Attack on the Queen

8

“Thick ice … thick … thick ice,” reported the rote, flat voice of the navigator.

For an entire hour now, these monotonous words were the only ones to escape his lips. The occupants of the Lijiang’s control room anxiously anticipated the moment when the sub’s upward scanning Fathometer would finally report a change in the treacherous conditions topside. Until then, their fates were entirely in the hands of the navigator.

Of all those gathered inside the cramped, red-tinted compartment, the sub’s commissar was growing the most impatient. To have traveled this incredibly far distance through waters that no PLA Navy submarine had ever dreamed of penetrating, and be unable to broadcast a simple, yet all-important, pre scheduled radio message, was extremely frustrating.

Such were the humbling circumstances they currently found themselves in.

From his normal watch position beside the vacant firecontrol console, Guan Yin nervously scanned the nearest bulkhead-mounted clock. The digital timepiece was rapidly approaching 2400 hours: this gave them a bare thirty three-minute envelope in which to find a clear lead, surface, raise their antennae, and broadcast the message that Command was awaiting.

This radio broadcast had been originally scheduled to take place twelve hours ago. Still well within the impenetrable confines of the polar icepack at this time, they had been forced to abandon their efforts and continue southward. Time was of the essence now, and with almost two thousand nautical miles still to travel, and a scant sixty hours left to reach their goal, the Lijiang could not tarry.

Admiral Liu had fortunately considered the possibility of just such a communication problem when drafting then orders In case thick ice, mechanical difficulties, or the presence of a threatening contact in the area kept them from fulfilling their original broadcast, they were free to continue on with their mission, and attempt re contacting Command every twelve hours.

Guan could imagine how tense things must be at Naval headquarters at Tsingtao. It had been seventy-one and a quarter hours since the Lijiang’s last transmission reached them. They had only just completed their nerve-racking transit of the Bering Strait; they were in the process of penetrating the Chukchi Sea; and the frozen Arctic Ocean and its foreboding polar ice cap still awaited them. So when the clock hit midnight, they cautiously surfaced to broadcast a tightly compressed, heavily coded, highfrequency satellite transmission.

Guan had been one of the fortunate few allowed up into the boat’s sail during this all too brief visit to the surface. After spending days on end trapped inside the stuffy, claustrophobic confines of the submerged submarine, he all but ignored the frigid temperatures topside. The fresh air was like a tonic, and bundled up in almost every available piece of clothing he had brought along, Guan got his first view of a desolate frozen wasteland few Chinese had ever seen before.

As luck would have it, the moonless night was crystal clear A brisk, icy breeze was blowing in from the west. Guan pulled tight his greatcoat’s woolen collar and turned his back to the howling, breathtaking gusts.

This allowed him to see the sub’s long whip antenna rise from its protective well in the sail. As his eyes followed this device projecting up into the heavens, he saw a magnificent sight that at first startled him. His initial impression was that the night sky had somehow caught on fire! From horizon to horizon, the northern lights illuminated the heavens with ghostly bands of intense, pulsating color.

Fiery reddish orange tendrils of light shot through the skies, looking much like the effluence of an erupting, cosmic volcano. Interspersed amongst these fiery fingers were bands glowing in a full spectrum of colors ranging from golden yellow, bright swirling green, deep indigo blue, and rich violet. All told, it was a humbling, awe-inspiring sight that was to deeply touch each of the sailors who were blessed with the opportunity to view it.

It took several attempts before the message informing Command of their successful transit of the Bering Strait reached Tsingtao. Their radio officer attributed this delay to the disrupting effects of the intense solar storm that was so visible in the heavens. Guan had no doubt that this was the cause of their radio difficulties, and he was pleasantly surprised when a brief, static-filled response from Command reached them a few seconds later.

The receipt of this curt transmission signaled the end of their brief surface transit. As the Lijiang was prepared to return to the protective depths, Guan took one last appreciative glimpse at the glowing, ethereal heavens before reluctantly joining his comrades below.

What took place next was no less astounding. For the past three days, the Lijiang had crossed beneath the entire frozen breadth of the Arctic Ocean, passing only a few nautical miles from that geographical point known as the North Pole. They hadn’t even stopped to pay homage to the fact that they were the first PLA Navy submarine to visit these distant, inaccessible waters but had continued on with their historic mission at flank speed, drawn by an ever approaching deadline.

Barring unexpected mechanical difficulties, it appeared that they had a decent chance of reaching their goal on time. This in itself was an incredible achievement, and Guan’s heart swelled with pride every time he contemplated the amazing platform that had safely carried them these many thousands of kilometers beneath the silent sea.

The Lijiang was surely the PRC’s greatest technological accomplishment to date. With the majority of its operational systems indigenously designed and produced inside the motherland, the fact that they were able to safely get this far without incident was certain proof that their engineers easily rivaled those of the West.

Of equal importance to this technology were the fine men who operated it. Throughout the entire passage, Guan was continuously impressed with the actions of his fellow sailors. Professionals to the core, they worked many a double watch without relief, and not a word of complaint amongst the lot of them.

In addition to their superb work values, Komsomol attendance had never been so high. Since getting rid of the troublemakers back at the Spratlys, a new spirit of comradeship could be sensed inside the Lijiang’s passageways. Guan attributed this exciting turn of events to the depth and quality of the remaining crew’s ideological values and the leadership so aptly demonstrated by their new commanding officer.

Capt. Lee Shao-chi was everything Guan had hoped for and then some.

From the moment he stepped aboard his new command, Lee took over with an iron fist and a will seemingly forged of steel. Within hours he had gained the respect of officers and enlisted men alike.

Though Guan had feared that there would be some on board who would question then-former captain’s abrupt exit, Lee readily filled the void by instilling a genuine sense of excitement and mystery. A previously agreed upon story was circulated amongst the crew, explaining away Capt. Shen Fei’s unexpected departure as all part of an intentional move by Command to guarantee their current mission’s secrecy. As far as they knew, Shen, Chief Wong, and the other dissidents had been removed from the Lijiang on orders from Admiral Liu. Since none of these unsuspecting sailors knew their real fate, the sham tale had succeeded in putting their minds at ease, with the incident involving the snagged rudder all part of a realistic exercise.

Now it was up to Guan and Lee Shao-chi to keep their suspicions to a minimum. They were able to do so with a demanding work schedule that didn’t give the men a chance to have second thoughts. Lee led the way by example, and he worked tirelessly right alongside his crewmates.

Never before had Guan seen a man so driven as their new captain. He hardly ever seemed to rest, his unlimited energy and boundless enthusiasm the byproduct of daily periods of tai chi and deep meditation.

Lee preferred a vegetarian diet, and when he did eat, it was always in moderation. Though his stays in the wardroom were generally short ones, on those rare occasions when Guan had a meal with him, he was an agreeable dining partner. Like Guan, he enjoyed classical music with his food and was prone to focus wardroom conversation on either operational concerns or ideological philosophies that he found interesting.

Lee’s reputation as a closet philosopher had preceded him. Guan found their discussions in this field most invigorating. There was no doubting that Lee admired the Chairman almost as much as Guan did. He was particularly well versed in Mao’s poetry, and could quote most of his poems by memory. Lee was also an avowed student of Sun Tzu, the fourth century b. c. master military strategist. He frequently repeated Sun Tzu’s doctrines verbatim and was particularly fond of applying them to the art of modern submarine warfare.

When it came to general philosophies of life, Guan sensed that Lee was something of a Taoist. He liked to break things down to their most basic level. He could relate his relatively simple view of life to both officers and enlisted men. In this respect, he made Guan’s job all the easier. For wherever Lee went, he brought with him a deeper insight that constantly challenged the men to think out a problem.

Only the day before, while they were deep beneath the Arctic ice pack, Guan had come across two young sailors engrossed in the midst of a philosophical discussion. This spirited conversation concerned the value of getting to know one’s true inner self before taking on an enemy. The two lads were but junior seamen assigned to the reactor compartment, and Guan realized that the subject of their discussion was right out of the pages of Sun Tzu. For such sailors to have lofty thoughts like these was most refreshing. Guan sensed the great influence that their new captain was exerting on them.

“Thick ice … thick ice … thick ice,” broke in the monotonous voice of the navigator for the dozenth time that watch.

Guan was abruptly called back to thoughts of duty. He dared to once more check the bulkhead clock. Four precious minutes had passed since his last inspection the outlook for surfacing further dimmed. “I thought that once we passed eighty degrees latitude, it would be easy for us to surface and get off our transmission,” ‘ remarked Guan as he impatiently joined the navigator beside the plotting table. “The way it looks now, we’re soon going to miss this opportunity, with the next window another twelve hours distant. Admiral Liu will surely think us long sunk; perhaps he’ll cancel the entire operation.”

“So I understand, Comrade Commissar. But what else can I do?” returned the perplexed navigator. “As you can see for yourself, these charts the admiralty gave me show that the pack ice should have ended hours ago.

Yet here we are already passing by the western shores of Spitsbergen, and look at the pattern our ice machine’s continuously sketching.”

The device the navigator was referring to was set into the bulkhead beside the plotting table. Designed much like a seismograph, the so-called ice machine was in reality an upward-scanning Fathometer that printed out its findings on a spool of paper, mounted on a rotating, cylindrical drum.

For almost seventy-two hours, the pattern had been the same: jagged lines and sharp inverted spikes, indicating a solid sheet of ice above, with the spikes showing the positions of dangerous, inverted pressure ridges.

Guan knew that this predicament wasn’t their navigator’s fault, and he softened his tone. “I’m sorry for taking my frustrations out on you, comrade. Everything until this point has gone so splendidly. I can’t wait to share our progress with the admiral.”

The navigator accepted this apology. “It’s hard to believe the unknown seas we’ve already sailed and the great distances we’ve traveled. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that I’d be called upon to be part of such an historic operation.”

“It’s a great honor all right,” returned Guan. Sailors as honorable as the navigator tempted him to reveal the true reason behind this history-making voyage; it would be their due.

“Depth one hundred and ten meters, course one-eight zero true, speed three-two knots,” reported the steady voice of the diving officer from his position behind the helm.

In the background the current OOD could be heard repeating this operational update. Guan absorbed this rote chatter and focused his attention on the bathymetric chart that was spread out on the plot. A red pinprick of light that was being projected from the interior of the automated table showed their current position to be in the Greenland Sea, halfway between the western shore of Spitsbergen and Greenland’s northeastern coast.

“Comrade navigator,” said Guan curiously. “I know nothing about our upcoming route. To get to our destination in the most direct manner, what course are you planning to steer?”

“That depends on a variety of factors yet to be determined. The most direct route would continue to take us almost due south. At our current speed, that should bring us to Jan Mayen ridge in approximately twenty-four hours. This is where our transit of the Greenland-Iceland-United Kingdom gap begins.”

“Ah, the much vaunted GIUK gap,” Guan observed. “While studying in Leningrad, I read an excellent Soviet Naval Institute white paper on the West’s SOSUS line, a permanent line of moored hydrophones. Its original purpose was to monitor the former Soviet Union’s submarines before they reached the open Atlantic, but from what I understand, the GIUK gap’s underwater microphones were shut off years ago, shortly after the breakup of the USSR.”

The navigator reached beneath the plotting table and pulled out a large scale chart showing the islands of Greenland and Iceland, and the western shores of the United Kingdom and Norway. He then pointed to the two strategic channels of water that lay on either side of Iceland, and responded to Guan’s comments.

“We still have no concrete proof that the hydrophones have been deactivated, Comrade Commissar. My guess is that the paranoid U. S. Navy wouldn’t dare shut off the entire array. And that means we’ll have to initiate our course change to the southwest with the utmost circumspection.”

“You mentioned previously that our exact course depends upon a variety of factors yet to be determined,” reminded Guan. “Perchance, could one of these factors be on which side of Iceland we’ll be making our transit?”

The navigator highlighted the two channels of water while answering.

“Excellent observation, comrade. The safest route is the eastern channel, between Iceland and the Faeroe Islands. Here the deep waters surrounding the southern extension of Jan Mayen ridge should protect us from any elements of SOSUS that might be operational.”

Guan picked up a clear-plastic ruler and positioned it on top of this chart. He carefully laid the ruler’s top edge on their current position, then aligned it with a distant point in the mid-Atlantic. The most direct course to this spot, halfway between Nova Scotia and the United Kingdom, extended straight through the tight channel of water flowing past Iceland’s western shore, prompting the commissar to question once more.

“What’s wrong with the western access channel, comrade? It looks to me that it affords us the most efficient route to our destination.”

“There’s no doubt that your observation is correct,” replied the navigator. “The western channel you’re referring to is known as the Denmark Straits. Unfortunately for us, the Greenland ridge divides this shortcut roughly in half. Not only are the waters here dangerously shallow, but it is in this vicinity that SOSUS is suspected to have a major presence.”

Guan shifted the ruler in order to sketch out the alternative course extending through the eastern channel. This route necessitated a substantial detour.

“With a little more than sixty hours left to get into the North Atlantic, can we afford such a time-consuming detour?” Guan asked.

“That’s going to have to be the captain’s ultimate decision, Comrade Commissar. As far as I’m concerned it’s a simple choice between the need for speed and the importance of picking a route that will most likely guarantee our non detection Guan shifted the ruler to return to the western channel and pointed toward the waters of the Denmark Straits.

“If I know our captain, expediency will be worth the risk. Remember how he took charge of this plotting table when we began our dangerous transit of the Bering Sea?

Why, the Lijiang sped through those shallow waters like a race horse!”

“Tell me about it,” added the navigator. “My heart was beating so fast I feared it would burst. Never have I seen such a remarkable job of navigation. It was almost eerie watching Captain Lee calling out those quick course changes. All I can say is that the man must have the gift of second sight, because he didn’t get us safely over those reefs by relying solely on our inaccurate charts.”

Guan grunted in response to this strange observation and looked up from the plotting table, his glance halting on the upward-scanning Fathometer. The illuminated dram could be seen slowly rotating, with the stylus in the process of sketching out a flat, constant line, a vast contrast to the irregular, spiky pattern recorded previously.

“The ice machine!” Guan exclaimed.

The navigator wasted no time directing his attention to the Fathometer’s rotating dram. He excitedly called out his findings to the rest of the control-room’s crew. “Thin ice! We’ve got thin ice above us!”

“Thin ice, aye!” repeated the OOD from his watch station on the nearby periscope pedestal. “All stop! Quartermaster, inform the captain that I’m preparing the Lijiang to surface and initiate our pre scheduled radio transmission.”

As the quartermaster rushed past the navigation plot to personally carry out this order, Guan intercepted him. “Comrade, I believe that Captain Lee is in his stateroom. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be the one to inform him of this much-anticipated news.”

The young quartermaster almost looked relieved as he replied. “Of course, sir.”

Guan briefly met the expectant glance of the navigator before hurriedly exiting the control room by way of the forward access way He passed the shut door of the sonar room on his left. The locked entrance to the radio room lay opposite. He ignored both of these vital compartments, choosing instead to climb the adjoining stairwell to the deck below.

This put him immediately outside the wardroom, with the closed door to the captain’s cabin across the empty hallway. Guan took a second to catch his breath before squaring back his shoulders and softly knocking on the door three times.

The only noticeable response generated by this knock was the muted sound of music coming from the other side of the doorway. Guan picked out the steady beat of a drum and the barely audible strains of string instruments.

Since the captain had made a habit of listening to cassettes while resting, Guan wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear this music. Yet time was wasting and he once more rapped on the door.

When this firm series of knocks failed to generate a response, he could think of no alternative but to try opening the door himself. He slowly eased the door open and peeked inside.

He could see nothing but blackness at first. The music was clearly audible. Guan identified the hypnotizing, rhythmic tune as being some sort of Buddhist chant, complete with a melodious male choir, twanging sitar, and deep, pounding tab las The sweet, aromatic scent of sandalwood incense could be discerned, and Guan dared to step inside. It was as he shut the door that he spotted a flickering candle on the far side of the stateroom. The thick, partially consumed white taper sat on top of the cabin’s small, fold-down desk, with the flame illuminating the immobile figure of the Lijiang’s commanding officer seated contentedly on the nearby mattress.

It was apparent that Guan had caught Lee Shao-chi deep in meditation.

His bare feet were folded beneath him in the position known as full lotus — with back perfectly straight, hands palm up on the upper thigh, and closed eyes staring straight ahead to where Guan was standing. His breaths were deep and even. Guan noted that Lee was dressed in a white martial-arts robe. He had a black belt cinched around the waist and a blood-red bandanna, decorated with bright yellow dragons, tied around his forehead. The long jagged scar lining the entire left side of his face looked particularly sinister in the candlelight. Guan had trouble finding his voice as he summoned the nerve to break this trance.

“Captain Lee,” he muttered. “Comrade, are you awake?”

Guan took a tentative step forward. His words seemed to have no effect, and he decided he’d try one more time before being forced to actually shake the man awake.

“Captain, the upward-scanning Fathometer shows thin ice above!”

Lee Shao-chi’s eyes snapped open, with the abrupt suddenness of an electric-light switch activating. The dark riveting pupils locked themselves on Guan, and for a frightening second, the portly political officer felt as if he had just been hit by a small electric shock.

“Do I sense fear, Comrade Commissar? When you are at one with the Way, make your presence known with true purpose, like the fierce west wind.”

“The fierce west wind?” repeated a confused Guan. “As in the Chairman’s poem?”

“West wind fierce, immense sky, wild geese honking,” recited Lee, with a calm, silken tone. “Yes, comrade.”

Guan wasn’t certain what Lee was driving at and he attempted to redirect the conversation. “Sir, I saw the ice machine with my own eyes. At long last, we can surface and make contact with Admiral Liu!”

