FALLING STAR

by

Philip Chen

Copyrighted © 2010 Philip M. Chen

2011 Revision

This book is based in small part on real events; any descriptions of such events are fictional.  All characters in this work are fictitious and not based on any one person or persons. Any resemblance to real people, living or not, is absolutely coincidental.

Copyrighted © 2010 by Philip Chen

All Rights Reserved

(Including all reproduction rights

in any form whatsoever and in

all media that exists today or

may exist in the future,

in part or in whole.)

Published by

Eight East Lawn Strategic Consulting, LLC.

Contact

philip.chen@eighteastlawn.com

ISBN: 145389845X

EAN-13: 9781453898451

ASIN: B003YCPK4C

Cover Image © Tomo.Yun

(www.yunphoto.net/en/)

Contents

Foreword

1967: First Encounter

1967: The Investigation Begins

1967: Mike

1967: Found

1967: Free Swimming

1969: Face to Face

1970-1993: The Intervening Years

1993: The Silence Ends

1993: Awakening

1993: The Coffee Shop

1993: Mildred

1993: Somewhere in Minnesota

1993: Call to Duty

1993: Missing in Action

1993: Ambush

1970: The Navajo

1993: Identification

1993: Des Moines

1993: Watching

1993: Defection

1993: Dimitri

1993: The Uncloaking

1993: Closing In

1993: Clarity

1993: War

1993: Martha

1993: The Future

Foreword

"What if all of us in the world discovered that we were threatened by an outer -- power from outer space -- from another planet."

The Honorable Ronald Reagan

President

United States of America

(Chicago, May 5, 1988)

Nature abhors a vacuum; particularly a political vacuum. The collapse of the Soviet empire has provoked such a vacuum.

The Russian nuclear missile threat has diminished. Sunken Soviet submarines lie on the ocean floor, slowly bleeding their radioactivity into the sea. The hastily contrived tomb of what was once Chernobyl crumbles away, creating homes for vermin and winged predators.

With the demise of the Russian nuclear missile force, the attention of American defense scientists and engineers suddenly turned away from Earth to the stars. We're now told that asteroids and comets crashing through the heavens will wreak havoc on Earth, ending life as we know it.

Nemesis. Is the impending terrestrial collision with a five-mile wide asteroid flung into the Earth's orbit by a dwarf star called Nemesis real, imagined, or a handy means of disguising something else? Something so horrific that even the ones standing watch would rather not comprehend. Why else would the defense establishment continue to pump the nation's increasingly scarce financial resources into Star Wars technology ostensibly meant to counter a Soviet missile onslaught, now believed to be have been forever abated.

The juxtaposition of the death star Nemesis and the demise of the Soviet empire must be placed in its proper context. Certain disparate events from the last several decades need to be analyzed.

The United States Navy suddenly intensified its series of geomagnetic profiling flights in the late sixties. Using specially equipped Lockheed P-3B Orions, these flights paid special attention to the Caribbean Sea and the persistent rumors of magnetic anomalies in this region. Aviators reported that their compasses could not be depended upon when flying routes through this area. Some actually became disoriented, crashing into the sea.

About the same time, the United States government launched an extraordinary effort to probe the hydrosphere, the Earth's vast and unforgiving oceans. It was called the "last frontier." These studies were also concentrated in an area located off the coast of the United States in the Caribbean, just south of Bermuda.

Research funds poured forth as though someone had opened King Midas' vaults. Then, just as quickly, the funding dried to a meager trickle. There continued to be rumors from time to time of secret projects. Occasionally, a scientific paper would disclose an event that suggested massive oceanographic research was still underway.

In the early seventies the public was surprised by the accidental unveiling of the Glomar Explorer. The Glomar Explorer was a mysterious ship, ostensibly designed to conduct deep ocean drilling. Its cover as a deep sea drilling platform was blown when newspapers published accounts of non-drilling equipment on its decks. When confronted, the American government retorted that the Glomar Explorer had a simple mission: retrieve sunken Russian submarines.

It seemed that the borders of the last frontier had shut for all time, but not without the news of the so-called "Morrow Affair," news that was quickly disavowed. Even today the official word is that there was no Morrow Affair, that no anomalous magnetic signature was ever recorded in the Caribbean or anywhere else, for that matter, and that the Glomar Explorer was built only to salvage sunken Soviet submarines.

