijiang celebrated as if a real war had been won.

China used this incident to show the world how serious they were about defending their territorial claim to the Spratlys. It also caught the attention of Vietnam, Brunei and Malaysia, the other nations, who along with the Philippines, claimed the Spratly Islands for themselves.

The course they finally agreed upon took the Lijiang to the mouth of a two-and-a-half-kilometer-wide channel, separating two small, uninhabited islands. A shallow reef lined the western edge of this channel, and to insure that they were properly positioned, Shen ordered the sub to periscope depth.

At a depth of twenty meters, the Lijiang’s search periscope broke the water’s surface. From the hushed control room, Shen anxiously peered out the eyepiece. A ghostly, fog-shrouded sky veiled a perfectly calm sea. In all directions, the milky twilight prevailed, and Shen was content to order the quartermaster to raise the GPS mast in order to obtain the most accurate fix.

The satellite data placed the submarine exactly in the center of the channel, well away from the projecting reef. Satisfied with the accuracy of this data, Shen ordered maneuvering to proceed at a bare single knot of forward speed. Frequent fathometer readings guaranteed that there was plenty of water beneath their hull, and Shen returned to the periscope for yet another look.

This time, the fog seemed to be lifting slightly. He calculated that the rising sun would soon cause it to dissipate completely. Shen was in the midst of a slow visual sweep of the feared western horizon, when an excited, high pitched voice broke from the intercom.

“Control, sonar, I’ve got a contact! Bearing one-nine five, at a relative rough range of nine thousand meters.”

The voice belonged to Chief Tzu, the Lijiang’s senior sonar operator.

The chief was an expert at his arcane craft, and Shen wasted no time querying him via the intercom.

“Chief, this is the Captain. What have you got?”

“Captain,” returned the breathless senior sonar technician. “I’m picking up faint screw sounds in the vicinity of Point Luck.”

Shen briefly caught his XO’s worried glance before readdressing the intercom. “Could it be our old friends, the Filipinos?”

“It’s possible, sir,” replied the sonar technician. “But at this range, it’s impossible to say for certain.”

Shen lowered the handset and addressed Senior Chief Wang, who remained seated behind the helm. “Inform maneuvering to increase our forward speed to three knots.”

“Three knots it is, Captain,” replied Wang, who leaned forward and manipulated a centrally located console that would relay this request to engineering.

All eyes went to the forward bulkhead’s digital knot counter. Slowly it rose two numerals, and Senior Chief Wang called out, “Three knots, Captain.”

Once more, Shen’s complete attention returned to the scope’s eyepiece.

He scanned the veiled southwestern horizon, silently willing the fog to thin more quickly.

“Conn, sonar. I’ve got additional screw sounds, Captain!” Tzu cried over the intercom. “They appear to be coming from various small surface vessels situated in the waters almost directly above us!”

Shen initiated a rapid, 360-degree scan of the surrounding seas, before ordering the periscope to be retracted into its protective well. An unwanted collision could take them to the bottom just as surely as an enemy torpedo could.

“All stop!” Shen ordered.

“All stop,” repeated the senior chief.

The Lijiang shuddered slightly as the knot indicator dropped to zero. A tense three minutes passed, as sonar began a thorough sweep of the waters above them.

As the control-room crew anxiously awaited the results of this scan, the commissar joined them. Guan Yin positioned himself to the immediate right of the periscope pedestal, beside the firecontrol console. From his position on the pedestal next to the captain, the XO acknowledged the political officer’s arrival with the barest of nods.

No sooner was this gesture reciprocated, than the report they had been awaiting sounded from the overhead intercom speakers.

“Conn, sonar. The overhead contacts are fading. I’m picking up increased screw sounds though, on bearing one eight-eight, relative rough range down to seven thousand meters, and smack in the middle of Point Luck. From the racket it’s making, it could be a Philippine patrol boat!”

Shen digested this information, and instead of conferring with his XO, he turned to the vessel’s senior enlisted man. “Chief Wang, do you think we could sneak up on them?”

With more hours spent beneath the seas than any other sailor on board the Lijiang, Wang answered confidently. “I don’t see why not, Captain.

With our new silencing equipment, they’ll never tag us.”

Shen looked up to the overhead sonar repeater and briefly studied the series of solid white lines that indicated the presence of unknown contacts topside. Also known as a waterfall display, the top of the repeater showed the bearing of the detected frequency, while the vertical lines indicated the particular nature of this frequency over an extended period of time.

Anxious to solve this mystery and identify the largest of these contacts, Shen decided to take a risk and continue their approach. “All ahead slow. Make turns for three knots.” “Three knots it is, Captain,” said Wang, as he leaned forward to relay this order to maneuvering.

Shen felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach as his eyes focused on the speed indicator. He planned to wait until they were underway once again before readdressing HTTOCH OH THE QUGEH II the periscope. Surely by then the fog would have lifted enough to allow him a visual sighting.

Mentally urging the digital knot indicator forward, Shen was somewhat surprised when a full sixty seconds passed, and the indicator had failed to move off zero. The senior chief also recognized this puzzling fact. It was Wang who spotted the rapidly increasing temperature reading from the instruments monitoring the sub’s propeller bearings.

“We’ve got a main shaft temperature overload!” he warned.

“All stop!” Shen ordered.

“All stop,” repeated Wang.

As Shen’s directive was carried out, the temperature reading of the suspect gauge slowed its rise, then stopped perilously close to the warning zone.

“What the hell is going on back there?” the captain asked.

“It appears that the shaft was properly answering to three knots, yet the prop was failing to respond,” observed Wang.

The senior chief was relieved that the temperature reading was holding constant, but an urgent intercom page from engineering set him to rubbing his forehead. He hung up the handset and turned to face the captain.

“Sir, the engineering officer reports that the shaft bearings came dangerously close to a meltdown. As long as the temperature remains constant, though, he feels that the damages incurred will be minimal.”

“And the cause of this unusual problem?” Shen asked.

“As strange as it may sound, it looks like our prop has been somehow snagged,” revealed Wang.

“A fishing net no doubt, or some other floating debris,” offered the commissar from his position at the weapons console.

“Surely such a net could be responsible for entangling our propeller,” added the XO. “Those overhead contacts that we encountered were most likely fishing vessels.”

“With the Lijiang being the catch of the day!” Guan Yin said with a chuckle.

The joke generated a soft, lighthearted murmur from the control-room crew, and Shen retook the initiative. “If our prop has indeed been ensnared, the only way to repair it is to go topside. Chief Wang, why don’t we head for engineering to see the extent of the damages. If it is a snag, we’ll have to surface to clear it. Per standard operating procedure, both the senior chief and I will lead the repair party. XO, I want you to open up the small arms locker. We’ll be a sitting duck and I’d rather we not be completely defenseless up there.”

It took another forty-five minutes to determine that something had indeed entangled their prop. Before giving the order to blow ballast and ascend to the surface, Shen made certain that sonar showed no threatening surface traffic in the area. Once this was determined to be the case, just enough ballast was released to poke their periscopes out of the water. Both the captain and the XO were relieved to find that most of the fog had lifted at last, and a full golden morning had arrived to this portion of the South China Sea.

With no contacts in sight, Shen ordered the sub to the surface. To a roiling blast of ballast, the now lightened submarine headed upward, where flat calm conditions continued to prevail.

Senior Chief Wang led the way up the Lijiang’s main trunk. Two sentries armed with AK-47s were at his heels, followed closely by Captain Shen and six enlisted men. Included in this latter group was Seaman Gui, who carried several pairs of heavy wire cutters.

To the submariner, the surface of the sea was an alien environment.

Shen felt noticeably uneasy as he climbed onto the Lijiang’s deck. A soft gust of warm, westerly wind hit him full in the face, and as he anxiously scanned the horizon with his binoculars, the ripe fragrance of the ocean filled his nostrils.

Swirling tendrils of fog still veiled the eastern horizon, and Shen supposed that if a surface threat were close by, then that would be the direction of its approach. Several stories above the deck, in the boat’s towering sail, a group of figures were visible, sweeping the horizon with their own binoculars. Shen recognized the tallest of these as his XO, while the stocky, bald-headed officer at his side was the boat’s commissar. The sub’s radar was operational behind them; it would spot any threat long before their binoculars.

“Will you just look at this mess!” exclaimed Chief Wang from the boat’s after fantail.

Shen joined the other members of the repair party in front of the Lijiang’s rudder. A tangled mass of wet netting completely covered the rudder, extending well into the depths beneath it.

“So now we know what’s responsible for snagging our prop,” observed Shen. “This section of net must have been immense. How in the world are we ever going to untangle ourselves without outside assistance?”

Chief Wang took one of the wire cutters from Seaman Gui and began the backbreaking chore of cutting them free. “It’s nothing that we can’t accomplish on our own, Captain,” said Wang as he cut loose a large section of net and tossed it into the sea. “Come on, men,” he added to the others, “let’s get on with it!”

The sailors were soon busy with this task. This left Shen free to supervise, and walk the deck along with the two sentries.

Surprisingly enough, even with the sun’s continued ascent, the fog was returning, and quickly. A virtual blanket of wet vapor soon enveloped them, and Shen, from an amidships position beside the sail, could barely see his men at work on the after section.

The Lijiang was dangerously exposed now. An enemy shell or an innocent collision with another vessel could prove equally fatal. Circumspection warned him to sound the boat’s powerful foghorn. But the ever present threat of the Philippine patrol boat kept him from doing so.

An hour passed, and Shen, impatient, returned to the boat’s after end for yet another update. He was relieved to find the entire rudder clear of netting. Chief Wang was busy supervising the progress of four of his enlisted men, who were now in the water supported by foam floats, in the process of removing the remaining net from the propeller.

“Radar contact, Captain!” the deep voice of the XO broke in from the top of the sail.

Shen’s stomach tightened with this dreaded warning, and he sprinted to the base of the sail where he joined his sentries.

“It appears to be a single sailing vessel, approaching from the east,” added the XO from above. “Sonar reports no trace of an engine signature.”

This was certainly encouraging news. Yet Shen still didn’t like their exposed position, and he cupped his hands and shouted up a single order.

“XO, sound a warning blast on the boat’s whistle!”

Ten seconds later, a deep, resonant tone emanated from the direction of the Lijiang’s bridge. The gathering fog seemed to swallow this blast instantly, though its reverberation could still be felt in Shen’s nervous gut.

Despite the fog, Shen raised his binoculars and intently scanned the waters due east of the sub. Like a ghost materializing out of another dimension, the blunted bow of a ship broke from the veil, a mere one-hundred-meters distant. It was a relatively small vessel, shaped much like one of the native junks that worked the Yangtze. Shen doubted that the blunt hull of this junk could do them much damage, but he was nevertheless relieved when the vessel responded to the Lijiang with a meager blast from its own foghorn.

“Ready those rifles,” Shen warned the sentries, “just in case we’ve stumbled upon some Philippine pirates.”

The captain unbuckled the safety strap of his own holstered weapon, a 45 caliber Colt pistol his friends in the U. S. Navy had presented him with. He looked on as a figure appeared at the junk’s bow.

“Greetings, comrades!” cried this individual in perfect Mandarin. “I do hope that’s a PLA Navy warship.”

Ever cautious, Shen ordered, “Please identify yourself.”

“My name is Lo Jung, and this poor fishing junk is the Moonfire, based out of Hainan. May I have the honor of knowing your identity, comrades?”

The junk was less than fifty meters distant now, and Shen could readily see the grizzled face of the supposed fisherman. He looked innocent enough, and Shen decided that it would do no harm to reveal their identity.

“I’m Captain Shen Fei, commander of the PLA Navy submarine, Lijiang.”

“Thank the stars that the fates led us to you on this tragic morning,” continued the fisherman. “You see, not only are our holds still empty of fish, but my dear wife, who serves as our cook, became deathly ill after last night’s meal. I realize it’s asking a great deal, but could your medical officer please have a look at her? She’s burning up with fever, and I fear that she won’t last through the day.”

Shen hesitated to respond to this request. But from the top of the sail, the commissar egged him on.

“I certainly don’t see how a quick look would hurt, Captain. After all, we don’t appear to be going anywhere at the moment, and our sworn duty is to serve the motherland and all her citizens.”

A bit surprised by the political officer’s degree of compassion, Shen readdressed the fisherman. “Go ahead and bring your vessel alongside, comrade. But be forewarned: I can’t allow her below deck for fear of infecting the rest of my crew.”

“Bless you, Captain!” exclaimed the relieved fisherman.

While the sub’s medical officer was sent for, Shen helped the junk make its approach. A narrow, wooden gangplank was extended from the junk’s amidships gunwales, with the two sentries helping to attach it to one of the Lijiang’s deck cleats.

Their patient soon appeared. A shawl completely enveloping her head and body, she shakily made her way up the gangplank, with the assistance of her husband and another fisherman. Shen helped her make the final step, before turning to see what was keeping the doctor.

In the corner of his eye he saw the woman suddenly move, her shawl parting to reveal the lean, muscular figure of a young man dressed in a black tunic.

Shen’s hand reached for his pistol. However, before he could feel its smooth, plastic grip against his palm, he felt himself filled by a pain so excruciating that it seemed to stretch time; the blow landing but not retreating. Shen didn’t perceive the eternal darkness that followed.

From the Lijiang’s sail, the sub’s XO and the commissar watched as the single, expertly delivered karate blow snapped the captain’s neck and sent him flopping to the deck like a fish netted, dumped, and forgotten. Their faces betrayed neither fear nbr apprehension. As the fog continued to wrap the deck with swirling tendrils of thick mist, they saw the three figures from the junk proceed to disarm and kill the two surprised sentries with a few choice blows.

The assault, by the XO’s count, took twenty seconds. Acceptable, he decided. With the first phase completed, he watched as the attackers made for the sub’s after end. As design and luck would have it, Chief Wang wasn’t yet aware of his captain’s fate. His crew had cut the last piece of netting from the prop, and his attention was focused on helping them out of the water.

The commissar stood close at the XO’s side. He took particular delight in watching the attackers cut down this group of sailors. Chief Wang was the last to fall to their blows, and Guan mentally crossed off the list in his notebook the last of the Lijiang’s political heretics.

Guan looked back at the gangplank, where a tall, distinguished figure dressed in the formal white uniform of a senior PLA Navy officer calmly left the junk and boarded the Lijiang. In spite of the fog, the commissar could see the jagged scar that lined the entire left side of this individual’s ruggedly handsome face.

“Captain Lee,” the commissar called out. “Welcome aboard the Lijiang, sir.”

The individual to whom this salutation was directed peered up to the sail and forcefully replied, “This warship has seen enough daylight! Prepare to get underway, as we further deceive our enemy by up roaring in the east, before striking in the west!”

2

The day started with a long bike ride, all because the showers predicted to ruin yet another Labor Day in the nation’s capital never materialized. Thomas Kellogg allowed himself the rare treat of staying in bed until 8:00 a. m. Work had already caused him to miss celebrating the Fourth of July and Memorial Day that year. Yet even with this justification, he still felt guilty as he sprawled on his king-size mattress, listening to his clock radio.

NPR News revealed that an American national holiday meant absolutely nothing to the embattled peoples of Israel, Korea or Pakistan, where bloody uprisings continued to be headline stories. One grim casualty report after the other had a gradual, numbing effect on Thomas, and he only snapped fully awake with the feature on the G-7 summit.

The comprehensive report gave a behind-the-scenes look at the summit that was to take place later in the week. What made this annual meeting of the Group of Seven nations so unusual was that it was to include both the Russian president and, for the very first time, the new president of the People’s Republic of China. And of course, there was this summit’s unprecedented venue. It would be taking place totally at sea, during a four-and-a-half-day crossing of the Atlantic from New York to Southampton, aboard the last of the great ocean liners, the Queen Elizabeth 2.

As a special agent in the explosives-technology branch of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Thomas knew all about this summit. He had been working on its security plan for the last two months. Yet it somehow became very real to him, after hearing a newscast discussing it.

Ever thankful that the story didn’t delve into the summit’s unique security concerns, and with the announcement of the local weather forecast, Thomas found his thoughts abruptly shifting from work. The summer showers that had soaked the Washington, D. C.” metro area for the past two days mercifully were moving northward earlier than expected. Labor Day wouldn’t be a washout after all!

With this excellent news, Thomas sat up, grabbed the telephone, and speed-dialed Brittany Cooper’s home. His spur-of-the-moment call caught her already enjoying the second cup of coffee of the day. Yes, she was aware that a sunny day was forecast. And yes, she was still very much interested in going riding before heading to his brother’s house for a barbecue.

Less than an hour later, he was pulling his dark green Ford Explorer up to her Georgetown town house. As Thomas unloaded his mountain bike from its exterior rack, Brittany emerged from her garage, pushing her ten-speed and looking incredibly fresh and ready to meet the day head on. Her spandex biker shorts emphasized her long brown legs, while a tight, yellow jersey perfectly highlighted her ample bust.

Weatherwise, it was turning out to be a spectacular morning for a ride.

The storm front that had passed in the night took with it the stifling humidity and ninety-degree temperatures of a typical D. C. summer. In its place was a brilliant blue sky and a very comfortable mid seventies temperature.

After a warm greeting they set off for a nearby bike path, and followed it over the Potomac, then south toward Mount Vernon. Because it was still relatively early, they encountered a minimum of traffic, and it was easy riding through National Airport and on into Alexandria. Since Thomas hadn’t taken time for breakfast, they briefly stopped at an outdoor cafe near the Torpedo Factory Mall, beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on, with long, curly black hair, exquisitely formed facial features, and dark, mesmerizing eyes. She had a fantastic mind as well, displaying a sharp wit and a caustic sense of humor. Thomas knew he was hooked from the very start.

For the past month, they had spent practically every spare moment together. Both were on the rebound from long-term relationships that had soured, and decided that it was vitally important to first build a strong friendship before getting romantically involved. This was a refreshing change of pace for Thomas, whose past relationships were primarily physical.

Her love of bicycling was another plus, and now their first ride together showed that neither one would hold the other back. Instead she enjoyed challenging him, and he enjoyed the challenge. Thomas had ridden hard enough to get his endorphins pumping — he could feel an alien tightness forming in the back of his legs as they pulled into Vince’s driveway.

Together, they locked their bikes and ambled up the narrow, brick walkway, whose sides were lined with full beds of blue and yellow pansies. The front door was painted a glossy, bright red. Beside it, a brass plaque was mounted in the brick wall. It indicated that this brownstone was registered as a historic landmark, having been originally built in 1778.

After a brief round of greetings, Kelly and Brittany went to the kitchen to prepare the food, while Thomas and Vince were tasked with the all-important job of getting the outdoor grill prepped.

Nine-year-old Joshua Kellogg had yet to get out of the small in-ground pool Vince had installed that year. As his cherished summer was about to come to an end with the resumption of the next day’s classes, he was not about to waste his last vacation day and engrossed himself in the summer’s two current favorite toys — a remote-control submarine and a slingshot borne parachutist.

Thomas had given his only nephew this submarine for his recent birthday, and looked on as Josh demonstrated its many features. Four padded, wrought-iron rockers had been set up beside the pool. The grill was close by.

Thomas was content to sit in his rocker with a frosty lemonade in hand, listening to his nephew extol the sub’s amazing capabilities, and watching Vince double-check the condition of the red-hot charcoals.

“A fire’s not ready for cooking until those coals are pure white,” Vince said. He took his outdoor cooking most seriously. “That was another thing Pop was always harping on. Like he always used to say, good grilling starts with the fire.”

“Uncle Thomas!” cried Joshua from the pool’s shallow end. “I can get my submarine to travel underwater to the deep end, then get it to return right between my legs.”

“Betcha a quarter you can’t,” dared Thomas.

“A dollar and you’re on,” Joshua answered.

Thomas agreed with a thumbs-up. As Josh manipulated the battery-powered controls to initiate this intricate underwater maneuver, Vince flattened out the smoking gray charcoal briquets with a pair of tongs, then sat down beside his brother. He took an appreciative sip of his longneck Rolling Rock, then peered up into a clear, blue sky.

“I tell you, little brother, it doesn’t get much better than this.”

Thomas nodded affirmatively. “You won’t be getting any arguments from me.”

A low-flying 727 that had just taken off from National Airport screamed overhead. Thomas waited for the throaty roar of the plane’s engines to fade before adding, “I wonder what it’s going to be like three days from now?”

Vince looked at his watch and grunted. “Let’s see: If we’re able to keep on schedule, three days from now, we should be somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, decked out in our tuxedos and getting ready for another calorie-rich, five star gourmet dinner aboard the QE2.”

“This morning on NPR, I heard a feature story on the summit,” revealed Thomas. “They made it a point to really emphasize President Li’s difficult decision to accept the G-7’s invitation.”

“That guy sure has guts,” observed Vince. “The buzz at the White House is optimistic as all get-out. Just think of it, the People’s Republic of China, the most populous nation on earth, finally taking its rightful place at the table.”

“Dad!” Joshua from the pool. “My sub’s sunk!”

The large Plexiglas submarine lay immobile on the bottom of the deep end. Vince shouted back, “It’s probably just the batteries, son. Put on your goggles. Show your uncle how I taught you to be a frogman, and go rescue your sub.”

Joshua grabbed his yellow rubber face mask, which had been sitting on the pool’s coping. Like a professional, he spat on the inside lens, to keep it from fogging, donned the mask and took off like a tadpole toward the deep water.

“Remarkable,” observed Joshua’s proud uncle. “And to think that last year he couldn’t even swim.”

“He’s sure growing up fast,” remarked Vince. “Too fast, for this old man.”

An introspective moment of silence was broken by the overflight of yet another 727.

“Must be an air-traffic-control glitch at National,” offered Vince.

“It’s highly unusual to route traffic over the city on a weekend.”

“National’s not one of my favorite airports to fly into,” added Thomas.

“The runways don’t leave room for error, and the noise restriction and security-overflight limitations are a real headache.”

“I hear you, little brother. But it sure is convenient as all hell.

Will you be taking the first shuttle up to La Guardia tomorrow morning?”

“That’s still the plan,” said Thomas.

“Did you ever get those seasick patches you wanted?”

“Would you believe the pharmacy doesn’t have them in stock?” replied Thomas. “Something about a quality control problem at the plant.”

“Why don’t I see if Dr. Patton can get you some? From what I hear, the President’s not much of a sailor either, and if those patches are as good as you say, we’ll have our fair share available to us.”

“Thanks, Vince. I sure wouldn’t want to ruin the family name by tossing my cookies in the middle of the most historic summit in modern times.”

“Hell, you’ll do just fine. And just think, for one whole week, you can kiss D. C. goodbye.”

Thomas grinned. “Yeah, it will be nice to finally see what life outside the Beltway looks like. I’ve been working a desk much too long.”

“You did say something about being hungry for adventure,” Vince reminded. “It looks like your time is finally here.”

“Do we have any more batteries, Dad?” asked Joshua, who had arrived back in the pool’s shallow end with the disabled sub in tow.

“That’s a negative, son,” retorted Vince. “Why don’t you show Uncle Thomas your new parachute launcher?”

Dropping the sub, Joshua climbed up to the top step of the pool and grabbed a large wooden slingshot that lay on the dry concrete. Tucked in the thick elastic band was a hand-sized, plastic soldier with a parachute draped over its back.

“Wait till you get a look at this, Uncle Thomas!”

Joshua aimed the slingshot skyward and launched the toy paratrooper.

The figure shot thirty feet into the air, before gravity took over and the parachute deployed. Because of the lack of wind, the toy floated almost straight downward, into the deep end of the pool.

While Joshua went to retrieve it, his father turned to Thomas. “The boy loves that toy almost as much as his sub. I think we might have a potential airborne candidate.”

Thomas winced. “I’m sure Kelly would love that.”

“He could do worse,” countered Vince. “And besides, you can’t tell me that you don’t miss jumping yourself. I know that I do.”

Thomas replied while watching his nephew prepare the wet paratrooper for another launch, “As far as I’m concerned, that toy is as close to a parachute as I ever want to get.”

The sound of a sliding door opening behind them signaled the return of Kelly, Brittany, and Max, the family’s standard poodle. While Max made a mad dash to the water’s edge, Kelly set the platter of raw chicken breasts that she was carrying on the redwood picnic table beside the grill. She was noticeably pregnant, yet that didn’t stop her from being her usual animated self.

“Brittany was telling me about last night’s play at the Kennedy Center, Thomas. How do you compare it to the original?”

Brittany took a seat beside Thomas as he answered. “It was interesting.

West Side Story has always been one of my favorite musicals. But a modern version featuring the Crips and Bloods — it’s topical, but it’s stretching the envelope a bit too far for my conservative tastes.”