Lee responded with the barest of introspective grins. “Did you know that Admiral Liu fought at Mao’s side during the entire Lu Mountain Pass campaign? Chances are good that he was with the Chairman on the morning when “West Wind Fierce’ was penned there.”

Guan realized that it was useless to resist this man’s will, and he replied respectfully, “I’ve been fortunate enough to have heard Admiral Liu tell his stories of the Long March. It was truly a defining moment in the PRC’s history.”

“Do you realize that we are presently in the midst of a journey that could have implications even greater than those of the Long March, Comrade Commissar? Much like the founders of our republic, whose own march for freedom lasted three hundred and sixty-eight days, covering some eight thousand miles at a cost of over seventy thousand men, women, and children, we too are on a mission to save China from destruction.”

Lee suddenly fell silent, shifted his weight, and slowly unfolded his long legs from the lotus position. As he stood, he looked at Guan and whispered:

“Tough Pass, long trail like iron. Yet with strong steps we climbed that peak; green mountains like oceans, setting sun like blood!”

“Captain’s in the control room,” informed the alert quartermaster as Lee Shao-chi briskly strode through the forward access way

The captain was still dressed in his martial-arts robes, and he wasted no time climbing up onto the periscope pedestal and calling out forcefully, “I have the conn. Comrade navigator, what are our surface environmentals?”

“It looks like we have a large open lead directly overhead, sir,” informed the navigator from the plotting table.

The captain swept his practiced gaze over the dozens of gauges and dials mounted into the bulkhead before the two seated helmsmen. As his glance halted on the numerals displayed on the digital clock, Guan Yin breathlessly ducked through the forward access way The boat’s commissar proceeded at once to his customary position beside the vacant weapons console where he just had time to grab onto an overhead hand hold as the captain’s voice rang out.

“Blow forward-and-aft ballast tanks and bring us up to thirty meters.”

“Blowing forward-and-aft tanks, at thirty meters, aye, sir,” repeated the diving officer.

The boat’s ballast pumps activated with a muted, whirring growl. As tons of seawater were subsequently purged from the ballast tanks, the now lightened vessel began to ascend.

Gradually at first, then with rapid regularity, the digital depth counter dropped from 110 meters. As it flashed by the sixty-meter mark, the diving officer reached forward to address the ballast-control panel.

His job was to precisely gauge the amount of ballast needed, so that the Lijiang would attain its ordered depth and ascend no further.

All eyes were on the depth gauge as it passed fifty meters. The sound of the ballast pumps could be heard once more in the background, followed by the distinct roar of seawater flowing back into the tanks.

This delicate balancing act was intended to trim the boat and control its rate of ascent.

“Thirty-five meters, Captain,” reported the diving officer, whose eyes were now glued to the digital numbers of the still-descending depth counter. “Thirty-three, thirty two, thirty-one …”

The depth gauge froze on thirty-one. After the slightest of adjustments to the ballast-control panel, the diving officer coolly observed, “Thirty meters and holding, sir.”

“Up scope,” ordered Lee.

There was a loud hiss and the hydraulically operated periscope lifted up from its well. Lee crouched down low to keep the scope from fully deploying, and he pulled down the hinged grips and peered through the rubberized eyepiece.

“Activate exterior sail lights,” he instructed.

While the quartermaster carried out this order, Guan softly addressed It. Wu Han, who, as OOD, remained on the pedestal beside the captain.

“Comrade Wu, what in the world does the captain hope to see down here?

We’re still a good ten meters away from attaining periscope depth.”

“Why don’t you come up here and see for yourself,” offered Lee Shao-chi, adjusting the hinged grips and continuing to peer out the eyepiece.

Guan somewhat reluctantly released his tight grip on the overhead hand hold and climbed up onto the pedestal. He wasn’t as limber as the captain, and was forced to squat down awkwardly beside the scope.

Only after Lee completed a hasty 360-degree scan did he back away from the scope and beckon Guan to take his place. The commissar did his best to nestle up against the eyepiece. After taking some time to focus the lens, he was rewarded with a totally unexpected sight. Filling the entire lens was a glittering, crystalline wonderland, the nature of which the captain described to the control room’s hushed occupants.

“Comrade navigator, I thought you said that we had a clear lead topside.

Unless I’m hallucinating, or our scope’s malfunctioning, I’d say that there’s a good thirty centimeters of solid ice above us. Do you concur, Comrade Commissar?”

Guan replied while pulling back from the eyepiece and stiffly standing.

“Though I can’t estimate the thickness of that ice floe above us, I can definitely attest to its translucent beauty.”

“I’m sorry for misinterpreting the ice machine, Captain,” apologized the navigator.

“No matter,” said Lee, his mind already made up on how they would proceed. “Down scope. Sound the collision alarm. Prepare planes for surfacing in ice conditions.”

A steady electronic alarm began ringing in the background and Guan took this opportunity to return to the weapons console. It was apparent that even with the presence of ice, the captain was intending to use the Lijiang’s sail like a battering ram. This unorthodox maneuver was a dangerous one. Pack ice is a very unforgiving medium. If they were to mis gauge its thickness, the resulting concussion could damage their vulnerable sail-mounted hydroplanes, or worse, split open their hull.

To protect the sub’s all-important diving planes, the diving officer was in the process of having the planes man hydraulically rotate them so that they were positioned straight up. In this manner they would hopefully slice through the ice like a knife, though there was always the risk that they could end up permanently jammed in this useless vertical position.

“Let’s get on with it, comrades! If we wish to contact Command, we’ve got a mere ten minutes to get topside and meet the current broadcast window,” reminded Lee, his deep voice oozing with confidence.

Guan had all but forgotten about the reason for this risky ascent. Well aware that their mission’s success depended upon the Lijiang reaching the North Atlantic without serious damage, Guan was set to voice his concerns, when Lee interceded, convincing him to hold his tongue.

“Vent ballast and take us up!” he ordered.

With the collision alarm blaring in the background, the control room filled with the gurgling sound of venting seawater. The Lijiang began drifting upward.

“Twenty-eight meters,” reported the diving officer, an anxious strain in his voice. “Twenty-seven … twenty six Guan braced himself for impact his legs spread, his hands tightly gripping the overhead hand hold. On the adjoining periscope pedestal, the captain calmly stood beside the forward rail, stabilizing himself with a single hand, his eyes glued to the dropping depth gauge.

“Twenty-four meters … twenty-three … twenty two.”

They were rapidly approaching periscope depth. Guan figured that it was only a matter of a few more meters before the sail made contact. A bead of perspiration rolled down his forehead in anticipation of this collision, as the diving officer informed them that they had just passed twenty meters.

“Brace yourselves, comrades,” Lee warned.

A second later, the Lijiang’s sail crashed into the ice with a gut-wrenching crunch. The deck vibrated wildly, and Guan’s knees buckled while his palms painfully bit into their hand hold.

“Depth gauge indicates that we failed to break through the ice,” revealed the disappointed diving officer.

“Then we’ll just have to take her down and have another crack at it,” Lee impassively ordered. “Chief, flood her down to fifty meters.”

Guan could hardly believe the captain’s obstinacy. The compartment once more filled with the gurgling roar of seawater. Oddly enough, none of the other officers present had spoken out in protest, and Guan feared that he’d be labeled a coward if he did so. As it was, the line officers doubted his operational competency, being a commissar, but he dared not show the least hint of anxiety.

He did his best to take a step back into the corner, where he removed a handkerchief to pat dry his soaked forehead and neck. There could be no ignoring the tight knot that had gathered in his stomach. His throat was so dry he would have given a day’s pay for a single sip of tea.

“Forty-five meters and continuing to descend,” reported the diving officer.

“That’s deep enough, comrade,” Lee replied. “Lighten our tanks to surface.”

It only took a single turn of the wrist for the diving officer to send tons of seawater ballast back into the depths. Guan grasped for an overhead hand hold, his eyes locked on the rapidly descending depth gauge. The thirty meter mark passed in a heartbeat, and Guan flinched as the counter whisked past twenty meters.

Another bone-jarring collision followed, this time causing the compartment’s lights to flicker momentarily. The terrifying sound of rushing water drew Guan’s frightened glance to the periscope well, where a good-sized stream of liquid was pouring from the ceiling. Lee took this flood in stride and calmly reached up into the well with a wrench, as the diving officer informed them that they still hadn’t made it to the surface.

“It’s most obvious that the ice is thicker than we anticipated,” dared Guan. “Since the time left for us to broadcast is rapidly dwindling, I say let’s postpone the transmission for another twelve hours.”

“Nonsense!” retorted the captain, his white martial-arts robe completely soaked by the seawater leak he had just managed to stem.

“There’s a good five minutes left to get off the signal, and I say let’s give it another go. Take us back down, Chief. And this time, blow the main ballast to give us an additional hundred tons of positive buoyancy.”

The Lijiang sank once more into the silent depths, much like a repeating nightmare. Guan had all but given up hope by this point, with his worst fear being that the captain’s stubborn persistence would lead to the death of every one of them. Concerned more by the fear of dying than a loss of face, Guan did his best to prepare himself to meet his fate. It was not the way he ever imagined sacrificing himself for the motherland.

On the adjoining periscope pedestal, Lee responded to the tense atmosphere with an outburst of positive energy. As the Lijiang settled in at a depth of sixty-seven meters and the driving officer primed the emergency blow valves, the vessel’s commanding officer shared his inner thoughts with his fellow shipmates.

“Only the weak fear death, comrades. It is all part of the Way of the Warrior, and as such, it must be respected and revered. So momentarily close your eyes and breathe deeply with me. Fill your lungs with the life-giving essence, banish thoughts of defeat to the deserts of doubt, and focus your mind’s eye on that brightest of suns known as the Tao!”

Lee shut his eyes, squared back his shoulders, and began a series of deep, even breaths. From the compartment’s shadows, Guan could clearly recognize the same absent expression that he had first seen on Lee’s face while he was meditating back in his cabin. Guan wondered if any of his fellow shipmates found their captain’s behavior to be strange, and he turned to the nearby navigator. Remarkably enough, this very individual was wrapped up in the same weird trance that possessed Lee Shao-chi! Several others of the control-room crew had also closed their eyes, their deep full breaths seemingly synchronized.

“For the sake of the motherland, blow emergency ballast!” Lee exclaimed.

The roar of venting seawater rose to an almost deafening crescendo, the Lijiang hurtled upward out of the black depths, and Guan found himself tightly shutting his own eyes. When they finally made contact with the ice, this time the concussion was followed by a horrible crack, as if the entire hull had been ripped open.

The morning broke dull and gray, as Admiral Liu Huangtzu awoke from yet another restless night’s slumber. No matter how hard he tried, sleep escaped him, and he found himself tossing and turning, his mind racing with endless worry.

Sleep was usually never a problem for the veteran mariner while at sea.

In fact, the fresh ocean air and constant throbbing of the ship’s engines had previously been most conducive to a sound night’s rest. Yet this wasn’t the case on his current patrol — a week had gone by with hardly a dream to remember.

Liu couldn’t blame his insomnia on his present means of transport. His flagship, the Zhanjiang, had provided a comfortable, inviting home for the past two weeks. The weather had also cooperated, with only two days of rough seas so far experienced. Most of the time, Liu was barely aware of the seas on which they traveled, so smooth was their transit. Such was the case on this particular morning, as he shuffled around his spacious stateroom completing his daily routine, with the deck hardly rocking.

He could tell by the change in pitch of the background engine noise that the throttles had been recently cut back. This was in preparation for their upcoming return to Tsingtao. They should be in the coastal transit channel by now, and Liu made the final adjustments to his white formal uniform before heading outdoors to check this fact.

A chilling gust of cold air greeted him as he walked out onto his cabin’s exterior veranda. The railed observation terrace was situated directly on top of the destroyer’s bridge and offered a spectacular view of both the ship’s bow and the seas beyond.

The overcast skies were as gray as his worried thoughts. Liu walked over to the forward rail and allowed his glance to wander. As he expected, the low, rugged hills of Shandong Province could be seen to port.

Several small fishing junks were visible working the waters between the Zhanjiang and shore, and Liu presumed that they were home ported at nearby Jiaonan. Without the assistance of binoculars, he was able to view the motley collection of ram shackled structures that made up this small village. Jiaonan was situated at the base of Shandong’s coastal foothills, and sighting it indicated that their final destination was rapidly approaching.

Liu had mixed feelings about returning to Tsingtao. Though it would be good to get back to fleet headquarters, he sincerely enjoyed his time spent at sea. It reminded him of the vibrant days of youth, and he knew that future seagoing opportunities would be extremely rare.

While casting his forlorn glance to starboard, as they passed tiny Lingshan Island, Liu pondered the cause of his mental unrest. It had been more than seventy hours since the Lijiang had contacted them. The submarine had already missed one of the pre scheduled radio transmissions and they would soon miss the second twelve-hour window.

This was a most disturbing turn of events for a mission that, until now, had gone off splendidly.

Their charade in the Spratlys was a complete success. They had easily removed Capt. Shen Fei and his gang of dissidents, and the entire world subsequently bought the story that the Lijiang had sunk. Even the foolhardy Filipinos had unknowingly assisted them when they boldly announced that it could have been one of their depth rockets that was the cause of the Lijiang’s demise.

Of course, Liu knew that this was a complete lie. Three long days ago, the Lijiang was alive and well, their position update putting them in the far-off Chukchi Sea.

But had the legendary Captain Lee been able to make good their submerged crossing of the frozen Arctic Ocean?

His greatest fear was that the submarine had collided with an inverted ice ridge. Then there was always the possibility that an unexpected mechanical problem had caused a loss of power, and unable to surface because of the ice pack above, the Lijiang was currently entombed in a frozen grave.

Liu tried to remind himself that these were worst-case scenarios only, that there could be any number of other causes behind the Lijiang’s failure to communicate with them. He had personally written the sub’s operational orders, and had made certain to allow for a wide variety of possible communications glitches.

The first of these concerned the frozen medium in which they traveled.

There was no telling what the ice conditions would be like once they completed their circumnavigation of the North Pole. The position of the pack ice was constantly changing and chances were good that as the Lijiang reached the northern reaches of the Greenland Sea, they might have found themselves unable to surface safely.

Yet another possible cause of the delay were the solar storms that were presently ravaging the earth’s atmosphere. One of the most active periods of sunspot activity in recent memory, the electromagnetic storms were playing havoc with all manner of communications worldwide.

Only the night before, the Zhanjiang had experienced problems reaching Shanghai by radio. And now the Lijiang was that much closer to the North Pole where the electromagnetic interference was even greater.

As Liu peered over his destroyer’s heavily armed bow, he knew that there was one more plausible factor that could be responsible for the delayed radio broadcast. The cold depths of the Arctic Ocean were home to a variety of warships other than the Lijiang. Russian, Canadian, and American icebreakers regularly patrolled its icy surface.

Because of geographical constraints, the Arctic Ocean was also the place Russian submarines called home. Their mammoth Typhoon-and Delta-class submarines were designed with the ice pack in mind. They were based in nearby Murmansk, a short, submerged transit to the protective shelter of the polar cap. Here they could safely loiter and await the doomsday orders that would direct them to smash through the ice and launch their arsenals of nuclear tipped, ballistic missiles.

This northern bastion was also protected by a fleet of sophisticated, nuclear-powered attack subs. Codenamed Akula, Sierra, and Alfa, these extremely capable submarines were incorporated with the latest in weapons-control systems and sound-silencing technology. This advanced design made them more than a match for the American, British, and French attack subs that also patrolled these frozen seas.

Had the Lijiang encountered one of these warships? And was it detected attempting to stalk them? If this was the case, there was no way that Captain Lee would needlessly compromise his command to broadcast a radio report.

A fresh gust of cold wind hit him in the face, and Liu looked to the western horizon from where this breeze blew. They were passing Jia Point now and a small red launch carrying the harbor pilot could be seen approaching them.

The great port city of Tsingtao came into view as they rounded the point. Its modern skyscrapers and dozens of commercial structures extended down to the crowded docks, with the air itself heavily polluted by thick, yellow loess conveyed all the way from the interior by the incessant western winds.

This was the face of modern China. Cities such as Tsingtao were playing an all-important role as the ports where the motherland’s abundant exports and vital imports were handled. Since a good majority of this trade was by sea, warships such as the Zhanjiang, and the dozens of PLA Navy vessels that soon came into view anchored at their docks, were instrumental in protecting this maritime activity.

With the transfer of the harbor pilot, the Zhanjiang slowed further, its bow swinging toward the half dozen piers reserved for the PLA Navy.

Liu spotted a trio of formidable-looking Luda-class destroyers, with five T-43 minesweepers tied up alongside. These were the same vessels that had recently participated in the successful East China Sea Red Flag exercises. Used to screen the impact area of their ground-launched ballistic missiles, this capable flotilla had helped them send a strict warning to both Taiwan and the other countries who dared support the outlaw nation.

Red Flag was planned before the ascendancy of their new president, and was Liu’s creation. It was originally formulated to intimidate the Taiwanese government, which was getting much too cocky of late for China’s good.

Deng Xiaoping’s passing had left a power void, and Liu and his conservative supporters foresaw a dangerous turn of events if Taiwan were to be allowed to continue flaunting its unlawful powers. A group of liberal politicians that Li Chen was rumored to be part of was said to be advocating an actual splitting of the People’s Republic. It was to be patterned after the breakup of the old Soviet Union, and would find the rich provinces of the southeast forming their own independent nation, under the guidance of the commercial powerhouses of Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Taiwan. This would leave the poorer, industrial north alone to fend for itself, and effectively put an end to Mao’s dream of a united motherland.

Liu shuddered to think how such a frightening scenario would affect the great navy that he had sacrificed the best years of his life to build.

At 260,000 men and 1,150 vessels strong, this fleet was the world’s largest.

