Leviathan

1

The Event Group Center was as quiet as anyone stationed there had ever heard it. For the men and women of Department 5656, a dark and secret entity of the National Archives, the day was darker than even their mission for the United States government. They were saying good-bye to forty-six of their own people. One man in particular — Colonel Jack Collins, United States Army.

The assembled military, scientific, research, academic, and philosophical staffs were seated in the overcrowded main cafeteria of the complex, because the small chapel deep on level eight would have been too small for this massive turnout.

As the Dire Straits' haunting tune "Brothers in Arms" played, the mood was somber. Director Niles Compton had made the decision, and the new head of security agreed, that no eulogy for those lost would be given; the memorial would be a silent tribute to men and women lost in the Atlantis operation six weeks before.

The Event Group was the most secret section of the federal government outside of the National Security Agency. Their task was to uncover historical truths from the past, changes in the fabric of history that led to world-altering events. This helped identify them or their parallel in today's world, and advise the president of the consequences, good or bad, so he could make the decision whether to act or not act on a fluid situation that resembled an event from the past.

The agency was a ghostly rumor to almost everyone in government service. President of the United States Franklin Delano Roosevelt built the permanent Event Group Complex in 1943 under the strictest of secrecy. It served as a research and storage facility that protected the greatest secrets of the world's past. The concept was a child of Abraham Lincoln, thought of in the waning days of the Civil War, and finally brought into being as an official agency by Woodrow Wilson. The group's chartered mission was to uncover the civilization altering events that could change the course of history.

The Atlantis incident was the reason they were gathered today, to pay their respects to those lost. The scrolls of that once-mythical civilization, which described a weapon of immense power that could shatter cities by the manipulation of the earth's plate tectonics, were discovered thousands of years later by an unscrupulous society that attempted a financial takeover of the world. This group was responsible for the deaths of millions, including the men and women remembered today.

Captain Carl Everett stood hidden in the back of the cafeteria with eyes lowered. His best friend, the head of the security department, was why he was there. Now promoted into that friend's position within the Event Group, Everett was hesitant to start his new duties.

He failed to see a small man stand in the front of the room and move silently toward him. Director Niles Compton cleared his throat when he saw Everett was deep in thought.

"Sorry, I was someplace else," Everett said, adjusting the sleeves of his blue jumpsuit.

"You're not wearing your class-A naval uniform," Niles stated.

"I really didn't think I would find myself here."

"I see. Thinking about Jack?" Niles asked.

"Well, more Sarah than Jack."

"Captain, Lieutenant McIntire is where she needs to be. I ordered her home to spare her things like this. She doesn't need a complexwide gathering to remind her she lost Jack. She needs to heal up, and then return to the Group when she's ready, not before."

Everett only nodded his head.

Sarah McIntire had been in love with Jack Collins, and his loss had affected her far more than anyone. She was outwardly strong and wanted to stay, but Director Compton had ordered immediate convalescent leave at her mother's in Arkansas.

"Captain—" Niles caught himself being officious. "Carl, go back to your department. We have to get the Group restaffed. You have some flights to make to different bases for recruitment, to get the security department up and running again. The world moves on."

"Yes, sir," Everett said as the last refrains of "Brothers in Arms" echoed inside the large cafeteria.

The large assembly of Event Group personnel started moving out of their chairs, and passed by Everett silently. He locked eyes with two men, Lieutenant Jason Ryan, detached from the navy, and Lieutenant Will Mendenhall, a former staff sergeant in the army and recently promoted to second lieutenant. They nodded their greeting, and then walked past the captain.

Everett saw their strength. Saw that no matter what, they would move on, not forgetting about Jack Collins and the others, but keeping what they had with the man close inside themselves. Everett decided he would do the same.

They would all honor Jack by doing their duty.

The president was sitting in the Oval Office, looking over a speech he had written for his appearance at the United Nations the next day. His address would cover the humanitarian efforts currently being conducted by the free world to assist North Korea and the Russian Republic in rebuilding the areas of their countries ravaged by earthquakes during the Atlantis incident, about which the public knew nothing. The extremist cell behind the earthquakes had been dealt with in the harshest capital terms, and now the president was trying to put the pieces of a smashed world economy back into the black.

He was sipping coffee when the phone buzzed. "Yes," he said into the intercom.

"Mr. President, the director of the FBI is insisting upon seeing you."

"Send him in, please."

William Cummings and National Security Advisor Harford Lehman soon entered hurriedly.

The president looked at both men with his coffee cup raised halfway to his mouth.

"Billy, Harrison, it hasn't been a good couple of days, and you're not here to cheer me up, are you?" he said, placing his speech on the desk.

"We received this at ten this morning, addressed to me personally. I am instructed to forward it to you."

The president set his cup down, opened the red-bordered file, and read the first page.

"And you're taking this seriously?" he asked the director as he flipped to the next page.

"Yes, sir, the communication came in through a secure FBI covert channel used only for field operatives in foreign service. Someone knows an awful lot about our procedures to crack that little gem."

"You're thinking a terrorist threat?"

"That's our conclusion, but it really doesn't matter at this point."

"All it is asking is that we convince Venezuela to delay the opening of the oil production facilities in Caracas for seventy-two hours; then this faction, whoever they are, will address to the world the reasons why the plant cannot go online."

The president held up his hand when both men started to say something.

"President Chavez isn't exactly listening to us Americans lately; he won't want to delay opening that facility because of a threat passed to him through us. Remember, I signed the OAS petition to have him closed down. If he won't listen to his neighbors in the Organization of American States, he sure as hell won't listen to me, not with China and most of the European Union screaming for his product."

"Sir, some maniac is threatening him with a nuclear strike if that plant goes online," Harford Lehman said, pointing at the message.

"Of course we'll pass this on to the Venezuelan authorities with the highest alert possible, but they won't take this threat seriously. Are we chasing down any leads on this?"

"We have the obvious courses of action in the loop now, sir — Greenpeace, the Coalition for Green Solution, but they wouldn't issue such a threat; they know everyone would take it as a joke. A nuclear strike is somewhat beyond their power scope, and also a bit counterproductive to their goals."

The president looked from the director of the FBI to his security advisor. He then pressed his intercom.

"Marjorie, I need to speak with our ambassador in Venezuela. He has to get President Chavez to take a call from me; it's most imperative that he listen to what I have to say. If that fails, I need the ambassador of China to that country. I have to talk to someone down there. Also get the directors of CIA and NSA in here, ASAP."

"We wouldn't term this as plausible, but breaking into our secure computer system makes this more than just your average nut," the FBI director said, looking directly at the president. "They could have done God knows what to our system, but their only interest was to get our attention and to pass on this message."

The president closed the folder in front of him.

"Well, whoever they are did exactly that, didn't they?"

2

He was dreaming once again. As before in other dreams, he tried desperately for that one snatch of breath but found the effort far too great for the mere reward of air. He allowed the hot waters of the sea to claim his body even as his mind refused to submit. The past swirled about him as did the water, spinning him in all directions.

He saw in the dream the darkness close in, as did the feeling of loss, not for himself, but of something, or someone just out of sight of his dying consciousness. A womanly smile momentarily lingered at the edge of memory and then vanished. He felt the horrible pressure of the sea as it started to claim his physical body. He could stand it no longer; he opened his mouth and tried for the breath he so desperately needed. The hot waters of the exploding sea entered his parched mouth, and then the pain he had been feeling started to fade.

The sunlight from above dimmed, and his body grew limp. He was drowning, and while that was once a repugnant thought to him, it now became comforting. He knew he had succeeded in what he had started out to do, and so it was all right. His mind was at ease, except for that one thing his memory could not grasp.

The dream took a different turn, as it always did at this point. Hands were pulling him away, pulling him deeper. He always wanted to shout out that he was dying, so why not just let him get on with it. Regardless of his pleas, they would still pull him down until a false bright light filtered into his closed eyes. Then the pain started as it always did, but now for the first time, a new element was added to this most uncomfortable dream — voices from the dark.

"Our guest is coming around."

"Captain, you scared me. The last I heard you were sound asleep in your cabin."

"The last I heard, Doctor, I had the freedom of my own ship."

"Yes, ma'am, I was just—"

"This man is far more formidable than you are used to dealing with, Doctor. I do not want him to know where he is, and he is not to know who pulled him from the water. Can you keep him under?"

"I can place him into a coma if need be. If I may ask, why save him if he is a danger to you — to us?"

"I have my plans for him. With what I can learn from this man, the dangers are worth the risk of his being here, and we can avoid the risk of losing our asset inside his agency."

"Captain, why the sudden change of mind about placing the implant inside this man?"

"I believe your job onboard this vessel is as physician, mine as captain. That is all you need know."

The dream was fading and the man's mind seemed to be dimming with it. The voices in the dark had an echoing lilt to them as he fell deeper into the abyss of the mind, but the man managed to force his eyes open, if only for a bright, flashing moment. There was a figure standing in the dark. Then he heard a mechanical announcement: "Captain, we have come to the specified coordinates." With that the figure turned and vanished.

A moment passed, and then with blurry vision he saw another, very much smaller form step from the back of the room. Then a soft voice—

"Why did you allow the captain to cancel this man's surgery, Doctor?"

"You heard her, she's the captain and she — what are you doing with that? The captain said no implant!"

The man tried desperately to open his eyes. He saw the small figure holding a jar, or was it a glass? The figure handed the object to a man who was sitting down. Before his eyes fluttered closed, he saw the thing in the jar — a gelatinous, tentacled mass, clear, bluish in color, and about the size of an aspirin as it floated at the center of a clear solution. The man tried to frame a thought, but as he did the world went dark, and sleep started to overtake him once more.

Before going completely under, the man saw that someone was standing over him, looking at him for the longest time, as if examining him, seeking a truth of something he could not begin to understand. The smallish figure was but a shadow, but he could swear the eyes were bright blue and ringed in green, just as the deep and cold oceans.

"We need to keep a closer eye on our captain, Doctor."

The aged supertanker Goliath made her way slowly along the Venezuelan coast, her empty oil bunkers allowing the VLCC (Very Large Crude Carrier) to ride high, well above her loaded waterline. The newly constructed crude depot at Caracas waited to load her with its inaugural shipment of refined oil from the controversial facility. The many construction shortcuts and current unrest of union oil workers allowed a pall of contention and outright anger to hover over the plant's ceremonious opening.

The Panamanian-flagged Goliath was no stranger to controversy herself as she plied her way toward port. The old, decrepit tanker was a constant thorn in the side of most nations and oil companies, as her deteriorating double-hulled design was continually leaking her wares into the open sea. It was only the recently rogue nation of Venezuela that kept the supertanker viable and in business, as the other exporting nations shunned her almost to the scrapheap.

A mile to her stern was her ever-present Greenpeace escort, Atlantic Avenger, out of Perth, Australia. She shadowed Goliath, taking water samples and harassing the great vessel whenever she could. The Chinese diesel-powered attack submarine Red Banner shadowed both vessels at one kilometer away, far beneath the sea. The communist Chinese government was taking massive, and some would say illegal, steps to ensure Goliath made her delivery date in the next few weeks, as the oil-poor superpower sought desperately to feed her ever-expanding industrial might.

On the bridge of Goliath, Captain Lars Petersen scanned the waters just to the south. The telltale wake of a submarine periscope was cutting a wide, intentionally arrogant path through the Atlantic as the Chinese made their presence known to the activist ship shadowing them. Petersen smiled, and then walked out onto the bridge wing, scanning his binoculars to the south and west.