“I understand that you managed to get tickets to next month’s visit by the Bolshoi Ballet,” Kelly added. “Don’t tell me that you’re turning cultural on us, Thomas.”

Vince looked at his brother in astonishment, then addressed Brittany with an all-knowing grin. “You actually got him to commit to taking you to the ballet? My, my, the relationship is turning serious.”

Their laughs were broken by the arrival of a dripping wet Joshua and an excited Max.

“Hey, Uncle Thomas. Since you used to be a real live paratrooper, why don’t you give my toy a try?”

Before Thomas could respond, Joshua jammed the loaded slingshot into his free hand. Thomas put down his drink and examined the manner in which the parachute was draped over the toy soldier’s back.

“You’ve jumped before?” quizzed Brittany, surprised by this revelation.

Thomas humbly answered. “During my stint in the Air Force, I gave it a try a time or two.”

“Gave it a try a time or two?” repeated Vince in utter disbelief. “I’m not in the habit of tooting your horn, little brother. But sometimes your humility annoys the hell out of me.”

Vince looked at Brittany and added, “Even though he should be proud as all get-out, Thomas has logged well over five hundred jumps. Most of them took place during his years with Air Force Special Operations.”

“You never told me that you were an Air Commando,” said Brittany to Thomas.

“There goes another skeleton out of the closet,” Thomas said lightly, but his serious countenance betrayed that he would like nothing better than to change the subject.

He stood and launched the paratrooper into the cloudless sky. It flew more than three times higher than Joshua’s previous shot, and was soon barreling back to earth but without the benefit of the parachute.

Somehow it had become tangled around the soldier and failed to open.

The plastic toy plummeted into the pool and disappeared into the shallow end. Joshua was off in a flash to retrieve it, with a barking Max on his heels. “If I remember from my own abbreviated jump training back in basic,” offered Brittany, “I believe you’d call that malfunction a snivel.”

Thomas appeared oddly affected by the parachute’s failure to open.

Vince noticed his brother’s posture suddenly stiffen, and his facial features tighten.

“Hey, Thomas, we’d better get those chicken breasts on the fire,” he said in an effort to divert his brother’s attention.

“And we’d better get back to work on our salad,” Kelly said to Brittany.

As the women returned to the kitchen, Vince walked over to the grill to recheck the coals. Thomas remained where. he was, his gaze locked on Joshua’s efforts at retrieving the submerged toy soldier.

Vince knew what was bothering him, and he decided it would be best not to say anything about it.

“How about getting that platter of chicken, little brother? After that bike ride of yours, you must be famished.”

The roar of another low-flying 727 appeared to break his morose spell.

Thomas headed for the picnic table, picked up the platter, and joined his brother at the grill.

“Can you imagine a beautiful fire like this one, wasted on chicken?” observed Vince as he picked up the tongs. “Pop wouldn’t believe it.

The way I remember it, his pit cooked nothing but spareribs and pork steaks.”

This innocent comment hit home, and Thomas sighed. “It’s times like these when I really miss him, Vince.”

A rapturous sizzle arose as Vince laid the first of the butter flied boneless chicken breasts on the red-hot grill.

No sooner did he lay out the next breast, than his beeper began buzzing incessantly.

“Never fails,” said Vince.

Just as Vince was in the process of putting on his bifocals to read his pager’s digital display, Thomas’s beeper activated. Without bothering to empty the rest of the platter, Thomas reached into the back pocket of his cycling jersey. He didn’t need glasses to see the flashing message that simply read, code nine.

“Damn!” he softly cursed.

“I’ll double that,” said Vince. “I knew this day off was too good to be true. There goes yet another holiday barbecue down the drain.”

Because their pagers directed them to the same location, they decided to travel together. Without taking the time to change their clothes, and leaving the women with the hastiest of goodbyes, they piled into Vince’s Jeep Cherokee and drove off toward D. C. The holiday traffic was light, so they sped past National Airport and crossed the Potomac via the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Here they encountered a brief backup of cars, most of them filled with families headed toward the flag-draped Capitol Mall.

A turn northward onto the George Washington Parkway allowed them to bypass this jam. They passed Georgetown on their right, with the boat-filled Potomac flowing lazily to their left. Four-and-a-half miles later, they turned right onto 1-270 north, and exited soon afterward at Burning Tree Estates.

They were in the Maryland countryside now, and Thomas had no trouble finding the two-lane highway that led to their destination. The Federal Executive Branch mail-sorting facility was purposely situated in this relatively isolated location, to insure its anonymity. This little known installation was responsible for pre sorting all letters and parcels addressed to either the White House or the adjoining Executive Office Building.

An unmarked driveway conveyed them to the facility’s security gate.

This was the sole entryway. Completely encircling the thirty-acre site was an eight-foot-high fence of chain-link, topped with razor-wire.

Vince brought his vehicle to a stop in front of a remote controlled barricade. A uniformed security guard with a pistol and a no-nonsense demeanor approached them and demanded their identification cards. After checking their names off a computerized list of approved visitors, the guard handed each of them a plastic visitors badge to clip to their Tshirts.

The barricade was raised, and once past the checkpoint, a two-lane, concrete driveway led them through a dense forest of mature oaks. At the far end of these woods was their goal — an immense, 100,000-square-foot warehouse, set in the middle of a spacious clearing.

A half dozen large loading docks were set into the one story, concrete structure’s western side. Only two of the bays were currently filled, one with a brightly colored semitrailer belonging to the United States Postal Service, and the other holding a smaller Federal Express van.

They parked in the visitors lot, and made their way on foot to the main entrance. A few puffy clouds drifted overhead, with the late afternoon sun having pushed the temperature to a delightful seventy-eight, humidity-free degrees.

Another security checkpoint greeted them inside. A female guard took their names, and instructed them to be seated in the waiting area while she called the watch supervisor.

The waiting room was little more than a cramped, carpet less cubbyhole, filled with a half dozen government issue, light blue, plastic molded chairs. If the decor had a name, it would be early DMV. A soda machine was jammed into the corner, and while Thomas took a seat, Vince walked over to the machine to check out the selection.

“How does an ice-cold Dr. Pepper sound?” Vince asked as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold.

Much to his disappointment, the machine refused to accept any of the three one-dollar bills he was carrying. Even smoothing them out and feeding them in upside down failed to do the trick, prompting Vince to turn away in frustration.

“I don’t suppose you have any money on you, Thomas?”

Thomas double-checked the contents of his jersey. “Come to think of it, Brittany’s got my money clip.”

“So, now you’re even letting her carry your cash,” teased Vince as he sat down opposite his brother. “Musicals and ballets at the Kennedy Center, bike rides to Mount Vernon, long lunches at the White House commissary …”

Any further ribbing was interrupted by the arrival of a short, barrel-chested man in his mid forties. Senior Postal Inspector Mike Galloway knew both Kellogg brothers equally well, and his curt greeting was that of a tired, old friend.

“Sorry about ruining your holiday, guys.”

“It’s all part of the job, Mike,” replied Vince. “Weren’t you supposed to be taking those vacation days this week?”

Mike shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hell, I never even got a chance to use up last year’s days. And now the First Kid goes and turns sixteen, and this year’s vacation’s down the tube too.”

Mike had been postponing the same vacation for as long as the brothers had known him.

“What have you got for us?” Thomas asked.

“Come on back, and I’ll show you,” Galloway replied cryptically.

They followed their escort down a tiled hallway that held a series of small, vacant offices. At the far end of this corridor, Galloway pushed open a pair of large swinging doors and led them into a cavernous room that comprised most of the warehouse.

Overhead racks of powerful mercury-vapor lights illuminated an entire mail-sorting facility, currently staffed by a crew of some two dozen individuals. Galloway proceeded to one of the active loading docks.

The large U. S. Postal Service semi that they had seen outside was backed up to this bay, and a trio of workers were in the process of loading it with dozens of parcel-filled, cloth carts. Upon closer examination, the brothers could see that the majority of these parcels appeared to be colorfully wrapped gifts.

“This truck they’re loading,” Galloway explained, “is the sixth similarly packed load we’ve filled this week. Believe it or not, each of those parcels is a birthday gift that’s been sent to the First Kid.

They’ve originated from every corner of the planet, and so far, we’ve counted over ten thousand of them.”

Without waiting for a response, Galloway took them over to the adjoining bay, where the Federal Express van was being unloaded. The cargo was a combination of letters, boxes, and tubes. Upon entering the warehouse, each item was placed on a conveyor belt, where it was routed to a manned X-ray machine, much like one would see at an airport security checkpoint.

“Of course, just like every other letter and package addressed to either the White House or Executive Office Building, we have to carefully scrutinize each of these gifts.”

They watched as a particularly large box passed through the X-ray machine. The conveyor belt briefly stopped, and while the staff checked its contents on the monitor screen, Vince vented his curiosity.

“Once they pass inspection, do the gifts ever make it to the House?”

Galloway was quick to answer. “The only ones that make it inside are legitimate parcels from the First Family’s friends and relatives.

Protocol sent us a comprehensive list of acceptable return addresses, and so far, this has amounted to less than ten percent of all items received here.”

“What happens to the other ninety percent?” Thomas asked.

“A volunteer group of White House staffers are responsible for opening each and every one of them. They’re taken over to an empty warehouse on G Street. Toys, clothing, and other appropriate items are being donated to the homeless, with almost ten thousand thank-you cards having been sent out so far.”

“Talk about a serious case of writer’s cramp,” returned Vince.

Their escort ignored this remark, and led them to a large office located at the very back of the facility. Two clerks were at work here, busy checking items off a computerized manifest list. This conscientious duo didn’t even bother looking up from their screens as Galloway picked up a large, flat envelope that lay on the table between them.

Thomas and Vince viewed the envelope’s contents simultaneously. It was a twelve-by-fourteen-inch photographic negative. Clearly visible on the flimsy plate were the outlines of a pair of nine-volt batteries, placed side by side on the far right-hand side of the negative. The outlines of what appeared to be several twisted wires could be seen stretching from the four battery terminals to the muddled, unidentifiable contents of the rest of the picture.

“The suspect package was addressed to the White House. It was unloaded off the morning USPS truck, approximately two hours ago,” revealed Galloway. “Our scanner team tagged it on the first X-ray pass. This is the plate that triggered our code nine.”

The negative looked disturbingly familiar. Vince traded an anxious glance with his brother before asking the next question. “Where is it now?”

“We’ve just finished securing it in isolation.” Galloway gestured toward a rear door. “If you’ll follow me, I’m sure you’ll find the parcel itself most interesting.”

They exited the warehouse and found themselves on the back portion of the compound. A two-and-a-half-acre plot of woodland had been completely cleared there, leaving a flat, grass-filled lot, dominated by a single, squat concrete block structure set in the clearing’s center.

An asphalt walkway connected this structure to the warehouse. A helmeted technician, in full protective bomb gear, was in the process of utilizing a remote-control device to steer a four-foot-tall, child-sized robot down this pathway. Nicknamed Freddie, the robot traveled on tractor-tread wheels as it headed back to its storage shed inside the mail-sorting facility.

Thomas and Vince received a nod from the technician as they passed him and continued on to the blockhouse. Then-escort opened the structure’s heavy steel, blast proof door, and led the way inside.

The twelve-by-twelve-foot room was cool and dark. Its thick, concrete-block walls absorbed sound like a sponge.

There was a certain unearthly quality to the atmosphere as Mike Galloway switched on a bank of red-tinted lights. This ghostly illumination revealed a concrete bench set in the cell’s exact center.

A single red, white, and blue USPS Priority Mail box sat on this bench.

The unopened parcel was 15’/2 inches long, 12!/2 inches wide, and had a depth of 3’/4 inches.

Thomas fought a subconscious urge to hold his breath as he cautiously approached the bench. With Vince close at his side, Thomas bent over and quickly scanned the hand-printed, Priority Mail address label.

There was no ignoring the sender’s distinctive cramped penmanship.

Thomas wasn’t all that surprised upon noting the familiar return address.

“Do you believe the audacity of this sick bastard, giving it another try like this?” Vince whispered, disgusted.

Thomas had seen enough. He stood up straight and backed away from the bench.

“I told you you’d find it interesting,” reminded Galloway.

Thomas was already thinking ahead to how the investigation should proceed. “I hope this time they’ll let us disarm it. It will just happen all over again, if they go and blow the device and destroy all the evidence in the process.”

“If this IED”—Improvised Explosive Device—“is packed with C-4, instead of a mere blasting cap, I sure wouldn’t want to be the one tasked with disarming it,” said Vince.

Thomas looked at his brother and countered, “Someone’s going to have to take a look inside without blowing it to shreds. Otherwise, one of these devices is eventually going to slip through the system, and take out an entire wing of the White House.”

As if to emphasize this statement, his beeper began buzzing. A quick check of the pager’s digital display identified the caller, and Thomas reached for the door handle.

“I’m going to need a secure line, Mike.”

“You’ve got it,” Galloway replied, before leading the way back to his office in the main building.

While his brother made his phone call, Vince was able to get his longed-for Dr. Pepper with some help from Galloway’s wallet. With an extra can for Thomas, they returned to Galloway’s office in time to intercept Thomas in the hallway.

“That was short and sweet,” said Vince, handing his brother the soda.

“What did he want?”

Thomas popped the can’s aluminum tab and took an appreciative sip before answering. “The director was calling from the seventh hole of a charity golf tournament in Fairfax. It seems he’s already been briefed on the nature of our code nine.”

He halted a moment to take another sip before adding, “So, you can forget about getting me those seasick patches, Vince. Because, as of this moment, I’ve been pulled off the crossing.”

3

The narrow, earthen footpath began at the northernmost outskirts of the village. Though he hadn’t walked its length for almost a decade, the thick jungle he was soon passing through still felt familiar. It had been much too long since he’d taken the time to hike such a wild, desolate spot, and Adm. Liu Huangtzu realized how much he missed these beloved woods of his birth.

The harsh cry of a bird drew his line of sight to the stand of massive coconut palms lining the western edge of the trail. It took him only seconds to spot the brilliant crimson plumage of the large parrot responsible for this outburst of guttural song. Twisting green vines surrounded the colorful bird. Liu gratefully inhaled a deep lungful of air heavy with the scent of wet wood and dark earth. The mad screech of a howler monkey sounded in the distance, and Liu turned his attention back to the path.

With ever lengthening strides, he penetrated deeper into the ancient jungle, the sky above all but blotted out by an interlocking canopy of thick tree limbs. The trail now followed the meander of a cascading brook, making Liu aware of the path’s slight uphill slope. This change in gradient didn’t phase the seventy-nine-year-old career soldier in the least, and he quickened his stride in anticipation of what lay beyond.

There was a noticeable band of sweat on his forehead by the time he reached the terraced stairway that he remembered from his last visit.

Without taking the time to wipe his brow dry, he initiated the rather steep climb, whose individual steps were cut from the exposed roots of the nearby trees.

At the top, a wide, dry mud walkway led him out of the humid jungle and up into a new zone of vegetation. The increased altitude here had allowed the canopy of dripping palms to give way to a gnarled forest of dwarfed oaks. A fresh gust of cool wind hit him full in the face. Liu was momentarily startled when he surprised a covey of quail. Like grapeshot, the fat, yellow-feathered birds burst from the underbrush directly in front of him, wasting no time in disappearing into the stunted trees that lay on the opposite side of the trail.

Liu cursed himself for not bringing a shotgun. Fresh mountain quail were a delicacy not to be missed!

The first of several switchbacks conveyed him farther up the mountain.

Liu was beginning to feel his walk in the back of his calves — he was thankful he had taken the time for breakfast earlier in the day.

It was hard to believe this meal had taken place barely three hours ago, while he was still at sea, aboard his flagship the Zhanjiang. As was his habit, he had awakened well before dawn. The seas had remained blessedly calm, and Liu headed topside to the destroyer’s fantail, where he greeted the new day with a full regimen of tai chi.

Breakfast awaited back in his cabin. After a glass of fresh orange juice, a slice of sugar-sweet cantaloupe, and a bowl of rice porridge, he took his tea in the warship’s bridge, while the destroyer began its cautious approach into Yulin harbor.

Waiting for them pier side was a small welcoming committee of local dignitaries. Liu immediately recognized the portly, gray-haired figure of Hainan’s senior Party commissar. Seven decades ago, they had gone to elementary school together. Now, at the end of the gangway, he accepted his old friend’s enthusiastic greeting.

His schoolmate appeared to have had his feelings hurt when Liu rather abruptly excused himself to begin his current hike. But one of the benefits of his advancing years was the right to spend his time the way he wished, without feeling guilty for doing so. Besides, there would be time for gossip later in the day. Right now, it was time to get his land legs back and initiate a long-anticipated climb that could well be his last.

The moment he left the harbor area behind and crossed Yulin’s ever-expanding streets to the wilderness at its outskirts, Liu knew that he had made the right decision. This hike was a rare chance to rediscover his youth, and in the process, channel his energies on the great challenge that awaited in the days to come.

A hand-sized, gray lizard scampered across the dusty trail ahead of him, as he started around the steepest switchback he’d yet encountered.

It was a bit more difficult to catch his breath here, reminding Liu of days long ago, when he had sprinted up this same trail, hardly breaking a sweat.

It was in 1934 that Liu was called to Kiangsi from his island birthplace to continue his education. It didn’t take long for the impressionable teenager to fall in with a young group of political idealists, led by a fiery Hunanese visionary named Mao Tsetung. Mao’s passionate socialist teachings made complete sense to Liu, who joined the newly formed Chinese Communist Party less than a week after arriving on the mainland.

Barely a year later, he was a grizzled Party veteran, running for his life along with Mao and a hundred thousand loyal cohorts on the infamous Long March.

Across the length and breadth of their homeland, they were constantly pursued by Chiang Kaishek and his bloodthirsty Kuomintang forces, the ever-encroaching Japanese invaders, and the harsh hand of Mother Nature, but still they persevered. For his loyalty, Liu was appointed to a prominent position in the newly formed People’s Republic government that was to emerge from the feudal ashes of post-World-War-II China.

With his youthful friend Deng Xiaoping at his side, Liu’s first position of real power was as a senior commissar in the People’s Liberation Army, the PLAIn 1952, he was transferred to the newly formed PLA Navy. This feeble force was composed of a handful of obsolete warships, barely capable of patrolling the new country’s sprawling coastline. Liu was a major force in the unparalleled era of naval growth that was to follow.

By 1955, he had attained the rank of rear admiral.

Liu got his first real view of the vast world beyond while attending the prestigious Voroshilov Naval Institute in the USSR. He returned to China anxious to apply the same naval doctrines that provided the foundation for the modern Soviet Navy.

Liu spent the sixties and seventies building the PLA Navy’s infrastructure, and in 1982, he was honored to become its supreme commander. Six years later, he was named ranking Vice Chairman of the Central Military and the senior serving officer in the Politburo Standing Committee. This made him the only military man among the top leadership of the entire country.

Never one to take his responsibilities lightly, Liu had dedicated his best years to the PRC. He never married; his spouse was his beloved motherland.

Much like the perennial bachelor who didn’t have children to mark the years’ passing, Liu was barely aware that most of his life was over.

There was no denying that the majority of his old friends were long in their graves. Deng’s recent passing served as an abrupt wake-up call-Liu now faced the waning years of life with only a handful of old comrades left to share war stories with.

A sharp cry from above broke Liu from the thoughts of his past. He looked up in time to see an immense golden hawk circling effortlessly.

A cloudless, powdery blue sky provided a fitting backdrop for the hawk, and Liu marveled at the size of this proud creature. From its lofty vantage point, it could see most of Wuzhi Mountain’s 1,900-meter high summit. Surely the bird of prey was aware of Liu’s presence the moment he broke from the cover of the jungle.

Suddenly feeling alone and exposed, the old soldier humped up a final series of twisting switchbacks. His lungs were heaving as he rounded the last turn. A sudden breath of cool, ocean-scented wind engulfed him. A small clearing had been dug into the summit’s southern edge. It was to this spot that Liu proceeded.

Once the site of a Taoist shrine, the clearing had long since been abandoned. An intact limestone bench remained, a solid perch on which Liu came to rest. His breathing slowly steadied as a magnificent vista revealed itself before him.

The sparkling blue waters of the South China Sea stretched to the horizon. On the coast sat the city of Yulin. What only ten years before had been a sleepy fishing village was now a bustling community of over ten thousand souls. The region’s primary employer was the new naval base that Liu had helped establish. Its main docks were clearly visible, and Liu proudly studied the half dozen ships currently moored there.

Four of these vessels were guided-missile patrol boats. Each of these 185-foot, 530-ton, thirty-eight-knot combatants had just been fitted out with four MM 40 Exocet Block 2 antiship missiles; a 30mm Goalkeeper self-contained close-in weapons system; a sextuple Sudral launch system for Mistral infrared-homing surface-to-air missiles, and a dual-purpose 75mm gun mount.

A Ling-class marine salvage ship was berthed beside the patrol boats.

This unique, 255-foot-long vessel was designed to support diver operations to a depth of 850 feet, and could lift submerged objects weighing up to 300 tons from a depth of 800 feet. A massive crane was mounted aft of the bridge, where a group of sailors could be seen preparing the ship to get underway.

Yet the warship that caught Liu’s complete attention was berthed immediately forward of the salvage ship — the Zhanjiang. This sleek, heavily armed destroyer was the first of two Project 053HT destroyers that were launched from Shanghai in February 1993.

A thin stream of white smoke rose from the Zhanjiang’s single amidship stack. At a length of 492 feet, the 5,300ton ship was fitted with a mix of Chinese-developed and European-supplied combat systems. Much like the varied mix of armaments on the four patrol boats, the destroyer was a hybrid, combining the best of the East and the West.

Liu had lobbied strongly to get his obdurate comrades in naval development to expend hard currency and buy these systems. Continued double-digit economic growth helped ease their conservative fears, and the Zhanjiang was proof they had made the proper choice.

The sharp cry of the hawk diverted Liu’s glance back to the southern horizon, where the sparkling waters of the South China Sea beckoned. It was in those open seas that China’s destiny awaited.

For over three decades Liu had been a tireless proponent of an expanded fleet. His cautious transformation of the navy from a meager, coastal-enforcement force to a service with worldwide blue-water capabilities took many frustrating years to initiate, and Liu was well aware that the benefits were already apparent.

In March 1988, a PLA Navy frigate sank three Vietnamese warships off the distant Spratly Island group. For the first time ever, PRC warships had made port visits to Honolulu, Vladivostok, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh. A pair of ships provided full-time communications and telemetry support for the PRC’s Pacific missile test range, while a PLA Navy icebreaker supported China’s two research stations in far-off Antarctica.

Liu was particularly pleased with the advancements in their all-important submarine fleet. The modern, nuclear powered submarine was a force multiplier that couldn’t be ignored. When Capt. Lee Shao-chi and his Han-class sub successfully penetrated America’s Kitty Hawk carrier battle group off the coast of Taiwan in October 1994, the PLA Navy showed the world that foreign fleets could no longer patrol Chinese waters without suffering the consequences.

Establishing control of the waters well away from China’s coastline became an accepted doctrine as a result of the Persian Gulf war. At this time, sea-launched cruise missiles, aircraft-carrier battle groups, and other over-the-horizon weapons systems demonstrated the vital need to extend the PRC’s area of influence as far out to sea as possible.

As Liu guided the navy’s difficult transformation from coastal defense (jinhai fangyu), to offshore defense (jin yang fangyu) to full blue-water yuan yang haijuri) operations, he envisioned a series of protective island barriers. The first segment of the Pacific that the PLA Navy had to be capable of patrolling extended from the Kuriles to Japan, the Ryukyus, Taiwan, the Philippines, and the Greater Sundas. A second barrier reached all the way out to the Bonins, the Marianas, Guam, and the Carolines. Only when these vast seas were protected by China’s sphere of influence could the PRC control its own destiny.

As the mainland’s natural resources continued to be rapidly depleted, the world’s most populous nation was facing uncertain times ahead. In 1993 China became a net importer of oil for the first time. And within a few years, the PRC would be needing over seven million barrels of oil a day to satisfy its industrial needs — the same amount that the gluttonous Americans currently imported. With precious hard currency already being stretched thin to import food and to purchase badly needed Western technology, where was this oil to come from? Liu knew that the answer to this question lay beneath the waters of the sea he currently faced.