Not about to give up his life’s work without a fight, Liu looked out at the approaching docks. Tied to the end of the pier here, with quick access to the channel if needed, was one of the very vessels that he was depending upon to protect the integrity of his great dream.

She was known by her crew as the Yellow Dragon. A byproduct of the same modern, high-tech engineering skills that produced such warships as the Zhanjiang and the Lijiang, the Yellow Dragon was a Xia-class, nuclear powered ballisticmissile submarine. As such, only the upper portion of her sleek black hull was currently visible.

It was evident from the activity visible on this end of the dock that the Yellow Dragon was getting ready to put to sea. This particular patrol could very well be the missile sub’s most important ever, and Liu was relieved to find that they would be heading to sea on schedule.

The Yellow Dragon was a huge vessel, 160 meters long and displacing over 13,000 tons. It sported a teardrop shaped hull and a rather squat, streamlined sail, from which the hydroplanes extended.

Most of her length was aft of the sail, where a humped casing held sixteen SS-N-18 missiles. Stored in two parallel rows of eight missiles each, the SS-N-18 was an awesome offensive weapon. It was the first PRC submarine-launched ballistic missile to carry multiple independent reentry vehicles. Each of these MIRVs carried three 200-kiloton warheads. The solid-fuel missiles had a range of over 4,000 nautical miles and could be delivered with an amazing degree of accuracy. This gave the Yellow Dragon the ability to hit a wide variety of targets. The sub didn’t even have to leave the pier to effectively wipe out such diverse cities as Taipei, Manila, Tokyo, Seoul, Vladivostok, Calcutta, Singapore, Sydney, or Honolulu.

By moving farther east into its normal patrol zone in the North Pacific, the Xz’a-class submarine could hit targets up and down America’s West Coast, including Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. When properly positioned, there was hardly a city on earth that it couldn’t destroy, making the Yellow Dragon one of the most potent warships ever to sail the seas.

The boat’s current commanding officer was Capt. Ma Zhu-lin. Ma was a PLA Navy veteran. At fifty years of age, he was a tried-and-true old-timer, whose reputation as a strict disciplinarian was something of a legend.

There was no better man to have at the helm if missile-release codes were to be received, for Ma would carry out any legitimate order without question.

The ranks of armed PLA soldiers standing on the pier beside the Yellow Dragon were further proof that she was equipped with a full load of warheads. As with most nations that deployed nuclear weapons, China had a strict command and control policy in place. The PLA’s nuclear forces had their own chain of command, separate from the rest of the military, in which Liu was but a single link.

China’s president had the ultimate responsibility for ordering the release of nuclear weapons and Li Chen had sole possession of the warhead-release codes. This top secret, numeric sequence was always kept within close reach of the president in a briefcase carried by a trusted military aide and called the Cobra. In the event of hostilities, this code would be transmitted to the commander of China’s nuclear forces, who would in turn broadcast it to the desired units.

Then it would be up to the individual field commanders to utilize the unlock codes to arm the warheads and deliver them. Altogether it was a rather foolproof process. Liu was aware that he who controlled these nuclear codes controlled China’s destiny.

“Admiral Liu, sir,” an unexpected voice broke in from behind him.

Liu turned around and couldn’t help but find his expectations rising upon spotting the thin figure of the Zhanjiang’s radio officer. He stood somewhat timidly beside the veranda’s open hatchway and Liu anxiously beckoned the young officer to join him beside the railing.

“Yes, comrade,” said Liu eagerly.

“Admiral, you need not worry any longer. Headquarters has just informed us that less than five minutes ago, they received a brief, high-speed radio transmission from the Lijiang. Though heavy static masked a good portion of the message, the course coordinates that they were able to relay put them in the northern reaches of the Greenland Sea, off the Norwegian island of Spitsbergen.”

Liu fought the urge to hug the bearer of this fantastic news, and the dark, sullen mood that had possessed him for the past few days suddenly lifted.

“That’s wonderful news, comrade,” managed the smiling veteran, who noted that the radio officer apparently had something else to tell him.

“Yes, comrade, there’s more to the message?”

“Not exactly, sir. It’s just that moments after I received the coded dispatch from Command telling us of the Lijiang’s successful transit, a cellular phone call from Beijing arrived for you. The caller was from the Bureau of Foreign Affairs, and he instructed me to inform you that the president has safely arrived in New York and is presently in the process of boarding the QE2.”

Liu’s mood abruptly soured, and after dismissing the radio officer, he returned to the railing. Below, the deck crew was readying the mooring lines, and he absently watched their efforts, his inner thoughts a world away.

The young fool: so anxious to become an accepted world player, he was now on the verge of wasting the sacrifices of so many thousands who had died to unite the motherland. Sickened by this thought, Liu found his optimism clouded by a single doubt: despite all their recent successes, what if the operation wasn’t successful? So much effort had already been expended to put this complicated plan into action that failure could mean the end of the People’s Republic of China, with a lifetime of selfless toil on his part all in vain.

9

Midnight found Vince Kellogg standing on the QE2’s Bridge. With exacting precision, the last mooring lines were cast off, and with the assistance of a trio of powerful tugs, the immense ocean liner cautiously inched its way into the Hudson stern first.

A bare thirty minutes earlier, the Chinese president and his party had finally arrived at the ship terminal. As they passed through security and hurried aboard, the ship was cleared to set sail.

To give the heads of state the best vantage point for this rare midnight departure, the captain had invited them to join him on the Bridge. The presidents of the United States, France, and Russia, and the British and Canadian prime ministers had already taken up this offer. Much like a group of enthusiastic schoolboys, the five statesmen were currently in the midst of a tour of the central enclosed wheelhouse. This left Vince free to take up a position on the Bridge’s starboard exterior wing.

Security wise, he had little to be concerned with for the moment. The Bridge was a sealed, self-contained space, and since each of the leaders had at least one personal guard present, they were more than adequately protected.

Thus, he was able to watch the crew at work, as they backed the 963-foot-long, 69,000-ton vessel out into the river. Most of the actual maneuvering was being controlled from the wing’s auxiliary console situated on a slightly elevated platform at the far end of the wing.

Gathered around its rudder, speed, and bow-thruster controls were the ship’s first officer, the navigator, and a civilian river and docking pilot. All of these individuals held portable two-way radio handsets, their attentions focused on safely conveying the QE2 away from the pier.

This was a complicated operation, made all the more difficult by the Hudson’s swift current. Here the pilots proved invaluable. The nattily dressed civilians knew these waters intimately and were able to call out suggested course and speed changes with rote precision, all the while coordinating the efforts of the tugs.

It was hard not to feel the excitement generated by this departure.

Taking advantage of the magnificent late summer night, tens of thousands of New Yorkers had come to see the great ship off.

Vince got a bird’s-eye view of this crowd that packed all three levels of the passenger terminal. From this structure’s interior departure lounge, the spirited strains of a band could be heard playing a seemingly endless rendition of

“New York, New York.” Confetti danced through the air, with the crowds gaily singing along with the music and wildly cheering.

The departure also brought out an abundance of television-news crews.

Dozens of blinding camera lights illuminated the pier, while in the starry sky above flew the single news helicopter allowed to film the event.

To the east, the skyscrapers themselves looked on, seeming to stand a bit taller out of respect for a ship that was their peer in both length and majesty.

A resonant, five-second-long blast from the QE2’s air horn heralded its arrival into the Hudson River. They were well away from the pier now, and with another mighty blast of the ship’s whistle, the Queen was maneuvered into the center of the channel, its bow turned downstream.

They passed the collection of superbly restored warships and aircraft belonging to the Intrepid Sea, Air, Space Museum to their left, and Vince got an excellent view of Forty-second Street’s wide, well-lit expanse.

The last of the tugs pulled away, prompting a spirited exchange of whistle salutes. The QE2 easily won this battle of the air horns, culminating in a final, ear-shattering blast that could surely be heard from the Battery to Harlem.

Under its own power now, the ship steadily picked up speed. The Empire State Building’s lofty spire was soon behind them, and Vince listened as the river pilot spoke into his radio’s transmitter.

“Coast Guard traffic control, this is the QE2 bound for Southampton, over.”

“QE2, this is Coast Guard traffic control,” replied a crisp female voice from the radio. “We have you in the system headed southbound down river.”

“Aye, Coast Guard,” returned the pilot. “QE2 is currently passing the Holland Tunnel ventilators.”

“Roger that, QE2. We’ve got normal ferry traffic westbound,” reported the Coast Guard operator.

While this routine exchange continued, Vince spotted the distinctive twin towers of the World Trade Center up ahead on his left. To get a better view of this portion of downtown Manhattan, he crossed through the wheelhouse and stepped out onto the port wing. He found the five heads of state gathered on the wing’s elevated platform, their rapt gazes locked on the passing skyline.

“Two-Putt sure seems to be enjoying himself,” whispered Samuel Morrison, who had been standing beside the forward portion of the wing, immediately outside the wheelhouse doorway. “I haven’t seen him so excited since election night.”

“Seeing Manhattan from this perspective is enough to excite anyone,” Vince added, joining the SAIC.

Morrison grunted. “I’m glad you’re a part of the team, Vince. I gather that all went well today?” Vince filled him in with regard to the suspected case of food poisoning as they watched a pair of fireboats anchored off Battery Park shoot thin, arcing columns of water high into the night sky.

“Salmonella?” Morrison guessed.

“The New York Public Health authorities are still trying to determine the exact nature of the virus and its source. They did complete an intensive inspection of the vessel’s food preparation and storage facilities, and the ship passed with flying colors.”

“Make certain that Doc Patton gets a copy of that inspection report,” instructed the SAIC. “If it turns out to be salmonella and it’s still around, we could have a real problem on our hands. Is there any sort of internal followup underway?”

“I believe the ship’s physician is handling it,” said Vince. “I’ve already initiated an investigation of my own, with Robert Hartweu’s assistance.”

“Stay on it and keep me informed,” said Morrison as he refocused his gaze on the fading skyline. “I know it’s asking a lot of you, Vince, but I trust you can coordinate such investigations and still remain focused on protecting Two-Putt.”

“Man Dieu!” an excited voice called out from behind them. “C’est magnifique, mes amis!”

As Vince turned to see what had prompted this emotional outburst, the French president rushed past him and ducked into the wheelhouse. He was followed by the diminutive figure of the Russian president, with the prime ministers of Canada and Britain close on their heels. Behind them, their respective bodyguards jostled one another, trying to keep up.

This left the American president as the only head of state left on the port wing. He was in the midst of an animated conversation with the QE2’s bearded captain as they slowly made their way together toward the wheelhouse. As he passed Vince and Samuel, he explained what all the excitement was about.

“It seems that President Lenclud just got his first good look at the Statue of Liberty. If you gentlemen would like to join us, the captain here says that the view of Lady Liberty from the starboard wing is not to be missed.”

Without waiting for a response to this offer, the President and the ship’s captain disappeared inside. Samuel Morrison wasted no time ducking into the wheelhouse himself, and as Vince pivoted to join him, his cellular phone began ringing. Remaining alone on the port wing, he pulled it from his jacket’s breast pocket and said curtly, “Kellogg.”

“Hey, big brother.”

“Your timing’s impeccable, Thomas. You’ll never believe where your call caught me.”

“I’d say that you’re just about to pass Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Brittany and I are watching the sen doff on television. It looks like quite the event.”

Vince looked up at the circling helicopter. “It’s even better live.

Any news on our pen pal?”

“I’d love to give you all the dirty details, but let’s just say that we’re a little farther along the pike than our last conversation.”

“One step at a time,” advised Vince.

“Will do. If I get any hard news, I’ll contact you at sea via SATCOM.

So until then, bon voyage and enjoy that caviar!”

Vince rang off and entered the wheelhouse to join the others.

Inside he noted that yet another head of state had just arrived. With Tuff leading the way, President Li Chen and two hefty bodyguards made their way out onto the starboard observation wing.

Vince followed them outside. There was a flurry of excited greetings as the Chinese leader joined his five colleagues. Li Chen spoke excellent English, and after a warm exchange of greetings, a moment of contemplative silence followed. This hushed lapse was prompted by the breathtaking sight they were passing to starboard. Illuminated by a powerful bank of mercury-vapor lights, the Statue of Liberty looked out from her lofty vantage point, her torch of liberty glowing alive with a flickering red flame.

This was the first time that Vince had ever viewed the monument from the waters of New York Bay, and he found himself welling with emotion.

He could think of no more fitting image than this one to accompany them these next four and a half days. For if the upcoming summit was to be successful, it was imperative that the heads of state shared the same spirit of freedom engraved on the tablets held at Lady Liberty’s side.

As they sailed beneath the arched buttresses of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge the VIPs excused themselves. A late champagne supper for the summiteers was being served in the Queens Grill. Since Vince’s official shift ended at this point, he left the ship’s Bridge himself with the full intention of retiring to his stateroom. The next day’s shift was to begin at 0800 sharp, with the first official summit session scheduled to take place in the Boardroom at 0830.

Even though he had been going steadily now for over seventeen hours, Vince found himself wide awake and not the least bit tired. As he headed down to One Deck, he decided to use this free time to check out the ship’s Gym, one of the few public spaces he had yet to visit.

Deep in the bowels of the ship on Seven Deck, the first thing he saw as he entered the Gym was a large, rectangular swimming pool. To the right of the pool was a good sized carpeted room surrounded by mirrors and noticeably empty. Vince assumed that this was where the aerobics and dance classes were held.

In the left portion of the compartment stood the exercise machines.

There was a full Nautilus circuit, four Stair Masters three rowing machines, and four bicycles. A wraparound video screen was set up in front of the bikes, one of which still had protective bubble wrap covering it.

The screen itself allowed the bikers to choose from various courses where they could race against their fellow workout partners. It was a sophisticated piece of hardware and Vince wasn’t all that surprised to find a pair of legs clad in blue jeans extending from beneath its video projector. An open tool box was beside them.

“Excuse me,” he said loudly. “Problems with the video screen?”

“These damn high-tech toys are all alike,” responded a male voice with a slight Southern accent to it.

Moments later, the speaker crawled out from beneath the projector.

Whoever he was, Vince had yet to meet this middle-aged, rail-thin character, with slicked-back, dark brown hair, and narrow, green eyes.

He wore a gray sweatshirt with the words liu’s gym stenciled on the chest and had an unlit cigarette dangling from his thin lips.

“Good evening. Sorry to bother you, but when I saw the lights on, I couldn’t resist coming in and having a look around.

Vince Kellogg’s the name.”

A sardonic grin painted the stranger’s narrow face as he stood.

“Kellogg, like the cereal?”

Vince nodded.

“No kidding. Your pappy didn’t invent corn flakes, did he?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t,” replied Vince. He sensed something about this man that made him uneasy.

Before he could question him further, a female voice rose from behind Vince. “Is something wrong out there, Max?”

Vince looked up into the mirrored wall set before him and caught sight of the reflection of a gorgeous woman standing in the doorway of the Gym’s office. She was dressed in tight, flesh-colored leotards that showed every inch of her shapely, lean body. Yet it was her face that drew his full attention. She had a wild mane of long, curly, red hair, exquisitely framing her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. She appeared to be Eurasian. As Vince turned around to introduce himself, he remembered the film in which he had seen her.

“I bet you’re Monica Chang,” he offered.

She stepped out into the room to offer him her hand, saying, “Guilty as charged. And my accuser is?”

Vince took her soft hand. He found himself swallowed by her fathomless, catlike eyes. An awkward period of silence followed when he suddenly realized that he had yet to answer her.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Chang. Vince Kellogg at your service, ma’am.”

The actress was well aware of her effect on members’ of the opposite sex, even married ones, and she took his flustered reply in stride. “I certainly hope you didn’t come down here to work out with us this evening, Vince. I’m afraid the facility won’t be fully operational until tomorrow.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Vince. “As I told your associate, I was doing some exploring of the ship, and when I saw the lights down here, I decided to take a look.”

Monica sauntered over to the exercise bikes to complete the introductions. “I take it that you’ve yet to meet our resident computer genius, Max Kurtyka. As you might have heard, there were some electrical problems during the previous crossing. It destroyed the components of several of the machines. We most probably would have closed the entire facility during the summit if it wasn’t for Max being available to help us install this new equipment.”

Max thanked her with a leer aimed squarely at her bust. Vince felt sorry the actress was forced to rely on such a distasteful person.

“Now you’ll be certain to give us a try tomorrow, Vince,” Monica offered.

“It looks like I’ve got the early shift, ma’am. But if I can manage to coax some life into these old bones, you can bank on seeing me later in the day.”

“I gather that you’ve got an official function with the summit,” she observed. “May I be so bold as to ask what it is?”

“I’m a special agent with the U. S. Secret Service.”

This revelation caught her full attention, and she smiled once more.

“You don’t say. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Special Agent Kellogg. If there’s anything I can do to assist you these next couple of days, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Actually, there is one matter that you could help me with. Does the staff have any cooking or food storage facilities down here?”

Monica hesitated a moment before responding. “As a matter of fact, we do. It’s not much, but if you’ll accompany me into the office, I’ll show you.”

The facilities she was referring to turned out to be a small refrigerator and a microwave. As Vince checked the refrigerator’s contents of bottled water, Monica voiced her suspicions.

“I bet you’re trying to track down the source of the illness that sickened my coworkers.”

“You’ve got it, Ms. Chang.”

“Hey, that’s Monica to you,” she countered.

Vince doubted the bottled water was the culprit, and asked her bluntly, “Do you have any idea what sickened your associates?”

Monica shook her head. “Whatever it was, it sure didn’t come from here.

We only use this fridge for water, and the microwave for packaged snacks like popcorn.”

“Monica,” Max Kurtyka as he poked his head inside. “I’m packing up and hitting the rack. I will deal with that short in the morning.”