About the same time, NASA began several ambitious programs to explore deep space. Radio telescopes probed the heavens for errant radio signals. Called SETI, the program searched for intelligent life. Plans for Hubble were started and deep space probes were accelerated. It seemed the nation urgently needed to prove that life was unique to this planet. The event called Roswell continues to dominate national debate, despite the government's best efforts to cover it up -- it was after all "just a weather balloon."

Attention has been given to the heavens not for just scientific reasons, but for military ones as well. The need for a manned space station became a critical component of the military mission -- the need for "high ground." The United States military concerned itself with attacks from putative Russian missiles fired from orbiting launch stations -- an event leading to the development of Star Wars technology.

With the advent of the nineties the Russian military system collapsed, suddenly the Russian bear wasn't so fearsome anymore. The demise of the ursine threat did not abate the need for this missile-intercepting technology. Despite the urgent need for deficit reduction and the fundamental redirection of all the world's major economies, neither Star Wars nor Space Station Freedom has suffered deep cut-backs.

Nemesis now sits where Khrushchev once banged his shoe on the lectern wood.

1967: First Encounter

0900 Hours: Monday, March 20, 1967: Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean, West of Bermuda

Buffeted by surprisingly gusty winds for a brilliantly clear day, the propeller-driven Lockheed P-3B Orion bumped along just one hundred feet above the turbulent ocean surface.  Creaking squeals of metal rubbing against metal bared the struggle of the aluminum machine; fighting to stay airborne against the unrelenting pounding and shifting forces of nature.

As if the low-pitched groans and twisted squeaks of the anguished metal structure weren't enough, the harnessed men on the Orion were violently tossed about by the constantly changing winds of March.

Everyone, that is, except the airplane's young pilot who, while struggling to maintain the Orion on a steady course, anticipated each bump of the Orion as though he were riding a bicycle along a rocky mountain path.  The pilot wore a dress hat, crushed by headphones, in clear violation of rules.  This look was just how Thomas "Buck" Morrow saw himself.  Flight helmets were for sissies and fighter pilots, but then only because of the tight confines of a jet cockpit.

The controls of the airplane jerked and kicked in Lieutenant Commander Morrow's hands as he constantly monitored his many-gauged instrumentation panel.  The white numbers and pointers on flat black backgrounds jumbled together in a profusion of data points.  He knew he had to fly by the instruments at this altitude since relying on his senses could be fatal, so he checked the gauges relentlessly, particularly the altimeter and the artificial horizon.  All the while he kept a practiced eye on the endless expanse of white-capped, grayish blue water rushing headlong toward him.  Observing him, one could easily be lulled into believing that the pilot was out for a Sunday drive.  His practiced hand kept the course true, even as his gaze swept languorously over the instrument panel.

The pilot's nickname in the squadron was Buck, short for "Buckeroo", a name given him by his fellow officers because of his cowboy antics when flying the squadron's planes.  The squadron's mechanics in particular cursed Buck behind his back after yet-another aircraft bending mission.  It was their sorry task to clean up and tune the Orions after Buck's many antics.

Buck's outwardly calm composure was betrayed only by the steady, methodical chewing of peppermint gum, which would abruptly stop when the Orion hit a particularly rough spot of air.  His young, rugged face remained passive as he maneuvered the plane expertly along its tricky course.  The workhorse Orion was not designed for such low-altitude flying, but that wasn't Buck's concern, he was just there to fly the damn thing.

His co-pilot also held on to the controls.  He was older and had been in the Navy longer than his Academy-educated pilot, but Buck was the boss and the boss controlled the plane.

The co-pilot, however, maintained a careful watch on the instrumentation, straying every once in a while to glance at the intensely calm pilot.  He knew that they should not be flying at this low altitude under such gusty conditions, but that wasn't his call.  He was there as a backup in case his pilot needed help keeping the Orion in the air.

In the compartment immediately behind the pilots, the Orion's navigator sat strapped tightly into his small seat.  The officer's ruddy complexion was capped with brown hair, in the crew cut style popular with young flying officers.  Safely anchored to his seat, the navigator hunched over his table plotting the plane's course and giving corrections to the pilot over the intercom, carefully enunciating each number and direction heading over the hissing and popping sounds of the headset.  Next to the navigator sat a tall, gawky Navy Lieutenant who had been able to jam himself somehow into the small aircraft seat.  As the science officer, Frederick Evans was responsible for data monitoring and instrument maintenance.

