Attack on the Queen

18

Thomas expected the worst as they were disarmed, gagged, had their eyes covered and hands restrained with electrical tape. Other than the warning threat from the raspy-voiced woman, their attackers kept silent during this whole process, their faces hidden behind camouflaged hoods.

Before his own eyes were masked with tape, he counted at least twelve individuals in the militia party, who now proceeded to prod them forward with the barrels of their weapons.

To keep from straying from the path, Thomas was forced to grab onto the shoulders of the man in front of him. It was disorientating to travel in this manner, and he had to hurry to keep pace as they continued up a steep hill.

As they reached the summit, one of the militia members announced their arrival with a series of bird calls. The path was flat here, and Thomas counted off some two dozen steps before they were led into a structure.

The air inside was heavy with the scent of burning logs. It was the woman with the raspy voice who ordered them to their knees. Thomas did as instructed, and listened as she began a furious, accusation-filled diatribe.

Thomas had heard it all before. She started off declaring that this was yet another instance of the United States government infringing on the rights of its citizens. They had been apparently expecting this incursion for some time, and accused them of illegal trespass and a litany of other crimes that included the tragic deaths at Ruby Ridge, and the slaughter at the Waco Branch Davidian complex.

She went on to declare her belief in the right of all Americans to bear arms. She also revealed her fear of a United Nations-sponsored one-world government that the atf. and the FBI were secretly laying the groundwork for.

With rising frustration, Thomas was forced to listen to these paranoid, unfounded attacks that finally ended when she ordered the leader of her group of captives to stand. Thomas did so, and suddenly felt the tape painfully stripped off his forehead.

His eyes stung as he looked out at a bank of powerful mercury-vapor lights that continued to veil his accusers. A hooded figure dressed in BDUs came forward, frisked him, and pulled the search warrant out of his zippered pocket. This figure disappeared back into the light, and Thomas listened as the woman with the raspy voice read the warrant.

“So, you’re looking for an organization responsible for threatening the life of our commander in chief,” she repeated with a skeptical laugh.

“What a clever cover story to justify this flagrant act of trespassing.

From the weapons you were outfitted with, it’s obvious that you already considered us guilty as charged, and were on your way to carry out the government’s sentence. Before we pass our own judgment, how do you plead?”

This same individual stepped forward and ripped the tape off Thomas’s mouth. He cleared his dry throat, and finding himself with nothing to lose, described in detail the two leds that had brought about this intrusion.

Thomas tried his best to contain both his anger and his fear as he revealed the nature of the evidence that had brought them to the Holly wilderness area. He decided to include the description of their suspect, as given to them by the Winchester post office clerk, still not certain if this individual and the woman who stood before him, were one and the same.

“Look,” he said. “We didn’t come out here to attack you. And I don’t think you find it strange that government agents are armed. If this is a case of mistaken identity, then I’m sorry to have bothered you this morning.

“But believe me, I personally helped defuse that second IED, and the C-4 it held was very real. Before more bombs are sent and innocent lives endangered, all we want to do is enforce our warrant. If you’re not involved, then you have nothing to hide. Let us look around and determine this fact, then I swear that we’ll leave you in peace and be gone from here.”

A single, BDU-clad figure stepped forward. Short and stocky, this individual halted in front of Thomas and yanked off her hood. The defiant face of a fifty-year-old woman stared back at him. She had penetrating hazel eyes, with cracked skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones. Her spiky hair was cut short, and Thomas saw that the characteristic straw-colored braids were noticeably absent.

“Your candor is appreciated,” she whispered as she took him aside. “And as shocking as this may sound, I believe you. Though I don’t always agree with my government, violence isn’t the way in which I’ve chosen to express my displeasure.

“I’m Capt. Lee Pierce, formerly of the U. S. Army’s 82nd Airborne Division. I formed the Holly River Patriots in a last-ditch effort to defend the Constitution, not destroy it. Senseless bloodshed isn’t in our charter, though I’m sorry to say that there could be others in our midst who don’t feel likewise. If that description you related is accurate, I believe the suspect you seek could be amongst us. Shall we see for ourselves?”

Pierce ordered Thomas and Galloway’s restraints removed, and quickly escorted them back into the woods, the rest of their team still held captive back at the main compound. They soon found themselves on an isolated corner of her property.

“It was my great-great-grandfather who originally settled this land,” she explained while leading them up a tree-lined ridge. “The cabin we’re headed to was part of his original homestead. My stepson moved up there this past spring, shortly after his father died. We never were close, and after the accident took my husband, he got increasingly extreme in his ideas, so much so that I was forced to castigate him in front of the others. And that’s when he moved into the cabin with his girlfriend Emma.”

“I realize that this isn’t easy for you, Captain,” said Thomas as they reached the top of the ridge. They started down into a fog-filled hollow.

“The boy always was too headstrong for his own good,” she continued without breaking her stride. “At first I feared that I was the cause of his rebelliousness. But even when I wasn’t around, he had a way of alienating those around him. I’m afraid he’s just a bad seed who believes that violence is the only way to get his point across.”

The air temperature dropped as they climbed down into the valley. A stream could be heard nearby, and it was beside it that a cabin materialized out of the fog. It was an ancient structure, formed out of white stone blocks.

Lee Pierce peered through the cracked window, and seeing no one inside, unlocked the front door with a key she extracted from the top of the wooden door frame. The stench of tanning animal skins was overpowering as they stepped inside. The place was a mess, and it was obvious that its occupants didn’t devote much time to housekeeping. Clothing and used supplies littered the floor, with a thick coating of dust covering the furniture.

“If these two are up to no good, we’ll find the evidence either up in the attic or down in the root cellar,” said Pierce.

Mike Galloway volunteered to check the attic. Thomas and Pierce grabbed a pair of flashlights off the counter and headed down below.

The old timbers of the stairway strained under the weight of their steps as they entered the cellar. Their flashlights cut through the blackness, the air thick with swirling dust.

As his feet hit the earthen floor, Thomas scanned the debris-strewn room, his flashlight coming to a halt on a closed door. “What’s in there?” he asked.

“That’s where my father had his darkroom. He was quite the wildlife photographer in his day.”

Thomas found his pulse quickening as his thoughts returned to the led’s photoelectric trigger. “What did he use for light?”

“He rigged up that old generator over there to a red safelight inside the lab.”

“I don’t suppose that it still works?” he questioned hopefully.

Pierce crossed the cellar, bent over, and pulled the generator’s starter. The buzzing growl of a one-stroke engine sounded, and she walked over to the darkroom’s shut doorway.

“The light’s right inside. Shall we give it a try?”

“I think it’s best if we kill these flashlights first,” said Thomas as he joined her.

For a second, the room lapsed into total blackness. Pierce opened the creaking door, then reached up and pulled the cord to the safelight.

In the dim red glow of a single bulb, Thomas surveyed the darkroom’s interior. He discovered a cracked, white enamel basin, and a wooden counter filled with an odd assortment of materials. He identified several boxes of electrical components, and a large roll of black, wax-based wrapping paper. It was beside a Scotch tape dispenser that he spotted a shoebox-sized lump of what appeared to be putty. It was wrapped in green Mylar, and upon closer examination, he saw that the plastic had a label on it reading, property of national guard armory wheeling, WEST VIRGINIA.

“Special Agent Kellogg, I was afraid of this, but it appears that your visit was justified after all. Take a look at this.”

His hands were trembling slightly as he took possession of a partially completed Priority Mail address label. The familiar cramped handwriting revealed the fictitious Winchester, Virginia, post office box of the sender. Yet this time it was the addressee’s name that had changed to the Honorable Speaker of the U. S. House of Representatives.

“Do you find that interesting?” inquired a man’s voice from behind Thomas.

Thomas pivoted, and found himself looking down the menacing barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun. A scruffy looking long-haired male in his thirties held the weapon, and there could be no missing the long, straw-colored braids of the woman who stood beside him.

“Put down the gun, Andrew,” ordered Lee Pierce. “And for once in your life, listen to me! I warned you that violence wasn’t the way to get your views across, and now you’re going to have to pay the price for your pigheadedness.”

“Shut your trap, Captain!” countered the gun-toting extremist, whose eyes opened wide with abhorrence upon viewing the BATF patch that graced his prisoner’s coveralls.

“What do we have here?” he added snidely. “Captain, I think you should pay a bit more attention to the friends you’re hanging out with.

This one’s got a stink that could put a stuck pig to shame, and it’s going to be a joy to put him out of his misery.”

“You’re in enough trouble without adding murder to your crimes,” replied Pierce. “Put down the gun, and let’s talk about it.”

“I’m sick of talk!” shouted Andrew as he cocked the shotgun’s hammer.

“Me and Emma have made our choice, and talk isn’t on the agenda. It’s apparent that the President won’t listen to us, and now we’re going to introduce the Sons of the Patriots to our enemies in Congress.”

Thomas realized that the two warped souls standing before him were the extent of this organization. There was no way that they could have made good an attack on the QE2. And though he was relieved by this, he now had a much more immediate threat to be concerned with.

“If you’ve got a favorite prayer, Mr. Jackboot atf. man, now’s the time to be saying it,” advised Andrew.

Thomas met his crazed glance, doubting that he’d be able to talk his way out of this predicament. This certainly wasn’t the place or time where he expected to meet death, and just as he was about to surrender to Andrew’s suggestion of prayer, a sudden movement behind Andrew caught his attention; then a voice:

“Drop it, you bastard!” he heard Galloway say.

As Andrew snapped his head around, Thomas threw himself forward to divert the barrel of the shotgun. It discharged with a thunderous blast, the pellets boring harmlessly into the ceiling. While Galloway moved in from the rear, Thomas grabbed Andrew in an arm lock By the time Pierce restrained Emma, Thomas was already calculating how much time it would take to reach a telephone and relay the all clear to his brother somewhere in the mid Atlantic.

19

Brittany Cooper urns certainly no stranger to important briefings. Yet in this instance, she found herself dreading the thought of disclosing the reason behind this hastily convened meeting in the operation center’s conference room. Her guests had only just arrived, and as they gathered around the table, she made certain that they had a clear view of the three large projection screens that were set up on the other side of the glass partition.

Adm. Richard Buchanan sat at the head of the table. The youngest chief of naval operations ever, Buchanan was personally responsible for Op Center Bravo’s creation. At the former submariner’s right sat Gen. William Ridgeway, the medal-bedecked chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Ridgeway was in every way the consummate veteran in their midst, whose Army service went back to the early days of Vietnam.

As a pair of aides set up their laptops opposite them, Brittany addressed her own keyboard. In response, the projection screen on the left side of the room filled with a large scale chart of the North Atlantic. A red icon flashed in the narrow strait of water separating Greenland and Iceland, and Brittany activated a cursor to highlight this feature.

“It was twenty-three-and-a-half hours ago that the U. S. Navy SOSUS facility at Reykjavik, Iceland, received a report of an anomalous submerged contact beneath the waters of the Denmark Strait,” she revealed. “This data was subsequently analyzed, with the results arriving here within the last hour.”

“Why the delay?” asked Ridgeway.

It was the CNO who answered. “Since the breakup of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War, Russian submarine deployments into the Atlantic have been extremely limited. Because of this, SOSUS monitoring of the GIUK gap has been downgraded to a Level-Two priority.”

“You’d have thought that we would have bumped up the alert level for this crossing even though the Russian president is on board,” remarked Ridgeway. “But that’s water over the dam. Now, what’s so important about this particular contact?”

The CNO flashed Brittany a supportive glance, and she swallowed nervously before replying, “Computer analysis of the sound signature shows a 93 percent probability that the vessel responsible is a Chinese fan-class, nuclear powered attack submarine.”

“Chinese?” repeated Ridgeway. “What in the hell are they doing way up there?”

“It looks to me that they’re trying to clandestinely enter the North Atlantic by way of the Pole,” returned the CNO. “This in itself is unprecedented, and I’d sure like to know which one of their boats managed to pull it off.”

“If you look to the middle projection screen, I believe I can answer that, sir,” said Brittany as she addressed her keyboard.

A black-and-white, overhead reconnaissance photo of a naval installation filled the screen, and Brittany identified it. “That’s the PLA Navy berthing facility at Tsingtao. This Big Bird shot is the most recent in a series displaying the base’s refit berths. If you’ll follow my cursor, you can make out the two other advanced Han-class submarines in their fleet. This pair of vacant slips nearby indicates that two of Tsingtao’s submarines are currently at sea. One of these vessels is the Yellow Dragon, a Xia-class ballisticmissile platform that set sail several days ago, for what appeared to be a routine deterrent patrol. The remaining empty slip belongs to the Lijiang, and that’s the sub that I believe SOSUS tagged.”

“Hold it right there, Commander,” interrupted Ridgeway. “How can it be the Lijiang? Isn’t that the sub that reportedly sank off the Spratlys?”

“It’s obvious that the entire Chinese search-and-rescue operation in the Spratlys was nothing but an intentional act of deception,” she dared.

“And what makes this act even more interesting is the possibility that the top leadership in Beijing could know nothing about it.”

“What do you mean by that?” quizzed the chairman.

Brittany looked at Ridgeway and answered. “I know it’s all speculation at this point, but there’s always the possibility that portions of the PLA Navy sincerely believed that the Lijiang was missing, and that their SAR effort was a legitimate one.”

“I believe what the commander is implying is that outlaw elements inside the Chinese Navy could have succeeded in commandeering their most capable attack sub, without President Li’s blessings,” interjected the CNO.

General Ridgeway thoughtfully rubbed his furrowed forehead and took this speculative possibility one step further. “It’s scary, but it almost makes sense. We all know how the surviving Maoists reacted to Deng’s death and Li Chen’s amazing rise to power.”

“And let’s not forget about our old friend Adm. Liu Huangtzu,” reminded the CNO. “As the senior hard liner no one was more publicly opposed to Li’s participation in the G-7 summit than he. And since Liu continues to hold the senior most rank in the PLA Navy, what better person to plan and execute such a clever act of subterfuge?”

“But would the old fox really have the ca jones to steal one of his own submarines, then send it into the Atlantic where it would be free to cause all sorts of mayhem, including interfering with the QE2’& crossing?” asked Ridgeway.

Brittany readdressed her keyboard. The third projection screen filled with an expanded chart of the North Atlantic. Halfway between Newfoundland and the United Kingdom, she highlighted a blue icon and the quartet of flashing red stars that surrounded it in a neat, boxlike formation.

“As you probably suspect, that blue symbol represents the last-known position of the QE2,” she informed them. “The coordinates were updated less than an hour ago, during the last pass of our White Cloud recon satellite. If an outlaw Chinese submarine is indeed on its way into the mid-Atlantic, we’re more than prepared to deal with it.”

“Commander, can you break down the individual identities of that escort formation for the chairman?” requested the CNO.

Brittany replied while highlighting the red star at the bottom, left-hand portion of the rectangular box. “This icon represents the approximate position of our wolf pack’s command boat, the USS James K. Polk. The Polk is carrying our SEAL team, and their Mark VIII Swimmer Delivery Vehicle.”

She shifted the cursor to the top, left-hand star and continued. “This is the location of the HMS Talent. The Talent is one of the Brits’ newest, Trafalgar-class nuclear powered attack boats. They’ve been fitted with the latest in quieting measures, and the new Smacks firecontrol system. They’re also carrying a full load of prototype Spearfish torpedoes. With a closing speed of over sixty knots, the Spearfish is one of the most potent torpedoes ever developed.”

Moving the cursor to the star making up the bottom, right-hand portion of the box, she added, “The French Rubis-class submarine Casablanca is the point boat. She’s been tasked with clearing the southern perimeter, and though substantially smaller than either the Polk or the Talent, she more than makes up for it with a state-of-the art DUUX 5 Fenelon passive ranging sonar suite. The Marine Nationale’s finest is also equipped with the latest DLT D-3 firecontrol system, capable of launching the new F-17 acoustic-homing torpedo.”

“And finally,” said Brittany as she highlighted the upper, right-hand star. “We’ve got the Baikal, a Russian Akula-class attack sub. The Baikal is without a doubt the fastest sub in our foursome, and represents the best of Russia’s long involvement with nuclear-powered-submarine engineering. She’s been given the northern sector to patrol, and with a speed of over thirty-five knots, and a diving depth second to none, the Baikal should be able to hold her own against our suspected Han, or any other threat that she might come up against.”

“Thank goodness you managed to talk the President into sending along those subs,” remarked Ridgeway. “Do they know about the Lijiang as yet?”

Brittany accessed her laptop and held back her reply until the proper data flashed across the monitor. “I’m afraid not, sir. Normal VLF traffic has been disrupted by the same solar storm that’s affecting our satellite communications with the QE2. We’ve got a TACAMO on the way to pass on the message via ELF.”

“Can the Iwo Jima task force help us with ASW?” asked Ridgeway.

“Though their choppers are more than capable of tagging our bogey, the last I heard from Admiral Campbell, they were suspending all air ops to batten down the hatches for the arrival of Marti,” informed the CNO.

Brittany alertly accessed the computer, and the main projection screen on the far-left side filled with a satellite weather map showing the eastern coast of the United States and a good portion of the Western Atlantic. The focal point was the tight, spiraling band of clouds north of Bermuda. A time-lapse sequence showed this storm system as it whisked past the island. It was headed to the northeast, its mass continually widening, with a definite eye forming in the center.

“It looks like the Iwo Jima battle group is going to take it right on the chin,” observed the CNO. “Admiral Campbell mentioned that they’re preparing for one-hundred-mile-per-hour gale-force winds, and Force five sea states.”

Ridgeway winced. “Sounds like there are going to be some awfully sick Leathernecks out there.”

“Not to mention the crews of the five ships accompanying them,” added the CNO.

Brittany was in the process of requesting the computer to display the Iwo Jima’s last-known position, when Lieutenant Tolliver entered the conference room. The junior officer appeared uneasy, as he stood ramrod-straight and nervously cleared his throat before speaking.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but something’s come up that I thought you should know about. I was in the middle of receiving a routine SITREP from the QE2, when the signal went dead. My first hunch was that electromagnetic interference was the culprit. Yet I succeeded in establishing a solid uplink with our COMSAT, and when I went to transmit, all I got was a digital message saying that the party I wished to call was offline.”

“Are you positive the problem wasn’t with the satellite, Lieutenant?” queried the CNO.

“The problem was definitely with the downlink portion of the transmission, Admiral. Which leads me to believe that either the ship had a major mechanical failure in its radio room, or something else has happened making them unable to respond to our call.”

“This is all we need at the moment,” remarked Ridgeway with disgust.

“Lieutenant, keep trying that COMSAT link, and try alternating those frequencies.”

“Yes, sir!” returned Tolliver, smartly saluting before exiting.

“Commander Cooper,” continued the chairman. “I want you to personally find out what in the hell that communications snafu is all about. Since we already can’t reach our submarines, if we lose contact with the QE2 as well, we could be in one hell of a mess. This is especially the case if your suspicions hold true, and we’ve got a damned outlaw Chinese submarine headed out into the North Atlantic for God knows what purpose, and the leaders of the free world sitting out there with us unable to warn them!”

20

The submariners’ world is divided into four six-hour increments. Because of the unique medium in which they sail, the crew often has to depend upon the nature of the meal being served to know whether it is day or night topside.

Thus, when Benjamin Kram woke up at the start of the USS Folk’s third straight twenty-four patrol segment at flank speed, he had dinner. It was still only midnight.

He found three of his fellow officers gathered around the wardroom’s elongated table. As Kram took his customary seat at the head, he noticed that his shipmates were almost finished with their meals.

Lt. Michael Ritter, the Folk’s radio officer, was seated to Kram’s left, eating a large bowl of chili. Directly across from him, Comdr Doug Gilbert, the SEAL team CO, was also eating chili, along with Lt. Col. Lawrence Laycob of the Royal Marines. The blond-haired Englishman was wearing his customary green woolen sweater, and Kram could tell from the way he was devouring his meal that he was enjoying himself.

“Looks like we all lucked out tonight,” remarked the captain as he pulled his blue napkin out of the thick silver ring that had his name engraved on it. “I’ve got to start coming to mid rats more often.”

“This dish is truly an extraordinary one,” reflected the Englishman after spooning in a final mouthful of the savory concoction. “And to think that it doesn’t contain an ounce of red meat.”

The SEAL grunted. “Hell, as long as we’ve been on this pig boat, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been served a decent steak.”

“Who needs steak when we’ve got turkey?” offered CPO Howard Mallott, as he emerged from the serving pantry. The portly head chef was dressed in khakis and a royal blue polo shirt. The crest of this shirt showed a palm tree with a colorful parrot superimposed on top of it, with jimmy’s buffet embossed in gold below. He carried a tray with a large bowl of chili and a platter filled with chopped onion and shredded cheese.

Kram dug into his chili with gusto. It was as delicious as ever, and the only feedback that he needed to give Mallott was a single look of heavenly delight.

Mallott took this as his cue to leave, and he filled his tray with empty bowls before returning to the galley. This left the Folk’s captain free to enjoy his meal, while his shipmates sipped their drinks.

“Captain,” said the SEAL as he watched Kram spoon on some more onions.

“Lieutenant Ritter was telling us about the radio problems that the boat’s been experiencing. Do you think this will affect our ability to carry out this mission?”

Kram held back his reply until he swallowed the mouthful of beans that he had been chewing. “As long as conditions don’t worsen further, I don’t see how our difficulty establishing a clear VLF channel with Command will compromise the Folk’s operational status. If they really need to reach us, there’s always TACAMO to fall back on.”

Kram shifted his focus to his communications officer. “I was planning on doing a complete walk-thru this shift, and the radio room was going to be one of my first stops this morning, Lieutenant. I take it that VLF remains inoperable.”

Ritter nodded. “Nothing’s changed since your last visit, sir. We get a few teasing seconds of clear channel, followed by long segments of static. Those solar flares are continuing to play havoc with our frequency propagation.”

“I imagine that Talent and the other submarines in our flotilla are experiencing similar difficulties,” supposed Laycob.

“Certainly there must be other frequencies available to contact Command on.”

“If the Polk really needed to deliver the mail, all we’d need to do is go to PD”—periscope depth—“and pop up our highfrequency antenna,” said the SEAL matter of factly. “The trouble is, the QE2 is moving so fast that if we were to slow down to surface, we’d end up losing the very ship that we’ve been assigned to ride shotgun on.”

“The commander’s right,” said Kram. “Our main focus is keeping up with the QE2. These lousy atmospherics are bound to clear up eventually, and when they do, we’ll be getting such an earful from the CNO that we’ll be looking back at this radio blackout and praying for those sunspots to return.”

As Kram’s audience laughed at this remark, the intercom growled loudly.

The nearest handset was mounted beneath the lip of the table. Kram reached down with his right hand and grabbed it.

“Captain,” he said into the transmitter.

Whatever he was hearing caused a puzzled look to cloud his expression.

“Are you absolutely certain?” he asked, as if he weren’t hearing properly.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said with a grunt. “No, there’s no need to wake the XO. Just make sure to log the exact time of the course change, and I’ll join you in control shortly.”

Kram hung up the handset, and met the curious stares of his dining companions. “That was the COB. A couple of minutes ago, sonar picked up an indication that the QE2 has changed its course. It appears that they’ve broken off their great circle route, to proceed on a north-northeasterly heading of zero-three-zero.”

“Perhaps they’ve spotted some ice in the area,” suggested Lawrence Laycob.

“Or maybe weather has forced them to alter course,” offered the SEAL.

“Whatever’s happened up there,” said Kram, his expression still pursed in thought, “it wasn’t part of the original operational orders. I’m going to see about closing the distance between us and the Queen. Lieutenant Ritter, I want you to see if you can hail the Talent on the under water telephone. Perhaps the Royal Navy can tell us what the hell is going on up there.”

21

Comdr. Mark Eastbrook was a lucky man, and he knew it. To get command of his very own nuclear-powered attack sub, in these post-Cold War days of rapidly shrinking fleets, was an amazing turn of good fortune. To get this command having barely graduated secondary school, was simply incredible.

As he sat in his cabin, staring at the open pages of his diary, he realized that he must have had a guardian angel looking after him, on that rainy morning in 1975, when he joined the Royal Navy as a junior rate. A mere six years later, he completed initial officer training at Dartmouth’s Britannia Naval College, having worked his way up the ranks via the Upper Yardman scheme.

He received his commission in time to see combat in the Falklands, where he was assigned to the destroyer HMS Sheffield. An Argentine exocet missile showed him the dangers of duty in the surface fleet.

Severely burnt while fighting to save his ship, Eastbrook promised himself that if he survived that fateful day, he’d volunteer to spend the rest of his Royal Navy career as a submariner.

Survive he did, and following a succession of assignments aboard a number of submarines, he was selected for the command course in 1990.

Perisher school was almost as tough as real combat. But he persevered, and after spending two years as the XO of the HMS Trenchant, and a stint in Groton, Connecticut, on exchange with the U. S. Navy, he was finally promoted to commander in 1995, when he also assumed command of the Talent.

This was quite a career path for the son of a Birmingham collier. But it only went to show that any man could work his way to the top, no matter one’s social standing at birth, if an individual was willing to work hard, apply oneself, and make the necessary sacrifices.

His country had entrusted him with a warship worth many million pounds, one of the most sophisticated vessels ever to fly the white pennant. As commander of the third Royal Navy submarine to carry the name Talent, East brook was also responsible for the lives of 111 officers and enlisted men. Never one to take his duty lightly, he knew that his current assignment was probably the most important of his entire career.

The halfway point of the crossing was rapidly approaching, and Eastbrook was so absorbed in his duty that sleep was all but impossible. To pass the lonely midnight watch, he sequestered himself in his cramped stateroom, one of the few private spaces in the equipment-packed vessel.

Even though his cabin was about the same size as his walk-in closet back home in Yelverton, he was not about to complain. Eastbrook had done his best to make the stateroom as comfortable as possible, including setting up a small stereo system. Currently playing in the background was a CD that the captain of the Casablanca had given him.

Saint-Saens’s Symphony no. 3 was a new piece of music for him to enjoy, especially since it was orchestrated for the organ, one of his favorite instruments.

An abrupt knock on his cabin’s closed door broke the music’s spell and he replied with a curt, “Enter.”

Quick to do so was the lean, six-foot figure of his executive officer.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain, but something’s come up that I thought you should know about.”

Eastbrook turned off the stereo and looked up to address his bearded shipmate. “No bother at all, Number One. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

“It’s the Queen, sir. She’s broken from her great circle route, on a new course of zero-three-zero.”

“Is it ice?” quizzed Eastbrook, thinking out loud.

“It’s certainly possible, sir. Though pack ice in this portion of the Atlantic is usually limited to the Grand Banks sector.”

Eastbrook glanced at the bulkhead-mounted, framed picture of the QE2 at sea that the ocean liner’s bearded master had given him. “It’s most unlike Captain Prestwick to deviate from his planned route,” he reflected. “It must be prompted by an environmental factor that we don’t know about. Any change in the status of our inability to receive VLF?”

“Negative, sir. The chief RS has tried every filter available, yet the static remains.”

“If only we could afford the luxury of going to periscope depth and establishing a highfrequency radio link with the Queen,” Eastbrook muttered. “But right now, all we can do is try to further decrease the distance between us. Inform the chief engineer that I’d like to up our speed to thirty knots. And make our new course zero-three-zero. Once this has been attained, I think it’s best if we try to contact the Polk. Perhaps the Yanks know the reason behind this unexpected detour.”

22

Commissar Guan Yin couldn’t have been more satisfied with the Lijiang’s continued progress. Ever since successfully penetrating the GIUK gap, a certain sense of expectation had filled the vessel. After the thousands of kilometers of hazardous underwater travel, they were finally closing in on their mission’s ultimate goal. And even though the majority of the crew hadn’t been briefed on the exact purpose of their mission, all seemed to be aware that they were approaching some moment of truth.

Morale remained excellent, with not a vacant chair available during his last Komsomol meeting. Above all, the men genuinely appeared to be taken with their new captain, as was Guan.

Several of the crew had recently taken to abandoning their uniforms, and standing their watches clothed in then own martial-arts robes. At first, this upset Guan. But then he realized that the men were only trying to imitate their commanding officer, who continued wearing his own unique outfit of white robe, matching cotton trousers, black belt, and bright red headband. Unlike their previous captain’s American poopy suit, Lee Shao-chi’s outfit resembled more the traditional uniforms of China’s ancient warriors. It was nothing to be ashamed of, and the commissar decided that he could overlook this minor infraction.

The control-room watch that Guan was presently standing had two members thusly dressed. One was It. Comdr. Deng Biao. The XO stood on the adjoining periscope pedestal clothed in his white cotton-twill robe that was closed at the waist with a brown cloth belt. This color indicated the level of his martial-arts skills, one below that of their captain.

It was well after midnight, and the Lijiang was headed almost due south, at flank speed. As always, the muted red lights that illuminated this compartment gave the control room a sinister appearance. A hushed quiet prevailed, with the only audible sounds being the soft hum of the ventilation blowers and the distant drone of the sub’s single propeller shaft.

Beside him, the boat’s navigator was making the latest course update at the plotting table. A recent check of this chart showed that the long-anticipated geological feature known as the Hecate Seamount was well within reach. Named after the Greek goddess of the underworld, the seas above this underwater mountain were a fitting place in which to unfold their mission’s next all-important stage.

Guan’s calculations indicated mat the Lijiang should be able to actually hear their quarry. The navigator agreed with him, and together they had discussed the numerous factors that could have delayed their prey.

Patience had never been one of the commissar’s virtues, and when the door to the sonar room swung open and out strode the captain, Guan expectantly made his way over to the XO’s side. Lee Shao-chi navigated a straight course directly to the periscope pedestal. He climbed up onto the conn and studied the dozens of glowing dials and gauges mounted into the bulkhead above the helm. Apparently satisfied with what he was seeing, Lee shut his eyes and initiated a series of deep, even breaths.

“Comrades!” he shouted, his eyelids tightly sealed. “The time is right for you to return with me on the path homeward. Close your eyes, and empty your cluttered minds by expelling your breath to its limit. Then refill your lungs with the sweet essence of life, and prepare yourself for the strategy of the Way.”

Guan decided that it would do no harm to obey their captain’s unusual directive. Yet before shutting his eyes, he noticed that his shipmates had already followed Lee’s instructions without question.

What a strange sight this would make to an outsider, thought Guan, as he closed his eyes tight and purged the air from his lungs. He forced himself to do this completely, before inhaling the deepest breath possible, and then repeating the process.

He did this three complete times, and was in the middle of his fourth inhalation, when the captain’s forceful voice boomed forth once again.

“Comrades, above all else, you must know yourself before attempting to know your enemy. Make your body like a rock, and a thousand things can’t touch you. By training one’s body and spirit, you need never doubt that you will prevail in combat.

“I have just heard with my own ears, the great ship that we have been sent on this long voyage to intercept. Aboard this surface vessel, nine of China’s most-feared enemies are hopefully being held captive by fellow followers of the Way. The Lijiang shall rendezvous with this ship, and the nine traitors transferred into our hold for safekeeping.

“Yet before this rendezvous can be safely initiated, an unexpected obstacle has been brought to my attention that must be dealt with. Sonar indicates that we share these waters with a Russian Akula-class submarine. I fear that our enemy has cleverly assigned this formidable warship with the task of protecting the surface vessel that we seek. I also suspect that there are other submarines that have yet to be detected in these same waters. We must scour these seas clear of every suspected adversary before this most vital of missions can be completed.

“And how will we achieve this difficult task, you might ask? We shall first recognize the enemy’s strategy, to determine his weak and strong points. And if we still remain unable to determine his position, we shall feint an attack on the Akula, and cause our opponent to ultimately show his hand. And only then will we attack, with lethal force and an unsuspected manner.”

23

He found Annie Cooksey seated behind the camera console in the midst of an automatic scan of the ship’s public spaces. Annie was a former London bobby, who after a nasty divorce, decided that a complete change of lifestyles was in order. In the past year, she was invited by Robert Hartwell to join their staff. She had no ties to speak of locking her to land, so she readily accepted.

Tuff had the pier watch when Annie arrived in Southampton for her first day on the job. He liked her straight off. Attractive in a matronly way, she had a sparkling personality and had been an important part of their small security staff ever since.

Tuff took a quick look at the security-watch sheet, but when he handed it back to Annie, the edge sliced open her right index finger. She tried to stem the sudden flow of blood by sucking on her finger, but when this tried and-true method failed, she began a frantic search for a Kleenex.

The only handkerchief that Tuff could offer was the silken one that graced his tuxedo’s breast pocket. Annie wouldn’t hear of such a thing, and it was then she asked him if he’d mind holding down the fort for her, while she tried to track down a real bandage.

Being a proper gentleman, Tuff assented without hesitation. With Annie’s exit, he decided to pass the time manipulating those security cameras placed in and around the Queens Grill.

From a variety of angles he watched the first summiteers arrive, then spied on his boss and some of the other agents. Dinnertime was rapidly approaching, and with no Annie in sight, he checked out the ship’s Infirmary. Sure enough, that’s where he found his blonde associate.

Annie was helping one of the nurses attend to a steward who appeared to have been the recent victim of a twisted ankle. A close up showed that she already had her Band-Aid in place over her finger, and though Tuff could have called her on the phone to hurry her on, he decided that her efforts at the moment were more important than the high-calorie meal he’d most likely miss.

Annie was all apologies when she arrived back in security a good twenty minutes later. By the monitors Tuff saw that the diners had long since assembled, their appetizers already served. He was still debating whether to join them, when the entire wall of video screens suddenly went black.

He knew that this surely signaled the end of any formal dinner plans that he might have had. With a resolute sigh, he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and headed for the adjoining electrical panel to check the circuit breaker.