The actress acknowledged this remark with a nod, and stifled a yawn herself. Vince took this as his cue to leave.

“I’d appreciate any further thoughts you might have as to the source of that food poisoning, Monica,” said Vince.

“You’ve got it, Special Agent,” she retorted. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Vince excused himself and began the long climb up to One Deck. He was winded by the time he reached the proper landing, and was more than ready to call it a day by the time he unlocked his cabin door.

10

“Mark zero-three-two. Range eight thousand yards.”

Comdr. Benjamin Kram listened to his quartermaster while peering out the USS James K. Folk’s Mk18 search periscope. Kram was currently using this scope’s low-light operating mode to penetrate the moonless night sky and view the object of their search.

Clearly visible in the waters north of them was a single surface ship headed almost due east. Even at this great distance, Kram could tell that the brightly lit vessel was a huge one, well over 900 feet in length. Though he was positive that this was their target, he nevertheless confirmed the fact by picking up the intercom and speaking softly into the transmitter.

“Sonar, conn. Well, Mr. Bodzin, what can you tell me about Sierra Eleven?”

The high-pitched voice of the Folk’s senior sonar technician responded over the intercom’s speaker. “Conn, sonar. Sir, Sierra Eleven is really churning up a storm. Broad band’s picking up a wide-spectrum signature that could only belong to a group of sequenced turbocharged diesel engines, turning dual shafts, with a rev count indicating a good twenty-six knots. She’s the Queen, all right, and she’s heading to England with a bone in her teeth.”

Kram couldn’t help but grin as he considered the source of this unorthodox report. POle Brad Bodzin was one of the best sonar techs he had ever sailed with. The twenty seven-year-old Houston, Texas, native had demonstrated time and again the rare ability to successfully combine intuition and practical knowledge. As much an artist as a scientist, a good sonar operator often was the difference between a mission’s success or failure, and having Bodzin’s service on this patrol made Kram’s difficult job all the easier.

Kram backed away from the periscope and took a second to massage the cramped muscles at the back of his neck. At forty-five years old, he was easily the oldest member of his crew, and lately he was beginning to feel his age. Extended periods on the periscope had never bothered him before, yet the last couple of months such routine duty never failed to aggravate the muscles in his neck and upper back.

Another sign of his rapidly advancing years were the wire-rim bifocals that he had draped around his neck with a restraining strap. He had been wearing these glasses since Christmas, when his difficulty in reading the fine print pushed him to the extreme of mentioning this problem to his optometrist.

Bifocals and backaches were all signs that the USS Polk would be his last operational command. As Kram stared out at the thick black curtains that separated the cramped platform he stood on from the rest of the red-tinted control room, he allowed himself to think about the long career path that had brought him here.

A Vermont native, the son of a career surface-navy officer, Kram enrolled at the Maine Maritime Academy with the express purpose of preparing himself for naval service. NROTC brought him a commission as an ensign in 1972. The Vietnam War was in the process of winding down then, and Kram decided that his best career path would be in submarines.

As it turned out, this proved to be a wise choice, for during the Cold War decade that followed, the submarine was the front-line unit.

After graduating nuclear-power school at Orlando, Florida, and the submarine-officer basic course at New London, his first assignment was to the USS Tullibee. A Permit-class nuclear-powered attack sub, the Tullibee was designed to hunt down other submarines, relying not on high speed, but stealth and a sophisticated sonar suite.

The Tullibee proved the perfect platform for him to learn his new trade.

He remained aboard for two years before attending the submarine officer advanced course in preparation for his next assignment, as engineering officer aboard the USS Daniel Webster.

The Webster was a boomer, designed to launch ballistic missiles. Since this was the heyday of the Cold War, the six deterrent patrols that he completed were taken most seriously, and it was a definite letdown when the orders arrived directing him to shore duty at Submarine Squadron Two.

A year and a half later he was sent back to sea, this time as executive officer of the USS Hyman G. Rickover. Another attack sub, the Rickover served as the platform on which he’d prepare himself for command of his very own submarine.

This exciting event occurred two years ago. The USS James K. Polk was originally designed as a Lafayette-class ballisticmissile submarine.

Commissioned as a ship of the U. S. Navy on April 16, 1966, the Polk was to successfully complete sixty-six strategic deterrent patrols, armed with both the Polaris and Poseidon missiles, before being converted into her present unique configuration in 1994.

It took a nineteen-month shipyard stay to remove the Polk’s launching systems and outfit the sub for its current mission. One of only two such submarines in the U. S. Navy, the Polk was fitted with a dual dry-deck shelter. This cylindrical, hangar-shaped structure was fitted to the boat’s upper deck, abaft the fin, and was specially designed to support special-warfare operations.

Special Ops, as it was better known, was an important new mission for the current submarine force, and Kram knew that it was a great honor to get such a command. In addition to his sub’s normal complement of 130, he was responsible for the vessel’s other occupants, the two dozen members of SEAL Team Two.

To support these SEALs, the Polk was also carrying a Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, or SDV, inside the dry-deck shelter. The SDV was a battery-powered mini sub designed to hold up to eight operatives. Such submersibles were favored by the SEALs, who used these stealthy platforms to carry out a variety of clandestine operations.

It was because of the Polk’s unique configuration that Command picked them for their present mission. To emphasize the vital importance of this patrol, the chief of naval operations himself called Kram to the Pentagon for the initial briefing. This had taken place almost two months earlier, and shortly afterwards, the Polk proceeded to the waters off Andros Island to train for this mission with the help of a chartered cruise ship.

The periscope sighting he had just made proved that the time for training was over. A quick glance at the ceiling mounted sonar repeater indicated that the surface ship they had been sent to escort wasn’t built with acoustic stealth in mind. As the last of the great super liners the Queen Elizabeth 2 was designed for speed, safety, and comfort. And as it looked, it was going to take a full effort on the part of the Polk’s engineering staff to keep up with this stately greyhound of the Atlantic.

Kram returned his attention to the periscope. As he was bending over to peer out the eyepiece, another individual joined him on the platform, his husky voice wasting no time in getting his attention.

“Skipper, Commander Gilbert just informed me that they’re ready for us down in the rec room.”

Kram stood up straight and looked over to meet the expectant glance of the Polk’s chief of the boat, Mark Inboden. COB, as he was better known, was the sub’s senior enlisted man. As such, he held a pivotal position, responsible for being the interface between the Polk’s fourteen officers and the rest of its crew.

A gentle, intelligent man who was raised in the hills of Arkansas, COB worked closely with Kram and his XO to maintain a safe, productive working environment. Since the average age of the crew was barely twenty-three, this was often quite a challenge. Officers and enlisted men alike had long ago adopted Inboden as their proverbial father figure, and any problem, big or small, personal or work-related, sooner or later made its way to COB for a solution.

“Would you like to take a peek at the big lady before we take off?” Kram offered.

COB shook his clean-shaven, heavily furrowed face that he wouldn’t.

“That’s okay, Skipper. It looks like I’ll have plenty of opportunities.”

“That’s if the folks back in Polk Power and Light can keep up with her,” replied Kram. “Bodzin’s already got her going a good twenty-six knots, and she’s barely out of New York Harbor.”

Kram proceeded to follow COB around the periscope platform’s curtained wall and down into the control room. The compact, equipment-packed compartment was dimly lit in red to protect the crew’s night vision.

Kram passed by the two seated helmsmen, with Chief Stanley Roth, the current diving officer, positioned between them.

“We’ve sure heard enough of the Queen over the sonar feed, Captain,” interrupted the amiable Roth, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.

“But what’s she look like on the scope?”

Kram answered without stopping. “Big!”

COB slapped Roth’s palm as he passed by. They turned left at the ballast-control panel and headed aft into the next compartment. This elongated, narrow space had two long consoles lining each of its bulkheads. Both were vacant, and it was here that the members of the SEAL team would coordinate the activation of the dry-deck shelter and the launching of the SDV.

A sharp left took them past the space where the SINS, the Ship Inertia Navigation System, was stowed. Against the after bulkhead they stepped through an access way and entered the former missile magazine.

Kram, leading the way, headed for a nearby stairwell where a tall, muscular SEAL dressed in shorts and a Tshirt almost ran over him. The young, sweat-soaked commando was jogging, and Kram alertly stepped aside to let him pass.

This portion of the Polk was the exclusive realm of SEAL Team Two.

During the refit, the missiles had been removed, though the tubes remained. There were sixteen in all, located in two parallel rows of eight each. A narrow catwalk encircled the entire magazine. It was this latticed steel track that the SEAL was running on, with sixteen and one-half laps equaling a mile.

The engineers at the shipyard had ingeniously modified the empty tubes so that they could store extra equipment. The SEALs made good use of this space to stash their weapons, ammo, diving equipment, and assorted combat gear. Tube six was where the access to the dry-deck shelter was located. A ladder extended upward through a pressurized trunk that led to the shelter itself. Cold, wet, and dark, the trunk was a foreboding place to visit, and Kram had a sincere respect for the brave men whose work took them there.

The stairwell they eventually reached took them down to Three Deck, where a short passageway brought them into the relatively spacious compartment normally utilized as the crew’s activity space. On this occasion, it was being used as the special operations briefing room.

Twenty-five officers and enlisted men were presently packed into the compartment, with a mix of both Polk crew members and SEALs. As usual, the SEALs occupied the right half of the room, where they had set up three tables, one behind the other. Several of the seated SEALs had laptop computers in front of them, with their associates standing beside them or at the back of the room.

Benjamin Kram’s arrival generated an immediate response from a wiry, khaki-clad officer, who had been standing beside a large display screen at the front of the compartment. Only a few months younger than Kram, Comdr. Doug Gilbert was SEAL Team Two’s commanding officer. Of medium height and build, Gilbert was still in superb physical condition, though he had long since stopped trying to hide the streaks of gray that colored his trim moustache and brown crew cut.

“Captain’s here, ladies! Let’s get started,” informed Gilbert.

By the time Kram reached the vacant chair reserved for him in the front row, the idle chatter that had initially greeted him dissipated. In its place rose Gilbert’s firm voice.

“We’ll be beginning this briefing with the latest met update. Chief Murray, you’re on.”

A ruggedly handsome, dark-haired SEAL, who was seated at the front table, alertly stood and turned to address his audience. “Weather topside continues to look good. Air temp is seventy-six degrees, with a light west wind and steady barometer. This quiet pattern extends all the way up to Nova Scotia, where a minor low-pressure front has stalled off the Grand Banks. I don’t foresee this front giving us any problems, though I can’t say the same for the one I’m about to show you.”

The chief picked up a remote-control device beside his open laptop, and pointed it toward the front of the room. The display screen there activated with a click, its flat, black surface filling with a satellite weather map showing the southeastern coastline of the United States and extending well out into the Atlantic to include the Bahama Islands chain. In the waters north of the Bahamas, a circular mass of cloud cover was visible, and this was the feature that Chief Murray highlighted with an electronic cursor.

“As of thirty minutes ago, this gents, is the newest tropical storm of the season. The National Hurricane Center has just labeled it Marti.

I’ve got the latest data on Marti. Just came in within the last couple of minutes from a NOAA overflight. Though she’s still rather unorganized, they’re picking up increased rotation, with winds up to sixty knots near the center, and the storm moving to the north-northeast. Bermuda has already posted storm warnings as a precautionary measure, yet we still don’t know for certain if she’ll even get that far north.”

“What’s the normal course to take for storms forming in that portion of the Atlantic?” asked Benjamin Kram.

Chief Murray addressed the remote control to display a greatly expanded map showing the entire North Atlantic basin. As he initiated his answer, he activated the cursor to highlight corresponding areas of the Atlantic.

“On her current course and speed, Marti should pass well north of Bermuda, skirt the eastern U. S. coastline, and make landfall over the Canadian Maritimes. But this time of the year, the Gulf Stream has a tendency to push storms much farther east.

Depending upon what’s coming in from the west, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her miss land completely, and end up a greatly weakened front somewhere up here in the mid-Atlantic-ridge area.”

Kram sat forward with this revelation and once more expressed himself.

“But that’s smack dab in the middle of the QE2’s great circle route.”

“I realize that, sir,” replied the meteorologist. “But this is all speculation. And even if Marti were to make a beeline for the ridge, she’d have to develop into a major hurricane to keep from breaking up in the cold water up there.”

“If my mental calculations are correct,” interjected Doug Gilbert, “for the storm to affect this crossing, it would really have to haul ass big-time. Hell, it’s a good three thousand miles from the ridge, with an awful lot of water to cover in between.”

“Don’t forget that we have the Iwo Jima battle group cruising north of Bermuda as we speak,” reminded Kram. “Marti could sure spoil their day and negate their effectiveness as any kind of quick-response force.”

“The hell with the Iwo Jima and that group of Leatherneck fags that they’re carrying,” retorted Gilbert. “Me and my laddies are all the quick-response force that this mission is going to need. And with all due respect, Captain, Chief Murray here is still only a weatherman, and all of us have learned the hard way that when Dave predicts sunny and warm, you’d better bring the rubbers!”

This comment generated a roar of laughter, and Gilbert beckoned the meteorologist to be seated. As he did so, SEAL Team Two’s CO looked to his right and addressed the clean-shaven officer seated at Kram’s side.

“Lt. Comdr. Calhoun will be briefing us on the Folk’s operational orders.”

Dan Calhoun was the sub’s good-natured XO. A Naval Academy graduate, Calhoun was on the fast track to his own command, with his special interest being battle tactics and the history behind them. Like the majority of his crew mates, he was dressed in a dark blue poopy suit, with gold dolphins on his left chest, and the Polk’s flying eagle insignia opposite.

“Good evening, or should I say, good morning, gentlemen. I’ll try my best to keep this short and sweet, so please bear with me. As all of you know, the Polk has been tasked as a National Command Authority asset this patrol, and as such, we’re reporting straight to the CNO. A direct SATCOM link has been established between the Polk and the CNO’s op center in the Pentagon. We’re also keeping a radio link open with the Iwo Jima battle group, where Admiral Campbell is our NCA contact.

“I appreciate everyone’s efforts in getting the Polk ready for this mission. The QE2 left New York right on time, and we made our first contact with her approximately forty-five minutes ago. As planned, she’ll be continuing on an easterly heading until she crosses the continental shelf. At her current speed, that will take place sometime in the morning, when she’ll be making her first major course change to the northeast. This heading of 060 will convey them due south of Cape Sable, Nova Scotia, where the HMS Talent is presently on station.

“Together with the Talent, the Polk will continue to ride shotgun on the Queen, with our next rendezvous point south of Newfoundland’s Cape Race.

This is where the great circle portion of the crossing begins, and it’s here that we’ll link up with the Russian Akula-class submarine, Baikal, and France’s Casablanca.”

This revelation generated a disgusted grumble from his audience, and the XO was quick with damage control. “Hey, guys, we’ve gone over this before, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Look, I’m no more excited than you about the prospects of working with three other submarines. The Polk’s a lone wolf, and even though we’re more than capable of protecting the QE2 on our own, we’re just going to have to live with Command’s decision, flawed though it may be.”

Benjamin Kram was quick to stand and offer his support. “The XO is correct, gentlemen. We’ve gotten our fair share of unpopular orders before, and the time for whining is over. This is the way the President and the international community wants it, and this is the way it’s going to be. Case closed.”

This definitive statement served to silence the crowd, and Kram sat back down and gestured his XO to continue.

“Air coverage for the first half of the crossing will be compliments of Canada’s 404 Maritime Patrol Squadron. We’ve worked with the Flying Buffaloes before, off Andros, and for my money, next to the U. S. Navy, these guys are the best.

“East of the mid-Atlantic ridge, Royal Air Force Nimrods will take over, providing air coverage all the way to Southampton. Throughout the crossing, the QE2 will be under constant satellite surveillance. The National Reconnaissance Office will be coordinating America’s space-based assets, including a newly launched Big Bird platform and a U. S. Navy White Cloud unit. The Russians will be providing use of their latest RORSAT radar-scanning satellite, with the French National Space Agency covering the passage with a SPOT recon platform.”

“XO,” the sub’s COB. “What’s the latest on those sunspots?

Last time I paid a visit to the radio room, both the VHF and UHF bands were so filled with static that I thought our antennas were malfunctioning.”

Dan Calhoun looked to the other side of the room, nodding toward the meteorologist. “Chief Murray, can you help me out with this one?”

SEAL Team Two’s weather expert shrugged his broad shoulders and answered. “The interference that COB is referring to is being caused by the opening shots of what looks to be a very active eleven-year sunspot cycle. Think of it as a period of bad weather in outer space that starts off when plumes of hot, ionized plasma gas are ejected from the sun and directed toward earth via solar winds blowing at over one-million miles per hour. The trouble down here occurs when these gasses slam into the earth’s magnetic field at supersonic speeds. And since this is only the beginning of the next active cycle, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do but try our best to work around it.”

“Sort of like how the Polk is coping with this fucking mission,” added Doug Gilbert, to another outburst of laughter, especially from the SEALs gathered on his side of the room.

The Folk’s XO got a chuckle out of this as well, and finding himself with nothing else to say, he looked down to Benjamin Kram.

“Commander Gilbert,” remarked Kram, after glancing at his watch. “Is there anything else you’d like to add to this brief before we break?”

The moustached commando scanned the familiar faces of his audience and singled out a tall, blond-haired officer standing at the back of the room. This smooth faced middle-aged individual wore a dark green woolen sweater over his khakis, and was in the process of calmly sipping a cup of hot tea.

“Lieutenant Colonel Laycob,” said Gilbert. “Would you mind joining me up here and saying a few words?”

With a deliberate slowness, the officer this request was directed to put down his mug. As he proceeded to the front of the compartment, Gilbert offered the initial introduction.