The atmosphere inside the Orion was hot, damp, and close.  The overwhelming environment of the cabin was heightened by the intermingled odors of aviation fuel, the heavy pungent aroma of lubricating oils, the sulfurous vapor of rubber hoses, the sharp smell of ozone generated by electronic gear, and the cumulative sweat of its current and long forgotten crews.  More accustomed to the open space of surface ships than the close quarters of this airplane, the science officer worked hard to keep his breakfast down.

He swallowed continually to counter the burning taste in his throat and wished that he hadn't had that second helping of half-cooked bacon -- it hadn't even been that good, not like how his aunt used to cook it, over a low heat, simmering for a long time.  His efforts to hold back the burning taste in the back of his throat was complicated by his efforts to avoid the nausea that came naturally from the hot, confining, constantly shifting and bouncing environment.  The steady pulsating drone of the Orion's propellers added to Evan's disorientation.

The worst aspect of the Orion was the smell, that damn stink of ancient vomit.

Evans was focused on the cluster of cathode ray tubes locked into the gray metal framework, mere inches from his young face.  He methodically followed the multiple green traces as they slowly made their way from left to right.  Both Evans and the navigator were securely strapped to their seats, but the wrenching up and down and the side to side movements of the Orion made it hard to take notes and to adjust the instruments.

"What the -- What was that?" blurted Evans as he watched the greenish trace on the magnetometer's oscilloscope suddenly spike upward from its normal baseline level.  Instinctively, he marked the latitude and longitude on the strip recorder that ran parallel to the oscilloscope trace.

"Captain, can we run that transect over?" said Evans, trying hard to suppress the excitement in his voice.

"What did you see, Fred?" came the low-keyed voice of the young pilot over the scratchy intercom.

"Something odd; really odd.  Like nothing I've ever seen before."

Evans felt his already uneasy stomach violently traumatized as Buck whipped the Orion into a sharp, bronco-busting right bank.  G-forces pinned Evans deep into his seat.  Despite this, he was able to frantically grab an airsickness bag from its cubicle.  In one great heave, Evans made his contribution to the already gamy air of the cabin.  His quickness in grabbing the vomit bag saved the delicate electronic instruments from becoming fouled with the remains of a hasty, ill thought-out breakfast.

Buck was good, perhaps one of the best Navy pilots assigned to oceanographic reconnaissance -- he could fly a survey transect so straight you'd think that someone had painted a white line on the ocean surface.  But, like all Navy pilots used to landing on bobbing corks in the ocean, he wasted no time on formalities.

"Too bad that black shoe has a squeamish stomach," Buck said to no one in particular; chuckling to himself.

"What did you say, Captain?" said the co-pilot.

"Oh, nothing.  Just horsing around."

"Damn, there it goes again," murmured Evans, feeling feverish and light-headed, but vastly relieved after his encounter with the vomit bag.

"What's going on, Fred?  Sure you're not just looking at some chicks down there?" said Buck, abruptly dipping his left wing as if to get a better look.  Evans felt his stomach burp at the maneuver.

"No, wish it were.  Sorry to disappoint you, Captain.  We just confirmed that something down there is screwing the hell out of my magnetometer.  We just had one hell of a spike in the readings."  Evans looked over the endless ocean surface, dark grayish-blue water with choppy waves and frothy whitecaps.

"What do you think it was?"

"Don't know, Captain," said Evans.  "But could we try that transect again?"

The Orion stayed on site, running and rerunning the same transect until Evans, despite his uneasy stomach, feverish countenance, and burning throat, was satisfied that the magnetic anomaly was really there and that the readings were not just the result of an instrument malfunction.

As the Orion made one final bank and headed back to base, Evans stared at the gray-blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean trying to rationally answer the question that burned in his head.  Why would his instruments act up here in the middle of nowhere; over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain, where there should be nothing but background?

1100 Hours: Saturday, March 25, 1967: Classified Location, West of Bermuda

"What the Hell?" blurted Commander Philip Kingsbury, USN, as his cabin was violently shaken.  The papers on his writing desk were scattered across his small cabin, his mug of coffee, black with some sugar, was knocked off the table spilling onto the rug in the cabin.  The captain of the USS John Adams (SSBN-620) had been reading correspondence from fleet headquarters, comfortable that the course his vessel was on was without any surprises.  Kingsbury leapt out of his chair and headed to the door of his cabin.