Approximately one thousand kilometers due south of Hainan Island, in a portion of the South China Sea surrounded by the Philippines to the east, Vietnam to the west, and Malaysia and Brunei to the south, lay the Spratly Islands. Inconsequential as to landmass, the Spratlys’ wealth lay submerged beneath their shallow shoals, where oil fields easily rivaling those of the Persian Gulf were located. Claimed by each of the aforementioned nations, as well as the People’s Republic of China, the Spratlys were without doubt the most important island chain in all of Asia. For whoever controlled their resources, controlled the destiny of the earth in the twenty-first century.

Liu had no doubt that China could prevail in this struggle — the alternative was unthinkable. The PRC had made control of the Spratlys a foreign-policy priority.

Just as the return of Hong Kong was bringing badly needed financial expertise to the motherland, control of the Spratly oil fields would seal China’s ascendence as the world’s mightiest nation. With the end of the Cold War and the breakup of the Soviet Union, it was time for a new hierarchy of nations. The once all-powerful Japanese economy was showing signs of serious strain, while the European community remained weakened by a seemingly endless series of petty squabbles.

This left the United States as China’s sole competitor. There could be no ignoring the fact that the awesome American military machine had seen its best days. Huge budget deficits, and a weakening of the wills of its citizens, were forcing the Pentagon to cut large chunks out of its defense appropriations. Even the mighty U. S. Navy was feeling the crunch, as a Cold War fleet of more than 500 warships had been cut to nearly half that number.

The timing was thus ideal for the PRC to expand its territorial ambitions in order to incorporate the natural resources needed to feed its future growth. Yet China’s current top leadership — a group of untried young fools who’d risen to power following the death of Deng Xiaoping-were failing to act on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Try as he could to awaken them to this fact, Liu was met with a frustratingly polite “not interested.” Instead, politicians such as Li Chen, their current president, had decided on a dangerous course of appeasement with the West. This could bring only tragedy, and Liu cursed their inexperienced president’s lack of courage and foresight.

Li Chen’s rash decision to join the G-7 leaders aboard the luxury ocean liner QE2 signaled the true degree of his ignorance. But could Liu expect any better from one who had lived a pampered life, never knowing the Great Leader, or the immense sacrifices they had made to free China from centuries of slavery?

By threatening to join the Group of Seven nations, the president was undermining the foundations of Mao’s China. Expanded trade with the West would flood the motherland with decadent, wasteful consumer items.

Rock and roll, television, and violent Hollywood movies would destroy China’s youth, as it already had America’s and was rapidly corrupting Japan’s. Indeed drugs, moral corruption, and blind materialism were already on the rise in China’s larger cities. With additional exposure, this incurable blight would all too soon reach the countryside. Once the country’s greatest asset, its rural population, was infected, China’s doom would be sealed.

Now was the time for strength, not weakness! Decades of sacrifice had made this day possible, and Liu was not about to just sit back and watch his beloved country destroy itself.

Satisfied that he had done his best to set a plan into motion that would yet save the People’s Republic, Liu’s glance returned to the harbor, where the salvage ship was preparing to get underway. Liu himself had written this vessel’s new orders, directing it southward to the Spratlys, where the operation’s all-important first phase had already been implemented.

4

Vince Kellogg managed to get home shortly after sunset, just in time to pick up Kelly and Josh and head for National. Kelly’s sister Julie was arriving at 8:30 p. m. from St. Louis, and they arrived at the gate just as she was deplaning. The youngest of three sisters, Julie would be staying with them for several weeks, while she worked on her doctoral thesis in economics at the Library of Congress.

As it turned out, the timing of this visit couldn’t have been better.

Vince was scheduled to leave early the next morning for New York City, where he’d be boarding the QE2 for a planned midnight sailing. Four and a half days at sea would follow, and he had a six-day stay in the United Kingdom to look forward to, before he’d be returning home on Air Force One. He’d feel more comfortable on the trip knowing his wife and son weren’t alone.

As usual, Vince was unable to share the nature of his afternoon visit to the Federal Executive Branch mail-sorting facility with his family.

They had learned long ago not to ask questions, and he was content to go about his business as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

He wolfed down a cold, barbecued chicken breast, spent a half hour with Kelly and Julie getting caught up on family gossip, then excused himself to tuck in Joshua and complete his packing. His wife and sister-in-law were still gabbing away on the patio when he slipped into bed shortly after 10:00 p. m. 4T The next thing he knew, the 5:00 a. m. news was whispering from the clock radio. The lead story was about the summit, and before getting up, he listened to a group of reporters discuss the virtues of this history-making meeting of the world’s top leaders.

As soon as the report ended, he switched off the radio so that the second alarm buzzer wouldn’t awaken Kelly, and rose to get on with his morning routine. A half hour later he was stretched, showered, shaved, and fortified by a mug of black coffee, ready to hit the road.

Though he had intended to leave his car at the airport and have one of his associates drive it back home, he was surprised to find Kelly dressed and waiting for him at the front door. Not even morning sickness would keep her from personally delivering him to the terminal.

One of the benefits of living in Alexandria was its proximity to National. The traffic was still light, and they arrived with plenty of time for Vince to leave Kelly with a proper hug. Next year would be their twentieth wedding anniversary, and during that time, they had certainly experienced their fair share of airport goodbyes. Yet perhaps because of her pregnancy — a surprise, to be sure, but a wonderful one — this goodbye lingered much longer than usual, and Vince had to reluctantly break their embrace to make the 6:30 shuttle.

He made it to the gate with a whole two minutes to spare. This gave him just enough time to grab a copy of USA Today before boarding. The plane took off soon afterwards, and it seemed that he barely had time to eat a standard airline box breakfast and read the newspaper before the pilot announced they were initiating their descent into New York.

He had saved the top news story of the morning, the summit, for last.

It was supplemented by a four-page special section that documented the upcoming summit, and included a full-color picture of the QE2 and a detailed map showing the transatlantic route the ocean liner would be taking.

Although he had previously read a detailed, thirty-six page briefing paper about the G-7 that had been circulated within the Treasury Department, Vince nevertheless found the newspaper feature extremely interesting. He particularly enjoyed the story on the G-7’s history.

A fairly modern event, the first G-7 summit was born as a result of the monetary crisis of the early 1970s. In the summer of 1971 the United States recorded its first trade deficit. Growing economies in Japan and Europe caused this deficit to continue to deteriorate, and President Nixon vainly attempted to control it with a series of drastic monetary devaluations.

The outbreak of the Yom Kippur war in 1973 led to the first serious Arab oil embargo — within three months the price of petroleum quadrupled, while the supply was cut by 20 percent. Unable to react with a united response, the Western nations found themselves at the mercy of economic conditions over which they had little control.

To address this dangerous situation, France’s Giscard d’Estaing and Helmut Schmidt of Germany proposed the creation of a flexible, unstructured economic summit of the Western leaders. Informality, and the need to promote a totally free exchange of ideas, was the key, and the American President, Gerald Ford, somewhat reluctantly accepted an invitation to travel to Chateau de Rambouillet, deep in the French countryside.

The first G-7 summit was thus convened on November 15, 1975. Though hampered by large staffs, the secluded location and excellent fall weather created the perfect ambiance. Many of the informal meetings took place around the fireplace. They touched upon a wide range of topics including monetary policy, international trade, relations with developing countries, and the continued energy crisis.

The final results were encouraging, and a decision was made to hold another summit in June of 1976, in Puerto Rico. Held in an isolated resort outside of San Juan, this meeting led to a joint trade agreement designed to avoid uncontrollable economic expansion and stem the creation of additional trade barriers.

Yearly gatherings of the Group of Seven had continued ever since. They took place in a wide variety of locations, and were dedicated to such difficult subjects as nuclear arms control, international terrorism, and a desire for continued monetary and trade regulation.

Only recently had Russia joined the United States, Britain, Canada, France, Germany, Italy, and Japan as a full time summit participant.

And with the additional presence of the People’s Republic of China, the summit was continuing to evolve as an economic and political institution.

Vince was well aware that what made these annual meetings unique were the personal interactions that took place. Where else could the world’s top leaders hold personal discussions on a broad spectrum of concerns, all in a relaxed, trusting environment? And although the most recent summits displayed an increasing tendency to have large personal staffs present, there was a move underfoot to halt this trend.

The upcoming summit at sea aboard the QE2 was the perfect way to return to the isolated, idealistic setting first envisioned in 1974. Only a single personal representative would be allowed on each leader’s staff, with the sessions themselves structured to be as informal as possible.

Of course, the mere fact that the nine heads of state had committed themselves to spending four and a half days together at sea was promising in itself. Surely this would lead to resolutions of problems once deemed unsolvable. A primary topic of discussion was to be the creation of an expanded Law of the Sea treaty. This new agreement would address the controversial subjects of international maritime boundaries, oil and mineral rights, and establish freedom of passage zones in strategic choke points.

Yet another vital area of discussion was the formalization of a forward-thinking nuclear-arms-control agreement, first proposed by the new Russian president. Labeled Global Zero Alert, this unique proposal signaled the next generation in arms control. To further defuse the nuclear hair trigger, and make an accidental nuclear exchange impossible, the Russians desired to actually remove all nuclear warheads from their delivery vehicles. These warheads would be subsequently stored nearby, close enough to act as a deterrent if a crisis should develop, yet far enough away to make an unwanted exchange unlikely.

Vince could only imagine the spirited discussions that this unprecedented proposal would generate. And he could think of no more-perfect setting to initiate these ground breaking talks, than the isolated, luxurious confines of the QE2.

The one logistical area that was proving extremely controversial, and that the USA Today article only touched upon, was the summit’s security arrangements. The idea of having the world’s leaders afloat in the Atlantic for four and a half days was enough to give any security official nightmares. Vince knew that they had met this challenge head-on, and that a viable, multifaceted plan had been put into operation that would all but guarantee the summit’s safe conclusion.

For the past two months, Vince had worked with an international cast of security experts and become an instrumental part of this effort. In seventeen hours, this tireless, often frustrating effort would be put to the ultimate test — the moment when the last world leader boarded the ocean liner and the QE2 set sail.

Anxious to get on with it, Vince listened absently as the flight attendant instructed them to prepare for landing. Minutes later, the 727 hit the runway at La Guardia with barely a jolt. Once they reached the gate area, he was able to exit hastily via the rear ramp way With baggage in hand, he made his way into the terminal and proceeded at once to an adjoining gate, where his next mode of transport awaited him.

He had discovered the water shuttle on a previous visit, and now used it whenever possible. The boat provided a convenient, comfortable way to commute into Manhattan. As an additional bonus, not only was one spared the indignity of having to attempt entering the city by its perpetually packed surface streets, but traveling by water offered a magnificent view of Manhattan’s majestic skyline.

Vince was all too soon enjoying this vista, as the water shuttle left La Guardia’s Marine Terminal and sped down Riker’s Island channel to the East River. The weather was absolutely gorgeous; a deep blue sky, with an occasional puffy cloud, and a temperature in the mid-seventies.

No matter how many times he entered Manhattan in this manner, he could never grow tired of the city’s spectacular presence. Building after magnificent building reached to the sky. He could see the concrete and glass canyons that gave this island the topography that made it unique in all the world. It was a testament to man’s commercial and artistic genius, and Vince couldn’t help but be emotionally stimulated with each passing block.

They passed beneath the Roosevelt Island aerial tramway, and he caught his first view of the United Nations. Several of the G-7 participants had already arrived in town, and were scheduled to address the Security Council that afternoon.

With that stately old dowager the Empire State Building dominating the surrounding skyline, Vince gathered together his belongings as the shuttle turned for the Thirty fourth Street pier. The boat would continue on to Wall Street, yet this was as far as he’d be going.

Scarcely thirty minutes had passed since he had left La Guardia. To be so abruptly transferred right into the heart of this great city was a bit traumatic, and as Vince stepped onto dry land, he halted a moment to get his bearings.

The morning rush hour was in full swing, and FOR Drive, which lined the island’s eastern shore, was a solid, bumper-to-bumper mass of bright yellow taxis, passenger cars, and trucks of all sizes. The persistent roar of this traffic provided the city’s soundtrack, with honking horns and squealing brakes giving additional color to the all encompassing movement. His quiet home in Alexandria seemed thousands of miles distant, and Vince realized that the nation’s capital was nothing but a sleepy, Southern town compared to New York.

He had to walk up to the corner of Second Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street before finding a cab, leaping in the second the previous passenger got out. You could never be too slow in staking your claim to a cab in New York. He then directed the driver to take him to the Passenger Ship Terminal.

“QE2?” queried the driver, his English tinged with Pakistani.

Vince caught the driver’s dark-eyed glance in the rearview mirror and nodded. “She’s the one.”

With that, the cab headed west on Thirty-seventh Street, and then proceeded north on Eleventh Avenue through heavy traffic. As they slowly inched their way uptown, Vince made a mental note to give his brother a call. Vince was worried about his stubborn insistence on getting a chance to defuse the IED (Improvised Explosive Device), to derive concrete evidence of its creator.

His brother’s safety wasn’t his only concern. Thomas was the victim of a traumatic past. His reaction to something as insignificant as the malfunction of Joshua’s parachute toy was a prime example that his wounds had yet to heal completely.

Tragedy first touched down in his brother’s life on the opening night of Operation Urgent Fury. In a manner of speaking, Thomas lost his innocence off the shores of Grenada when several members of his commando unit were killed during a nighttime parachute jump at sea.

Much like the biblical trials of Job, the powers that he had yet to finish with Thomas, as he arrived back home haunted by these deaths.

Barely a year later, buoyed by the news that his wife was expecting their first child, Thomas was again sent plunging into the abyss when he received news that his beloved Maggie had been killed in an automobile accident. The baby was lost as well, and Thomas had to fight to keep hold of his sanity.

After losing another military buddy to a horrible parachute accident in 1985 while training to infiltrate the hijacked cruise ship Achille Lauro, Thomas asked for and received a voluntary discharge from the air force. Vince feared that he’d lose his brother to an alcoholic stupor at that time. He was fortunately able to get Thomas an interview at the Treasury Department. This resulted in a three year stint with the Secret Service, and his current duty at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Here his makeup was once more tested on February 28, 1993, in a fire-scarred field outside Waco, Texas. Yet another close friend was to die in his arms on that fated morning, taken down by a mad prophet’s bullet.

Thomas somehow persevered, Vince thought, and though any lesser man might have been crushed by these events, his brother bravely pushed onward. Having a strong woman like Brittany Cooper in his life now would hopefully signal a change for the better. Love had a way of transforming past hurt into new purpose, and if anyone deserved a fresh start, it was his brother.

Vince had planned to spend an entire day in England with Thomas, roving the countryside together. Because of the crush of family and work, they rarely spent any free time together. Vince had hoped to begin rectifying this situation upon reaching Southampton. The fates — and duty — had willed otherwise though — Vince would have to wait until this trip was over to spend the time with his brother that he deserved and Vince desired.

Of course, first he’d have to survive this cab ride. Faced with what seemed to be an impenetrable line of traffic on Eleventh Avenue, his driver had somehow managed to weave his way to Fifty-fifth Street. With a defiant blast of the cab’s horn, he made a left there, followed by another left onto Twelfth Avenue. A large sign indicated that the passenger ship terminal was to the right, and it was at that point that Vince caught his first glimpse of a towering red and black funnel that dominated its Hudson River berth with the same surreal presence of an Empire State Building.

The passenger embark gate was on the terminal’s upper ramp, and there Vince saw the forward position of the immense ship belonging to the distinctive funnel. The sharp, dark blue bow of the vessel was on the same level as the two-story ramp on which the cab was now parked. A bright red pennant flew from its forward jack staff with the name queen elizabeth 2 embossed in black against the ship’s upper hull.

“She’s quite the ship,” observed the cab driver, noting Vince’s preoccupation with the vessel.

This being the first time that Vince had actually seen the QE2 in person, he concurred. “That she is.”

He paid the driver, and was soon standing alone on the concrete upper walkway, with his majestic home for the next week floating before him.

The videotape of the ship that he had been studying did little to prepare him for its sheer immensity. At 963 feet in length, over 100 feet wide, with a gross tonnage of almost 70,000 tons, the massive ocean liner had a certain modern elegance to it. She was surely the most beautiful ship that he had ever laid eyes on, and Vince knew that very shortly, he’d be intimately acquainted with her.

A group of white-uniformed sailors were congregated on the spacious bow swabbing down the deck. The ship’s crane was lifting a large crate onboard behind them. As this piece of cargo was carefully guided into the ship’s hold, Vince spotted a single individual standing on one of the long, protruding exterior observation wings that were positioned on each side of the glassed-in bridge. This bearded figure appeared to be an officer. He had binoculars snug to his brow, and it looked like his line of sight was focused directly on Vince. Fighting the urge to acknowledge him with a wave, Vince’s attention was diverted by the approach of a uniformed policeman.

“Excuse me, buddy,” greeted the burly, Port Authority patrolman. “But this entire area is currently off-limits to the general public.”

“Morning, officer,” returned Vince as he matter-of factly pulled out his plastic, laminated government identification card from his breast pocket.

One look at the card’s distinctive gold, five-pointed-star logo was enough to dramatically change the patrolman’s attitude. “Good morning to you, Special Agent. I gather from this luggage that you’ll be boarding this morning. Do you need a longshoreman to give you a hand with your bags?”

“I can manage,” Vince answered.

The cop excused himself to continue his rounds. Vince was anxious to see the ocean liner from inside, and he picked up his two-suiter and small duffel bag, and headed for the nearby elevator.

The terminal’s passenger-embarkation area was located on the floor below. It looked much like an airport waiting room, but ten times the size.

Although the first dignitaries weren’t due to arrive until later that day, the terminal was already bustling with activity. Porters, longshoremen, crew members, and blue-blaze red Cunard Line representatives were busy making final preparations to the passenger-embark area. Brightly colored, red, white, and blue bunting hung from the cavernous terminal’s rafters, while various roped-off viewing sections were being set up, apparently for well-wishing VIPs and the press.

One enterprising television news crew had already arrived, and had positioned its cameras beside the covered gangway. A shapely, blonde-haired reporter was in the process of interviewing one of the ship’s officers. The blindingly bright light of the video camera was hitting the sailor full in the face. Vince sensed that he was doing his diplomatic best to keep smiling throughout the improvised interview.

Uniformed patrolmen from both the Port Authority and New York Police Department were conspicuously present at the terminal’s entry ways Vince was forced to show his identification card to several of these individuals, one of whom escorted him over to a registration desk. Once more his credentials were checked, this time by a Cunard employee, who in putted Vince’s name into a laptop. Vince handed over his VISA card to set up an onboard account to cover any incidental charges that he might incur during the crossing, and received a V. I.P Gold card showing that he had been assigned to cabin 1037. His actual ticket was placed in a blue leather document holder, and with this in hand, he headed for yet another security checkpoint.

His bags were placed on a table, opened up, and carefully inspected by a serious-faced, middle-aged woman, who Vince suspected worked for the U.S. Customs Service. Yet another security official arrived with a golden retriever in tow. The dog deftly jumped up onto the table top, and curiously sniffed the exposed contents of Vince’s luggage.

Vince’s duffel bag caught the retriever’s attention. After the briefest of sniffs, the dog let out a series of high pitched yelps, prompting its concerned handler to take a closer look at the bag’s contents.

“It’s my ammo,” said Vince, referring to the sealed box of 9mm shells which the security official rummaged around for and extracted.

Vince discreetly opened his jacket to reveal his Clock 17 pistol firmly stowed in a chamois shoulder harness. “And I imagine you’ll be interested in taking a look at this as well.”

“That won’t be necessary,” replied a deep male voice from behind him.

Vince turned and set his eyes on a smiling, sandy-haired gentleman, nattily attired in a hand-tailored black suit.

“Just wanted to show you that we’re on the job, Vince,” added this distinguished newcomer. “Glad you could make it.”

“It’s good to be here, Doug,” said Vince as he accepted his coworker’s firm handshake.

Special Agent Doug Algren was assigned to the Secret Service’s New York office. In this respect, one of his prime responsibilities for the summit was insuring the security of the terminal area.

“I see that you’re traveling light,” said Algren, who signaled the dog handler that it was okay to pull off the retriever.

“Agent Sykes,” he added to the woman seated behind the inspection desk.

“Would you be so kind as to repack Special Agent Kellogg’s bags and give them to a porter to be stowed in his stateroom?”

As she got on with this task, Algren escorted Vince over to the gangway.

The news crew was just finishing up its interview here, and while the reporter initiated her on-camera summation, Algren quietly relayed the latest operational update.

“I just got word that the prime ministers of Britain, Japan, Canada, and Italy have arrived at the United Nations. All the rest are due to arrive in town as scheduled, except for President Li of China.”

“Hope he didn’t get cold feet,” remarked Vince.

“It’s nothing like that,” explained Algren. “Because of unexpected headwinds, his plane is being forced into making an unplanned refueling stop in San Francisco. That will make his ETA at Kennedy sometime around nine p. m.”

Vince grimaced. “That’s certainly cutting it close to the bone.”

“The FAA will do its best to give Li’s 747 the quickest route over CONUS”—the continental United States-“and a straight-in approach to Kennedy, where Marine Two will be waiting to whisk him into Manhattan.”

“Did you ever clear up that mix-up with the longshoremen?” asked Vince.

This time it was Special Agent Algren who frowned.

“I really can’t believe those guys. The head of their union was going to try and get a court injunction to keep our men off the docks. Since this whole undercover operation was my initial idea, I had IRS do a quick check on the union’s books. Needless to say, once the union got wind of this investigation, they got religion. Now we’ve got two special tactics teams working the terminal right alongside the regulars.”

The television crew was packing up its equipment immediately behind Algren, and the ship’s officer who had been interviewed walked over to join the two Secret Service agents. He was a barrel-chested, muscular young man, with short, wavy brown hair and a pleasant reserved manner that he readily displayed.

“Man, I’m sure glad that’s over,” he said with a strong British accent.

“What’s the matter, Tuff, don’t you want to be a TV star?” teased Algren, who graciously initiated the introductions. “Tuff, I’d like you to meet a very special friend, Special Agent Vince Kellogg of our Washington, D. C.” office.”

Vince accepted a vice like handshake, and listened as Algren added, “Tuff is one of the QE2’s security officers, Vince. I imagine that you two will be seeing a lot of each other these next five days.”

“Are you certain that you won’t change your mind and join us at sea, Special Agent Algren?” asked Tuff in all seriousness.

“You’re going to have enough hired guns around as it is,” replied Algren. “Besides, I’m quite content to have my responsibility confined to this solid side of the gangway.”

Tuffs two-way radio crackled alive, and the thirty-four year-old Englishman received a page calling him to the QE2’s Bridge. Before he could excuse himself, Doug Algren made a single request.

“Would you mind taking Special Agent Kellogg up to the Bridge with you, Tuff? That would be the perfect place for him to begin his orientation.”

“I’d be delighted.” Tuff gestured politely toward the open gangway.

The short transit brought Vince through a large access way and directly into the QE2’s portside hull. A carpeted walkway led him into a lush compartment dominated by a circular reception area. A panoramic mural depicting Cunard Line’s past and present history completely encircled this room. Tuff was quick to identify it.

“This is the Midships Lobby, located on Two Deck. In the majority of ports, this is the first portion of the ship that embarking passengers will see. We’ll be heading forward to the A Stairway, as we continue on to the Bridge.”

From his previous study of the ship’s layout, Vince knew this already.

But he also knew not to interrupt a man sharing his pride and joy.

Tuff led the way down another carpeted passageway. Passenger cabins lined the starboard side of this corridor, and Tuff identified the closed doorways located opposite them.

‘ That first door belongs to the auxiliary Security Office. A member of our staff is on duty there twenty-four hours a day. Beside it is where the first officer works, along with his secretary, Sally. Should you ever need to see the captain or any other of the ship’s senior officers, Sally will make the proper arrangements.”

At the end of the passageway they turned left, and as they headed toward a central stairway, they passed the ship’s Computer Learning Center. A large, glass-enclosed room was filled with over a dozen individual personal computers.

Vince followed Tuff up a steep, twisting stairway. It took a total effort on his part to keep up with his English tour guide, and by the time they reached the top landing, Vince was clearly out of breath.

Tuff didn’t seem the least bit fazed by this climb, and he took a second to give Vince a brief position update.

“We’re currently on the Boat Deck. Our climb took us past One Deck, where I believe your cabin is located. Then we passed Quarter Deck, where you can access the Princess Grill, the Caronia Restaurant, the Chart Room Bar, Library, Bookshop, Queens Room, and the Lido. Next comes the Upper Deck. That’s where you’ll find the Mauretania Restaurant, the largest theater afloat, the Ca sino, the Grand Lounge, and my favorite hangout, the Yacht Club Bar.”

Vince noted that a bank of elevators were located directly across from the stairway they had just climbed. To their immediate right was an intricately carved wooden figurehead, while the curtained entrance to yet another public room lay beyond.