This panel was located in a cramped access space that was set into the bulkhead immediately behind the security room. A key was needed to open the elongated wall panel that lay to the right of the main video console. A wire ventilation grill was mounted in this panel that Tuff pulled open and closed behind him.

The narrow compartment he now found himself in was packed with dozens of snaking cables that led from the back of each monitor and extended into a central conduit. This main trunk eventually found its way to each of the security cameras located throughout the ship.

The electrical panel was locked, and Tuff had to return to Robert Hartwell’s office to get the proper key. Along the way, he tripped over an Astroturf putting carpet that the Scotsman had recently set up in the middle of his office. This in turn knocked over a large bucket of golf balls that went rolling in a hundred different directions, as diverted by the constant pitching of the deck.

It took another ten minutes to round up all the balls, and several more to find the right key and return to the monitor room. Annie, turning from the screens, appeared to have been enjoying his trials and tribulations, and he brushed aside her mocking offer to check the circuit breaker in his place.

As he reentered the stowage space, a large swell caused the access panel to slam shut. The overhead light flickered, and finally failed altogether. This forced him to pull out his trusty Maglite, which he always kept clipped to his belt beside his holstered Beretta.

Tuff located the electrical box on the opposite wall. With barely enough space in which to turn around, he inserted the key and opened up the panel, all the while shifting his weight to compensate for the pitching deck.

A cursory inspection found all the circuit breakers open. He double-checked each of them with his hand, and determined that this was going to be a job for the ship’s electrician.

It was as he shut the circuit breaker panel that he heard Annie in the adjoining security room arguing with another man.

Tuff didn’t like the man’s tone of voice. He shut off the Maglite, hunched over, and as quietly as possible, made his way over to the access panel’s ventilation grill.

What he saw there both shocked and sickened him. Standing in the middle of the room, in the process of binding Annie’s wrists together with electrical tape, were two hooded, black-clad individuals. Both of them were armed with Sterling submachine guns, and Tuff noted that the security monitors were somehow working once more.

His first hope was that this was nothing but a realistic drill, secretly planned and implemented by Robert Hart well to test their readiness.

Unfortunately, the rough manner in which they were treating Annie didn’t correspond to a mere drill. This fact was further proved when one of the intruders pulled off his mask.

Tuff took a look at the man’s slicked-back brown hair and narrow green eyes, and identified him as a new member of the ship’s Gym staff. While his associate taped Annie’s mouth shut, the lanky male sat down at the console and expertly addressed the keyboard. Tuff watched as he managed to fill each of the screens with a different view of the Queens Grill.

The diners were well into their entries, and seeing this seemed to spur the intruder into action. He stood and addressed his associate, totally unaware that he was being overheard by Tuff.

“I’ll take care of the bitch. I want you to work the console just like I taught you. Don’t be afraid to contact me on the two-way the moment that something doesn’t look right. Because like I said before, the first hour will be the most important.”

With this, he grabbed Annie roughly by the upper arm, and forcibly led her out of the room. Tuff fought the urge to pull out his pistol and go to Annie’s rescue, and he let his SBS training take over. He calmed himself with a series of breaths, and carefully weighed his options.

If what he was witnessing was indeed what it seemed, a carefully orchestrated takeover of the ship, he could very well be one of the only crew members in a position to do something about it. This was surely every security man’s greatest nightmare.

Tuff realized that it was too late to alert the heads of state. He decided instead to abandon the gun-blazing, lone hero, Hollywood approach, and do the obvious: get word of this unthinkable event to the outside world.

Since securing the QE2’s Radio Room would be one of the hijackers’ primary objectives, Tuffs next best alternative was to get to Doc Benedict’s ham radio set. By the good grace of God, and a desire to get better reception, Benedict had recently moved this set up to an auxiliary stowage space, beneath the funnel, up above the Signal Deck.

Not a single security camera covered this infrequently visited portion of the ship that many longtime crew members didn’t even know existed.

Tuffs problem now was to get there without being discovered. From where he was, the storage space with the radio was six decks straight up.

Tuff looked to the ceiling, where another ventilation grill beckoned invitingly. This opening led into the ship’s airduct system. These shafts extended to almost every portion of the ship, and since they were fully accessible to the maintenance staff, Tuff supposed that the ducts were wide enough to fit his beefy torso.

Tuff could barely reach the square metal grill by standing on his toes.

He used a penknife to pry it loose, and as quietly as possible, he yanked the grill free and set it aside. He then reached up, grabbed the edge of the opening, and with a grunt, lifted his body upward.

From the security room he heard the wheels on the chair squeak. Had he been heard? With his feet still dangling down into the storage space he would be readily spotted. Tuff braced himself there, scarcely breathing.

After a moment, he didn’t hear the chair move again or the hijacker get up to investigate, so he pulled himself the rest of the way up.

The sheet-metal shaft inside which he now found himself proved to be just wide enough to fit his shoulders. It was pitch black, and while a cool gust of air-conditioned air hit him in the face, Tuff stabilized himself on the stirrup-shaped, iron handholds that lined the shaft’s square interior. With a bit of difficulty, he worked his hand down to his waistband and pulled out his Maglite. Because he needed both hands free for climbing, he had to put the pencil-thin, compact flashlight in his mouth, and in this manner illuminated the shaft’s dark recesses.

He climbed upward for a good five minutes before reaching a portion of the duct system that was intersected by a parallel shaft. This duct appeared to extend into both the forward or aft sections of the ship, and Tuff decided to see if he’d be able to reach the Eelevator shaft by moving forward.

Travel now was by crawling on his hands and knees. The bare metallic surface of the duct was icy cold, and Tuff wished that he had brought along a warm pair of gloves. He supposed that he was somewhere in One Deck’s ceiling, verifying this when he crawled over an open ventilation grill and spotted the darkened, vacant interior of the hairdressing salon. Encouraged by this sight, he tried his best to ignore the bitter chill and a rising sensation of claustrophobia.

The rest of his journey in the tight confines of the duct was thankfully short. The beam of his flashlight found a circular, porthole-shaped access way cut into the shaft before him. Tuff squeezed his body through this opening, and allowed himself a relieved sigh only upon viewing the cable-lined interior of the elevator shaft he had been seeking.

A proper iron-rung ladder was mounted into the aft wall of the shaft, and it extended all the way up to the Signal Deck. The steep climb went quickly. When Tuff finally crawled out of the blackened shaft, he found himself in a portion of passageway just aft of the Kennels. The nearest security camera was in the Kennel itself. Tuff headed in the opposite direction, to a closed iron door that had a crew access only warning sign on it.

Lady Fortune was again with him upon finding it unlocked. He swung the door open, and a gust of cool, fresh ocean air enveloped him.

The steady, pounding drone of the engines was clearly audible, and a thick cloud of dark smoke could be seen pouring from the funnel. The compartment he wished to reach was situated only a few steps away. He crossed the open deck and anxiously reached for the door latch.

The sound of the lock activating was music to his ears. He ducked inside, flicked on the overhead light, and hastily surveyed the room.

Not much bigger than a small cabin, the stowage space was cluttered with painting equipment and all sorts of spare deck gear. He located the object of his search against the far wall. Solidly anchored between two wooden cases of paint was Doc Benedict’s blessed ham radio set.

Never again would Tuff complain when the ship’s physician cornered him to brag about his latest radio contact. As an avid ham enthusiast, the Doc took advantage of their time at sea to establish a worldwide network of fellow radio enthusiasts. During one crossing, he had even talked with the Space Shuttle. The event was memorialized on Doc’s office wall, where a framed photo of the shuttle was hung, complete with a signature from the very astronaut he had spoken to.

As Tuff pulled out the padded leather chair that Doc used during his long radio sessions, he realized that this room would also make an excellent base of operations. It even had its own coffee maker, and a decent supply of tea bags and cocoa. The only real problem he’d have to cope with was the room’s lack of direct heat. The North Atlantic could get awfully chilly, even during summer. Yet Tuff hadn’t earned his nickname by being a pampered softy. As one who had survived his fair share of exposed bivouacs on Dartmoor and Goose Green, he’d manage to persevere.

Well versed in the operation of several types of military radios, Tuff reached out and flipped on the ham’s power switch. A green light activated, and the ex-commando adjusted the frequency dial in anticipation of informing the world of the Queen’s dilemma.

24

“Damn it!” cursed Vince, in a tone expressing more frustration than anger. “And to think I was probably down in the Gym when they were making the final preparations for the takeover.”

Still seated at his table in the Queens Grill, Vince’s vacant stare surveyed the four, black-clad terrorists patrolling the dining room’s balcony, submachine guns at the ready. Both Samuel Morrison and Robert Hartwell were seated beside him. Their pistols had long since been confiscated and removed from the room, and they could only remain there until otherwise ordered.

“I still think you’re taking this whole frigging thing much too personally,” whispered Morrison to his subordinate. “Believe me, we all share equal responsibility for this nightmare.”

On the far side of the room, Dr. Patton and Ricky did their best to attend to the four Chinese agents who had survived the shooting. The lifeless bodies of their two associates had already been removed, and because the terrorists wouldn’t let them transfer the badly wounded survivors to the Hospital, it looked like they’d bleed to death unless proper care could be administered.

“At least our honored guests appear to be taking this hijacking all in stride,” observed Hartwell, in reference to the nine heads of state, who were still gathered at their table in the center of the room.

“I bet the bastards hid their weapons inside that gym equipment,” continued Vince, unable to shift the self-incriminating focus of his thoughts. “I should have ordered New York Customs to unwrap the gear and break it down for closer examination.”

“We still don’t know that’s the way they smuggled in their armaments,” remarked Morrison.

“From the looks of things, I’d say that they’ve been using the ship’s laundry to bring their contraband on board,” said Hartwell, who waited until one of the sentries strolled by before adding, “Ammunition could have easily been concealed inside the sacks of detergent and other dry-cleaning chemicals that were recently delivered to Chinatown.”

“It looks like your old friend Ping really did a number on us,” said Vince.

“I’d say that we don’t have to look any further to determine the source of that food-poisoning outbreak,” Morrison added.

“I still can’t get over the way I allowed myself to be snowed by those two actors,” said Vince. “I was nothing but a star-struck fool!”

“Easy does it, Vince,” Morrison cautioned. “Don’t forget that my team was responsible for doing the background checks on Liu and his cronies.

If anyone’s to blame for this frigging mess, it’s me.”

Robert Hartwell didn’t like the direction in which this whispered, guilt-ridden conversation was headed, and he did his best to change the focus. “All this talk about blame is meaningless at the moment, chaps.

Right now, I think it’s best if we concentrate our thoughts on how we’re going to rectify our mistakes.”

“Robert’s right,” agreed Morrison, who gestured toward an adjoining table where a restless group of French, Italian, and German security agents were seated. “I’m afraid that our colleagues might go and try something desperate.”

“I think it’s best if we try to circulate a note to the other tables, emphasizing the vital importance of restraint,” Hartwell quietly advised. “A coordinated response is our only chance to retake the ship.

Any premature move now will only result in more needless death and carnage.”

Samuel Morrison nodded in agreement. “The bastards are bound to drop their guard eventually, and that’s when we’ll strike.”

“I wonder where the rest of the crew is being held, and if there have been other casualties?” asked Vince.

“My best guess is that it’s merely business as usual for the others,” offered the Scotsman. “Don’t forget that we’re the hostages. All Liu has to do is remind the crew of that fact to keep them in line. I’m hoping that someone has managed to slip away. This is an awfully big ship, and one of my staff could easily be hiding in the shadows, organizing a plan of attack even as we speak.”

“And I guess we shouldn’t give up on an outside rescue effort just yet,” reminded Vince. “Washington’s bound to realize that something’s wrong next time they attempt calling us, and it’s only a matter of time until they send in the cavalry.”

“And what cavalry are you referring to, Special Agent?” Hartwell questioned. “You forget that we’re in the middle of the bloody Atlantic Ocean.”

Vince looked at the QE2’s security director and answered resolutely. “I believe that there’s a little lady called the USS Iwo Jima in the vicinity. And though they won’t be arriving by horseback, I sure wouldn’t want to be in Dennis Liu’s shoes when the guys from Delta Force come dropping in to find out what the hell is going on down here.”

25

Little did Vince Kellogg realize, but the orders to the USS Iwo Jima mobilizing Delta Force had already been issued. This alert was the result of the Pentagon’s continued inability to establish radio contact with the QE2, and the failure of the National Reconnaissance Office to provide them with an operational reconnaissance satellite. Until a Canadian Aurora patrol aircraft could be flown in from Nova Scotia, or contact finally reestablished with one of their submarine escorts, Command had no alternative but to assume that a worst-case scenario existed.

To address this nightmarish possibility, the NCA was relying on the Iwo Jima’s helicopter borne commando units to provide visual proof that the ocean liner was still afloat. Op Center Bravo was the origin of these orders, and the current clearinghouse for all incoming theater updates.

As such, it was packed with personnel including General Ridgeway, Admiral Buchanan, Brittany Cooper, their staffs, and a newly arrived Thomas Kellogg, who headed straight for the Pentagon from the hills of West Virginia, after being unable to make contact with the QE2 himself.

A static-filled radio link with the storm-tossed Iwo Jima allowed them to get a realtime report of the rescue force’s liftoff. Hurricane Marti’s howling winds and pounding seas made the midnight disembarkation an extra hazardous one, with two Marine CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters used to carry out the mission. Each of these all-weather capable aircraft was tasked with carrying a different unit that included Delta Force and SEAL Team Six.

As it turned out, the only helicopter that was able to get safely airborne was the one carrying Delta Force. An overheated engine scrubbed the SEAL team’s chopper while it was barely in test hover, and the weather kept a replacement helicopter pinned to the rain-soaked deck.

Being a former air force commando, Thomas knew that they were lucky that at least one of the units was good to go. The Super Stallion was an incredibly sophisticated platform, with state-of-the-art avionics.

Capable of flying at 196 miles per hour, with a range of 540 nautical miles, one CH-53E would be more than sufficient to do the job at hand.

The hope now was that it wouldn’t experience mechanical difficulties and be forced to return to the Iwo Jima.

Thomas listened to the static-filled voice of Flight Tango Zulu’s pilot as it was relayed into the op center. It wasn’t all that long ago that he could have been one of those soldiers prepping themselves for action in the back of that chopper. There was nothing that could equal that feeling of anxious anticipation, as the pilot put the helicopter into hover, the rear tail door was lowered, and the fast ropes deployed. He knew that a proficient squad of commandos could clear a helicopter in a couple of minutes. This was the ultimate rush, one that easily rivaled free fall in intensity.

Under ideal conditions, the Super Stallion could have reached the QE2’s last-known position in a little more than a half hour. The presence of the hurricane changed all that, the swirling, multidirectional wind gusts making the mere act of flying a challenge.

Confident that the chopper’s three General Electric T 64-GE-416 turboshaft engines would get them through the storm, Thomas was somewhat surprised when he was invited to join the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the CNO, and Brittany in the conference room.

Thomas and General Ridgeway had originally met during Urgent Fury, and it was the chairman who asked Thomas to brief them on his recently concluded investigation.

Though Thomas was still anxious for more information about the QE2, he presented the details leading up to the arrest of their two suspects only a few hours earlier. As he was documenting their lead suspect’s admission that his threat on the QE2 had no real substance, Lieutenant Tolliver entered the room. The junior officer handed Brittany a fax, which she read while Thomas began a hasty summation.

“What’s this all about, Lieutenant?” she asked once Thomas had completed his brief.

There was a hopeful gleam in Tolliver’s eyes as he replied. “All I can tell you, sir, is that the Coast Guard auxiliary watch center at Bath, Maine, sent us this fax. It was generated by a garbled ham radio transmission that they picked up less than fifteen minutes ago. And what makes it interesting is that those signal letters and official number are assigned to one vessel only, and that’s the QE2!”

“Then they’re still out there!” exclaimed Brittany, whose remarks were cut short by the loud, crackling voice of Flight Tango Zulu’s pilot, from the overhead PA speakers.

“Roger that, mother base. Going down to five hundred and fifty feet, one hundred and thirty knots, approximately twenty miles to target.” A burst of static momentarily the transmission. When it finally cleared, it was the nasally voice of the Iwo Jima’s air-traffic controller that they heard next.

“Aye, Tango Zulu. Target should be in sight, on bearing zero-two-fiver. Over.”

“Roger that, mother base. We have a visual on target, bearing zero-two-fiver, range one-niner miles and closing.”

This vital information was delivered in such a rote, informal manner, that for the first second or two, not a single occupant of the conference room reacted to it. Only when the reality sank in, did Brittany express the relief that all of them were sharing.

“They found her!” she shouted. “They found the Queen!”

26

Dennis Liu couldn’t believe how smoothly things had gone so far. Like an award-winning movie production, the takeover of the giant ocean liner had proceeded with split second timing and superb coordination.

All of the vital watch stations had been taken, with his people currently placed in strategic areas throughout the ship to guarantee that their captives wouldn’t try to challenge them.

Having the nine heads of state as hostages was the ultimate bargaining chip, and Liu doubted that any of the crew would do anything foolish to compromise their safety. Yet as a student of the Way, Liu knew that he had to be prepared for every contingency, no matter how improbable it might seem.

To insure that Sunny had properly secured the Bridge, he decided to pay it a personal visit. As he climbed up its access way he visualized his assault force as they climbed these same steps in preparation for their initial takeover. This act was timed to coincide with Liu’s own arrival in the Queens Grill.

To get past the security camera monitoring the Bridge’s locked doorway, they used one of the Philippine stewards as a decoy. A gun pointed at his back insured his cooperation. Once his identity was confirmed by the Bridge watch, the automatic bolts were triggered, with Sunny and his two-man force now free to burst into the Control Room.

Liu was afforded the luxury of merely having to press the doorbell two times and looking up to the lens of the overhead video camera, to gain entrance. The door lock automatically unbolted itself with a loud buzz, and he entered what was now his Bridge.

A gust of whistling wind engulfed him as the air pressure was suddenly equalized. The light was dim here, to protect the watch stander’s night vision. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted Sunny standing behind the softly glowing luminescent dials of the center console. His associate was armed with an MP-5 submachine gun that he had casually trained on the two officers seated on tall stools before an auxiliary navigation plot. Liu recognized them as the ship’s first officer and his navigator.

Both of them were rather calmly sipping their teas, their stares lost in the black seas visible out the forward observation windows.

Liu had to steady himself against the side of one of the navigation consoles when a large swell rocked the ship. By glancing down at the console’s display screen, he was able to determine that the QE2 had broken out of its previous great circle route, and was presently headed on a north-by-northeasterly course, away from the normal transatlantic shipping lanes and the probing eyes of the pre positioned recon satellites above.

By addressing the console’s ball-shaped mouse with the palm of his right hand, Liu was able to determine that at their present speed and course, they’d be passing over the Hecate Seamount shortly after dawn.

His old friend Lee Shao-chi and the crew of the Lijiang should be waiting for them there, and the next portion of their mission would then be initiated.

Satisfied that all looked well, Liu joined Sunny behind the helm.

“Well, comrade,” whispered Liu in Mandarin. “I gather that things went smoothly.”

Sunny replied without shifting his glance from the two officers.

“Incredibly so. The big lady handles like a dream, and so far, I’ve barely heard a peep out of the officers; no complaints, no questions, nothing.”

“Typical stubborn English resolve,” observed Liu. “But don’t kid yourself. They know that we’re their new masters, and they will continue to serve us as long as we can keep the upper hand. But to further eliminate the temptation and insure that they don’t attempt to compromise the secrecy of our position, I’m going to make certain that the Bridge’s emergency-locator equipment is disconnected. Only then will this ship’s destiny truly be ours.”

“Per your instructions, I’ve already cut the power to the VHP and HF radio telephones,” revealed Sunny. “I also deactivated the dual GMDSS sets that were mounted behind the navigation plot, right where you said they’d be.”

An acronym for Global Maritime Distress and Safety System, the GMDSS was designed to automatically send a long-range distress signal to a series of orbiting satellites.

“And the distress buoys on the Bridge wings?” queried Liu, in reference to the final system that had to be dealt with.

Sunny shamefully shook his head. “I’m afraid that I forgot about them,” he admitted.

“No matter. I’ll deal with it,” offered Liu, who left Sunny with a supportive pat on the back and took off for the starboard wing.

The cool air outside was refreshing. He readily spotted the bright orange buoy that he was looking for, hanging on the aft rail. Known as the Emergency Position Indicator Radio Beacon, or EPIRB for short, this buoy merely had to hit the water to activate and send a satellite-relayed, hourly position update to NOAA headquarters in Washington, D. C. It was after he ripped out its battery pack and tossed it overboard that he surveyed the cloud-filled night sky. An unexpected flash of lightning momentarily lit up the distant horizon directly astern of them. Liu supposed that this was the first sign of Hurricane Marti’s northern fringe.

He looked on mesmerized, as yet more lightning illuminated the heavens — and briefly highlighted an alien black speck high in the sky.

Another jagged bolt of lightning lit the skies, and revealed it was steadily increasing in size.

Liu cursed with the realization that this object was a helicopter — bound directly for them! A surge of anger generated adrenalin coursed through his body, and like the trained warrior he was, his only thought was of countering this potential threat from above.

“Incoming helicopter, directly astern!” he warned Sunny as he rushed inside and headed for the aft doorway. “Inform Monica and Bear to meet me at the helipad, and make certain that they bring along the RPGs!”

Liu mentally calculated the most direct route to the helipad that was located on the aft end of the Sports Deck, and he exited the Bridge and hurried down the stairs. It was his New York-based, black-market arms dealer who had urged him to take along the two RPG-7D, lightweight, portable rocket launchers. They had been previously stolen from an armory in New Jersey, and subsequently hidden away inside the recesses of their rowing machine. Each of the RPGs came complete with a 4.95-pound, HEAT improved, fused warhead that had been smuggled aboard in a sack of detergent bound for the QE2’s Laundry. With a range of 328 yards and a muzzle velocity of 984 feet per second, the warhead could play havoc with a helicopter’s vulnerable tail rotor, especially when delivered on target via the launcher’s NSP-2 infrared-guided night sight.

But all of this would mean little if the airborne intruder beat him to the helipad. Liu sprinted toward the exterior deck access way adjoining the nearby Radio Room. This route would lead him directly aft, with the helipad only a single deck above.

27

“One hundred feet. One hundred and eighteen knots. Eight miles out.”

A burst of static swallowed the transmission from the Super Stallion, and the occupants of the op center’s conference room anxiously stirred.

Included in this group was Thomas Kellogg, who traded a concerned glance with Brittany as the interference finally cleared.

“Ninety feet. One hundred and seventeen knots. Seven point-five miles out.”

“Kind of makes you miss the old days, doesn’t it, Thomas?” remarked General Ridgeway, an introspective grin on his weather-beaten face.

“That it does, sir,” Thomas replied.

His recollections of serving under Ridgeway’s command during the Grenada invasion were mixed. The way Thomas saw it, the general failed to make the best use of the Air Commandos’ varied skills, and insisted that they operate under Green Beret or SEAL coverage. Of course, this was in the early days of joint operations, and the mere fact of having an Army special forces officer in charge of an Air Force unit, was still something of a novelty.

“Special Agent Kellogg,” interjected Admiral Buchanan “Weren’t you involved in a similar helicopter mission back in eighty-five that was tasked to attempt a rescue aboard the Achille Lauro?”

“Actually, Admiral, I was part of a special unit that was training to clandestinely board the cruise ship via parachute,” Thomas revealed.

“I didn’t think that such a thing was even possible,” remarked Brittany.

Thomas held back his response until Tango Zulu’s pilot reported their latest position.

“Eighty-five feet. One hundred and eighteen knots. Six point-eight miles out.”

“Though I wouldn’t want to make it a habit,” said Thomas as the garbled transmission faded. “To insure a safe landing at sea, all you really need to do is properly gauge both the crosswinds and the forward speed of your target. In preparation for our aborted attempt, I successfully completed a half dozen HALO jumps onto the deck of the USS Saratoga.”

“Seventy-eight feet. One hundred and seventeen knots. Six-point-three miles out,” continued the pilot with rote exactness.

Thomas couldn’t help but visualize Tango Zulu’s Marine pilot. He’d be seated on the right side of the Super Stallion’s cockpit. Because the helicopter was steadily losing altitude in preparation for its fast-rope deployment, the pilot would be pushing down on the collective-pitch stick with his left hand. This in turn would cause the throttle to retard and decrease the degree of pitch of the blades, to move the 70,000-pound helicopter downward. He’d also be manipulating the cyclic-pitch stick with his right hand, as well as the dual pedals with his feet, to keep the craft on course by influencing the action of the main and tail rotors.

Altogether, flying a helicopter required excellent physical coordination and superb training. The mere fact that Tango Zulu’s pilot was assigned to this crack unit, indicated that he had these qualities and many others. For, as Thomas knew from firsthand experience, Marine chopper pilots were some of the best in the business.

“Seventy feet. One hundred seventeen knots. Five point-one out,” the pilot reported.

“I’m still wondering how those security teams aboard the QE2 are going to react to the squad’s arrival,” said General Ridgeway. “I’d feel a lot better if we had been able to get out a clean message, informing them of Tango Zulu’s arrival.”

“I hope that the reaction of those shipboard security teams is the extent of our problem,” returned the CNO.

Both Thomas and Brittany heard the worry in the Admiral voice.

Buchanan had already admitted that he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew for certain the reason behind the QE2’s unexplained course change and the complete failure of its communications equipment.

“Sixty-seven feet. One hundred eighteen knots. Four point-three out.”

This latest update indicated that the mystery would soon be solved, and Thomas felt his pulse quicken. He was also aware of a slight anxious knot gathering in the pit of his stomach.

“Sixty feet. One hundred seventeen knots. Two-point three out. This will be a left-turning approach … We’re good to go. LZ’s on the nose … One minute out … I’ve got the spot … Stand by for ropes … Good hover.”

There was an excited tenseness to the pilot’s voice, and Thomas could picture the chaotic scene taking place in the helicopter’s rear cabin.

At the open ramp, the helmeted flight engineer would be preparing to deploy the forty five-foot-long fast ropes. Behind him, the heavily armed members of Delta Force would be awaiting the order from the pilot that would send them sliding down these ropes in quick succession to the deck of the awaiting ocean liner.

“Stand by for ropes,” instructed the pilot. “Forty-seven feet. Good hover … Pro—”

A burst of static momentarily cut the pilot off in mid-sentence, only to be followed by a terrified outburst, that none of the occupants of the op center would soon forget.

“Jesus, RPG at four o’clock!.. There’s a launch … We’ve been hit!

… We’ve lost the tail rotor … Fuckin’ hold on. We’re going’ in!

We’re going’ …”

There was another deafening burst of static before all went silent.

Stunned and horrified by this unexpected turn of events, the shocked occupants of Op Center Bravo peered up at the ceiling-mounted PA speakers as if willing the next update to come forth. Yet none came, and a wave of alarmed chatter filled the room with a somber resonance.

“I knew this damned crossing was no good from the start,” declared the CNO bitterly. “What the hell is going on out there?”

“Easy now, Richard,” advised Ridgeway, his own fur rowed brow tightly knit with concern. “It’s evident that we’ve got a pack of rats aboard the Queen, and now it’s up to us to take the situation in hand and figure out another way to address it.”

Thomas dared to take the role of devil’s advocate. “Perhaps what that pilot saw wasn’t an RPG after all. For all we know, it could have been a deflected bolt of lightning that knocked them out of the air.”

Before Ridgeway could argue otherwise, Lieutenant Tolliver’s booming voice projected from the PA, “We’ve got an emergency transmission coming in from the QE2! Pipe down, people!”

All eyes went to Tolliver’s workstation at the front of the room as he addressed his keyboard, and rerouted this transmission through the room’s speakers. A momentary flutter of static was followed by the steady, deep voice of a single male. He was apparently caught in mid-sentence, his words clear and crisply delivered.

“Once more, this is the voice of the legitimate People’s Republic of China, calling to you from the ocean liner QE2 in the mid-Atlantic. Do you acknowledge? Over.”

Tolliver looked up from his keyboard, to the knot of senior officers gathered at the back of the room. “Should I acknowledge?” he asked, his strained voice cracking.

“Do it!” ordered Ridgeway.

Without further hesitation, Tolliver addressed his keyboard, and spoke into his throat microphone. “This is the National Military Command Center acknowledging your message. Over.”

“I copy that,” returned the amplified male voice. “The conditions of this transmission are as follows: No broadcast interruptions, except for technical reasons, will be tolerated. There are to be no questions on your part, and no negotiations. Do you accept these conditions?”

By this time, both General Ridgeway and Admiral Buchanan had arrived at Tolliver’s side, and both senior officers nodded affirmatively.

“I accept the conditions. Over,” returned Tolliver, who alertly activated the console’s digital-tape machine to record the conversation.

“Very well, National Military Command Center, this is our manifesto:

“Number One: Be it known that Li Chen, the current president of the People’s Republic of China, has assumed his position of power illegally.

As such, he does not represent the will of the Chinese people and is to be returned to the Republic and tried for the crime of treason. All international agreements and treaties made by Li Chen are to be deemed null and void.

“Number Two: The People’s Republic is to be granted full and irrevocable geopolitical control of the Spratly Island chain. The governments of the Philippines, Malaysia, Brunei, Vietnam, or any other country laying claim to these islands and their surrounding seas, shall publicly disavow their claims before an international tribunal of our choosing.

“Number Three: The island of Taiwan is to be immediately returned to its rightful place in the People’s Republic. Its present illegitimate government is to be given a chance to recant, and admit to the world community the errors of its ways. Then, like Hong Kong, they too will become at one with their motherland.

“All of these demands are nonnegotiable, and are to be drafted in treaty form at United Nations headquarters, and signed by all members of the Security Council no later than three days from now. Until this document is delivered to us, we shall continue to hold the eight heads of state, and the traitor Li Chen, in protective custody.

“Let it be stressed that it is not our intention to indiscriminately kill. We reserve the right to do so only when justly provoked. Any sign of another rescue attempt on your part, like the helicopter assault we have already repelled, shall be considered an act of provocation, and will be responded to accordingly.

“The military forces of the People’s Liberation Army have already been placed on alert, and shall be authorized to respond with all offensive systems at their disposal, including nuclear weapons. The release codes of these strategic delivery systems are already in our rightful possession. Any preemptive strike against us shall be deemed an attack against the Republic, and will result in a nuclear strike of global proportions. We also reserve the right to destroy the ship on which we travel, as a further expression of the sincerity of our demands.

“This, then, is the extent of our manifesto. Never doubt our will.

Long live the Republic!”

With this, the radio link unceremoniously went dead, and a concerned murmur filled the operations center. Not bothering to silence his staff, the CNO ordered Tolliver to get a copy of this tape to Naval Intelligence with all due haste. Not only did its legitimacy have to be assured, but the voice analyzed in an attempt to identify the caller.

Thomas once more found himself part of a small group of individuals invited back into the conference room by General Ridgeway. As he sat down between Brittany and the CNO, Thomas listened as a spirited discussion of their options ensued.

A terrorist takeover of the QE2 was one of the worst case scenarios that Admiral Buchanan had wisely instructed his staff to prepare for.

Since Brittany helped draft the report, she offered her initial conclusions.

As far as she was concerned, there was a definite link between the terrorists who had supposedly hijacked the ship, and the mysterious Chinese submarine that had recently penetrated the GIUK gap. Brittany went as far as to theorize that the manifesto’s threat to destroy the QE2 wouldn’t take place until a successful rendezvous between the Lijiang and the ocean liner was completed. At that time, the hijackers and their nine hostages would most likely be transferred onto the submarine for safekeeping, and only then would they dare destroy the QE2.

General Ridgeway’s main concern was the nuclear threat that the caller had mentioned. Of all the leaders participating in the summit, only the Chinese president had brought along his version of the “football.” This meant that the codes could easily be compromised, making this a global threat, with major cities throughout the world presently at risk of nuclear annihilation. Since the terrorists’ demands were completely unrealistic, and there was no practical way of ever fulfilling them, especially in three days, then’ only option was to forcefully intercede.

Once more it was Brittany Who shared an operational plan, one her staff had drawn up to address a variety of worst-case scenarios. Its primary component was the USS James K. Polk, and the men of SEAL Team Two. By means of their Swimmer Delivery Vehicle, the team could clandestinely board the ocean liner, eliminate the hijackers, and retake the ship.

Though this plan certainly sounded interesting, General Ridgeway came up with a number of problems that would have to be addressed before it could be implemented. The primary one involved their continued inability to contact the Polk, and the fact that the QE2 was traveling at speeds well beyond the SDV’s rather limited, battery-powered propulsion system.

The CNO readily responded to Ridgeway’s first concern. In the event that VLF contact with the Polk couldn’t be reestablished, the Navy had already scrambled an E6A TACAMO (Take Charge And Move Out) aircraft into the North Atlantic. This plane’s primary mission was to communicate with submerged submarines by means of a 5,000-foot-long trailing antenna. By stationing itself well out of visual range of the QE2, TACAMO would be in a position to guarantee them reliable communications with the Polk and the other three submarines of the escort force, within the next hour.

As promising as this sounded, it still left them with the problem of how to slow down the QE2, to allow for the transfer of the SEALs.

Because of his previous experience with the Achille Lauro hijacking, Thomas dared to speak up at this point. Unbeknownst to the other occupants of the conference room, an SDV-borne SEAL team had been seriously considered as one of the possible rescue contingencies available in the retaking of the Italian cruise ship. At that time they were also faced with the challenge of finding a way to slow down the vessel so that the SDV could reach it, and a plan had been devised to snag the ship’s propellers with a cable or net. After the tragic loss of a passenger, events in the Mediterranean eventually led to a peaceful outcome aboard the Achille Lauro, without this daring scheme ever having to be attempted.