Kingsbury hurried to the Control Room of the John Adams, a fleet ballistic submarine on a routine, but classified patrol in the Atlantic Ocean.  As he entered the Conn, he saw his Executive Officer or XO, Lieutenant Commander Raymond Greecen in discussion with Ensign Carlton Messinger.  Messinger was visibly shaken, but came to a rigid attention upon seeing the captain.

"Stand at ease, Mr. Messinger.  What happened, Ray?  Did we hit something?"

"Some sort of turbulence, Sir."

"Here?"  Kingsbury was incredulous.  He knew that the John Adams was in a deep ocean patrol and was traversing a particularly deep basin.

"Who had the Conn?"

"I did, Sir," answered Messinger.  Kingsbury and Greecen rotated the junior officers during uneventful portions of their patrols so that new officers could get command experience.  This was supposed to be one such portion and Ensign Messinger was in line for his first turn at the "Conn."  While Greecen watched carefully, Messinger had control of the submarine at the Command Center or "Conn."

"Give me the details, Mr. Messinger."

"We were on a level transverse and I had just checked our headings with the navigation officer and was getting a report on trim when the first wave hit."

"Wave?"

"Yes, Sir.  It started as if we were catching a wave in a sailboat …"

"Mr. Messinger, an 8,250 ton nuclear fleet ballistic submarine is hardly a sailboat."

"Aye, Sir," responded Messinger as he snapped to attention again.

"Stand at ease, Carlton.  Just give me the facts."

"Yes, Sir.  We went into what seemed to be a gentle upward lift, when the full force of the turbulence caught us broadside.  The Adams started rocking back and forth, uncontrollably."

"Did you run a damage report?"

"Aye, Sir.  All departments reported in.  No injuries, just a lot of shaken nerves.  Some damage to unsecured objects, particularly in the Galley."

"Any sensor alerts?"

"No, Sir.  We didn't see it coming."

Kingsbury anticipated that answer as they were running silent in what seemed to be a clear column of seawater.

"Any passive sonar signals?"

"None, Sir."

"Did you ping for any other craft?"

"Yes, Sir.  Immediately after the turbulence.  Nothing whatsoever."

"What do you think, Ray?"

"It felt like the bow wake of a large ship, but our passive sonar gave no warning of any other vessel or any other phenomena, for that matter, in our vicinity."

"O.K., log it."

Taking the visibly shaken Messinger aside, Kingsbury said, "Take it easy, son.  These things happen.  You did O.K."

1967: The Investigation Begins

1000 Hours: Tuesday, May 24, 1967: Port Hueneme, California

"Bob, can you come to my office for a minute?"

"Yes, Sir."

Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh replaced the handset on the telephone, gathered up the documents on his desk, and put them into his metal security cabinet; making sure to roll the tumblers several times on the locks to be certain that they were secured.  He then went up two flights of stairs to his boss' office.  Captain Edward Mitchum was in charge of the Special Projects Office of NAVFAC, the Naval Facilities Engineering Command, headquartered in Port Hueneme, California, just north of Los Angeles.  The Special Projects Office was responsible for undertaking investigations of an engineering nature referred to them by other units of the U.S. Navy.

"Good morning, Sir."

"Close the door, Bob," said Mitchum as he took out a manila folder from his desk drawer.  "Have a seat."

Wonder what's up, thought McHugh, as he pulled up a metal side chair.

"Two months ago, a geomagnetic surveying team encountered a strange signal during what was supposed to be a normal mapping run over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain in the Atlantic Ocean southwest of Bermuda.  Apparently, none of the eggheads have ever seen anything like it.  It's got quite a few folks in Washington in an uproar.  I don't need to tell you how sensitive that area is to our national security."

"What do they think it might be?"

"You know the usual, Bob.  Some think the Russkies might have something there."

"Isn't that pretty deep?"

"Yes, but who knows what the Russians have."

"How does it involve us?"

"Apparently, someone at the Oceanographer of the Navy's office thought that NAVFAC might have some systems that could get a better handle on what is making these signals - with all our assets, that is."

"Why did it take so long to get to us," asked McHugh.

"How long have you been in the Navy?" chuckled Mitchum.

"Yeah."

"Why the excitement?  It's just an anomalous signal … isn't it?"