“That figurehead over there is named after the Britannia, Samuel Cunard’s first ship. She was a wooden paddle steamer, built in 1840 for the express purpose of carrying the mail between Great Britain and North America.”

While Vince took a closer look at it, Tuff added, “I hope that you don’t mind a little history with your tour, sir. Because this ship’s just filled with it.”

“Please go on, Tuff,” Vince said sincerely. “History’s one of my passions.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to learn that the Britannia figurehead has been carved out of Quebec yellow pine by the Cornish sculptor Charles Moore.

It was Lloyd’s of London that presented it to the ship.”

A crew member emerged from a compartment located to their right and Tuff nodded in greeting. He waited for him to disappear down the stairway before continuing. “That sailor just came from our Radio Room. Like Security, it’s manned twenty-four hours a day. We offer the latest in satellite communications, and also keep in touch with the outside world by radio telegraphy, telex, and fax.”

“What’s behind those curtained double doors at the after end of this passageway?” asked Vince.

“That’s the Queen’s Grill Restaurant. It’s the ship’s most exclusive dining area, reserved for 231 of our passengers. Unlike the other restaurants that serve off of traditional menus, one can order almost anything the heart desires, including lobster, prime steaks, or all the caviar you can eat, every single day of the crossing.”

Vince patted his stomach temptingly. “Sounds good, Tuff, especially since all I’ve had to eat today is a rubbery bagel on the airplane.”

“Lunch will be served shortly, sir. And even though it’s not lobster and caviar, we’ll take good care of you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Tuff proceeded to his left, through a doorway marked officers and crew only. A short hall led to a closed door that Tuff opened and beckoned Vince to join him inside. The spacious room they now found themselves in had a warm, clublike atmosphere, its walls covered with dozens of plaques, photos, and other nautical memorabilia.

“Since you’re a lover of history, I thought you’d enjoy taking a quick peek at our Wardroom, sir.”

Vince was speechless as he examined signed prints of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh. A gleaming brass bell that was engraved, r. m.s. aquitania, was positioned close by. “The Aquitania was the sister ship to the Lusitania and the Mauretania. She was delivered in 1914, and allowed Cunard to maintain the first weekly sailing schedule from both sides of the Atlantic.” Tuff next guided Vince past a fully stocked pub. “I do hope you’ll join me and the lads down here for a pint once you’ve gotten settled.”

Vince found himself drawn to the forward portion of the Wardroom, where a series of large, rectangular portholes afforded an unobstructed view of the QE2’s bow and the majestic skyline of Manhattan beyond. Many of the colorful photos and plaques mounted on the bulkhead were gifts from various military units, ranging from Great Britain’s Royal Air Force, to the French foreign legion, NASA, and the U. S. Coast Guard.

“Looks like you’ve entertained some interesting guests, Tuff.”

Tuff grinned fondly. This ship has a long tradition of cooperating with the military. In fact, it was while in Her Majesty’s Service that I first sailed aboard the Queen. That was back in 1982, when she was converted into a troopship to convey over three thousand of us down to the Falklands.”

“Were you Royal Navy?” questioned Vince.

“Royal Marines Special Boat Service, sir,” revealed Tuff proudly, who looked at his watch and added, “Now I’d better get you up to the Bridge. The chief must think that I’ve gone A. W.O. L..”

Leaving the Wardroom, they made a sharp right, went up a twisting flight of narrow stairs, past the door to the captain’s well-appointed office, to a closed, steel hatch labeled, bridge, authorized admittance only.

Tuff signaled Vince to join him on the top step, and pointed toward the video camera mounted above the hatch. With his guest close at his side, he twice pushed the metal switch that was recessed into the wall on his left. There was a loud buzzing sound, and several seconds passed before they heard the metallic click of an automatic lock triggering. Vince followed Tuff inside.

The Bridge itself was extremely spacious and well lit. A series of large, rectangular windows encircled the elongated, wood-paneled compartment. Set against the forward bulkhead was the main console. It was painted a dull yellow, and was filled with a wide variety of instruments, gauges, and dials. Directly behind it was a five-foot-high, lime-green, lectern-shaped console onto which the ship’s dinner-plate-sized wheel was mounted. A shoulder high wooden partition was set up behind the wheel, with the navigation plot on the other side.

On each side of the Bridge an open doorway led to a pair of adjoining exterior observation wings. Vince spotted a single, somewhat familiar bearded figure on the port wing. This tall, silver-haired individual was dressed in officer’s whites, and was scanning the surrounding terminal area with his binoculars. This was surely the same figure that Vince had first seen from the cab.

Tuff headed out onto the wing and addressed the officer. “Sorry that I took so long, Chief.”

The officer responded without lowering his binoculars, his words flavored by a rich Scottish accent. “If we were at sea, I’d have you keelhauled, lad. And since I can’t give you fifty lashes, I guess I’m stuck with you. Any problems down below?”

While Tuff related a quick security update, Vince took this opportunity to walk out onto the other wing and examine the ship from a new angle.

He’d only been there a moment, though, when a deep Scottish voice broke in behind him.

“So you’re Special Agent Vincent Kellogg of the U. S. Secret Service.

Welcome aboard the Queen.”

Vince turned and found himself staring into a piercing blue gaze, that locked into him with an intense inquisitiveness.

“Thank you,” replied Vince as he accepted the officer’s handshake.

“I’m Robert Hartwell, the QE2’s security director,” said the Scotsman.

“I do hope that Tuff has been taking good care of you. And please feel free to call me Robert.”

Vince liked this man’s directness, and had been impressed with him since reading a report about Hartwell back in Washington. The QE2’s current head of security was a decorated Royal Marine veteran, who like Tuff had also been a member of the elite Special Boat Service. As an SBS commando, Hartwell saw past service in Northern Ireland, Dhofar, and the Falklands, where he was awarded a South Atlantic Medal for bravery. He was made a Member of the British Empire in 1993, though he never rose above the rank of warrant officer. It was shortly thereafter that he left the military to take his current position with Cunard.

“I understand that this is your first visit aboard the Queen,” added Hartwell. “You certainly brought along spectacular weather.”

Vince looked up into the clear, sun-filled sky as a helicopter passed noisily overhead. “I hope it holds until this evening.” Hartwell replied while also watching the helicopter, “The latest meteorological forecast shows that this high pressure system should stay around long enough to insure a dry sendoff.”

The helicopter began a sweeping turn, and appeared to drop slightly in altitude as it circled the Passenger Ship Terminal. Hartwell examined it through his binoculars.

“Bloody journalists have a video cameraman hanging out that chopper’s fuselage door,” Hartwell said. “It looks like they didn’t even bother rigging up a safety harness for that poor chap.”

The helicopter further tightened its banked turn, prompting Vince to comment disgustedly, “They’d better get all the videotape they need today. Because, as of 1800 to night, the airspace over the entire West Side of Manhattan will be strictly off-limits.”

With the loud clatter of the chopper’s rotors making conversation difficult, Hartwell beckoned Vince and Tuff to join him inside, where the ship’s in-house, VHP, closed circuit telephone activated. A concerned female voice broke in from the elevated speaker.

“Bridge, this is Delta. Do you copy?”

Tuff picked up the handset and answered. “I copy that, Delta. How can we be of service?”

“Tuff,” returned the caller, “Roz Walters wants to re board the ship, and the Secret Service won’t let her because she’s gone and left her special access pass in her stateroom.”

“Tell Roz to hold on a sec, Delta. I’m on my way down.”

Tuff hung up the handset and addressed Robert Hart well. “Sir, I can get that updated personnel manifest to you right after I take care of Roz.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tuff,” replied Hartwell. “Take your time, and make sure the Secret Service doesn’t go and arrest our accommodations manager. My relief should be popping in any second now. I’ll pick up the manifest myself while showing Special Agent Kellogg the way to his cabin.”

Tuff exited the Bridge with a crisp salute. Hartwell looked at Vince and smiled. “They don’t come much better than that one. We entered Port Stanley together, and he’s still packing some Argentine shrapnel that had my name on it.”

“I had the honor of serving with men like Tuff back in “Nam,” Vince said. “Special Forces have a way of bringing together the best and brightest. Now, I hope that our agents aren’t being too tough on your crew. If they’re being a pain, please let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Hartwell. “Your people are doing a brilliant job, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The tighter they manage things outside this ship the easier my job will be once we put to sea.”

“Have any other members of the various international security teams arrived on board as yet?” Vince asked.

“Only a contingent from MIS,” answered Hartwell. “Right now, they’re with our prime minister at the United Nations.”

Vince looked at his watch and commented, “I’ve tentatively scheduled a pre briefing of all embarking security personnel this afternoon at 1600.

Could you find us a place on board where we could meet?”

“I’ll see about securing us the Library,” said Hartwell, who also glanced at his watch. “I imagine that you’d like to unpack your belongings and get settled in your stateroom.”

“Actually, I’m anxious to get in a complete tour of the ship,” Vince admitted.

“I’ll tell you what, Special Agent Kellogg, once my relief shows up, why not accompany me down to my office? Then I’ll give you a chance to unpack your belongings before we have an early lunch, followed by a thorough walk-thru.”

Before Vince could answer, a slender, crew-cut officer in his mid-thirties arrived on the Bridge. He wore black trousers, a black tie, and a white, long-sleeve shirt, with three golden stripes bedecking his shoulder epaulets.

“Good day, Chief Hartwell,” greeted this newcomer, his dialect thick with England’s northern district.

“And a good day to you, Mr. Smith,” returned Hart well, who looked over at Vince. “Special Agent Kellogg, I’d like you to meet Steve Smith, the ship’s navigator and my current relief.”

Vince traded handshakes with the good-natured navigator, and took this opportunity to ask him a question. “Do you mind if I visit you once I get settled in, Mr. Smith? I’d like to know more about our exact route from a firsthand perspective.”

“You’re always welcome to join me on the Bridge,” returned the navigator. “My watch periods for this crossing will be posted this evening, and all I ask is that you forget about the “Mr. Smith’ part, and call me by my first name.”

“Steve, it is.”

“Good show,” said Hartwell as he gathered together some papers he had been working on, and prepared to pass on the watch to the navigator.

“Engineering currently has Charlie down for maintenance, with the fuel barge alongside, preparing to pump diesel. We continue at a level-red security alert, with the captain and the first officer still at headquarters. Tuffs down at Delta if you should need him, don’t be shy about asking. Many of the crew should be coming back for lunch shortly, and I’ll bet my pension half of them forgot to take along their special passes and will never clear security.”

It proved to be the grinding clatter of the helicopter that reminded Hartwell of one other matter. “Oh, and Steve, we’ve got a film chopper out there that’s been circling us for the last five minutes. If they get much closer, they’re going to smack right into our funnel, so don’t hesitate to contact them on Channel Thirteen. And if that doesn’t send them packing, call the blooming Coast Guard emergency response team on Channel Sixteen.”

“Aye, aye,” said the navigator.

Vince followed the ship’s security officer out the same hatch that he and Tuff had originally entered. This time when they reached the Boat Deck’s A Stairway, they continued their descent to Two Deck using the elevator. Vince felt a bit more at home as they passed by the Computer Learning Center and continued on through the Midships Lobby.

Beyond the Lobby, they began their way down a passageway that stretched the entire length of the ship, giving Vince a new perspective on the vessel’s immense size.

Passenger cabins lined the corridor’s port side. They were arranged in an odd-numbered sequence, beginning with room 2063 and continuing aft.

The carpeted hall looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel, and Vince was hoping that one of the cabin doors would be open so he could see the interior. Yet in every instance, the doors were shut tight, with a strip of red tape sealed across each portal.

“What’s with the tape?” asked Vince as they passed the shut door of room 2077.

“It’s all part of my security plan,” explained Hartwell without breaking his stride. “Because of the light passenger load of our upcoming crossing, we’re able to temporarily seal off over seven hundred of our seven hundred seventy-nine available cabins. This means Two, Three, Four and Five Decks will be completely unoccupied. We’ll only have to concern ourselves with patrolling One Deck, where the security teams and advisors will be staying, and the smaller Boat, Sun and Signal Decks, where the heads of state will have their quarters.”

“I imagine that this lighter passenger load means a reduced staff,” Vince offered.

“That it does,” answered Hartwell as they passed the Purser’s Office on their right. “Over four hundred chambermaids, waiters, cooks, stewards, beauticians, and other utility staff members have been placed on temporary leave. This leaves us with a crew of fewer than six hundred individuals — another plus when it comes down to insuring interior security.”

They were near the end of the main passageway now. Vince followed Hartwell down a narrow corridor that wound its way behind the Safe-Deposit Center. They halted in front of a closed, unmarked door, situated beside the H Stairway. The ship’s security director reached into his pocket and removed a clip-style key ring. He isolated the first of many keys, and used it to unlock the door.

“This is home for me. Come on in and I’ll show you around before taking you up to your cabin.”

Vince entered, and found himself inside a small office, dominated by a huge world map that was tacked to the wall behind the sole desk.

Several framed photographs of golf courses hung beside the map. The holes pictured were definitely Scottish in design, with huge circular bunkers and tight, treeless fairways. A putting machine, complete with an Astroturf fringe, was set up in front of the bookcase. Plenty of golf balls and three different styles of putters were close by. Vince didn’t have to see any more to figure out Hartwell’s favorite hobby.

“Are you by any chance a golfer, Special Agent?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” replied Vince, who took a closer look at the series of golf-course photos. “St. Andrews?”

“Gleneagles, actually,” said Hartwell. “I was born nearby in Sterling, and consider these links my home course.”

Vince studied the deep, unforgiving sand traps and commented, “Sure wouldn’t want to get stuck in one of those suckers. I’d need a mortar to get out of there.”

“I’ve considered carrying one in my bag for that very purpose,” returned Hartwell with a laugh. “Say, is your President really the avid golfer that the press makes him out to be?”

Vince turned away from the photos to face his host. “The man’s a golf nut, so much so that his unofficial Secret Service code name is Two-Putt. Even with his crazed schedule, he still manages to squeeze out a couple quick rounds every week. Since I was captain of my college golf team, I often get picked to accompany him.”

“Sounds like you must get to play some superb courses.”

“That’s definitely one of the better perks of my job,” Vince returned.

“If you ever want to practice your putting stroke while we’re out at sea, please don’t hesitate to come down and make yourself at home. I’ve even got the new PGA Tour ‘98 CD loaded into my laptop, and you’re always welcome to give it a go.”

“I appreciate the offer. But I’m afraid I’m not going to have much free time these next five days.”

Hartwell nodded thoughtfully in agreement. “I want you to rest assured that my team is doing everything we can do to make this upcoming crossing as incident-free as possible. One very positive benefit of holding this summit at sea is our ability to control complete access to this platform. With the assistance of your people inside the terminal, we’re able to monitor every individual or piece of cargo brought on board. For all effective purposes, the QE2 is a secured island, and we hold the only entry key.”

“I’m certain that you’ve done a thorough job insuring the QE2’s integrity,” said Vince. “But I’m still going to feel better once I’ve completed that walk-thru of the ship to see what we’re dealing with.”

“That’s only understandable. A vessel this size creates a unique security challenge. The below-deck spaces alone offer an almost infinite amount of locations in which to hide a stowaway or explosive device.

Because of this ship’s high international profile, we constantly drill to address this problem. Our current reduced crew and passenger load makes this difficult task much easier. Since arriving in port yesterday, the ship has already undergone three complete security sweeps. One of your special-tactics teams and its dogs accompanied us in each instance, as we scoured the ship from bow to stern.

“As you very well know,” Hartwell continued, “we even have a group of U.S. Navy divers inspecting our exterior hull for limpet mines. And once the various security teams arrive, we plan yet another intensive sweep of the ship, with representatives of each of these groups present.”

“The idea of mixing together fifty agents from nine different countries is a challenge all its own,” Vince interjected.

Hartwell pointed to the three-inch-thick pile of documents that completely filled his desk’s In basket, and added, “Tell me about it.

This stack of correspondence arrived only this morning, and was generated solely by the Japanese security service. It covers everything from the amount of ammunition their agents are allowed to bring along with them, to the selection and quality of food being served.”

Vince shook his head in amazement. “I’ll never forget the struggle we had fighting to get them to agree to the six-agent limit. The Japanese wanted to bring along forty agents all on their own, with the Russians originally proposing to take along twice as many.”

“Your six-man limit was an excellent choice,” complimented Hartwell.

“It allows each head of state a continuous two-man security presence, with individual eight-hour increments. And even then, most of this active duty will be spent idly waiting outside the meeting rooms.

Because as you’ll soon see, my team is well prepared to handle the monitoring of the rest of the Queen.”

With this remark, Hartwell led his guest over to the wall beside the bookshelf. A door conveyed them into a dimly lit room about the size of a large, walk-in closet. It held a ceiling-to-floor wall unit packed with a dozen eighteen-inch video monitors. The Scot gestured Vince to join him in one of the high-backed leather chairs positioned directly in front of the blackened monitors.

As Vince did so, Hartwell pulled out a computer keyboard from beneath the console’s desktop.

He in putted a series of commands, and one by one, the video screens activated. The crystal-clear, black-and-white pictures that soon filled all dozen screens provided realtime video from twelve different locations inside the QE2. Vince scanned the flickering monitors and identified the ship’s navigator calmly sipping a cup of tea on the Bridge. Yet another screen was filled with a wide-angle shot of the Midships Lobby, where a uniformed steward was in the process of vacuuming the carpet. Other screens showed various crew members at work inside the vessel’s Kitchen and Engine Room, while adjoining monitors displayed multi angled shots of the ship’s above-deck spaces, including the exterior Pool, dual Hot Tubs, and Paddleboard Courts.

“Here’s the real force multiplier,” said Hartwell as he expertly readdressed the keyboard.

Vince watched as the picture on the top, left-hand monitor suddenly split into four different video images. In this instance, the cameras displayed long shots of four different interior passageways. “That scan covers the Signal Deck, where the V. I.P Penthouses are located, and also includes a view of the walkway outside the Sports Deck suites, as well as two different angles of the One Deck passenger cabin passageway.

When fully utilized, I can monitor forty-eight separate locations at one time, guaranteeing an almost constant surveillance presence from one of the two-hundred-plus video cameras hidden throughout the ship.”

Vince was impressed by this sophisticated system, and he watched as the central monitor showing the Midships Lobby filled with two new arrivals.

One of these figures was a familiar, barrel-chested officer, the other a shapely, civilian female, with a full head of curly, shoulder length hair.

“I see Tuffs just entered the Midships Lobby,” observed Vince.

“And it appears that he’s managed to get your people to allow Roz Walters, our accommodations manager, back onboard,” Hartwell added.

With a quick sweep of his hand, Hartwell manipulated a joy stick that sat next to the keyboard. This caused the magnification of the video image they had been watching to greatly increase so they could actually see Tuffs lips moving as he escorted his fellow crew mate out the forward access way

“One accessory that’s not been fitted is an audio feed,” Hartwell remarked.

“I don’t suppose that you’ve got coverage inside the individual staterooms?” asked Vince.

A playful grin crossed Hartwelfs bearded face as he answered. “Though that capability is readily available, company policy strictly forbids it. You can rest peacefully tonight, knowing that whatever you choose to do within the confines of your cabin will remain completely private.”

Vince watched as Hartwell used the keyboard to isolate one of the four bottom monitors. In quick succession, the screen filled with a scan of the ship’s vacant, well-stocked Infirmary and luxurious Spa. The video image abruptly switched to an empty indoor Swimming Pool. Hartwell readjusted the angle of the camera lens, and Vince got his first look at the QE2’s renowned Gymnasium. It was known as the most complete workout facility afloat, with a wide assortment of exercise machines, a spacious aerobics area, and a full Nautilus circuit.

Several workmen could be seen removing one of the Stair Masters and loading it onto a two-wheeler, prompting the Scotsman to comment matter-of-factly, “Looks like we’ll be getting that replacement equipment after all.”

“Replacement equipment?”

“Electrical short last crossing took out a Stair Master rowing machine, and all three of the bicycles. Since I’m a bike rider myself, and constantly fighting to keep my weight under control, those replacements will be greatly appreciated.”

“I just enrolled in a YMCA aerobics class to address my own battle of the bulge,” admitted Vince. “I must really be starting to feel my age, because those workouts seem just as tough as the ones we went through in army basic training.”

“Aerobics, you say? Well you’re in luck, Special Agent. Because this crossing, we’ve got none other than Monica Chang leading our workouts.”

“Monica Chang, the actress?” queried the disbelieving Treasury agent.

“I’m sure I didn’t see her name on the crew manifest.”

“That’s because it wasn’t on the original,” revealed Hartwell. “Two days ago, as we were completing the last crossing from Southampton, our entire Gym staff fell victim to a nasty intestinal bug. Ms. Chang is part owner of the firm that runs the Gym for Cunard, along with Dennis Liu, the action-film star. Fortunately for us, they’ve both just finished their most recent pictures, and offered to personally accompany a hand-picked replacement staff. Between you and me, it may also have to do with getting free publicity for a new workout video I understand they are about to put out. But I’m just happy that all our amenities will be available during the summit. That’s good publicity for us.”

“This is all news to me,” said Vince, suddenly concerned. “Have they traced down the origins of that intestinal virus? If it’s salmonella, we’re going to have to go through the entire Kitchen with a fine-tooth comb. Hell, it could even mean the canceling of this whole crossing!”

Hartwell sensed the seriousness of Vince’s reaction and isolated various shots of the QE2’s spotlessly clean Kitchen on four of the screens before attempting damage control. “Easy does it, Special Agent. I’m personally working with the ship’s doctor to determine the exact source of the outbreak. We’re almost certain that the virus was caused by a meal that the Gym staff cooked for themselves, two nights after leaving Southampton.”

“I’m still going to need a detailed report of this entire incident to give to Dr. Patton, the President’s physician,” said Vince. “And then I’d like to personally speak to the ship’s executive chef and the head storekeeper.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Are there any other last minute crew replacements who weren’t on the original manifest?”

“There are thirteen in all,” Hartwell revealed. “I’ve already faxed the list to the head of your New York office, and there’s a copy for you on my desk. As for talking with the chef, he’s supposed to be joining us for lunch. Let’s get you settled in your cabin first. Then after lunch, you’ll be free to explore the ship and initiate any further investigative work.”

The much anticipated phone call from the BATF’s director, Lawrence McShane, found Thomas Kellogg seated alongside Mike Galloway, inside the senior postal inspector’s office. Army M. Sgt. Danny Lane had just arrived from Fort Meade, and the explosives-ordnance expert was showing them the latest in bomb-disposal fashions.

The director relayed his decision in his usual clipped fashion. “You’ve got a green light to defuse, Thomas. So get on with it, work safely, and find something we can use to catch this guy.”

Thomas had to hurry his thanks before the line went dead. Then he flashed a triumphant thumbs-up to his associates.

Sergeant Lane seemed particularly delighted with the news, and he addressed Mike Galloway sarcastically. “I sure hope your insurance is paid up on that holding structure, Mike.”

Galloway didn’t laugh. “Though I still think you guys are crazy for risking your lives, you’ve got my full cooperation.”

“That’s much appreciated, Mike,” replied Thomas. “Since the Sarge here brought along all the latest gear, all we’re going to need from you is to evacuate the facility.”

Galloway looked at his wristwatch, then reached out to pick up the phone and notify his workers of this shortened workday. “If my folks hurry, looks like we can get off one last truckload of gifts for the White House before closing up the place.”

Less than an hour later, the mood of those left at the mail-sorting facility was noticeably more tense. The time for humor and excitement was over, as Thomas, Sergeant Lane, and his two assistants made the final adjustments to their gear. With Mike Galloway manning the phones inside the warehouse, the quartet of explosives experts waddled out to the isolated, concrete block holding structure, looking like astronauts in their bulky, fireproof jumpsuits.

The game plan for the operation was relatively simple despite the danger. Since the goal was to reap the benefit of a complete set of evidence, the objective was to render the IED harmless. The easiest way to accomplish this feat was to disconnect the device’s power source.

Without its two nine-volt batteries, the photoelectric circuit they expected to find based on the design of the bomber’s first package could not generate the spark needed to trigger the primer, and in turn, ignite the main charge. Since X-rays of the IED had already determined the exact position of these batteries, all that remained for them to do was to open the Priority Mail box and disconnect the fusing wires from the battery terminals. However, a life-or-death question remained: how could they penetrate the parcel without activating the light-sensitive photocell and triggering an explosion themselves?

Both Thomas and Danny Lane had worked together on several previous occasions, and they decided on a two prong attack. Their first priority was to complete the installation of a portable, red-tinted safelight.