The Atlantic Avenger was starting to make her hourly run toward the stern of the giant ship. They would pass close to the supertanker, filming the leakage of her bunkers and holding up their protest banners stating his vessel was the scourge of the sea.

"We have surface contact bearing one-three-eight degrees. Contact is possible Venezuelan navy escort vessel."

Captain Petersen took one last look at the 100-foot Greenpeace ship, then turned to his first officer.

"Our friends are starting their harassment run. Watch them and make sure they keep the proper safety distance."

"Aye, Captain."

Petersen stepped into the giant bridge of the Goliath and scanned the horizon. He finally spied the vessel in question, and he could see by her silhouette it was their old friend, the General Santiago, a small missile frigate formerly belonging to the French navy and then sold to Venezuela five years before.

"I have visual contact. Send to General Santiago welcome and to please take up station to our starboard beam. Inform them we have a friendly submerged contact bearing one kilometer astern."

"Aye, sir."

Petersen was about to walk out onto the bridge wing and view the Greenpeace run on his ship when a sudden, piercingly loud alarm warning sounded.

"We have a submerged contact bearing zero-one-nine at two thousand yards. This is a hard contact, we wouldn't have heard it, but — oh, my God — someone is opening torpedo tubes to the sea!"

"What?" Petersen was taken back by the sudden, stunning announcement.

"We have high-speed noises, possible torpedoes in the water!"

The captain froze in abject horror. His first officer called out he had a visual on the spot of contact, but Petersen just stood frozen to the deck.

"Torpedoes?" was all he could get out of his frozen throat.

"What do you mean, torpedoes?" Captain Xian Jiang asked loudly as he picked up a set of headphones at the sonar station and listened.

The high-pitched sound was nothing like the turning propellers of any high-speed torpedo he had ever heard. His sonar man was saying something about the new quieter air-jet powered weapons the Americans had been working on instead of listening; he slammed his fist down on the operator's shoulder to quiet him. He heard the sound of the approaching weapons when a loud pop sounded in the headphones.

"More torpedoes in the water!" the operator called out. "They are actively seeking and are bearing right on us!"

"Distance?" Xian shouted.

"Three hundred yards — closing fast!"

"Impossible. Nothing could have gotten that close without being detected."

"Sir, nonetheless, we are under attack. The weapons went active as soon as they hit the water — torpedoes have acquired!"

"All-ahead flank, hard left rudder! Weapons Officer, match bearing on the attack line and fire! Countermeasures, launch a full spread!"

The Chinese Akula class attack boat swayed and dipped violently as she maneuvered her heavy bulk to the left of the attacking torpedoes. Arrayed along the aft quarter of the submarine, a line of canisters popped free and began to release a burst of sound cocooned in bubbles into the surrounding water that was a mimicked recording of her own electric power plant noises, including the cavitations print of her bronze propeller. As the massive vessel turned, the two strange missile-shaped torpedoes turned with her. The Red Banner's propeller finally grasped the water and shot down and to the left, but she could not shake the oncoming weapons that had doubled the boat's speed — both weapons shot cleanly through the countermeasures without hesitation.

The captain froze as men started shouting orders. He knew they had but three seconds of life left to them.

The torpedoes struck almost simultaneously at the stern and under her keel amidships. The immense pressure wave cracked the Chinese hull like an eggshell and crushed all aboard in a microsecond.

Petersen finally caught sight of the two fast-approaching torpedoes that had suddenly popped toward the surface. In absolute horror he saw, in surreal slow motion, the Greenpeace vessel Atlantic Avenger innocently and unknowingly swing her razor-sharp bow into the oncoming path of the outside weapon. The torpedo struck, blowing her beautifully painted bow off in a violent explosion that shook the giant oil tanker.

Petersen now had a slim hope that the remaining weapon would not be enough to hurt his massive ship. As he grasped on to that lone shred of hope, a sudden explosion to the south sent water upward into a plume of white foam and violence that announced that two subsurface-to-surface missiles were launched, just as the errant torpedo had been sent into the wrong ship. First one, then the other missile arched into the blue sky. As one missile kept climbing, the other turned down, and to the north as it streaked far ahead of the waterbound torpedo. The missile slammed into Goliath at her stern, ripping free her rudder and sending men sprawling to her elongated deck.

"We're hit!" someone called from the bridge.

Petersen wanted to scream in frustration for the officer to tell him something he did not know. However, before he could he saw that the second missile had turned toward the advancing Venezuelan missile frigate. Just as he saw the naval vessel start a slow turn to the west, the first torpedo slammed violently into Goliath's side, sending a giant mushroom cloud of steel and vaporized oil into the sky. Petersen tried to pick himself up off the deck as the ship was rocked again, this time from a distance as the second missile found its mark and slammed into the afterdeck of the guided missile frigate General Santiago, two miles away.

Who could be doing this? His mind raged as he reached for the sill lining the front windows of the bridge. Could it be the Americans, the Russians? They were the only two nations capable of such stealth and weaponry. The captain finally managed to gain his feet and look out onto the expanding horror that was Goliath's foredeck. Fires were raging, and he could see the giant ship was starting to list severely to starboard.

"Mr. Jansen, counterflood! Goddamn it, counterflood the port bunkers!"

"More missiles in the air!" someone screamed.

As Petersen looked on in shock, six separate trails of fire exited the sea. Four streaked to the west, gaining altitude, and two came directly at them. He managed a quick glance down at Atlantic Avenger just as she started to slide bow first into the green sea, and crew and protesters were sliding and jumping from her decks. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer for them as the next two missiles found their mark, driving deep into the superstructure of the tanker.

The detonations shook the ocean for thirty-five miles in all directions as the old ship came apart and evaporated in her final, violent, split-second death. The expanding fireball that incinerated all who struggled to remain on the surface swallowed the surviving crew along with the remaining detritus of the Atlantic Avenger. Those who fought for survival beneath the water were torn to pieces by the pressure wave that slammed into them at over a thousand feet per second, sending their flesh into a billion microscopic additions to the raging sea, and also into the gathering mushroom cloud that was expanding like the rising sun over the green ocean.

The newly constructed crude-oil facility owned and operated by the Citgo Oil concern was a monstrosity that had displaced seventy-five thousand impoverished inhabitants in the suburbs of Caracas. Outside of her main gates, six hundred of these citizens stood side by side with five hundred union workers, protesting both their recent treatment by Venezuelan government and the nationalization of the oil industry, thus tossing the unions into oblivion.

Security was not only there for the protesters. Word had come down that there had been some sort of threat passed on by the American government concerning the opening of the world's most controversial oil facility.

Two miles inside the main gates, officials from China, Cuba, and Venezuela were on hand for the dedication ceremony. The concern was a joint financial venture between the three nations in an effort to thwart the United States and her allies — mainly Saudi Arabia — in what they considered unfair manipulation of the world's oil supplies.

The CEO of CITGO Petroleum and the interior minister of Venezuela shook hands, smiling broadly. The latter was there in place of president for life Hugo Chavez, a sworn enemy of the very democracies that had helped them in their national oil exploration treaties a decade before. Even after the threat that had been passed on by the president of the United States, Chavez still held firm that nothing and no one would stand in the way of his achieving an international power base and a strategic partner in China for his oil products. He even had announced plans for expanding into the Gulf of Mexico — an area that was quickly becoming a hot spot for environmentalists.

The interior minister was about to take the microphone to denounce the unpatriotic actions of the protesters outside the gates when air raid sirens began to blare loudly around the new facility. The Venezuelan minister looked around in confusion, the smile still stretched across his dark features, when three security men jumped upon the stage, took him by the arms, and moved him off the raised platform. The Chinese representative looked on in confusion, as did his Cuban counterpart. Then another set of military police appeared and harshly pulled the two diplomats to their feet.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Cuban minister cried out in Spanish as he was pulled unceremoniously from the dais.

"We have an air force warning of incoming cruise missiles. Please come with us, we have to—"

That was as far as the military security guard's explanation got, as the sound of four shrieking missiles froze everyone inside and outside the oil facility.

"Look!" the Chinese minister shouted as he pointed skyward.

As they turned, they saw the distinctive vapor trails of four missiles as they crossed over dry ground from their trek inland from the sea. The first missile dipped and came apart just over the crude-oil loading facility. A nuclear airburst set to detonate at three hundred feet vaporized both the docks and the pipeline that carried crude from the plant to the oceanside loading facility. The next three missiles traveled one, two, and three miles inland, then detonated over the two-mile-wide plant itself. The fireball created by the simultaneous detonations was in the yield range of 5.5 megatons each, a relatively light package by military standards, melting steel and flash-frying human flesh as the brand-new controversial facility, along with everyone present, ceased to exist in the blink of an eye. The weapons did not differentiate protester from government lackey, as all were instantly vaporized in a microsecond of heat and wind.

Twenty miles offshore the great monster rose from the sea to expose her conning tower and the large rudder fins at her stern — the tower so tall that if viewed it would have looked as if a mountain suddenly rose from the roiling sea. The great beast's interior electronics recorded wind conditions and temperature variants from the sea and outlying land coordinates, without a soul having to be exposed to the air. The gleaming black hull glistened in what remained of the morning sun and blue sky, which was quickly becoming cloud-laden and threatening rain. The darkening skies nearly matched the countenance of the giant vessel's captain, as the attack area was surveyed on monitors in the main control center and the conning tower overlooking the scene of devastation.

The captain stood, walked to the spiral staircase that wound its way upward through the skyscraper-sized conning tower, and then opened the hatch to the private observation suite. Once there the captain examined the waters outside the three-foot-thick, twenty-five-foot-diameter port viewing window sitting just above the waves that hit harmlessly against the vessel's sonar-absorbing hull.

As the captain scanned the now-calm sea, a body floated by, bobbing in the gentle swell. The captain's eyes closed as the body struck the hull and then continued, spinning and dipping in the sea. The dead had been a woman, dressed in civilian clothes, indicating she might have been one of the Greenpeace volunteers from the unintentionally destroyed Atlantic Avenger. The captain looked away just as orders were shouted below to get under way, and the burned and mangled body mercifully vanished from sight.

"Captain, we have a submerged contact at twenty kilometers and closing — possible submarine close-aboard. Computer says there is a ninety-three percent possibility it is a Los Angeles class attack boat. We will have her prop signature momentarily."

The captain continued to stare at the now-s till waters where three ships and a submarine had once been. Then the deep blue eyes closed as three mushroom shaped clouds slowly rose from the west, indicating their attack there had concluded.

The war those fools sought had begun in the violent way all wars start, and the winner upon this new battlefront would be no nation that currently held power in the world. The winner would be life itself.

"Take her down to two thousand feet. As we clear the continental shelf, bring her up to seventy-five knots, on a heading to our next objective. It is neither the time nor the place to confront the U.S. Navy. They'll have other concerns very soon."

"Aye, Captain."

With that, the giant vessel slipped under the waves and silently departed the attack zone specifically chosen two years before this dark day, just after the announcement of the day that oil operations were to commence at the damnable facility.

The captain moved away from the thick acrylic window, using a control on the chair behind to close the clamshell titanium cover, and then slowly made for the control room. "Please send the surgeon to my cabin."

"Aye, Captain," the first officer said as he snapped his fingers at the bridge security officer and pointed aft, sending him to collect the doctor.

Around the fully holographic control center of the giant beast, the crew looked upon their captain with admiration and dedication.

The most amazing machine in the history of the world was brought up to her cruising speed, and then silently started making her way south.

On the surface above, only smoldering debris marked the spot where the giant vessel had been only moments before. The captain of this strange submarine knew that soon the sea would heal itself, and the sea life there would return to normal, never to be placed in danger by humankind again.