"The report, which I am now handing to you, tells all about it.  Apparently, it was a sharp report in an area that shouldn't have had anything like that, especially since the Hatteras Abyssal Plain in that area is pretty deep."

"Just shouldn't be there," agreed McHugh.

"What's more, less than a week following the detection of that signal, a boomer, SSBN-620, running silent in the same region was knocked around by some unknown force like it was a toy boat in a bath tub.  The captain was a top-notch submariner.  He had never seen anything like it."

"Those guys sure don't like to spill their coffee."

"Well, this one did.  Let's run an investigation on the signal.  It could be something natural, or maybe a wreck we didn't know about.  I don't know what to make of the boomer incident."

"Done."

"By the way, Bob, we're getting another hand in about a month or so; a young fellow from Stanford University.  I'm going to assign him to you."

"I'm glad you said that, I am a bit short - handed."

Captain Mitchum nodded.  The Vietnam War had depleted just about every non combatant force in the armed forces.  Many of his best men had been re-assigned to Construction Battalions and shipped off to Southeast Asia.  He was lucky to have held on to Bob McHugh, who was not only a superb ocean research engineer, but also had combat experience as an Underwater Demolition Team member.

McHugh had completed a tour in the South China Sea just prior to being assigned to the Special Projects Office.  While there, he had received a bronze star for a particularly difficult extraction under enemy fire.  The mission had been to run a river boat up the Mekong River and pickup a provincial official who had served the American forces well, but had come under the suspicion of local Communist cadres.

As McHugh's crew finished boarding the official and his family, Viet Cong opened fire from the dense brush along the shore.  Two Navy corps men were still in the water.  McHugh grabbed an M-1 carbine and returned fire from the stern of the vessel; drawing the enemy's attention to himself.  His actions permitted the two corps men to jump aboard and the River Boat to escape, thereby allowing the safe return of all.  In his usual self effacing manner, McHugh wondered aloud what an ocean research scientist was doing in a situation like that.  His heroics under fire gave McHugh standing in NAVFAC, where many officers had never seen combat.

"So, do you know anything about this new guy?" asked McHugh.

"Just that he is an NROTC graduate from the University of Virginia and is completing his Masters degree in Mechanical Engineering at Stanford.  I think his name is Liu; Chinese I believe."

That was an interesting remark, since oriental officers were still a rarity in the Navy, thought McHugh.  He took the manila folder from Captain Mitchum and went back to his office.

0805 Hours: Monday, August 15, 1967: Port Hueneme, California

"Sir, Ensign Aloysius Liu reporting for duty, as ordered."

The newly-minted Ensign was dressed in Service Dress Khaki despite the oppressive heat of southern California on an August day.  His brown face had turned that much darker from the sun; his thick black hair had been freshly cut in a crew cut.  Liu stood rigidly at attention, his right hand in a salute, as he reported to his commanding officer.

"Weren't you supposed to report five minutes ago?" growled McHugh, returning the hand salute.

"Sorry Sir."

"Don’t let that happen again," scowled McHugh.

"Yes Sir," answered a nervous Ensign, straightening himself into an even stiffer stance, thinking that his nascent naval career was coming to a crashing end.

Bob McHugh was dressed in long wilted service khakis with short sleeves; the only indications of his rank were gold oak leaves resting on the open lapels of his shirt.  McHugh closed his report on subsurface thermal inversions and looked up at the lanky Chinese youth standing stiffly at attention in front of his desk.

McHugh's prematurely gray hair was cut in a "flat top."  On his wrist was a Rolex "Oyster" with a stainless steel bezel for noting dive time.  Taking his ever-present cigar from its resting place in the corner of his mouth, McHugh studied the starched, ramrod-stiff Ensign that had been sent to be his assistant.  Sizing up the new Ensign before him, McHugh thought to himself that they sure are making them younger every year.

As the young Naval officer would soon find out, the ever present cigar would always look as if it had just gone out.  No one could recall ever having seen it lit.  There was, however, a persistent memory of stale cigar smoke in McHugh's office.

McHugh's office was pretty much what one would find in the Navy, no matter where you were in the world.  The gray steel desk and the green leather, gray steel chairs were standard issue.  An American flag stood in the corner of the room, behind McHugh's desk.  On the gray steel bookcases that served as his credenza were mementoes of McHugh's Naval service:  brightly colored crests on walnut shields bearing the names of the various Navy vessels on which McHugh had served, one silver crest from his Annapolis days, a small brass anchor, and assorted pens and pencils.