This allowed them to illuminate the interior of the holding cell with the same setup a photographer used to develop film inside a darkroom.

Danny Lane was fearful that the photocell could be sensitive enough to trigger regardless of this safelight array, and he brought along what he fondly called their “supplementary insurance policy.” This novel technique, developed by Lane himself, involved using liquid nitrogen to freeze the unopened box and drain the charge from the batteries, thus deadening them permanently.

The final adjustments to the safelight were completed with the invaluable help of Lane’s two assistants. The specially designed, pressurized canister holding the liquid nitrogen was then carried inside the holding structure. Meanwhile Thomas readied the instruments for actually cutting into the box.

Completely lit in dim red light now, the interior of the concrete blockhouse took on a sinister appearance. The thick, protective suits were making the men extremely hot, and they decided to start without further delay. The two assistants were excused, and with the room’s sole doorway securely sealed, they went to work in earnest.

His hands protected by heavily quilted asbestos mittens, Danny Lane carefully picked up the liquid nitrogen canister, unsealed its pressurized lid, and completely saturated the Priority Mail package with a frigid stream of supercooled vapor. Swirling white fingers of320 liquid nitrogen enveloped the cardboard parcel, and for a confusing moment, Thomas feared that it had disintegrated. Only when the icy cloud finally evaporated, revealing the now frozen package, did Thomas exhale a long breath of relief.

It was now Thomas’s turn to pick up one of the finely honed, scalpel-like instruments and begin the nerve-racking job of slicing into the frigid cardboard. Mike Galloway had previously made a hand-drawn duplicate of the parcel’s X-ray negative. This tracing was laid out on the top surface of the package, enabling them to determine that the batteries were located in the right-hand portion of the box, corresponding to a spot beside the outer edge of the address label.

His intention was to make a long incision in the cardboard, alongside the address label. This cut was to be deep enough to pierce the outer layer of cardboard, but shallow enough not to penetrate the layer of protective wrapping they expected to find inside.

To accomplish this delicate task, Thomas had to remove one of his bulky mittens, and make the cut with his hand unprotected. He seriously doubted that the glove would offer much protection should one of the blasting caps detonate; nevertheless he was careful not to allow the bare skin of his hand to touch the package. The frozen cardboard was itself dangerous, able to induce instant frostbite.

Before making the initial incision, Thomas took a second to catch the gaze of his coworker. Danny Lane had just grabbed a pair of slender, needle-nose wire cutters, and the Army EOD technician silently conveyed his own concern with a supportive wink.

The Sarge, as he was better known around the Metro area, was one of the best bomb men in the country. Career military, he learned his arcane craft in Vietnam, where his initial interest was in disarming minefields. He soon enough found that he had an almost inborn knack for this glamour less all-important work that was responsible for saving untold lives.

Thomas first met Danny three years previously, during a car comb investigation at a Falls Church abortion clinic. The Sarge had only recently transferred to Fort Meade. He showed his valor by crawling under the suspect vehicle, and removing a live pipe bomb from its muffler.

In the years since, Lane had proved himself to be an invaluable associate in the dozens of bomb and arson investigations that followed.

He always seemed to be available to help, offering his services not only to the BATF, but to any civilian or federal law enforcement agency that needed him.

His mere presence was a stabilizing factor, his calm professional manner exuding confidence, a commodity that no explosives technician could get enough of. M. Sgt. Danny Lane wasn’t about to allow anything to go wrong on his watch. With this hope in mind, Thomas positioned the razor-sharp tip of the scalpel alongside the right edge of the parcel’s address label.

“I don’t know about you, Kellogg,” said Lane, “but the sooner we get this job done the better. This new monkey suit is causing me to sweat up a storm.”

Thomas nodded somberly. His body had long since been soaked in perspiration, and he was thankful for the bandanna that he remembered to tie around his forehead.

He applied just enough downward pressure to break through the frozen cardboard liner’s stiff outer skin. Holding the sharply honed tip of the scalpel steady with his right index finger, Thomas began a quick, four-inch downward cut. This incision compromised the parcel’s seal, allowing them to quickly learn if the led’s suspected photocell triggering mechanism remained active or not.

To determine this, Thomas made two more incisions. These were two-inch cuts, extending from the right-hand upper and bottom edges of the label, continuing on to the side of the box itself. This created a neat, three-sided flap in the cardboard’s outer skin that Danny Lane cautiously probed with a slender forceps.

“Excellent job, Thomas,” whispered Lane. “Now, if you’ll just hold down the cardboard at the upper edge of your incision, we’ll see if our suspicions hold true.”

Thomas did as instructed, watching breathlessly as the Sarge proceeded to peel back the brittle edges of the cardboard flap. There could be no worse time for his soaked bandanna to fail him. Thomas found his vision momentarily clouded by a torrent of stinging sweat. He wiped his brow impatiently with the back of his forehand, and as he reopened his eyes, he immediately spotted an uncut, inner layer of familiar black, wax-based paper.

“You’ve got to admit that the bastard’s persistent,” offered Lane, his suspicions of a photocell trigger apparently confirmed. “Are you ready to go?”

With one more layer of light-absorbing paper left to penetrate before reaching the actual device, Thomas knew that the moment of truth was upon them. They’d learn all too soon whether their precautions were sufficient. His pulse quickened and his mouth was unnaturally dry. He had to clear his throat to speak.

“Let’s do it, Sarge.”

Danny Lane didn’t appear to be the least bit flustered as he picked up the needle-nosed pliers and calmly addressed Thomas. “On the count of three, you’ll make the cut and I’ll go in.”

“Hold on a minute, Sarge,” Thomas, his vision once more clouded by dripping sweat.

Lane watched his coworker impatiently wipe his soaked brow with the back of his hand. Fearful that this moisture would interfere with his grip, Lane alertly handed Thomas a handkerchief.

“Take your time, Kellogg. This baby’s not going anywhere.”

Thomas used the handkerchief to pat dry his forehead and wipe the moisture off his glistening palm. He took a deep breath before meeting Lane’s steady gaze and nodding that he was ready to proceed.

“We’ll soon enough be out of these damn space suits and sipping a tall frosty one, Thomas.”

“Sounds good to me, Sarge.”

Thomas re gripped the scalpel and once more placed its tip up against the right edge of the address label. It wouldn’t take much pressure to slice into the remaining layer of wrapping, and he listened as Lane began the countdown.

“One … two … three!”

Thomas made a quick downward cut. Danny Lane plunged the pliers into the parcel’s now exposed interior. Without hesitation, he securely grasped the wires that were attached to the battery terminals and yanked them free with a swift, fluid motion. It was all over in a matter of seconds, with the two explosives technicians wasting no time on celebrations.

“Thomas, why don’t you cut away that entire upper layer of cardboard, and let’s see what makes this baby tick.”

Even though the heart of the IED had been removed, Thomas was still apprehensive as he sliced into the upper lid, and following its edges, cut free the remaining cardboard. He used his hand to tear away the inner layer of black wrapping paper, at long last exposing the parcel’s contents.

“Will you just look at that,” said Lane, in reference to the two twelve-by-four-inch blocks of white, puttylike material clearly visible before them. “If that turns out to be C-4, there’s enough explosive power in this IED to have incinerated the entire mail-sorting facility.

Our boy’s getting more ambitious.”

Lane used the tapered nose of the pliers to outline the main body of the device, an seven-by-1-inch piece of fiberboard. Firmly attached to this base was a maze of wires and an odd assortment of hardware that he was quick to identify.

“The fusing system looks basic enough — one photocell, two transistors, two rheostats, and a relay.”

“Why the dual rheostats?” asked Thomas.

“I’d say it’s to adjust the sensitivity of the circuit,” Lane answered.

“All the wiring connections appear to be soldered, and the workmanship looks pretty decent.”

Thomas used a compact Maglite to point out the led’s explosive charge.

“How do you think it’s primed, #8s or J-2s?”

“My money’s on dual #8 commercial blasting caps, Thomas. If we find a J-2 military cap in there, I’d be genuinely surprised.”

Thomas closely examined all the individual pieces of hardware with his Maglite. The device would be conveyed to the lab now. There each part would be carefully scrutinized, and the results fed into the BATF’s Explosives Incidents System, or EXIS for short. This computerized program contained a record of every single explosives incident reported to or investigated by the Bureau. It currently held over 40,000 individual investigations, and a detailed accounting of more than 150,000 pieces of individual evidence. They hadn’t been able to connect the previous bomb with any known bomb or bomb maker With luck, there was something different about this one besides the size of the charge that would let EXIS catch him in its sights.

5

It took a full hour to prepare the IED for transfer back to the Bureau’s laboratory. A specially designed armored van was driven up to the entrance of the isolated blockhouse, with the device itself loaded into a heavy, fireproof vault, before being carefully carried into the vehicle’s rear holding bed.

Although Thomas had planned to drive his own car directly to the lab to continue the intricate task of dissecting the IED, a phone call redirected him. Samuel Morrison was the Special Agent in Charge (SAIC) of the President’s White House Secret Service detail. He was well aware that the device they had just defused had been originally addressed to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Morrison politely asked Thomas to proceed to the White House at once to personally brief him on their findings.

It was still much too early in the investigation to come up with any concrete conclusions as to the identity of their suspects. The real police work was only beginning, yet Thomas dared not disappoint the powerful Morrison.

George Washington Memorial Parkway was heavy with late afternoon traffic by the time he was finally free to leave the mail-sorting facility and return to the city. As Thomas bided his time in the bumper-to-bumper traffic jam, he mentally walked through the bomb’s disarming. One mere slip of the hand or miscalculation could have meant instant death, so he wanted to analyze every step they had taken to prepare him for future work.

In a macabre way, the realization that he’d been so close to dying was stimulating. He had experienced this sensation before, especially in the military on the eve of battle. By voluntarily putting one’s mortality on the line, an individual could get a rare opportunity to savor the real essence of life.

Thomas wondered how many of the frustrated, honking drivers around him realized what a petty and insignificant event a mere traffic tie-up was in the total scheme of things. Obsessed with small, meaningless activities and details, engrossed in purposeless employment and unsatisfying relationships, they wasted their years, totally unaware of how precious each second of their existence was.

When he reached the White House, he circled behind the Executive Office Building, entering the grounds via the South Lawn gate. He personally knew the guards here, so was able to park in one of the spaces reserved for visiting Treasury Department officials.

This was the same lot where Vince normally parked. As Thomas exited his vehicle, he wondered how his brother was doing. He was most likely somewhere on the QE2 right now, in the process of attending to that growing list of last-minute details that always seemed to pop up. Once he completed his business with the SAIC, Thomas intended to find a secure phone and call Vince.

A uniformed Secret Service agent stationed outside the West Portico informed Thomas that the SAIC was last seen headed toward the South Lawn. In little less than an hour, Marine One would be landing here, to whisk the President off to Andrews and a New York-bound flight aboard Air Force One. Before boarding the helicopter, the President would make a brief statement to the American people from the South Lawn’s terraced rose garden. The President considered this address so important that even the likes of Samuel Morrison had been called out to insure it went off without a hitch.

At least the weather would cooperate, Thomas thought, enjoying the fresh air. He decided to access the South Lawn by taking the exterior, west walkway. A bed of red geraniums lined this concrete path, passing directly in front of the West Portico’s side doorway.

The loud, frightened wail of a cat caused Thomas to stop momentarily.

The incessant mewing continued, drawing his attention to the line of ancient oaks that lay on the opposite side of the flower bed. A quarter of the way up the smallest of the trees, stranded on a swaying branch, was a tiny black cat with a white spot on its nose. The poor feline had apparently allowed its curiosity to-get the better of it.

Thomas could see that it didn’t have the nerve to jump to the solid earth below, even though this fall was seven feet at most.

With no groundskeeper in sight, the cat would have been in for a long stay had Thomas not made the spur of-the-moment decision to be its savior. He crossed the flower bed, careful not to step on the geraniums, and positioned himself at the side of the tree, immediately below the stranded kitten.

“Easy does it, fella,” said Thomas, while lifting his arms overhead to see if he could reach the bouncing limb. Two inches remained between his outstretched fingers and the branch. Thomas looked up at the cat and said, “Okay, Kitty. If you really want to get down from there, you’re going to have to compromise a bit. Come on, fella, you can do it.”

Once again he lifted his right arm overhead, this time cupping his hand directly below the kitten. The cat looked down at this offered perch, initially wanting nothing to do with it, but when no alternatives were subsequently offered, it wisely decided it was now or never. Gauging the distance with a tentative swipe of its paw, the cat gathered its nerve and plopped down onto Thomas’s hand. It barely fit, and Thomas wasted no time in gently conveying it to the ground below.

“Bravo!” said a female voice from behind him. Thomas turned to find Brittany Cooper standing alone on the walkway. The Naval attache was dressed in a crisp white uniform and held a flat map case at her side.

Thomas, suddenly realizing how ridiculous he must look, carefully jumped the flower bed and returned to the walkway. Just as his foot hit the concrete path, the kitten shot past him like a bullet, on the trail of a squirrel.

“I didn’t realize that saving stranded White House pets was part of your official BATF responsibilities,” Brittany teased.

“I’m just a humble public servant here to serve my government in whatever capacity it might ask of me,” returned Thomas, with the slightest of playful bows. “Actually, cat rescue is only my secondary duty at the White House. I’m here at the behest of our esteemed SAIC.”

Thomas reached Brittany’s side, and though he would have loved to hug her, he reluctantly held back for a more appropriate time. Brittany felt likewise, and reacted to the awkwardness of the moment by trying her best to keep the conversation focused on business.

“Something tells me that your presence here has some connection with yesterday’s crisis,” Brittany said. Thomas nodded, and Brittany added, “I hope all went well. Can you tell me about it yet?”

“Let’s just say we successfully concluded the preliminary stage of an ongoing investigation, and now the real detective work begins,” answered Thomas carefully. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you more details right now.”

“Apologies aren’t necessary, Thomas. I’m happy to see you. When you and your brother ran off like that yesterday afternoon, I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Sorry I didn’t call last night. It was getting pretty late by the time I finally got home. And thanks for being such a good sport.”

“There you go with your apologies again, Special Agent. I understand the sensitive nature of your business, even though I never realized it included rescuing pets in distress. Once you guys took off yesterday, Kelly and I finished up the barbecue and had a delicious dinner together. She’s great company. We even took a walk over to King Street for ice cream, with Joshua and Max in tow. Afterwards, we loaded my bike into her van and she drove me home. So even though the day didn’t exactly end the way I hoped it would, I enjoyed it all the same.”

Thomas smiled at the innuendo. “I’m glad you understood. So what brings you here?”

“I just finished my final pre summit briefing with the President and his national security advisors. We went over the location of the nearest U.S. Navy assets during the crossing, and then I showed them some very interesting satellite reconnaissance photos recently shot over the South China Sea.”

“Are Taiwan and China at it again?”

“We can’t really say for sure, Thomas. And since the story’s going to break on tonight’s evening news, I guess I can share it with you.

“Yesterday, during a routine pass over southeastern Asia, one of our Big Birds picked up an unusual flurry of activity taking place at the PLA Navy installation at Yulin. Four surface vessels, including a Ling-class salvage ship, were monitored surging into the South China Sea and headed directly toward the Spratlys. These vessels appear to be participating in some sort of underwater search-and rescue mission.”

“Is one of their submarines missing?”

Brittany paused a moment before answering. “This is totally on the hush, but my intel sources tell me that this flotilla is indeed searching for one of their submarines. We believe it’s the Lijiang, China’s newest nuclear-powered attack sub. The vessel was apparently on patrol in the region, and never responded to a pre scheduled communications linkup with command. As far as we can tell, the Lijiang has yet to show itself, and is suspected to have been lost at sea with all hands.”

Thomas grimaced. “Sounds bad. If I remember correctly, the Spratlys was where the PLA Navy tangled with that Philippine frigate several months ago. Who knows, maybe the Lijiang was the victim of hostilities.”

“That’s our greatest fear, with the Philippine Navy not the only possible aggressor. The Chinese claim on the Spratlys remains contested by a number of nations including the Philippines, Vietnam, Malaysia, Brunei, as well as Taiwan and even Japan.”

“What a mess.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Because if it does turn out that the Lijiang was deliberately sunk by one of these countries, the entire region could be engulfed in a full scale war.”

“That would be a great way to start off the G-7 summit,” said Thomas.

“Sounds like my brother is in for an interesting crossing.”

“Speaking of which,” Brittany checked her wristwatch. “I’ve got to get back to the Pentagon. We’re setting up an op center in the CNO’s situation room, to monitor the QE2’s progress from the moment she leaves New York until she ties up in Southampton. If you can spare the time, you’re more than welcome to come by and have a look.”

“I’d enjoy that,” said Thomas, who realized that he’d have to be on his way as well. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Commander.”

“Special Agent Kellogg,” said Brittany in her most official tone.

“Speaking for the First Cat, keep up the excellent work!”

She left with a warm smile and a crisp salute. Thomas watched her shapely figure disappear up the walkway, headed toward the North Gate parking lot. Trying his best to refocus on his own duty, he turned in the opposite direction and continued on through a grove of majestic elms originally planted by Theodore Roosevelt and his family.

Upon emerging from the tree line, he found the South Lawn bustling with activity. Nearest to the White House itself, a group of temporary tents were still set up. They had sheltered the First Kid’s gala birthday party on the previous evening. Now, the caterers could be seen at work preparing for a much more intimate affair, comprised of the birthday girl and a select group of schoolmates and friends. Unlike the previous party, adults and members of the press weren’t invited, with the First Lady promising to make only a brief visit, and the President totally absent of course.

Thomas could see that the afternoon’s festivities included a rock band.

An elevated stage with a wall of amplifiers had been set up near the tents, with a temporary dance floor in front of it. A roadie was in the midst of a sound check. His drone: “Testing, one, two, three, four,” echoed over the grounds.

Approximately three hundred yards due south of the tents, another group of individuals were busy making last minute preparations for an upcoming event of their own. A small reception area was being prepared near the South Lawn’s central fountain. Several lines of folding chairs had been set up, all facing a portable lectern whose microphone and attached PA system were also being sound checked.

Directly behind this makeshift podium was a wide, circular clearing.

Several permanent landing lights were set into the ground here, as well as a limp wind sock, all belonging to the President’s personal White House helipad.

Thomas spotted a tall, broad-shouldered black man, dressed in a well-fitting, dark gray suit, standing at the extreme southern edge of the helipad. A good three inches taller than the trio of similarly dressed men who stood at his side, this individual was in the process of studying the large group of tourists who were gathered on the sidewalk behind the South Lawn’s seven-foot-high, wrought-iron security fence.

Samuel Forest Morrison II was Special Agent in Charge of the presidential protection detail. A legendary character, with over two decades of Treasury Department service behind him, Morrison achieved heroic stature long before he signed on with the Secret Service.

Cut from the same mold as Danny Lane and Thomas’s own brother, Morrison initially showed what he was made of as a devil with a painted face, a Green Beret, in the jung led hell of Vietnam. He was assigned primarily to the Mekong Delta, where he earned a chestful of decorations in the early seventies, for operations that remained classified to the present day.

At the end of the war, no hero’s welcome awaited him as he came home to a divided country. He left the Army and decided to continue fighting for the America too many brave men had sacrificed their lives for, by dedicating his remaining years to law enforcement. Much like Vince, he went from a local police beat to the highway patrol before finally finding his true vocation as a U. S. Treasury Department agent.

Morrison earned his reputation as a solid, no-nonsense, dependable agent, through hard work and countless hours of dedication. He was an agent’s agent, the type of leader who got results by first earning the trust of his subordinates. In such a manner, he rose through the ranks, with his attainment of the position of SAIC the pinnacle of his long career.

Because Vince worked directly for Morrison, Thomas knew him better than most outside agents did. He had even gotten a chance to party with the man last summer, during one of Vince’s infamous backyard barbecues.

Thomas thus felt at ease as he made his way down to the southern edge of the helipad and greeted the SAIC.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Glad that you could make it, Special Agent Kellogg,” returned Morrison, his practiced gaze still scanning the South Lawn’s expansive grounds, his voice a deep bass James Earl Jones would envy.

The deafening strains of an overamplified rock power chord reverberated around them. Morrison quickly turned toward the stage and addressed one of his three associates angrily.

“Damn those freaks! Moreno, get your keister up there and get that sound man to cut that PA feed. For Christ’s sake, this is the White House, not Woodstock!”

One of the agents who had been standing beside the SAIC nodded alertly, then took off for the party site. His two associates looked on as Morrison next vented his wrath on them.

‘ This whole frigging thing is going to fall apart if we don’t get cracking. You guys better get up to grounds keeping and find out why they haven’t roped off the helipad. And then get me that list of every soul that’s going to be down here for the sen doff.”

Thomas knew both of these agents personally, and he watched as they flashed him the slightest of ‘business-as usual” looks before excusing themselves. This left Thomas alone with their boss.

“See what your brother missed out on by being the first one on the QE2?” said Morrison, who in reality thrived on such pressure. “I bet he’s sitting on board right now, sipping champagne and wondering which condiments he’s going to pick to accompany his caviar.”

“If I know my brother, he’ll go for the works — sour cream, onions, as well as the chopped egg,” Thomas quipped.

“You Kelloggs certainly know how to live,” offered Morrison, who abruptly turned serious. “Now tell me all about this latest IED addressed to the House. When Mike Galloway first called me yesterday, he seemed almost certain that it was a twin of last month’s device.”

“For the most part, Mike was right,” Thomas replied.

“It indeed appears to have been sent by the same suspect. Once again, the device was placed inside a Priority Mail box and designed to be triggered by photocell. Even the handwriting on the address label looks to be an exact match, with the same fictitious Winchester, Virginia, post office box listed as the return address.

“There were two major differences, the most significant of which being that this latest device was armed with a good deal more than a blasting cap. We’re still waiting for lab confirmation, but the package appears to contain enough plastic explosive to create an incredibly powerful blast. And instead of the President, the package was addressed to his daughter.”

“I bet the bastard was hoping to sneak it through with her birthday presents,” Morrison said.

Thomas somberly nodded. “At least this time we’ve got a complete set of evidence to work with.”

“How did you keep the photocell from activating?” Morrison asked.

“Danny Lane gets the credit. We illuminated the holding cell with safelights. Then, as an additional backup, before opening the box, Danny froze it with liquid nitrogen, to deaden the batteries.”

The SAIC smiled. “I’m sure glad the Sarge is on our side. What’s next for the IED?”

“It should be arriving shortly at BATF headquarters, where Les Stanley and his team will be picking it apart piece by piece.”

“I imagine that you’re anxious to join this effort, Thomas. I realize that you were looking forward to going to sea with Vince, but it was my call to Director McShane that got you pulled off the crossing. Right now, I need you here, on the trail of that frigging madman.”

“I appreciate your confidence, sir. And to tell you the truth, I’m not the best of sailors anyway. Hell, that’s why I joined the air force.”

Morrison laughed and turned his steely gaze directly on Thomas. “Have you talked with your brother since he left for New York this morning?”

“I was going to try to reach him right after seeing you, sir.”

“Well I just got off the horn with him, and that bit about champagne and caviar was all in jest. He’s up to his thick neck in work, coordinating the arrival of the various security teams, verifying the identities of a group of last-minute crew replacements, and even trying to track down the source of a suspected onboard case of salmonella poisoning. And Vince will really start earning his pay when the heads of state start arriving.”

Morrison redirected his line of sight to the opposite side of the helipad and proceeded to change the subject. “Now where in the hell are those frigging grounds keepers with the security fence? I’ve got Marine One landing here in a little less than ninety minutes, and a President who’s just decided to say his goodbyes to the entire country from right out here on the South Lawn.”

The amplified crash of a cymbal seemed to underscore Morrison’s passionate rantings. Yet before the SAIC could respond to this unwanted noise, he received a call on his two-way radio’s clip-on earpiece.

Thomas watched as he pressed the miniature transmitter closer to his ear. Whatever he was hearing caused a look of serious surprise to fill his face, and Morrison peered up anxiously into the sky.

As Thomas followed his gaze, it didn’t take him long to spot the object responsible for Morrison’s anxiety. Circling directly above them, smack in the middle of one of the most restricted air corridors in the country, was a sole red and white, single-engine Cessna. Thomas guessed its altitude to be about 5,000 feet, and he wasn’t all that shocked when Samuel Morrison cried out to him.

“Lord almighty, this is all I need! Come on, Thomas. Let’s get up to the White House roof. If this gets dicey, I’m going to need to call on that air force air-traffic-control expertise of yours.”