The United States fast-attack nuclear submarine USS Columbia was shallow as she attempted to gather readings from the air and water surrounding the boat. Then the large sub went back into deep water to evaluate their readings.

The Los Angeles class submarine had been on maneuvers with one of the newest Ohio-class missile boats, USS Maine (SSBN 741) while they conducted DSEM (Deep Submergence Evasive Maneuvering), a new drill thought up by COMSUBLANT (Commander, Submarine Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet).

The Columbia, normally based in Hawaii, had recently finished a scheduled refit at Newport News, Virginia, at the general dynamics facility. From there she was ordered to conduct operations with Maine on her return trip back around the Horn of South America. The drill suddenly halted when the waters fifty kilometers to the south erupted in sound. While the Maine went deep and evacuated the area for security reasons, the Columbia went south at flank speed to investigate the war noises emanating somewhere off the coastline of Venezuela.

Captain John Lofgren watched the readings on the infrared detectors and frowned. He turned to his first officer, Lt. Commander Richard Green, and shook his head.

"Whatever happened up there, it was hot as hell. The water temperature is twenty degrees above normal. Moreover, what were those strange noises prior to all hell breaking loose? They weren't any torpedo sounds I've ever heard before."

"We have confirmation, Captain," the chief of the boat called out. "We have elevated but still low radiation readings on the surface. Computers still say nuclear detonation, probably light in yield."

"We're also picking up elevated levels of airborne contaminate coming in from the west," a second tech called from his station.

"What in the hell is going on?" Lofgren asked as he returned to control. "Dick, we have to get this off to COMSUBLANT — let's get Columbia up to periscope depth."

Captain Lofgren was holding the set of headphones to his ears as he listened inside of the BQQ-5E sonar suite.

"I still don't hear a thing," he said to his sonar team.

"It's there, Captain, five miles outside of the target area. Just as we were approaching station it passed right beneath us," Petty Officer John Cleary said as he adjusted the volume control to the captain's headset.

"Tell me again what in the hell it's supposed to be I'm listening for?"

The young petty officer seemed lost for words again as he looked from his captain to the first officer standing just inside the curtain of the sonar station.

"It's like… like… a pressure wave of some kind, and it's moving extremely fast. The only thing that can cause something like that is a large object moving through the sea. We hear the same thing with whales, only on a smaller scale."

"I just don't hear it."

"How fast did you say it was moving again?" the first officer asked.

This time the operator looked at his training partner, who had also failed to hear the strange noise. He swallowed, then looked at the two officers.

"About seventy-six knots. I measured the speed of the pressure wave against our static location."

Lofgren removed the headphones and looked at the operator, but Cleary kept his eyes straight ahead, not flinching away from his captain's questioning look.

"Captain, it went to almost eighty knots speed after I detected it, and at the moment it passed beneath us I felt the boat…" He stopped, knowing the explanation would sound too amazing to believe.

"Felt the boat what?"

"I have the computer and depth track on paper to back me on this, Captain."

Lofgren didn't say anything as he waited.

"Columbia actually rose in depth by eight feet as water under our keel was displaced by whatever it was that plowed beneath us when we came into the affected area." The sonar man pulled a graph and showed it to the two officers. "One minute we're at three hundred and three feet of depth, the next we went to two hundred and ninety-five — a difference of eight feet. Something monstrous passed beneath our keel at that exact time. What could move a Los Angeles class boat by that much depth from that far away?"

The first officer raised his eyebrows and looked at Lofgren.

"I guess it would have had to have been big to shove aside that much water. Are you sure the object was that deep?"

Again, the young man was hesitant to answer. "Captain, it was so deep that…" He saw the impatience showing on both officers' faces. "About fifteen hundred feet at first contact."

"Fifteen hundred feet of depth and then it suddenly sprang like a cheetah up to seventy-five knots? I can't buy that, Cleary. Not even the Russians have anything remotely close to half that," the first officer said.

"Write it up, Cleary, and get it to me. We'll bait the hook and send it out and see if anyone at COMSUBLANT bites."

As Captain Lofgren returned to the conn, he half-turned to his first officer.

"Before you say anything, Dick, we know the attack on the surface happened, and we know Columbia didn't do it. Therefore, someone else had to have done it. In addition, that someone did it in clear listening range of not only us, but also that Chinese sub they handled with ease. I'll bet my command that the attacker and Cleary's strange contact are one and the same."

The captain turned and saw the eyes of his crew looking at him. The unknowns being pondered frightened them, and he could see it.

Every man aboard knew they had something in the water that could outrun and outgun them, and nothing made an American submariner more concerned than an unseen and unknown enemy.

3

Director Niles Compton sat with the sixteen departmental heads of the Event Group, silently watching a briefing delivered to the President of the United States by his national security team from the White House. The council there did not know the Event Group was listening in.

"With our losses in the sea of Japan five weeks ago, our weakened status dictates that we have to redeploy our forces even more thinly than they are," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Kenneth Caulfield, said as he stood before the large situation board.

"Ken, we'll get back to that. What I want to know is what we have on the attacks in Venezuela."

Caulfield nodded toward Admiral Fuqua, the naval chief of staff, who opened a file folder and cleared his throat as if he were uncomfortable with what he was about to say.

"The detonations at sea against the oil tanker, the Greenpeace vessel, and the Chinese attack submarine were nuclear in nature. The yield of each weapon estimated at only five-point-six kilotons. As with the warheads detonated over Caracas, the radiation yield was almost nonexistent. These were the cleanest weapons we have ever come across. Dissipation occurred only hours after the attacks, and there are no lingering effects to air, ground, or sea."

"That's impossible," ventured the president's national security advisor. "No one has weapons that clean, we would have—"

"Andy, what have the boys across the river come up with on where this nuclear material originated?" the president asked CIA Director Andrew Cummings.

"Well, sir, the samples sent to us by courier from our naval asset in the area support no conclusions as to where this material was bred; they only raise more questions."

"Come on, Andy, I'm not going to hold you to it. Give me what your people are thinking."

"We have nothing on record as far as a nuclear fingerprint goes. This material may have been spawned by a breeder reactor that has not been identified."

"Again, that's impossible; the Nuclear Regulatory Commission has—"

"Damn it." The president slammed his palm down on the tabletop, cutting his security advisor short once more. "I think everyone in this room better have learned by now that there are people out there we know nothing about. The Atlantis incident should have taught you that. Assume we have someone out there that can toss clean nukes around. Let's concentrate on finding out who and why, not the impossibility of it," the president said angrily.

In Nevada, Niles Compton glanced at several of his key people, including Captain Carl Everett of the security department and Virginia Pollock, the assistant director of the Event Group. They both saw Niles nod toward them, indicating they would be assigned the task of efforting the problem of clean nukes on their end, at least historically speaking, to see if any research conducted in the past historical record could be uncovered. Without being ordered to do so, Niles hoped to help his old friend in the White House with something the Event Group might have in their database. The Event Group had vast archives on the discovery, engineering, and manufacture of fissionable materials for their study.

"We may have a break as to the why part of the equation, Mr. President," Cummings said in Washington as he opened another red-bordered file folder.

"Go ahead, Andy, something is better than nothing. I'm tired of finding things out at the last minute and playing catch-up; we've been bloodied the past six weeks by groups who have slipped by our intelligence services." He saw that his comment stung almost every man and woman in the room. Even his best friend in Nevada, Niles Compton, felt the rebuke.

"Sir, we do know that the supertanker that was hit was banned from every oil pumping station in the world, with the exception of Caracas, for environmental reasons. Venezuela had leased her, and China was the only nation that agreed to allow her to dock at their off-loading facilities in Shanghai."

"Okay, we have a starting point. Andy, get with the EPA and get me some exact numbers on the leakage. Knowing Chavez, he's going to start throwing around accusations, and we've been his popular target lately. I do not want another leader of a third world nation saying we did something we did not do. Steve, I want you to head up the relief for Caracas. Get as much food, medical, and other essential material down there as we can spare. Those people need help regardless of who their leader is."

Steve Haskins of Emergency Management nodded and made notes.

"Ken, Admiral Fuqua: best guess, who could have done this?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, with the exception of the Directors of CIA, FBI, NSA, the Secretary of Defense, and the National Security Advisor and the Joint Chiefs, would you please excuse us. Mr. President, I don't know who's on the other end of that camera, but I advise shutting it down," General Caulfield said, suspecting that the answer lay in the strange little man who had assisted in the Atlantis operation a few weeks before, part of the president's private think tank.

"I'll leave it on for now, Ken. With the exception of those named, please excuse us."

The rest of the cabinet and council filed quickly from the room.

When the room cleared, Caulfield nodded toward Admiral Fuqua, who stood and pulled down a viewing screen as the lights dimmed.

"Mr. President, we have information we received from the attack boat USS Columbia, one of our newest Los Angeles class subs. She is the asset I spoke of earlier. She may have picked up a glimmer of something else, maybe the attacking force, we're not sure. As you see, this is a tape of her sonar."

On the screen was the waterfall display from the BQQ passive sonar display on Columbia. It was a series of lines running downward on the screen, and these lines represented the water around the sub. As they watched, there was nothing out of the ordinary on the display screen. Then a shadow of darkness presented itself for a split second and vanished.

"This object was thought at first to be a glitch in the sonar, but we have learned the object was solid, and we caught it only because of the burst of speed it displayed when it started diving away from the attack area. It's three and a half miles off Columbia's bow. The estimate of its size is close to a thousand feet in length, and it went from a static, or zero buoyancy, position to over seventy knots."

Several men started speaking at once while the president sat in his chair looking at the sonar display.

"This object was verified by a depth chart graph showing the keel of Columbia raised eight feet in depth as whatever this thing is passed beneath her — and that is substantiated. So with this strange blip on sonar, coupled with the massive water displacement, there's little doubt we have one hell of a problem out there," Fuqua added.

Far beneath Nellis Air Force Base, the conference room was silent. The events the department heads had been witness to while attached to the department would never allow for surprise at any one thing they were shown. Unlike the military and intelligence people at the White House, they were at least accustomed to holding their opinions until all the details could be brought out into the open. As Niles watched the Group, he saw Virginia Pollock was deep in thought, biting her lower lip.

"I don't believe anything can travel that fast," the president said from the White House.

"Columbia is due home this afternoon, sir. We have a team on standby ready to board her and take that sonar system apart. But as it stands right now, we may have something in the sea that will prevent us from securing the sea lanes," Fuqua answered, returning to his seat as the lights came up.

"Okay, thank you. Get me the information as soon as you can. I have a phone meeting with the president of China in fifteen minutes, so excuse me for now, gentlemen."

After everyone had left, the president picked up the phone and hit a small button.

"So, Bookworm, what do you think of that?"

Niles Compton looked around, embarrassed at the use of the president's nickname for him. There were smiles all around as the department heads started gathering their notes to leave. Niles quickly snapped his fingers and got Everett's attention, gesturing him back down into his seat.

"What I think is irrelevant at this point. If the navy is worried, it doesn't do much to spark confidence in myself, especially as weak as we are at the moment."

"You have people out there that can outthink anyone I have. Get someone on this and find out if history says we may have a problem here. Technology like this couldn't have sprung up overnight. The research for it may be somewhere in your vast files."

"Already on it," Niles answered.

"I hate using you as a crutch here, Niles, but — well, do your thing for me. Now, how's the Group doing?" the president asked with concern.

"Losing Jack and his people — well, we were never really geared for these kinds of losses, but we're moving on."

"Okay, Mr. Director, I have to go and speak with the Chinese about their destroyed sub."

"Yes, sir," Niles said as he terminated the call and turned toward Everett. "You seem to be someplace other than here, Captain."