The CNO appeared to be fascinated by this story, and though he doubted that they could come up with a quick, practical way of snagging the QE2, he did ask Thomas for more information about his intended role in the rescue. In particular, he wanted to know what they had hoped to achieve by having Thomas parachute aboard the Achille Lauro?

Before Thomas could answer, Brittany sat forward and excitedly proclaimed, “That’s the way we can do it; by airdropping an operative onto the QE2 to disrupt the ship’s propulsion system, all timed to coincide with the arrival of SEAL Team Two’s SDV!”

“I like it!” snapped General Ridgeway. “I’ll give the AFSOC folks down at Hurlburt a call, and get the location of the nearest Combat Talon that’s available for the drop. All that leaves is finding someone qualified to actually make the jump.”

“Preferably someone who’s been previously trained in the art of HALO jumping onto a moving ship on the open sea,” added Brittany, while turning to Thomas.

Both Ridgeway and Buchanan did likewise. And Thomas Kellogg, who’d sworn to himself he’d never jump again, swallowed heavily, knowing full well who they hoped this someone would be.

28

The USS Path’s all-out flank sprint beneath the cold waters of the North Atlantic ended as the speedy ocean liner it was doing its best to follow neared the mid-Atlantic ridge. It was here that the QE2 finally cut its forward speed from twenty-eight and one-half knots to twenty-four knots, thus allowing the Folk’s engineering watch to throttle back their engines.

With this slowdown came an audible respite from the incessant pounding roar of the QE2 ‘s nine powerful diesel engines. Nowhere was this more evident than inside the Folk’s sonar room, or sound shack, as it was commonly called. Here senior sonar supervisor Brad “Sup” Bodzin and his two-man watch team were the first to report the ocean liner’s change of speed. The data showing this velocity alteration arrived by way of the various passive hydrophone arrays that were mounted throughout the sub’s hull. This sonic evidence was then routed into the sound shack through the technician’s sensitive headphones, and was visually projected over the individual waterfall displays mounted above each console.

Bodzin’s current watch team had an average age of twenty-three, but what they lacked in experience, they more than made up for in enthusiasm. A spirited twosome, who volunteered for submarine duty for the express purpose of learning sonar, this duo was content to let Bodzin rule their cramped, dimly lit workspace.

Bodzin, a grizzled veteran by comparison at the age of twenty-seven, was known for his hands-on management style. He liked to work standing up, as he was presently doing, positioned directly behind his seated associates.

To his immediate left was the rather antiquated, bulky console belonging to their BQS-4 active-sonar system. Also known as the “space heater” for the warmth it produced, the BQS-4 was not much different from the sonars of the pre nuclear navy, and was still powered by old fashioned tube amplifiers. Since the Polk depended on stealth to survive, active sonar was infrequently used. The powerful pulse of sound it projected was mainly utilized for collision avoidance and to determine a target’s precise range by calculating the time it took for the deflected sonar signal to return.

To the right of the BQS-4 were the two consoles reserved for passive detection. Far from being the most sophisticated passive sonars in the U. S. Navy, the Folk’s BQ-21 was a medium-range broadband unit, while the BQ 7 was a conformal, long-range array that was mounted into the sub’s spherical bow. It was the sensitive hydrophones of the BQ-7 that first picked up the change in pitch of the QE2’s engines as they were slowed.

Sic. James Echoles was seated at the far-right console. He was the one who originally detected the ocean liner’s speed change. An easy-going, solidly built African American from Cahokia, Illinois, Echoles’s nickname was Jaffers, and his alert discovery had earned him a Snickers candy bar and a box of Cracker Jack from Bodzin’s cherished overhead stash.

“Hey, Sup,” mumbled Jaffers while chewing on his candy bar. “That weird flutter is back on narrowband. What do you make of it?”

Bodzin scanned Jaffers’s waterfall display, and isolated the suspect frequency on his headphones. “It still doesn’t sound much to me, Bubba.

I’d say it’s an anomalous bathymetric.”

“I’ll bet you a cool can of Dr. Pepper, otherwise,” Jaffers challenged.

“You’re on,” returned Bodzin, who listened as the young sailor seated to Jaffers’s left spoke up.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I think something strange is taking place on that ocean liner,” offered S2c. Scott Wilford, a blond-haired, St. Petersburg, Florida, native. “Why else would they go and change their course like that? They’re headed toward Iceland, not England.”

“Maybe they decided to move the summit up to Reykjavik,” Jaffers suggested.

Bodzin’s tendency was to agree with Wilford’s assessment, and he spoke carefully. “Let’s not forget about that approaching hurricane topside.

There’s still a good chance that weather is the cause of that unplanned course change. And if they keep going at their current rate of speed, we’ll all know the real cause soon enough.”

“How’s that, Sup?” asked Wilford.

Bodzin innocently massaged the muscles at the back of the young sailor’s neck while answering. “Now that the Folk’s able to stand down from flank speed, the skipper’s going to have a chance to bring us up to PD and establish a highfrequency SATCOM uplink. Then Command will be able to tell us everything we want to know.”

“I want to know why the Brits went and dropped out of the formation like they did,” remarked Jaffers as he addressed his console’s frequency-select dial. “Do you think that the Talent just couldn’t keep up with us?”

“Unless they had some sort of engineering casualty that I haven’t heard about, scuttlebutt says that it was a tactical decision between the skipper and the Brit CO,” revealed Bodzin. “It seems the two had a powwow over the underwater telephone, and the Talent fell back shortly afterwards.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he added while lowering the volume of his headphones. “You can rest assured that this is one party that the Royal Navy doesn’t want to miss. After all, the QE2 is flying their flag, and from what little I’ve seen of their operational abilities, you definitely want the Brits on your side.”

“Back in sub school, we saw a film on the way they train their submarine officers for command,” said Wilford. “Did you know that their COs don’t even have to be nuke-qualified to get command?”

“It’s called the Perisher course,” Bodzin explained.

“And you’re right, they don’t have to pass engineering qualifications to get then-dolphins. It seems the Brits are content to allow their engineers to run the reactor spaces, leaving their skippers free to fight the boat.”

“Sup,” interrupted Jaffers, pointing to a thick white line that was beginning to form on the upper-left-hand portion of his waterfall display. “It looks like you’re going to owe me that Dr. Pepper, because that contact at zero two-eight is back, and it sure doesn’t look like any bathymetric anomaly to me.”

Bodzin was quick to check the monitor himself, and he spotted the ever-widening white band. In an effort to hear the sound that the display was visually sketching, he addressed the auxiliary console and isolated the hydrophones responsible for picking up this contact. After determining the frequency, he turned up the volume gain of his headphones to its maximum level. Closing his eyes to better focus his concentration, he listened to a barely audible, whining sound, that was repeated with a pulsating, mechanical regularity.

“It’s man-made all right,” he whispered. “Could it be the Russians?”

“Only if the Baikal went and moved out of its patrol sector,” Jaffers returned, his own headphones tuned to the same muted signature.

“Because this bogey’s positioned almost due north of the QE2, well within the no-patrol zone.”

Bodzin reached up for the overhead intercom handset, and spoke into the transmitter. “Conn, sonar. We have an unidentified submerged contact, bearing zero-two-eight. Maximum range. Designate Sierra Seven, possible hostile.”

This chilling report resulted in an almost instantaneous visit to sonar by the Folk’s captain. Benjamin Kram had been in the nearby radio room when Bodzin’s voice broke from the intercom, and he wasted no time rushing across the passageway to check out this report firsthand.

“What do you have, Mr. Bodzin?” asked Kram breathlessly.

Bodzin answered while plugging in an auxiliary set of headphones and handing them to the captain. “Sir, I realize that it’s not much, but there’s a barely audible, low frequency contact, almost due north of the QE2. It could be the reactor-coolant pump of another submarine.”

Kram put on the headphones and did his best to pick out the noise. For the first couple of seconds, he could hear nothing but a distant crackling sound. Increasing the volume to full amplification, the crackling further intensified, only to be undercut by a faint mechanical whine that faded in and out with a disturbing regularity.

“Is it the Baikal?” he queried.

“Not unless they really strayed out of their patrol sector, sir,” Bodzin replied.

Kram had heard enough. He removed the headphones, and signaled his senior sonarman to do the same. Only then did he beckon to Bodzin to join him at the after end of the compartment beside the room’s tape recorder.

“Mr. Bodzin,” Kram said in a bare whisper. “The Polk was just the recipient of a Priority One TACAMO transmission. Though I’ll be briefing the entire crew shortly on its contents, I’d like you to be one of the first to know that there’s trouble aboard the QE2. I know that it’s going to sound farfetched, but it looks like she’s been the victim of a hijacking.”

“What?”

“My initial reaction exactly. Sometime within the last couple of hours, what appears to be a group of Chinese terrorists seized operational control of the ocean liner. As far as I know, our President and the other heads of state haven’t been harmed, though a Marine Super Stallion helicopter carrying a Delta Force interdiction unit was lost effecting a rescue attempt.

“The National Command Authority also believes that the terrorists have gained control of China’s nuclear-warhead unlock codes. The terrorists are threatening to begin launching the PRC’s strategic nuclear arsenal if their irrational demands are not met, or another rescue effort is attempted.”

“So that’s why they broke off their great circle route and turned north,” reflected Bodzin. “Surely we’re not going to just sit here and let them get away with this.”

“As a matter of fact, we’re not. Both the Polk and SEAL Team Two have been placed on alert, and ordered to stand by to initiate a clandestine rescue attempt sometime within the next four hours.”

“But what about the storm that’s blowing topside, Captain? And how is our SDV ever going to catch up with them, sir? Unless the QE2 reduces its speed substantially, the SDV’s eight knots is never going to cut it.”

Kram was impressed with his senior sonarman’s tactical foresight, and he answered him directly. “We’ve only experienced Marti’s outer fringe so far, and weather conditions are still within the parameters of a safe SDV launch. As far as the way in which our SDV is going to be able to catch the Queen, Command didn’t say. We’ve only been instructed to stand by for additional orders.”

Kram paused to shift his glance to the two seated sonar technicians, and added, “There was one additional portion of the TACAMO broadcast that I thought you’d be particularly interested in hearing. We’ve been informed to be on the alert for a Chinese Han-class attack sub that Command believes might have secretly penetrated these waters from the north, and is an integral part of the terrorist conspiracy.”

“Sierra Seven!” exclaimed Bodzin.

“It could very well be, Mr. Bodzin. I need you and your boys to do your best to determine that fact for certain. And if Sierra Seven does turn out to be that outlaw sub, I have a feeling that we’re soon going to find out what kind of punch those fish we’re hauling down in the torpedo room are really carrying.”

29

By little less than twelve hours after Thomas Kellogg made the rash decision to volunteer his services, he found himself inside the rear cabin of a MC-130H Combat Talon, well on his way to the North Atlantic.

From an uncomfortable steel-and-nylon-webbed bench set against the cargo hold’s forward bulkhead, he gazed out at the cavernous hold, empty except for the sleeping load master He was the extent of this aircraft’s cargo package, to be delivered to a spot above the ocean, some 3,000 miles to the northeast of Washington’s Andrews Air Force Base. The flight had begun there, and Thomas knew that Command had really pulled out all the stops to get this complex operation organized in so little time.

As the MC-130H momentarily shook in a pocket of turbulence, Thomas reached down to brace himself against the steel seat frame. The plane’s interior was cold, drafty, and noisy, the four Allison T56-A-15 turboprop engines grinding away with a constant, guttural roar. A partially eaten box lunch sat at his side, along with the detailed schematic diagram of the QE2 that he had been studying for most of the morning.

This foldout, cross-section guide of the ocean liner had been hand-delivered to Andrews shortly after dawn by a Cunard representative and former staff captain of the QE2. This individual flew in on the first shuttle of the morning from New York, and he gave Thomas an extensive briefing on the ship’s layout and the best way to carry out his mission.

He started off by recommending that Thomas utilize the Sun Deck’s helicopter pad for a landing zone. It was situated immediately abaft the funnel, on the topmost deck this area being the largest portion of unobstructed open space available to safely accommodate him. It was also encircled on two sides by a six-foot-high Plexiglas windscreen that could help snag the chute in case a violent crosswind was encountered.

The jump itself was scheduled to take place at dusk, and once on the QE2, Thomas would have until midnight to get into position to implement the rest of the plan. Because the transfer of the SEALs was timed to take place precisely at the stroke of twelve, it was imperative that the QE2 be slowed down to at least eight knots, the SDV’s top speed.

To accomplish this feat clandestinely, the Cunard employee suggested that Thomas access the dual pitch-control levers located in the aft portion of the Engine Room on Eight Deck. These levers were mounted onto each of the ship’s two drive shafts, and by manipulating them in a manner that he subsequently demonstrated, the pitch of the propellers could be altered and the vessel slowed.

Designed for use in emergency situations only, the levers were totally independent of both the Bridge and the Engine Room. It was impossible to override the system in any other way.

The levers were in an infrequently visited portion of the ship. To get into this isolated compartment without being discovered, Thomas was given a somewhat circuitous route. Once he safely landed on the Sports Deck, he was to proceed forward to the amidships stairwell. By climbing to the deck above, he’d be able to stash his gear in a vacant stowage locker on the Signal Deck, located aft of the ship’s Kennels.

From there he was to return to the Eelevator shaft, where an access hatch would lead him down to Four Deck. From there he’d head aft. At the sternmost portion of the ship, another emergency-access ladder would take him down into the Engine Room and drop him off directly beside the dual pitch levers.

To allow Thomas to better blend in, should he be discovered transiting one of the public passageways, Cunard had sent along a ship’s officer’s uniform for his use. This outfit of black trousers, shoes, tie, and a white shirt with gold-and-purple-striped epaulets, identified him as an engineering officer. It was a cursory disguise at best, but certainly better than relying on the olive-drab, thermal jumpsuit he was presently wearing over it.

By the time the briefing was ending, his means of transport had finally arrived. With the invaluable assistance of the Air Force Special Operations Command, the nearest available MC-130H had been located at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. This aircraft belonged to the 15th Special Operations Squadron. It was normally based at Hurlburt Field, Florida, and had been visiting Dover on an exercise.

Being a former Air Commando himself, who was once based at AFSOC headquarters at Hurlburt, Thomas felt right at home upon being introduced to the crew. To make their 11:00 a. m. liftoff, little time was wasted propping the Combat Talon for its long flight, and fitting Thomas with his flight suit, gloves, goggles, helmet, oxygen mask, and of course, his HALO parachute gear.

It wasn’t until he signed for the parachute, though, that the reality of the mission he had volunteered for abruptly sank in. His mind still filled with the myriad of details he’d have to remember about the QE2, he knew that they would all be useless if he didn’t survive the jump.

As he continued out onto the flight line, Brittany at his side, he began to have second thoughts about his participation in this mission.

Regardless of his previous decision never to strap on a parachute again, it had been much too long since he had completed his last HALO jump.

Gut instinct warned him that this entire effort was totally foolish, and he fought the urge to drop his gear and walk away. Yet Brittany’s presence and a stubborn will kept him from doing so.

As the plane’s engines were warmed up for takeoff, Brittany escorted him to the aircraft’s hatch. She couldn’t help but feel responsible for sending him, and tears filled her eyes as she wished him a safe flight.

Out on the tarmac, a kiss would have been as inappropriate as at the White House. They stood a moment facing each other, then Agent Kellogg saluted the Naval attache. She returned it smartly. He wanted to make her some sort of promise, but as her salute barely quivered as she continued to hold it, Thomas saw he didn’t have to. She trusted him. He snapped his hand down and turned away.

Climbing into the Combat Talon was like returning in time. The sights, smells, and sounds were all too familiar, and regathering his nerve, he strapped himself into his current seat and prepared himself for takeoff.

Once they were safely in the air, he got a chance to visit the flight deck. When he was in active duty, this particular model of the Combat Talon was only in the planning stages. First deployed in June 1991, the MC130H model was one of the most modern platforms in the Air Force inventory.

Thomas was impressed with the manner in which the cockpit’s highly automated controls and digital displays were designed to reduce crew size and workload. Unlike the MC-130E Combat Talons on which he flew, the H model’s cockpit was fully compatible with night-vision goggles.

Basic aircraft flight, tactical, and mission-sensor data was displayed on a compact video monitor that had its own data-entry keyboard.

The navigator electronic-warfare-operator console was situated on the aft portion of the spacious flight deck. It too was designed around several mounted video screens filled with a wide assortment of flashing data.

One console here was of special interest to Thomas. This was the display screen on which the Talon’s HARP radar system would be projected. Short for High Altitude Release Point, HARP was another one of those high-tech marvels that were only in the planning stage when Thomas saw service. It was used to drop off a HALO jumper at his optimum release point. As the aircraft neared the LZ, it would make a low altitude pass in order for HARP to gauge the crosswinds. Upon their return to altitude, HARP would assimilate this data to determine the most favorable release point.

By the time Thomas completed his tour of the cockpit, they were well on the way to their objective. For the most part, the Combat Talon would be following the QE2’s original route, up America’s east coast and continuing over the southern tip of Newfoundland to the seas above the mid-Atlantic ridge.

Since leaving Op Center Bravo much earlier in the morning, Thomas was able to rest a bit easier knowing that Command now had a firm lock on the hijacked ocean liner. A number of space-based reconnaissance satellites were in position to give them a constant update on the QE2’s exact location.

Command had also managed to establish communications with the USS Polk.

A TACAMO aircraft would be constantly airborne, to guarantee that this radio link wasn’t broken.

One peripheral element that was proving a bit more difficult to control was keeping a complete press blackout on the crisis. This was vital to avoid a public panic. By restricting all news access to a need-to-know-basis only, the Pentagon had so far been able to keep a lid on the hijacking. This was in spite of the fact that emergency ham transmissions were continuing to be broadcast from the QE2.

All this would have to be addressed in less than two days from now, when the QE2 was scheduled to arrive at Southampton. Command’s hope was that through Thomas’s efforts, and those of SEAL Team Two, the terrorist threat would be nullified before they’d have to inform the public that a crisis had ever existed.

Another pocket of turbulence shook the Talon, and Thomas once more grabbed the edge of the bench. The painful knot that had gathered in his stomach earlier further tightened, and he tried his best to ignore the first nauseous hint of airsickness. As his anxious glance strayed to the light gray HALO rig that hung from the bulkhead, he considered the strange sequence of events that had presaged this moment.

He supposed that the first presentiment of this unthinkable duty arrived on Labor Day, as he watched his nephew shoot his parachute toy into the air. This was followed by the arrest of the trespassing teenage parachutist on the South Lawn of the White House.

When seen as a whole, surely these diverse experiences hadn’t been mere coincidence. They were rather a sign; a cosmic warning, that another life-and-death struggle with the ageless demons of doubt and fear was about to be reinitiated.

Had it been cowardice on his part that precipitated his traumatic decision to leave the Air Force and never jump again? Try as he could for the last ten years to answer this simple question, Thomas knew that he was still unable to do so.

Courage and bravery had been two all-important qualities instilled in Thomas by his father from early childhood. A retired career Army officer, the elder Kellogg had made certain to leave his sons with one piece of advice above all others that there could be no greater honor than selflessly sacrificing one’s life in defense of country.

On the day that Thomas received his Air Force commission, his father was at his side, beaming with pride. Shortly thereafter, a brief taste of combat in Southeast Asia fooled Thomas into thinking that he was the fearless soldier his father wanted him to be.

The first crack in this false perception became evident in 1983 off the coast of Grenada. Fear, revulsion, horror; these were the real impressions of war that Thomas brought back from the Caribbean, as he found himself struggling with the realization that he’d never be the hero that his father wanted.

Two years later, in October 1985, Thomas was to experience the traumatic event that would lead to his premature retirement from the Air Force, and his decision never to strap on a parachute again. The terrorist hijacking of the cruise ship Achille Lauro resulted in a call to duty for his special-tactics unit. They had been temporarily stationed at Comiso Airfield in Sicily when word reached them to begin training for a possible rescue attempt.

The aircraft carrier USS Saratoga was made available to practice the difficult task of landing on a ship by parachute. The initial training package was for six HALO jumps. An acronym for High Altitude, Low Opening, a HALO jump guaranteed a covert insertion, as the aircraft responsible for dropping the jumpers couldn’t be seen or heard.

His teammate for this final HALO jump of the series was Jack Dempsey Mackey, his closest friend and confidant. They had attended the Air Force Academy together, where they were members of the Wings of Blue parachute team. Their paths parted after graduation, when Thomas picked special operations for his career specialty, and Jack chose to become a fighter pilot.

At about the same time that Urgent Fury was coming down, Jack made an unusual career change and transferred into the special-operations community. After a brief stint flying AC-130 Spectre gunships, he decided to see if he had the right stuff to pass the combat-control/pararescue indoctrination course. Not only did he pass with flying colors, but he sincerely enjoyed himself doing so, and this led to his decision to give up flying and join the elite special-tactics group.

Jack was in turn transferred to Hurlburt, where Thomas was based. The two continued their friendship right where they left off. When Jack married and their first son was born, Thomas became the godfather. They spent weekends together, boating and fishing, and even shared ownership of a battered cabin cruiser that Jack chanced upon while attending air-traffic-control school at Keesler Air Force Base in nearby Biloxi.

When Command assigned them to Sicily, they could hardly believe their good fortune. They looked upon this duty as a Mediterranean vacation at Uncle Sam’s expense, and for the first couple weeks, it was everything they had hoped for. They were able to spend several days in Rome, enjoy a weekend in Venice, and travel up to the Italian Riviera, where both of them visited their first nude beach.

The hijacking of the Achille Lauro put an end to their sightseeing, and they were soon back to work, practicing for a possible rescue mission.

It was a bright, sunny Sicilian morning as they boarded the MC-130E for their final high-altitude airdrop. At 15,000 feet, they began pre-breathing oxygen. The jump itself was to take place at 25,000 feet, and it was Jack who signaled Thomas to be the first one out.

According to Air Force statistics, the odds of experiencing a parachute malfunction were one out of every four hundred and fifty jumps. Many jumpers went an entire lifetime without a problem, while others experienced one their first time out.

In this instance, Thomas’s problems started shortly after the jump light turned green and the jumpmaster pointed out the Talon’s open rear ramp and shouted, “Go!” As he leaped off the ramp, and his free falling body plunged seaward at a terminal-velocity speed of 120 miles per hour, the strap of his helmet snapped in half, and his helmet, goggles, and oxygen mask were ripped off his head. While jerking back his head in a frantic effort at figuring out what had happened, his rucksack abruptly shifted from its mount on his equipment harness, causing him to begin a terrifying, out-of-control spin. He suddenly found himself tumbling head over heels, and he struggled to attain a stable, spread-eagle position.

Yet vertigo ensued, and Thomas momentarily blacked out.

When he eventually came to seconds later, he found that he had rolled on his back and was still in the midst of a disorienting spin. In a desperate attempt to stabilize himself, he arched his back and spread his arms and legs. This allowed him to roll over to a free fall position, and he was able to quickly check his altimeter.

He was still disorientated by the spin, and with his eyesight blurred from the loss of goggles, Thomas let circumspection take over and he pulled the ripcord regardless of the relatively high altitude. He was thankful that his MC4 ram-air chute was good, and he was able to get a clear view of his floating LZ several thousand feet below.

It was as he looked up to initiate a routine controllability check before beginning to steer his chute in for landing, that he spotted another freefaller. This individual appeared to be headed straight for him, and they only missed colliding when his own chute opened.

Though Thomas never could say exactly what happened next, somehow their lines became entangled. Once again heart-stopping terror possessed him, as his canopy collapsed, and he identified the jumper who had struck him. Jack had apparently seen his previous difficulties, and had risked life and limb to hurtle through space to catch up with him. Now both of them were falling, with their main chutes collapsed and hopelessly entangled.

Because Jack was the top jumper, he had cut away priority. The proper procedure was for him to get rid of his main chute, and deploy the reserve. They were practically free falling side by side at this point, rapidly approaching 2,000 feet, and Thomas fought to regain his composure.

He watched as Jack gave him a brave thumbs-up before yanking his cutaway ripcord with his right hand and pulling his reserve with the left.

Though the cutaway activated, the reserve did not. Jack was doomed unless Thomas could activate his own reserve and somehow bring his best friend down with him.

For the rest of his life he would endlessly replay the horrifying sequence of events that followed. Thomas cut away his main, got a good chute on his reserve, then frantically reached for Jack’s outstretched hand. For the briefest of seconds, their fingertips touched. And the last he ever saw of his friend was the terrified look of fear that etched Jack’s face as he realized that he was going to die.

They pulled Jack’s broken body out of the Mediterranean several hours later. Thomas had been able to make good his landing on the Saratoga, and was right there in the small boat as Jack’s corpse was retrieved.

The official inquiry cleared Thomas of any direct responsibility’ for his death. Yet in his own mind, he judged himself guilty if it had not been for his difficulties during the jump, Jack would have lived.

Thomas was mentally broken by this traumatic experience that in reality had begun two years earlier, off the coast of Grenada. And it was with this heavy baggage to carry that he began his difficult transition back into civilian life.

How very fitting it was that his life should come full circle like this, thought Thomas, as he sat in the wildly shaking rear cabin of the Combat Talon JJ on his way out to the storm-tossed mid-Atlantic. Just when he thought that he had successfully put one set of demons behind him, they had come back into his life like a returned letter. Running away had given him nothing but a ten-year respite.

Now was his chance to show what he was really made of. Somewhere out there on the cold seas, his own brother’s life was at stake, not to mention that of the President of the United States, and eight of the most powerful men in all the world. There could thus be no better time for him to finally face his inner demon, or forever be its slave.

30

The tension-packed day just passing seemed to be filled with one frustrating delay after the other. As a student of the Way, Dennis Liu knew that he shouldn’t allow such trivialities to disturb his inner equilibrium. But they had come so far, and now that their goal was just beyond reach, he couldn’t help but find himself overly anxious.

Their primary difficulty had been making contact with PRC’s Red Star communications satellite. They had already made two attempts to establish a secure uplink, yet in each instance, severe static kept them from being able to transmit the nuclear unlock codes to Adm. Liu Huangtzu’s forces in Tsingtao. Max Kurtyka blamed this interference on the unusual solar-flare activity. Their computer expert promised that during the next overhead pass of Red Star, later that night, he’d devise a way to deal with the static.

Once the codes were safely sent, their next step would be to signal the Lijiang and prepare for the transfer of their prisoners. To hail the Han-class submarine, they’d be ordering the QE2’s Bridge watch to initiate a three minute-long, sprint-and-drift process. At thirty-second intervals, the ocean liner’s nine engines would be run at flank speed, followed by a thirty-second-long period of silence. This would provide the distinctive audible signal that would bring Capt. Lee Shao-chi and his crack crew out of the black depths.

It appeared that all of this would take place that evening. To bide his time and make certain that none of the prisoners tried to disrupt their plans, Liu spent most of the day making the rounds of the immense vessel.

The tour of inspection began in the below-deck spaces, where his team had done a superb job of intimidating the crew. To get their point across, the senior Filipino steward was led away in handcuffs and sequestered in the ship’s Library. This man served as the official leader of the large Philippine community aboard ship, and by threatening to shoot him, they were able to keep the rest of the crew in line with a minimum of supervision.

Liu made several visits to the Queens Grill throughout the day. Almost a hundred prisoners were being held there, including the nine statesmen, who spent a restless night bemoaning their tragic predicament. The Grill’s two small bathrooms were the only restrooms made available to them. Meals were limited to sandwiches and water, far from the decadent gourmet fare they were used to.

Only once was he informed of possible trouble inside the Dining Room.

This happened when Bear caught the captive security agents trying to circulate a note. Liu’s inspection of this document showed that it was advising patience and circumspection. These were qualities that Liu certainly couldn’t complain about. Yet since the next note could have been one orchestrating an insurrection, he severely castigated his prisoners for this futile effort, and shot off a few rounds of submachine-gun fire into the ceiling to make his point.

Liu’s last stop of the day took him to the security room. He was expecting to find Max Kurtyka here, monitoring the surveillance screens. Instead he found his daughter alone at the console, still doing her best to learn how to operate the complicated system.

This was the first time he had been able to visit with her since the initial takeover. He was pleased to find her adjusting quite well. Liu had feared that she would have trouble coping if things got violent. He made certain to remind her about the reasons behind their actions.

Satisfied that she’d hold up under the continued pressure, Liu learned that Max had gone outside to have a smoke.

He left Kristin with a kiss on each cheek, and headed aft to locate Max.

31

A dark gray sky greeted him as he walked out onto One Deck’s exterior pool area. The air was brisk, and though he failed to spot Max here, he proceeded to the deck’s aft railing, where the vessel’s flag less jack staff was mounted.

The QE2’s prop wash could be clearly traced, a thin snaking line of agitated seawater that extended to the lightning-lit southern horizon.

Dusk was falling, with not a trace of a sunset in the cloud-filled heavens.

Hoping that the hurricane would stay to the south, Liu turned around.

He scanned the series of terraced decks capped by the upper portion of the ship’s towering red funnel, from which poured a constant stream of black smoke. It was at the stern rail of the uppermost deck, directly aft of the helipad, that Liu spotted a single, rail thin figure, thoughtfully scanning the same stormy horizon that he had been inspecting. The bright red glow of a cigarette could be made out between this individual’s lips. Liu didn’t have to see any more to proceed up to the Sports Deck to join him.

“Hang on, Special Agent,” warned an amplified voice from Thomas’s headphones. “We’re going down on the deck to check the winds for our HARP calculation, and things could get a little rough.” Thomas de his intercom button and curtly acknowledged this warning that came to pass all too soon with a violent jolting motion of the MC-130His fuselage.

The Combat Talon rapidly lost altitude, its four turboprop engines whining away in futile protest.

Thomas tried his best to control his rising nausea, aggravated by the rubber oxygen mask tightly strapped around his mouth. In preparation for the HALO jump, he had been pre-breathing oxygen for the past hour.

The darkened rear cabin shook wildly, rolling from side to side with such intensity that Thomas feared he’d be torn from his seat belt. This extreme turbulence even managed to get the load master attention, who finally awoke from his nap and rushed over to strap himself securely to the same bench on which Thomas was seated.

A cursory glance at his watch showed that the moment of truth was almost upon them. In a strange way, he was relieved. The long flight had given him too much time to think about his traumatic past and the great dangers he would soon have to face.

His primary worry was whether he had lost his jump skills. This attempt would be difficult enough during the day, with perfect weather conditions prevailing. It was only too apparent from the Combat Talon’s wildly shaking fuselage that severe crosswinds would have to be dealt with. When these winds were factored in with a hostile, untested landing zone, presently cutting through the pitching seas at over twenty knots, all the ingredients for disaster were in place.

Thomas could take small solace in the LPU that he wore beneath his parachute harness. In the event that he missed the QE2, he hoped the life preserver unit would keep him afloat. A water-activated radio beacon, which the Combat Talon would be monitoring, was sewn into the preserver’s outer seam. The water temperature in this portion of the North Atlantic was in the low forties — he’d have but a few precious minutes to get into the sheltering confines of a life raft, before deadly hypothermia set in.

The pitch of the Talon’s turboprops further deepened, and Thomas was aware that his body was no longer being pulled forward. After several minutes of level flight, the MC-130H initiated a steep climb that forcefully pushed Thomas back against the bulkhead, with all the pressure of a prolonged stiff-arm.

His headphones crackled alive. He could hear the copilot calling out their rapidly increasing altitude. As they passed 20,000 feet, the navigator informed him that HARP had calculated that there was a dangerous 170-degree wind shear present, with the winds themselves gusting up to eighteen knots at sea level. These disturbing environmental factors did not bode well for a safe jump, and since they were at the marginal permissible limits, it would ultimately be up to Thomas to make the final decision to go.

His inner debate was a short one. And even though he could have easily scrubbed the mission, he found himself activating the intercom and firmly declaring, “Let’s go for it, gentlemen!”

He reached up and further tightened the fit of his parachute’s chest harness. The load master unbuckled his seat belt and stood. With careful steps, he continued to the rear of the cabin to prepare the ramp for opening.

“HARP indicates that we’ve got four minutes to go until we reach our optimal release point,” informed the amplified voice of the navigator.

No more notification was needed to get Thomas to unbuckle his own seat belt and stand. He made a final check of his equipment, then began the short transit to join the load master at the back of the cabin.

“Three minutes,” informed the navigator, from his console on the flight deck.

While Thomas allowed the load master to double-check the fit of his gear, the intercom crackled alive with the voice of the pilot. “Good luck, Special Agent.”

“Thanks, Major,” replied Thomas. “Don’t forget to give my regards to the folks back at Hurlburt.”

“Will do, sir. And enjoy your cruise!”

With the delivery of this optimistic comment, Thomas disconnected the intercom. He tried his best to steady his rapidly beating pulse, and he took a series of deep draws on his oxygen mask, the tank of which was securely strapped to the side of his harness.

The clamshell doors of the Talon’s rear ramp parted, and Thomas got his first view of the gray dusk sky. Cloud cover kept him from spotting his target down below. He expectantly looked up to the jump indicator lights that were mounted into the fuselage beside the helmeted load master Only the bottom, red caution light was illuminated.

Fifteen seconds from green light, the load master flashed him a thumbs-up. This allowed Thomas to make a final adjustment to his goggles before the green light popped on, and the load master pointed outside into the gathering darkness and shouted, “Go!”