Though Thomas was a good ten years younger than Morrison, when the ex-Green Beret took off running toward the White House, it took a full effort on his part to keep up with him. They sprinted across the South Lawn at full stride, taking the stairs leading up to the South Portico two steps at a time.

Morrison didn’t seem the least bit winded as he halted briefly on the exterior porch and took yet another scan of the sky. Thomas found himself gasping for breath as he stopped alongside Morrison. He looked skyward himself. The plane was still there, turning lazily in a tight circle, and if anything, its altitude appeared to have further dropped another 500 feet or so.

“Damn!” cursed Morrison. “You think our bomber has a pilot’s license, Thomas? I just hope to God it’s some idiotic sightseer because there’s no way I want to get Two Putt down in the box for this.”

Morrison was referring to the President’s subterranean fallout shelter.

Rarely used now except for infrequent exercises, the box was one of the few areas of the White House that Thomas had yet to visit.

The roof of the Chief Executive’s mansion was another story, Thomas having visited it in the past month during a routine inspection. The only difference was that then he was able to access it via the elevator, and not the steep enclosed stairway he soon found himself climbing.

At the top a short access way led out onto the roof. It was cooler there in the open air. Thomas was able to regain his breath while they made their way over to the steel-and-glass guardhouse. This structure served as the roofs operations center and, depending on the level of alert, a pair of uniformed Secret Service personnel were always stationed there.

This standard watch had already been reinforced by another nine agents of a special-response team. Having just arrived on the roof themselves, they were hard at work setting up their equipment. This gear included a suitcase sized SATCOM uplink, various visual amplification devices, and a variety of weapons.

Amongst this latter group, Thomas identified one of the weapons being hurriedly assembled as a Heckler and Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle. At the sniper’s side, a trio of agents were preparing their dark green Stinger missile canisters for launch.

The aircraft responsible for all this frantic activity was still clearly visible in the blue sky above them. To examine it in greater detail, Thomas accepted a pair of Zeiss binoculars from Matt Durham, the special agent in charge of the rooftop operations center. Thomas had served in the air force with Matt, and with the powerful binoculars now nestled up to his brow, Thomas focused on the airplane, all the while listening to Matt’s running commentary.

“So far we’ve been unable to either ID the aircraft or spot its serial number. The local airports have no record of it, and whoever’s flying that sucker is either deaf, experiencing radio problems, or is purposely refusing to answer us.”

Thomas estimated that the plane was somewhere between 4,500 and 5,000 feet. From what he could see of its fuselage, it looked ordinary enough, no different from the thousands of similar Cessnas that flew out of airports throughout America.

“Hasn’t National been able to make contact with them?” asked Morrison, binoculars glued to his own brow.

“That’s a negative, sir,” Durham answered. “National, Andrews, and Dulles have all had the plane on radar for the last fifteen minutes.

But all of them are still experiencing tower communications problems as a result of the unusual sunspot activity that NASA warned us about last week.”

“Sunspot activity?” Thomas repeated, his line of sight still riveted on the circling Cessna.

“That’s affirmative,” said Matt. “It seems we’re entering the next eleven-year, active-sunspot cycle with a wicked geomagnetic storm that’s wreaking havoc in our atmosphere.”

Thomas now knew the most probable reason for the uncommon air-traffic pattern over his brother’s house the day before, and he listened to Samuel Morrison’s skeptical reply.

“Sunspots aren’t the reason for that Cessna’s presence up there. Even without a radio warning, every licensed pilot in America knows that buzzing the White House is strictly verboten. My gut tells me that the occupants of that plane have a surprise in store for us, and I want to be ready for it. What are our options, Durham?”

The forty-two-year-old Indiana native lowered his binoculars before answering. “We can continue closely monitoring the Cessna, with the hope that this is all nothing but an innocent sightseeing flight, and that they’ll soon lose interest and leave the area. Or, in our next level of response, we launch our F-16s, and escort them out of the zone in that manner. And then I can always deal with the matter on my own, by having one of my men take out the Cessna with a Stinger.”

“Damn!” cursed Morrison. “I’ve got Marine One due here shortly, a presidential press conference on the South Lawn, and the First Kid’s birthday celebration to consider. If it were any other time, I might suspect tourists, but not today. Durham, call Andrews and get those F-16s in the air.”

Before Matt could carry out this directive, Thomas informed him that the tense situation was about to take an unexpected twist. His binoculars still trained on the Cessna, his words of warning were prompted by the sudden opening of the plane’s fuselage door, and the appearance inside of a fully equipped parachutist.

“We’ve got a jumper!” he shouted.

No sooner were these words spoken than the figure leaped out of the airplane. Thomas followed this descent, looking on as the freefaller’s body rushed toward terminal velocity. Just when it looked like the jumper wouldn’t have enough time to safely engage the chute, it popped open with a long snaking coil of line. A bare 3,500 feet above the South Lawn, the chute finally inflated. Thomas identified the rectangular canopy as being an MC-4 ram air model.

“The Cessna’s veering off and hightailing it for Maryland!” informed Matt Durham.

“The hell with that frigging plane!” yelled Morrison, whose own glance remained locked on the descending parachutist. “Come on, Thomas. If that fool thinks he’s going to get away with crashing our party, we’re going to have to show him differently.”

They rushed back down the stairs to the South Portico. As they reached the mansion’s exterior terrace, Thomas spotted their airborne trespasser. The parachutist was somewhat awkwardly manipulating the canopy’s steering risers to fly the chute to a South Lawn touchdown.

With another 1,000 feet to go before hitting solid earth, Thomas estimated that the jumper would land somewhere near the helipad. A small army of over three dozen uniformed and plainclothes Secret Service agents were also headed toward this portion of the South Lawn, and Thomas sprinted past the tent area to join them.

The caterers, band members, and roadies who were congregated beneath the tents, were getting an excellent view of the entire incident.

Several of them were capturing this spectacle on their video cameras.

As Thomas ran past them, one of the long-haired onlookers shouted out in encouragement.

“Go get ‘em, man!”

Thomas reached the helipad area just as the jumper was about to touch down. Thomas didn’t bother drawing his pistol, his associates already displaying more than enough firepower to put down a riot. A wide assortment of pistols and revolvers, along with several Uzis, and an Ingram MAC 10, were aimed skyward, and one formidable-looking uniformed agent intently followed the parachutist’s final few feet of descent with the glistening barrel of an Ithaca Model 37 pump-action shotgun.

Seemingly oblivious to this awesome arsenal, the jumper aimed himself at the helipad’s center. A bare fifty feet from touchdown, Thomas could tell that the jumper would never make it. He showed his inexperience when he failed to compensate for what little wind was blowing, trying vainly to correct this miscalculation by pulling down on the wrong steering riser.

As it turned out, the parachutist was able to make a standing, yet somewhat rough, flared landing on the helipad’s southeastern corner. In a matter of seconds, he was completely surrounded, with Samuel Morrison catching the billowing chute and collapsing it in his arms.

Thomas made his way to the outer circle of agents, and watched as Morrison disgustedly handed the chute to an associate. Then, with his own Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum Model 29 drawn, the SAIC moved in for the interrogation.

“Hands up, you idiot!” he commanded.

Their prisoner timidly did as ordered. Yet the jumper’s face remained masked by a large pair of goggles. With the addition of a bright yellow, Pro-tech helmet and a green flightsuit, there was no telling who they had captured.

This changed as soon as Morrison positioned himself directly in front of the trespasser, aimed the intimidating barrel of his Smith and Wesson at the jumper’s forehead, and pulled back the revolver’s hammer, saying, “You’d better have one hell of an excuse, pal.”

“Hey, dude, chill out!” the jumper broke out in a rather high-pitched male voice. “I surrender, dude! I surrender!”

Thomas watched as a pair of agents moved in to frisk their intruder. No weapons were found, and they had to remove the jumper’s harness before they could handcuff him. It was while doing so that a pink, stuffed teddy bear fell out onto the lawn from the prisoner’s backpack.

Morrison bent over to grab this toy, and proceeded to roughly probe its stuffed body for any signs of hidden weapons.

This generated a passionate complaint from their trespasser. “Hey, dude, easy does it, big guy. That’s my birth day gift for the First Kid. We’re schoolmates, and I told her that I might be dropping in like this!”

The same two agents who frisked him were responsible for pulling off his helmet. This revealed the determined, smooth-skinned, adolescent face of a teenager. Thomas guessed his age to be about sixteen. He had longish blond hair, defiant hazel eyes, and in the best Generation X tradition, a golden earring piercing his left earlobe.

“Jesus, kid,” managed Morrison as he lowered the barrel of his pistol.

“Do you have any idea of what a shitload of trouble you caused here today?”

The SAIC didn’t bother to wait for a response. He holstered his weapon, his coworkers doing likewise. Morrison then turned his back on their youthful intruder, and beckoned two of his senior agents to join him at the southern edge of the helipad beside Thomas.

“Get the kid inside, check out his story, and get his parents on the line,” instructed Morrison. “Then find out who the hell was flying that frigging plane. I want that bastard’s license. And I want this entire incident played down to the press. All we need in tomorrow’s papers is to read how the Secret Service almost blew away a teddy bear-armed, teenybopper sky diver!”

Looking at Thomas, the SAIC facetiously added, “And here you thought that you had an exciting morning, Kellogg. Still sorry that you won’t be joining us at sea? Because if this little incident is any indication of what the future holds, Lord only knows what’s going to be waiting for us in the middle of the frigging Atlantic.”

6

Paching his two-suiter — which included stashing a spare box of 9mm rounds in his stateroom’s wall safe and sending his shirts out to be laundered with a deeply attentive Filipino steward named Nelson — Vince wound his way through the ship to the Queens Grill for lunch. He walked through a small intimate lounge area and was greeted by a smiling, tuxedo-clad maitre d’. “Ah, Special Agent Kellogg, I presume. Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to the Queens Grill. My name is Andre, and it will be my pleasure to serve you. This is your first crossing with us?”

Vince nodded that it was. Andre’s smile further widened. “Ah, excellent, sir. I see that you’ve been preassigned to balcony table Three-C, where Melanie and Neil will be taking excellent care of you.

If you’ll follow me, your party is waiting inside.”

The restaurant was as intimate and reserved as its exterior lounge.

Small by the QE2’s standards, the Grill was designed to hold 231 passengers. A central dining area held a dozen circular tables, several of which were set for six, with a number of smaller tables set up on a surrounding balcony. The furnishings were elegant and subdued: White leather chairs trimmed in black, fine crystal and silver table settings, fresh flower centerpieces, all illuminated by three large windows on each side of the room. Fewer than a dozen tables were currently occupied. As Vince followed Andre across the central seating area, he spotted evidence of the Grill’s namesake mounted on the after bulkhead — an intricately carved wooden crest of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

“Special Agent Kellogg.”

Robert Hartwell was seated beside two fellow officers. They were already eating their appetizers, and Vince beckoned them not to stand as Hartwell initiated the introductions.

“Special Agent, I’d like you to meet the ship’s executive chef, Bernhard Langer, and our esteemed physician, Dr. Andrew Benedict.”

Vince exchanged handshakes and took the vacant seat to the security officer’s right. No sooner had he done so, than a pair of crew members materialized at his side. The first of these white-uniformed figures was a vivacious, green-eyed blonde, who introduced herself as Melanie and handed Vince a menu. Her bespectacled associate sported clipped brown hair and a serious manner. He efficiently unfolded Vince’s napkin and handed it to him, at the same time identifying himself as Neil.

“I hope that you don’t mind, but we’ve already ordered,” informed Hartwell. “Please have a look, and do so yourself.”

“With pleasure,” Vince replied, opening the menu. It had a rendering of the QE2’s predecessor on its cover — the long-retired, dual-funneled ocean liner, Queen Elizabeth.

The menu itself offered Vince a wide selection to choose from. It started off with appetizers that included a seafood salad, sliced fruit platter, a cheese souffle, and tossed pasta salad. He decided to skip this course and begin his meal with Italian bean soup. The entrees ranged from green and white fettuccine in saffron-mushroom sauce, to braised veal chops, grilled pail lard of beef, and Maryland crab cakes; Southern fried chicken, too, complete with corn popovers, broiled tomatoes, onion rings, and fried potatoes. Also available was Oriental stir-fry and short-grain brown rice, the QE2 Spa selection for the calorie-conscious diner.

Vince was unable to resist ordering the fried chicken. He picked iced tea to drink, and chocolate mousse with caramelized bananas for dessert.

“Selecting lunch has definitely been the biggest decision of my day,” Vince said. “What an incredible selection.”

“We try our best to satisfy patrons who come to us from every corner of the globe,” said Executive Chef Langer, between sips of his consomme.

“And that they do only too well,” Hartwell concurred as he finished his gumbo.

The ship’s doctor patted his bulging stomach and added, “Though my last cholesterol count showed that I should have ordered the stir-fry, here I went for the fried chicken instead. You’d think as a physician I’d know better.”

“Like I was telling you, Doc, it’s all a matter of self control,” said Hartwell before downing a last spoonful of soup and wiping his beard with his napkin.

Vince’s soup arrived seconds later, and by the time their entrees were served, Vince had caught up with them. Everyday small talk prevailed as they dug into their lunches. While devouring his perfectly cooked fried chicken breast, Vince learned from Langer that the QE2 served over 500 pounds of chicken a day while at sea. Added to this was an average daily consumption of 3,200 eggs, 230 gallons of milk, 200 bottles of vintage champagne, and most interesting, 116 pounds of lobster and 6.6 pounds of premium caviar.

The executive chef was in the midst of describing how important it was to properly account for these stores, when a steward arrived at their table with a document for the doctor. Benedict pushed away his empty plate and hastily skimmed this sheet of paper before dismissing the courier.

“Is that the report, Doc?” Hartwell asked hopefully.

“Aye,” replied Benedict after readjusting the fit of his wire-rim glasses, then handing the document to Bernhard Langer.

“Well?” persisted the curious security officer.

Langer held back his reply until reading the report thoroughly. “I told you this would be the result,” he said, the barest of German accents flavoring his tone. “My kitchens are the cleanest on all the seas!”

With this haughty outburst, he handed the document to Hartwell. By this time, Vince had pretty well figured out what this exchange was all about. Yet it wasn’t until the Scotsman completed his examination of the document and voiced his own opinion, that Vince’s suspicions were confirmed.

“Then that’s it,” said Hartwell, an air of finality to his words. “If the New York public health authorities can find our food storage and preparation areas completely free from contamination, then we can be one-hundred-percent certain that the bacteria originated someplace other than in our Kitchens.”

“I presume that you’re referring to that case of salmonella poisoning that sickened members of your Spa staff,” remarked Vince.

“Make that a suspected case, Special Agent,” interjected the ship’s physician. “We still have no evidence that salmonella was the culprit.”

When Vince finally got the opportunity to read the report himself, he skimmed its contents but most of this numeric data meant little to him.

He lowered the document and addressed Hartwell.

“I’m certain that Dr. Patton, the President’s physician, is going to want to see a copy of this.”

“Isn’t my kitchen good enough for the President of the United States?” the executive chef said.

“That’s not what I was implying,” Vince replied.

“Whenever the President is traveling, his physician is personally responsible for insuring the safety of all food and drink. This is especially relevant when a kitchen that will be serving our President is being investigated for a possible case of food poisoning.”

“But that report proves that my kitchen is safe!” protested Langer.

“Come see for yourself, Special Agent Kellogg. Even my floors are so spotless that you could eat a meal right off of them.”

“Easy now, Bernhard,” Hartwell interceded. “If I can be so bold as to speak for the special agent here, he’s not doubting the truth of your words. This is nothing but a routine security matter. Now that we have official documentation of the state of our kitchens, it’s only logical that the President’s physician should know that he has nothing to fear from your meals.”

“Except indigestion from overeating,” interjected Andrew Benedict.

This comment caused a wave of shared laughter to envelop the table, and with the tension now broken, Dr. Benedict rose to excuse himself.

“I’m afraid that I have an open clinic to attend to,” said Benedict as he reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card and handed it to Vince. “Don’t hesitate to call. And please, come down to Six Deck and visit our Hospital. As you’ll soon enough see, we’re fully equipped to handle not only emergencies, but a wide spectrum of preventative medicine as well.”

Vince pocketed the card and replied, “I’d most enjoy seeing your facility, Doctor.” Longer also rose, handing Vince a card of his own.

“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Special Agent Kellogg. Dr. Benedict’s Hospital is not the only facility onboard ship that eagerly awaits your presence. The Queen’s Kitchen is always open to you. Just call me first, and I’d be honored to personally show you why our food preparation areas are second to none.”

“If that excellent meal I just consumed is any example of the quality of chow served aboard this vessel, I can understand the reason for your pride,” Vince offered.

Benedict and Langer exited the Grill together. This left Vince alone at the table with the ship’s security officer.

While Neil cleared the table, Melanie refilled their coffee cups. A thoughtful moment of silence followed, which Hartwell finally broke.

“I’m afraid that our esteemed executive chef is a bit on the emotional side.”

“I’ve never met a good cook who wasn’t,” observed Vince as he sipped his coffee.

“You know we’d be lying to you if we said that there was never a recorded case of food poisoning aboard the g 2,” Hartwell remarked carefully. “After all, as Chef Langer was explaining, the volume of food we serve is absolutely astronomical. But when combined with the millions of passengers we’ve fed over the years, I’d say that the chances of getting sick in such a manner are statistically nonexistent.”

“Then how do you explain the nature of the illness that struck down select members of the ship’s Gym staff recently?” asked Vince.

Hartwell hesitated a moment before answering. “I still say that it originated from food that was prepared elsewhere.”

“I didn’t think that you had staterooms with kitchen facilities in them,” Vince replied.

“We don’t,” retorted Hartwell. “In fact, the only place other than our kitchens where preparation over an open flame takes place, is Chinatown.”

“Chinatown?”

Hartwell smiled. “Since you haven’t had your complete tour of the Queen as yet, you haven’t had a chance to visit the ship’s Laundry down on Seven Deck. That’s where you’ll find Chinatown, home to seventeen of the hardest working Chinese laundrymen this side of Shanghai.”

“I imagine that’s where my steward sent the shirts that I asked him to launder?” Vince supposed.

“That’s the place. It remains operational twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and is responsible for cleaning every piece of dirty linen generated by our dining rooms and passenger cabins, as well as the crew’s uniforms, and those personal items of clothing that our passengers might want laundered.

“A character by the name of Ping is the head man down there. He’s a fairly new arrival on the ship, and treats the Laundry like his personal fiefdom. The majority of his workers will never even see the light of day during an entire crossing. I believe they’re paid by the piece, and being the industrious folks they are, leisure time is kept to a bare minimum. Hell, they won’t even sleep with the rest of the crew, let alone eat with them. And that’s why we allow them to have their own domain, where all their needs, including food preparation, can be met with a minimum of fuss.”

“Did the recent visit by the New York Public Health Department include an inspection of Chinatown’s kitchen?” Vince asked.

Hartweu’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Actually, as far as the outside world knows, Chinatown’s food preparation area doesn’t even exist. This is one of those delicate cases where we tolerate a certain behavior for expediency’s sake, without sanctioning it officially.”

Vince was surprised by this revelation, and he replied accordingly.

“Then, who’s responsible for insuring that proper safety and sanitary conditions prevail down there?”

“My staffs charged with insuring that all fire and safety codes are strictly enforced in Chinatown,” Hartwell revealed.

“Yet as far as the sanitation of the food-preparation area is concerned, I believe that’s the Doc’s area of responsibility.”

“So food prepared in Chinatown could have caused the crew members’ illness?”

“Doc’s questioning of the patients afterwards makes no mention of such a thing,” said Hartwell. “My suspicion is that it was something they consumed during a cocktail party the assistant manager of the Gym threw in his stateroom shortly after leaving Southampton.”

Vince followed up on this train of thought. “Maybe this party included appetizers prepared in Chinatown?”

Hartwell’s brow knitted in thought. “Though they made no mention of any such appetizers existing, I do suppose that it’s a possibility.

Shall we go down to Seven Deck and find out for ourselves? Besides, this will be the perfect opportunity for you to begin your tour.”

They started on Two Deck, where they headed forward past the Computer Learning Center and the A Stairwell. It was at the forwardmost end of the passageway that Hartwell led the way through a hatch that read: no admittance: crew only. This brought them into a portion of the ship that few passengers were ever allowed to see, the living and work spaces of the QE2’s crew.

Vince felt much like Alice after she stepped through the looking glass, finding himself in a whole other world. Gone were the carpeted hallways, the boutiques, and lush furnishings. In their place was a maze of bare, concrete passageways, looking much like those of an industrial plant.

This impression was further intensified as they climbed down a twisting, lattice-steel stairwell, deep into the bowels of the QE2. Vince lost count of the descending decks, concentrating instead on keeping up with his fast-moving guide.

They finally halted on what proved to be Six Deck. A fairly wide passageway led aft here, and Hartwell began a running commentary as they followed this long corridor toward the ship’s stern.

“We call this passageway the working alleyway. Crew quarters are located on the port side, along with the Administration Office, ship’s Print Shop, and the first of several large storerooms dedicated to the stowage of various food items.”

Vince got a chance to peek inside a large deep freeze, about the size of a three-car garage, reserved solely for the storing of ice cream. An adjoining locker held hundreds of cases of every type of alcoholic beverage imaginable, while beside it was a good-sized vault dedicated exclusively to caviar.

Continuing aft, Hartwell showed Vince the ship’s main Food Pantry. It occupied an immense compartment, and was filled with shelf after shelf of canned and package goods. It reminded Vince of his local grocery store, though this supermarket could only get its vendors’ deliveries while the QE2 was in port.

After passing a hatch that led into the Hospital, Hartwell guided Vince down another narrow stairway. This conveyed them to Seven Deck and the large room where the vessel’s Laundry was located.

The air was hot and humid as they stepped inside. Banks of industrial-sized washers and dryers dominated this equipment-packed compartment. To the steady roar of machinery, Vince watched as two men fed sheets into the jaws of a massive flat ironer that automatically pressed and folded clean linens. Four other men were absorbed in transferring a heavy load of white terry-cloth towels into one of the dryers.

All of the workers were Asian males. They wore Tshirts, shorts, and open-toed thongs, with several of them sporting red bandannas tied around their foreheads.

“Those dryers that they’re loading can hold up to two hundred-forty pounds each,” explained Hartwell, who had to speak loudly to be heard.

“When the ship’s fully occupied, it takes a constant twenty-four-hour shift to keep up with the volume, with things getting a bit interesting upon hitting rough seas.”

Vince followed his guide past the first churning washing machine. The air temperature seemed to increase further and he felt the first rivulet of sweat roll down the back of his neck.

“Ping must be in the other room,” Hartwell surmised after scanning the faces of the workers. “And that’s where we’ll find Chinatown’s food-preparation area.”

It was indeed in the adjoining compartment that they found Ping. The short, wiry Asian was supervising the unloading of a pallet packed with fifty-pound sacks of detergent.

“Mr. Robert,” greeted Ping, a surprised grin turning the corners of his wrinkled face. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

“Ping, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Vince Kellogg of the U. S. Secret Service,” said Hartwell. “Special Agent Kellogg will be joining us for the upcoming crossing, and expressed an interest in seeing your operation.”

There was a shy inquisitiveness to Ping’s glance as he looked at Vince and bowed slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m flattered that you’ve taken the time to visit our humble work space.”

Vince returned this gracious greeting with a slight bow of his own and listened as Hartwell continued.

“I see that our reduced crew certainly hasn’t affected your workload.

If anything, you folks seem busier than ever.”

“That we are, Mr. Robert. Right now, we’re in the midst of a thorough inspection of the ship’s bath linens. Every single towel is being checked for wear and then relaundered.”

Vince surveyed the tall stacks of white terry-cloth towels that lay neatly folded on the counters lining much of the room. A long, rectangular table holding piles of hand towels stood in the compartment’s center, but Vince failed to spot any sort of kitchen facilities.

“I thought this was where the laundry’s food-preparation area was located,” he said.

This off-the-wall comment appeared to catch Ping by surprise. He accepted a supportive nod from Hartwell before replying. “Space constraints force us to use this compartment for dual purposes. As mealtime approaches, the counters are removed, and that’s where you’ll find our sink and stove.”

“And where’s the food itself stored?” Vince continued.

Ping’s expression further tightened with suspicion, prompting Hartwell to intercede. “It’s all right, Ping. We’re investigating a possible case of food contamination. You’re free to answer all of Special Agent Kellogg’s questions.”

With a confused shrug of his narrow shoulders, Ping opened a nearby doorway and revealed a dimly lit storeroom. Alongside a wall lined with chemical drums, sat a wizened Asian man, innocently peeling vegetables.