"Is it that obvious?" he asked as he rubbed his tired eyes.

"Are you getting any sleep?" Alice Hamilton, the director's assistant since 1945, asked.

Virginia didn't say anything as she looked down at her notepad.

"Have you spoken with Sarah since she went home?" Alice asked.

Everett smiled at Alice's question. She always knew how to get directly to the point, and did it with a modicum of grandmotherly censure that didn't make you feel like a thief of her time.

"She'll heal. She is tougher than she thinks — hell, we all are."

Niles nodded his head, and then brought the team back to the business at hand.

"Virginia, get some expertise on naval functions from Captain Everett, and also start investigating these clean nukes. Somewhere in our files we have information on those who have come close to making such weapons. Not much, but that's where we'll start."

Niles saw Virginia nod her head once, but she remained silent as she took her notepad and left without acknowledging anyone.

Second Lieutenant Sarah McIntire sat in her darkened bedroom and stared at the wall. She absentmindedly reached up with her right hand and lightly rubbed her shoulder, which was still in a sling. The music she was listening to was as dark as her room, and her thoughts. The Moody Blues had been one of Jack's favorites, and Sarah now found that she couldn't get enough, particularly of the dark melody emanating from the small speakers in the corner. "Nights in White Satin," their most haunting song, sank deep into Sarah's soul and burned itself into her psyche.

A single tear built in her left eye and then slowly traveled down her cheek as she absently wiped it away. She was still weak from the bullet she had taken in the battle for the sunken city of Atlantis, and she knew that because of losing Jack, her recovery was lagging.

The door opened and her mother, not hesitating as she had done the past week, stepped inside, flipping on the light switch. Her next move made Sarah wake up as the stereo was turned off abruptly.

"From what you told me of this fella Jack, I don't think he would care for you sittin' here in the dark, moping around and feeling sorry for yourself. You need to get up and work some of this despair out of your system."

Sarah looked up at her mother. The woman was almost an older version of Sarah herself. Short at five feet, and with the same dark hair, only eight inches longer. She was thin and had none of the Arkansas homemaker demeanor about her. She faced her daughter with hands on hips and a frown on her pretty face.

"You tell me, is this any way for an officer in the army to act? I'm sure soldiers have lost friends before. Are you something special — the rules don't apply to you?"

Sarah looked from her mother to the far wall of her room, which hadn't changed one bit since she left home after joining the army six years before.

"Did it hurt you when Daddy left us?" Sarah asked, not able to look into her mother's eyes.

Becky McIntire half-smiled, sad attempt though it was, and then sat on the edge of Sarah's small bed.

"Oh, I hurt something fierce. Having you was what kept me from straying from the course of your upbringing. Without you, I doubt I would have been much good to myself. You were all I had." She smiled and touched her daughter's leg. "But you? Why, your letters to me tell of the people you work with, the way they all respect you, and the way you explained Jack in those letters, well, let's just say he didn't leave you like your daddy left me, honey. He was taken — and that is a world of difference. You know the folks you work with are hurtin' too. Maybe they need you back there at your base — just maybe they need help from you to make sense of this. You go on and hurt, but sooner or later you're going to get up out of that chair and do what your colonel expects of you."

"And what is that, Mother?" Sarah asked, knowing her mom's humor was about to be exposed for the first time in the week she had been home.

"To get your ass out into my garden and do some weeding, of course! Or get on a plane and go back to work. They need you more than I do."

For the first time since she awoke to find Jack Collins gone from her life, Sarah smiled, and then cried hard with her head in her mother's lap.

The next morning, Sarah boarded a plane bound for McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. She needed the men and women there because now she knew she could never heal without them. Second Lieutenant Sarah McIntire, with her arm still in a sling, was going home to heal among her friends at the Event Group.

The room was dark and the man still slept his unnatural sleep. The doctor sat at his desk watching the comatose patient's breathing, and became worried at its shallowness. He heard the door to the infirmary open and then silently close with a pneumatic hiss. He knew who stood just inside the doorway, tucked into the shadows.

"We cannot keep him like this much longer. His breathing is shallow and his vitals, although stable for right now, are showing signs of deterioration."

"We will have need of him soon. He is vital for our assault; he will limit the possible response by their security for the second part of our response. You may start to bring him out of it if you wish."

"I read the file on this man that your spy sent us, Captain. You're right, he's a very dangerous individual," the doctor said as he finally turned his chair toward the darkness by the door.

"Yes," said the voice. "I will have security relieve you of him as soon as he is conscious. Is it possible to have him ready to travel within twenty-four hours, Doctor?"

"Possibly, with a shot of adrenalin and a vitamin B-12 booster after he's conscious, but I wouldn't recommend it." The doctor turned and saw the captain's eyes were heavily dilated. "Are you feeling all right, Captain? The prescription I gave you should have run out by now…. You… you are not abusing doctor's orders, are you?"

Silence was his only answer. The doctor looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was only 0440. The combination of sleeplessness and her narcotic addiction worried him. In this condition she seemed docile and adverse to the harshness of her earlier orders. The captain stepped into the light, and he saw that she looked, at least for the moment, as if she were now more awake. Even the eye dilation was settling, allowing her pupils to shrink back to normal size. The heroin was wearing off.

"We are striking at the U.S. facility today — without a warning to the president being delivered beforehand." The dark shape of the captain's hand reached up and rubbed at the right temple area and then at the back of the head. "This will get the attention of the United Nations before we make our announcement to the world."

"Captain, let me at least give you something for sleep."

As he reached for the large bottle of pills he kept on his desktop, the door opened and allowed a momentary flash of light from the companionway outside the infirmary to enter. Then the door closed and the captain was gone.

The doctor looked at the bottle of sleep medication, then placed it back in its usual spot. He looked at his patient and watched his chest rise and fall.

After a few moments of thought, he opened the left-hand drawer of his desk and removed something that gleamed brightly in the dim light of his desk lamp. He stood, walked to the single occupied bed, and then snapped the handcuff to the man's wrist and looped the other end through the bedrail. As he did, he heard the first officer's voice on the speaker.

"Make all preparations for getting under way. Weapons Officer, prepare strike package Hotel-Bravo. Target: the Independence Oil refinery, Texas City."

The phone on the doctor's desk buzzed. The doctor swallowed and then picked up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Why was the captain in sickbay?" asked the voice on the other end.

"Checking on her patient."

"You have failed to do what was asked of you?"

"I believe the captain has moments of clarity of what is truly happening. I cannot take the chance and kill this man. Right now, her only goal is consistent with your own — to find out what the outside world knows about us. She needs this man for that end."

"Have you any suspicions as to why she visits only in the early morning hours, or after she has been medicated?" the voice asked.

"No, and I will not make any assumptions. She is still the captain and I am still a part of her crew."

"Have you noticed any change in her aggressiveness during the times of her visit?"

"She seems… more thoughtful at those times."

"That can be worrisome. I want those drugs out of the captain's system; they cannot be good for decision making."

The line went dead.

4

Levels seventy-three and seventy-four consisted of 372 vaults. Each of these held an artifact gathered from the past. Security was electronic in nature, and was administered by the Europa computer system. Designed by the Cray Corporation, it was deemed impenetrable by an outside source. Security clearance was low for these two levels, as the artifacts housed in the chromed-steel vaults bore no historical significance for the national security of the United States. Still, the only people with access to the levels were monitored by key card and pupil eye-scan through Europa, and she in turn reported every few seconds to the security department.

On level eight, Lieutenant Will Mendenhall was on duty in the security center. He yawned and looked at the wall-mounted clock. He shook his head as the hour hand was a few minutes from hitting the number two. He was to be relieved by Jason Ryan at 2 A.M., but he could swear that the minute hand on the clock must have frozen in place.

Just as he turned in his chair to sign off on his computer terminal, the monitor lit up.

"Lieutenant Mendenhall, Europa has monitored a two hundred and fifty percent power surge on levels seventy-three and seventy-four — the security system on those levels is currently in failure mode as of oh-one-fifty-eight hours."

Mendenhall heard Europa's female voice and shook his head as Jason Ryan walked into the office, yawning and looking as if he hadn't gotten any sleep.

"What's up, Will?"

"Europa is reporting a power surge and security system failure on levels seventy-three and seventy-four. I was getting ready to—"

Ryan and Mendenhall felt a rumble pass through their feet just as warning bells started sounding throughout the facility.

"What in the hell was that?" Will asked.

"All damage-control personnel report to levels seventy-three and seventy-four immediately. This is no drill. It is recommended that all rescue and fire personnel utilize stairwells one-oh-one and two-oh-eight for access to the affected areas."

"Europa, continue broadcasting personnel direction and accept security override Mendenhall 001700. Let me know what's happened on affected levels!"

"Override accepted," Europa said. In the background Will heard her warnings still being broadcast through the complex communications system. "All personnel—"

Suddenly Europa went dead. The monitor was black and the sound system went down. The overhead lights flickered, went out, and then came back on. However, Europa was still nonfunctional.

"Damage report!" Will called through the intercom to the affected levels.

Jason Ryan pointed toward the door and Will nodded, knowing he was going to join the rest of security on levels seventy-three and seventy-four.

There was no reply from the lower levels. Will was getting frustrated because he couldn't direct the rescue and firefighting efforts. Then all of a sudden Europa sprang back into life, as if nothing had ever happened to her.

"Lieutenant, Europa has detected trace amounts of Composition Five explosive on levels seventy-three and seventy-four immediately after security shutdown. Total collapse of vault housings in one hundred two of three hundred seventy-two vaults. Preliminary examination of area is total loss of artifacts in seventy percent of vaults on level seventy-three and fifty percent on level seventy-four."

"Jesus Christ," Mendenhall said as he saw the video as Europa finally established a working camera on level seventy-three. The picture showed a total collapse of the rock ceiling, and somewhere fires were raging.

Captain Everett and Niles Compton surveyed the damage on level seventy-three. Temporary floodlights had been placed by the engineering department, and they cast eerie shadows on the granite boulders that had been blasted free of the excavated tunnel. Smashed and burned-out vaults had been crushed beneath the tremendous weight of the cave-in.

"Preliminary report?" Niles asked as he reached down and picked up a piece of pottery freed from one of the vaults by the rush of water from firefighting hoses. It looked Roman, but he couldn't be sure. Niles gently placed the shard on a small outcropping of rock.

"We estimate only ten pounds of C-five were used. The engineers said you don't need much to bring down the ceiling in any of our corridors except for the reinforced residence and lab levels. As for the fire, Europa is working on what accelerant was used, but it looks like something new and not on the books." Everett held up his hand and a gleaming, silvery substance shimmered. "At least, I've never seen an accelerant like this. Storage level seventy-tour only sustained cave-in damage, and only three vaults were a total loss. My thinking is the target was level seventy-three, not both."

"So, we're looking at an intentional act of sabotage."

Everett walked over to the computer terminal that was dark and without power since Pete Golding had the system momentarily shut down. He reached up and touched its face.

"Europa reported a power failure on these levels moments before the explosion and fire. I checked her records; the electrical conduit was severed by a small charge, but only after our saboteur gained access to the level," Everett said as he turned and eyed the director. "The question, Dr. Compton, is why wasn't the identity of that person noted by Europa with her eye-scan procedure? This level is low security, but you still have to gain entry by key card and eye scan."

"I see where you're going with your line of thinking, but to get to your target area, Captain, you would have to assume someone deleted Europa's clearance history for these levels — t hat's why the temporary failure of Europa."

Everett didn't avert his eyes, because he knew that the only logical conclusion was upsetting to say the least, enough so that he didn't want to voice it.