Without hesitation, Thomas leaped off the ramp. The first thing he was aware of was the sudden silence, and the incredibly strong, icy cold wind that appeared to be blowing from below. He immediately arched his back and spread out his arms and legs to establish a stable spread-eagle position. Too invigorated to feel fear, he subconsciously found himself counting off ten seconds, the approximate time it would take him to attain terminal velocity. As long as he remained in a Delta position, terminal velocity indicated the maximum speed of his free fall — roughly 120 miles per hour.

Thomas knew that he had attained this speed, when he suddenly felt as if he were no longer falling. This strange sensation was caused by the gravitational pull of his body being equalized by the wind resistance.

For all effective purposes, he was now balanced precariously on a huge bubble of air, with the merest abrupt movement on his part able to cause an unwanted spin, back loop or barrel roll.

Confident of his ability to hold a stable position, Thomas shifted into a compact, frog posture, by slightly bending his arms and legs, and pulling his hands closer to his shoulders. A quick check of his wrist-mounted altimeter showed that he had already broken 15,000 feet.

This meant that it was time for him to get a firm visual lock on his intended landing zone.

He angled his line of sight downward, and found his vision blurred by ice crystals that had formed on the inner lenses of his goggles. Try as he could to spot his LZ, the only thing visible was a blurred gray mass of dark clouds.

As he pulled in his wrist for another altimeter check, he shifted his weight, and a heart-stopping flat spin resulted. To counter it, he tried to twist his body in the opposite direction of the spin. When this proved ineffective, desperation led him to sweep his arms to his sides and bend forward at the waist. This caused his entire body to tumble forward in a lightning-quick flipping motion that served to break the flow of air that had been supporting the spin.

To regain control, he arched his back and spread out his arms and legs in time to see a glorious sight, barely visible through the gray muck beneath him. Like a thousand glittering jewels, the sparkling lights of the QE2 beckoned, approximately 5,000 feet distant. The ocean liner appeared to be well within range. Thomas counted off the seconds before he’d pull the ripcord of his MC-4 ram-air parachute to begin the next stage of this perilous endeavor.

“So you really think that this computer-generated program of yours will filter out any static that we might encounter during Red Star’s next overhead pass?” probed Dennis Liu, while casually strolling around the helipad’s outer perimeter with Max close at his side.

Max’s own steps were tracing the perimeter’s white circular border, and he replied without bothering to remove the cigarette from his lips.

“Tonight’s the night, Chief. I feel it in my bones.”

A heavy swell rocked the deck, and Liu alertly shifted his balance to compensate for it. “I certainly hope that your instincts are correct, comrade. As they say, the natives are getting restless, and it’s only a matter of time before we start having some serious problems controlling them.”

“I understand that you intercepted a note that the fools inside the Grill were attempting to circulate,” remarked Max. “Any idea who wrote it?”

“My best guess is that it originated with the Americans,” offered Liu as he peered up into the darkening sky.

Max halted and replied forcefully. “We’ve been tolerant long enough.

It’s time to set an example and put fear back into the hearts of our captives. Just say the word, and I’ll personally blow away those troublemaking Secret Service pigs.”

Before Liu could respond, his cranial headset activated. Whatever he was hearing caused his eyes to narrow with concern. He spoke rapidly into the radio’s lapel-mounted transmitter. “Monica, keep your cool — don’t do anything foolish. I’m on my way with Max!”

Thomas pulled his ripcord seconds after the altimeter showed him passing below 3,000 feet. The parachute opened with a jolting shock, causing Thomas to look up to check for any problems. The rectangular, ram-air canopy appeared to be fully deployed, and with one eye on the rapidly approaching LZ, he began a rushed controllability check.

Two thousand feet was the absolute limit for him to cut away his main chute and open the reserve. Because his flared landing would necessitate pinpoint accuracy, it was absolutely essential that the main canopy was perfect in every way. To guarantee this, he released the brakes, allowing him to use the steering risers to initiate a ninety-degree turn to both left and right. Only after he was satisfied that all looked well, and that his stall point was correct, did he turn his complete attention back to the landing.

He readily spotted the QE2 ‘s helipad, directly aft of the vessel’s funnel. His intention was to land in the pad’s exact center, where a thick white cross bisected its circular perimeter.

Now the trick was to maneuver in such a way that he’d land into the wind. Since it was last reported to be blowing in uneven gusts from the southwest, he would approach from the northeast. This meant he’d have to come in from the bow, on the vessel’s starboard side.

His MC-4 para foil chute was designed to be flown much like an airplane.

As air was forced through its square nose, it was channeled back to fill the canopy’s cells, creating a winglike airfoil effect that could generate over thirty miles per hour of forward speed.

Thomas tried his best to ignore the roiling seas that surrounded the QE2. He instead focused his attention solely on a fixed spot directly behind the ship’s massive funnel. With a series of firm tugs, he manipulated the steering risers, sending the chute downward in a final sweeping turn. The bow of the mighty ship passed on his right, and he feared that if one of the vessel’s occupants were to look outside at this moment, they might actually see him as he flew by.

Golden light poured from the windows and portholes as Thomas sped past the long line of bright orange lifeboats. A sudden gust of wind pushed him dangerously close to the smoke-belching funnel, and as he brushed past it, the helipad suddenly loomed before him.

At this rate, Thomas was moving much too swiftly to hit his intended mark. He was forced to pull down firmly on the steering risers. As air was dumped from the canopy, he went into a sudden stall that sent him crashing downward.

His feet cleared the helipad’s starboard, Plexiglas windscreen by the barest of inches, and with the white cross of his LZ now in front of him, he yanked down hard on the risers once more. This resulted in an abrupt bleeding off of all forward airspeed, and his feet gently touched down onto the deck, only a few inches from the helipad’s exact center.

Before he could settle down completely, a gust of wind caught his partially collapsed canopy. Unable to hit his harness release, Thomas was thrown violently to the deck, with the chute dragging him aft toward the open stern railing. Now he was in danger of being pulled right off the ship, and he managed to yank the cutaway release mechanism, seconds before the billowing canopy was sucked beneath the rail, with his head less than a foot behind.

As the harness was jerked free of his body, the chute filled completely and shot off downwind. The last view Thomas had of the chute was when it was already well on its way out to sea.

His limbs were trembling from both the bitter cold and the pure exhilaration of this wild ride. It was imperative that he get under cover with all due haste, and he grabbed the rail and shakily stood up.

Thomas followed the advice of the QE2’s former staff captain he made for the deck above, headed for the auxiliary stowage room. He found the forward passageway without problem. After making sure that no one was in sight, he sprinted down the carpeted hallway to the stairwell that had a sign marked kennel beside it.

These stairs conveyed him to a closed hatchway, set into the port bulkhead. He ignored the crew access only sign, and swung open the hatch and stepped outside. This put him in a narrow open access way with the QE2’s funnel behind him. The air was cool and smelled of the sea, and Thomas was aware of the deck’s constant rocking motion.

Anxious to get out of his jumpsuit and begin his journey deep into the bowels of the Engine Room, he located the closed door of the stowage space. He allowed himself the barest of relieved sighs upon finding the door unlocked, and gratefully pushed it open.

Much to his utter horror, there was another man inside! This stocky individual was dressed in a standard officer’s uniform, and was seated in front of what appeared to be a radio transmitter. He had headphones over his ears, and looked just as surprised as Thomas to have a visitor.

Long before Thomas could even think about pulling out his weapon, the stranger grasped a 9mm Beretta handgun and used its barrel to signal Thomas to shut the door. Only then did he remove his headphones, and while curiously studying his visitor’s strange garb, pointedly questioned with a distinctive English accent.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but who in the blue blazes are you?”

32

Vince Kellogg knew it was going to be a difficult day, from the moment the muted light of dawn became visible outside the Queens Grill’s picture window. It had been a miserable, sleepless night, aggravated by the QE2’s constant pitching and their cramped living quarters. Since the takeover, their captors had confined them to their tables, and those able to sleep, had to do so right there. The limited restroom facilities were inadequate; in place of caviar, lobster, and champagne, a platter of tuna fish sandwiches along with several pitchers of ice water were inelegantly pulled out on a serving cart.

Food was definitely not on Vince’s mind, as he spent the early morning hours contemplating their dilemma. Beyond blaming himself for allowing this hijacking to occur, the central focus of his thoughts was on figuring out a way to retake the ship.

What little whispered conversation he was able to have with his equally concerned table mates resulted in their writing a message. The note stressed patience, and was circulated amongst the other security agents.

As it was passed from table to table, an alert sentry intercepted it.

This brought a visit from Dennis Liu, who expressed his displeasure with a threatening round of submachine-gun fire.

As Liu exited, they realized they’d have to act soon. As both captives and captors continued to tire, it was only a matter of time before either a minor incident, such as the discovery of their note, or the foolhardy efforts of a hotshot hero, would ignite the volatile atmosphere.

As it turned out, the spark occurred later that afternoon. After spending a frustrating, tense day, with nothing to do but try to catch a few minutes’ sleep, or dare trade a whispered secret with one’s associates, the Russians attempted a breakout.

It took place near dusk, when two of the Russian agents rose to use the restroom. Since only one individual at a time was allowed in either of the two small bathrooms, their joint efforts drew the immediate attention of the nearest terrorist.

This black-clad figure had long ago removed his hood, and was armed with a Sterling submachine gun. Hartwell had identified him as a member of the ship’s Laundry.

Vince could see it coming, as the two Russians approached the men’s room, and the guard ran to intercept them. As he shouted for them to stop, one of the Russians, either by accident or plan, collided with the cart holding the sandwiches. The force of the collision was enough to send him crashing down hard on the cart’s glass top, instantly shattering it, and sending the water-filled pitchers flying.

The other Russian used this noisy distraction to his advantage, as he reached his fallen associate’s side just as the sentry did. Though it initially appeared that he was just bending over to assist his coworker, the agent instead grabbed one of the partially filled pitchers, and flung its icy contents into the guard’s face. Then without hesitation, he sprang up, ripped the submachine gun off the blinded sentry’s shoulder, and immobilized him with a painful arm lock.

The other Russian retrieved the Sterling and aimed it at their prisoner.

This commotion drew the attention of Monica Chang and Bear, who had been standing watch beside the Grill’s aft entryway. Her figure well displayed by the tight black jumpsuit she wore, the actress showed a savage, vicious side that Vince never saw portrayed on the movie screen.

“Let go of him this instant!” she screamed.

Monica addressed her two-way radio, before following Bear to the overturned cart, where the Russians stood with their prisoner.

“I said let go of him!” she ordered, emphasizing her determination by letting loose a deafening round of bullets into the Grill’s ceiling.

The Russians didn’t budge, and if anything, the fact that a woman had arrived to challenge them, only served to bolster their confidence.

“No, comrade,” countered the agent holding the disarmed terrorist.

“It’s you who will let all of us free.”

“Like hell I will,” Monica retorted, aiming the barrel of her weapon at the armed Russian’s forehead. Bear kept his gun turned on the rest of the room to discourage anyone from joining in.

The tense standoff was broken minutes later by the breathless arrival of Dennis Liu and Max Kurtyka. They hurried over to join Monica.

Liu alertly sized up the situation. With his lungs still heaving for breath, he pulled out his 45 caliber sidearm and also aimed it at the forehead of the Russian holding the prisoner.

“I’ll only ask once, comrade. Let him go!” Liu ordered.

The Russians did their best to use their hostage for cover, the one holding him bending his knees slightly, to hide his head behind that of his shorter prisoner. “I’m warning you. I’ll kill this man if you don’t put down your guns and surrender,” instructed the other Russian, who jammed the barrel of his weapon up against the Asian’s neck.

Dennis Liu answered with a wicked, devilish laugh, that was all too soon shared by his fellow terrorists. “You really think that this man’s life means anything to us?” managed Liu between continued peals of laughter.

“Our movement is a billion-and-a-half strong, and one individual’s life is insignificant!”

There was gathering madness evident in Liu’s glowing eyes, as he clicked off the pistol’s safety. Max wasn’t about to miss out on all the action, and he lifted his own pistol, which he aimed at the unarmed Russian.

“Just say the word, Chief,” offered Max, a sadistic edge to his tone.

“And I’ll send this Russkie to meet his fucking maker.”

Liu added impatiently, “Enough of this foolishness! Re lease our man, or both of you shall die, along with your cherished president.”

This last threat caused the armed Russian to turn the Sterling on the trio facing him and pull the trigger. A blazing gunfight erupted that sent all of the room’s other occupants diving to the floor for cover.

By the time Vince and his table mates looked up, the report of the last round still reverberating in their ears, only devastation remained. The two Russians and their prisoner were crumpled on the carpeted deck, their lifeless, blood-soaked bodies in a tangled heap.

Dennis Liu and Monica Chang miraculously remained standing, completely untouched. Kneeling beside them was a badly bleeding Bear, who had taken a round in the shoulder. Max Kurtyka’s bullet-ridden corpse lay sprawled out close by, his body still twitching in the final throes of death.

The scent of cordite hung thick in the air, as Kristin Liu came sprinting through the aft entryway. Her relief was apparent upon seeing her father, then she spotted Bear.

“We need a doctor over here!” she cried while kneeling beside her wounded associate, trying her best to stem the spurting blood with a table napkin.

Her father appeared to be more concerned with Max Kurtyka’s lifeless corpse. There was a startled look of disbelief in his dark eyes, as Liu watched his computer expert issue his final breath.

“Oh shit!” he cursed. “Who’s going to get the codes off?”

“Father,” interrupted Kristin. “We need a doctor, or Bear’s going to bleed to death!”

Though his concerns were obviously elsewhere, Dennis Liu managed to tear his glance away from Max’s body. With vacant, glassy eyes, he looked out to the opposite balcony, where Vince and his party were seated.

“Dr. Patton!” he summoned urgently.

The silver-haired physician had no choice but to stand. He traded the briefest of concerned glances with Ricky and the rest of his table mates before crossing the room to attend to the wounded terrorist.

Vince meanwhile found himself anticipating more trouble, as Liu rushed down to the room’s main table. Not certain what he would do if Liu isolated his fury on the American President, he watched as the terrorist halted alongside the president of Russia.

Liu was still seething with rage. He grabbed the Russian statesman by the lapels of his tuxedo, and yanked him roughly to his feet. This in turn caused the remaining two Russian security agents, who were seated at an adjoining table, to also stand.

Liu laughed at this futile effort to protect their charge. He appeared to be taking sadistic pleasure from this tense encounter, as he jammed the barrel of his pistol up against the Russian president’s graying temple.

“I warned you,” he muttered angrily. “And you, my dear pitiful comrade, shall be the first head of state to pay for this act of folly.”

Vince feared that the blood would really start to flow now, and he looked on as Monica joined Liu at the center of the room.

“Why waste the bullet?” she commented haughtily. “Besides, the spineless idiot’s worth more to us as a living bargaining chip.”

“Max’s death has changed all that,” returned Liu. “Without his computer expertise, we’ll never be able to transmit the unlock codes back to Admiral Liu. So to hell with our original plan. I’m going to take great pleasure in blowing away each one of our special guests, before detonating the charge that will take this entire ship to her watery grave.”

“But, Father,” Kristin countered from the balcony, where she was watching Dr. Patton work on Bear. “How can we abandon our cause so readily?”

“Who said anything about abandoning it?” Liu replied. “Our martyrdom shall ignite the spark of world revolution!”

Kristin was desperate to refocus her father’s crazed thoughts. Her anxiety was obvious as she scanned the room. It was as her gaze passed over Vince’s table that she spotted a very scared Ricky Patton, and a thought suddenly inspired her.

“Father, we’ve got Max’s replacement seated right there on the balcony!

Dr. Patton’s son knows computers. He should be able to take Max’s place at the console.”

This alert observation hit its intended mark, and Dennis Liu relaxed his grasp on the Russian president’s tuxedo jacket. Once again he broke into a mad fit of laughter that ended after he disgustedly shoved the sweating Russian statesman back into his chair.

“Ricky!” shouted Kristin, her voice firm and urgent.

The young man didn’t really know how to react to the summons. Vince noted his confusion, and realizing that his presence could very well defuse this trying turn of events, nodded supportively.

“For the sake of all of us, Ricky,” Vince whispered. “You’ve got to do what they say. Just buy us some more time, and I promise you that we’ll figure a way out of this mess.”

Ricky was already traumatized by the events of this tragic day, and he stood tentatively, his injured leg rubbery. One of the on looking terrorists arrived at the table. Ricky was led at gunpoint over to that section of the balcony where his father continued working on Bear.

Dennis Liu and Monica Chang joined him there, and with Kristin close by, Ricky listened to her father’s forceful ultimatum.

“Young man, destiny has just selected you to take your place in history.

You need only to obey me and apply your unique skills to all that I ask.

In return, I promise on my own daughter’s life that no harm will come to your father.”

Liu halted at this point. He aimed his pistol at the kneeling physician, rammed a bullet into the gun’s chamber, and added: “And should you disobey me, or attempt in any way to intentionally sabotage our efforts, know that I won’t hesitate to put a bullet into your father’s skull. Do you understand me, comrade?”

Ricky nodded meekly.

“Kristin, I want you to escort him down to security,” said Dennis Liu in Mandarin as he lowered his pistol and handed it to her. “Have him help you with the operation of the video console. We only have a couple more hours to go until Red Star arrives overhead. I’ll be down shortly, to escort Comrade Patton up to the Radio Room, where he can begin getting familiar with the equipment.”

“Very well, Father,” replied Kristin, who somewhat limply held onto the shiny 45 pistol.

Dennis Liu reached down and tightened her grip on this weapon, saying, “Your vigilance is needed now more than ever before, daughter. Can I count on you to carry out this all-important task?”

“Of course you can,” she replied with renewed determination.

“Then get moving,” Liu whispered. “With no one down there monitoring the cameras, there’s no telling what other conspiracies are being hatched elsewhere in the ship.”

33

High above Liu, inside the auxiliary equipment stowage space on Signal Deck, Tuff listened intently as Thomas explained the exact nature of his mission. Of particular interest was the reason behind having to cut the ship’s speed below eight knots precisely at midnight. Just knowing that an organized rescue effort was about to be attempted, lightened Tuffs spirits. He was quick to offer his services, suggesting that before he showed Thomas the best way down to the Engine Room, they make a preliminary stop along the way.

Ever since making good his escape, Tuff had been busy secretly exploring the ship to see what they were up against. He carried out these clandestine recon missions by traveling through the QE2’s duct system whenever possible. His intelligence indicated that there were at least two-dozen terrorists, all armed with a variety of sidearms and submachine guns.

Thomas wasn’t all that surprised to learn that Dennis Liu was their leader, and that the majority of the weapons were smuggled in via the replacement gym equipment. After Thomas shared the nature of the strategic nuclear threat that the terrorists had conveyed to the Pentagon, Tuff better understood why most of the hijackers were Chinese, with the majority of them having been planted inside the ship’s Laundry.

Tuff had already witnessed the ruthless manner in which the terrorists operated, and had no doubt that their threats were to be taken seriously. His excursions had previously taken him up into the ceiling of the Queens Grill, where he was able to peek through a ventilation grating and confirm that both Vince Kellogg and the heads of state were still alive as of late that afternoon. Hunger pangs had directed Tuff past the kitchen, where the presence of several armed guards kept him from accumulating a proper stash of victuals. He instead had to make do with a raid on an adjoining storeroom, where the only available food was caviar and pate de foie gras.

Tuff pulled out a tin of expropriated pate that Thomas consumed while the Englishman further plotted out the exact logistics of their upcoming excursion. In order to reach the dual pitch levers and slow the ship without being discovered, Tuff recommended that they first disconnect the security cameras in the aft end of the Engine Room. To accomplish this feat, he suggested that they visit the equipment access space, where he had been working when he first learned of the hijacking.

34

Kristin abandoned any pretense of toughness the moment they exited the Queens Grill and stepped into the passageway. She made certain that the pistol’s safety was engaged before stashing it in the pocket of her coveralls.

“I’m really sorry that you had to experience any of this,” she said while leading the way aft. “I know that you must think we’re crazy, but there really is a purpose to our madness, Ricky.”

Ricky grunted skeptically. “There’s no excuse for coldblooded murder.”

Kristin had been expecting this attitude, and she tried her best to plead their case. “What you view as murder, we look upon as unfortunate casualties of war. You see, we’re currently in the midst of an armed struggle; a fight for survival, that’s as important to us as the Civil War was to your ancestors in preserving your country.”

As they reached the landing, Kristin hit a button to summon the elevator. They entered the lift, and as they headed down to Two Deck, she continued.

“Don’t get me wrong, Ricky. I’m not trying to justify the bloodshed that you witnessed back there. What I would like to do is give you an inkling of what’s motivating us. The cell that’s carrying out this operation may be but a few dozen strong, yet the movement we represent counts its loyal members by the hundreds of millions. Do you know much about the history of modern China, Ricky?”

“I know enough,” he retorted icily, still hesitant to be drawn into a civil conversation.

“Then I’m sure you know who Chairman Mao was,” she said, noting the continued distrust in Ricky’s eyes. “No one was more instrumental in the birth of the People’s Republic than Mao Tsetung. Almost by himself, the Chairman single-handedly freed our country from decades of slavery, pestilence, and war.

“I’m proud to say that my paternal grandfather was one of Mao’s closest advisors, who personally accompanied the Chairman during the infamous Long March. In fact, it was on October 14, 1934, that grandfather left his childhood home in Kiangsi Province to join Mao and a hundred thousand others on a desperate retreat from encroaching Kuomintang Nationalist forces under Chiang Kaishek.” Kristin continued her tale as the lift reached Two Deck, where they continued on foot to the Security Room. “In the first three weeks of the Long March, nearly twenty five thousand would die in combat.

Grandfather received a severe wound to his leg at this time, during an attack on a Nationalist blockhouse. From that point on, it was a painful struggle for him to keep up with the rest of the dwindling Red Chinese Army. Grandmother always said that it was the force of his convictions alone that saw him through all three hundred and sixty-eight days of the march. He covered over eight thousand miles altogether, through deserts, swamps, snow-covered mountains, and fast-moving river gorges.

“Mao was forced to abandon three of his children during the course of this epic journey. He also had a brother who was killed and his wife injured, along the way to their final stop in the loess caves of Shensi Province.”

They found the door to the Security Room wide open. Kristin led the way inside to the inner room that was dominated by a wall of video monitors.

She made certain that Ricky was comfortably seated behind the keyboard of a console before giving him a quick demonstration of the system’s capabilities. She was able to isolate one of the cameras in the ship’s Bridge. She then used the mouse to pan the lens of the camera from one side of the darkened control room to the other, and even managed to get a close-up of one of the officers updating a navigation chart.

Ricky couldn’t help but be impressed with the system, and he voluntarily took hold of the mouse to move the camera himself. “Do you mean to say that you’ve got video coverage of this entire ship?” he asked while manipulating the mouse to get a close-up of the beard-stub bled face of the navigator.

“I believe so,” she answered. “Though I don’t think it’s possible to spy on individual staterooms. Max was the real expert on this system.

He was teaching me how to use it, right before he was killed.”

Ricky experimented with the keyboard, and learned that different cameras could be isolated by hitting various combinations of letters and numbers. By depressing the key marked F1, he was able to access a view of the ship’s engine control room on the center video monitor.

Randomly hitting F8 caused the screen beside it to fill with a shot of the QE2’s Bakery. Ricky used the mouse to catch two Chinese sentries helping themselves to a tray filled with chocolate eclairs.

Kristin could see that Ricky was hooked, and as he continued his experimentation, she went on with her story. “In 1949, after twenty-two years on the run in the rural interior, Grandfather was one of the lucky patriots at Mao’s side as he triumphantly entered Beijing.

As survivors of the Long March, they felt they could meet any challenge, including that of creating a new nation.

“My father came into the world one year later, shortly after Grandfather fell in love with a feisty political writer from Nanjing.

The countryside was still filled with roving bands of Nationalist bandits in those early days of the Republic. While on a mission to Lanzhou, Grandfather was captured by such a band. The Kuomintang scum recognized him as one of Mao’s advisors, and a mock trial was convened, with Grandfather labeled a traitor. He was beheaded that same evening, his body tossed on the side of the road to be devoured by wild dogs.

“When Grandmother heard of this tragedy, she was forced to make the difficult decision to leave China and move to San Francisco with her brother’s family. Even though Father grew up in California, his uncle’s household instilled in him the utter importance of an independent, self-sustaining China, free from corrupt Western influences. Frequent trips back to mainland China allowed him to establish relations with a powerful group of Communists who shared his concerns. It was this group of patriots who introduced him to the movement to which we currently belong.

“The reason for our present actions are solely prompted by Li Chen’s illegal power grab after Deng Xiaoping’s death. Entry into the G-7 would mean the end of China as we now know it, making all of the sacrifices that Grandfather, Mao, and the rest of the Red patriots were forced to make be totally in vain.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” returned Ricky as diplomatically as possible. He didn’t want to agree with her actions nor did he want to condemn, either of which might turn her more harshly against him. Still, he couldn’t just let all these excuses go unanswered. That wasn’t how his father had raised him.

Kristin was relieved to hear that Ricky had been paying attention to her, and she attempted to draw him out further. “What do you mean by that?”

Ricky replied while filling a single screen with a live video shot of the Midships Lobby, the darkened Theater, the Beauty Salon, and a carpeted Penthouse passageway. “What I’m trying to say, Kristin, is that it’s time for China to take its rightful place in the twenty-first century. And you’re not going to do this by running away like scared children who are afraid to grow up. China has nothing to fear from the world community. Change is frightening by its very nature. And for your country to reach its full potential, you must put your fears aside, and work with the other nations to make this planet a better place for all of us.”

This spirited discourse generated a smattering of applause from the room’s doorway. This was where Dennis Liu was standing, an amused grin on his face.

“Well said, comrade,” reflected Liu, as he stopped clapping. “Though I must admit that your political outlook of the world is naive at best.

What do you know of class struggle and a people’s desire for real freedom? Your pampered upbringing has limited your sight and clouded your soul that’s been stripped of its vibrance by the cancerous sameness of Western consumerism.

“I experienced this same decadence firsthand in Hollywood, and believe me, it will lead to your country’s eventual demise, comrade. We Chinese can only pray that we stopped the disease before it reached epidemic proportions. That’s what this takeover is all about — a last ditch, desperate effort by a group of dedicated patriots, who can’t just sit back and watch their beloved country swallowed by capitalism’s insatiable greed!”

Any further comment on Liu’s part was interrupted by his sighting of a scene on the screen at the console’s top, left-hand corner. It showed Monica in the midst of what appeared to be an angry confrontation with a group of Japanese security agents seated around a table in the Queens Grill.

“Damn!” cursed Liu. “Won’t those fools ever learn? Come on, Kristin.

We’d better get up there and teach them another lesson.”

Before leaving, Liu pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. He cuffed Ricky’s wrist to the solid, tubular steel edge of the main console.

“And don’t even think of participating in any foolhardy antics yourself, comrade,” he warned. “Remember that we still have your father.”

Ricky nodded that he understood, and accepted the barest of supportive smiles from Kristin. Once he was alone, he was able to use his right hand to address the keyboard, and he watched the encounter in the Queens Grill unfold with as many camera angles as possible.

So focused was his concentration on this effort that he didn’t notice the access panel to the room’s equipment space suddenly popping open.

First to emerge from this entryway was Tuff, followed closely by Thomas Kellogg.

Tuff found himself forcing back a boyish grin as he loudly cleared his throat and greeted, “Evening, lad.”

Caught totally by surprise, Ricky spun around, and his eyes opened wide upon spotting the ship’s security officer. Standing beside him was a tall, dark-haired stranger. This middle-aged male wore the uniform of a ship’s officer, though this was the first that Ricky had seen of him.

“If you don’t remember, lad, my name’s Tuff and I work with Robert Hartwell. I managed to escape right before the terrorists took over, and I’m most aware of your predicament. My accomplice here is Special Agent Kellogg’s younger brother, Thomas.”

Ricky appeared confused by this. “I didn’t know he had a brother who was a member of the crew.”

“He doesn’t,” replied Thomas. “I’m a federal agent myself, working for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”

Ricky scratched his head. “Then how come you didn’t join us earlier?”

“Because, believe it or not, I only arrived on this ship a couple of hours ago,” Thomas revealed.

Before Ricky could further express his confusion, Tuff broke in. “Easy does it, lad. Special Agent Kellogg is the first wave of a rescue effort that the military’s about to attempt. And by the way, he joined us by parachute.”

As Thomas nodded that this was true, his gaze was distracted by the ugly scene continuing to develop on the screen. “Looks like there’s serious trouble brewing.”

“It’s another damn confrontation in the Grill,” observed Tuff. “As far as I’m concerned, midnight can’t get here fast enough.”

Tuff took a closer look at Ricky’s handcuffs before reaching into his pocket, pulling out his key chain, and handing one of the keys to Ricky.

“You’re lucky that the hijackers are using the ship’s cuffs.

Right now, my best advice is to stay here, lad. Use the key only if you really have to.”

“Isn’t there anything else that I can do to help you?” offered Ricky.

Thomas gestured toward the console. “Your presence here can make all the difference in assuring our mission’s success. Just stay out of trouble, and keep your head down once midnight comes around. That’s when things are going to get real interesting.”

35

Brad Bodzm’s second watch of the day called him back to the USS Folk’s sonar room at 2100. Together with Jaffers and Seaman Wilford, the team prepared themselves for what could very well be the most important watch of their entire patrol. In three more hours, SEAL Team Two was scheduled to disembark aboard their SDV for the crucial task of retaking the QE2.

In a sign of supreme confidence in Bodzin’s team, Captain Kram had personally asked for them to stand this vital watch, and the Texan proudly accepted this challenge.

To properly motivate his men, Bodzin gave each of them a couple of Kit Kat chocolate bars, as they settled in behind their consoles. A confessed chocoholic himself, Bodzin satisfied his craving with a mug of hot cocoa. With this beverage in hand, he assumed his usual standing position behind his two seated associates.

The first fifteen minutes of the watch were spent reacquainting themselves with the Folk’s tactical situation. They were presently monitoring five separate sonar contacts. Their primary target of course was the QE2. The ocean liner’s distinctive sonar signature was designated Sierra One. The QE2 was continuing on a north-by-north easterly course, and had slowed its forward speed to twenty-one knots.

Further TACAMO broadcasts had confirmed the fact that the ship had indeed been hijacked, and that a crisis of international proportions was taking place aboard the super liner In response, the Polk had settled into a position some 10,000 yards to the southwest of the QE2, proceeding on the exact same course. This was in anticipation of the transfer of the SEALs, at which time the Polk would substantially cut the distance separating the two vessels.

Because it was absolutely vital that no hostile submarines be encountered during the vulnerable SDV launch, Command had also decided to further tighten the positions of two of its submarine escorts.

Sierra Two was the designation for the Baikal. The Russian Akula-class boat was ordered to take up a point position, patrolling the northeastern sector, roughly 20,000 yards off the QE2’s port bow.

The French submarine was assigned the southeastern sector, with the Casablanca designated Sierra Three and lying some 20,000 yards off the QE2’s starboard bow. This left the Polk to take up the rear, almost directly behind the Rubis-class submarine.

The Talent had received permission to drop out of what had been a rectangularly shaped escort formation, with the QE2 smack in the middle. The Brits were designated Sierra Four, and were last picked up by sonar quietly following in the Folk’s baffles.

The fifth and final sonar contact they were aware of belonged to a pod of noisy whales. Designated Sierra Five, the high-pitched squeals and deep-bass bellows of this boisterous bunch emanated from the waters due north of them, a good ten nautical miles distant.

The mysterious sonar contact labeled Sierra Nine had been conspicuously absent from their screens, since last showing itself almost twenty-four hours before. Bodzin knew that this had disturbing implications, especially if this contact turned out to be the suspect Chinese submarine. Tagging this vessel was now their number-one priority.

The QE2’s further reduction in speed had given the Polk additional options to carry out this search successfully. No longer having to concentrate their efforts solely on keeping up with the ship, they could now initiate a proper sonar sweep in an attempt to locate their elusive quarry. The Polk’s two-hundred-and-forty-foot-long towed array was presently deployed, its thirty-seven hydrophones giving them a sonic picture of any potential underwater trespassers to the rear of the formation. They were also in the midst of a sprint-and-drift effort, whereby the Polk would travel at set periods of noisy flank speed, only to abruptly slow down to allow their hydrophones noise-free listening conditions.

They were currently in the midst of a sprint leg, with the Polk rushing to the northeast to regain the distance it had lost during the last drift. The sound of their own sonic signature was the predominant audible noise, and Bodzin and his team bided their time until the next drift phase began. Content to sip his cocoa while his men nibbled on their candy bars, the Folk’s senior sonar technician listened as Jaffers’s voice broke the hushed quiet.

“Hey, Wilford, did you catch sight of those SEALs in Jimmy’s Buffet tonight?” Jimmy’s Buffet was what the sailors had named the galley.

The team’s junior member answered while rotely isolating the hydrophones of the medium-range BQ-21 broadband sonar. “You bet I did, Jaffers.

Those guys were really wolfing down the chow.”

“They looked to me like a bunch of condemned men eating their last meal,” remarked Jaffers, who was monitoring the BQ-7 long-range sonar.

Wilford isolated the BQ-21’s lowest frequency range and quipped, “Hell, what else do they have to do but eat, sleep, shit, and exercise.”

“Those guys are going to be earning their keep soon enough,” Bodzin interjected, his eyes scanning Wilford’s waterfall display. “Brother, you couldn’t pay me enough to crawl into one of those SDVs and attempt what Command is asking of them tonight. As I was on my way up here, I passed through the missile magazine on Two Deck, and the SEALs were already jocking up for their raid night ramble.”

“Williams says that he was down there earlier, and saw some of the SEALs working with a virtual-reality helmet,” said Jaffers. “He asked what they were looking at, and some English dude explained that the SEALs were touring the interiorand exterior-deck layout of the QE2.”