The books in his bookcase bore diverse titles such as Celestial Navigation, Nautical Engineering, Marine Engine Repair, the Zen of Volkswagen Repair, Johnston's Handbook on Ocean Engineering, and Royce's Sailing Handbook.  In addition, many official-looking black vinyl notebooks were crammed into every nook and cranny of his small office.  The only jarring note was what seemed to be a fully loaded M-1 Carbine magazine, sitting on McHugh's desk, on top of a pile of paper.

The Ensign cast a furtive glance at the M-1 clip.

A photograph mounted in a sterling silver frame showed a very attractive brunette woman with two smiling tow-headed boys who couldn't have been older than four.  Over the credenza hung an inexpensive print of the HMS Beagle - Charles Darwin's sailing ship.

On another wall, hung a color photograph of a much younger Robert McHugh in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves standing in front of an ocean going tug.  The nameplate on the tug said, R/V Wayward Wind.  The young McHugh was smiling.  The office was brightly lit and had a view of the busy docks at the Naval Station in Port Hueneme, California.

"I hear tell you have some training in side scan sonar."

"Yes, Sir.  Sir, my master's research at Stanford was on the effect that thermal inversions have on surface towed arrays.  As part of my research, I experimented with narrow beam side scan sonar, Sir."

"First off, Mr. Liu, stand at ease, you are making me nervous.  Second, if you are going to be my assistant, my name is Bob, not Commander McHugh or Sir."

"Yes Sir."

"What do they call you - not Aloysius; I hope."

"Most of my friends call me Mike."

"O.K., Mike it is.  Why don't you pull up that chair," said McHugh as he motioned to one of the steel gray metal chairs with green leather seats.

"Mike, about four months ago one of our oceanographic survey flights taking fairly standard background magnetometer readings over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain in the Atlantic Ocean southwest of Bermuda came up with a marked magnetic anomaly.  Nothing like we've ever seen before."

"Maybe it is a large iron ore deposit like they have in the Northeastern part of Minnesota.  They have been known to cause magnetometers to go crazy."

"Nope, we've thought about that and this one is different.  The magnetometer spiked; nothing natural could have caused that.  We thought about sending in Alvin, but the depth is too deep for anything but the Trieste; we think the source of the anomaly is over 3000 fathoms."

"Is the Trieste available?"

The Trieste, a bathysphere, was the deepest diving vessel, manned or unmanned, in the Navy's inventory.  Although the Trieste had plumbed the deepest depths of the ocean in the Marianas Trench, it suffered from one very big problem.  It had no propulsion system, whatsoever.

"No." responded McHugh.

"NAVFAC doesn't want to commit the Trieste unless we can pinpoint the exact location.  The Trieste, after all is little more than an elevator - incapable of any lateral movement.  NAVFAC thinks there may be another system that might work better."

McHugh continued, "I understand that Western Light's ocean research laboratory in Annapolis has a towed platform with cameras, lights and side scan sonar.  NAVFAC thinks that side scan sonar might be able to assist in finding the anomaly."

"I'm familiar with that system," said Mike.  "Western Light nicknamed it, 'Nematode,' after some microscopic marine parasite because the package is so small and has to be towed.  Didn't the Navy use something like the Nematode to find those H-Bombs off of Palmores, Spain?"

"Yes, but not as sophisticated or proved to the depths that we need to go," responded McHugh.  "An old friend of mine, Ted Sevson, is the project manager.  I'll give him a call and tell him to expect you.  I'd like you to coordinate the use of the Western Light system.  Have you ever been to Annapolis?

"A couple of times," responded Mike shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

McHugh took notice.  His look prompted Mike to continue.

"Annapolis was my girlfriend's home and I visited there several times while I was at the University of Virginia.  Her father was in the Coast Guard."

"Good, maybe you can drop in to see her."

"Can't sir, we are having some problems right now."

"Oh," answered McHugh.  "Well, you got to keep those problems contained, son."

"Yes, Sir," replied Mike as he noticeably flushed.  "You won't have to worry about that."

"O.K. familiarize yourself with the Orion report, get a billet at the BOQ and let's talk tomorrow.  Welcome aboard."

"Thank you, Sir."

1967: Mike

0930 Hours: Wednesday, August 24, 1967: Annapolis, Maryland

"I fall to p-ieces -- Each time I see you ah-gain...." sang Patsy Cline on the car radio.