"Then it had to be someone with a level one-A security clearance."

"A department head." Everett finally voiced the unthinkable.

"Damn," Niles said, kicking at a small stone statue.

Niles Compton was at his desk on level seven with Alice. She had been alerted at home in Las Vegas after the sabotage at the complex. Niles placed his glasses back on and then stared at the nineteen folders sitting on his desk. Every department head in the Group was accounted for including himself, Alice, and Virginia. To the right of that pile, Carl Everett had delivered his own, Ryan's, and Mendenhall's, the hierarchy of the security department. Located in one of those personnel files was something that might tell them who the traitor in their midst was.

"What has me baffled is, why level seventy-three? Are we moving on that question?" Alice asked.

Niles took a deep breath of air and then let it out slowly.

"I have Captain Everett and Virginia on that now. They're compiling a list with Europa of the contents of every vault on both levels. I just find it hard to believe that one of our people could be responsible for this—"

The double doors to his office were suddenly pulled open, and Virginia Pollock entered and went right to the desk.

"Did you find something?"

"You haven't heard?" she asked as she hit a button on Niles's control panel. The large center-screen monitor came to life as Virginia placed the channel on the twenty-four-hour Pentagon news service. "Someone just attacked the Independence Oil facility in Texas City."

The view was of a massive refinery fire. The image came from a helicopter circling the plant ten miles distant. Far below, you could see hundreds of firefighters fighting the blaze among the rubble and ruin of buildings and machinery.

Niles pulled his top right-hand drawer open and pulled out his direct phone line to the president. His hand hesitated over the handset, and then he slid the phone away from him.

"He may be a little busy at the moment. Have they stated any casualty reports, Virginia?"

"It's a miracle. Unlike the fatalities inside the Venezuelan attack, they think there's only one death thus far, thanks to the warning that was sent and this time heeded before the missiles struck. They do know for a fact they were sea-launched weapons."

"They are reporting that the plant was warned ahead of time?" Alice asked.

Virginia nodded as the scene on the monitor switched to show the three hundred employees of the refinery standing outside of the gates, watching their livelihoods vanish before their eyes.

Niles looked from the monitor to the two women. Virginia, for her part, averted her eyes.

"What in the hell is happening?"

At twelve midnight, Niles walked into the complex cafeteria and took a tray from a stack. He looked around the eating area and saw only a few technicians sitting and drinking coffee. He slid his tray down the cold line, eyed the egg salad sandwiches in their see-through wrapping, and decided he would settle for a cup of coffee and piece of pie.

He had just placed his tray on the table, sat and removed his glasses as Captain Everett walked over with Pete Golding in tow. Everett dropped a computer printout on the table and then sat in an empty chair, Pete following suit. Neither man looked happy.

Niles didn't bother putting his glasses back on as he raised a piece of pie to his mouth. Halfway there he thought better of it and put it back down.

"Europa says she admitted no one to the lower levels before the detonations," Everett said.

"Europa doesn't lie, Captain, although she can be fooled. We have a saboteur here, and as soon as you grasp the fact that it's someone with the clearance and someone who knows the Cray system, the sooner you can start your hunt in earnest," Pete said, pulling the piece of pie over to his side of the table and starting to eat.

"We also found this mysterious accelerant on level seventy-four. It just failed to ignite. So that means the target could have been any one of six hundred vaults — if they were targeted at all."

Niles rubbed his tired and itching eyes and looked at Everett.

"It has to be someone with intimate knowledge of Europa and her subroutines, wouldn't you say, Pete?"

"Absolutely. Not all department heads even know they can bypass her security. I would say less than six people have that knowledge."

"What about an outside influence?" Niles asked with hope.

"You mean to break into Europa and flush her security protocol?" Pete asked indignantly.

"Why not? Her main job is to backdoor other systems; maybe she was done the same way," Niles persisted.

"I uh… why… no! That just can't happen, not to Europa!" the computer genius said with a mouthful of pie.

"Take it easy, Doctor. That would still leave a physical presence here inside the complex to lay the explosives and accelerant. Europa can do a lot of things, but that isn't one of them," Everett said, watching as Pete finally swallowed the piece of pie he had in his mouth.

"Okay, what I want you to do, Pete, once an inventory list of every vault on both floors is compiled, is to go through them with a fine-tooth comb. By looking at that, we may be able to find something to give us the why of it. Captain, until further notice, all department heads are locked out of Europa and confined to the complex."

"Yes, sir."

"I reported to the president, but he hasn't returned my call. With the Texas City and Venezuelan incidents on the front burner, we may be on our own for a while."

The UN general assembly was in short session, as many of the delegates wanted to be close to their consulates while the world figured out who initiated the three attacks. Accusations were tossed around as freely as the insults that preceded them.

As Venezuela took the floor, accusing the United States of dragging its feet on letting the world know the evidence they had in their possession, the lights dimmed and sixteen large viewing screens lowered from the ceiling. A blue field appeared and steadied.

The General Secretary of the UN, Sir John Statterling of Great Britain, stood and slammed his gavel hard on the main dais, then held his hand above his eyes to shade them from the sixteen bright xenon lights of the projectors at the rear of the building. He quickly ordered security to find out what the malfunction was. The general assembly became raucous, making some in attendance feel as if they were back in grade school, acting up when lights suddenly went out.

The screens flashed brightly, and then a sentence appeared. Every screen was utilized, and every language of the UN was spelled out, correctly and precisely, in clear block letters.

Several UN security personnel were banging on the door of the audiovisual room, six floors up. The door had been locked from the inside and spot-welded shut. The video slides had been programmed two hours before by a technician with impeccable UN credentials.

The general assembly floor was silent but uneasy. There were shouts of indignation from individuals, but most felt that this had a very ominous ring to it.

The picture changed and more words appeared in white against a blue field, and still in every language represented by the assembly.

The president was eating a late breakfast due to an earlier-than-usual national security briefing that morning when a Secret Service agent entered the private dining room. He went straight to the president and whispered into his ear, then handed him a fax just received from the Department of the Navy and the FBI.

"They received these simultaneously?"

"Yes, sir, also the State Department, the Interior Department, the United States Coast Guard, the NSA, and the CIA, plus every news organization with a typewriter or a video camera. All the copies say the same thing."

The president read the first of the faxes. His wife and daughter watched him as his jaw muscles clenched, and the blood slowly drained from his face.

Several of the members were standing in shock. Others were yelling at the top of their voices at anyone within earshot.

The screens flickered again and a new message appeared.

The director of the FBI stood from his chair. The room was dim with the exception of the four walls where map projections of the world's oceans dominated. Three large red stars were placed in the sea near Venezuela, the capital itself, and in the Gulf of Mexico, at Texas City, Texas.

"The New York police department was the first law-enforcement entity to arrive at the UN. They secured the audiovisual department until our people could get there. Interpol is claiming jurisdiction in the matter, due to it being international property. Nevertheless, we had time to do a hurried forensic search of the area. No fingerprints other than those of authorized personnel were found. The UN A/V department's ten technicians were all accounted for during the incident."

"CIA?" the president asked.

"Sir, we just don't have enough to go on. The slides could have been done commercially or on any one of three hundred million home computers with Photoshop. The systems are just that prevalent. We just don't have enough."

"Well, we obviously have to maintain freedom of the seas, so from that aspect, even though I am taking this threat seriously—" He looked at the faces around the room. " — we have no choice but to continue oil and gas shipments. Admiral Fuqua, do we even have half the resources to guarantee the safety of these vessels?"

"Sir, we're spread so thin at this moment that we can't even guarantee the safety of our own warships, much less that of commercial shipping. It will be a good three months until we have our battle-group strength up to our normal peacetime standard, much less being placed on a wartime footing."

"Thank you for your candor. Does analysis have anything on the wording of the document? And how in the hell are all of our supposedly secure computer systems being compromised?"

The question was not directed at any one individual in the room. However, National Security Advisor Harford Lehman stood and directed another question to General Kenneth Caulfield. The general had become somewhat grayer in the last six months, and was beginning to show his wear.

"Ken, have we advanced any theories on the weapons or entity used in the attacks on Venezuela and Texas City?"

"Nothing from the intelligence end of things, and the nuclear fingerprint is a dead end. That material is from an entirely unknown breeder reactor. As for the vessel, or vessels, all we have is the sonar tape that shows something that everyone, even the General Dynamics Electric Boat Division, says cannot exist."

The National Security Agency assistant director cleared his throat.

"Go ahead," said the president.

"The wording of the document has indications of American or British leanings, but nothing at this point is verifiable. The words our analysts call 'old school' have them leaning toward not just an ecoterrorist, but a religious one at that."

The president spoke up. "For right now, let's just say we have a threat from someone with a lot of punch backing their words. Ecological terrorism, no matter how noble a cause, is still terrorism. I want facts delivered to me on the claim noted in the text about how damaged sea life has become. This will be something I have to address in the press, although I doubt this entity is out to garner public sympathy with the point they are making."

The men around the table became silent as the president turned away and looked out of the large window. Then he spoke without turning back.

"Admiral Fuqua, order this threat tracked down and destroyed by any means necessary."

Niles sat at one of the desks in the upper tier of the amphitheaterlike computer center. He watched as Pete Golding on the floor far below instructed his department on how he wanted Europa's every transaction of the day before tracked. He called it bleeding her system. He likened it to the old ways of physicians bleeding a person to assist in healing. They were about to break down the most powerful computing system in the world and siphon her information out, one program and one line of code at a time.

Niles placed his glasses back on, gathered the latest communique from the president that listed the threat to the nation and the world, and was about to rise when suddenly every light in the computer center flickered, went out, came back on, flickered again, and then steadied.

"What in the hell is going on around here?" Pete asked as bells started to chime.

"Dr. Golding, my internal messaging system has been compromised," Europa said electronically and in print on the main screen.

Pete glanced up at Niles, who was now standing and peering at the glowing green type on the thirty-foot-wide and twenty-foot-high main viewing screen at the front of the center. He then walked over to his desk situated at the center of the technician stations lining the floor. He leaned into his microphone. Before he could say anything, Carl Everett walked in; he had been in the hallway outside when the computer alarm sounded. He exchanged a look with Niles, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Europa, query; compromised by whom?"

"Unknown source, Dr. Golding. I have instructions."

"Europa, initiate your security protocols," Pete ordered as if he were scolding a child.

"I am unable to comply at this time, Dr. Golding. Security override Alpha-Tango-Seven is in effect."

"I have not authorized an AT-seven override. Shut down outside access."

"What in the hell is an AT-seven security override?" Carl asked Niles, who was now looking very concerned.

"Alpha-Tango-Seven is an override that can be initiated from a terminal other than Europa. Even our Group cell phones, laptops, and home PCs are Europa secured. This message is not from an internal source — someone from an unauthorized computer has used one of Pete's most secure overrides to get a message to us," Niles explained.

The double doors of the center opened and Alice joined Carl and Niles.

"What in the hell is happening?" Alice asked. "Every computer terminal in the complex went offline!"

Niles didn't answer her; he was looking at the main screen.

"Jack Collins used this security override last month during the Atlantis operation, when he accessed Europa from an unsecured location."

Everett remembered that indeed they had, from a cybercafe.

"Shut down complete—"

"Thank you, Europa, now begin a trace as to—"

"Alpha-Tango override reestablished. Incoming message being received," Europa said, cutting Pete off.

"Goddamn it, shut down the outside source. Authorization, Golding—"

"Pete, allow the message through," Niles called from his elevated position.

"Niles, this could be a virus!"