“I sure didn’t see any high-tech hardware when I passed by,” Bodzin observed. “The SEALs I saw were getting ready to tango the old-fashioned way, with grease paint, K-Bar knives, Sig Sauer 9mm pistols, and MP-5 submachine guns. Bubbas, if we ever do get in a position where we’ll be able to launch that SDV and get them to the Queen, I sure wouldn’t want to be one of those unsuspecting terrorists.

Hell, I was scared just watching them put on their war paint, and they’re on our side!”

Almost to underscore this comment, the Folk’s captain unexpectedly entered sonar. Benjamin Kram wasted no time joining Bodzin behind the main console.

“Good evening, Mr. Bodzin,” he greeted.

“Evening, sir,” Bodzin replied, genuinely surprised by this visit.

“Welcome to the sound shack. Can I get you a Kit Kat bar or some cocoa, Captain?”

“No thanks, Mr. Bodzin. I wanted to take this opportunity to emphasize the importance of these next couple of hours. The latest TACAMO update informs us that the midnight rescue attempt is still a go.”

“So I understand, sir,” said Bodzin.

Kram took a minute to scan the various waterfall displays before expressing his number-one concern. “I gather that there’s still no sign of that Chinese Han!”

“That’s affirmative, Captain. But you can rest assured that if he’s out there, me and my boys will tag him, especially now that we can use the towed array and cover more water through sprint-and-drift.” Kram continued his examination of the glowing monitor screens, and Bodzin noted the abundance of age lines that creased the captain’s face. Kram looked unusually tired, his tension obvious as he worriedly remarked: “What I don’t want to face is a situation where we’re about to release the SDV, and still have to worry about that Han showing up and taking a potshot at us. If they’re out there, it’s imperative that I know about it long before we ascend to flood the dry-deck shelter.”

“I hear you loud and clear, sir. Between our detection capabilities and those of the Baikal, Casablanca, and Talent, we’re bound to tag them if they’re still in the area. We were able to get a firm tonal lock on them the last time, and unless the Chinese have been able to correct that sound leak, I don’t see how it’s possible for them to be close enough to cause us any alarm, and us not be able to hear them.”

It was but a short transit that took Comdr. Mark East brook from his cabin into the HMS Talent’?” control room. As expected, the crowded compartment was dimly lit in red, and Eastbrook halted at the hatchway to let his eyes adjust. As his pupils widened, he spotted the single planes man seated behind the boat’s wheel. The diving officer was positioned alongside the massive bank of instruments that controlled the Talent’s ballast, with the sub’s dual periscopes positioned to his right.

In between the helm and the firecontrol and navigation consoles lining the starboard bulkhead, a high-backed leather chair was mounted into the deck. His XO was seated here, with an excellent view of the boat’s tactical systems. Robert Lyall was concentrating on a report from the coxswain, and was caught by surprise as Eastbrook joined them.

“How goes it, Number One?”

The XO answered while alertly standing. “We’ve completed the back-down maneuver as ordered, Captain.”

“And the results?” Eastbrook asked.

The XO dejectedly shook his head, prompting Eastbrook to give his second in command a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Hang in there, Robert. In this game, patience is everything.”

“Perhaps the Han figured out what they were up against and backed off,” offered Lyall hopefully.

“They’ve come much too far for that, Number One. If I know our Chinese friends, they’re lurking out there somewhere close by, just waiting for an opportunity to mount an ambush. As we painfully learned during World War II, it will be up to the Talent to guard the back door, and insure that the Han won’t try entering the formation from our baffles. Too many U-boats caught our convoys napping in just such a manner, and if I know the bloody PLA Navy, it would be just like them to apply a tactic taken directly from the pages of history. The only trouble now is trying to figure out which bloody history book they’ll be taking that lesson from.”

36

Commissar Guan — Yin had little doubt that the moment of truth was almost upon them. Ever since the Lijiang had taken up a defensive position directly beneath the QE2, an atmosphere of tense expectation had prevailed. All this seemed to come to a head several hours before, when Lee Shao-chi approached Guan in his cabin, and politely asked him to postpone that evening’s regular Komsomol meeting. Guan was not about to refuse the request of a man whose tactical brilliance was responsible for maneuvering them into their current position.

Guan was in his stateroom reading a pamphlet written by Chairman Mao entitled, Yu Chi Chart (On Guerrilla Warfare), when Lee entered and informed Guan of his unorthodox decision to attempt penetrating the submarine convoy. Lee displayed the same confidence that he showed during their successful transit of the Bering Strait, as he went on to explain how he intended to pull off this daring maneuver.

“He who is shut inside is a pheasant. He who enters to arrest is a hawk.”

This was the poetic example Lee offered to justify his dangerous plan.

By stealthily scouting the surrounding seas, Lee was able to determine that there was a total of three submarines that had been sent along to secretly escort the QE2 during her crossing. Regardless of the fact that Dennis Liu and his forces had apparently succeeded in wresting control of the ocean liner and had altered her course, these submarines continued to stubbornly tag along. They would have to be eliminated before the Lijiang could even think about surfacing and making good the rendezvous.

Though one against three would make most odds makers put their money on the opposition, this wasn’t the case with Lee. He merely looked at this tactical disadvantage as an additional challenge that would have to be compensated for with guile and cunning.

His plan was simplicity itself, the first stage of which had already been initiated. To penetrate the convoy, Lee positioned the Lijiang in the direct path of the oncoming ocean liner. A Russian Akula-and a French Rubis-class submarine were the point vessels. By scramming the Lijiang’s reactor and enveloping the boat in a state of ultra quiet they easily escaped detection. Only when the QE2 was almost right on top of them, did Lee order the reactor back on-line. The roaring noise of the passing ocean liner’s nine engines was clearly audible inside the Lijiang, with this same racket effectively masking any sound that they were soon making.

Now that the fox was safely inside the hen house, it was time to begin whittling down the opposition. Lee was hesitant to explain the strategy that he planned to employ to achieve this end, and he left Guan with a cryptic invitation to join him in the control room at 2130.

His stomach tight with anticipation, Guan passed up dinner for the first time on this patrol. Endless cups of sweet green tea provided his only sustenance, as he tried his hardest to refocus his thoughts on the guerrilla-war tactics of Mao Tsetung.

Now that 2130 was almost upon them, Guan found himself reading one of the Chairman’s verses over an dover again. It had universal application, and could even apply to their current circumstances. It read:

“When the situation is serious, the guerrillas must move with the fluidity of water and the ease of the blowing wind. Their tactics must deceive, tempt, and confuse the enemy. They must lead the enemy to believe that they will attack him from the east and north, and they must then strike him from the west and south, quick to disperse to fight again where the enemy least anticipates.”

At military school, the principles of guerrilla warfare had been continually stressed. Guan had never taken them seriously at the time, and only now realized that this strategic wisdom could be readily applied in today’s modern battlefield. The ancient saying, Sheng Tung, Chi Hsi (Up roar in the East, Strike in the West), appropriately summed up Mao’s teachings in this field, as well as those of Capt. Lee Shao-chi. Anxious now to hear how Lee planned to make good his own deception, Guan arose and took off for the control room.

The Lijiang’s passageways were vacant as he climbed up the amidships stairwell and made his way to One Deck. He continued forward, and needed barely eight steps to reach the hatchway leading to control.

Little was he prepared for the fat white candle that flickered alive on the floor of the periscope pedestal, or the rich scent of sandalwood incense that filled the compartment with an alien sweetness. The rest of the equipment-packed room was dimly lit in red, and Guan gasped upon noting that almost every sailor present was dressed in a similar white martial-arts uniform. This included their captain, who stood behind the candle, his customary red bandanna tied tightly around his forehead.

This hushed assemblage appeared to have been waiting for Guan’s presence, for no sooner did he take his place beside the fully manned firecontrol console, than Lee Shao-chi addressed them.

“Comrades, it’s time to momentarily close our eyes, and unite our spirits in joint purpose. Breathe deeply with me, emptying your lungs completely, before refilling them with the blessed essence of life.

This is the secret of the Way; practice it continuously, and no enemy need ever be feared.

“From our position of power, it’s time to become one with the enemy. We shall strike where least expected, with the fleeting shadow of our presence, our only weapon. Confusion shall ensue, causing them to blindly strike out in a rage that has no true center.

“Once we see that they are beaten back, we shall quickly separate and attack yet another strong point on the periphery of his force, like a winding mountain path. This fighting strategy is the key for one against many. Strike down the enemies in one quarter, then grasp the initiative and attack further strong points to the left and right, as if on a winding mountain path. For victory is certain when the enemy is caught up in a rhythm that confuses his spirit.”

Guan had tightly shut his eyes, and surrendered his breath to a deep, even pace. Yet with the captain’s abrupt silence, he couldn’t help but open his eyes to see what was taking place around him.

The flickering flame, a terrifying thing in a submarine, created an eerie setting for an even stronger terror, one that caused goosebumps to form on his flesh. Like a single entity, the compartment’s entire complement appeared to be breathing in unison, their eyes closed, their thoughts united in joint purpose.

Guan almost felt like a traitor for opening his eyes and disrupting the spell, and he found his glance drawn to the periscope pedestal. Here the man who orchestrated this odd underwater ritual suddenly opened his own eyes. Lee’s scarred face displayed an unearthly determination, as he cried out for all to hear.

“Comrades, it’s time to strike down the twin demons of doubt and fear!

Become like a rock, and ten thousand enemies can’t touch you! So open your eyes, and dare climb this winding mountain together, on a warrior’s pilgrimage to save our Republic.

“For the glory of Mother China, all ahead flank speed, on bearing one-two-seven!”

37

The Polk was in the drift phase of their scan, and Brad Bodzin took advantage of the excellent acoustic conditions to closely monitor their current sonar contacts. With the assistance of a pair of bulky headphones, he listened to the familiar growling roar of Sierra One’s powerful diesel engines. The QE2 remained on a northeasterly course, continuing to cut through the gathering swells above at a constant twenty-one knots.

To monitor Sierra Two, Bodzin substantially narrowed the frequency range of his scan. The Akula lay off the QE2’s port bow, easily matching its speed on a similar bearing. Design improvements, such as sophisticated sound insulation, made this Russian warship much more difficult to detect than earlier classes of Soviet submarines that were inherently noisy. It was Jaffers who had originally detected the fault in Sierra Two’s acoustic integrity. It was a constant high-pitched hum that was most likely an unwanted byproduct of a faulty propeller. Especially audible at high speed, the singing prop was readily recognizable, and the senior sonar technician turned his attention to the vessel that comprised the point formation’s southern perimeter.

The Casablanca was the smallest of the escorting submarines. It had been a struggle for the French boat to keep in position, especially when the QE2 was traveling above twenty-eight knots. Now that the Queen had slowed, the Casablanca was holding its own, though Bodzin had little trouble detecting the first signs of strain inside the French warship’s engine room. The throaty, pulsating rush of a defective reactor-coolant pump proved to be Sierra Three’s acoustic weakness, and the pride of the Marine Nationale would need a comprehensive refit to correct this problem.

The one major biological contact that they had to deal with continued singing up a storm in the waters due north of their formation. Bodzin had a great affinity for whales and other marine mammals. They were man’s cousins in the seas, and their resonant, bellowing cries had kept him company during many a boring watch. Regardless of the fact that their boisterous presence could make his job that much more difficult, Bodzin always looked at the presence of whales as a sign of good fortune.

Sierra Four proved to be the only contact that the Folk’s sensors could no longer detect. The Talent’s signature had last been picked up by a towed array sweep. That was over a half hour before, at which time the Royal Navy warship was trailing in the formation’s sound-absorbent baffles. Bodzin was well aware that the Talent was difficult enough to pick up under near ideal acoustic conditions. When masked by the QE2’s roiling wake, she would be almost impossible to find.

The one contact that remained conspicuously absent from their sensors was the Chinese arc-class submarine. SEAL Team Two’s SDV was still scheduled for launch in a little more than two hours. Bodzin couldn’t forget the recent visit by Captain Kram, and the unprecedented manner in which he practically implored them to tag the Han before the SEALs were deployed topside.

Patience and perseverance were key ingredients to any successful sonar search. It was usually the slightest sonic deviation, a mere flutter on the waterfall display or muted hiss from the headphones that signaled the presence of an unwanted underwater trespasser in the area.

That was the subtle manner in which Bodzin was expecting the Han to eventually reveal itself. And that’s why he was caught completely off guard when a deafening, freight-train-like roar erupted from his headphones. His eyes instantly went to the flickering repeater screen of the BQ-21 display, as Jaffers verbally revealed the nature of the contact that he too had picked up on his headphones.

“It’s another submarine, Sup! It looks to be churning up the water at flank speed beneath the Queen’s bow, headed with a bone in its teeth on bearing one-two-seven.”

This heading would take the bogey right through the slot of water lying between the Baikal and the Casablanca. This was the same channel reserved for the QE2’s use, and Bodzin was unable to figure out the significance of this unorthodox tactical display. He grabbed for the overhead intercom handset. “Conn, sonar. We have a new underwater contact, traveling on a bearing of one-two-seven, at a relative rough range of twenty thousand yards. Classify Sierra Six, possible hostile Wan-class submarine!”

Of no immediate threat to the Polk, Bodzin nevertheless intently monitored Sierra Six’s progress. It was continuing to make good its sprint for the waters separating the formation’s point vessels. This channel was roughly eight thousand-yards wide, and Bodzin wondered if either the Baikal or the Casablanca had yet picked up this underwater interloper approaching from their rear.

It was as Sierra Six broke the thirty-knot threshold that the Folk’s captain returned to the sonar room. Benjamin Kram arrived in time to hear Jaffers excitedly reveal a verbal picture of the latest sonar data.

“It appears that both Sierra Two and Three have tagged Sierra Six. The Baikal is turning to starboard, with the Casablanca in the process of making a turn to port. Both submarines appear to be preparing to engage Sierra Six!”

“What in the hell is that Han trying to pull off?” asked Bodzin, his eyes locked on the collection of thick white lines now visible on the waterfall displays.

As Benjamin Kram grabbed for a set of headphones, his XO also entered the compartment. Lt. Comdr. Dan Calhoun settled in behind the vacant BQS-4 console, as Jaffers’s voice loudly cried out, “Torpedoes in the water! I show various high-pitched tonal aspects, indicating a launch by both the Baikal and the Casablanca.”

“And Sierra Six?” queried Kram, who was unable to sort out the sonic mess being conveyed through his headphones.

“They appear to have disappeared right off the screen, sir!” informed the Folk’s perplexed senior sonar technician. “All we’re showing is the signature of four torpedoes, and increased screw counts on both the Baikal and the Casablanca.”

“Damn!” cursed the XO. “We’ve got us a fucking turkey shoot out there.”

Benjamin Kram traded the briefest of concerned glances with his second in command, as he removed his headphones and passionately expressed himself. “I told Admiral Buchanan that assigning four submarines for this mission would only confuse matters. And now someone out there’s about to pay the ultimate price for a tactical decision made by a bunch of damn politicians!”

Kram’s fears were seemingly confirmed by Jaffers’s next update. “Oh, sweet Jesus! Those fish appear to be crossing in midchannel. Shit, the Russians and the French are going to end up taking each other out!”

A feeling of powerlessness and frustration possessed Benjamin Kram, as he watched the manner in which the Baikal and the Casablanca were reacting to this unwarranted attack on each other. Both submarines were pouring on the speed, with a full spread of decoys already launched, all in a desperate attempt to escape the onrushing torpedoes.

It proved to be the slower of the two warships that was the first to succumb to this tragic friendly fire incident. Almost simultaneously, both Bodzin and Jaffers tore off their headphones, as a deafening series of booming blasts was projected into the surrounding waters. Bodzin alertly switched on the compartment’s overhead speakers in time to hear yet another pair of sharp, resonant explosions sound outside their hull.

This was followed by a distinctive crackling noise that sounded much like popping popcorn.

“Damn, they’re imploding!” revealed Bodzin, who had once heard this same sickening signature on a tape back in sonar school. “The Baikal and the Casablanca are gone!”

The shocking reality of this astounding revelation only sank in as the crackling faded and was replaced by the single, all-encompassing roar of the QE2’s engines. Completely oblivious to the underwater battle that had just taken place in the depths below, the ocean liner transited the seas directly above the accident site, its progress unimpeded.

“Where the hell are the bastards responsible for this tragedy?” questioned the XO.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” muttered Bodzin.

There was an air of finality to his movements. He tore off a piece of paper towel and reached out to erase Sierra Two and Three off the sonar update board. Bodzin’s hand was shaking slightly as he penciled in Sierra Six, and followed it with a large question mark.

“What scares the hell out of me,” he added, his voice strained. “Is not only that they went and disappeared right off our sonar screens like they did, but that Sierra Six actually seems to have planned this whole attack all along.”

“I hear you loud and clear, Mr. Bodzin,” returned Benjamin Kram. “And now we’re going to be even more vigilant, to make sure that the same outcome doesn’t befall the Polk. Whatever it takes, you’ve got to track down that Han by 2400 hours, or SEAL Team Two is never going to get a chance to equal the score.”

38

Vince Kellogg matched as the situation inside the Queens Grill continued to deteriorate. Only minutes after the bodies of the two recently killed Russians were dragged out, the next confrontation took place. This one appeared to have been triggered by an insulting remark that one of the Japanese agents mouthed as Monica Chang passed by their table. Whatever was said caused the actress to go ballistic, and she stormed over to the table, her submachine gun raised and ready for action.

“Stand up, you Japanese dog!” she screamed at the offending agent.

The two tuxedo-clad Japanese security agents who had been seated there rose in unison, defiant smirks on their smooth-shaven faces.

This challenge to her authority only served to aggravate Monica even further, and she let loose yet another volley of submachine-gun fire up into the bullet-ridden ceiling. The Japanese agents reacted to this noisy show of force with barely a flinch. As two armed sentries arrived at the table, Monica confronted the senior member of the Japanese contingent.

Vince knew this individual personally. A former member of Japanese Special Forces, Yushio Tanaka, or Tiger as he was better known, was a decorated veteran, not the type of man who could be easily intimidated.

He also wasn’t a fool, which led Vince to wonder what he was trying to prove by acting in such an insubordinate manner.

“We warned you what would happen to troublemakers,” she reminded, her infuriated glance cast upward to meet the impassive stare of the solidly built, six-foot-four inch Japanese agent. “And now we’ll have to make an example of your beloved prime minister.”

Tiger glanced down at Monica as she added scornfully, “You Japanese might have thought that you could get away with raping my ancestors’ homeland yet another time in this century, but now the tables have turned. You are nothing but a barbaric, despicable dog, and it will be a pleasure watching your expression as we cut your prime minister’s throat.”

From his vantage point on the balcony, Vince could see that Tiger looked ready to explode. The senior agent’s muscular body was ramrod rigid, his reddened face flushed with anger, as he fought back the suicidal urge to retaliate.

Before he could do so, Dennis Liu and his daughter came storming into the room. The head terrorist appeared furious. His arrival prompted a whispered comment by both of Vince’s table mates “And now the shit’s really going to hit the fan,” observed Samuel Morrison.

“It’s not going to be pretty, lads,” Robert Hartwell added.

Vince’s main concern remained centered on the safety of the American President. The chief executive was still seated at the main table along with his eight colleagues. The Japanese prime minister was positioned directly across from him, and Vince prayed that the terrorists wouldn’t lose control and spray the whole table with bullets.

“Now what?” Liu demanded in Mandarin as he approached the table where Monica was in the midst of her standoff.

“This Japanese dog had the nerve to insult me,” said the actress, also in Mandarin. “And I was just explaining the nature of the penalty for this offense.”

A look of disgust painted Liu’s face as he examined the tall security agent who faced Monica. “Your name and position, comrade?” he questioned, resorting to English.

“Yushio Tanaka, and I’m the special agent in charge of the prime minister of Japan’s security detail.”

This matter-of-fact response was delivered without the least hint of fear, prompting Liu to further test the depth of this man’s commitment.

“Special Agent in Charge Ta naka, how would you like a chance to substitute your life for that of your prime minister?”

“I would do so without a moment’s hesitation,” Tiger retorted.

Liu continued to size up his brawny opponent, and finally decided upon the best way to use him as an example to the others. “Your loyalty is most admirable, Special Agent. To test the degree of your convictions, I’ll not only allow you to take your prime minister’s place on the executioner’s block, but I’ll also give you a chance to earn your freedom. What I propose is a hand-to-hand fight to the death, with no quarter to be spared the loser.”

This offer caused a wide grin to turn the corners of the Japanese agent’s mouth, and he readily bowed in acceptance of these terms. A muted murmur filled the room. Included in this concerned group was Kristin Liu, who watched as her father stripped off his radio and handed it to Monica.

“Father, have you gone insane? The risks in such a fight surely outweigh any gains that you might win.”

“What risks are you talking about, daughter? I’ll snap this Japanese dog’s neck like it was an immature bamboo stalk.”

“But, Father, the Red Star satellite is due to pass overhead shortly.

Have you forgotten already about the rest of our mission?”

Dennis Liu had heard enough. He looked sternly at Kristin, while removing a 9mm Clock from its holster at the small of his back. He handed it to her, saying, “I want you to stand behind the Japanese prime minister, with that pistol aimed at the back of his skull. If any of the other prisoners make the slightest threatening move, you’re to shoot him without question. Do you understand?”

Kristin meekly nodded. Trying her best to ignore Monica’s gloating sneer, she somewhat reluctantly walked over to the table holding the nine heads of state, and took up a position behind the Japanese prime minister.

This time the stare that met hers belonged to the President of the United States. Kristin was surprised that his expression displayed more compassionate understanding than either fear or anger.

Kristin was afraid to look him full in the face, and she diverted her line of sight back to that portion of the room where her father was preparing to fight. The Japanese agents were in the process of moving the table and chairs out of the way, creating an open space the size of a boxing ring. It was here that her father beckoned to his opponent to join him.

Vince Kellogg was also watching this scene from the opposite balcony.

There was a certain absurdity to the mere thought of sitting here on the Queen, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, watching two men about to fight to the death, in front of an audience that included the nine most powerful men in all the world.

Vince had previously seen Dennis Liu in action in the martial-arts films that he had watched with his son. Of course, these had been carefully staged events, and Vince wondered how the actor would handle himself in this realistic situation.

While Tiger took off his tuxedo jacket and rolled up his sleeves, Liu did a few stretching exercises in the center of the improvised ring. A series of large swells picked this inopportune moment to arrive, and the ocean liner pitched from side to side in a jarring, shuddering motion.

Vince didn’t know how the combatants could keep on their feet, let alone fight under these conditions. Yet they stubbornly persisted, both men taking up a martial-arts stance in the ring’s center.

Tiger was a good four inches taller than Liu, and had a much longer reach. As he swung his muscular arms overhead to loosen up, Liu began a rhythmic sequence of tai chi movements. Ignoring another set of rolling swells, the two combatants faced each other and bowed.

Once more they took up martial-arts stances, and the fight commenced as they began slowly circling. Liu’s posture appeared to transfer itself into more of a classic Western form, as he lifted his clenched fists to protect his face. Tiger, in contrast, kept his hands open, constantly pawing the air kung fu style. Each of them attempted several minor punches before Tiger initiated the first real combination of blows.

They were delivered by both hand and foot. Liu deflected them with an efficient parry, moving in to strike blows himself. The subsequent vicious exchange was delivered with such lightning-quick rapidity that Vince had trouble seeing the individual blows. From his distant vantage point, all he could make out was a whirlwind of punches and kicks, most of which appeared to be delivered by Dennis Liu.

In comparison to the fleet-footed martial-arts star, Tiger’s movements appeared ponderous. His powerful punches too often met only ah-, and in almost every instance, these miscues cost him badly, as Liu turned every successful parry into an effective attack.

When one of Tiger’s roundhouse kicks grazed Liu’s chin, the Chinese man let loose a deep, bloodcurdling yell. This signaled the start of a furious sequence of superbly timed blows, delivered by Liu with his fists, elbows, knees, and the sides of his feet. A violent head butt appeared to stun Tiger. Liu followed it up with a front kick aimed right at his gut. This blow made solid contact, causing Tiger to double over and painfully gasp for air.

Once more Dennis Liu let loose an animalistic cry. Then, in an incredibly swift move that Vince almost missed seeing, Liu initiated a spiraling forward flip that ended with a solid knee to Tiger’s forehead.

Liu continued this relentless onslaught without stopping. After leaving Tiger with a sharp elbow to the right temple, he slipped behind his dazed opponent and got him in a firm headlock. Vince knew that this lethal hold could prove to be the coup de grace. With the palm of one hand on Tiger’s bruised temple and his other arm securely locked beneath the Japanese agent’s jaw, all it would take was a single push on Liu’s part to break his opponent’s neck.

The crazed Liu demonstrated amazing upper-arm strength. He lifted Tiger and carried the helpless agent over to the table holding the nine statesmen. As he resecured the lock on Tiger’s neck, Liu’s line of sight swept the table, finally locking itself on the fear-filled face of the Japanese prime minister.

“Comrade,” shouted Liu, fighting to calm his heaving breath. “This brave fool willingly put his life on the line in your behalf. He knew the terms of this struggle. Yet before I execute the sentence, I’ll give you one chance to take this man’s place. It’s your decision, Comrade Prime Minister, for your actions will determine who shall live and who shall die.”

A look of shocked bewilderment filled the prime minister’s pale face.

Sweat poured down his forehead with such abundance that the round lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses became drenched. Directly behind him, a stunned Kristin appeared equally affected by this traumatic standoff, forcing her to use both hands to hold her father’s pistol steady.

Dennis Liu’s glance swept the terror-filled faces of the other heads of state, his eyes finally locking on the only other Asian seated before him. President Li Chen appeared close to tears, and Liu further tightened his grip on Tiger’s neck, all the while addressing China’s trembling young leader.

“Comrade Li, to think that all this is a direct result of your cowardly, illegal actions. The tragedy is that this isn’t your scrawny neck in my arms. But your time is coming, never fear.” Vince continued watching from the balcony, and his worst nightmare came to pass when the figure seated across from the Japanese prime minister spoke out.

“Stop this madness at once!” ordered the President of the United States.

“Oh, shit,” muttered Samuel Morrison, as all heads turned toward his chief executive.

Liu reacted to this unexpected outburst on the part of the President by first snapping Tiger’s neck with a single push of his hands, and then dumping the twitching corpse on the floor. There was gathering madness in the terrorist’s eyes as he coolly rounded the table, took the Clock pistol from Kristin, and aimed it at the chest of the American President.

“So the leader of this group of buffoons has finally summoned the nerve to speak. Tell me Mr. President, if that was one of your vaunted Secret Service agents, would you have condemned him to death, like the spineless prime minister just did?”

Kellogg and Morrison couldn’t believe what they were seeing — The President of the United States defiantly pushed back his chair and stood.

“What in God’s name do you hope to achieve with all this bloodshed?” he asked Liu, his tone pleading. “If you’ve got a legitimate complaint, speak your piece and we’ll do our best to deal with it. But this wasteful madness has to stop at once!”

The arrival of a swell forced the President to reach out and steady himself on the edge of the German chancellor’s chair. Liu managed to keep his balance without lowering the barrel of his pistol, and he faced the President and smiled.

“So you’re willing to step in and mediate my cause,” remarked Liu, a sudden calmness to his voice.

The President was hopeful that his plea was getting through, and he readily replied. “I’m willing to offer the full services of the United States of America to insure that your complaints are fairly dealt with.”

This proposition caused a demented peal of laughter to escape Liu’s lips. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “The very nation that desires to suck the life’s blood from my country, now wants to mediate a truce between us. How very fitting!”

Well aware that this dangerous encounter had gone far enough, Vince made the difficult decision to stop it. And the only way he could do so was to directly intercede himself.

“Mr. President!” he shouted, while pushing back his chair and standing erect. “Shut your mouth and sit down at once. Sir!”

Vince could hardly believe it when the President actually obeyed his brash order. Unfortunately, now the spotlight shone in his direction, with Liu’s initial reaction quick in coming.

“Ah, and what brave soul do we have up there?”

Before Liu could follow up this question, Kristin checked her watch and broke in. “Father,” she pleaded. “The Red Star is approaching!”

Dennis Liu seemed to suddenly forget all about Vince’s presence. Even his expression changed, as he lowered the pistol, checked his own wristwatch, and called out to Monica.

“Kristin is right. I have an all-important duty to fulfill before I can return and personally attend to this insurrection. I will leave all this in your capable hands, comrade. Don’t hesitate to shoot first and ask questions later. Because the next couple of hours could very well be the most important span of time that this planet has ever known!”

39

Watching the confrontations on the security monitors, what Ricky had to keep reminding himself was that this wasn’t fiction, but reality of the harshest sort.

To calm himself, he also followed Thomas Kellogg and Tuffs progress as they left the Security Room and headed below. He currently had them isolated on Four Deck, where a camera showed them headed aft.

Another video screen displayed a wide-angle view of the Hospital’s operating room. His father and Dr. Benedict were in the midst of an operation there, removing a bullet from the shoulder of the terrorist called Bear. Ricky knew that as long as he and his father were needed by the hijackers, their safety was all but guaranteed.

Yet another video screen showed the way in which a good portion of the crew had been detained. Dozens of ship’s officers, stewards, and other members of the QE2’s staff had been locked up in the Library. A rifle-toting sentry stood outside, with other terrorists arriving from time to time to escort various crew members to their watch stations.

With a random key strike, Ricky discovered another terrible scene. One of the terrorists was trying to rape a Filipino chambermaid. He hadn’t even bothered to drag her into one of the cabins — he was attacking her in an anteroom that directly adjoined a carpeted section of passageway.

He pinned her to a wall with his chest and knee, kissed her, and tore open her blouse. As her head shook back and forth, Ricky could imagine her screams of terror.

Then he saw down the adjoining passageway, a pair of uniformed crew members approaching, apparently completely unaware of the rape that was occurring ahead of them.

They looked familiar and when Ricky queried the computer to determine the location of the camera, he realized with a start just who they were.

As the words four deck-starboard aft passageway flashed up on the screen, Ricky manipulated the mouse, and the screen filled with a close-up of Thomas Kellogg and Tuff. They were about to pass right by the terrorist, and there was absolutely nothing Ricky could do to warn them.

Thomas Kellogg still had trouble comprehending how incredibly lucky he had been up to this point. To have successfully completed the HALO jump, only to bump into Tuff, as he had done, was an amazing streak of good fortune. Their chance encounter with Ricky Patton was proof that Lady Luck was still with them, for now they could proceed to the Engine Room without having to worry about being caught by one of the ship’s security cameras.

Eleven o’clock was rapidly approaching, and it appeared that they’d have plenty of time to get into position for the SEALs’ midnight arrival.

Tuff continued to be an invaluable asset, his thorough knowledge of the ship’s interior layout allowing them to proceed to their goal on the most direct route.

The passageway they were presently transiting would take them to the after tunnel escape trunk. Here a ladder would convey them straight down to Eight Deck, and the aftmost section of the Engine Room. This was where the dual propeller shafts penetrated the hull. It was also where they’d find the two emergency pitch levers.

Thomas had to hurry to keep up with Tuffs brisk stride, and he noted that the passenger cabins they were passing were sealed with tape. Tuff explained that this was all part of their original security plan. Yet before Thomas could learn more about it, the sound of a woman moaning caught their attention.

They found her in the anteroom to the very next cabin on their right, just as her attacker, hearing them approach, wheeled around to face the two ship’s officers. He snatched up his machine gun and demanded, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Stonily, Tuff replied, “Obviously not having as much fun as you are, my friend. We’re just on our way to our watch stations.”

Sunny examined the tall, dark-haired crew member who stood beside the stocky security officer, and commented curiously, “If that’s the case, where’s your escort? No officers are allowed to transit the ship without one of us present.”

“It seems that your staff was spread a bit thin, and the chap guarding the Library trusted us to go to work on our own. After all,” added Tuff in his most accommodating tone. “It’s not like we’ve got anywhere to escape to.”

A skeptical grunt passed Sunny’s lips, and he disgustedly shook his head. “That lazy fool,” he muttered. “Come on, you two. It’s back to the Library, until I hear otherwise.”

Sunny raised the stubby barrel of his weapon. Yet before getting on with the job of escorting his prisoners back to confinement in the Library, he readdressed his victim, who had slumped to the floor, weeping.

“And you, my lovely, wait right here. We’ve got unfinished business to attend to!”

Ricky Patton watched this entire capture on a video screen. Stunned, he was able to isolate a succession of cameras in order to follow the gun-toting terrorist as he led Tuff and Thomas forward to the E Stairwell where they climbed up to the Quarter Deck.

Ricky allowed himself a breath of relief only when one of the monitors showed the two cool-headed captives being directed into the ship’s Library. There they discreetly disappeared into the ranks of the other prisoners.

The terrorist who had captured them didn’t tarry. He returned below deck with all due haste, and Ricky had no doubt where he was headed.

A quick check of the bulkhead-mounted clock showed that a little more than an hour remained until the SEALs were scheduled to arrive. Ricky cursed their misfortune, and knew that the key ingredients in the retaking of the ship were Thomas Kellogg and Tuff. Somehow, they had to be released from confinement before midnight.

Ricky pondered his limited options. He could sit here, do nothing, and watch their only chance for rescue go down the drain. Or he could risk his life and that of his father, by using the key that Tuff had provided to head for the Library himself.

Kristin feared that her father might have a stroke, so intense was his outrage as they arrived in the Security Room and found the open handcuffs dangling from the console and Ricky nowhere to be seen.

Kristin tried her best to control her father’s ever rising anger by suggesting that one of their associates could be merely escorting Ricky to the restroom.