“Lieutenant Colonel Laycob of the Royal Marines is the newest member of our team. He joined us two days ago, and many of you haven’t had a chance to meet him as yet.”

“I’m certain that the pleasure will be all mine,” muttered Lawrence Laycob with a clipped English accent. On arriving beside Gilbert, Laycob nodded toward the Folk’s CO and added, “Captain Kram, distinguished officers and enlisted men, may I take this opportunity to thank you for your warm hospitality. I realize that I’ve been sent into your midst by a joint decision of that international community that you mentioned earlier, and I do hope that I don’t prove a bother.”

Laycob’s suave delivery had a slight caustic edge to it, prompting Doug Gilbert to alertly intercede. “Lieutenant Colonel Laycob is a most welcome guest, and I emphasize the welcome. His distinguished career with the Royal Marines Special Boat Service makes him one of our own, and I’ll be the first one to say that it’s a sincere honor to get this chance to work together.”

This unusual emotional outburst on Gilbert’s part was met with a hearty round of applause. Throughout it all, Lawrence Laycob hid his embarrassment with a smile, and he bowed at the waist in appreciation of this unexpected welcome.

“Here, here,” he humbly replied, as the applause faded. “I didn’t mean to insult you with the first words out of my mouth, and I must confess that I understand your predicament. We in SBS know what it means to operate independently. That lone-wolf mentality that you speak of is a vital part of our doctrine. It’s what helps make us an effective fighting force.

“As Captain Kram so wisely mentioned, new international realities have led to an unprecedented era of joint military operations. The mere fact of the Polk’s existence is proof of this. Though I can’t speak for the Russian or French submarines, I can personally attest to the HMS Talent’s long record of excellence. Comdr. Mark Eastbrook and his crack gang of pirates are superbly trained submariners, who have gotten me and my lads out of harm’s way on a number of occasions. I’m certain that you’ll find them a most cooperative, competent group to work with.

“As for the reason behind my presence amongst you, I must admit that as far as I can tell, our navies put their heads together and decided that my services could act as an additional asset for SEAL Team Two. This is especially the case, since one of my previous SBS units was formed with the express purpose of providing security backup aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2.”

“The lieutenant colonel was one of two SBS commandoes who parachuted onto the QE2 in the mid-Atlantic, during a terrorist bomb threat in the early seventies,” Gilbert added. “He knows the ship from stem to stern, and will be an invaluable asset should we be called upon to render assistance.”

“As a side note said Laycob. “The other chap who accompanied me on that mission is currently serving as the QE2’s security director.

Robert Hartwell is a hero in his own right, who won numerous citations for bravery during the Falklands conflict. Whenever things get cheeky, old Harry’s the one you want on your side.

“Also, I brought along a new virtual-reality program of the QE2’s interior spaces. All of you are welcome to have a look and see what the Grand Lady looks like on the inside.

“So again, it’s indeed a pleasure to be sailing with you, even though I have to admit that there’s one naval tradition that you Yanks really should follow up on. How in the world can you even think about putting to sea without a proper pub on board? Why, it’s positively uncivilized!”

11

By the time Thomas Kellogg reached BATF headquarters the next morning, the return of summer — which in D. C. meant high humidity and an oppressive, sauna like heat — left him in no mood to deal with the mound of paperwork and phone-message sheets that had piled up as he spent a single day in the field. So it was with mixed feelings that he found the petite figure of Ruth Ann Miller, anxiously waiting for him in the lobby. Ruth Ann was the director’s personal secretary, and had been working for Lawrence McShane throughout his long career with the Treasury Department. Well into her sixties, but mentally sharp as a tack, Ruth Ann was pacing to and fro, with an uncharacteristic troubled look etched on her wrinkled face.

“Oh, Thomas, thank goodness you’re finally here. He’s been asking for you all morning.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It was really quite frightening. The envelope was all part of the morning mail shipment. As usual, after it cleared security, I was the first to open it.”

“I hope you didn’t discover another IED,” interrupted Thomas.

“It was nothing like that. Just a horrible, threatening letter, one of the most repugnant things I’ve ever read.”

As she paused to catch her breath, Thomas decided it was time to see firsthand what had disturbed her so. He excused himself with a comforting hug, and took off for the director’s office.

He found three of his associates gathered in the reception area, where Ruth Ann had her desk. They were in the process of carefully placing a United States Postal Service Express Mail envelope into a clear-plastic evidence bag. Two similar pouches had already been sealed and Thomas waited until his gloved colleagues completed their delicate task before greeting them.

“Morning. What’s this all about?”

Before anyone could answer him, Lawrence McShane emerged from his inner office. “We’ve got the bastard now, Thomas! Did you see it?”

Thomas reserved his response until he began his examination of the contents of the first of the evidence bags. Without unsealing it, he held the clear-plastic pouch before the light. A single 8-by-11-inch piece of white paper lay inside, with the entire front page of the previous day’s New York Times duplicated on its surface. The reduced headline read: 0–7 to set sail stormy economic seas ahead?

Lawrence McShane used the scarred bit of his unlit briar pipe to point to the thin, dark blue cardboard envelope that lay sealed in one of the other bags. The characteristic white-feathered head of a bald eagle graced one of its sides, with the mailing label mounted on the other.

There could be no missing the familiar, cramped printing of the person responsible for sending this piece of mail, nor the fictitious Winchester, Virginia, post office box. Yet this time, the addressee wasn’t the President of the United States or a member of his family, but Director McShane.

“Well,” muttered Thomas. “And there was no hint of an IED inside?”

McShane shook his head no, adding, “The only thing explosive is the letter. But before you read it, check out the top portion of the mailing label.

“As you can see, the envelope was processed at the Winchester postal facility last evening at 4:57. The stamp appears to have originated from that same post office, which means whoever sold it actually saw our suspect or his proxy.”

Thomas tried his best to make out the acceptance clerk’s initials, his best guess being TWL. Their suspect unfortunately hadn’t signed the waiver-of-signature clause, though getting an actual eyewitness to describe this customer would give them just the break they had been waiting for.

“We’ve got to get Mike Galloway over here,” urged Thomas.

“He’s on his way,” McShane said while taking the envelope from Thomas and handing him the remaining evidence. “Inside this last pouch is the clincher,” he added.

Thomas curiously examined the plastic pouch that held another lone 8-by-11 1-inch sheet of white paper. It appeared to have originated from the same computer printer that reproduced the front page of the Times, though this was as far as the similarities went. A basic word-processing program had been used to print the following:

1. Be it known that from this day onwards, the Sons of the Patriots hereby declare war on the sham organization currently doing business as the government of the United States of America. We recognize this entity for what it truly is, an illegal, immoral body, that has taken advantage of its citizens and broken the trust handed down by the original founding fathers.

2. The opening shots of this war have already been sounded, with our battle cry being; REMEMBER RUBY RIDGE. WACO, AND OKLAHOMA CITY!!!

3. In the second stage of our initial offensive, a sign of our might has already been sent to that BEAST of BEASTS occupying our White House.

Know that you have been thusly forewarned, and that the next time we act, it will be with clever subterfuge.

4. The war plan of this offensive has already been put into action. A second Civil War has now begun, and this time we fight to free the WHITE MAN, who has been unjustly enslaved with the responsibility of perpetuating the Jewish created welfare state. No longer will we sacrifice our best years supporting the lazy immigrants and racial minorities, for whom this system was designed to give a free ride.

5. We recognize that the true enemy is International Jewry. Their intention is to create a one-world government, in an attempt to satisfy an insatiable greed. On this very day, the Elders of Zion have called together the world’s leaders, for a summit whose purpose is to seal this conspiracy. WE ARE NOT FOOLED!!! And to destroy this Godless cabal once and for all, the Sons of the Patriots intend to strike a blow for liberty. Rejoice you who carry the yoke of oppression. The ATTACK ON THE QUEEN has begun!

Thomas reread this last sentence and only then allowed himself to look up into the worried glance of McShane. The director solemnly nodded and said in a determined whisper, “We don’t know who this group is yet, even if there is such an organization. But I’ll tell you this: We’ll get the sick bastard this time. I just know it.”

Though he wished he could share his superior’s optimism, Thomas could think of only one selfish thing: Somewhere out on the Atlantic, his own brother was sailing aboard the very ship that this madman had threatened to attack. He needed to reach him immediately.

12

By 0800 the QE2 was far out to sea, and Vince Kellogg was off to the Boardroom to begin his first watch of the day. Waiting for him there was a U. S. Customs Service official and Beowulf, her bomb-sniffing German shepherd. A member of the QE2’s security staff unlocked the Board room for them. Beowulf was then led inside, along with agents representing France, Russia, and Japan.

It took them a quarter of an hour to complete a thorough sweep of the compartment. Even after Beowulf’s sensitive nose gave the all clear, the agents still went to their hands and knees to search the bottom of the furniture for anything that didn’t belong there. The Russians went to the extreme of using an electronic scanner to check the walls and carpet for possible microphones and other eavesdropping devices.

Nothing of the sort was found, and just as the room was about to be resealed, Robert Hartweu’s arrival signaled the imminent approach of the heads of state.

The chancellor of Germany and his party of translator and two security guards were the first to show themselves. This group was followed closely by the other statesmen, with the American President escorted solely by Samuel Morrison. The Italian prime minister was the last to arrive, and as the doors to the Boardroom were shut, Vince joined Morrison and Hartwell in the anteroom. Chairs had been set up here for the various security personnel, along with a table holding coffee, tea, and sweet rolls.

This opening session was to be followed by a luncheon in the Queens Grill. Because the Boardroom was effectively sealed off from the rest of the ship, the security staffs had little to do but patiently bide their time, all the while being available for an unexpected break or other disturbance.

“Well, gents,” said Hartwell, after pouring himself a cup of tea. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that our first night at sea was incident-free. The only problem to speak of is in the ship’s Radio Room.

Unusual atmospheric conditions have caused us to lose the services of the commercial communications satellite that normally handles our telephone calls. V. I.P transmissions have to be rerouted to military backup platforms, though I’m afraid that telephone calls of a personal nature are no longer possible.”

Vince had positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the Boardroom’s closed doors and the various agents milling in front of them. “So much for calling my wife.”

“Yes, but look at all the money you’ll save,” Hartwell said. “I believe it’s fifty dollars for a three-minute call to the States. By the way, I do hope that your quarters are sufficient, and that you slept well,” asked Hartwell.

The SAIC replied, stifling a yawn. “My stateroom’s fine, though it looks like I’m going to need some time to adjust to the roll of the ship.”

“I slept great,” Vince admitted. “Before hitting the sack, I even got a chance to squeeze in a visit to the Gym. Ran into Monica Chang herself.

I tell you, she’s as pretty in person as she is on the screen.”

“I hope that you chaps caught the stunning photo of Miss. Chang gracing the front cover of the Daily Programme,” Hartwell interjected. “Her aerobics classes should be well attended indeed. And I hear the French president would like to engage her as his personal trainer.”

Thomas grinned. “While I was with her, I found out that the Gym has its own refrigerator and microwave. She let me take a peek, and I seriously doubt that’s the source of the contamination.”

“Late last night, I had a brief meeting with Doc Benedict and your own Dr. Patton,” Hartwell added. “Together they plan another inspection of the main Kitchen and food storage areas. They’re also going to circulate an inquiry amongst the stewards, to find out if they can help us.”

“I was hoping that we’d finally get some sort of definitive statement from the Hospital,” said Morrison. “Back at the loading dock, Dennis Liu said something about having just come back from visiting his coworkers there. Vince, maybe it’s worth another trip to the Gym to find out if they said anything to Liu that he forgot to share with us.”

Before Vince could reply, the door to the Boardroom swung open from inside. This unexpected disturbance caught the attention of the other security agents as well. Their probing stares locked on the source of this movement, a single uniformed steward pushing an empty food service cart. The steward froze. For a brief moment, the sounds of a spirited discussion could be heard from inside the room, then he regained his composure and closed the doors behind him.

Vince continued to watch the steward as he headed for the adjoining passageway, where he was forced to brake his cart to a sudden halt again when a young man rounded the corner and almost collided with him. This newcomer was casually dressed in khakis and a black sweater. He stepped aside to let the startled steward pass, and Vince caught a glimpse of the stranger’s long, black hair that was tied in a ponytail. It was obvious that he didn’t belong to any of the security teams, who had also noted his presence and collectively watched his approach suspiciously.

Samuel Morrison, of all people, greeted this handsome, smooth-shaven young man. “Hello, Ricky. What brings you up here?”

There was a noticeable limp to the newcomer’s step as he crossed the room and joined them. “Good morning, sir,” he replied sheepishly, well aware of the intense stares his arrival had generated.

The SAIC put him at ease by patting him warmly on the back, and after introducing his coworkers, said, “Ricky is Dr. Patton’s son,” while the youngster exchanged handshakes.

“I bet you’ve come for that list of stewards that I promised to deliver to your father right after breakfast,” presumed Hartwell.

Ricky nodded affirmatively. Hartwell glanced down at his watch.

“Please convey my apologies to him, and let him know that I’ll have it to him by lunch.”

“Ricky, here, is coming off quite a summer,” said Samuel Morrison as he put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Son, why don’t you tell them what you’ve been going through?”

Ricky shyly replied. “It wasn’t all that much, sir. I just went and broke my leg a week before school let out.”

“Broken leg, hell,” retorted Morrison. “From what I understand, it was more like a severely fractured hip, a spiral break of the femur, and a dislocated shoulder, for good measure. Why, Ricky’s still packing so much iron, he’s got to carry a doctor’s prescription to get through the White House metal detector.”

“My goodness, lad,” said Hartwell. “How in the world did you manage to do all that damage?”

“Bicycle accident,” Ricky revealed. “Hit a patch of green moss on my mountain bike while crossing a creek in Big Sur State Park.”

“If it wasn’t for a curious park ranger, there’s a good chance that Ricky wouldn’t be with us today,” said Morrison. “The way your father tells it, you were riding alone in some pretty desolate terrain, and by the time the paramedics arrived, you were in shock and close to succumbing to hyperthermia.”

Vince looked at the young man with newfound respect. “Considering the damages, I’d say you’re doing remarkably well.”

“I was lucky to get through surgery in one piece,” Ricky returned. “And it doesn’t hurt to have a father who’s chief of staff at Bethesda Naval hospital. For two months, I wasn’t allowed to put any weight on my leg, which left me a virtual cripple. I had to move out of my San Francisco apartment and move in with my folks back in D. C.” where they fed and dressed me just like I was an infant again.”

“What kind of rehab program are you on?” asked Vince.

“My father’s got me walking a full hour everyday, and I’m allowed to do basic aerobics. I’ve also started working out on an exercise bike, though all in moderation.”

“Have you checked out the ship’s Gym?” Vince questioned.

Ricky’s eyes widened. “That’s where I was headed next”

Samuel Morrison looked over at the closed doors of the Boardroom and then back to Vince. “There’s no reason for both of us to have to cool our heels out here, Kellogg. If you’d like, why don’t you accompany Ricky down to the Gym? Then you can ask Liu all about that hospital visit.”

This offer sounded fine with Vince, who readily left the crowded anteroom with Ricky at his side. The youngster’s limp was more apparent as they headed for the Quarter Deck and the elevator that would take them down into the ship’s interior.

Much to their disappointment, they found the Gym locked. Vince knocked on the frosted glass door. It was finally opened by Dennis Liu’s daughter Kristin.

Vince noted how Ricky’s interest seemed to perk up the moment he set his eyes on Kristin. She looked as cute as she had back on the pier, though now her fit figure was further accentuated by a flesh-colored spandex body suit A bit hesitantly, Kristin invited them inside and apologized for her father’s reluctant decision to temporarily close the facility until all the exercise machines were up and running. It seemed that the compartment was still experiencing electrical difficulties and that their computer expert was having problems addressing them.

A quick scan of the facility on Vince’s part found no evidence of this repair effort, or the individual responsible for it. Max Kurtyka was nowhere to be found.

Dennis Liu was all smiles as he emerged from the Gym’s office and walked over to the doorway. He too apologized for the unexpected problems they were having. Vince was surprised when Ricky spoke up and offered his assistance. Ricky’s college major was in computer sciences and he was most familiar with the design of the software utilized in their equipment.

Even though Dennis Liu graciously refused this offer, Ricky informed him that if he should change his mind, they could always reach him in the ship’s Medical Office. Vince suspected that Ricky’s ulterior motive was to get a chance to know Kristin better. They were the same age, and as it turned out after Ricky mentioned the origin of his limp, had shared similar experiences.

Only the year before, Kristin had fallen off a balance beam and broken her ankle so badly, a steel implant was necessary to correct it. She too had to surrender to the care of her father. From Ricky’s eyes, Vince knew the boy had found a potential confidante.

They agreed to meet later during the captain’s cocktail party. Vince chanced to see the strange look Liu gave his daughter as she accepted the date. Was this glance simply that of an overprotective father, or did it have an ulterior meaning? Vince supposed that he’d have to be a father himself to know the answer, and he decided this would be an opportune moment to ask Liu about his recent hospital visit.

Before he could do so, Tuff stormed into the room.

The broad-shouldered security man looked relieved upon spotting Vince.

“Excuse me, Special Agent Kellogg. But could I have a word with you, sir?”

Vince followed Tuff out into the Lobby. “Sir, the ship has just received a Level-Two security alert. The warning was issued from Washington, and includes a fax sent to your attention. I was up in Radio when it arrived. It looks like we’re the object of a legitimate bomb threat!”

13

The view from the rear cabin of the Bell UH-1F Huey helicopter was a magnificent one, Thomas Kellogg thought as he peered out the open hatchway. Five-thousand feet below, a seemingly endless expanse of thick pine forest hugged this portion of the Allegheny foothills. An occasional river could be seen snaking its way through the sparsely populated woods, the sparkling waters illuminated by the late summer sun.