"Allow it through; we may be getting something from our mysterious saboteur. Besides, if they wanted only to send Europa a virus, they could have done it without us knowing, since they seem to know our systems as well as we do. Let the message through."

Pete shook his head in exasperation, but leaned over the microphone to comply with his orders.

"Europa, content of message?" Pete asked.

The main viewing screen went dark as Europa complied. As they watched, bright red letters started appearing, and scrolled with incredible speed.

Niles passed the message he had received earlier from the president over to Alice and Everett. He noticed Virginia's absence for the first time.

Movement on the computer center main floor started immediately as technicians ran to their stations. They didn't have to receive orders from Pete to move.

"Connection terminated at oh-nine-twelve and thirty-two seconds — origin has been traced by Europa to the Eastern seaboard, location unknown," one of the white-coated technicians called out.

"Microwave relay station Greenland is the closest we can get to a trace. It dead-ends there," another said aloud.

"Get me the location of those coordinates!" Pete ordered.

Europa used the main viewing screen as she pushed the pirated communique aside, then brought up a satellite map of the United States. The view adjusted to the eastern half of the U.S. and then centered on Long Island, New York. It kept magnifying on a large object by the sea.

"Europa computes latitude 41.071 north, longitude [?]71.85706 west is Montauk Point, New York — specifically, the lighthouse," Pete's assistant said as he straightened from his console.

"Okay, let's start digging deeper on that trace; they had to have left more of a footprint than just the Greenland microwave relay." Pete looked up at Niles and the others. "Boss, I have a feeling that whoever they are, they have codes for some or all of the U.S. communication satellites."

Niles listened to Pete's orders and comment, then looked at the three people around him. "Alice, get all department heads into the conference room immediately. Captain, make travel arrangements for New York, fastest possible route. Plan defensively; we're dealing with a very shrewd criminal at the very least."

"Yes, sir. May I ask your thoughts?" Everett said.

"Captain, this is no coincidence. This is the same person who destroyed two levels of our complex, and obviously the one responsible for the UN message. Therefore, our priority is to damn well find out what it was they didn't want us to know on levels seventy-three and seventy-four. Let's move. We don't have a lot of time."

"That's not what I mean. You're not going to trade yourself for whatever it is they have, are you?" Everett asked, knowing that Jack would never allow the director to place himself in harm's way for something that had not been substantiated.

"I have every intention of meeting their demands." He looked at Everett and the others one at a time. "We need to know who and what we're dealing with, so unless we can find out something before tonight, yes, I'm going."

As Carl Everett met with Jason Ryan to decide how to proceed to this mysterious meeting, Pete Golding and Alice Hamilton asked for a meeting with Director Compton to deliver extremely bad news. They were shown into Compton's large office, where Niles was meeting on a video monitor with the president of the United States.

"I'm sorry, Niles, I would like to have the luxury of time, but I don't. I have ordered the navy to provide escort for all oil shipments heading to U.S. shores. The Russians, Chinese, and British are joining the effort. Not all vessels will be covered, at least in this first phase, because there are just so many already at sea. Starting tomorrow, though, no ship leaves Middle Eastern waters without guns surrounding them. As for regular commercial traffic, we are quarantining all ships in port and ordering those at sea to come home. The coast guard will try and get them in, but again, we can't protect everyone."

"We still believe that whoever was responsible for the sabotage here at the complex is responsible for the world threat. They want to meet, and will provide a good faith measure to attain that meeting — they want to trade whatever they have for me. They insist upon me being a go-between. I need your permission to proceed," Niles said as he rubbed his right temple.

The president sat silent for the longest time. Then he picked up a piece of paper from his desk.

"My analysts believe we're dealing with a terrorist element that is only using ecological concerns to mask their real intensions. The U.S. Department of Agriculture says their claims of sixty-one percent loss of seagoing species are hogwash. This may be a move to throw our economy — which, I might add, is more dependent than ever on foreign oil — into utter chaos. Thus far, I'm leaning to that suggestion, because in all honesty, Niles, no matter how bad we think things are with the ecology and global warming, economically we can do nothing about it. We need oil and that is that. I'm not here to debate the right or the wrong of it."

"I'm not defending these people, Mr. President; I'm a realist, and I know we can't just choke ourselves to death because of our thirst for oil. However, my people are telling me that this communique is telling more of a truth than what your people are saying. The sea has at the very least lost fifty percent of all life that it once supported, and that is a direct result of overfishing and water contamination."

"I'm not about to sit here and argue with you, Niles; you tell me what to do. Do I just toss seventy million Americans out of work because an outside nutcase says that his group is shutting down the sea lanes? Am I supposed to look at the people of the northeast and say, sorry, no heating oil this year? We don't have the strategic reserves to see us through one damn winter."

Niles took a deep breath and shook his head.

"However, since this is the only lead we have on these people, I want your security chief to liaise with the director of the FBI — you are to stay in place in Nevada. Any attempt by you to go to the meeting, I'll have you placed under house arrest." The president held up his hand when he saw Niles start to protest. "The FBI is in charge."

"My people are leaving within the hour, and will be in New York at the U.S. Air Force facility at Kennedy by six tonight."

"Who's leading the Group?"

Niles looked into the monitor. "Captain Everett will handle our end of things."

"I'm sorry, Niles; you're too valuable to swap for anything they may have at the moment."

The monitor went dark and Niles slammed his glasses down on the desk.

"What have you two got?" he asked rubbing his eyes.

Alice moved toward the credenza and poured Niles his fifth cup of coffee in the past hour and a half.

"Niles, our culprit erased the inventory and forensics files on all artifacts stored on the two affected levels," Pete announced as Alice sat down in her usual chair in front of the large desk.

Compton looked up and saw Pete was angry and tired.

"I really don't know why we expected any different. There would have been no sense in destroying the articles physically if you left a computer record of those finds available." Alice didn't say this to anyone in particular. She also looked tired, far more than Niles had ever seen her.

"I hate to ask this, Alice, but no one knows those vaults any better than you and the senator. Do you think—?"

"Yes, but it will take time. Garrison and I will go through the paper files. Maybe we can see what was in them to help you. Since this faction hit even the old Cray system at the old facility, we lost those records also. They were goddamned thorough. However, we're flying in the hard copies from Arlington. I've already asked security to pick the senator up at home and bring him in."

"Well, at least the senator had the foresight to have the hard copies of the files stored in Arlington; otherwise our saboteur might have gotten to those also," Pete said, perching his glasses on his forehead so he could rub his eyes.

"Okay, have them all faxed out here."

"Is Carl ready to go out East?" Pete asked.

"Yes, he's taking Ryan and Mendenhall. I'll tell him the bad news about the FBI; he's not going to be happy," Niles answered, replacing his own glasses. "I suspect the FBI will set up an ambush to retrieve our item, and try for at least one or two arrests."

"Is that advisable?" Pete asked.

"I didn't have much of a choice. Look, one thing we better get used to here, threats have been made by an unknown source to make the nation do something that would send us back to the Stone Age. We, as a country, for better or worse, have set ourselves up for this through our arrogance. Now someone is trying to pull the plug on our neon society, and we can't let that happen, not yet, not until we can get alternatives online and people accept them. The president wants other eyes out there and is desperate for information. I can't really say I blame him, Pete."

The door opened and Virginia Pollock walked in. She looked tired, and her eyes refused to meet those of her friends.

Niles looked at Virginia, wondering where she had been. Then he looked at everyone around his desk.

"Every American knew this day would come, and now it has. If they didn't stop whoever this was, a hundred years of ignoring the earth was about to come back and haunt them. Now pay attention. Pete, we're calling an event for in-house personnel only, and from this moment on, I want you to order Europa to close the complex. No external communication is to be allowed. I want cell frequencies jammed, and all passes revoked. Captain Everett and his team are the only exceptions, and I hate to say this, but I even want his phone monitored while off base. Shut down the gates; turn off communications for the pawnshop. Keep it open, but seal the elevator into the tunnel." He looked at Alice. "All senior department members are to be escorted by security and will be quarantined in the main conference room for the duration of the FBI's and our department's operation. Pete, use my terminal and order Europa to seal the complex."

Golding did as he was ordered.

Alice and Virginia exchanged looks. Never had the Event Group gone to such a total lockdown over security.

"Now, let's find out who attacked us, shall we?" Niles said with a nod.

"And find out who our traitor is," Pete added.

The old man went unnoticed at the city bus stop for the hour he had been sitting. His aluminum walker was perched in front of him — just an old man resting his aged body.

His keen eyes were watching the shop across the street. He had thus far not recognized one employee at the Gold City Pawnshop. The heat was almost intolerable, but the man sat and acted as though the sun were a blessing.

Suddenly his eyes picked up something inside the shop that made him move his head so his vision could pass across the plate-glass window in the front of the store. He coughed as he finally recognized a familiar face. He had run into this man on more than one occasion in the past, and knew him to be a favorite of his superior officers. His computerlike memory flashed back to two years before in the Arizona desert, and then again last year in the heat of the Amazon. He became satisfied as the black man's name came to mind: Mendenhall — Staff Sergeant Mendenhall. It was comforting knowing that certain things had not changed in the year he had been… away.

The old man rose clumsily to his feet and used the aluminum walker, leaning heavily upon it as he slowly crossed the busy street. A car honked and swerved to the other lane, but the old man was intent on the pawnshop in front of him. The black man inside looked up at the sound of the horn, and he quickly moved to open the door.

Second Lieutenant Will Mendenhall held the door for the man, who nodded his head in thanks. The old man had not known the former sergeant had received his second lieutenant's bar after the Amazon mission.

"Car almost got ya there," Will said as he quickly let the door close behind the man and looked at his watch. He could see the deeply etched wrinkles and figured the old gentleman was at least eighty years old. His white moustache was well trimmed, and for someone his age he had expressive blue eyes.

"I wanted to throw my walker at the smart-ass bastard, but then what would I have done?"

"Yeah, wouldn't have blamed you, people around here are in a hurry to get to nowhere," Will commented. "Well, what can I help you with?"

The old man raised his right liver-spotted hand off the walker in a mock surrender.

"Son, you have me. I… I just wanted to feel this air-conditioning for a moment before I head back out to that damn bus stop. Missed the last one — hell, I fell right to sleep."

Mendenhall smiled and nodded his head, "You bet. If you want there's a seat up by the counter." He looked at his watch again, knowing that Captain Everett had called him five minutes ago and ordered him off gate 2 duties. "Right now I have to clock out and get out of here."

"I thank you, but right here's fine with me. The air is cool and I can see that damn bus comin' through the window, but thanks anyway, son."

Will was just turning away when the old man's other hand slipped from the walker and he started to fall. Will reached out quickly and caught the man, who was far heavier than he looked.

"Whoa, you okay?" he asked, stabilizing the man.

The old man reached out, grabbed Mendenhall's forearm, and expertly placed the tracking device, which was no larger than a microbe and was injected by what seemed to be just a jagged piece of the old man's ring. Mendenhall felt the jab and reacted with a hiss.

"Oh, my… oh… I'm sorry. This old wedding band's seen better days." The man finally grabbed hold of the handles to his walker as Will rubbed the underside of his forearm. "Wife's been dead for the better part of eleven years now; just been too lazy to take the ragged thing off." He reached into his pant pocket and drew out a handkerchief. "Got a little scratch there, better wipe it clean."

Mendenhall held up his hand. "Nah, it's all right, I'll put a Band-Aid on it when I go in the back. You take it easy now. If you need a hand getting back across the street, you ask the clerk at the counter, and he'll get you there."

"I'm much obliged, son, much obliged, but look here, there's that damn bus now." He smiled and made for the door. Will shook his head and held it open for him again. He waved as the old man slowly made his way to the street, then, looking both ways, went across.