A large bucket filled with scraps lay between his bare feet, with a stainless-steel refrigerator close by.

“You’ll find all perishable items such as fish, chicken, and pork properly stored inside the refrigerator,” revealed Ping. “These items are drawn from the ship’s larder when needed. You can rest assured that we make every effort to follow Chef Langer’s strict sanitation guidelines.”

“May I have a look?” Vince asked as he walked over to the refrigerator and opened it without waiting for a reply.

He found the chilled interior to be spotlessly clean. A large covered platter of cut-up chicken sat on the center shelf, along with several plastic tubs filled with an assortment of raw vegetables.

“To my knowledge, not a single one of my workers has ever gotten ill from one of our meals,” Ping said as Vince gestured Hartwell to have a look inside.

The Scotsman initiated a cursory inspection of the refrigerator’s contents before shutting the door and querying, “Ping, during our last crossing from Southampton, did any members of the crew other than your men use this facility for food preparation?”

“Absolutely not,” Ping answered.

“Then is it possible that one of your men could have prepared a dish for an outsider, something as simple as an appetizer for a party?” probed Vince.

Ping responded thoughtfully. “The only time that food cooked here leaves these walls is on very special occasions. From time to time, we prepare a meal for the captain, or one of the other senior officers.”

“I understand these special meals are much anticipated and most appreciated,” said Hartwell. “Scuttlebutt even has it that upon tasting one of your dishes, Chef Langer requested the recipe.”

“Indeed.” As Ping went on to describe the details of this fondly remembered incident, Vince explored the storeroom further. He spotted a large steel grille cut into the bulkhead behind a waist-high stack of bagged white rice. A steady, pulsating drone could be heard emanating from this opening. Hartwell revealed its source.

“That grille is a free-flood hole that opens up directly into the Engine Room.”

Any further elaboration on his part was cut short by the sudden activation of his two-way radio. With both Vince and Ping looking on, he pulled out the compact device and spoke into the transmitter.

“Hartwell, here.”

“Chief,” said Tuffs amplified voice. “The Secret Service has just informed me that the first motorcade has left the United Nations. They should be arriving here in another fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that, Tuff. I’m on my way up to join you pier side Over.”

Hartwell pocketed the radio and addressed Vince. “I don’t know about you, Special Agent, but I’d say that we can cross Chinatown off the list of possible sources of contamination.”

“By all means,” Vince concurred.

“Thanks for your cooperation, Ping,” said Hartwell as he led the way out of the storeroom. “I imagine that you and your lads are excited by the prospect of sailing with President Li this crossing. Did you ever dream this day would come?”

Ping halted beside the partially unloaded pallet of detergent and answered matter-of-factly. “I left China many years ago, and know little of such matters. As far as I’m concerned, all politicians are cut from the same bolt of cloth, with the youngster Li Chen no different from the other world leaders.” Then he bowed at the waist and added politely, “It was an honor to be of service, gentlemen.” Vince said his own goodbyes, and as he followed Hart well out of the Laundry, he accepted his guide’s offer to accompany him topside by way of the Engine Room.

A narrow hatch secured by dog-clips conveyed them to an elevated, latticed-steel platform overlooking one of the largest interior compartments on the ship. From this lofty vantage point Vince enjoyed an unobstructed view of the cavernous hold’s five immense diesel engines, only one of which was currently operational.

“It was in 1986 that the QE2’s engines were converted from steam to diesel power,” explained Hartwell, who had to practically scream to be heard over the constant guttural roar. “The ship is presently equipped with nine MAN turbocharged engines. Each of these one hundred-twenty ton giants are the approximate size of a London double decker bus, with four fitted forward, and five aft.

“In addition to producing enough electrical power to light a city the size of Southampton, the engines drive two main propulsion motors that in turn spin the vessel’s twin propeller shafts. Our top speed is thirty-two knots, with only seven of the engines needed to produce a standard service speed of twenty-eight and one-half knots.”

Vince watched as a group of crewmen gathered around the open manifold of one of the engines that wasn’t operational. They appeared to be servicing its massive cylinder heads. Even from this distance Vince could clearly see the black grease that stained their white coveralls.

“Why not place all nine engines in one compartment?” Vince asked.

“Wouldn’t that facilitate maintenance?”

“Aye,” said Hartwell. “But our engineers put up with this minor inconvenience, knowing that in the event of an accident, a series of watertight doors separates the two rooms, allowing autonomous operations.”

A steep ladder brought them down to the compartment’s main deck. Careful not to slide on the slippery catwalk, Vince followed Hartwell aft.

Twisting pipe and thick, insulated ducts hugged the bulkheads, with the distinctive stench of fuel oil almost overpowering.

As they climbed over the bottom lip of a massive watertight door, Hartwell pointed to the right. Several oddly shaped, sealed vats were positioned against the far bulkhead, with a number of thick, grease-stained pipes snaking in and out of them. The smell of oil was particularly strong here. Vince soon learned why.

“That’s where the fuel is heated,” Hartwell revealed. “In its natural state, the oil we use has a consistency much like road tar, and needs to be subsequently thinned. Note the heavy concentration of halon fire extinguishers mounted into the ceiling. The fuel-storage bunkers are positioned directly below us, making this one of the most volatile areas on the entire ship.”

“What kind of gas mileage do you get?” Vince asked.

“At service speed, the engines require about 380 tons per day. The ship can hold 4,578 tons, giving us a range of twelve days without having to refuel.”

They passed through yet another watertight door, with Hartwell directing Vince’s attention to a thick, circular steel manifold that extended all the way up to the ceiling and had numerous pipes connected to it. “Those ventilation shafts go straight up to the funnel. Exhaust gasses from the engines are routed up this trunking. Once they reach the funnel the heat is captured in specially designed boilers. The resulting steam is redirected for a variety of diverse purposes, including heating the fuel and the water you’ll be using in your shower.”

“Sounds like you’re no stranger to this portion of the ship, Robert.”

The retired commando smiled proudly. “When I first went in the service, I trained to be a Royal Navy engineer. But being an outdoors sort, it didn’t take long for the Royal Marines to get my attention.”

The main catwalk continued aft. Hartwell pointed in this direction, and added, “The ship’s four vacuum evaporators for the production of fresh water, and her bilge and ballast pumping station are located back there.

Perhaps you’ll get a chance to visit these spaces during the next bomb sweep, but right now, we’d better head topside.”

An adjoining access way brought them to a closed hatch set into the starboard bulkhead. Hartwell had to use both hands to open this heavy fire door, and Vince wasted no time passing through it. This brought them smack into one of the QE2’s carpet-lined passenger passageways.

Once more, Vince felt like he had passed into another dimension — from the greasy, noise-filled, mechanical abyss of the vessel’s Engine Room, to a plush, luxurious world, where the sounds of a Beethoven symphony emanated softly from the PA system.

Vince felt dirty and hot. He carefully wiped the soles of his shoes on the rubber doormat that sat outside the fire exit. Once Hartwell shut the hatch behind them, there was no evidence that the Engine Room even existed.

“Thanks for the abbreviated tour,” offered Vince. Hartwell took his place on the doormat. While wiping off his own shoes, he responded, “It’s my pleasure, though there’s still a lot more to see. Don’t forget that you’ve got ten more decks to explore.”

Although he’d studied pictures, schematics and cutaways for a month, Vince was just now getting a true feel for the immensity of this vessel, and he knew that he had his work cut out for him. With barely eight hours to go until the ship set sail, it was imperative that he have a personal knowledge of its layout before the heads of state arrived and the summit began. He seriously doubted that he’d be able to master the crew spaces in the limited time remaining, so he decided that his main focus would be on the public areas.

Vince followed Hartwell over to an elevator that whisked them up to Two Deck and the nearby Midships Lobby. A female harpist in a flowing white gown was set up in the Lobby’s recessed center well, a strange counterpoint to the two somber, powerfully built black-suited Asians, who suddenly appeared in the starboard passageway following a steward.

Vince knew the lead figure to be Yushio Tanaka, special agent in charge of the Japanese prime minister’s security team. They had met previously during the prime minister’s last trip to Washington. Vince acknowledged his presence with a polite bow. The two agents returned this gesture before disappearing through the aft access way no doubt on the way to their cabins.

Their recent arrival on board ship was further proof of the late hour, and Vince anxiously followed Hartwell over the gangway. As they emerged onto the dock, they were engulfed by a crowd of scurrying porters, Cunard representatives, and smartly uniformed stewards.

Nearby, a line of passengers patiently waited their turns at the security checkpoint. Through the din they made, Vince could hear the bouncy show tunes being played by a combo comprised of select members of the ship’s orchestra.

On the other side of the security fence, Vince also counted seven separate television news crews, either setting up or actually shooting footage. They were working under the watchful eye of dozens of blue-uniformed policemen, many escorting police dogs. The tension and excitement on the dock was palpable.

Hartwell was apparently no stranger to such glamorous sendoffs, and after checking in with one of his female associates, he nonchalantly addressed Vince. “Looks like it’s getting close to showtime. The motorcades carrying the prime ministers of Italy and Japan should be arriving any minute now, with the Canadians and Brits preparing to leave the United Nations within the half hour.

“The plane carrying the chancellor of Germany has just touched down at Kennedy. The aircraft carrying the presidents of Russia and France are on their final approach.”

“Any word on the Chinese president?” asked Vince.

Hartwell answered as he checked the digital display of his ringing pager. “As far as I know, he’s still due in sometime around nine.”

Turning toward the terminal’s freight entrance, he added, “It appears that Tuffs got some newly arrived cargo that’s not on the original manifest. Shall we have a look?”

Vince beckoned Hartwell to lead the way, and together they proceeded to the barricaded section of the terminal reserved for cargo. This portion of the facility was connected to the street by way of a loading dock, with the QE2’s majestic hull forming a solid blue wall on the southern perimeter.

They passed a group of longshoremen, busy preparing a crate-laden pallet for transfer onto the ship. This process was facilitated by use of the vessel’s own bow-mounted loading crane that would lift the pallet up into the forward cargo hold.

Vince had seen a part of this hold during his trip down to the ship’s Laundry. It adjoined the working alleyway off Six Deck and was strategically placed to allow easy access to the rest of the vessel.

Already looking forward to continuing on with the rest of his tour, Vince spotted a group of individuals huddled on the loading dock. One of these figures was Special Agent Doug Algren, with Tuff, two Port Authority patrolmen, and the QE2’s cargomaster close by.

A short stairway conveyed Vince and Hartwell up onto the dock, where they got a close-up view of the collection of suspect cargo. Placed on the concrete landing were five pieces of gym equipment. There were three exercise bikes, a rowing machine, and a Stair Master The equipment was partially covered in protective bubble wrap, and appeared to be brand-new, sporting the latest in high-tech digital displays and biofeedback readouts.

The apparent owners of this machinery stood nearby. Vince’s glance was drawn to the only female in this foursome, a gorgeous Asian woman in her early twenties. Her short black hair was cut in bangs that perfectly framed a pair of coal-black, almond-shaped eyes, button nose, and a wide, sensuous mouth. A leotard and tight-fitting jeans displayed the perfect figure that Vince associated with a world-class athlete.

Standing close at her side was a handsome Asian man, who could easily have been her father. He looked oddly familiar to Vince — his solid, five-foot-nine-inch frame dressed immaculately in a long-sleeve, light-blue Oxford shirt and freshly pressed khakis. He wore brown leather loafers and was sock less The two men beside him were a study in opposites, even though both were also Asians and wore matching white coveralls with a patch sewn on their chests reading:

liu’s gym. The taller of the pair towered a good eight inches above his five-foot-six-inch associate. Built much like Tuff, with an expansive chest, wide shoulders, and thick neck, this crew-cut, sad-eyed giant seemed oblivious to all the excitement going on around him.

His wide-eyed coworker appeared enthralled with the milling crowds visible in the terminal beyond. Unlike his bored comrade, he didn’t want to miss a thing, his beady eyes and curious stare sweeping the facility in search of the least hint of activity.

“Hello, Vince,” said Algren, who appeared surprised to see him. “Once I saw you disappear up that gangway, I thought that would be the last I’d see of you until you got home from England.”

“You won’t be getting rid of me so easily, Doug.”

“The chief was just telling me that my page caught you down in Chinatown, on the trail of the contaminated food that could have been responsible for taking out our gym staff,” said Tuff.

“I’m afraid that we hit a dead end, Tuff,” Vince said. He looked over to the nearby pallet and added, “I see that the replacement gym equipment has finally arrived.”

“I must be the only guy on this dock who knew absolutely nothing about this replacement gear,” said Algren, his frustration obvious. “My most recent cargo manifest shows no mention of any such machinery.”

Robert Hartwell overheard this comment while talking with the ship’s cargomaster and was quick to offer his apologies. “It looks like we’re going to have to take the blame for not getting you a copy of the last update, Special Agent. If you’d like, I can have one brought down from the ship’s security office, though you can rest assured that this equipment is fully authorized.”

“That’s all I need to know,” returned Algren, immediately beckoning the group of four Asians to join them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Liu,” Hartwell said to the khaki clad male. “It’s good to see you again. I’d like you to meet Special Agent Vince Kellogg of the U. S. Secret Service.”

Vince noted the way the Asian’s eyes lit up with sudden interest upon learning his title, and a broad smile turned Liu’s mouth as they shook hands.

“As I said earlier, Mr. Liu is a part owner of the firm that runs our gym facilities on both the QE2 and three of our other cruise ships,” Hartwell said.

“Only on a contract basis,” Liu interjected humbly, in perfect English.

“And please, I’d be much more comfortable if all of you would call me by my first name, Dennis. Will you be joining us on the crossing, Special Agent Kellogg?”

Vince nodded that he would, knowing full well that Liu was once known as the most promising heir to Bruce Lee’s throne. He was now the so-called prince of chop-sockey, the unique, low-budget martial-arts films that were heavy in action but light in substance. Vince’s son had enrolled in his first karate class earlier in the year, and it was here that Joshua had discovered Liu’s films, which Vince had secretly come to enjoy himself. If he knew Joshua, he’d be much more impressed with a Dennis Liu autograph than those of all of the G-7 leaders combined!

“You must come and visit us down in the Gym,” Liu offered. “I can personally guarantee that you’ll get a full workout, with my daughter Kristin here leading our aerobics classes.”

Liu suddenly realized that he had yet to introduce her. As he did so, Kristin’s shy smile melted Vince’s heart, — and his thoughts remained centered on this ravishing, exotic young beauty as Dennis Liu went on to introduce his two coverall-clad associates. The tallest of the two was appropriately nicknamed Bear, while his wide-eyed associate answered to the name of Sunny.

While Sunny and Bear helped two cargo handlers with the backbreaking task of loading the gym equipment onto an empty pallet, Kristin proceeded through the loading dock’s metal detector and joined Vince, Hartwell, Tuff, and Doug Algren on the other side of the security checkpoint.

“I thought that Ms. Chang was supposed to be accompanying you?” offered a somewhat disappointed Hartwell.

“You need not worry, my friend,” Liu replied. “Much like myself, Monica wouldn’t miss this very special crossing for all the world.

Thank heavens that both of us weren’t busy filming, and were available as substitutes when we learned that our associates had fallen ill. Have you discovered the source of this sickness as yet?”

“We believe that the illness was caused by something they either ate or drank,” observed Hartwell. “Yet so far, we’ve been unable to determine exactly what it was.”

“Nor have I nor my coworkers’ doctors,” Liu said. Then he related the facts of his visit to the hospital where his coworkers were being treated.

A longshoreman in a forklift drove up to the loading dock at this point and lifted the equipment-filled pallet. Yet before it could be conveyed into the ship’s hold, its contents had to pass their own security check.

This arrived in the form of a uniformed Customs official and her good natured black Labrador named Montana.

The Lab curiously sniffed the wooden-slat base of the pallet before climbing up onto it. The gym equipment was anchored with bands of canvas strapping, and Montana had to awkwardly climb over this obstacle course to begin her work in earnest.

The first piece to pass Montana’s inspection was the rowing machine.

The Stair Master and the bicycles proved to be a bit more of a challenge. After sniffing the bases, Montana had to stand on her hind legs to inspect this gear’s upper portion.

It was while bracing her forepaws against the frame of one of the bikes that Montana scratched the handle’s black, glossy finish. This accident generated a passionate protest from Sunny. “Hey, watch it! That equipment’s brand-new and costs a fortune.”

Montana instinctively sensed that she was the cause of these angry words, and as her handler pulled her away to inspect the damages, the wail of sirens sounded from the street. Doug Algren’s two-way activated.

After the briefest of conversations, the special agent readily explained what the outside commotion was all about.

“The Italian motorcade has arrived.”

A group of burly cargo handlers emerged from the street entrance of the loading dock pushing carts filled with personal luggage. As the sirens finally faded, several news crews could be seen rushing toward the terminal’s main entryway.

Vince and his associates had a new situation on their hands when an overeager cameraman fell headfirst over one of the blue-and-white police sawhorses. Seconds later, the Italian prime minister’s party made its grand entrance to a blinding wall of flashing strobes.

The fallen cameraman remained on the ground unmoving, his prone body blocking the confused Italians’ progress. As the first Port Authority patrolman arrived to assist the unconscious journalist, the timid voice of the Customs inspector said, “I’m sorry about the scratches. Montana was just doing her job.”

“Don’t worry about it, miss,” advised Dennis Liu, who, along with his daughter, had been riveted on the chaotic scene unfolding at the terminal’s entrance.

“It appears that those scratches are the least of our problem,” added Robert Hartwell, who momentarily glanced away from the entryway and addressed the Customs agent. “I’ll take full responsibility for any damages. So, if it’s all right with you, we’d better allow our esteemed cargomaster to get this equipment aboard. Besides, it appears that you and Montana have your work cut out with all that newly arrived baggage.”

As the frazzled Customs agent gratefully scrawled her initials on the pallet’s clearance form, all eyes returned to the terminal. One of the Italians had managed to get into some sort of verbal altercation with a Port Authority official.

“Oh, hell!” cursed Algren. “I’d better get over there before we have a major international incident on our hands. If I don’t see you later, have a safe crossing, folks.”

“Thanks, Doug,” said Vince. “Good luck yourself.”

“And now the fun really begins,” offered Hartwell, who, along with Vince and Tuff, watched as Special Agent Algren rushed over to the crowd of onlookers that continued to gather at the terminal’s entrance.

7

It was late afternoon by the time Thomas Kellogg finally returned to his office at BATF headquarters on Massachusetts Avenue. The day had already been a full one, yet Thomas knew that his real work was only just beginning.

As expected, he found his desk filled with unopened mail, memos, and phone messages. Though he’d have to attend to these eventually, right now he had other priorities, and his first stop after the short visit to his desk was the explosives technology lab.

The facility contained the latest in scientific equipment. It was located on the floor below and had recently undergone a major refit.

Thomas was confident that it ranked among the country’s best.

Of course, any forensic laboratory was only as good as its people. The BATF was fortunate to have recruited the finest personnel available — many of these technicians had come from the ranks of the military, where they received their initial training in the arcane business of explosives ordnance technology.

Thomas wasn’t surprised to find the agency’s se niormost EOD technician hard at work inside the lab as he entered. Les Stanley had once served in the same outfit as M. Sgt. Danny Lane, making him the perfect person to be carrying on Lane’s work here at BATF headquarters.

The Priority Mail IED they had defused earlier in the day had preceded Thomas to the lab. It was now Stanley’s job to further disassemble the device. Much like a coroner dissecting a corpse to uncover evidence of a homicide, Stanley was picking apart the remains of the bomb searching for clues.

He did so on a well-lit, oblong worktable, with a jeweler’s loupe strapped to his eye. Stanley had already cut away most of the cardboard box, and was concentrating his efforts on the bomb’s fiberboard base and the various fusing mechanisms that were still attached to it.

“It’s all so damn elementary,” observed Stanley, while carefully cutting the wire leads attached to the photocell.

Thomas had pulled over a stool alongside the technician, as Stanley continued his remarks without looking up. “On exposure to light, the photocell’s resistance decreases, causing the transistors to conduct.

Then, when the battery current flowing through the transistors reaches a sufficient level, the relay is activated, the contact closes, and the circuit is completed, firing the detonators.”

“Did the liquid nitrogen do much damage to the components?” asked Thomas as Stanley began scraping a sample of soldering into a small vial.

“The only problem it’s caused so far is with the outer carton,” returned Stanley, who next turned his attention to the device’s twin transistors.

“The quick-freeze burnt the cardboard surface, and if there were any fingerprints on there, we’re going to have a hell of a time finding them.”

“At least we’ve got the rest of it to work with,” said Thomas.

He watched as Stanley placed one of the transistors in a plastic evidence bag. Over a dozen similar bags had already been filled, a careful analysis of their contents being the next step in the investigation.

“Anything out of the ordinary so far, Les?”

Stanley somberly shook his head. “There’s nothing here that couldn’t be purchased in your local hardware store, except for those two blocks of C-4, that is. I’ve already had Mitchell run a preliminary analysis on it, and the results are sobering. The blend appears to be 91.8 percent RDX and 8.2 percent inert plasticizer, giving it an approximate detonating velocity of some 26,400 fps.” RDX, Thomas knew, was a high explosive made from nitric acid and hexamethylenetetramine.

“I was afraid that it would be military grade.” Thomas said with a sigh.

“I think I’ll give Ted Callahan a call over at the Pentagon, and see if the Army’s experienced any unexplained shortages lately, especially in the Virginia area.”

With this comment, Les Stanley deliberately put down his tweezers. He pushed aside his loupe, sat up straight, and turned his gaze on Thomas.

“Hell, last I heard, Callahan and his cronies couldn’t even find a pair of M 1 battle tanks and a trio of Humvees that mysteriously disappeared out of their Texas-based inventory. And you think they can help you find out if a couple of pounds of C-4 have been stolen? The damn Secretary of the Army could go missing for an entire week, and they’d never even miss him!”

Thomas didn’t doubt there were some thefts his friend couldn’t solve, but he decided nevertheless to follow up this avenue of investigation.

Col. Theodore Callahan could tell him about every Department of Defense facility in which C-4 was stored, and inform him where these potent plastic explosives were produced, and how they were accounted for afterwards. He excused himself and returned to his office, where a phone call found Callahan at his Pentagon office.

Thomas had served with Callahan in Grenada. They were to go their separate ways afterwards, only to be reunited in the past two years when Callahan was transferred to the Pentagon where he was serving as one of the Army’s top cops. It was in this official capacity that they were to work together again when Thomas was sent undercover to investigate an ongoing case involving racial tensions inside Army Special Forces.

Upon learning of Thomas’s current case, Callahan immediately offered his services. He also expressed a desire to help them with their bomb maker psychological profile. And when Callahan subsequently invited him to come right over to the Pentagon to continue the conversation, Thomas found himself unwilling to refuse his gracious offer.

Only after he hung up the phone did Thomas realize the late hour. It was rapidly approaching 5:00 p. m.” which meant that rush hour would be in full swing by the time he left his office. Not looking forward to fighting the traffic on Washington’s gridlocked surface streets, he decided instead to take the Metro.

His commute was a speedy one. An escalator at the Metro platform carried him right up into the Pentagon’s interior entry way. Looking from the top back down the tunnel from which he had just emerged, Thomas could see why the deeply buried Metro served a secondary function as a bomb shelter.

A tiled corridor led to the building’s main reception area and a security checkpoint. Even though he didn’t have a military ID, his BATF credential allowed him special access. One of the uniformed guards escorted him around the metal detector, and he was able to enter the Pentagon without having to remove his pistol from its shoulder harnessed holster.

While in the Air Force, Thomas spent nine months stationed at the Pentagon, so he was no stranger to its miles of mazelike hallways. The office he was presently bound for was on the third floor, located in the five-sided structure’s outer section, the E-ring.

It had been many months since he had last visited the Pentagon. As Thomas followed a long, sloping ramp up into its interior, a flood of memories engulfed him. Only yesterday, it seemed, had he been a bright-eyed young officer, fresh out of the Air Force Academy and ready to set the world on fire. What great dreams and lofty goals had guided him as he walked these same hallowed halls. He was going to single-handedly leave his mark on the military, feeling there was nothing he couldn’t accomplish if he put his mind to it.

As he was to learn all too soon, his ideals were as cliched as the phrases he’d felt described them and the system that he once had admired so was to have vastly different ideas as to how he could best serve it.

Conformity was the order of the day, with individual initiative definitely frowned upon. Time-consuming, bureaucratic procedures would try his patience, while any suggestions to address these inefficiencies were looked at with scorn. The successful officer learned these lessons early in his career, as the path to promotion was clearly trod by those who had figured out how best to play the game.