Several tense minutes passed, and as the wall clock neared eleven with no Ricky in sight, Dennis Liu’s constrained rage exploded.

“Damn that brat! I should have never left him without supervision.

Kristin, get to work on that console, and track down that young friend of yours. Then personally retrieve him, and join me in the Radio Room.

If the fates are with us, there’s still a chance that we’ll be able to make good the uplink with Red Star. And only after we’ve passed on the codes to the admiral will I personally make good my previous threats to young Comrade Patton.”

40

Benjamin paced the red-lit confines of the USS Folk’s control room. It was frustrating knowing there was a hostile submarine somewhere in the surrounding seas that their sonar was unable to detect. Kram had only just come from yet another visit with Brad Bodzin and his team, and had seen their waterfall displays firsthand. Except for the signature of the QE2, there wasn’t another vessel on their screens, which meant that the HMS Talent was also not being picked up by their sensors.

“An hour to go until showtime, Skipper,” observed COB, who was seated between the two helmsmen. “Are we still good to go?”

Kram answered while studying the dozens of softly glowing dials and gauges of the diving-control panel. “We’ve still got sixty minutes to tag that Han. And until that time is expired, I want to use every second to our best advantage, including getting our SEALs prepped and ready to deploy.”

“It’s a damn shame about the Baikal and the Casablanca, Skipper,” COB remarked. “At least the end was quick. Both hulls imploded almost instantaneously, and the crews were dead before they even knew what hit them.” Setting his hands on COB’s shoulders, Kram added, “Do me a favor, and let me know the instant Bodzin’s ready for the next sprint-and-drift sequence. I’ll be next door with Commander Gilbert.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” said COB as he turned his attention back to the helm.

Kram’s next stop took him to the compartment situated immediately aft of the control room. This area was reserved for SEAL Team Two’s operations center.

Seated at the long, rectangular console lining the op center’s starboard side were three members of the SEAL team. These individuals were responsible for monitoring the Folk’s dry-deck shelter, or DOS.

The shelter itself was mounted on the sub’s outer deck abaft the sail.

It was comprised of a central hangar, where the SDV was stored, and an emergency dive chamber, for treatment of the bends. Another instrumental part of the DDS was the access trunk that penetrated the Folk’s hull and was entered at the base of missile-tube number six.

Before the SDV could be launched, both the trunk and the hangar would have to be flooded to equalize sea pressure. This was a complicated, dangerous process, coordinated by the three SEALs currently seated at the DDS console.

This console was unique to the Polk. At the aftmost position sat the tender. His all-important job was to monitor the pressure gauges belonging to the main hangar, and log the time that the divers were kept submerged, while keeping track of all personnel. Seated to his right was the DDS dive supervisor. The gauges that he was responsible for watching included the trunk and chamber readings. At the far right-hand position was the shelter officer. This individual was in charge of all communications with the dive team. He was wearing compact headphones, with a microphone around his neck.

A series of three video screens were mounted into the bulkhead above the opposite console. They displayed several underwater views of the dry-deck shelter, as well as the image visible through the Folk’s periscope. Commander Gilbert was seated beneath these monitors, watching his men make their initial preparations on the DDS console.

Lt. Col. Lawrence Laycob sat at his side, calmly sipping a cup of tea, with an open notebook on his lap.

“Gentlemen,” greeted Kram, sitting down on the edge of the console and listening as the shelter officer began a mike check. “I gather that your preparations remain on schedule?”

Gilbert nodded affirmatively. “My laddies are jocked up and ready to party, Captain.”

Kram looked at the Englishman and noted that he had yet to change into his assault gear. “Don’t tell me that you’re planning to take that SDV ride without a wet suit?”

“I should say not, Captain,” replied Laycob between sips of tea. “My gear’s waiting for me in the missile compartment.”

“I understand that you made good use of that virtual reality program,” Kram continued. “My crew was quite impressed.”

Laycob grinned. “There are a few high-tech gadgets that SBS has found to be extremely useful, and virtual reality certainly appears to show great promise. Once we complete our operation and retake the Queen, you must give it a look, Captain. I’ve got it set up to display an aft assault that will take you right up the caving ladders by way of her Three-Deck fantail. From there, you have a variety of interactive paths to choose from, including one that shows the most direct route to the ship’s Bridge.”

Any response on Kram’s part was cut short by the arrival of the SEAL team’s meteorologist. Petty Officer Murray held a clipboard, and directed his comments to Doug Gilbert.

“Commander, I’ve got the results of the latest weather satellite update.”

“No sunspot interference this time?” quizzed Gilbert.

“Sir, right now sunspots are the least of our worries,” returned Murray.

“Hurricane Marti continues bearing down on us. The outer fringe of the storm is already making itself felt topside, with wind gusts up to forty miles per hour, and twenty-foot seas.”

“I thought that tropical storms usually weakened once they reached the cold waters of these northern climes?” offered Laycob.

The curly-haired meteorologist was quick with a reply. “I don’t anticipate any further strengthening of Marti, sir. Yet the low-pressure system at her heart is tightly organized, and could take several days to dissipate.”

“And meanwhile, we have to cope with the winds and heavy seas,” said Kram, who looked at SEAL Team Two’s commanding officer and added, “Forty-mile-per hour wind gusts and twenty-foot seas don’t bode well for a safe SDV launch, Doug. Those environmentals are way beyond all official safety margins.”

“To hell with official safety margins,” retorted Gilbert. “All you need to do is get us in a position to reach the QE2, and my laddies will do the rest. Shit, this team’s ready to drive that SDV right through the gates of Hell, if that’s where our op orders are sending us, and no little storm is going to get in our way. That’s for damn sure.”

Laycob winced. “Sounds like I’d better track down some seasick pills.

I don’t suppose that the Folk’s heard from Command, regarding the manner in which they plan to slow the Queen so we can reach her?”

“I’m afraid not,” answered Kram. “We’ll just have to take it on faith that they’ve done it for us. Though right now that’s not my main concern, nor is it the weather topside. Because if we don’t tag that Han within the next sixty minutes, and eliminate it as a threat, there’s going to be no midnight SDV launch. I’m not about to go opening up my submarine for attack, knowing there’s a hostile warship out there, just waiting for a chance to give us the deep six.”

“What are you doing about tracking them down?” asked Gilbert with a hint of impatience.

Kram suddenly found himself in the awkward position of having to defend his command decision, and he answered with direct firmness. “You can rest assured, Commander, that the Polk is using every means available to locate that Han. My top sonar team’s got the watch, and they’re doing everything short of going active, to scour these seas. As the untimely loss of the Baikal and the Casablanca so tragically demonstrates, our crafty opponent is an extremely dangerous one. I’m not about to take them for granted, and I won’t rest until that Han has paid the ultimate price for its criminal actions.”

“I do hope Commander Eastbrook and the crew of the Talent can be helpful in giving you a hand ridding the seas of this Han,” said Laycob after finishing his tea. “If it’s indeed a rogue sub that we’re after, then there’s no better pirate to have on your side than Mark Eastbrook. He can be the one to flush out the vermin, leaving the Polk free to exterminate them.”

41

Comdr. Mark Eastbrook paced the crowded confines of the Talent’s control room like a man possessed. He had personally made the choice to take up a tactical position far in the Queen’s baffles. The Polk was well ahead of them, and Eastbrook didn’t want to join them until he was absolutely certain of what they were up against.

One reality that he couldn’t question was that the brave crews of the Baikal and the Casablanca were no more, Eastbrook was positive it had been an intentional act of subterfuge that was responsible for their demise. Any sonic evidence of the mysterious submarine that had carried out this clever ploy had long since dropped off their sonar screens.

For the past half hour, Eastbrook had confined himself to the sonar room, where he played the tape of this engagement over an dover. In each instance, the suspected Man class vessel made its abrupt presence known with an outburst of noise, as it sprinted forward at flank speed.

It continued generating this unmistakable sonic signature for as long as it took to gain the attention of the formation’s two point-submarines.

No sooner did the Baikal and the Casablanca turn inward to engage this phantom contact than it went inexplicably silent, seemingly swallowed by a black hole of noise-absorbent seawater.

What had happened to it? Try as he could, Eastbrook could find no trace of it, no matter how many times he listened to the cursed recording.

The only sound that remained constant throughout the tape was the incessant, pounding roar of the QE2’s nine diesel engines. It was from this deafening racket that the bogey had emerged. Present throughout the torpedo engagement, the Queen’s sonorous signature prevailed to the tape’s very end, clearly emanating long after the last crackling report of the two imploding submarines faded to eternity.

Eastbrook stopped at the navigation plot. He picked up a red grease pencil to initiate a cursory sketch on the chart’s clear-plastic overlay. He plotted the position and course of the QE2 during the time of the bogey’s initial appearance, and the positions of her two submarine escorts off her port and starboard bows. The unwary ocean liner had continued right over that portion of the Atlantic where the two doomed submarines’ tragic destinies had already been written.

And the phantom warship that had instigated this havoc? In which direction could it have fled, and why was there no audio evidence of this escape effort?

It was as he circled the large X he had drawn to represent the QE2 that a sudden thought dawned in his consciousness. It was fragmented at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it began to make sense.

“That bloody Red bastard!” he reflected, oblivious to the curious stares of his shipmates. “I’ll bet anything, that’s how he did it.”

“Sir?” queried the nearby navigator, who didn’t know if this spontaneous comment had been meant for him.

Mark Eastbrook met his navigator’s confused stare with a smile, followed up with a spirited explanation. “The Han, lad! Don’t you see, my good man? It was hiding beneath the Queen all that time, using the sound of her engines to mask its presence from our sonar. When it finally made its move, it did so with firm intention, sprinting forward into the formation’s slot, then scramming its reactor once the deed had been done. After that, all they had to do was wait for the Queen to steam overhead before restarting their engines and following her out of the engagement zone, with all of us none the wiser!”

“That does sound like an interesting theory, sir,” said the navigator carefully.

“It’s way beyond theory, lad,” countered Eastbrook. “It’s fact, pure and simple. And I’m willing to bet the lives of all aboard the Queen that a circumspect approach into the liner’s baffles will result in the detection of an unwanted underwater trespasser lurking below her hull.

If we hurry, we can even eliminate it in time to let our Yank friends aboard the Polk get on with the task of retaking the Queen. So chart me the most efficient approach to the big lady, lad. It’s time for Talent to earn her keep!”

42

To show his support of the Lijiang’s captain, Guan could think of no better gesture than to don one of the white robes himself. It was shortly after Lee’s clever maneuver resulted in the sinking of the two enemy subs that Guan excused himself from the control room to track down the quartermaster. Guan found him in the supply office, and the commissar was very fortunate to get the last available robe in stock.

The robe proved to be several sizes too small, but this didn’t stop Guan from wearing it. With a white cotton sash tied around his bulging waist, he returned to the control room, anxious to see what the captain’s next move would be.

Their sensors showed that one more submarine had to be eliminated before they’d have these depths all to themselves. Guan had personally heard that vessel’s unique sonic signature during a stop in sonar. The sonar officer in charge had explained that the barely audible whistling sounds Guan’s headphones were conveying were the results of seawater streaming through the contact’s numerous free-flood holes. The existence of these holes indicated that the submarine had some type of protrusion on its deck. This was most likely an external dry-deck shelter, meaning that the warship was probably the USS James K. Polk, a U. S. Navy submarine designed specifically for special operations. The Polk, and the SEAL team it carried, would be the perfect warship to send along on an escort mission of this sort.

With the identity of their opponent all but assured, they were well on their way to formulating a plan to sink it. To hear this strategy firsthand, Guan entered the control room with hurried steps. The candle was still flickering alive on the periscope pedestal where Captain Lee stood bathed in the compartment’s muted red light, “So Comrade Commissar, you’ve decided to become at one with the Way,” observed Lee, as he watched the newcomer take up his usual position beside the firecontrol console.

Guan could see that with his donning of the robe, every single sailor inside the control room was now similarly attired, and he responded with pride. “It’s an honor to be part of this remarkable team, comrade.”

“It’s much more than a team,” explained Lee. “It’s a way of life that has been a part of China since her earliest days. For too many years, our ancestors neglected its call, and the motherland floundered, soulless, and without inner direction. It took the ascension of the Chairman to resurrect the long-dormant spirit, and as a result, our great People’s Republic was born. And now it’s up to the Lijiang to insure that the forces of doubt and greed don’t prevail. China has come too far, made too many sacrifices, to give in to temptation, now that our goal is so near.”

“Well said, comrade,” replied Guan. He looked at the ceiling, as if peering up through the hull to the waters above.

“From that distant rumbling roar, it’s obvious that the surface vessel holding China’s number-one enemy remains close by. Now that the QE2 is approaching the Hecate Seamount sector, shouldn’t we be hearing from Comrade Liu shortly?”

“I have no doubt that Liu has succeeded in his difficult task,” said the captain. “He is a fellow student of the Way, and my own blood cousin.

But before we can even think about our operation’s next phase, one vital obstacle needs to be attended to — the elimination of the special forces submarine, USS James K. Polk.

“The Polk remains off our starboard bow. The Lijiang continues to be masked by the QE2’s signature. We have used this cover well, and now is the time to reinitiate our climb up the twisting mountain path to victory.”

Lee lapsed into silence at this point. He turned to face the helm. He shut his eyes, and began breathing in deep, even breaths.

Guan was getting used to this preparatory routine that acted as a type of joint meditation, uniting their wills as one. He was thus quick to follow the examples of his shipmates, as they also shut their eyes and listened to Lee’s forceful voice.

“Make one’s body like a rock, and ten thousand enemies can’t touch you.

Prepare yourselves, comrades, to strike yet another blow in the preservation of the motherland!”

Guan’s pulse quickened in anticipation of the attack order that would soon be coming. As he struggled to regulate his breath, a hollow pinging sound suddenly filled the control room. The source of this alien noise was revealed by their frantic sonar officer.

“Active sonar scan, emanating from an unidentified submerged contact, bearing two-one-zero and rapidly closing!”

“But that can’t be!” retorted Lee, whose eyes snapped open to scan the gauges of the diving-control panel.

Guan also opened his eyes, his heart pounding. He looked on with concerned disbelief as the captain’s astounded expression displayed the first hint of rising fear.

“Right full rudder! All ahead flank! Prepare tubes one and two for quick shots, targeting both the Polk and the unwelcome stranger in our baffles!”

Guan listened as the diving officer repeated Lee’s frantic series of orders. He reached up to grab an overhead hand hold as the Lijiang canted over hard on her starboard side, with the deep, bass rumble of her engines now overriding that of the QE2.

“Tubes one and two ready for firing, Captain,” revealed the weapons officer at Guan’s side.

“Fire one!” ordered Lee. “Fire two!”

The deck shook twice as the torpedoes shot out of their tubes, pushed out into the sea by a powerful blast of compressed air. All eyes went to the weapons officer as he nervously scanned his console’s display screens and excitedly cried out:

“Both torpedoes have gone active with weapon number one directed to the Polk, and number two toward the contact behind us. Time to contact, two minutes and counting.”

“We’ve got them now!” proclaimed Lee, whose eyes widened with a maniacal fury as the amplified voice of the sonar officer broke out from the overhead speakers.

“Torpedo in the water, Captain! I show a single, wire guided weapon approaching from bearing two-one-zero!”

“Left full rudder!” ordered Lee in response to this warning. “Prepare to launch full spread of countermeasures! And where’s that flank speed, Chief? It’s time to run like the fox, comrades!”

43

It all started soon after the Folk’s towed array tagged Sierra Four closing in on the QE2’s baffles. Jaffers had been the first one to tag the Talent, and Brad Bodzin quickly switched the feed of his headphones to focus solely on the sounds being conveyed through the array.

No sooner did he isolate the Royal Navy submarine than the deafening burst of an active sonar pulse filled his headphones with painful sound.

Bodzin cursed this unexpected sonic lashing, whose source was definitely the Talent.

Bodzin was unable to explain why the Brits had gone active in this manner. Then he heard the hollow ping deflect off an unidentified submerged object lying in the depths almost directly below the QE2.

This contact, which Bodzin was quick to label Sierra Six, reacted to the ping with a sudden noisy burst of speed. It was surely the long sought Han, thought the Texan, as his wonder turned to sheer terror when his headphones next filled with the buzz saw whine of an approaching torpedo. Bodzin had previously heard this dreaded sound only during practice exercises, and he wasted no time passing the warning to the control room.

Benjamin Kram was standing beside the navigation plot when Bodzin’s frantic warning arrived via the public-address speakers. For the first time in his long career, he found himself the target of an actual hostile-torpedo attack. Kram had no time for fear. His years of training now took over. He rushed to the adjoining helm and positioned himself behind the seated COB.

“All ahead flank! Come around hard on bearing three two-five, at a depth of eight-hundred-and-fifty feet!” Kram ordered.

As COB repeated these commands to the helmsman, Kram looked to his right, where the boat’s firecontrol console was situated.

“Weaps,” he shouted. “Prepare to launch five-inch evasion device.”

As Kram was reaching up to grab the nearest intercom handset, the deck dropped forward and canted hard aport. He balanced himself on the back of COB’s chair and addressed the crew over the 1MC.

“Rig ship for collision!”

“Countermeasures ready for launch, Captain,” informed Weaps.

“Launch countermeasures!” Kram instructed.

“Countermeasures away!” Weaps revealed, in reference to the grinding decoy that was soon shooting off in the opposite direction.

“Conn, sonar,” broke in Bodzin’s amplified voice. “Torpedo is at two thousand yards and continuing to close!”

“COB!” directed Kram. “Come around crisply to zero six-zero. We need to leave the mother of all knuckles in the water behind us.”

The Folk’s hull shifted hard to the right, and a loose coffee mug crashed to the deck and slipped past the helm. Kram managed to grab it, and as he tightly gripped the ceramic handle, his determined glance locked on the digital-knot gauge.

“Twenty-six knots,” revealed COB, whose gaze was also focused on the steadily rising digital display. “Twenty-seven … twenty-eight … twenty-nine …”

“Conn, sonar,” interjected Bodzin. “Torpedo is rangegaiting at one thousand yards and closing. It’s going to be close, sir!”

“Weaps, launch another decoy!” Kram ordered. “Sound the collision alarm!”

A muted electronic alarm began ringing in the background. As the weapons officer informed them that yet another decoy had been released into the water, Kram dropped the mug he had been holding and tightened his grip on the back of COB’s chair.

“Thirty-two knots at seven-eight-zero feet,” revealed COB, whose own tone of voice continued to display an unbelievable degree of composure.

“Come on Jimmy K, you can do it,” urged the young planes man seated to COB’s left, his steering yoke pushed forward to its full extension.

“Conn, sonar. Torpedo has lost its lock on us. It appears to be going after our last decoy!”

This joyous revelation was punctuated by a gut wrenching blast, its shock-wave arriving seconds later. Tossed to and fro by this powerful concussion, the Folk’s hull shuddered violently and the overhead lights flickered.

Kram was thrown to his knees. He struggled to stand. As he regained his footing, a quick survey of the compartment found no apparent injuries, and he addressed the 1MC to determine how the rest of the sub had fared.

“Damage control, I want all parties to report in on the double!”

A tense sixty seconds passed as the calls began arriving from all sections of the Polk. Except for a few bruises and cuts, with all stations reporting in as being fully operational, not a single man was seriously injured.

“That was too damn close, COB,” whispered Kram with disgust. “Now let’s see what we can do about paying our respects to the bastards responsible for this unwarranted attack!”

In the adjoining depths, the HMS Talent had also managed to outmaneuver the Lijiang’s torpedo. Having ordered the launching of a full spread of countermeasures, Comdr. Mark Eastbrook found himself with no time to refocus the Talent’s efforts over to the offensive. For the enemy’s acoustic homing torpedo had yet to detonate, being presently on a direct collision course with the QE2\

He doubted that they’d be able to eliminate this errant weapon with one of their Spearfish torpedoes. Unable to warn the ocean liner by radio, Eastbrook realized there was only a single option available to them.

Though it would take every spare knot they could squeeze out of their propulsion system, he calculated that there was just enough time for the Talent to position itself between the oncoming torpedo and its unsuspecting surface target.

Completely oblivious to the suicidal nature of this maneuver, the crew of the Talent accepted Eastbrook’s difficult decision without question.

For the brave, dedicated men of the HMS Talent, duty to the Crown prevailed above all else. Individual lives meant absolutely nothing in the defense of this intangible principle, and they willingly put them on the line to preserve the integrity of their beloved Queen.

44

The Lijiang had survived its own brush with death by a combination of effective decoys and a daring quick-stop maneuver. The enemy salvo was last heard spiraling down into the cold depths, where the warhead eventually detonated.

Guan had expected that their captain would react to this near miss with a celebration of some sort. Instead of relieved joy, Lee Shao-chi expressed himself with a furious outburst of crude invectives. Gone was his passive, controlled manner, which Guan and the rest of the crew had been so quick to emulate. In its place was a dark side of Lee’s personality that they had yet to experience. His face flushed with anger, his breaths coming in quick, uneven gasps, Lee furiously castigated his sonar officer for failing to pick up the enemy submarine that had sneaked up behind them. Once this verbal punishment was delivered, he stormed back to his command position on the periscope pedestal. Pure madness emanated from his eyes as he monitored the James K. Polk’s successful evasion of their attack.

All but forgetting about the American warship at this point, Lee refocused his wrath on the submarine that had taken the potshot at them.

It was believed to be a British, 7ra/a/gar-class vessel, and Lee had taken it upon himself to personally see to its destruction.

“How could they have managed to evade our sensors, and sneak up on us like that?” mumbled Lee to no one in particular. “Such effrontery is inexcusable!”

“You know how sneaky those Brits can be,” offered Guan in a vain attempt to lighten Lee’s sour mood. “I still think it’s a miracle that we even got them to give up Hong Kong.”

“Nobody makes a fool out of me like that,” continued Lee, not paying any attention to his commissar’s rambling comments. “Nobody, I say!”

Guan didn’t like what he saw as Lee’s face was momentarily illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His face was drawn and gaunt, his jagged scar giving him an evil appearance.

To make good his revenge, Lee had ordered the Lijiang to initiate a tight, high-speed turn that made their sonar all but useless. Seemingly unconcerned by the frothing cavitation al wake that they were leaving in their baffles, Lee managed to position the Lijiang at the rear of the Trafalgar. The Brits were apparently well aware of their presence behind them, for they were in the midst of a frantic, full-speed sprint to the surface.

As the Lijiang’s planes man yanked back hard on his steering column, Guan found his body pulled forward as the deck canted upwards. The diving officer began tensely calling out their rapidly decreasing depth, in between constant range-to-target updates from sonar.

Though Guan was far from being an expert in such tactical matters, he knew that the fleeing enemy vessel was well within range of their torpedoes. And when Lee continued to show no sign that such a launch was even imminent, Guan dared to voice his concerns.

“Captain, let’s release our torpedoes and be done with this! Don’t forget, we still have the Polk to eliminate.”

Madness flashed from Lee’s dark eyes, as he looked downward to meet Guan’s fear-filled glance. “This is how a true warrior wreaks vengeance on his enemy, Comrade Commissar! Our attack must be sure; his destruction guaranteed!”

“But what about the Way, sir?” countered Guan.

“The Way be damned!” cursed Lee Shao-chi, with such force that the candle’s flickering flame was abruptly snuffed out, causing a veil of crimson red to descend upon the Lijiang’s control room.

45

“Conn, sonar,” reported Brad Bodzin into the intercom handset. “Sierra Six has just broken through the thermocline, Captain! We’ve got a firm lock on them, on bearing two-four-one, range seventy-five hundred yards.”

“Snapshot, tubes one and two, fire!” ordered the amplified voice of Benjamin over the sonar room’s intercom speakers.

Bodzin and his fellow technicians alertly pushed back their headphones as these torpedoes were released into the sea with two powerful jolts of compressed air. The deck shuddered, and Bodzin reported to the control room that both weapons were running true and headed straight toward their exposed target.

All three of the Folk’s sonar operators knew that the Man’s life expectancy could be counted off in seconds now nothing short of a miracle could save them. Jaffers refocused his scan to the dramatic scene taking place in the waters above them.

“I don’t believe it, but the Talent’s still going for it,” Jaffers observed, wonder struck

“It sounds to me like they really do intend to take that fish right on the chin. Those Limeys are nuts!”

“Or, more likely, incredibly brave,” offered Bodzin, who flinched when a succession of three separate explosions sounded from the nearby waters.

As expected, the Lijiang was the victim of two of these blasts. The Wan-class vessel was hit directly amidships and its hull instantly ripped open. Inside the Folk’s sonar room, the distinctive crackling sound of an imploding submarine filled their headphones for the third time that day.

There was no time to celebrate, as all attention was now locked on the plight of the HMS Talent. Sonar indicated they’d been spared a direct hit, and a rushed underwater telephone conversation soon proved the Talent had only been struck a glancing blow that shattered equipment and broke many a bone, but which would enable the pride of the Royal Navy to limp home on its own power. The last the Polk heard from them was when Comdr. Mark Eastbrook personally got on the line to wish the men of SEAL Team Two good luck in their midnight endeavor.

46

Richy Patton started to have second doubts about his rash decision to leave the relatively safe confines of the Security Room the moment he stepped onto the Quarter Deck from the E Stairway. This put him around the corner from the Library, where the two men he hoped to release were being detained. Barely aware of the pitching deck beneath him, Ricky halted on the landing, and debated whether to return to Two Deck. By instigating this daring plan, he was jeopardizing his life and that of his father. But by doing nothing, and taking the coward’s way out, they could very well lose out on their only real chance to retake the ship from the terrorists.

Ricky supposed that it could do no harm to peek around the corner and see exactly what he was up against, and he cautiously inched his way forward. The passageway outside the glass-walled Library was well lit — he could see several dozen members of the crew inside. There didn’t appear to be a sentry on duty. As he continued his approach, Ricky spied a key protruding from the Library door’s lock. This was all he needed to see to realize that fate had already made his decision for him.

Without hesitation, he made his way to the door and turned the key. The lock opened with a loud click. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Most of the detainees were Philippine crew members, with both Tuff and Thomas seated at a table, reading.

The atf. agent didn’t seem surprised when he saw Ricky and discreetly informed Tuff of his presence. Ricky joined them, and accepted a concerned greeting from Tuff.

“So they decided to put you in detention with the rest of us after all.”

“It’s nothing like that,” informed Ricky. “I saw your capture on one of the security monitors, and used the key you gave me to see if I could help spring you. Would you believe there wasn’t a guard at the door, and that I walked right in here?”

Tuffs glance went to the Library’s entryway. Upon verifying that the sentry was still absent, he looked at Thomas and winked. “Time’s a-wasting, Special Agent. Shall we get on with it?”

Thomas stood alongside Tuff. Before making good his exit, he left Ricky with a single piece of advice. “It’s best if you return to security before they miss you. Give us a minute’s head start … and thanks again for risking your life like this.”

Before Ricky could reply, Thomas and Tuff were out the door. Ricky noted the curious stares of the other prisoners, none of whom took advantage of the unlocked doorway to make his own escape. Proud of his newfound courageousness, he decided to take Thomas Kellogg’s advice and return to the Security Room. He ducked out the entryway and turned to relock the door before continuing down to Two Deck.

“Going somewhere, comrade?” asked an icy voice from behind.

Ricky felt the hard barrel of a rifle poke into his back. He let go of the key and slowly turned his head. A black clad, Asian sentry with a disdainful smirk on his pockmarked face shook his head and chastised him as if he were a naughty schoolboy.

“Why don’t you be a good boy and go back into the Library where you belong? I’m so seasick right now that I don’t even feel like shooting you.”

Kristin had been in the midst of a thorough video scan of the ship when she chanced upon the person she was searching for standing outside the Library. It appeared that Ricky had been captured by one of her associates, and she watched as he was escorted at gunpoint into the Library and locked inside.

Her new friend was very fortunate that he hadn’t been shot. Kristin wondered how he had gotten free of the cuffs and why he would have risked his father’s life by escaping. She supposed that it would do him no harm to remain in detention. This would keep him out of further trouble, and away from the threatening presence of her father.

There was something very disturbing about her father’s recent change in temperament. He was getting increasingly irritable and prone to frequent fits of uncontrollable rage. Kristin was well aware of the tremendous pressure he was under. She could only hope that he would be able to center himself before his blind anger caused him to do something that he’d later regret — like killing one of the heads of state.

She had a bird’s-eye view of these very individuals, on the center video screen. They remained seated around their table, with several of them slumped over, sleeping. With disheveled tuxedos and beard-stub bled faces, they were beginning to look like the mortals they really were.

This lesson alone was worth their effort. Kristin couldn’t wait until the first photograph of this motley group was released to the world.

A burst of static on her two-way radio diverted her attention from the console. The gruff voice of her father broke from the speaker and ordered her to report at once to the ship’s Radio Room.

She did as directed, and by the time she reached the Boat Deck, she was aware that the seas were becoming increasingly rough. It was a chore to walk in a straight line, and she fought back the first sensation of seasickness.

The Radio Room was located forward of the Queens Grill, its heavy steel door protected by a bank-vault-style lock. Kristin rang the buzzer and stood in front of the door’s security peephole. Her wait was a short one, and she was admitted by a very concerned Monica Chang.

Kristin spotted her father seated behind a bank of transmitters. A bald-headed ship’s officer in a white uniform was seated beside him, with both of them holding telephone handsets up to their ears.

Obviously the officer had been impressed into taking Ricky’s place.

“We made the initial uplink with Red Star with no problem at all,” informed Monica. “We were even able to broadcast the first half of the code sequence before static interrupted the remainder of the transmission.”

Kristin looked at the bulkhead clock. It was only a few minutes to midnight. “How much longer will the satellite be within range?” she asked.

“Another sixty minutes at best,” Monica answered. “Yet it makes no difference if this static prevails. If we only had the filter that Max was working on.”

Frustration weighed down her father’s movements, as he put down the handset and rose to join them. “It’s useless,” he muttered.

“We still have an hour to reestablish contact,” reminded Monica. “All we need is a couple more minutes of clear transmission time, and Admiral Liu will have the complete sequence.”

“Dear Monica, always the eternal optimist,” said Dennis Liu, who suddenly found himself fighting to keep his balance as the deck began pitching from side to side.

“I had a feeling that this was going to happen,” he added while reaching out to steady Kristin. “And I’m afraid that we have no alternative but to go to our secondary plan. It’s time to blow up this cursed ship and show the world that we mean business!”

“Patience, Dennis,” urged Monica. “I’m not about to give up, and I recommend remaining up here and giving it another try until Red Star is completely out of range.”

“I agree with Monica,” said Kristin. “And as it so happens, I’ve succeeded in tracking down Ricky Patton. He’s in the Library.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” said her father. “Monica, contact the Library watch and have them escort him up here at once.”

Liu’s train of thought was diverted as he looked up to the ceiling, a peculiar expression on his tired face. “The engines. Don’t you hear?

They’ve stopped. No wonder we’re wallowing.”

As he picked up the two-way radio to call the Bridge, Kristin indeed noticed that the constant low-level background roar of the engines could no longer be heard. The ceaseless pitching motion of the deck further intensified, and it took a supreme effort to remain standing.

“What?” questioned Dennis Liu into his two-way. “What do you mean the captain doesn’t know why we’ve stopped? … Don’t bother, comrade. I’m on my way up to the Bridge to find out for myself.”

47

“Hangar, conn,” said the Folk’s dry-deck shelter dive supervisor into his chin microphone from his central position at the DOS console.

“Check open Alpha Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fifteen.”

Benjamin Kram listened as the trunk borne SEAL to whom these instructions were directed acknowledged them. Kram had just arrived in the SEAL operations compartment from the control room. He positioned himself beside Commander Gilbert, who was seated at the opposite console, beneath the three monitor screens.

“The Queen’s dead in the water, all right,” informed Kram. “I don’t know how, but Command pulled it off.”

A quick glance at the top monitor showed the view from the Folk’s periscope. Veiled by the slap of an occasional wave was the rounded aft portion of an immense surface vessel, with the name queen elizabeth 2 emblazoned in white letters on the stern.

“All I ask of you is to hold us right here, and I’ll have my laddies off in two shakes of a stick,” Gilbert whispered.

The Polk rolled in the grasp of a passing swell, the keelless submarine at the mercy of the pitching seas.

“We’ll keep you here as long as you need, Commander. Just don’t blame the Polk for this rough ride,” said Kram, who listened as the shelter officer spoke into his microphone.

“Hangar, conn. Open Oscar Three. Verify pressure on valve Alpha One.”

“Trunk, conn,” added the DOS dive supervisor. “Shut November One and verify.”

Kram looked on as SEAL Team Two’s medical officer joined them from the aft passageway. “Sir,” he said to Gilbert. “I’m reading high levels of carbon dioxide in the trunk.

Recommend that we take a couple of minutes to thoroughly vent the area before continuing.”

“There’s no time for that luxury,” replied Gilbert. “Get back and watch them closely, and when the first one drops, then we’ll ventilate.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” returned the medical officer, who dared not argue his point further.

“Let’s do it, laddies,” said Gilbert to his operations team. “Man DDS.”

“Trunk, conn,” directed the shelter officer. “You have permission to open access hatch.”

Kram listened as the intricate process of flooding the shelter to equalize the outside sea pressure began. Throughout this sequence, the 1MC continued to broadcast the latest reports from the Folk’s sonar room, with an occasional operational comment from the sub’s XO, who was the current OOD.

“Seven feet draft in hangar,” reported the voice of one of the divers over the intercom.