Mendenhall rubbed the scratch and watched as the old man waved, wobbled once more, and then smiled as the bus doors opened. Will turned away and went through the back, or gate 2 as it was known, and into the underground maze that led to the top-secret Event Group.

The old man sat at the rear of the bus where there were no riders, leaning the walker in the aisle as he sat heavily into the large backseat. He chanced a last look out of the tinted bus window and watched the Gold City Pawnshop slide past. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the black man, knowing that standing that close to him would have made his death that much more unexpected and pleasurable. However, the man wanted Mendenhall together with the other members of the Event Group, so they would meet their fate at the same time. They would meet his wrath, his vengeance.

The man reached up and peeled the gray moustache from his upper lip and pulled the grey wig from his head, and then pulled out a bottle of aloe lotion and squeezed in into his hand. He slowly rubbed it into the skin of his face, loosening the glue he had used to create the realistic-looking wrinkles and removing the makeup-induced liver spots.

When he felt his face was clean, he watched the casinos on the strip slide by, and as he did, Colonel Henri Farbeaux, an archenemy of the Event Group, missing for the past year, caught sight of his own reflection in the window, a face that now held little humanity. Like everything else, that had been lost in the Amazon Basin well over a year before.

Farbeaux had lost his wife Danielle while he himself, against every natural instinct he had, helped the Event Group save the lives of young students on an expedition to the gold mine El Dorado. He lived because of a moment of weakness brought on by Colonel Jack Collins and his heroics in saving the group. He had assisted Collins, and paid for this weakness with the loss of his wife.

Yes, Colonel Henri Farbeaux needed to seek what he longed for in the last year — vengeance against the men and women who had cost him everything, Danielle and his faith in himself. Jack Collins and the rest of his people would learn that Henri Farbeaux was here, and those responsible for his thinking he was human would die.

He spread his hand out on the window and totally blotted out his image.

The room was cast in total darkness. The man sitting upon the bed rubbed the area around his wrist where the handcuff chafed his skin. His thoughts were on removing that handcuff chained to the railing of the bed and ending on his right wrist. He couldn't swear to it, but he thought he knew how to get the restraint off of his wrist. How he would know this was beyond him. The elderly man, his doctor he assumed, had said that his memory would be shaky for a day or so after waking, but to think he had a memory of how to escape handcuffs was worrisome and problematic. Was he a criminal? Was that why he would know? In addition, he had seen several people, men and women, enter his darkened room to check on him and bring him meals. Upon study, he had decided that he could handle them physically as well.

The man leaned back against the headboard of the steel bed. He was thinking about what he could remember. Only his death came to mind. A strange thought to say the least, only because the answer was right in front of him, as he was obviously not dead.

Through the wall and steel at his back, he was feeling movement. He knew this because he had a keen sense in his stomach that said he was moving. Every now and then, he had noticed the pitcher of water on his nightstand sway, indicating that whatever transport he was on was turning. Therefore, what little memory he had said he was on a ship.

The door opened. He shielded his eyes with his free hand as someone, or was it two people, stepped into the room. They quickly closed the door, shutting out the lights from a hallway beyond. The man heard shuffling, and as the dim light of a desk lamp came on, he saw the old man, the doctor, but he felt a presence in the back of the room. This person stood by the door and was watching him. He knew it, felt it.

"Well, my friend, it's time for you to leave us," the doctor said with a half-smile.

"Who are you?" the man asked, making no move to sit up.

The doctor laughed. It was a mournful little chuckle that wasn't mirth, but a sad sound.

"I apologize, but aren't you more concerned on just who it is you are?"

"I know that will come soon enough, but if I'm leaving you, I would like to know who you are."

"We're friends. Will that satisfy you for the moment?" the voice said from the darkness. "The doctor informs me that as soon as he triggers your memory with your name, it will all come back to you."

The man tried to peer into the inky blackness beyond the foot of his bed. He could barely see the darker shape as it stood against the far wall. Then the voice emerged again from the darkness.

"You are going home. I just wanted to tell you before your departure that I am a great admirer of yours, and of the men and women for whom you work." The female voice hesitated, then continued. "When you get home, tell your people you were treated well and that you were dealt with respectfully. In a few months, my wish is that I may still be able to call you friend. The doctor will now explain where you are, and who you are."

The door opened. The bright light flared once more, and the woman left the room. The man could see she was tall, at the very least six feet; she was dressed in dark green and her hair was jet-black, but that was all he saw before the door closed.

"It's not often that she would grace someone she doesn't know by speaking to them. But then again, I should have thought she would. I'll tell you this much, she visited you at least three times a day. It was quite unsettling to my sleep cycle having her pop in at ungodly hours," the doctor said in an English accent.

"Who is she?" the man asked, finally sitting up on the edge of the bed.

The doctor laughed again; this time the humor came through his hardy sound.

"Who she is, at the very least, is a loaded question. Suffice it to say she springs from a family of geniuses and is, by leaps and bounds, the most brilliant human being the world has ever known. Just leave it at that." The doctor shook his head but kept the smile on his face. "When all is said and done, go away with the knowledge that she respects you. That is something you will be able to tell your grandchildren. She spoke to you and she liked you; not many can say that."

"Am I supposed to be honored?" the man asked, clinking the chain that held the handcuff in place.

"Oh, that. It was for your own protection, until your memory cleared up. We didn't exactly know how you would react when you awoke. Your… how should I put this? Ah, your preeminence in the art of death precedes you, sir."

A spark of memory flared in the man's mind. He tilted his head and looked at the doctor.

"That's right; it's teasing you right now, isn't it?" The doctor stood, went to a closet, and pulled open a door. He reached in and removed an item from inside, then closed the door and turned. He held up a small silver key, obviously one that would unlock the handcuff. As the man examined the doctor, he saw that the white lab coat had a patch on the left-hand breast pocket. It was an L, with what looked to be two dolphins on either side, making it look like [?] L[?]. Beneath that was the symbol for a medical doctor, the twin-snake motif.

"Now, would you like to be filled in on who you are and what is expected of you? If you behave, I think we can dispense with the security measures." He went to the bed and tapped the handcuff.

5

Carl Everett stood just inside of the parking area of one of the most famous lighthouses in the United States. Jason Ryan and Will Mendenhall stood on either side of him, waiting for the mysterious rendezvous to take place. Behind them sat a stretch limousine with its motor off and headlights on. They had been at the point for thirty minutes watching as the fog became thicker each passing moment they waited. The only sound that was audible through the thickening mist was the seaboard dinghies with their forlorn toll.

"Goddamn FBI, how can they plan for an entity they know absolutely nothing about?" Everett mumbled, his eyes never leaving the shoreline.

"Director Compton should have acted without presidential knowledge," Ryan said, looking to his right at the closest FBI HRT member laying low underneath the cover of a large bush. Hostage Rescue out of Quantico had been called in for the ambush, and several of them were half-buried in the rough and rocky sands of the point.

Everett turned, chanced a look at the naval lieutenant, and sniffed.

"Some people like to go by the book, Mr. Ryan, even if you don't."

"I've known Compton to toss that book away from time to time," Ryan countered.

Everett didn't respond to the challenge. He just pursed his lips and then turned up his coat collar.

Mendenhall looked at his watch, then turned around and looked at the limousine that was minus one important element inside its interior: Director Compton. He also tried his best to peer through the swirling fog beyond, feeling uncomfortable. Absentmindedly he rubbed the scratch on his arm, wondering if he was going to get some sort of infection from that old man's ring this afternoon.

"Okay, what's on your mind, Will?" Carl asked, noticing it was the tenth time Mendenhall had turned to look to the rear.

"I can't shake this feeling that someone is out there, behind us. I've had it ever since we got here."

"There are people behind us; it's the FBI, and they have one hell of a lot of guns," Ryan said.

"I'm beginning to think Jack taught you something after all, Lieutenant. I'll let you in on a little secret. I have the same feeling." Carl turned and looked at Jason Ryan. "And it's not the FBI. Whoever it is, is far better at hiding than they are."

Ryan turned and looked at Mendenhall, who raised his brows as if to say I told you.

"Well," Ryan said, also looking at his watch, "our ecoterrorists are officially late — it's now oh-two-hundred and—"

Suddenly a larger-than-normal breaker crashed onto the beach and rocks, hard enough that seawater washed over into the parking lot and covered their feet. The sea retreated, and the breakers went back to their normal surge.

"You guys are navy boys. Is that normal? Like, was it a tidal surge, or maybe a rogue wave or something?" Mendenhall asked as he shook water off his shoes.

"You've been watching far too much Discovery Channel, Will," Everett said as he watched the fog in front of him, knowing they were no longer waiting for their company.

Everett reached behind him and placed both hands underneath the back of his nylon coat. He felt the nine-millimeter automatic, chambered a round, clicked off the safety, then brought his hands free of his coat. Ryan and Mendenhall mimicked his action.

Carl switched on the voice-activated microphone attached to his wristwatch.

"All units and positions, we have movement out at sea. Stand by. We don't know anything definite with this fog, so hold station."

The fog eddied and swirled around them. Carl chanced a glance at the limousine parked fifteen feet away. The fog should have been sufficient to cover the fact that Niles Compton was over two thousand miles away in Nevada.

"Ahoy the beach!"

The voice came from a loudspeaker. Everett couldn't track it because of the denseness of the fog.

"All units, we have voice contact only. Remain in place," Everett said. He took three steps toward the water, puting one hand behind him to stay Ryan and Mendenhall. "Ahoy the boat. I am Captain Everett, United States Navy. Identify yourself."

"Advance to the water's edge with Dr. Niles Compton, please."

Everett turned and looked back at Jason and Will for a moment, then turned back toward the fog-shrouded sea.

"That's not the way this game is going to be played. Dr. Compton keeps his station behind me until such a time as I'm satisfied with the situation and his safety."

"I assure you, Captain, we do not play games. Nonetheless, upon your word as a United States naval officer, we will approach the beach."

Everett hoped the FBI special agent in charge heard the response from their guests. Carl could feel the fifteen weapons of the hidden agents ready to open up.

The sound of water being pushed aside came to his ears as he finally caught sight of the boat that had lain offshore. It was like a Zodiac rubber craft, but far larger. As it approached, he could see only two figures inside. It grounded almost noiselessly onto the rocks, narrowly missing two large boulders that jutted out from the shore. Everett heard no engine sounds, so that meant they were using a form of propulsion that was silenced to a large degree. A large man quickly stepped easily over the gunnels of the Zodiac and stood looking at the three men.

"Captain, I am here to exchange one of your people for Dr. Compton. Would you present him, please?"

The captain saw the man was wearing a coverall, not unlike those worn by military personnel in the Event Group complex. There were patches arrayed on the long sleeve and shoulder and some sort of rank was evident on his collar, but that was as far as his vision would allow.

"The name of your vessel, sir," Everett called out.

The man lowered his head and then shook it. "That is not for me to answer, Captain, but suffice it to say you will learn all there is to learn upon Dr. Compton's return to your complex under the desert."

"I guess they're well informed," Ryan whispered to Mendenhall.

"Now, Dr. Compton, please, Captain."

Everett knew he had to make his play. The sniper in the lighthouse would take the man standing next to the boat, hopefully wounding him, and a two-man team in the water would take the hostage. There was only one man, so taking a prisoner was no longer an option. He felt as if he were betraying a trust, but a presidential order had been given, and no matter the distaste, it was now his duty. He raised his wrist to his mouth.

"Team one, execute." He closed his eyes, expecting the lone shot that would signal the rescue attempt.