Thomas shifted his line of sight to refocus on the two lane highway they had been following ever since leaving Winchester, Virginia, a half hour before. Traffic was light, and as they continued following the road westward, he doubted that he had counted more than a dozen vehicles traveling this twisting, concrete artery.

Behind him Mike Galloway was perched beside the opposite hatch. Both of them were outfitted in black coveralls, with BATF emblems on the chest.

They also wore black flight helmets fitted with speakers and clip-on chin microphones. An umbilical cord connected them to the Huey’s intercom, where a channel had been reserved for their use.

“I imagine there’s some excellent fishing down there,” observed Galloway, whose amplified voice rose over the constant clattering roar of the Huey’s rotors.

Thomas repositioned his microphone in front of his lips and replied, “I bet the hunting’s good, as well. Too bad we can’t give it a try.”

“Thanks again for taking me along, Thomas. It’s refreshing to finally escape the office.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you, Mike. I doubt that the postmaster of Winchester would have been so quick to divulge the location of our clerk’s cabin, if you weren’t there.”

“I still can’t believe that our man picks today to start his vacation,” Galloway reflected.

“I just hope it’s worth all this trouble tracking him down. Maybe he doesn’t even remember our suspect.”

“Have faith in your U. S. Postal Service, Thomas.”

“Special Agent Kellogg,” interrupted the voice of the pilot. “It looks like we’ve spotted the first turnoff up ahead.”

Thomas backed away from the hatch and headed forward to a position immediately behind the open flight deck. The Huey’s pilot was seated in the right-hand position. The former Army warrant officer wore a green flight suit, with an air atf patch on it. His copilot was similarly attired, and had a map spread out on her lap.

“I’m going to take us down to four thousand feet before beginning this next course change,” informed the pilot.

Thomas watched as he pushed down on the collective pitch stick with his left hand. The Huey descended. Thomas looked out the cockpit’s wraparound windshield. Ahead of them the highway crossed over a swift-moving river which the copilot identified.

“That should be the South Fork of the Potomac. Our cutoff is a mile and a half due west of the bridge.”

The Huey dropped another 500 feet, and it was Thomas who first spotted the narrow, dirt road they were looking for. With a slight adjustment to the cyclic, the pilot turned the helicopter in a southerly direction, expertly keeping the tree-lined road in sight.

Thomas reached into his zippered pocket and removed the directions he had scrawled back in Winchester. “Our next landmark is an abandoned logging camp that’s approximately three miles south of the highway cutoff.”

Thick stands of pine forced them to descend even more. They were practically skimming the tops of the trees, and even then the dirt road was proving difficult to follow.

Thomas found it hard to believe that only a few hours ago he was back in the familiar confines of BATF headquarters. The utter importance of their case was emphasized when McShane ordered Thomas to personally conduct the interview at the Winchester Post Office. In no way did he want to risk a leak by bringing in any more people than was necessary.

Unfortunately the investigation took a frustrating turn when he learned that the clerk they were seeking was off duty for the rest of the week, thus necessitating this flight into the Alleghenys.

“I believe we just passed over a structure of some sort,” observed the copilot.

Thomas reached out to steady himself as the Huey initiated a tight, banked turn. It took a low-level hover to spot the collection of ramshackle buildings that had caught the copilot’s attention.

At the western edge of the compound, barely visible through the swaying treetops, another dirt road was spotted. This one extended straight up into the foothills. Because of a recent logging operation, it proved a bit easier to follow. They roared over a sharp ridge, and it was on the slopes of the next valley that a rising column of smoke was sighted.

“That should be the place!” exclaimed the pilot.

The log cabin from whose stone chimney the smoke poured, turned out to be a solid, well-built structure, constructed primarily of native timber. A nearby clearing provided just enough space for the Huey to land. As the helicopter’s rotors ground to a halt, the sounds of the surrounding forest gradually replaced its racket.

Thomas and Galloway hurried over to the cabin, but their knocks went unanswered, and as they swung open the unlocked door, it was obvious the resident was not there. The furnishings were spartan and for the most part hand-carved out of pine. What few personal belongings that were present were neatly displayed with exact precision.

A clean setting of aluminum flatware was arranged on the kitchen table.

The remnants of a charred log smoldered in the fireplace. On the flagstone hearth sat a chipped, enameled coffee pot.

A workbench held a steel vise. Mounted in its grasp was a partially crafted dry fly. Yet more fishing gear was stored on an adjoining shelf, where Galloway discovered a worn, brown leather U. S. Postal Service pouch.

“This is the place all right,” he commented while holding up the pouch for Thomas to see. “Now the million dollar question is, where the hell is he?”

“My money says that he’s out catching dinner,” offered Thomas.

“As we were touching down, I noticed a stream to the north of us. If it’s big enough to hold fish, that’s where we’ll find him.”

A ten-minute hike through the woods took them to the banks of the stream. The distinctive bubbling surge of white water rose to an almost deafening intensity, all but swallowing the other sounds of the forest.

Thomas had to practically shout to direct the flight crew downstream by radio, while Mike and he began their search in the opposite direction.

It was rough going at first, though Thomas took heart when he glimpsed a dragon fly disappear into the mouth of a fish occupying the depths of a pool they were passing.

A terraced set of rapids led them to a wide, slower moving portion of the stream. It was here they spotted a single fisherman in waders, standing in the midst of the channel. His back was turned to them, his attention locked on one particular pool that he was working with his fly rod.

Thomas watched as he swung his long, flexible rod overhead, then snapped it forward with a smooth sweep of his arm. A snaking coil of light green, floating line shot through the air, with his dry fly landing in the center of the pool a good twenty yards distant.

“Hello!” cried Thomas as the fisherman prepared for another cast.

He had to repeat this greeting three more times with ever increasing volume, before finally getting the fisherman’s attention. Needless to say, the poor fellow looked startled as he turned around and saw the two coverall clad strangers.

“Mr. Lion?” questioned Galloway while groping in his pocket for his identification card.

“That’s me,” answered the fisherman. “Now who the hell wants to know?”

“We’re federal agents, sir,” Thomas replied.

“Postmaster Leachman told us where to find you,” added Galloway.

This revelation helped ease the fisherman’s apprehensions. Any further doubts were dashed the moment he stepped out of the water and examined their laminated credentials.

“Sorry to bother you like this,” said Thomas.

“Don’t worry about it, Special Agent,” returned the postal clerk. “You guys just gave me a start. I don’t get many visitors up here.”

Thomas smiled. “I can imagine. It sure is beautiful in these hills.”

The clerk all but ignored this remark, his expression tightening with concern. “For you to come all this way, it really must be serious. Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“It’s nothing like that,” returned Galloway. “We need your help with an investigation that we’re conducting. It has nothing to do with any wrongdoing on your part.”

The clerk exhaled a relieved sigh, and reached into the stream to pull out a creel holding three fat brook trout. “I’ve just about got my limit. If you don’t mind, how about discussing this matter of yours over some hot joe back at the cabin?”

Thomas waited until they were settled in front of the blazing fireplace with mugs of coffee in hand, before pulling out the Express Mail address label. The clerk examined it, then spoke confidently.

“Not only are those my initials, but I remember clear as day processing that particular parcel. It was right at closing, and I was already totaling up my cash drawer, when in walked that inevitable last-minute customer. I intended to get rid of whoever it was with all due haste.

But two things about this piece of mail gave me reason to pause.

“First off, intrastate Express Mail packages are rare, especially in places like Winchester. I mean, why spend the big bucks, when a couple of First Class stamps will get your envelope to D. C. in about the same time?

“Then there was the address. We had just been briefed to be on the lookout for any suspicious mail being directed to the White House. Then again, the director of the atf. isn’t quite the President, and my initial impression was that she was an atf. agent herself.”

“She?” repeated Thomas, who had mentally pictured their suspect to be a male.

“You bet,” said the clerk with a nod. “She gave me a twenty, and while I counted back the change, I made it a point to check her out. She was about five-feet, six-inches tall, one hundred and twenty pounds, and looked to be in her mid-thirties. It was hard to tell because of the wire rim sunglasses that covered a good part of her face. Her hair was the color of sun-bleached straw, and she wore it in a long braid that extended to the waist of her camouflage BDU jacket.

“It was as she was leaving that I saw she was wearing matching pants, with the cuffs tucked into shiny black paratrooper boots. That’s when I figured that she was retired military. If you don’t mind me asking, what did she do?”

Mike Galloway answered carefully. “We believe she might be using the U.S. mail to send threatening letters.”

While Galloway had the clerk repeat the story so that he could copy down the details, Thomas excused himself. He used the radio in the helicopter to contact BATF headquarters.

Ruth Ann wasted little time getting the director on the line. McShane listened to Thomas’s findings, then passed on some pertinent information of his own.

A call from Ted Callahan indicated there was a 97 percent probability that the C4 sample they had given him to analyze had been stolen from the National Guard Armory at Wheeling, West Virginia. With this in mind, McShane accessed the bureau’s extensive computer files to track down a suspect militia group, based deep in the Allegheny Mountains, approximately halfway between Wheeling and Winchester.

He made it a point to remind Thomas that the group that had initially threatened them went by the name of Sons of the Patriots. The militia organization the director subsequently chanced upon called itself the Holly River Patriots.

As if that weren’t enough to grab his attention, McShane’s next revelation was the clincher the Holly River Patriots were led by a certain Capt. Lee Pierce, U. S. Army, Ret. And what made this fact particularly intriguing was that Captain Pierce was a woman, who was on record as expressing definite anti-government doctrine to her devoted followers.

14

Their-second day at sea saw the QE2 pass south of Newfoundland’s Cape Race and turn eastward over the open Atlantic. This portion of the crossing was known as the great circle route, and the ship would encounter no land of any sort until it reached England’s southern shores, in eighty-some hours.

Nor would they encounter, if all went right, the four submarines that had formed ranks below them to provide the super liner with a clandestine escort. Led by the USS James K. Polk, this lethal quartet wouldn’t make themselves known until their charge was safely at harbor in Southampton.

As was normally the case by the second day at sea, the ship’s passengers had begun to settle in. Most of those who were first-time sailors had adjusted to the hull’s gentle rocking motion. Newcomers to the QE2 were most likely familiar enough with the giant ocean liner’s internal layout to get themselves to their desired destinations without asking directions, or having to refer to their foldout maps.

Included in this latter group was Vince Kellogg, who was making his way through the ship’s maze of passageways and decks like a longtime crew member. His expanded knowledge of these interior spaces was an indirect result of the warning they had received the previous morning.

Shortly after his brother’s fax arrived, an emergency meeting of the ship’s security personnel and the senior agents from each of the G-7 nations was convened. Robert Hartwell chaired this session.

Vince presented the initial briefing. He started by telling them about the two package bombs, then he read the venomous letter from the Sons of the Patriots. Both the BATF and the Secret Service, he said, considered it to be a legitimate threat to the QE2. Since the investigation was still in progress back in the States, Vince couldn’t give them any additional information about this heretofore unknown group.

The head of the French contingent was particularly interested in learning more about the Sons of the Patriots. Samuel Morrison promised him that he’d share all intelligence about the group, as soon as it was available. The SAIC then went on to stand before his assembled colleagues, and in his best diplomatic manner, ask them if they considered this new threat serious enough to warrant aborting the crossing. The Canadian port of Halifax was nearby, and the heads of state could be evacuated there, with the summit continuing on land.

Vince was surprised by the passionate response this suggestion generated. A collective

“No!” escaped from the lips of the security chiefs. The Frenchman spoke for the group as a whole, and demanded more concrete evidence before even considering terminating the summit in such a manner. Again he asked about the Sons of the Patriots. Were they a legitimate terrorist group whose threats were to be taken seriously? And why hadn’t they included any specific details as to exactly what manner their so-called attack was to take?

Great Britain’s representative agreed. He also felt that the threat was much too general, and revealed the numerous crank letters he had been receiving for the last month. Many of these letters threatened similar attacks on the QE2 should the summit be convened, and they all turned out to be hoaxes.

The German in their midst shifted the focus back to the QE2’s own security force. Even if a terrorist group did desire to interrupt the summit, wouldn’t the iron-tight security effort that he had witnessed back in New York keep them from doing so?

Robert Hartwell entered the fray and assured them that regardless of this latest threat’s substance, he was standing by his guarantee of an incident-free crossing. This was all the others had to hear to prompt a unanimous response-the crossing would continue.

The meeting was adjourned and Samuel Morrison took Vince aside to plot the way in which they would react to the threat. Though it would mean stretching their already depleted resources and making do with extended shifts, Morrison temporarily relieved Vince from Presidential-escort duty.

Vince’s new job was to work with Beowulf and his Customs Service handler. They would err on the side of caution, and resweep every square inch of the giant vessel for any sign of an unwanted IED.

They had already begun the mammoth task the previous afternoon. The Purser’s Office was their first stop. The Mail Room was searched, ever mindful of the manner in which the Sons of the Patriots had previously made good their threats. Parcels and letters alike underwent the scrutiny of Beowulf s sensitive nostrils, all to no avail.

Tuff was called in to help them coordinate the rest of their sweep.

They decided to start on the ship’s bottom most deck and work their way topside. This brought Vince back to the Engine Room, Chinatown, the working alleyway, and the food-storage spaces. He also got his first look at the sixteen-car Garage and the well-equipped Hospital.

Their visit to the Gym found the facility closed to the public.

Electrical repairs were still underway, and Beowulf s efforts were hampered by snaking coils of conduit that made the mere act of walking a bit hazardous.

They were on their way to visit the Kitchen, when Vince became aware of the late hour. An exhausted Beowulf was led up to the kennels on Signal Deck, and Vince found himself with just enough time to get ready for the captain’s cocktail party.

This maritime ritual went back to the days of sail. It was an elegant, black-tie affair, and Vince was impressed that even the President of the United States had to wait in the receiving line. This only went to prove the power of the QE2’s bearded captain, who was the ultimate master of his floating domain.

Afterward, Vince helped fill a hole in their coverage schedule by attending a formal dinner in the Queens Grill. The heads of state occupied a large table in the center of the room. Vince sat on the balcony, his charge in clear view.

Samuel Morrison joined him halfway through the meal, and accompanied Vince and the heads of state to the Grand Lounge for the evening’s entertainment. An attractive group of long-legged showgirls performed a musical tribute comprised of songs, dances, and costumes from all nine of the summit nations. The English comedian Max Bygraves followed them, with a hilarious routine that poked fun at each of the world leaders.

The show ended at midnight, when Vince’s relief finally arrived. It had been a long day, and he headed to his cabin for a sound, dreamless slumber.

Morning found him reunited with Beowulf. They continued their sweep right where they left off, and Vince got his first close-up view of the ship’s Kitchen. The facility was much larger than he had expected, and he realized what an important place food had aboard the QE2. Dozens of sous-chefs worked behind row upon row of stainless steel counters preparing that day’s menu. It was difficult to keep Beowulf focused with all the intoxicating scents, and they did their best to cover the Grill, Bakery, and dishwashing area.

It was alongside one of the dishwashers that they chanced upon Bernhard Langer, Dr. Benedict, and Dr. Patton. They were checking the temperature of a recently completed cleaning cycle, and the head chefs eyes opened wide with horror upon spotting Beowulf. Vince revealed the serious nature of their business, and Langer reluctantly allowed them to carry on, although he signaled a busboy to wipe everywhere the dog stepped, sniffed, or brushed against.

It was in the crew’s quarters that the first contraband was discovered. Beowulf’s furious pawing at a mattress led to the finding of an ounce of marijuana. Tuff was tasked to deal with the miscreant, who turned out to be one of the stewards.

After lunch, they headed topside to inspect the exterior decks. It was a warm, breezy afternoon and the heads of state appeared to be making the most of it.

They encountered the president of France and the Canadian prime minister sprawled out on poolside lounges, chatting away in animated French. The prime ministers of Britain and Japan were discovered inside the netted enclosure that comprised the golf driving range. Both casually dressed statesmen held pitching wedges and appeared deeply immersed in an anecdote-reinforced tip Robert Hartwell was sharing with them.

The German chancellor and the Italian prime minister were playing deck tennis. The German was dominating the game, which turned ugly when a disputed line call turned into a spirited argument, with each player protesting in his native language.

Beowulf answered them with a resounding bark and led the way up the stairway to the Boat Deck. This was where the QE2’s lifeboats were located. It was also where they discovered the presidents of China and the United States power-walking on the teak-inlaid track.

The two statesmen passed by as Beowulf began his inspection of the stern boat. Vince had walked with the American President in the past, and knew he took his exercise most seriously.

“Good afternoon, Special Agent,” greeted the President without breaking his brisk stride. “This walk sure wins the prize for the most spectacular scenery.”

“That it does, sir,” Vince replied, while accepting a polite nod from President Li.

Once the lifeboats were given the all clear, they headed inside to work their way forward. As Beowulf checked the ship’s extensive Library, Vince spotted Ricky Patton and Kristin Liu browsing in the adjoining Bookstore. Vince didn’t have the heart to interrupt them and only waved hello before continuing on to the Bridge.

This was where they chanced upon the final head of state. The Russian president and his translator were gathered around the ship’s prototype navigation console. Steve Smith was showing them its many advanced features, and Vince watched as the navigator displayed the low-pressure storm system that lay to the east of them.

Their next visit was to the Radio Room. Vince took advantage of this stop to attempt contacting his brother. While Beowulf sniffed the compartment’s equipment, Vince learned that atmospheric problems had now put all calls to the outside world on temporary hold. The French communications satellite that it was hoped would solve this problem was in the process of being repositioned, and the radio officer promised him that once the system was on-line, his call would get priority.