Tuned to the only country western station that came in clearly, Mike hummed along, reminiscing about his college days in Charlottesville, Virginia, as he drove along Route 50 to keep his appointment with Tom Sevson at the Western Light facility in Annapolis, Maryland.

Born in China and brought up in urban Washington, D.C., one would not have thought that Mike would be hooked on country and western music.  However, his college years were spent in the piedmont of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Albemarle County, Virginia.

Mike had grown up in Washington during the fifties when the capital was a steamy intersection of international sophistication and deep Southern prejudice.  It had been with great trepidation that Mike enrolled in that bastion of southern schools, the University of Virginia, on a NROTC scholarship, but he was destined for a big surprise.

Mike found the University to be a far different place from the dirty, throbbing neighborhoods of non-diplomatic Washington in which he had grown up.  Growing up in Washington, D.C. had been painful.  Some of the slights had been obvious, like the rednecks that would not let Mike's family onto Calvert Beach, Maryland, during the Fifties.  The confusion of growing up in a white person's world had left an impression on the young Mike Liu.

It wasn't right that someone could tell you that you could use this fountain or that, changing their decisions not so much from person to person but from time to time depending on how they felt.  Sometimes, the rednecks would say Chinese could use white facilities, other times they could not.  In some perverse way, the uncertainty was worse than the clear barriers that blacks had to endure in the same places.  Prejudices were delivered personally to Chinese, not impersonally through placards.  Racism was arbitrary with Orientals depending on the mood of the next redneck you met.

It pained Mike to remember the sadness in his parents' eyes when they urged their children to not think about going to the bathroom until they got to the safety of their own house; just to avoid the uncertainty and impulsiveness of white shop owners.  Growing up Asian in the fifties and sixties in the United States meant you weren't included, not by the whites nor the blacks.

But this changed dramatically for Mike from his first days at the University; Mike had been immersed in a culture that his ancestors in China would have never understood.  The Grounds of the University of Virginia, as the faculty and students referred to the campus, were perhaps the most beautiful thing that Mike had ever seen when he arrived at the school in the fall of 1962.

A favorite memory of his last days on the Grounds was the signing off of radio stations in the early morning hours - alone in his room on the Lawn, the original student quarters designed by Mr. Jefferson in the early eighteen hundreds and continuously used by students ever since.  Mike treasured the memory of the orange glow from the dying embers in his fireplace casting flickering shadows on his walls as he labored under the benevolent dictatorship of Professor Fred Morris, his teacher and friend.  The memory was embedded in his mind as was the slow haunting refrain of "Dixie" floating over the air as the radio stations signed off, the drowsy ethereal nature of that tune played as it was meant to be played; not the jangling strident march that had been adopted by the Confederacy during the Civil War and segregationists thereafter.  He could never understand how that sweet song could have been turned into such a vehicle of hate.

What Mike treasured most about Charlottesville was a sense of finally belonging.  This sense of belonging was important to Mike particularly given the isolation he felt while growing up in segregated Washington, D.C.  Mike was fighting his own subconscious war against a society that seemed to give aid and comfort to obnoxious racists, who would use whatever skills they had to put others "in their place."  Here he could be himself, and not the stereotyped Chinese, meant to be placed in a corner and ignored as his father and other Chinese had been before him.

It was an auspicious moment when he was commissioned an Ensign in the United States Navy following graduation in 1966; a sense of finally arriving.  After graduate school, Mike was assigned to the Special Projects Office at the Naval Construction Battalion Center.  He considered himself to be downright lucky to have been further assigned to work with Bob McHugh on such an interesting engineering problem.  He had heard about Bob McHugh and looked forward to learning a lot about oceanography from this warrior-scientist.

The only hesitation Mike felt as he drove to Annapolis was the nagging questions.  What would he do if he accidently saw Corrine?

1967: Found

0800 Hours: Tuesday, October 4, 1967: Aboard the USS Marysville Somewhere Over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain, West of Bermuda

Captain George Vander, U.S.N., put his binoculars down and turned to what seemed to be his thousandth cup of hot black, acrid coffee.  The latest link in his chain smoking habit hung from his lips and the bluish smoke lazily reached toward the overhead of the bridge.

"Mister Evans," Vander called without looking back.  Immediately, a thin, bespectacled Lieutenant appeared from the shadows on the bridge of the USS Marysville and joined the Captain.