They would be able to pressurize the hangar shortly. Kram excused himself to head aft and say his goodbyes to the SEAL team. As he entered the missile compartment, he found the commandos in the last stages of preparation, or “jocking up,” as they called it. Each of the divers was in his own private space, putting the finishing touches to his gear. For the most part, the SEALs wore aviator-style flight suits over their rubber wet suits. A few were outfitted in camouflage fatigues, with all wearing combat boots.

The equipment they were carrying was as varied as their uniforms. This gear included an eclectic mix of diving paraphernalia: knives, pistols, handcuffs, flash grenades, cranial radio headsets, and laser-guided submachine guns.

A familiar blond-haired figure stood outside tube six, where the DOS access hatch was located. He had no outer garment over his wet suit.

Kram made his way over to him.

“Looks like it’s finally showtime, Lieutenant Colonel Laycob,” he greeted.

The British commando was making the final adjustments to the waterproof canister holding his two-way radio, and he matter-of-factly replied, “No offense, Captain, but I’m more than ready to get on a vessel where I can properly stretch these old legs and get a decent drink as well.”

“No offense taken,” replied Kram, who had to reach out to steady himself against the edge of the missile tube’s open hatch when the Polk rolled hard on its side.

“I suppose that you’re anxious to get us off and return to the calm depths,” reflected Laycob as he braced himself on an overhead hand hold.

“Mount ‘em up, gents!” instructed a gruff voice from inside the trunk.

“Ah, it looks like you won’t have to wait much longer,” added the Englishman as he checked the waterproof integrity of his holstered pistol.

“Good luck,” offered Kram:

Laycob accepted his handshake and casually replied, “Please be so good as to thank your crew for their hospitality. I suppose I shan’t be seeing them again to convey my regards personally.”

“Will do, and bon voyage,” said Kram, who stood back and watched as the jocked-up SEALs lined up in front of the open trunk. One by one they climbed into the access way darkened recesses, with Kram issuing each of them a crisp salute along the way.

By the time he returned to the DDS operations console, the final deployment sequence was already in progress. As he settled in beside Doug Gilbert, he studied the trio of monitor screens. The top one continued to display a periscope view of the QE2’s fantail. Barely visible on the other two screens were the brightly glowing chemlite light sticks of the five-man dive team working on the Polk’s outer deck.

They would be responsible for actually deploying the SDV from its hangar.

“Flood trunk,” ordered the DOS dive supervisor.

“Two … three … four feet draft in the trunk,” revealed the shelter officer. “You have permission to open hangar door and engage track and cradle,” informed the dive sup.

“Hangar door is open,” replied a garbled voice over the intercom.

“Track and cradle are being rigged out.”

The Swimmer Delivery Vehicle was mounted inside the shelter on a cradle.

In order for it to be launched, a steel cable safety tether was attached to the SDV’s stubby nose, with the cradle pulled out of the shelter on a telescoping track.

The SDV wasn’t a mini sub but a free-flooding, windowless craft, with its pilot, navigator, and six passengers seated side by side in pairs.

Because the vessel was completely open to the elements, hypothermia was a constant concern, especially in the cold waters of the North Atlantic.

The SDV’s closed-circuit Mark 15 underwater breathing system had a six-hour capacity. Its masks had microphones built into them, with each one connected to the craft’s intercom. Communications with the Polk were via UHF radio. And since the SDV had no windows, it relied solely on instruments and a highfrequency active-sonar unit to provide navigation.

Kram hoped that in this instance, their voyage would be but a short one.

Once free from the Polk, the SDV only had to travel a bare 300 feet to be in a position directly behind the QE2. As long as the ocean liner remained dead in the water, it would take a few minutes at most to ascend to the surface, slide back the canopy, and board the ship.

They would do so with the assistance of air-compressed grappling hooks and caving ladders. The rough seas and high winds topside would make this part of the operation extremely hazardous, as the boarding of another surface ship on the high seas was difficult enough in perfect weather.

“Request permission to launch SDV,” said a voice from the intercom.

Before responding to this request, the DOS dive sup turned around and queried Gilbert. “Sir, request permission to launch.”

“Permission granted,” returned the grizzled SEAL firmly.

“Launch SDV!” ordered the dive sup into his chin microphone.

48

“What the hell is going on aboard this ship?” demanded a furious Dennis Liu as he stormed into the QE2’s Bridge. “I didn’t give anyone an all-stop order.”

The ship’s navigator was the senior watch officer present, and he answered from the navigation plot, a telephone nestled up to his ear.

“Believe me, sir, I had nothing to do with it. You can check the combinator yourself. It’s still set for eighteen and one-half knots.”

“Then how do you account for this loss of speed?” questioned Liu, his face reddened with frustrated rage.

“I’ve got the Engine Control Room on the line, and they’re doing their best to figure out what’s occurred,” explained the navigator. “Because their controls are also set for eighteen and one-half knots.”

“I don’t believe any of this crap!” cursed Liu, disgustedly scanning the dimly lit room before storming over to the helm.

A frightened Filipino bosun’s mate stood behind the ship’s wheel. Liu grabbed him from behind, put a pistol to the back of the young sailor’s skull, and violently jerked him around to face the navigator.

“I’m warning you, comrade. On the count of three I’ll blow this man’s head off unless you give me a satisfactory answer. So quit the bullshit and tell me why we’ve stopped like this!”

From the serious tone of this threat, the navigator could tell it wasn’t to be taken lightly. Yet, because in all honesty, he couldn’t answer the terrorist’s question, he could only stand there and listen as Liu began counting.

“One … two …”

“Hold it!” cried the navigator, who offered the only possible answer that made any sense. “You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that the slowdown wasn’t directed from either the Bridge or the Engine Control Room. That leaves the emergency pitch-control levers on Eight Deck, as the only other place where this process could have been effected.”

“Emergency pitch-control levers?” repeated Liu, as he lowered the pistol and relaxed his grip on the terrified Filipino.

“The QE2’s direction and speed are determined by influencing the pitch of the ship’s twin propellers,” the navigator explained. “For example, a ninety percent pitch roughly produces twenty-seven knots, while one of…”

“I don’t give a damn about the details,” interrupted Liu. “Just tell me who has access to these emergency pitch levers?”

“Almost anyone can reach them, at the extreme aft end of the Engine Room on Eight Deck,” revealed the navigator. “They’re clearly marked and located on each of the propeller shafts.”

“Somebody’s playing with me, and they’re going to be awfully sorry when I catch them,” threatened Liu, tossing the bosun’s mate aside and rushing out of the Bridge.

49

Ricky expected the worst when a sentry stormed into the Library and angrily shouted out his name. His limbs were trembling as he meekly stood to acknowledge this summons. Without explanation, he was led at gunpoint to the Radio Room.

Both Kristin and Monica were waiting for him there. It was the redheaded actress who ordered him to have a seat at the central transmitter, beside the ship’s radio officer. “You’re very fortunate that your little act of insubordination didn’t earn you a bullet,” she remarked while aiming her pistol at the back of Ricky’s head. “Help us with our transmission, and perhaps you and your father will be allowed to live.”

The radio officer explained the suspected atmospheric problems that had interrupted their transmission, and Kristin handed Ricky a dogeared notebook.

“It belonged to Max,” she revealed. “And contains the method he planned to utilize to filter the interference.”

Ricky glanced at the notebook’s hand-scrawled contents, and listened as the radio officer added, “It looks to me like it’s a formula of some sort. The only familiar portion are those numbers that appear to be individual frequency bands.”

“It’s a computer-programming code,” surmised Ricky after flipping through the first couple pages. “Law enforcement agencies use similar frequency-hopping programs to establish secure communications.”

Monica glanced at the digital wall clock and asked impatiently, “How long will it take to input the program and get it operational?”

Ricky glanced at the remaining pages. “I’ll need at least a quarter of an hour.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” returned Monica as she snapped a live round into the pistol’s chamber and signaled him to begin.

“What do you think, Tuff, have our SEALs arrived topside yet?” asked Thomas Kellogg from his perch beside the port propeller shaft.

Tuff was leaning against the cowling that protected the starboard shaft.

He looked at his watch before replying. “If your lads have managed to keep their schedule, they should be getting ready to set the first grappling hook over the fantail railing on Three Deck. But, of course, in an operation as complex as this one, there are ever so many obstacles that could have popped up to delay them.”

“For our sakes, I sure hope those obstacles are few and far between,” said Thomas, glancing down at his own watch.

The deck wallowed in the grasp of yet another heavy swell. Thomas expressed himself with sincerity. “All of this wouldn’t have been possible without your help, Tuff. Your presence here is a godsend.”

“You’re the one who deserves all the accolades, Special Agent. It took an awfully brave man to attempt that HALO jump.”

There was a sudden concerned look on Tuffs face as he abruptly put his right index finger up to his lips and signaled toward the forward part of the compartment that they were no longer alone. Thomas alertly crouched down, just in time to see a single Asian male break from the shadows. Their most efficient escape route was now cut off, yet Thomas realized that they couldn’t run away regardless of this new threat. It was absolutely imperative that they remain here, beside the dual pitch-control levers, to keep the ship in place for the imminent arrival of the SEALs.

“It’s no use trying to conceal yourself,” said Dennis Liu as he cautiously transited the narrow catwalk, a Sterling submachine gun slung over his shoulder. “I know all about your little game to stop the ship, and now it’s time for you to pay the price for this futile gesture.”

Still hidden in the shadows, Thomas looked over at a crouching Tuff, and returned his concerned nod. Both of them knew that stalling for as much additional time as possible was their primary goal. Thomas pulled out his 9mm Clock in anticipation of the inevitable confrontation.

“Show yourself now, before I spray this whole compartment with lead,” warned Liu, a mere fifty feet away from his hidden adversaries.

As the terrorist brought his Sterling up, Tuff glanced over at Thomas and nodded once more. They proceeded to stand simultaneously, Thomas quick to aim his pistol at the terrorist’s broad chest.

“So there’s two of you,” observed Liu, showing not the least hint of concern or surprise. “And ship’s officers to boot. I should have expected as much.”

Liu aimed the long black barrel of his weapon at Thomas and took a tentative step forward. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me the reason for this foolhardy act of insubordination? I mean, it’s not like this slowdown is affecting my schedule.”

Liu was unable to coax a word out of them. He resolutely shook his head.

“You’re the brave, silent type. I like that in an opponent.

I’ll tell you what. You put down that pistol, and I’ll do the same with my weapon. Then we can settle this like men, with bare fists. And because I’m feeling extra generous this evening, I’ll even let you take me on, two against one. Well, comrades, how do these terms grab you?”

“And if we don’t accept them?” returned Thomas, trying his best to feel this character out.

Liu grinned. “Don’t tell me, I bet you want me to tie one of my arms behind my back as well. No, comrade, I won’t give you that much of a handicap, as I won’t accept any less than a complete resolution of this act of insubordination. If you won’t fight me, then I’m willing to bet that I can cut down you and your friend, before you can take me out with your Clock.”

Thomas had no doubt that he could. In these close quarters, even a single ricocheting bullet could prove fatal. He accepted an affirmative nod from Tuff before conceding.

“Terms accepted,” he stated, slowly lowering his weapon.

Liu did likewise, and both of them deposited their armaments out of reach on the steel latticed decking. Continuing to prolong this entire confrontation to use up as much precious time as possible, Thomas looked at Tuff and asked, “Well, partner, how are your hand to-hand skills?”

“I learned a trick or two during my time with SBS,” admitted Tuff with confidence. “How about you?”

“I can handle myself,” Thomas answered, unwilling to reveal the black belt in karate that he had earned while in Air Force Special Operations.

Tuff spit into his open right palm and rubbed his hands together.

“Let’s give the bloke a decent chance. If you don’t mind, I’d like to do the honors.”

Thomas knew that such an arrangement would serve to use up more time, and he graciously beckoned for Tuff to proceed. Tuff stepped forward to a small, open landing, where he took up a basic fighting stance, with feet spread and fists cocked before his face.

Dennis Liu casually approached him, hands loosely at his side. To the unwary opponent, the terrorist didn’t appear to know the first thing about protecting himself. He merely stood there, a foot or so away from Tuff, his expression one of contrived innocence.

“Ah, SBS,” Liu teased in his best taunting manner. “I understand that you really showed those big bad Argentineans something down in the Malvinas. You Brits make me sick; imperialists to the core, always picking on the poor exploited masses. It’s too bad Herr Hitler didn’t make good his threatened invasion across the channel, so he could have thrown that feebleminded royal family of yours into the ovens, where they belonged.”

“Shut your filthy mouth, Chinaman!” returned Tuff, his are provoked.

“You can insult me all you want, but when you include the royal family, that’s where I draw the line.”

Tuff cocked back his right fist and threw a powerful punch toward his opponent’s jaw. Without raising his own fists in defense, Liu jumped aside and the punch met only air.

“You’re a quick little Chink, aren’t you?” said Tuff. He tested Liu with a probing left jab before letting loose with a wild combination of punches. Not a single blow landed, his opponent escaping this barrage with a series of quick, catlike moves that still didn’t necessitate the raising of his fists in self-defense.

“So, you want to play it cute, huh, Chinaman?” managed Tuff between gasps of air.

“Take your time and catch your breath first, Tuff,” advised Thomas from his position beside the port cowling.

The frustrated Englishman nodded in acknowledgment, yet moved in for another attack all the same. This time he started his flurry with a short left jab that was meant as a feint. Shifting his body’s center of gravity forward, he quickly cross-stepped his rear leg before raising his front foot for a roundhouse kick aimed at his opponent’s exposed groin.

Liu saw this sequence coming from the very first feint, and he displayed the degree of his martial-arts expertise by stepping aside and grabbing Tuff’s front foot with his right hand. All he had to do now was yank violently upwards to send Tuff crashing to the deck.

“Come on, SBS. Show me your stuff, you limey bastard,” taunted Liu.

Tuff took the bait. As he got to his knees, he lunged forward like a defensive tackle on an American football team. To escape this charge, Liu sprang upward into the air. As Tuff passed beneath him, he planted a firm elbow smack into the security officer’s forehead. The crack of this wicked blow clearly reverberated throughout the compartment, and Tuff crumpled to the deck for the ten count and much more.

“Bruce Lee was a pussy. Next,” said Liu.

Thomas sized up his opponent as adept in San Shou kung fu. A martial-arts form that was extremely popular with the Red Chinese Army, San Shou was a hybrid of kick boxing, grappling, joint locking and wrestling. The name itself meant the free application of all individual hand-to-hand combat skills, and Thomas knew that he’d have his hands full dealing with him.

50

A quick check of his watch showed that it was 12:30 a. m. If the SEALs had made good their midnight rendezvous, surely they’d be aboard the QE2 by now. Unable to forget about the numerous obstacles that could have popped up to delay them, Thomas slowly stepped onto the small landing, determined to put forth the best effort possible.

“Lieutenant Colonel Laycob!” screamed the SDV pilot, the smashing, twenty-foot waves and howling winds instantly swallowing his frantic cry.

Only seconds before, the Royal Marine veteran had been on the bottom rung of the caving ladder, on his way out of the SDV and up to the QE2’s pitching fantail. No sooner had he taken his first step upward, than a monstrous, thirty-foot swell smacked into them with such force that Laycob was torn from the ladder. He was last seen crashing into the sea below, with the pilot now having to make the decision whether or not to abandon their colleague.

The last of the five SEALs who had gone before Laycob was in the process of climbing over the rail of the ocean liner’s Three Deck anchor-windlass station. One who was already standing behind the rail, though, caught the pilot’s attention with a series of wild arm gestures.

Though the pilot was expecting a signal to abandon his abbreviated search and cast off, the SEAL was instead pointing at a portion of the roiling ocean at the SDV’s stern.

The pilot turned to scan this sector, and he immediately spotted the glow of Laycob’s chemlite necklace, only a few feet behind the SDV. The SBS commando had somehow managed to grab hold of one of the vessel’s retraining lines, and was in the process of slowly pulling his drenched body back into the submersible.

“Do you still want to join them on the Queen?” asked the pilot, having to scream to be heard over the gusting wind.

“You bet I do, lad,” replied Laycob, who was wet but none the worse for wear. “Just give me a bloody second to catch my breath, and I’ll be good to go.”

Thomas Kellogg had never faced an adversary who displayed such lightning-quick reflexes and subtle resolve. Always one step ahead of any punch or kick that Thomas might attempt, the terrorist had yet to be touched by any type of offensive blow. Thomas understood how a mouse might feel as a hungry cat toyed with it.

In a vain effort to penetrate his defenses, Thomas tried his best to attack with short, feinting jabs. This was intended to open up his opponent’s weak side to a lead hook. In almost every instance, the Chinese blocked his jab with his rear hand, before feinting a counterattack with his own lead fist. Instead of making solid contact on Thomas’s exposed jaw or body, these strikes were intentionally pulled back. This frustrating tactic infuriated Thomas, who felt like an inexperienced student once again.

Completely forgetting that he was supposed to be using up as much time as possible, Thomas moved in to take this man down. And the last thing he remembered before hitting the deck unconscious, was a solid foot headed right for his jaw, where a foot had no business being!

“Let’s do it, lad!” yelled Laycob to the SDV pilot, as he reached up for the caving ladder.

To help him grab the wildly swaying ladder, the pilot was attempting to snag it with a hooked extension pole. The swells were arriving with such irregularity that it was impossible for him to time his efforts, and he caught nothing but air.

“Let me try,” Laycob shouted, well aware that the SEALs aboard the QE2 would be going crazy with impatience by now.

Since he considered himself to be the key component in any successful takedown of the huge ocean liner, he wasn’t about to be denied. He dared to stand up on the wildly pitching side of the SDV, and on the very first try, Laycob snagged the ladder.

“All right!” he yelled in triumph.

Any further celebration on his part was cut short by a frothing expanse of agitated seawater pouring out from beneath the QE2’s stern.

His grip on the ladder unexpectedly tightened, and he suddenly realized that the ocean liner was moving!

Though he could have easily let go of the ladder, sheer stubborn determination kept him from doing so. Now finding himself dragged through the frigid sea, he struggled to hook his boot into the bottom rung. His first attempt failed. With the palms of his hands stinging from all the weight they were bearing, he lifted his sodden foot for one more attempt, and the sole of his combat boot at long last made solid contact. A Herculean effort followed, as the forty-nine-year-old commando began the extraordinarily dangerous task of climbing up the vessel’s stern— a job made all the more difficult as the QE2 picked up steam to cut its way through the storm-tossed waters.

A simple adjustment of the dual pitch levers was all that was needed to change the angle of the propellers and get the ship moving once more.

Curious as to why the two officers would go to all this trouble, Dennis Liu intended to awaken them. A vigorous interrogation would all too soon bear fruit, and after learning their motivation, he’d kill them.

A pained groan from the stocky Englishman showed that he was the first to regain consciousness. Yet before Liu could get on with his plan, his two-way radio activated with a burst of static.

“Dennis!” exploded Monica’s voice from the speaker. “We’ve made contact with Red Star. We need you up in the Radio Room at once to transmit the last of the codes.”

“It’s time, lads,” whispered Robert Hartwell to his two table mates “Take a look at their new watch leader. The guy looks exhausted, as do the rest of them.”

Hartwell was referring to Sunny, who had entered the Queens Grill shortly after the ship stopped moving. They were underway once more, making the jolting, rolling motion of the deck a bit more tolerable.

“How do you propose that we do it?” Samuel Morrison questioned. “Just because they’re tired doesn’t mean their bullets won’t prove just as deadly.”

“Check out the pantry access way behind us,” instructed the ship’s security director. “They’ve yet to replace the sentry who had been stationed there previously, and I know for certain that there’s no locking mechanism of any type on that door.”

“Where does it lead?” asked Vince who discreetly glanced over his shoulder to the doorway, located a bare twenty feet distant.

“Straight into the Kitchen,” Hartwell answered. “From there, it’s a chip shot to the Radio Room or Bridge.”

“You’ve got my blessings,” said Vince. “Sitting around like this is driving me stir-crazy.”

“I’m game,” added Morrison.

“Splendid,” Hartwell replied in a conspirational whisper. “A simple diversion that takes place beside the Grill’s aft entrance should give you the opportunity to slip out the pantry unnoticed. I did a bit of Shakespeare in my time, and should be able to pull off a sham fainting spell.”

“You’re much too important to be wasted on the diversion, Robert,” offered Morrison. “Your knowledge of the ship will be better put to use if you’re one of the escapees and I do the acting. Besides, the way I’m feeling, it won’t take much of a dramatic performance on my part to play sick.”

Robert Hartwell nodded. “Very well, lads. Let’s do it, and may the Lord be with us.”

“What in the hell hit me?” muttered Thomas after regaining consciousness and finding himself sprawled out on the Engine Room’s cold, latticed-steel deck.

Tuff kneeled close behind him, rubbing his throbbing jaw and thinking the very same thing. “We were properly whipped, pure and simple, Special Agent. By the Dennis Liu himself. Looks like those Hollywood choreographers taught him a thing or two about fighting.”

“His skills are way beyond that,” said Thomas, recognition of their adversary flooding his face as he painfully sat upright and rubbed his own swollen jaw.

The rumble of the QE2’s engines filled the background with a wall of sound, and Thomas realized dial they were underway once more. “I sure hope the SEALs made it.”

“And if they didn’t?” Tuff asked.

Thomas answered while reaching up to grab the shaft cowling and standing. “Then we’re going to have to take this ship ourselves.

Stopping again won’t do us any good. It would take them hours to ready themselves again, then it would be too light out to be safe. Where did our movie star go?”

“Though I was still in never-never land, seeing visions of sugar plums dancing before my eyes, I heard his two way activate. It was a woman’s voice, saying something or other about the broadcasting of some bloody codes in the Radio Room.”

“The Chinese nuclear-weapons release codes!” exclaimed Thomas, his return to the land of the living now complete. “Tuff, we’ve got to get up to Radio and stop him from transmitting, or millions could die!”

“Alpha team, you’re clear to proceed,” directed the SEAL platoon leader into the miniature transmitter of his cranial headset.

Lawrence Laycob was kneeling close beside the individual responsible for this order. From the cover of a recessed anteroom, located outside one of the food lockers, Laycob peered down Six Deck’s working alleyway. He watched as the four SEALs comprising Alpha team emerged from their hiding places. With a smooth ballet like movement, they leapfrogged forward, from doorway to doorway, finally joining Laycob beside the closed steel locker.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” said the SEAL leader. “It looks like the crew has been pulled from this section of the ship. How should we proceed?”

“I suggest continuing forward to the Hospital,” said Laycob. “Then we can take the C Stairwell to Five Deck, where we can access the A Stairwell. This will provide a direct route to the Boat Deck, where the Bridge is only a short climb away.”

“Then let’s do it,” returned the SEAL team leader, glancing at his SBS associate and flashing him a supportive thumbs-up.

“I don’t understand it, Dennis. We had Red Star locked in clear as a bell,” revealed a very distraught and frustrated Monica Chang.

Dennis Liu stormed over to the radio console, where Ricky and the ship’s radio officer sat behind the transmitter. “This better not be caused by another one of your foolish games,” he threatened. “Because if it is, you’ll die right here.”

Ricky looked up and replied sheepishly. “In my hurry to input the frequency-hopping program, I must have hit the wrong key.”

“Then correct it!” ordered Liu while glancing up at the clock. “And rest assured that this time, a mistake will cost you your lives.”

To support this threat, he raised his gun, and when Ricky reached for Max’s notebook his hands were shaking.

“Would you mind lowering your weapon?” asked the radio officer. “The lad’s under enough pressure as it is.”

Liu’s reaction to this simple request was sure and swift. He cocked back his empty hand and hit the radio officer with a chop to the throat. The force of this unexpected blow was enough to crush the officer’s trachea.

He collapsed on the deck, vainly clutching at his neck and gasping for air.

Sheer horror filled Ricky’s expression as the officer’s face turned a brilliant blue. For a sickening second then glances met. The doomed Englishman struggled to breathe. With bloody spittle dripping from his purple lips, his oxygen-starved body convulsed in a series of seizures before death claimed him after a final mad spasm.

Ricky dared to look up at Liu, and was startled to find the terrorist smiling. There could be no missing the expression of shocked revulsion that filled Kristin’s drawn face behind him.

“You’ll be next if you don’t fine-tune that transmitter,” warned Liu.

Ricky fought back the sudden urge to retch. He closed his eyes to regather his composure before turning his attention back to the keyboard. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed, he began the tedious task of reprogramming the complicated Cobol sequence.

His persistence paid off when a constant, high-pitched tone sounded from the transmitter’s speaker. Liu wasted little time in grabbing the nearest handset. As he hit the transmit button, he began reading from the red leather notebook that Monica handed him.

“Delta … Delta … Sierra … Bravo … Zulu … Tango.”

He halted a moment to turn the page during this brief pause the door to the Radio Room burst open. Liu looked up in startled disbelief as the two men he had confronted in the Engine Room stormed in. The stocky ship’s officer who had been so proud of his former SBS service went directly to the compartment’s circuit breaker, while his associate covered him with his pistol. Undeterred, Liu hit the transmit button and spoke urgently into the transmitter.

“Bravo … Sierra … Zulu … Tango … Alpha …”

One tantalizing code word short of completing the final sequence, Thomas fired two rounds into the transmitter, killing the line. Then he drew a bead on Monica before she could get her weapon up.

“No!” Liu bellowed. He threw down the handset, grabbed the Sterling out of Monica’s hands, and taking little time to aim, pulled the trigger.

Thomas and Tuff dove for cover behind the telex console. The exploding 9mm rounds tore into the laminated counter. Before they could put their own weapons into play, Liu’s voice rang out.

“Drop your guns and stand with your hands up. Or your young friend out here will pay the ultimate price for your spineless act of treachery.”

Thomas had caught a brief glimpse of Ricky as he took aim at the transmitter, and he knew this threat was a very real one. They thus had no choice but to obey.

“So it’s you two fools again,” Liu managed between heaving breaths. “How I’ll delight in watching all of you die.”

Liu grabbed Ricky by the collar, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him across the room. Thomas caught him, and together with Tuff, watched Liu ram a fresh clip into the submachine gun.

At the same time, Kristin pulled her own pistol from the folds of her coveralls. She disengaged the safety and pointed the barrel at her unsuspecting parent.

“Father!” she cried. “We’ve seen enough killing. Now that we’re unable to contact Red Star, it’s time to admit failure and surrender.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” countered Liu. “Lower your weapon this instant and come to your senses, girl.”

Kristin resolutely shook her head. “I have come to my senses, Father.

And that’s why I’m ordering you and Monica to drop your weapons.”

“I knew all along that the little brat didn’t have the stomach,” said Monica from her position at Liu’s side. “And now she’s gone and turned traitor.”

“Put down the gun, Kristin,” said Liu firmly.

Again she shook her head. This time Monica challenged her commitment by taking a threatening step forward. Kristin gripped the pistol with both hands and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening explosion, as a round whizzed by Monica’s head and embedded itself in the aft bulkhead.

“How could you betray us like this?” asked Liu, displaying no outward fear himself. “Put down the gun, before you go and do something that you’ll later regret.”

“My only regret is that I didn’t act earlier,” Kristin replied. “Too many innocent lives have already been lost. Ricky’s right, this isn’t the direction that China should take. It’s time to quit looking for salvation in the past, and focus instead on the great possibilities that the upcoming century promise.”

“Daughter, dear misguided daughter of mine,” mumbled Liu while taking a tentative step toward her.

Kristin shifted the aim of the pistol to her father, and Liu pleaded his case with total calm. “Do you really think you could shoot your own flesh and blood? Hand over the gun, and we’ll discuss this misunderstanding. Like adults.”

“It’s too late for talk,” Kristin countered, trying with both hands to keep the heavy pistol steady.

Liu took another step and reached out for the gun, now barely an arm’s length away. “I admire the strength of your convictions, dear daughter, distorted though they might be. In so many ways, you remind me of your grandmother. So brave; to leave the beloved country of her birth, only to take up the motherland’s cause on a distant shore, a world away from all that she cherished. How headstrong and stubborn she was!”

From the other side of the room, Thomas saw how Kristin reacted to this emotional plea. She was obviously being affected by her father’s words, and it was only a matter of time before her will would weaken.

Knowing full well that Liu intended to kill them once this crisis was resolved, Thomas listened as Kristin shouted:

“Father, I’m warning you. Stop!”

Liu smiled, and when he dared to take another step forward, the blast of another gunshot resounded through the Radio Room. Shocked disbelief filled Liu’s face as he staggered back and blood began pouring from a wound in his left shoulder.

Before Monica could get possession of the Sterling, Thomas glanced at Tuff and together they charged across the room. Tuff moved in to subdue Monica, while Thomas jarred the submachine gun out of Liu’s grasp with a well placed kick, and faced the bleeding terrorist.

“It’s over, Liu!” Thomas shouted.

“Like hell it is,” retorted Liu, all but ignoring his blood-soaked wound.

Monica stood at his side. Together they took up martial arts stances.

Tuff moved in to challenge her. She answered with a flurry of sharp, expertly delivered jabs. Thomas concentrated his attack on his opponent’s shoulder, yet in each instance his blows were countered.

Tuff was equally frustrated. He held back his initial blows deliberately because of his opponent’s gender. A Queen’s man, he was ever the gentleman. But when Monica succeeded in landing a pair of painful punches to his jaw and ribcage, any noble sentiments on his part were soon forgotten.

After deflecting a roundhouse kick, Tuff landed a solid right jab into the side of her skull. Though he presumed that the force of this blow was sufficient to stun her, Monica was able to grab his fist in an excruciating wristlock.

At the same time, Thomas found himself fighting off a furious flurry of kicks and punches. As he jumped aside to escape a jab, Liu grabbed his left forearm with enough force to yank Thomas off his feet. Tuffs attention remained focused on escaping the wristlock, and he failed to duck as Liu spun Thomas around by the arm.

They collided head-on, their foreheads smashing together with a distinctive crack. The force of this concussion was enough to knock Thomas out, and he fell to the deck headfirst, sprawled out on his stomach. Tuff folded to his knees at Thomas’s side, dazed and near unconsciousness himself.

Liu’s upper torso was completely soaked in blood, and in no mood for fear, he walked up to his daughter and yanked the pistol from her shaking grasp. “Why don’t you go and join your boyfriend,” he instructed with disgust.

As she crossed the compartment to Ricky, gunfire sounded in the distance. Seconds later, Monica’s two-way activated. There could be no mistaking the fear that colored the caller’s voice.

“We’re exchanging gunfire with a large group of wellarmed commandos near the Hospital. They appear to be from an outside assault force!”

The resonant boom of an exploding concussion grenade emphasized this warning, and the radio went dead.

“Call Sunny this instant,” Liu instructed Monica. “Have him round up the nine heads of state, and escort them down to the Engine Room. We’ll make our stand there, beside the fail-safe device.”

Monica used her two-way to carry out this order and Liu did his best to plug his shoulder wound with a folded handkerchief. Another background explosion sounded, and Liu snapped a fresh round into the Sterling to finish off Thomas and Tuff.

“Please, Father,” pleaded Kristin, tears cascading down her cheeks.

“Can’t you just leave them be?”

“Shut up!” Liu exclaimed.

As he raised the barrel to first execute Thomas, Vince Kellogg came bursting into the Radio Room. The Secret Service agent instantly sized up the situation and made a beeline for Liu. He reached him in time to divert his aim, and a trio of bullets tore into the deck, only a precious few inches from his brother’s exposed back. Vince then knocked the weapon free and began grappling with Liu.

Monica scurried over to grab the Sterling. Ricky finally summoned enough nerve to act. He darted forward and kicked the submachine gun beneath the telex console. Monica, infuriated, turned her wrath on Ricky, but before she could do him serious harm, Kristin joined the melee. Monica now found herself facing an opponent also trained by Dennis Liu.

Behind them, Vince broke out of Liu’s bloody grasp and crouched down in a square stance, his legs and arms open. A former collegiate wrestler, Vince displayed not a hint of fear.

“So the special agent is trained in Greco-Roman style,” observed Liu while assuming a similar stance.

Vince didn’t tarry, and he charged forward. To respond to this enthusiastic attack, Liu turned swiftly, using Vince’s own momentum to get him into a headlock. Before Vince could counter, Liu grabbed his left elbow, and with the headlock still in place, used the resulting leverage to take his opponent down.

Vince fell to the deck hard on his back, with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. For a terrifying second, he was unable to breathe. He gasped for air, and watched as Liu towered above him, gloating.

“So much for Greco-Roman,” quipped Liu.

Yet more gunfire sounded in the distance. Liu watched Kristin selflessly get in the way of a blow by Monica meant for Ricky. As Monica moved in to finish her off, Liu interceded.

“Forget her. Let her die with the rest. We must join Sunny.”

Though Monica desired nothing better than to kill Kristin, she reluctantly backed away. Liu grabbed the Sterling, and led her out of the Radio Room, passing his daughter as if she weren’t even there.

Ricky meanwhile fought the pitching deck to attend to Vince.

“I’m fine, Ricky,” managed Vince between heaving breaths. “Why don’t you see if you can help out Tuff and his fallen shipmate.”

As Ricky was in the process of crossing the room to help, Tuffs voice echoed forth with concern. “Special Agent Kellogg, are you okay?

Special Agent Kellogg?”

“I’ll be fine, Tuff,” returned Vince, while struggling to sit up. “Just had the damned wind knocked out of me.”

Seemingly ignoring this update on Vince’s part, Tuff persisted. “Come on, Special Agent Kellogg, snap out of it!”

Vince failed to understand what Tuff was referring to. As he turned around, he found the security officer huddled over the prone body of a fellow officer. Ricky arrived at Tuffs side. Together they turned the man over on his back and began slapping his cheeks. Something about this fellow’s appearance was disturbingly familiar to Vince, and he waited for Kristin’s assistance before attempting to stand.

He stood upright, fighting off a brief wave of dizziness, then got his first good look at the fallen officer’s face.