It was both frustrating and frightening to be surrounded by all this sophisticated gear and still be unable to make contact with Washington.

For all he knew, Thomas could have information vital to their current search and there was absolutely nothing he could do to access it.

15

Thomas chose the small mining town of Holly, West Virginia, as their base of operations. They arrived with the dawn, in two black Hueys that touched down on an abandoned baseball field. Director McShane had insisted that a six-man special-response team accompany them. This heavily armed unit would provide the necessary firepower should their reception be a hostile one.

Both Thomas and Mike Galloway were decked out in the same camouflage fatigues as their six associates. Each of the men also wore a layer of lightweight body armor, combat boots, and Kevlar-lined helmets.

The U. S. Forestry Service provided ground support. The senior ranger had previously helped the atf. break up a major bootlegging operation in nearby Mill Creek. During the course of this raid, a blazing gun battle had resulted in the wounding of two agents and the death of one of the moonshiners.

Before climbing into the trio of all-terrain vehicles that would be conveying them into the mountains, Thomas gathered together his assault force. He emphasized that gunplay was to be avoided if at all possible.

As authorized by a federal search warrant, their sole goal was to determine if the Holly River Patriots were in any way involved with the two leds mailed from the Winchester post office.

The Forest Service ranger shared what little he knew about their suspects. They occupied a hundred-acre site that abutted the much larger Holly River wilderness preserve. He had only visited their compound once before, when a forest fire threatened to head their way.

Like most self-styled militia groups, they were tightlipped, reclusive, and suspicious of the ranger’s offer of assistance. The portion of camp he visited was comprised of several wooden A-frames. The structures were set into a grove of old-growth forest, and from what little he saw, they appeared sturdily built and well cared for.

The only complaint that had ever involved the Holly River Patriots took place when a group of Boy Scouts stumbled upon several militia members in the midst of an orienteering exercise. The militiamen were decked out in full battle dress and appeared to be armed with assault rifles.

It was later learned that the weapons were harmless replicas carried as realistic props.

So that they’d be prepared for any contingency, the special-response team was outfitted with a variety of very real weapons including M4 assault rifles, Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine guns, and an assortment of sidearms. Thomas’s weapon of choice was a trusty 45 caliber Colt handgun. Mike Galloway was taking along a 9mm Browning, and together they made certain that the safeties were engaged before boarding the dark green Forest Service vehicles.

The roads they traveled got progressively worse, going from asphalt to gravel to a narrow dirt track whose surface was nothing but a pair of deep ruts. Frequent stream crossings made this transit an uncomfortable one, and Thomas was relieved when they finally braked to a halt forty-five minutes after leaving Holly.

They now set off by foot through stands of virgin pine. A thick canopy of limbs all but blotted out the morning sun, and pockets of dense fog were encountered as they crossed through an occasional hollow.

Thomas had taken up a position behind the ranger, who was their point man. Their pace was quick — it took a full effort on his part to keep up.

A check of his compass showed that the earthen trail was taking them in a northwesterly direction, and Thomas was grateful for the services of their expert guide.

As they crossed over a brook, a spooked deer bounded out of a thicket.

A raven’s harsh cry sounded from above, and Thomas marveled at the area’s pastoral beauty.

An hour passed, with no sign of any other humans out there.

They heard the Holly River long before they saw it. The roar of its fast-moving waters rose with an all-encompassing clamor. On reaching its rock-strewn bank they halted.

“This is the preserve’s northern border,” informed the ranger, whose powerful voice was barely audible over the rushing waters. “Militia territory begins on the other side. I’m afraid we’re going to get a little wet crossing over there.”

The water turned out to be icy cold, and at the deepest portion of the channel, it extended well up to their thighs. Ever cautious of the swift current, Thomas followed the ranger over the slippery footing.

The ranger seemed less concerned. “Wouldn’t be bad fishing here,” he said over his shoulder, “if you didn’t mind the risk of getting shot.”

Any sort of trail was conspicuously absent on this side of the river, and they passed through a grove of gnarled oaks. A ghostly fog had settled here, yet this didn’t stop Thomas from spotting the hand-scrawled sign that had been nailed to one of the tree trunks. It read: warning private property! no trespassing! no hunting or fishing VIOLATORS WILL BE SORRY!!!

The fog further thickened as they crossed a scrub-filled hollow. The air temperature had dropped a good ten degrees and an eerie silence prevailed, broken only by the heavy sound of their footsteps.

On the muddy banks of a small stream, the ranger stopped once more. He checked his compass before addressing them in a hushed voice.

“This hollow will lead us to a ridge that partially encircles the compound. We should get rid of this fog up there and get a good look at what we’re up against.”

“Heads up for snares and booby traps,” Thomas added. “Remember, these folks are being led by a professional soldier.”

They crossed a stream and began a slight uphill climb. The fog dissipated slightly as they passed through a stand of pines whose lower trunks were still wrapped in thick tendrils of swirling mist.

Thomas, second in line, sensed a sudden tentativeness to their guide’s steps. This circumspection proved to be a lifesaver when a hunting arrow struck the tree directly in front of the startled ranger. The razor-sharp, barbed tip penetrated the dense trunk with a resounding thwack. Two steps farther, and it would have impaled his neck.

“Take cover!” warned Thomas as the horrifying reality of this near miss sank in.

“Don’t bother!” countered a female voice from the surrounding wood. “If any of you go for your weapons, you’ll die!”

This chilling threat took human form as a line of heavily armed figures materialized out of the fog. White camouflage fatigues gave them a phantom-like appearance as they completely surrounded Thomas and his men with an overpowering force that made resistance impossible.

16

“Bond. James Bond,” said Ricky in his suave st mock-English accent, while making the final adjustments to his tuxedo.

Peering into his stateroom’s bathroom mirror, he straightened his bow tie and pulled his shirt cuffs beyond the tux jacket’s black sleeve. He had to admit, he liked what he saw. And to think he’d fought his mother every inch of the way when she urged him to purchase a tuxedo for the crossing.

He buttoned his double-breasted jacket, and had to reach out and grab onto the marble counter when the deck below began rolling from side to side. This rocking motion had been getting increasingly noticeable, especially within the last hour.

Ricky hoped that the rough seas responsible for this movement weren’t the first signs of the tropical storm that everyone had started talking about. The ocean had been almost perfectly calm until now, and the resulting ride was so smooth Ricky had sometimes forgotten he was at sea. But reality struck home when the hull of the giant ocean liner rolled in the grasp of yet another massive swell, throwing Ricky hard against the counter top.

At the same time, his cabin phone rang. Steadying himself, he moved to answer it, hoping the caller was Kristin. He thought they’d been getting along pretty well, and so, earlier in the day, he had invited her to attend this evening’s gala dinner. But she immediately turned him down, giving him some lame excuse about having to work then. Maybe she had reconsidered.

His hopes were dashed, though, when he spotted his father seated at the stateroom desk, the telephone to his ear.

“Of course I understand, Sam,” he said into the handset. “And, listen, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Take two right off. I guarantee that in a half hour, you’ll be feeling like your old self again.”

As he hung up the phone and began scribbling on a notepad, Ricky could see that the call had interrupted his father while he was getting dressed himself. His formal shirt was still partially open at the neck, the studs yet to be buttoned, his bow tie and cuff links still on the dresser.

“Problems, Pop?”

Dr. Jim Patton looked up and smiled as Ricky crossed over to him.

“You’re looking awfully handsome, son. Your mom would be mighty proud.”

The distinguished, silver-haired physician briefly turned his attention back to the notepad before adding, “Appears that these seas have caused my first real case of seasickness. How are you feeling?”

Ricky responded while bracing himself against the dresser as the QE2 rolled into another swell. “Right now, my stomach’s fine, but I feel like a punch-drunk sailor. I guess it’s going to take a little time for me to get my sea legs.”

“Don’t forget to watch that hip,” warned his father. “If these seas get much rougher, I’d like you to keep off your feet whenever possible.”

“I’ll be fine, Pop. And besides, when I was watching the sunset earlier with Kristin, the whole western horizon was aglow. You know what they say: Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” As if to spite nautical wisdom, the deck rolled over with enough force to cause Jim Patton’s jade Buddha cuff links to slide off the dresser. Ricky picked them up, and looked on as his father pulled a small vial of pills out of his medicine bag.

“I’d better get moving, or I’m going to be late for cocktails,” said Jim Patton, placing the vial at his side and reaching for his cuff links.

“I’ve still got to deliver these pills to Sam Morrison.”

“I can do it for you, Pop. After all, that’s the least I can do to help work off my passage.”

Jim Patton took a second to snap his right cuff link in place before picking up the vial and handing it to Ricky. “I appreciate the help.

Special Agent Morrison is waiting for these up on Signal Deck, outside the President’s Penthouse. And please, watch that leg of yours.”

Ricky flashed his father an okay sign, pocketed the plastic vial, and turned to leave the cabin. He had yet to visit that restricted portion of the ship where the heads of state were staying, and he needed to refer to his pocket map to find the way.

Because he had to travel by elevator whenever possible, he chose a somewhat convoluted route. A short detour took him down to Two Deck, where he headed forward to the A-Stairwell and an elevator that whisked him up to the Sports Deck. He turned to his left, passed by the Radio Room, and proceeded through the Queens Grill, as the staff was putting the finishing touches to the decorations for the gala. The aft exit brought him into the Lounge and the Signal Deck’s private elevator.

Before he could enter this small lift, he had to pass the scrutiny of a plainclothes security guard. This brawny, no nonsense individual asked to see Ricky’s ID, and after verifying his identity, inquired about the purpose of his visit to the Signal Deck. Ricky explained his mission of mercy and showed him the pills. The guard relayed this information into a miniature, two-way radio transmitter that projected from beneath the collar of his jacket. The response arrived via a compact ear receiver.

Only then did the sentry hit the button to summon the elevator and indicate that Ricky was free to continue.

The ride up took twenty seconds at most, and deposited him in a short, carpeted hallway, with the Penthouse Suites situated on each side. A ceiling-mounted security camera watched his every move as he tried to determine which way the President’s Penthouse was located.

He looked to his right and spotted a black-suited Asian man standing outside a suite marked, piccadilly. He was obviously a member of one of the security teams, and Ricky approached him to ask for help.

“Excuse me,” said Ricky. “But could you tell me where the President of the United States is staying?”

The security agent bowed graciously and pointed to the forwardmost cabin saying, “American President-san.” Ricky thanked him and continued forward. A recessed vestibule intersected the right side of the hallway, and here he found Morrison seated on a folding chair with his forehead buried in the palms of his hands. Clearly, he was not on good terms with the sea.

“Good evening, sir. Are you going to live?”

Morrison looked up, sweating. “Young Mr. Patton,” he managed as the ship canted over hard on its right side. “How about if I give you my 45 and you put me out of my misery once and for all?”

Ricky reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial. “This might not be as quick as a bullet, but at least the aftereffects are easier to live with.”

Morrison gratefully popped open the vial and downed two of the tiny green pills. “So much for a drug free America,” he muttered after swallowing them.

Ricky first met Samuel Morrison shortly after the President’s inauguration. He liked the big, amiable man right off, and he sensed that the feeling was mutual.

“I just came from the Queens Grill, and it looks like this dinner will really be a special one. Are you going to be able to join us?”

Morrison held back his answer until the shuddering deck stabilized.

“Right now, the mere thought of food is enough to turn my stomach. But unless I roll over and die sometime within the next sixty minutes, I’ll be there, sure enough. I drew the night shift this evening.”

Ricky pointed toward the closed doorway labeled, queen elizabeth suite, positioned to Morrison’s right. “How’s the President doing? Any word on his reaction to the summit?”

“From what I can tell, Two-Putt seems real satisfied with the way things are turning out, Ricky. I haven’t seen him this pumped up since the campaign. He’s even given up his regular afternoon siesta. In fact, he’s in there right now with the British prime minister, and I don’t believe they’re merely discussing their putting strokes.”

A sudden pitching motion of the deck forced Ricky to grab the edge of Morrison’s chair to keep from falling over. “Hang on there, Ricky,” the SAIC commented, “All you need now is to go and break your good leg.”

Ricky held his tongue as he was forced to brace himself awkwardly and a shooting pain coursed up his hip. It was a sobering reminder that he was far from being one hundred percent fit.

“Hey, Ricky, I don’t mean to be nosy, but who’s the good-looking Asian babe that I saw you hanging with earlier? Man, she’s a real looker.”

Ricky proudly replied, his pain all but forgotten, “Her name’s Kristin Liu. She’s the daughter of the man who runs the ship’s Gym.”

“Is she a movie star like her father?”

Ricky’s brow furrowed in thought. “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know. We only met yesterday, and we’re still getting to know each other.”

“Most exciting part of a relationship,” offered Morrison with an introspective smile. “Will Miss. Liu be joining us at dinner this evening?”

“She said she had to work. But I think I’ll go down to the Gym and give it another try.”

“That’s the spirit. It sure would be a shame to waste those fancy duds being stuck at our table, with us old farts.”

Inspired, Ricky excused himself to see if he could convince Kristin to change her mind. But when he reached the Gym he was surprised to find the doors still locked. He knocked on the cloudy glass panels. A full minute passed before a shadowy figure appeared on the other side of the translucent doorway.

“We’re closed!” shouted a male voice from inside.

“I need to talk with Kristin.” No answer.

“Please, is Kristin there?” persisted Ricky.

Ricky’s stubbornness paid off as the lock clicked open, and a man poked his head out.

“So,” sneered Max Kurtyka. “And whom shall I say is calling?”

Ricky ignored his mocking tone. “Please tell Kristin that Ricky Patton would like to speak with her.”

Kurtyka looked at him lustfully and flicked his tongue in and out of his mouth a number of times.

“So you’re the young buck who’s got the hots for Kristin,” he said with a slow drawl. “Watch it, Bubba. You go and touch a hair on that pretty head, and her daddy will snap your scrawny neck like a twig.”

Ricky was saved from having to hear more of this when Kristin showed up behind Kurtyka. She pushed her way past him and through the doorway, before giving Ricky a terse smile, and addressing her coworker.

“Beat it, Max. Okay?”

Kurtyka eyed Ricky one more time, and gave him another tongue flick before disappearing back into the Gym. Kristin made certain to shut the doors behind her as she joined Ricky out in the hallway.

“You look wonderful,” she observed sincerely. “Do you always dress that way for dinner?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” deadpanned Ricky, already losing himself in her dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“From the way you’re dressed, I assume that you didn’t come down here to work out.”

“You assume correctly,” Ricky replied while looking at his watch. “Now if you hurry, you’ve still got a good half hour to get dressed yourself and join me.”

“Ricky,” she whined. “I told you I simply can’t.”

“But why not? I thought we had a great time this afternoon.”

“Believe me, Ricky. I had a wonderful afternoon, too, and if it were any other evening, I wouldn’t hesitate to accept your invitation.”

Not about to be denied, Ricky went for the full court press. “What’s so important that you can’t have dinner with me? Surely it can’t be work.

The Gym isn’t even open.”

Kristin hesitated, and just when it seemed her will was weakening, her father burst through the doorway. Dennis Liu was dressed in a white martial-arts robe, with a black belt cinched around his waist, and a crimson red headband embossed with a series of bright yellow dragons.

From the sweat that matted his brow, it appeared that he had been working out. Ricky felt a bit uncomfortable dressed in his monkey suit, and looked on as Dennis Liu swallowed him with an intense gaze and bowed.

“Good evening,” he said in a dry whisper. “Is everything okay out here?”

“Everything is fine, Father. Ricky was just inquiring if I could join him for dinner this evening.”

“It’s a special gala banquet, hosted by the captain in honor of the G-7 participants, sir. I’d be honored if Kristin could accompany me. There’s an extra place at our table, and I’m sure she’d enjoy meeting my own father and his associates. In fact, I can even introduce her to the President of the United States.”

Liu thought a moment before responding. “Your gracious invitation is most kind, and speaking for my daughter, you honor her with your offer. But unfortunately, I need Kristin’s services this evening. So I’m afraid that this matter is closed. Kristin.”

Liu beckoned toward the doorway. His daughter met Ricky’s perplexed stare before meekly bowing and leaving without another word spoken. Liu pivoted, then he too was gone, leaving Ricky alone, dejected, and trying his best to figure out where he had gone wrong.

17

Vince Kellogg’s evening started off strangely enough-he almost slept through it. Upon returning to his stateroom to get dressed for the banquet, he lay down for what was to be but a short, fifteen-minute nap.

Lulled into a sound sleep by the constant rocking motion of the QE2’s hull, Vince was out for a good forty minutes.

He would have most likely continued his slumber, if it hadn’t been for a particularly nasty swell that sent a vase crashing to the floor. With groggy, unbelieving eyes, he glanced at the bedside clock and sat up with a start.

Dinner was to begin at eight sharp, which gave him less than thirty minutes to shower and dress. Fighting the rolling deck he accomplished this feat in record time, and jogged into the Queens Lounge with ten whole minutes to spare.

He spotted the ship’s security director seated alone at one of the cocktail tables, a well-limed Bloody Mary before him, and made his way over to him.

“Good evening, Special Agent,” greeted Hartwell. “Please have a seat and join me for a cocktail.”

Vince sat down opposite him, and looked on as a waiter approached.

Because he was on duty, Vince couldn’t have any alcohol, but he took Hartwell’s lead and asked for a Virgin Mary.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to join me in the Wardroom after dinner, and we can have a real drink together,” offered the Scotsman as Vince’s cocktail arrived.

Vince had to reach out and steady his glass when the ship rolled heavily. This prompted Hartwell to lift up his own glass, and toast.

“Here’s to following seas and fair winds.”