A passing group of smooth-faced, ROTC cadets reminded Thomas that this same game was going on today. Intelligent, vibrant, and eager to please, these young men were the fodder relied on by the powers that be to keep the system running. In so many ways, these cadets were the best that the country had to offer, and ultimately it was the military’s responsibility to use their talents wisely.

It was on a blustery October day in 1983, in the storm tossed waters off Grenada, that Thomas was to learn the real nature of war and of the system that he had sworn with his life to perpetuate. Thomas was part of a joint Air Force/ Navy special-operations team whose task was to secure Salines airfield for the main Army Ranger assault force that would be landing there twenty-four hours later.

The operation itself was a complicated one. It necessitated a dangerous, low-level, night airdrop into the sea, some thirty kilometers off the southwestern tip of Grenada. Once in the water, they were to rendezvous with a number of small boats that were to be launched from the destroyer USS Clifton Sprague. These boats would then convey them to the beach, where they’d attempt to locate a suitable landing spot and get ashore undetected. Only then would they be free to continue on to the nearby airfield.

Thomas was a member of the combat-control team whose duty it was to covertly position radio guidance beacons near the airfield’s runway.

Once this was achieved, they would be responsible for issuing up-to the-minute weather reports, and effect terminal air-traffic control for the MC-130E Combat Talons making up the main assault force.

This was his first real combat mission, and he was soon to learn things rarely went as planned during war. An unexpected twenty-five-knot crosswind resulted in the loss of four members of the team during the initial parachute jump. One of these men had been his roommate during basic, and Thomas got his first taste of true horror as he sat in one of the Clifton Sprague’s Boston Whalers shivering in the blustery wind and searching the dark seas for any signs of the missing jumpers.

None were ever found. Making the situation even more tragic, a mechanical problem with the Boston Whaler caused the mission to be scrubbed. They tried again the next evening, and once more found thenbest efforts ending in near disaster. And then-failure to secure the airfield caused the entire invasion to be delayed another twenty four hours.

Until this time, he had barely been aware of his own mortality, cocky and filled with false bravado. All that vanished in the black sea off Grenada.

Returning to the Pentagon now was like coming back to a past life. The surroundings were familiar, but the person who walked these hallways was another man. He understood sacrifice, he thought as he turned down a wide corridor lined with dozens of battle flags and a series of engraved names. He understood the courage of those here commemorated, the soldiers awarded the country’s highest decoration for valor, the Medal of Honor. He just wondered if the capacity for either was still in him.

He found the door he was looking for beside the name of Sgt. Alvin Cullum York. It was securely locked, with an electronic keypad above the knob. An intercom was mounted in the wall beside the doorframe, and Thomas pressed the button a single time. After passing the scrutiny of an elevated video camera, the tumbler activated with a click, prompting Thomas to grab the knob and turn it until the door swung open.

The office inside was little more than a collection of some dozen individual work cubes Each of these spaces had room for a single person, a computer, and a pair of two-drawer, legal-sized, fireproof filing cabinets. Only two of the spaces were currently occupied, with Thomas locating the person he was looking for at the far end of the linoleum-tiled corridor.

Callahan was deeply immersed in a computer entry. Thomas spotted his shiny bald scalp as he rounded the side of the cubicle. Since Callahan apparently still didn’t know that his visitor had arrived, Thomas took a second to study his old friend’s cluttered workspace. Unlike the majority of orderly cubicles he had passed, Thomas found this one to be decorated like a typical teenage boy’s bedroom.

Pictures of various war toys took up much of the wall space. Thomas identified an Abrams Main Battle tank, an M1 13 armored personnel carrier with a TOW launcher attached to its turret, several photos showing an MHO self-propelled howitzer in action, and another series featuring the M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicle. Interspersed amongst these colored photographs were smaller ones showing several types of mortars, grenade launchers, an M72 light antitank weapon, and a variety of machine guns. Maps and plenty of Post-it Notes filled the remaining wall space. The cubicle’s desk was equally crowded with a combination of paperwork, office supplies, and the remnants of a partially eaten lunch.

“Please feel free to help yourself to what’s left of that tuna sandwich, Thomas.” The BATF agent jumped at the sound of Callahan’s voice. He hadn’t moved or looked up. “And there’s coffee and soda in the copy room. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Ted’s voice was as deep and gravelly as ever, and Thomas was content to watch him furiously attack his keyboard. Thomas was a self-educated graduate of the hunt-and-peck school. It was obvious that Callahan was an experienced touch typist capable of accessing computer functions Thomas didn’t even know existed.

“Your call earlier really caught me by surprise,” Callahan said as he finished inputting a final command and activated the computer’s printer.

“The last time we talked, you had just been picked to ride shotgun for the famous summit at sea.”

As the printer chattered to life, Callahan finally swiveled around to face his guest. Thomas noted that he could use a shave. The dark circles under his hazel eyes, and the rumpled shirt, indicated he had been at work for some time now.

“Just my rotten luck, they pulled me off the summit yesterday,” Thomas said as he slapped Callahan’s hand in greeting. “Hell, I even went and had my tux cleaned.”

“If my memory serves me right, you never were much for ships,” Callahan said. He pulled out a short stool from beneath his desk and gestured to Thomas to take a seat. “So, did you by any chance see the evening news?”

“Hell, I haven’t even had the time to read this morning’s paper.”

“Then you don’t know about the remarkable UN speech given by the British prime minister this afternoon. It seems the Brits have given their full blessings to Russia’s Global Zero Alert plan. It’s hard to believe, but it looks like that treaty actually has a chance of being signed.”

“It’ll never happen,” Thomas retorted. “No matter how much international support it might be able to generate, I can’t believe the United States would ever sign such a treaty. I mean, come on, Ted. I realize the dangers of continued nuclear alert. But to go to the extreme of pulling the warheads from the delivery systems is ridiculous. What’s the value of a nuclear deterrent, if it’s going to take us several hours to prepare our weapons for use?”

“The Brits seemed to be making a big deal about the dangers of our current hair-trigger nuclear-response policy,” Callahan returned.

“They’re agreeing with the Russians, and taking the stand that such a risky alert posture has no place in today’s post-Cold War world.”

“A Global Zero Alert policy might make good rhetoric, but in reality, it’s totally impractical,” Thomas continued. “It’s been the threat of a nuclear response that’s kept the peace for the last fifty years. Take away our nuclear option and you’re stripping us of one of our greatest bargaining tools.”

“Hey, man, don’t forget that you’re preaching to the choir,” said Callahan, who turned away from Thomas when his printer finally completed its long run. A pile of some fifty sheets of eight-and-one-half-by-eleven white paper lay in the Out tray. Callahan grabbed the stack and handed it to Thomas.

“What’s this all about?” asked Thomas, while flipping through the pages.

“That’s the data you requested earlier this afternoon, Special Agent.”

Thomas pulled out a page at random, and began reading its first three entries out loud. “March 24, 1998; Fort Monroe, Virginia, U. S. Army Training Command — inventory shortfall: six M72A2 Light Antitank Weapons.

Unsolved. March 25, 1998; Fort Meade, Maryland, First U. S. Army headquarters — inventory shortfall: forty-eight 81mm M29 mortars, 144 M375 white phosphorus rounds, 168 M301 illuminating rounds, sixty M374 high explosive rounds. Unsolved. March 25, 1998; Fort Knox, Kentucky, 194th Armored Brigade — inventory shortfall: one Light Armored Vehicle.

Unsolved.

“Good Lord,” Thomas managed as he looked up into Callahan’s probing glance. “Do you mean to say that this entire printout is filled with similar data?”

Callahan solemnly nodded that it was, adding, “I began the search as of January 1 of this year, and only queried installations in the four-state region that you asked about. The readout includes all military hardware reported missing, either by unknown inventory shortfall, or suspected theft.”

“Surely most of the shortages can be explained away as mere accounting errors,” offered Thomas while flipping through the rest of the stack.

“We believe that a large percentage of the losses are indeed paperwork screwups, Thomas. But that still leaves too many unsolved cases that aren’t. That means it’s either accidental loss or intentional theft as the cause, and the latter is starting to scare the piss out of me.”

Thomas knew full well that Callahan definitely wasn’t the type of man who could be easily frightened, and he sat forward and carefully probed.

“Times are tough all around, Ted. You remember what it was like to exist on enlisted man’s pay. With today’s thriving black market, a GI who gives in to temptation can make a quick bundle, and chances are we’ll never catch him. Take that shipment of Colt Commandos that one of our interdiction teams chanced upon last month in San Francisco. It turned out the guy responsible for stealing them was a twenty-year old Leatherneck from Pendleton, who swears he did it just to buy his wife a car and put a decent down payment on a house.”

“I wish that we could attribute the rest of the unaccounted losses to dumb kids like that one,” replied Cal la han his gravelly voice hushed.

“But I’m starting to recognize a definite pattern in both the type of installations reporting these thefts, and more significantly, the type of items that have been lost.”

Thomas sensed where his old friend was headed. He cut him off with a single pertinent word. “Militia?”

Callahan reached for the printout that Thomas had been holding and nodded affirmatively. “Somebody out there is on one hell of a shopping spree, Thomas. Their list runs the gamut of what every well-stocked army needs to fight both a conventional and a nuclear war. When a dozen mortars go mysteriously missing from one base, the exact caliber shell that they fire goes missing from the next. It’s been happening time after time, with every weapon system in the inventory, and my gut tells me that this material isn’t meant for export.”

“How about C-4?” asked Thomas directly.

Callahan had been anticipating this question. He isolated the last two pages of the printout. He nastily scanned their contents before handing them to Thomas.

“I know that it’s not much, but this is all we’ve got on recorded shortages involving military-grade explosives. Take a look at that June robbery of the National Guard Armory in Wheeling, West Virginia.”

Thomas found this particular listing on the bottom portion of the top page. A clear case of forceful breaking and entering, the Wheeling robbery involved thirty-nine 1.25pound blocks of M112-grade C-4 explosives. This had been the full extent of materials taken, and Thomas found his curiosity piqued.

“What exactly is M112-grade C-4?” he asked.

“That grade refers to the age of the production lot. Unlike recent blocks that are pure white and packed in olive-drab containers, the older lots are dull gray and wrapped in clear Mylar film.”

“Any way to find out if the explosives that I’m dealing with came from the Army National Guard Armory at Wheeling?” Thomas asked.

Callahan grinned. “If you can spare me a quarter-ounce sample, I believe that with a bit of lab analysis, the U. S. Army can figure that one out for you, Special Agent Kellogg But I’m going to warn you up front that it’s going to cost you in Oriole tickets.”

“I believe we can handle that,” Thomas replied. “May I use your phone?”

A call to BATF headquarters found Les Stanley still at work in the lab.

After asking the EOD technician to coordinate the transfer of the C-4 sample to Callahan’s people, Thomas checked his own extension for messages. He was pleasantly surprised to find that one was from Brittany. She’d left it barely ten minutes ago, and, given the return number, had called from the Pentagon.

Hungry, he returned her call with an invitation to dinner. The offer delighted her. Because Thomas hadn’t seen the operations center she was working out of, they decided that he would pick her up down by the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, or NMCC, in ten minutes.

When Thomas hung up, Callahan commented on his wide grin. “Hey, Kellogg, it looks like you just won the lottery. I hate to be an eavesdropper, but who’s the new flame?”

“Brittany Cooper. She’s a commander on the CNO’s staff, who’s presently…”

“… working as assistant naval attache to the White House,” Callahan finished.

“You know too much, Ted.”

“That’s why I’m a colonel.”

Thomas smiled, and left his friend with a salute, a thank-you, and a promise to get back to him the next day for the results of the lab analysis. He slipped the computer printouts into his brief bag and set off for that portion of the Pentagon holding the NMCC.

Also known as the War Room, the NMCC acted as the U. S. military’s central command post. It was manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and served as a clearinghouse for military activity worldwide.

During times of crisis, the secretary of defense and the individual force commanders would rely on the NMCC for the latest situational updates. Actual field orders would be broadcast from the NMCC by means of a wide variety of secure communications systems, and it was here that the nuclear unlock codes would be first released.

The NMCC was semi hardened to withstand an indirect nuclear strike and was located several hundred feet beneath the Pentagon’s ground floor.

To reach this heavily secured area of the building, Thomas had to descend a series of ramps and stairwells. Since he had stood many an extended watch in the command post while on active duty, he easily navigated the maze of twisting hallways that too often proved a nightmare for the uninitiated.

He soon found himself standing in front of the NMCC’s reception desk. A smartly attired MP intently studied his credentials. To gain further access, the MP first had to call Brittany to get her approval. Once this had been achieved, Thomas had to sign an official log and surrender his BATF identification card. Only then was he given a clip-on visitor’s tag and allowed to continue farther down the tiled hallway.

As Thomas approached yet another security checkpoint, he returned the curt greeting of a stone-faced MP who was seated behind a tall counter with the emblem of the Joint Chiefs of Staff displayed on its side. He signed another log here and while the guard called the NMCC’s watch commander for final clearance, he looked up to examine the digital-display screen mounted on the wall behind the counter.

The screen was comprised of four separate panels, with only one panel lit in red. It read, classified level one materials present. Thomas knew that this referred to the nature of the data currently displayed on the NMCC’s overhead monitors. Because his current security clearance didn’t allow him to see such classified information, he would have to wait until the relevant material was deleted before they’d allow him inside.

A full minute passed before the lit screen deactivated and one reading unclassified took its place. Seconds later, the heavy bank-vault-type door set into the wall next to the counter automatically opened. The guard signaled that he was free to proceed and Thomas wasted no time doing so.

This put him in the NMCC’s anteroom. Yet another MP watched his entrance from behind the bulletproof glass of the final security checkpoint.

“Special Agent Kellogg,” the sentry greeted, with a slight Southern accent. “Your escort is on the way.”

No sooner were these words spoken than a slightly built, khaki-clad lieutenant emerged from the opposite doorway. This bespectacled young officer had already lost most of his hah-, and he welcomed Thomas with high-powered enthusiasm.

“Good evening, sir. I’m It. Warren Tolliver, and I’ll be escorting you to Op Center Bravo. Commander Cooper says that you once worked the NMCC yourself, while you were in the Air Force. I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve last visited the command post, but we’re currently in the midst of a complete face-lift. If you’ll follow me closely, I’ll try to get you to our destination in one piece.”

Thomas soon saw for himself the extent of this remodeling job. The walls and ceiling of the corridor they were soon passing through were totally torn apart. Even at this late hour a group of contractors were at work.

Thomas caught a glimpse of a snaking mass of newly installed fiber-optic cable visible inside the partially open wallboard. The Pentagon was originally designed around the technology of a now long-gone era, and was constantly being updated. It was no different during his tenure, though the computer revolution was just in its infancy then.

On their left, they passed the cavernous confines of the NMCC. Thomas could see the six giant video screens that comprised the command post’s main wall. Dozens of individual computer consoles were set up in front of the screens, manned by uniformed personnel from every branch of the military.

It turned out Operation Bravo occupied the same space that once housed the chief of naval operation’s personal briefing room. It was located on the far side of the NMCC, its privacy protected by a pair of heavy steel doors that Lieutenant Tolliver opened for Thomas.

Thomas found the room’s interior was vastly different since his last visit. It wasn’t the room’s dimensions that had changed, but rather its contents. In a space the size of a large garage a fully staffed, high-tech operations center had been set up.

To his immediate left was the op center’s dominant feature. Three immense video screens were mounted into the wall here. Only the screen on the far right was currently active, with a live CNN broadcast displayed on it. A blonde newscaster was interviewing the prime minister of Canada beneath the brightly lit bow of the QE2.

Since Thomas was unable to hear this interview, he turned his attention to the six individual workstations set up in front of the screen. They were positioned in two parallel rows of three each, with only the front tier presently occupied. The two operatives closest to Thomas were women. All were dressed in U. S. Navy khakis and appeared to be petty officers.

A glass partition cut the room in half, with a separate conference room occupying the rest of the operations center. Brittany could be seen seated at the room’s large, rectangular table, in the midst of a telephone conversation. Because her back was turned toward Thomas, she apparently hadn’t seen him arrive. Lieutenant Tolliver also noticed this and promptly chimed in.

“Sir, why don’t I inform the commander that you’re here?”

“I’ll take care of it, Lieutenant,” said Thomas as he walked over to the glass partition and rapped on it three times with his right knuckle.

This impromptu page served its purpose, and Brittany smiled upon spotting Thomas. She signaled that she’d be done with her call shortly.

Thomas turned his attention back to his bespectacled escort.

“How long have you had this op center up and running, Lieutenant?”

“Bravo’s been functional for over a month now, sir. But the summit watch will be its first real operational test.”

“The last time I was in this room, the entire space was the exclusive realm of the CNO. It was basically used for internal briefings, with its cork-lined walls usually filled with charts and maps of all kinds.”

“Bravo still belongs to the CNO, sir. After the Korean incident it was decided to create this specialized op center within the NMCC, dedicated solely to naval matters. That way, when the President wants to know where the carriers are, we can show him anytime, day or night, right up there on one of those projection screens.”

“Hello, Special Agent Kellogg,” a female voice called from behind him.

Brittany looked remarkably fresh, her eyes bright, her starched uniform as impeccably creased as it had appeared earlier in the day. Tolliver took her arrival as a sign that he wasn’t needed anymore, and he excused himself to return to his computer console.

“This certainly is a pleasant surprise,” added Brittany. “When I initially called your office I had no idea that you were right upstairs.”

Thomas smiled. “I must be living a righteous life to practically bump into you for the second time today.”

“From what I’ve been hearing, rescuing the First Cat wasn’t your only adventure at the White House, Thomas. Scuttlebutt has it that you and Samuel Morrison came close to blowing away one of the birthday guests with a Stinger missile.”

“I hope that’s not what the morning papers are going to be saying,” returned Thomas with a painful wince. “When that Cessna first penetrated restricted airspace, we didn’t know what to expect — let alone a teenage parachutist with a crush on the President’s daughter.”

“Sounds to me like this is definitely movie-of the-week material,” joked Brittany, who intuitively sensed that Thomas was under more pressure than he was outwardly admitting. “Pretty long day at the office, Special Agent?”

“And you still don’t know the half of it. How about I brief you over a glass of Chianti and a hot vegetable pie at the California Pizza Kitchens?”

“Sounds like just what the doctor ordered for this starving sailor,” Brittany replied while glancing up to the CNN broadcast.

Thomas did likewise. “Looks like the heads of state are finally there.”

The CNN reporter was still in the midst of her interview with the Canadian prime minister, and she was signaling another individual to join them. This resulted in the appearance of a tall, dignified, black-suited gentleman, whose trademark black horn-rimmed glasses and full shock of white hair could only belong to the prime minister of Great Britain.

“There’s the star of the day,” remarked Brittany. “I don’t know if you heard about his UN speech, but earlier today the Brits relayed what amounts to be their tacit approval of the Global Zero Alert treaty to the world community. Intelligence is telling us that it looks like the French will be the next ones to get on the nuclear-free bandwagon, with China’s Li Chen right behind them. You know, this crossing might turn out to be more historic than any of us ever dreamed.”

Thomas held back his own editorial comments regarding the novel arms-control agreement, and instead queried, “Has Two-Putt arrived yet?”

“The last I heard, Eagle One was on its final approach to Kennedy,” revealed Brittany. “The motorcades carrying the German chancellor and the presidents of Russia and France have just pulled into the Passenger Ship Terminal. Since the prime ministers of Japan, Italy, Canada, and Britain have already preceded them, that leaves only one more to go to make the party complete.”

“Is Li Chen going to make it in time, Brit?”

“I just got off the phone with Secretary Kodlick over at the FAA. She’s personally monitoring the situation, and right now, it looks like Li’s plane should be touching down at Kennedy around 9:15. I know it’s going to be tight for the Queen’s midnight departure, but barring any further delays, the Chinese delegation should make it in time.”

“By the way, they’ve done wonders with this room,” noted Thomas, whose glance remained locked on the CNN broadcast. “The resolution on that display screen is awesome.”

Brittany led Thomas over to one of the vacant workstations and addressed the keyboard. As a result, the center screen filled with a nautical chart of the North Atlantic ocean. The eastern coastline of North America was displayed on the left side of the map, with Western Europe the right boundary. A red digital line linked the two continents. This sea route started at New York City and extended to the northeast, roughly paralleling the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland.

As it passed over the Grand Banks, south of St. John’s, Newfoundland, the line made a wide arcing turn to the east, terminating on the southern tip of Great Britain, at the port of Southampton.

“As I’m sure you’ve surmised, that’s the QE2’s intended route. At an average speed of twenty-eight and one half knots, the crossing is scheduled to take four and a half days. Of course, this is subject to change as weather, the possible presence of icebergs in the region of the Grand Banks, and mechanical integrity are factored in.”

“Icebergs?” Thomas muttered.

“It’s not something that we’re losing any sleep over, Thomas. Iceberg activity is heaviest in the spring. But to be on the safe side, the Canadians are closely monitoring the Grand Banks with both surface-ship observations and constant air patrols.

“The same aircraft that will be on the lookout for this ice, will also be responsible for providing air support all the way out to the mid-Atlantic ridge, where British Nim rods will take over. The commanding officer of the Canadian 404 Maritime Patrol Squadron, 14 Wing, paid us a visit last week. They’re based out of Greenwood, Nova Scotia, and fly CP-140 Aurora aircraft that are basically heavily modified P3-C Orions. Though their specialty is ASW, the Fighting Buffaloes, as they’re called, will also be on the lookout for any air threats, and be available for ocean SAR as well.”

“Too bad you can’t send along a carrier battle group,” remarked Thomas.

“Tell me about it, Thomas. When we first learned about the possibility of this summit at sea, our original security plan centered around the close presence of just such a carrier battle group. I was with the CNO when he showed the President the plan. It was shot down in the first five minutes of our briefing. The President was afraid that the presence of an armed task force in the immediate vicinity of the QE2 would give the world the wrong impression, and he left us with a long list of restrictions. With a bit of arm twisting, we were able to negotiate an arrangement that suits both the President’s public relations needs, and more importantly, our own security concerns.”

Brittany readdressed the keyboard and a blue star began flashing in the waters directly north of Bermuda. “That’s the location of our nearest task force. At no time are we allowed to get within a hundred nautical miles of the QE2. The amphibious assault carrier USS Iwo lima is the lead combatant. She’s carrying a full load of helicopters, and a specially trained counterterrorist unit comprised of members of SEAL Team Six and Delta Force.”

“There sure is a lot of open water between Nova Scotia and England,” said Thomas, who remembered well the strict internal-security constraints that he and his brother had to work within.

“We practically begged the President to cut the hundred mile limit in half, but he wouldn’t budge. So, at the very least, we’ve got the Canadians and Brits providing constant air patrol, and our task force less than an hour’s helicopter flight away,” said Brittany, who added, “Of course, satellite coverage is still our ace in the hole. Our eyes in the sky will be closely watching the QE2 throughout the crossing.

And though they can only warn us of an approaching threat, we’ve been able to incorporate yet another unique reaction force. Unfortunately, that I can’t discuss with you at the moment.”

“Commander Cooper, I’ve got that met report you’ve been waiting for,” interrupted Lieutenant Tolliver.

“Let’s see it,” ordered Brittany.

Thomas followed her glance as it returned to the three elevated screens.

He watched as the map segment displayed on the middle monitor suddenly shifted its focus southward. The eastern coast of Florida filled the far-left portion of the screen now, with the majority of the map’s coverage extending further east to include the northern section of the Bahamas island chain.

Tolliver was able to interface a satellite-relayed weather scan directly over this map segment. He then used a digital cursor to outline the heaviest area of cloud cover that lay to the northeast of the largest of the islands.

“This is the latest NOAA satellite picture taken less than a half hour ago,” informed Tolliver. “The area of suspect cloud cover that they’re focusing on is approximately one hundred eighty-five miles east-northeast of Great Abaco Island. It’s still showing minimum rotation, though they’ve officially upgraded the formation to a tropical depression. A NOAA Lockheed Electra has been scrambled out of Mac Dill and will notify us the moment additional data is available.”

“Do you believe it, Thomas? As if we don’t have enough to worry about, now we’ve got a possible tropical storm brewing.”

“I’m afraid when Mr. Murphy wrote his infamous law, this was just the type of situation he had in mind,” Thomas reflected. “So enough of this worrying. Let’s go grab some chow. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to see nothing but this op center these next four and a half days, and that we’d better take full advantage of this lull before the storm. Because once that ship sets sail, our personal life is history.”