The man in front of him laughed. He reached into the boat, pulled the seated man to his feet, and helped him over the gunnels of the boat.

Everett pulled his weapon and pointed it at the man. Will and Ryan followed suit. The effect of having three guns on him seemed lost on the large man, who looked at the three Event Group security men but continued to assist the second man to shore.

"Perhaps you better signal the HRT unit again, Captain."

Everett knew that although the man stated his faction didn't play games, he was being toyed with nonetheless. He lowered his weapon.

A whistle sounded in the fog from behind them. Then, from high above them, something whistled down from the top of the lighthouse. It smacked into the sand at Everett's feet. He stepped back when he saw it was upper torso body armor. He knew it to be the style he had seen the HRT suiting up with earlier.

Ryan turned around when a noise sounded behind him. Immediately, several red dots sprinkled his bulletproof vest. As he looked up, he saw black shapes coming through the swirling fog, and each carried a laser-sighted weapon. Some were aimed at Ryan, but the bulk were centered on Mendenhall and Everett's backs.

"Captain, we have company."

Without turning around, Everett placed his nine-millimeter into his waistband and pulled the coat over it, knowing they themselves had been ambushed instead of the other way around. He heard the sound of the fourteen ground members of the HRT unit as fifty men in black wet-suits pushed them roughly from the fog.

"Disappointing, but expected, Captain." The man looked around as the fog started to lift around them. "The FBI unit are all intact. A little embarrassed, maybe, but that will pass eventually."

"You didn't really expect us to treat whoever you are as honorable people, did you? Your actions against helpless vessels and shore installations don't speak well for you."

"We understand you were under orders from your president, Captain. We knew he wouldn't chance losing Dr. Compton. As for the attacks, those were acts of war, sir; you of all people should know the difference. Now, you have played out a losing hand with your deceptive actions regarding the FBI."

"The president was acting in the best interest of the country, and would—"

"However," the man said, cutting Everett's point off. "We will still keep our end of the bargain and release your Group member, to once again show good faith. Do not disappoint my captain again, or the American people will suffer beyond measure. Please, I implore you; have Dr. Compton, and any member of his department he wishes to accompany him, at McCarran airport in Las Vegas in three days. His transport will be at charter gate five at ten A.M. Heed this warning, Captain."

Suddenly the man released the hostage and returned to his boat. He and it backed away silently into the fog until once more the mist enveloped them.

The hooded man collapsed to his knees into the water; the small breakers started lapping at his thighs. Carl turned quickly and saw the wetsuited assault team had also vanished. The HRT unit was still there, still tied, and kneeling in the sand.

Everett turned and ran to the water to help the unknown person to his feet. Carl could feel the bulk under the black coverall and knew it to be a man. The hostage had a black hood on his head, and seemed weak as he struggled to stay upright. Everett hustled the man to the black limousine, removed the hood, and without looking any further, shoved him quickly into the backseat, telling the driver, Staff Sergeant Rodriguez, to watch him. He then turned and ran to assist the agents.

As Everett was cutting the plastic wire-tie off one of them, he turned and looked back at the fog-shrouded sea. With the exception of the breakers, all was quiet.

As he turned back to the task of releasing the agents, Everett heard a loud explosion of water. When he turned toward the sound, his eyes widened. He saw the topmost section of a submarine's stern fins sinking beneath the waves through the swirling remnants of fog. He straightened as he saw the three-story-high, sharklike rudders vanish, and then watched in awe as the amazing craft displaced several thousand tons of water on its way back out to sea.

"That son of bitch must have been in place long before we arrived." Ryan didn't look up as he freed the last of the agents, and didn't see the nightmare vision Everett had seen even as another giant surge of water pushed up on shore.

Everett stood and started for the car when he saw a small man in an FBI windbreaker come toward him. At his side was the sniper from the lighthouse. He recognized the agent in charge.

"I wasn't briefed on just who you people are, but your little meeting was compromised, and it had to come from your end. These people knew we would be here. Can you explain that?" The agent made the mistake of grabbing Carl's arm.

Ryan and Mendenhall reacted immediately, pulling the agent away before the captain had a chance to react. They had seen Carl confronted before, and knew that sometimes he acted first and then thought about a situation later.

"Get your hands off of me. I want an answer," the agent said, looking from Will to Ryan.

"Look, we don't know if the meet was compromised; they may have just had the game rigged from the beginning. They set this spot up, not us," Ryan said as he held the agent back.

"Fucking amateurs," the man said as he shook off Ryan's hands and then turned toward his men.

"He's right; someone told them that the FBI would be here." Everett tried to calm himself. He knew the agent in charge was only mad because his hostage rescue team had been placed in harm's way and left out to dry, just because someone on the Group's end couldn't keep their mouth shut.

"Whoever it is that's screwing with us almost cost the lives of a lot of people tonight," Mendenhall said as he watched the angry FBI unit start to assemble and make their way off the beach.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Everett said as he looked one last time back out into the Atlantic, where the vision of what couldn't have been cornered his thoughts.

The three men walked to the limousine and saw that Sergeant Rodriguez was kneeling on the backseat with the door open.

"How's our guest, Sergeant?" Mendenhall asked as they approached.

Rodriguez stepped back out of the car and looked at the three men, shaking his head.

"You're not going to fucking believe this," he said, looking from face to face as he moved out of their way.

Inside the limo, the dome lights were on. A big man sat reposed in the backseat with his head back and his face turned away from them. As Everett stepped up to the open door, he leaned down and touched the man on the leg.

"How are you doing?"

The man slowly turned his head. Everett, who was standing on the balls of his feet, lost his balance as he recognized the face immediately. He had a six-week growth of beard and looked pale in the false light of the car, and his eyes were heavily bloodshot, but Everett would have known this man anywhere, in any condition.

"I'll be damned, you tough-to-kill son of a bitch!"

Ryan and Mendenhall exchanged a look as Everett straightened and then pulled the man from the car and hugged him.

"Jack!"

Carl pushed Colonel Jack Collins at arm's length as Ryan and Mendenhall joined him in a dreamlike sequence that none of them could possibly have ever imagined.

Jack blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the faces in front of him. His hair, although combed straight back, was longer than Collins had ever worn it, but the eyes — those were still the same as they bore first into Everett's and then roamed to Ryan and Will. His lips moved, but no words came.

"Jack!" Carl said, giving Collins's shoulders a small shake until his eyes refocused on the captain's.

"The sea," Jack mumbled as his eyes locked with Carl's, and then the gaze changed and his head looked around him. "They said I was dead." He suddenly looked back at Everett.

"How in the hell is he here?" Will asked, swallowing.

"Goddamn, those people must have been there." Everett turned and looked at Mendenhall. "They must have saved him, pulled him from the water," Everett answered, laughing for the first time in weeks. "Oh no, you're not dead, Jack, you're going home." He tried to turn the colonel toward the open door when Jack pulled his arm free and stared at Everett.

"The sea," he said again, closing his eyes and swaying as Carl reached out and steadied him. Jack opened his eyes when his dizziness passed and focused on the three men once more. His eyes darted back to Everett and narrowed. "Mr…. Everett."

"That's right, Jack. Will and Jason are here, too."

Jack's eyes went to the two men standing beside the captain.

"Will, Ryan… I tried to hold on… and I did…"

"Hold on to what, Colonel?" Mendenhall asked, feeling creepy about this whole thing. It was like conversing with a ghost at the very least.

Jack took a step back until he fell into the limo's rear seat and hung his head. It looked as though he was trying hard to remember something. He slowly looked up at the expectant faces.

"Sarah." That single name coming from his mouth explained all. The three officers exchanged a look. "She's dead, someone shot her?" he asked, looking like his world was gone, as if he had failed her.

Everett knelt by the open door and placed a hand on Collins's leg. He tried to smile but failed.

"Let's go home, buddy. We need to explain a few things to you."

The control room was dark, and the men and women were silent in deference to the somber mood of the great vessel. On the surface, the radar mast and antennas broke the clean lines of the calm sea, slicing through the water as a sharpened scythe through wheat, their stealthy design broken by sharp angles.

"No airborne or surface contacts at this time, Captain. Sonar reports the signatures of three Los Angeles and one Virginia class submarine close-aboard, but are not deemed threats. They cannot pick us up. Stealth has been achieved."

On the darkened, raised platform at the center of the control room, the captain nodded and gestured toward the weapons station.

The first officer approached the raised pedestal and leaned in close to his captain. He looked around him, then lowered his voice.

"Captain, you know I have never once questioned your orders."

The captain smiled and looked down on a man she had known since her childhood. "I suspect that precedent is about to be broken."

"Ma'am, you had planned on delivering ultimatums to all countries before any attacks began." He looked around him once more, making sure all hands were attending their stations. "Now we've sunk four vessels and attacked two nations. Why have we stepped up offensive operations before these countries find out why we're doing it? This isn't like you at all, and—"

She looked down, and her bright blue eyes, dilated as they were, stayed the first officer's words.

"Apologies, Captain, I—"

"You have other concerns, James?"

"Why are you insisting on bringing strangers aboard? The attack on the complex achieved your goal."

"We have to know exactly what knowledge these people have on us."

"Captain, our asset inside their Group confirms they know nothing. Sergeant Tyler and his security department have been screaming about the unnecessary risk of what you are—"

The captain's piercing eyes settled on the first officer, and he could only nod his head.

"James, the ploy to lure their top security men from their posts worked." She looked around the control center and saw that her seamen were doing their jobs. Only Yeoman Alvera had turned from her station to watch the captain. "Now we can better coerce the people I need to come onboard with minimum bloodshed; isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just—"

"Vertical tubes six through twelve are flooded, birds are warm," the weapons officer called out.

"Captain, the boat reports all stations ready for launch," the first officer said after being cut off by the announcement. He turned away from the raised platform and examined the holographic board in front of him.

The captain nodded her approval, then closed her eyes.

"All hands stand by for vertical launch. Tubes six through twelve, Operation Cover Four has been ordered to commence. Navigation, once tubes have been emptied, take the boat to four thousand feet at flank speed, then steer a course south at seventy-five knots. We will take up station in the gulf before dawn."

"Aye, sir," both navigation and weapons called out from their stations.

"Permission for weapons release, Captain?" the first officer asked, watching the still figure in her chair. Her not talking was a bad sign — he knew migraine headaches had begun to plague her the last few weeks.

Once more, there was just a simple nod of her head from the raised platform.

"Weapons officer, launch vertical tubes six through twelve in numerical order," the first officer ordered, looking at the captain with worry.

A hundred feet aft of the great streamlined conning tower, six of the forty-six vertical launch tubes opened to the sea. Suddenly large, explosive water slugs ejected six sixteen-foot-long, black, streamlined missiles with no telltale maneuvering fins. Now airborne and clear of the water, their solid booster rocket fired and sent the six missiles skyward. Once they reached an altitude of twenty thousand feet, they started a slow turn to the west and then picked up speed, still climbing. They would soon reach three times the speed of sound as they headed for the interior of the United States.

Far below the sea, the giant vessel dove at an amazing rate of speed, slowly ramping up to more than seventy knots. Then she dipped her nose and dove even deeper, where no American warship could ever hope to follow.

The great vessel set her course due south for the Gulf of Mexico, and part two of Operation Cover Four.

Twenty-two radar stations, warships, National Space Command, and U.S. early-warning satellites warned of a massive missile strike over the United States, and all started tracking the assault. Soon more than a hundred warplanes on the eastern seaboard and the Midwest lifted free of the earth, in pursuit of what were deemed cruise missiles, as they plowed their way through the stratosphere, heading west.