As the QE2’s stabilizers bit into the surging swell and evened out the ride, Vince was able to pick up his glass and clink its frosted side up against his table mate “I do hope you brought along your appetite,” commented Hartwell. “These galas are usually quite memorable.”

Vince took a sip and replied. “Even with these rough seas, I’m starved.

Is all this rocking and rolling being caused by the outer fringes of tropical storm Marti?”

“Actually, she’s now been officially upgraded to Hurricane Marti. And no, she isn’t responsible for these seas. We’re currently passing through the remnants of a low pressure ridge, and if you think this is rough, wait until you sail through a real storm.”

“I hope I can postpone that experience for another time.”

Hartwell noticed the strained expression on Vince’s face and did his best to ease his guest’s anxieties. “You’ll be pleased to learn that once we pass through this ridge sometime early tomorrow morning, the weather map looks clear all the way into Southampton. As for Marti, she might have been a factor had we left New York a day or two later.

But as it now looks, we’ll be well clear of her path, should she decide to pay the North Atlantic a visit sometime later in the week.”

Hartwell halted a moment to take another sip of his drink, then added, “I understand from Tuff that you completed your inspection of the ship.

I do hope that you’re satisfied with the results, and that you have a better understanding of why I was such a strong advocate of continuing the crossing. Any word as to the legitimacy of that supposed terrorist organization that issued the threat?”

“I finally managed to get a clear line to Washington shortly after we completed today’s sweep. I’m waiting to get an update from my brother, who’s still in the field.”

“I do hope you’ll let me know the second you hear from him,” said Hartwell as he watched the Chinese contingent enter the Lounge.

The party was led by four security agents, each dressed in a similar baggy black suit, white shirt, and bright red tie. President Li Chen could be distinguished from this group by the fashionable, double-breasted tuxedo that he was wearing. Close at his side was his translator, with a short, crew-cut young man on their heels. This last figure carried a black leather attache case, and as they passed through the Lounge on their way to the main Dining Room, Robert Hartwell discreetly whispered.

“I wonder if President Li has been able to keep in contact with Beijing?

From what I understand, that chap with the briefcase is carrying the unlock codes to China’s nuclear arsenal.”

“Back home, we call our version of that briefcase the football,” informed Vince. “I was shocked when our President made the unprecedented decision to delegate responsibility for America’s own unlock codes to the Vice President, for the entire duration of this crossing. This is the first time I’ve ever been with the President away from the White House, and not had the football close by.”

“As it turned out, your President made a wise decision, especially when you factor in the manner in which those sunspots are affecting communications. It appears that my prime minister also delegated the responsibility for Great Britain’s war codes to a land-based subordinate, with the French and the Russians doing likewise.”

“Who knows?” reflected Vince. “Perhaps after this summit, such things as the football will be anachronisms.”

“Here, here,” toasted Hartwell.

Quick to follow the Chinese into the Lounge were the German, Italian, Canadian, and Japanese delegations. Unlike President Li, each of these heads of state only brought along a pair of security men, and in each instance, they were dressed immaculately in formal attire.

“Scuttlebutt has it that the Japanese and Chinese got into a bit of a row last night,” Hartwell whispered. “What was intended to be an informal nightcap between old adversaries, supposedly turned into a shouting match that could be heard all the way out in the Grand Lounge.”

“I can personally attest to hearing a similar disagreement on the Tennis Court yesterday, between the German chancellor and the prime minister of Italy,” Vince revealed.

“Boys will be boys,” offered the Scotsman with a wink.

It was just as Hartwell was polishing off his drink that the French arrived, looking chic and dapper in their matching black-satin tuxedoes.

The Russians followed them in a large, animated group that included the British and the Americans.

Both Vince and Hartwell stood as the prime minister of Great Britain and the President of the United States walked by. The President’s physician was positioned between the two heads of state, in the midst of telling a joke. Vince could only overhear the words nurses and breasts, as they passed, with the apparent punch line delivered seconds later to a laugh-filled reception.

Samuel Morrison was the last member of the President’s party to enter the Lounge. He tried to maintain a strong bearing but his stomach was obviously in no mood for being professional.

“Evening, Chief. You feeling all right? You look a little green around the gills, sir.”

“I’ll survive,” said the SAIC who leadenly made his way over to their table, and was forced to grab onto Vince’s arm when the deck suddenly dipped downward. “Now I remember why I picked the army over the navy,” he added.

“You know, my brother was worried about getting seasick before he was called off the crossing,” remarked Vince. “I was going to try and get him some of those patches that Dr. Patton was telling us about.”

Morrison replied while trying his best to steady himself on the back of Vince’s chair. “Those patches might be effective, but I understand that there are too many friggin’ side effects for my likes.”

“We called them puss pads back in the Royal Marines,” said Hartwell.

“And nobody knows about those side effects better than me. On the way down to the Falk lands, I stuck one behind my ear to be on the safe side. It worked brilliantly. Only problem was that all I did was sleep for the next two and a half days, until I was finally told that the bloody pads were supposed to be removed after twelve hours.”

A soft electronic chime sounded in the background, signaling that the banquet was about to begin. Hartwell signed the bill, and beckoned his guests to lead the way into the adjoining dining room.

Vince was the first inside, and he found the Queens Grill buzzing with activity. The ship’s orchestra, set up on the balcony for this special occasion, was playing spiritedly. The flags of all nine attending nations hung from the ceiling, while bunting that matched their colors decorated the room’s pillars.

The Grill’s focal point was the large table where the nine heads of state were seated. It was positioned in the exact center of the room, with no other tables close by. Lying on its surface was an immense, intricately detailed ice sculpture of the QE2. The funnel had been dyed red and black to complete the Queen’s distinctive look, with a column of dry-ice-generated smoke rising from it.

Melanie and Neil escorted the party to their balcony table. Dr. Patton was already there. Two seats remained vacant.

“Looks like my son has yet to make an appearance,” said Patton, who had his back to the room’s main entrance.

“Last I heard from him, he was off trying to fill that extra seat of ours with the prettiest young woman on this entire ship,” Morrison revealed.

Kellogg, Morrison, and Hartwell all made certain that their chairs faced the room’s interior and that they had a clear view of the Grill’s two entry ways.

As they seated themselves, the band segued from a Russian folk tune into a German polka and Melanie handed out the menus.

Vince was torn between the pate de foie gras or the chilled Russian Malossol caviar for an appetizer. Neil put a quick end to his dilemma by suggesting that he order both. Vince readily did so, and completed his order by selecting the cream of sweet potato soup with toasted pine nuts, and a fresh Maine lobster served with green asparagus tips, corn on the cob, and sauteed new potatoes. Robert Hartwell also went for the dual appetizers, picking the Chateaubriand for his entree, while Dr. Patton chose a jumbo shrimp cocktail and paupiettes of sole stuffed with broccoli. Morrison, aghast at the thought of all that food, ordered just a bowl of chicken broth and some white toast. Dr. Patton seemed especially concerned with the SAIC’s condition, and began a detailed discussion on the healing effects of chicken soup and other folk remedies.

During this discourse, Dr. Patton’s son showed himself. With a plodding heavy step, he limped toward the table. His father was immediately worried.

“Are you okay, son? You didn’t fall, did you?”

Ricky seated himself and answered while taking a menu from Neil. “I’m fine, Pop. Just feeling a little queasy from motion sickness, I guess.”

“Don’t be afraid to order yourself a hearty meal,” instructed the physician. “There are several studies that show that a full stomach is better than medication when it comes to treating seasickness.”

A better cure for loneliness too, Vince thought. Dr. Patton completed the prescription by looking at Neil and nodding at the extra place setting. Neil removed it, and indeed the boy perceptively brightened.

As the entrees were served, a steward arrived at their table with an envelope for Dr. Patton. Vince watched as the physician opened it, and noted his perplexed expression as he read its contents.

“That certainly is strange,” Patton muttered, drawing the attention of his dining companions. “Dr. Benedict got a response from that memo we distributed to the room service staff. It seems a Filipino steward has come forward to swear he witnessed an attendant from Chinatown deliver a platter of shrimp to the Gym staff, on the day after leaving Southampton. I bet you that’s the source of our food poisoning!”

“If that’s the case,” interjected Hartwell, “surely Ping would have known about it. But as Special Agent Kellogg can attest, the folks down in Chinatown told us that no such delivery ever took place.”

“Well, it’s obvious that someone’s not telling us the truth,” offered Vince.

“That’s certainly a possibility, though if it’s Ping, it’s a bit out of character,” Hartwell returned. “Why don’t we pop down there after dinner, along with the chap who answered Doc Benedict’s memo? That should get us to the truth of the matter.”

Vince nodded that this was fine with him. As he polished off the last of the lobster, the Grill’s forward doorway opened and in walked the QE2’s bearded master. Capt. Ronald Prestwick surveyed the dinner’s progress, and satisfied that the guests were in the process of completing their entrees, he made his way down to the table of honor.

Here he circled the table, making it a point to speak to each head of state.

He ended his rounds at the head of the table, where the British prime minister was seated. There Captain Prestwick accepted a cordless microphone from a steward, and raised it to his lips.

“Mr. Prime Minister, I want to thank you for taking my place at the head of the table, for this distinguished gathering. Presidents, prime ministers, and chancellors all, it is my great pleasure to welcome you on this most special of nights. And to all of you who are also assembled here, know that it is a sincere honor to be of service to each one of you.

“All of us at Cunard are proud of the great tradition of excellence that this wonderful vessel so magnificently represents. The Queen Elizabeth 2 is much more than a mere technological marvel, for above all, it’s her crew who make this ocean liner second to none. Thank you for honoring us with your presence on this historic crossing. And may we be part of history together.”

A polite round of applause caused the captain to briefly lower the microphone. He waited for it to fade completely before addressing them once again, this time with increasing fervor.

“As I speak to you, honored guests, be aware that the QE2 is rapidly approaching the midpoint in our voyage. Here in the mid-Atlantic, there are no geopolitical boundaries to restrain us. In a manner of speaking, we are all citizens of the world out here, stripped of our individual nationalities and united in a common fate.

“May the spirit of concord and union be a part of you for the remainder of this crossing. And even though this gala dinner is usually reserved for the last full day at sea, we thought it appropriate to hold it now.

For our arrival in these international waters signals a homecoming of a sort never before experienced by the peoples of the world. May you who hold the destiny of the planet in your hands take this opportunity to come together, and share the spirit of peace with all the earth’s inhabitants. For if this great ship could speak, this would be her epitaph an end to all war, needless suffering, and deprivation.”

The room erupted with a rousing chorus of applause that included a good number of spirited

“Well dones!” The captain appeared to be taken aback by the intensity and length of this response that rose even louder when the nine heads of state stood in unison. This caused the rest of the Grill’s applauding patrons to stand, and the embarrassed captain allowed them to continue for only another fifteen seconds before finally raising his hands overhead and beckoning them to be seated.

“Thank you very much, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the crossing.

And to continue on the right foot, let the parade of the baked Alaskas begin!”

The lights snapped off, throwing the room into total darkness. Vince found himself momentarily disoriented. Then he heard the orchestra begin to play Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” and a long line of waiters emerged from the aft entryway. They held aloft silver serving trays, lit sparklers projecting from them, and wove their way around the tables.

He watched the procession encircle the table holding the heads of state, and then suddenly halt as the stirring crescendo reached a pause. The waiters turned in unison to face the summiteers, their fiery sparklers still aglow, while the orchestra segued into a rich version of “Auld Lang Syne.”

An impromptu sing along session was initiated by the President of the United States and the prime ministers of Great Britain and Canada, who joined hands and began singing the familiar lyrics. The Grill’s other patrons joined in, and soon all nine world leaders had their hands linked together, their bodies swaying to the ageless melody.

This sight alone was a moving one, and Vince realized that this gala banquet had exceeded his every expectation. He felt a tremendous spirit of camaraderie in this room that he hoped would spill over to the summit sessions yet to come.

Even though he himself had never been much of a singer, he couldn’t help joining in on the final refrain of

“Auld Lang Syne.” Hartwell had his glass held high, and Morrison slapped him on the back at the song’s conclusion, then the room erupted with another boisterous round of applause.

It was then that the lights snapped back on, and Vince spotted a strong figure standing beside the Grill’s main entrance. This individual wore a hooded balaclava, which masked his face; was dressed completely in black; and held what looked to be a Sterling submachine gun firmly in his grasp. Before Vince could react, a trio of similarly attired figures, also holding submachine guns, burst through the entryway and took up positions on the balcony. At the same time, yet another armed threesome entered the Grill by way of its forward door.

By this time instinct took over, and he frantically reached into the folds of his jacket to pull out his pistol. But before he could do so, the first intruder that he had spotted pointed his weapon at the ceiling and let loose a deafening, five-second volley. He then readjusted the aim of his gun squarely on the Grill’s central table, and cried out.

“If I see one single weapon exposed, the heads of state will die!”

His six hooded accomplices also aimed their weapons at the nine astounded summiteers, and the shocked waiters who continued to surround them and block any of the guards from reaching them. Vince had no choice but to let go of his pistol’s plastic grip. His two armed table mates did likewise, and Vince briefly met the concerned stares of both Samuel Morrison and Robert Hartwell.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted your dessert,” continued the leader.

“But this theatrical opportunity couldn’t be resisted. Bring in the rest of them!” he added.

Seconds later, a long line of three dozen or so passengers entered the Grill, accompanied by a pair of armed escorts. Several of these sullen figures were dressed in terry-cloth robes, and Vince recognized them as members of the international security teams who weren’t on duty. As they were directed to be seated on the carpeted floor of the main dining area, the leader once more addressed them.

“Before any of you decides to be a hero, be aware that my forces have already secured the ship’s Bridge, Radio Room, security department, and engineering spaces. My people have also made their presence known to the rest of the vessel’s crew, who have been notified that no one will be harmed as long as you obey my rules and instructions.

“I suspect each of you is extremely interested in who we are and what we want. For the time being, though, our identities are unimportant.

What’s of vital significance is that you abandon all hope of challenging us. We will be making the rounds of this room to confiscate all armaments, which I understand are quite substantial. Know that any attempt at resistance will result in instant death, both for yourselves and for the men you’ve sworn to protect.

“To further insure your cooperation, be it known that a powerful bomb has been hidden on this ship. The timer of this device has already been activated, and should I fail to show up to deactivate it, the entire vessel will be doomed to destruction.”

The leader lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers a single time.

This signal caused one of his hooded accomplices, who stood to his right and was obviously a female, to repeat these exact instructions in perfect German, Italian, French, Russian, Japanese and Mandarin.

Once the final translation was completed, the leader snapped his fingers a second time. Without hesitation, two of his masked associates climbed down from the balcony and approached the circular table that was set up against the room’s far right wall. Vince knew that this was where the Chinese delegation was seated, and he watched as the gunmen raised their weapons and began speaking in rapid Mandarin.

Whatever they were saying caused one member of the Chinese contingent to stand hesitantly. This crew-cut individual held a briefcase close at his side, and Vince didn’t have to see any more to know that this was the fellow responsible for holding the PRC’s version of America’s nuclear football.

“Oh, shit!” cursed Samuel Morrison.

The gunman reached out for the briefcase. Just as he was about to take possession of it, one of the PRC security agents seated beside the trembling aide lunged forward and attempted to grab the case himself.

As he made hand contact with it, his seated associates drew their pistols, while the aide began scuffling with the figure who had tried to take the briefcase from him.

But a mere second before the Chinese agents could put their weapons into play, the other gunman brought his submachine gun to bear. With a quick precise sweep he emptied the Sterling’s entire thirty-four-round clip into the torsos of the unfortunate Chinese men. With a deafening extended blast, the 9mm bullets tore into the bodies of the PRC agents, who collapsed onto the floor and across the table, a twitching, bleeding mass of torn flesh.

Sickened by this sight, and by the nauseous scent of cordite, Vince could only mutter, “Oh, sweet Jesus, no!”

The gunman simply replaced his clip with a new one from his belt.

An anxious murmur of shocked chatter escaped the lips of the other captives, who continued looking on as the smoke generated by this gunfire cleared. Standing beside the blood-soaked table, with the briefcase firmly in his grasp, was the lead gunman. His hood had been torn off during the brief scuffle, and Vince gasped upon identifying him.

Clearly exposed for all to see was the face of the man that Vince had only briefly met back on the pier in New York, an employee of Dennis Liu, the Asian who went by the name of Bear.

A myriad of thoughts rushed into Vince’s mind as he watched Bear return to the balcony and hand the briefcase to his leader. Only when he had this cherished item firmly in his grasp, did this figure bother to reach up and yank off his own hood.

Vince gasped once more as he set his startled eyes on the gloating face of Dennis Liu. One by one, in quick succession, the other gang members also exploded their faces. Vince recognized Max Kurtyka, Monica Chang, and Liu’s daughter, Kristin. Vince didn’t know the identities of the others, who were all Asian males.

In a disgusted whisper, it was Robert Hartwell who revealed where these others had come from. “Damn it, those bloody bastards are from Chinatown!”

Ricky Ration was beyond shock upon setting his astounded eyes on Kristin. His thoughts still in a frightened haze, he realized that he had most likely interrupted them down in the Gym, as they were making final preparations for this assault.

“I find myself in the midst of a script of my own making,” said Dennis Liu to his rapt audience. “You who know my work, only know my shadow.

Desperation directs our efforts, and rest assured that we are perfectly willing to sacrifice our own lives for the great cause that we serve.

What is the soul of a single individual, when a billion and a half others depend on us to succeed? Our great movement is their last chance, and failure isn’t an alternative.

“But coldblooded murder is not our intention, only a potential means.

So follow our rules, and you shall live. Resist, and you will die.

It’s as simple as that, for the Queen and her occupants are now mine!”