“It can’t be,” muttered Vince, who looked on in shocked amazement as the man’s eyes snapped open, met his glance and spoke.

“Don’t just stand there gawking, big brother, give me a hand.”

Tuff and Ricky helped him stand, and Vince wasted no time greeting his brother with a warm hug. “I always knew that you wanted to go along on this crossing, but I never thought you’d stoop to being a stowaway.”

Thomas laughed. “Stowaway? No, let’s just say I dropped in without a proper ticket.”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted Kristin, her voice heavy with concern. “I hate to interrupt what seems to be a family reunion. But unless we get down to the Engine Room and stop my father, this ship’s going right to the bottom of the Atlantic, with us in it!”

“We’ve lost Collins. sir!”

This somber radio report arrived via Laycob’s cranial headset, and the Royal Marine commando took it upon himself to shoulder the blame.

“It’s all my bloody fault,” he admitted, from the cover of the anteroom outside the vacant Print Shop.

The platoon’s senior SEAL was huddled at his side, and both of them were forced to hit the deck when a submachine-gun round ricocheted overhead.

“It was Collins’s impatience that got him killed,” managed the SEAL while reloading his sidearm. “As point man, he should have waited for the rest of the assault train to catch up, before continuing up the passageway.”

The deep, booming report of a 45 caliber pistol sounded in the background, and Laycob flinched when a concussion grenade detonated nearby.

“It’s ironic that they picked the Hospital’s anteroom in which to set up their ambush,” remarked the Englishman. “By positioning an armed sentry on each side of the working alleyway there, they’ve pretty well blocked our access to points forward.”

“We can always try to storm them,” offered the SEAL.

“That would be too costly,” Laycob cautioned.

“We can’t just sit here,” the SEAL returned. “Ammo’s getting low and we’re losing our momentum.”

Yet another bullet whined overhead. Laycob offered the only tactical advice that made any sense: “We can bypass this passageway by returning aft, and then work our way forward through the Engine Room. The only problem is getting back down this corridor in one piece.”

“It’s nothing that a protective curtain of tear gas, smoke canisters, and stun grenades can’t take care of,” said the SEAL, who addressed the miniature transmitter of his cranial headset to implement this strategic retreat.

“This is as far as we’re going, comrades!” shouted Sunny at the top of his voice. Even then, it was hard for his nine, tuxedo-clad prisoners to hear him over the roaring whine of the engines.

Together with Ping, the QE2’s former head laundryman, Sunny had herded the heads of state through the adjoining compartment, where the massive diesel engines were incessantly grinding away. Their prisoners looked strangely out of place in this unglamorous, grease-stained environment.

This was the working-man’s world, a place of raw machinery, twisting pipe, and snaking insulated conduit. The scent that permeated the steamy air here wasn’t that of fancy cologne or French perfume. It was rather that of diesel fuel and sweat. It filled Sunny’s nostrils with memories of his early childhood in the oil fields of Hunan.

If his hard-working, peasant family could only see him now, thought Sunny, as he signaled his prisoners to halt beside the grimy bulkhead.

He merely had to wave the stubby barrel of his MP-5K submachine gun, to get the chancellor of Germany to tighten his ranks with the rest of this group. Sunny Chu, the son of a Hunanese peasant, currently herding the nine most powerful men in the world as if they were a bunch of frightened sheep! Who would have thought that such an incredible day would ever come?

Proud of his achievements like never before, Sunny took up a position against the opposite bulkhead. Beside him were a collection of oddly shaped, sealed vats, with thick, grease-stained pipes snaking in and out of them. He knew this was the place where the fuel oil was heated.

And on the far side of the vat nearest to him was where they had planted the explosive device.

It was a simple mechanism, formed out of a fist-sized lump of plastic explosives, a blasting cap, a nine-volt battery, and a digital timer. A small amount of colored wire connected the components that their leader had placed here on the night of the takeover the heavy scent of oil masking it from bomb-sniffing dogs.

Dennis Liu had called it their insurance policy, and Sunny assumed that he was preparing to make good his threat to use it. This meant that the submarine they were supposed to rendezvous with was close by.

They’d be surely transferring into the hold of this vessel any minute now, with a submerged trip back to the motherland to follow.

Such heroes they’d be, thought Sunny, who knew he’d soon have his pick of China’s most beautiful women. The trick now was to stay healthy, so that he could enjoy each and every one of them!

Sunny licked his dry lips in anticipation when Dennis Liu and Monica Chang stepped over the edge of the watertight door leading from the compartment where the engines were noisily grinding away. Their leader looked pale, and there could be no missing the bright red blood that stained the upper half of his coveralls.

“Whatever happened?” asked Sunny. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing but a scratch,” replied Liu, who was more concerned with the nine men standing before him. “Any problems getting them down here?”

“We were forced to shoot several of the security agents when we began escorting them out of the Dining Room,” revealed Sunny. “But other than that, they were as docile as lambs.”

“Good,” replied Liu while continuing to the vat on which their bomb was placed.

Sunny followed him, watching as Liu bent over and manipulated the bomb’s digital timer. After a minor adjustment, he clicked the timer’s stem and the electronic display briefly registered seven minutes before beginning a rapid second-by-second countdown.

“Comrade Liu, I believe that you’ve made a mistake here,” remarked Sunny. “We’ll never get aboard that submarine in a mere seven minutes.”

“Sunny,” said Liu with a disgusted shake of his head. “Get over there by Ping and keep your mouth shut. I’ve got the situation under control as always.”

As he crossed over the deck, Sunny realized what Liu must be attempting.

It was a scare tactic, designed to put fear into the hearts of the cowardly statesmen. Renewed confidence guided Sunny’s steps as he took up a position alongside Ping and directed the barrel of his weapon at the pathetic group of men standing in front of them.

Dennis Liu also approached this group, and he made it a point to isolate the lanky politician standing on the far right. President Li Chen acknowledged Liu’s glance with a defiant smirk. Liu reacted to this insulting sneer by reaching forward and grabbing the Chinese leader by the scruff of his neck. He then positioned himself behind Li, all the while planting the barrel of his Sterling firmly against the president’s sweating temple.

“This is the spineless coward who’s responsible for my presence amongst you!” shouted Liu to the other leaders. “Fifty years ago, it was Li Chen’s grandfather who executed my own beloved parent, and left his body to be devoured by dogs. And now Li Chen with his murderous blood has stolen away the leadership of the People’s Republic. I know what he was doing here. He was selling out our nation, in the tradition of the weak-willed Russians. China shall not take the Soviet Union’s path, and go overnight from a superpower to a nation of beggars. All of you share in the blame. Your greed is limitless, and now you shall pay the ultimate price for your despicable crimes!”

Sunny wasn’t certain what was going on when a group of four former prisoners rushed through the watertight door. Several of them carried weapons, and Sunny prepared himself for the worst.

“Do come right in,” greeted Dennis Liu, completely unconcerned by their presence.

Kristin and Ricky hovered at the group’s rear. She seemed to be in their midst by choice, and Sunny got the distinct impression that something was seriously wrong. Then he suddenly remembered the bomb ticking away on the opposite bulkhead.

“Comrade Liu, the bomb!” reminded Sunny, pointing to the vat where the soft glow of the digital timer was barely visible.

The SEAL team accessed the aft portion of the Engine Room by way of the after tunnel escape ladder. Lawrence Laycob led them down the steep, narrow shaft, with the assault train reforming beside the shaft’s dual pitch-control levers.

As they worked their way forward, it was Laycob who noted first that their intended route was blocked. “Damn!” he cursed. “They’ve closed the bloody watertight doors leading into the Engine Room.”

The team assembled in front of the massive steel doors that extended all the way to the ceiling.

“Looks like we have no choice but to return topside and access the Bridge via the exterior passageways,” offered the senior SEAL.

“We’ve got no time for that,” Laycob replied. “Besides, now that they’re aware of our presence, an exterior approach is much too risky.”

The SEAL pounded on the solid-steel door with his fist. “Then we’re going to need an acetylene torch to cut through all of this metal.”

“There’s supposed to be an emergency circuit panel built into each of the watertight doors,” offered Laycob, his flashlight sweeping the door.

“If we can find it, and trip the circuit, we should be able to open the door manually.”

Thomas Kellogg’s reaction to the warning of a bomb was motivated by pure instinct. Without considering the dangers involved, he sprinted past the collection of weapons pointed his way, his concerns focused on the explosive device that was soon before him.

Thomas studied the IED. The digital timer had just passed five minutes.

It was a relatively simple affair, whose potential destructive power didn’t necessarily correspond to its lump-sized piece of plastic explosive. If this bomb were to indeed detonate, it would surely ignite the tons of volatile fuel oil that lay in the bunkers below, and whose presence Thomas couldn’t miss smelling.

“Go ahead, comrade. Try to defuse it,” dared Liu, his voice barely heard over the engines. “If you fail, we shall die. If you succeed, we will all fall, including the leaders, in the battle that I assure you will ensue. Either way, my friend, I win.”

Thomas was unable to get a good look at the manner in which the wires were connected to the detonator and its nine-volt battery. Pulling out a wire at random was tantamount to suicide, and he listened as Dennis Liu declared:

“If only I had a camera to record this scene for posterity.” Then with a demented laugh, “And to think that this great ship shall serve as our tomb for all eternity!”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to bank on that, lad,” shouted Lt. Col. Lawrence Lay cob from the dark recesses of the compartment.

From out of this same veil of blackness, an eerie collection of needle-thin red beams projected. As they moved forward, sweeping the room, Thomas saw they originated from the laser sights of SEAL Team Two’s weapons, which finally locked on the foreheads of Sunny, Ping, Monica, and Dennis Liu.

Of the foursome, only Liu displayed the reflexes needed to leap away in time, as a deafening volley of shots rang out. In a bare millisecond, three of Liu’s closest associates were dead.

Like a cornered animal, Liu’s pained voice cried out in rage, and he charged into Thomas’s stunned group, wielding his Sterling like a go stick, his hands and feet whirling. With the intensity of a buzz saw, he cut down Tuff, knocked out Robert Hartwell, and sent Vince sprawling, leaving Thomas alone to face his fury.

Thomas oddly enough found himself more concerned with the ticking time bomb than the enraged terrorist who now stood before him. Barely aware of the odd gutter al sounds emanating from Liu’s throat, the blood that gushed from his shoulder wound, and the constant windmill motion of his arms and legs, Thomas lowered his head and blindly charged.

This attack coincided with the arrival of a massive sea wave and Dennis Liu was thrown off balance as the ship rolled hard on its side.

His momentary loss of equilibrium allowed Thomas, to whom the pitch leant momentum, to hit Liu full in the gut with his head and shoulder.

The force of this blow was enough to drive Liu’s body over the protective curved-steel cowling set up against the outer edge of the bulkhead. An anguished wail sounded, followed by a horrible crunching sound, and Thomas fought his way over the pitching deck to see what had happened to his adversary.

Halfway across the compartment, Thomas remembered what this cowling was designed to protect. Peeking over its lip, he saw the bloody remains of Liu, torn to bits by the QE2’s spinning propeller shaft.

Thomas fought back the urge to vomit, his thoughts redirected by the concerned voice of his brother.

“Thomas,” he shouted. “The bomb!”

Desperation guided his steps. He crossed the deck and returned to the explosive device. Vince was at his side as the digital display dropped below one minute.

“You’re the fucking bomb expert, little brother. For God’s sake, do something!”

Tuff offered Thomas his pocket knife, saying, “Will this help?”

Thomas waved away the knife. “They only cut wires in the movies, Tuff.

One wrong slice, and we’re history.”

“Then what other choice do we have?” Vince asked as the timer passed forty-five seconds.

As Ricky, Kristin, and the emerging SEALs led the nine statesmen forward through the airtight door, Thomas cocked back his head to determine his alternatives. He briefly shut his eyes to aid his concentration. As he opened them again, he spotted the metallic spigot of what appeared to be a fire-extinguisher nozzle, protruding from the ceiling above them.

“What’s that?” he queried while pointing upward.

“It’s part of the compartment’s halon fire-extinguisher system,” revealed Tuff, who was more concerned by the digital timer’s breaking of the thirty-second mark.

In a flash of sudden awareness, Thomas shouted, “Trigger the fire extinguisher, Tuff! Activate the damn system!”

Spurred on by the utter intensity of the atf. agent’s command, Tuff sprinted across the deck and smashed the glass window of the nearest fire alarm. The automated system was designed for nearly instantaneous activation, and before Thomas could get out of the way, a torrent of thick, white foam poured out of the overhead spigot.

The halon that dropped onto the bare skin of his neck burned with a fiery intensity, and he felt as if he had been struck by a hot poker.

Yet what Thomas initially mistook for heat, turned out to be produced by a frigid temperature of well below minus-one-hundred-degrees Fahrenheit.

Oblivious to his frostbitten skin, Thomas shielded his eyes to get a look at the bomb’s digital display. Although halon wasn’t as cold as Danny Lane’s liquid nitrogen, the freon derivative hopefully would do the trick. For a terrifying second, he saw only the single figure 1 glowing from the frosted display window. Thomas instinctively held his breath in anticipation of the upcoming blast, when he saw that the 1 appeared to be frozen in place. This joyous realization was confirmed as the soft light of the display abruptly blinked off, its power source deadened by the enveloping foam.

EPILOGUE

Benjamin Hram stood hunched over the USS Folk’s Type 18 search periscope. The lens was set for low light mode, the brightly lit object of his scan appearing to fill the entire northern horizon.

The QE2 was barely 2,000 yards distant, and regardless of the dangers of collision in these storm-tossed seas, this was the distance of separation that Kram had ordered. As the last surviving sub of the escort formation, the Polk wasn’t about to let the ocean liner out of its protective sights.

It wasn’t long after the SDV returned safely to the dry deck shelter, minus its SEAL assault force, that the first highfrequency radio message was received from the QE2. The dispatch was short and to the point, and after Kram read it to the crew over the 1MC, a chorus of relieved cheers filled the Polk. As of an hour before, the ship had been successfully retaken, the terrorist threat eliminated, with the President of the United States and the eight other leaders now under the protective arm of the brave men of SEAL Team Two.

No one was more excited by this news than the Folk’s captain. One of the greatest catastrophes in modern history had been averted, and regardless of the fact that hundreds of brave young men had died along the way, the outcome was cause for celebration.

Scuttlebutt had it that Petty Officer Mallott and his boys in Jimmy’s Buffet were abandoning turkey and serving a real steak dinner that evening. Of course, they still had two days of escort duty to go, with the QE2 already back on course for Southampton.

Kram’s main concern was that the weather topside would worsen.

Hurricane Marti had continued her relentless push to the north, and the Folk’s constantly pitching deck was proof of her gathering fury. Even at periscope depth, the churning seas made submerged travel uncomfortable.

Winds were already gusting to well over fifty knots on the surface, with thirty-to forty-foot waves present. This was impressive, considering that the eye of the storm was more than 140 miles distant.

To safely ride out this tempest, the QE2 had cut its speed to under ten knots. The view from the periscope dramatically displayed the manner in which the giant ocean liner was handling the rough seas. Bobbing from side to side like a bathtub toy, the massive vessel was taking a beating, and Kram felt sorry for its poor passengers.

His view of the ship was veiled momentarily by a wave splashing up against the periscope lens, and Kram began a slow, 360-degree scan of the surrounding seas. Towering swells raged all around them, with jagged streaks of lightning coloring the gray, cloud-filled skies.

“Skipper,” barked the gruff voice of the boat’s COB. “I’ve got the latest TACAMO update. I think you’re going to want to hear it.”

Without bothering to look away from the rubberized lens coupling, Kram replied. “Fire away, COB.”

The COB ducked through the heavy black curtain that separated the periscope pedestal from the rest of the control room. With his glance locked on the overhead monitor screen that displayed a view of Kram’s periscope scan, COB reported.

“The Priority-One transmission originated in the CNO’s Pentagon op center. It informed us that as of 0110 hours, American strategic forces have stood down from a DEFCON Two alert status. This alert was precipitated by threatening moves on the part of outlaw elements inside Red China’s military. Shortly after midnight, our time, the ringleaders of this right-wing, extremist faction were rounded up and arrested.

Included in this group was Adm. Liu Huangtzu, who was reported to have committed suicide before being incarcerated.”

“So the last of the surviving Maoists is finally dead,” reflected Kram, who used his right thumb to amplify the lens to its maximum magnification for a closer study of the wind-carved seas. “If I remember correctly, Admiral Liu was a Long March survivor, and Mao’s most cherished naval advisor. We all know him as the father of the modern PLA Navy. It’s a shame that he had to end his long career under such a black cloud.”

“Speaking of black clouds, Skipper,” interrupted COB, his eyes still locked on the monitor screen. “That sky to our east doesn’t look very promising. Is that a lowlying cloud bank of some sort, visible on the horizon?”

Benjamin Kram had also spotted this alien, dark gray formation that extended the entire length of the eastern horizon. A quick range-check showed it a good 10,000-yards distant. As Kram rechecked this figure, he realized that the mysterious formation was on the move, headed right for them.

“Those aren’t clouds, COB,” observed Kram, his pulse quickening. “It’s a giant wave. That’s got to be over a hundred feet above sea level to be seen from this distance! Get on the radio to warn the QE2. Then we’re taking the Polk down to escape this monster ourselves.”

Trying their best to ignore the wildly pitching deck, a joyous reunion of sorts was taking place inside the QE2’s Bridge. Assembled in one corner were the Kellogg brothers, a bandaged Thomas finally able to tell Vince the exacting details of the events that had led up to his airborne arrival on the ocean liner.

Gathered behind the navigation plot, Lawrence Laycob and Robert Hartwell were discussing old times with Captain Prestwick. It was in 1972 that the three first met on this very same Bridge, on an adjoining portion of the Atlantic. Both men had been SBS commandos at the time, who had parachuted aboard to look for a bomb.

It was shortly after a thorough search of the ocean liner determined that the bomb scare was a hoax that Laycob ceremoniously reached into the folds of his wet suit and pulled out the latest edition of the Times of London for the QE2’s captain. Never in their wildest dreams did they ever think that twenty-five years later, they would be reunited on the QE2’s Bridge once again.

Ronald Prestwick was in the process of accepting Lay cob’s apology for having no Times to give him in this instance when the Folk’s warning arrived via radio. Prestwick himself acknowledged receipt of this urgent dispatch, and after signing off, joined the Bridge’s other occupants at the rain-soaked observation window.

In the middle of this concerned group was Thomas Kellogg, who had to tightly grip the edge of the instrument console to keep from tumbling over. He did his best to peer out the window and spot the giant wave the Polk had just warned them about.

It was a struggle for the exterior, rubber-bladed wipers to clear the rain-soaked window. In those rare instances when Thomas was afforded a clear view, what he saw was far from reassuring. The night was pitch black, with visibility poor. The sea was a roiling mass of white foam, the driving spray constantly lashing the ship in blinding torrents.

Wave after wave smashed over the bow, leaving the foredeck almost permanently awash.

With the assistance of binoculars, it was the ship’s bearded master who was the first to spot the wave. By the time Thomas saw it, Prestwick had already issued the course change needed to point the QE2’s bow directly into the approaching wall of water.

“By Jove, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that we were headed straight for the white cliffs of Dover,” observed Lawrence Laycob, — his clipped British accent delivered with cool aplomb.

Thomas wasn’t nearly as composed as the SBS commando, the terrifying sight he was viewing causing goosebumps to form on his skin. “Oh my God, that thing is huge!” he exclaimed.

The immense wave appeared to fill the entire eastern horizon with its malevolent presence.

“Sweet Jesus,” Vince muttered. “All this, only to be taken down by a damn rogue wave.”

“Concerned, Special Agent?” the ship’s captain said.

“You forget, sir, that you’re sailing aboard the greatest ocean liner ever designed by the hand of man.”

“Yeah, and that’s what the builders of the Titanic said when they labeled her unsinkable,” Vince muttered, so that only his brother could hear.

“I would, however, suggest,” the captain continued, “that we all hold on.”

The company on the Bridge needed little more encouragement as word of the wave went out to the rest of the ship.

What seemed to take an eternity, in reality took less than a minute. In the seconds before the monstrous wave finally arrived, Thomas remembered the way it appeared to fill the entire night sky. This frightening realization was wiped from his mind the moment the wave broke with a tremendous force over the QE2’s bow. A powerful jolt shook the deck, as hundreds of tons of frothing seawater crashed over the Bridge with a resounding roar. Again the deck shuddered wildly, and Thomas got the distinct impression that they had somehow submerged, when the wheelhouse windows failed to clear.

He grasped Vince by the arm, and a surge of panic induced adrenaline coursed through his body, as one of the windshield wipers materialized.

Incredibly enough, it was still working, and as the onrushing water finally cleared, he was at long last able to see the extent of the damages. Except for a portion of bent railing and buckled deck plating, the Foredeck appeared none the worse for wear, with the superstructure itself completely untouched.

“Bit of a wave that,” observed the captain coolly.

An understatement if he ever heard one, Thomas let loose his death grip on Vince’s arm. He watched as the ship’s angled bow bit smoothly into the next thirty-foot swell that followed, and found himself with a newfound respect for the great ship on which they sailed. Though any lesser vessel would have been crushed by the giant wave, this wasn’t the case with the Queen Elizabeth 2. It had suffered attacks by both man and nature, and once again prevailed in the end.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel would not have been possible without the invaluable assistance of the following:

The A-team: the late Brandon Tartikoff, Robert Got tlieb, Matt Bialer, and Steven H. Kram, who generated the creative spark that got this project sailing; Lou Aronica and Stephen S. Power of Avon Books; Antti Pankakoski, Peter Bates, Bill Spears, Eilleen Daily, Julie Davis, and my many new friends at Cunard; The crew of the Queen Elizabeth 2, including Capt. Ronald Warwick, Capt. John Burton-Hall, Alan Parker, Dr. Andrew Eardley, Martin Stenzel, Dan Robinson, Gerry Ellis, John Duffy, and Brian Price; Jean Cartier Sauleau and Monika Dysart of Cartier Travel; The Royal Navy and especially Capt. A. J. Lyall, Comdr. Steve Ramm, Comdr. Geoffrey Mccready, Comdr. Mark Chichester, Comdr. Jonathan Westbrook, and the crew of the HMS Talent; It. Col. M. H. Arndt and the aircrew members of Canadian Air Force Maritime Patrol Squadron 404;

Dianne Coles and John Money of Ocean Books; Rear Adm. Kendall Pease and Comdr. Gary Shrout of the U. S. Navy; Brig. Gen. Ron Sconyers, Col.

Napoleon Byars, Maj. Les Kodlick and Chuck Davis of the U. S. Air Force; Maj. Gen. James Hobson, Maj. Matt Durham, Shirley Sikes, It. Col. Stu Pugh, Maj. Dave Horowitz, and the great folks at Air Force Special Operations Command, Hurlburt Field, Florida; Comdr. Jim Pillsbury, It.

Comdr. Rory Calhoun, and the crew of the USS James K. Polk; The men of SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team Two, along with Comdr. Doug Lowe, It. Comdr.

Jim Fallen, and It. Don Sewell of the Navy Special Warfare Command; Director John Mcgaw, Patrick Hynes, Daniel Hoggatt, John Limbach of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms; Bruce Blair, senior fellow, the Brookings Institution; Special Agent Mike Tarr and Special Agent Arnette F. Heintze Jr. of the U. S. Secret Service; Carleigh Prane, research assistant extraordinaire; and last, but definitely not least, Capt. Jim Patton (USN, Ret.), friend, confidant, and consummate war-garner.

To all of you, my heartfelt thanks for sharing your fascinating worlds with me and my readers!

Queen Elizabeth 2

Keel Laid: 5th July 1965.

Launched: 20th September 1967 by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

Maiden Voyage: 2nd May 1969; Southampton to New York.

Built by: John Brown and Co.

(Clydebank) Ltd, Clydebank, Scotland; later Upper Clyde Shipbuilders, at a cost of 29,091,000.

Re-engined: October 1986-April 1987, by Lloyd Werft. Bremer haven Gmbh, Bremerhaven, Germany.

Port of Registry: Southampton, England.

Signal Letters: G. B.T. T. Official Number: 336703

Satellite Telephone:. 00 871 1440412 (Eastern Atlantic & Mediterranean) prefix 872 for Pacific, 873 for Indian or 874 for Western Atlantic]

Satellite Facsimile: 00 871 1441331 (prefixes as for telephone)

Telex: Telephone number, prefixed by 581 (Atlantic), 582 (Pacific) and 583 (Indian)

Classification: Lloyd’s AI.

Gross Tonnage: 70,327 GRT Net Tonnage: 30,038 n. t.

Length: 963 feet (293.53 metres)

Breadth: 105 feet 2.5 inches (32.06 metres)

Draught: 32 feet, 7.5 inches (9.94 metres)

Height:-Mast head above 200 feet 1.5 inches (61 Keel: metres)

Funnel above 204 feet 1.5 inches (62.2 Keel: metres)

Masthead above 167 feet 1 inch (51.054 Sea Level: metres)

Passenger Capacity: 1500. Approx.

Total number of passengers carried at 20th September 1997, the 30th anniversary of QE2’s launch: 1,875,000 Nautical miles travelled at 4,266,500. This is more 20th September 1997.

The Than The Total distances 30th anniversary of QE2’s travelled by the Queen launch: Elizabeth and Queen Mary together.

Deck Space: 4,500 square feet Decks: 13 Passenger Decks: 10

Electric Current in Cabins: 110/115 volts and 240 volts AC Lifts: 14 Passenger; 2 Car; 8

Store; 1 Engine Room Car Facilities: Room for 16 drive-on, drive-off

Engines: Nine 9-cylinder L58/64 (580 mm bore/640 mm stroke) medium speed turbocharged diesels, running at 400rpm and connected to individual alternators generating 10.5 megawatts each at 10,000 volts. Built by MAN B & W Diesel Gmbh, Angs burg, Germany, each engine weighs 120 tons. Alternators built by GEC, Stafford, England.

Motors: Two electric motors, one on each propeller shaft, rated at a maximum of 44 megawatts each at 144 rpm. Built by GEC, Rugby, England, the motors each weigh over 400 tons and are over 9 metres in diameter. They are the largest marine motors ever built. The diesel electric system produces 130,000lip, which is the most powerful propulsion plant of any merchant ship in the world. The 95 MW total power output is enough to light a city the size of Southampton. QE2 is thus the fastest merchant ship in operation.

Boilers: Nine waste heat recovery exhaust gas boilers mounted on the engine exhaust uptakes, and two oil fired boilers. These produce steam for fuel heating, domestic fresh water heating, heating of swimming pools and steam for the laundry equipment and kitchens. Built by Sunrod, Sweden.

Propellers: Two outward-turning controllable pitch. Diameter 19 feet 8 inches (6.0 metres). The propeller shafts are both 262.5it (80m) long and 23.2 in (590mm) in diameter. Built by Lips, Drunen, Netherlands.

Bow Thrusters: Two stone Kame Wa of 1,000 lip per unit.

Stabilisers: Four Denny Brown, each fin projects from the ship’s side by 12 it (3.65m) and is 6it (1.85m) wide. They reduce rolling by 60 %.

Speed: Maximum 32.5 knots, service 28.5 knots. Service speed is achievable using eight of the nine engines.

Tank Capacities: Fresh Water-1,852.0 tonnes Laundry Water-489.0 tonnes Diesel Oil-206.8 tonnes Fuel Oil-4,381.4 tonnes Lubricating Oil-335.7 tonnes Ballast-4,533.0 tonnes Feed Water-113.8 tonnes Water Production: Four Serck vacuum evaporators, producing 240 tonnes each per day, and one reverse osmosis plant producing 400 tonnes. Total production is 1,360 tonnes per day, and consumption about 850 tonnes per day, equivalent to 12 of the ship’s swimming pools.

Fire Fighting System: Housed within the machinery spaces, pressure tanks for the accommodation sprinkler system and continuously running fire pumps ensure that water is always available at sprinkler heads and fire hydrants. Virtually every fire fighting aid is available, ranging from foam and CO2 to the Halon injection system.

Sanitation System: The sewage disposal plants, completely self-contained and sealed, are located on eight deck.

Anchors: Forward-two of 12.5 tons each, on 3 15/16 in. diameter cable 2,200 feet long. Aft-one of 7.5 tonnes, on 3 in. diameter cable 720 feet long Rudder Weight: 80 tonnes.

Fuel Consumption: 16 tonnes per hour, or 380 tonnes per day. This is equal to six of the ship’s swimming pools.

The ship’s fuel oil tank capacity of 4,381.4 tonnes is sufficient for 11 days sailing at 28.5 knots, equalling 7,500 miles. One gallon of fuel will move the ship 49.5 feet; with the previous steam turbine engines, one gallon of fuel moved the ship 36 feet.

Stopping Capability: The ship can reduce speed from 32.5 knots full ahead to standstill in 3 minutes 39 seconds, in a distance of 0.75 nautical miles (1.39kill). The ship can go from standstill to full speed astern (19 knots) in one minute.

Radar: Three Kelvin Hughes Nucleus ARPA radars, 3em and 10 em, fully inter switched. Two NINAS navigation works stations complete with an electronic chart display utilising ARCS disks. Two Kelvin Hughes Qubit Master Yeoman plotting tables.

Logs: Raytheon DSL 250 Doppler Speed Log; Raytheon EML 201 Electromagnetic Log.

Satellite navigator: Racal MK 90 GPS Satellite Navigator, Magnavox MX 200 GPS Receiver.

Hyperbolic Navigational Aids: Decca Navigator; Loran C. Autopilot: Sperry U. G.P. Autopilot.

Compasses: Two Sperry MK.37 Gyro Compasses; Liney and Gillie Magnetic.

Whistles: Three Tyfon Whistles, audible for up to 2 miles.

Navigational charts: The chartroom has approximately 1,500 charts, covering most of the world. They are updated weekly.

Lifeboats: 20; total capacity 2,244 persons

Liferafts: 56; total capacity 1,400 persons

Buoyant Apparatus: 12; total capacity 200 persons

Lifejackets: 3.474

Lifebuoys: 42

USS James K. Polk SSBN-645D

The keel for the Navy’s 35th Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine and the third ship of the fleet to be named in honor of James K. Polk was laid at General Dynamics Corporation’s Electric Boat Division at Groton, Connecticut, on 23 November 1963. A year and a half later, this submarine began her waterborne career after being christened USS JAMES K. POLK (SSBN 645) by Mrs. Hora cio Rivero, Jr.” on 22 May 1965. For the next 10 months, she underwent fitting-out and on 13 March 1966, she conducted her first sea trials. USS JAMES K. POLK was commissioned as a ship of the U. S. Navy on 16 April 1966.

The POLK combined the almost unlimited endurance of nuclear power with the deterrent might of 16 thermonuclear missiles capable of wreaking more havoc than all the bombs of World War II. These missiles had a range of 2,500 nautical miles and were housed in 16 launching tubes located aft of the sail.

USS JAMES K. POLK sailed to Charleston, South Carolina, in September 1966 to load-out Polaris missiles for her initial deterrent patrol.

After completion of the shakedown period, the POLK operated in the Atlantic Ocean and completed 19 highly successful deterrent patrols from September 1966 until May 1971.

USS JAMES K. POLK conducted her first overhaul at Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock Company in Virginia for nuclear refueling and conversion of the weapons system to the Poseidon missile system in July 1971. POLK completed her conversion in late 1972 and commenced a rigorous schedule of sea trials and exercises. These events culminated in the Demonstration and Shakedown Operation (DASO) of the Poseidon missile system. The DASO afforded the opportunity to test the ship’s system, train the crew and launch a Poseidon C-3 missile from the submarine.

USS JAMES K. POLK commenced Poseidon deterrent patrols in the Atlantic Ocean in May 1973 and conducted 31 more highly successful deterrent patrols. The POLK conducted her second overhaul at Portsmouth Naval Shipyard after completing her 50th deterrent patrol in September 1981.

The ship completed overhaul in 1983 and conducted 7 more highly successful deterrent patrols.

USS JAMES K. POLK returned to Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in January 1986 for a third overhaul after completing her 58th deterrent patrol. POLK departed Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in November 1988 and sailed south for commencement of her Demonstration and Shakedown Operations (DASO).

May 1989 marked the beginning of the final series of Poseidon strategic deterrent patrols for the POLK.

USS JAMES K. POLK celebrated her 25th year of commissioned service in April 1991. The POLK completed her 66th and final strategic deterrent patrol in August 1991. The POLK completed a nineteen-month shipyard conversion availability which removed her 16 Poseidon missiles and became a Dual Dry Deck Shelter Special Warfare submarine in March 1994.

The POLK will conduct both special warfare operations and general submarine operations.

Keel Laid: 23 November 1963

Launched: 22 May 1965

Commissioned: 16 April 1966

Length: 425

Feet Beam: 33

Feet Displacement

Surfaced: About 7000 Tons

Displacement Submerged: About 8200 Tons

Speed Submerged: Over 20 Knots

Diving Depth: Over 400 Feet

Built By: Electric Boat Division of General Dynamics

Conversion from Polaris to Poseidon: Newport News Shipbuilding

Conversion to Dry Deck Shelter — special Operations — Norfolk Naval Shipyard Platform: March 1994

HMS Talent

Length, Overall: 85.4 metres

Breadth, Moulded: 9.83 metres

Displacement (Standard): 5208.3 Tonnes

Complement: 14 Officers and 97 men

Vickers Shipbuilding & Engineering Builders: Ltd. Barrow-infurness

Launched: April, 1988 by HRH The Princess Royal

Armament: Torpedoes and Missiles

Machinery: Pressurised water nuclear reactor generating steam for geared turbines.