Frederick Evans, a Ph.D. from Caltech, had already established a reputation for geosciences measurement including his duty on the fateful March 20, 1967, flight of the P-3B Orion.  Evans had been seconded to the Marysville especially for this mission to search for and locate the mysterious object.

"Mr. Evans, have you ever seen anything as dang fool as that Nematode contraption?" referring to Western Light's side scan sonar that had been put on-board the USS Marysville.

Vander was from the old Navy, assigned to push around research barges in the twilight of his career.  In his day, oceanography meant Seechi discs, and sounding wires.  The most exotic items in his arsenal were things like bucket thermometers and Roberts-type current meters.

Having signed aboard during the waning days of the big one, Vander served aboard almost every class of warship in the Navy except submarines.  "I like to sleep with my portholes open," was his standard reply.

High-tech, space age gizmos were better left to the eggheads like Evans.  Vander could drive his boat and put her exactly wherever the scientists wanted her.  Despite his rough hewn exterior or, maybe because of it, Vander was an expert mariner.

"Sir - that contraption may look awkward, but it has some of the fanciest electronics any ocean going instrumentation package has ever seen."

Vander continued staring out over the bow of the Marysville, oblivious to the techno-jargon that Evans was engaged in.  Evans, sensing that the Captain's interest was probably out of boredom, rather than a thirst for knowledge, turned to the ship's navigator who stood at the map table and started plotting transits that would coincide with his route on the over flight of the Lockheed P-3B Orion many months before.

Finally, the Nematode was ready to be deployed and with a splash, Nematode was committed to the deep.

"Here's hoping it ain't Russian," whispered Sevson to himself.

1600 Hours: Tuesday, October 4, 1967: Aboard the Marysville Over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain

The sound of the sonar systems filled the darkened instrumentation room on-board the U.S.S. Marysville as she maintained a straight heading under the skillful watch of Captain George Vander.

Up on the bridge behind Vander, Evans poured over the charts with Vander's navigator.  Using dividers and rulers to plot their current position, Evans satisfied himself that their course was exactly the same course the Lockheed P-3B Orion had flown months before.  The task was not that easy.

Consider trying to remotely tow a car using a cable deployed from an airplane over three miles up and several miles ahead.  A rather formidable job that challenged even the time-tried skills of Vander, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a steaming cup of hot black coffee in his weathered left hand.

In the instrumentation room, several levels below deck, designed to be at the center of gravity of the vessel, Mike, McHugh, and Sevson crowded behind the Western Light sonar technician. The only moving thing in the tight cabin was the greenish trace on the cathode ray tube as it displayed the line by line return of the side scan sonar.

The only sounds other than the "blips" made by the sonar in the darkened room were the scratchy noises made by the pen registers as they recorded the images now being laid out on the cathode ray tube or CRT.  If it weren't for the soft rolling of the Marysville, there would have been no indication that Mike was even at sea.

The trace on the sonar's oscilloscope held steady, a faint greenish line followed the brighter green dot that ran left to right across the circular screen.  Except for occasional jiggles of the trace, which could be accounted for by changes in the local magnetic background of the ocean bottom, nothing unusual had occurred.

"Any more theories on the magnetic anomaly, Bob?" asked Sevson.

The ever present half smoked cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, McHugh was absorbed in thought.  The stale cigar smoke competed with the sweet smell of "Barking Dog" tobacco emanating from the corn-cob pipe in the corner of Sevson's mouth.  The tinfoil packet from which Sevson constantly refilled his pipe had the subtext, "Barking Dogs Never Bite."

Absentmindedly, McHugh replied, "Nothing radical, Tom.  If it is Russian, then we are in deep trouble.  We won't be able to deploy a sizeable station at that depth for any period of time.  Based on the magnetometer readings this thing, whatever it is, is substantial.  If your Nematode, or whatever you call it, can help us locate the source of this anomaly, we can get down there with the Trieste for a look."

"Don't we have sonar arrays deployed at those depths?"

"No, our SOSUS nets are generally deployed at much shallower depths.  No submarines are known to be able to dive to the depth associated with the anomaly.  If the Russians have a submarine capable of that depth, they could hide in the submarine canyons off Santa Catalina Island and be within thirty miles of Los Angeles and not be detected by our SOSUS nets."

"Holy shit!" said Sevson, sinking into a chair.  "God, it's Cuba all over again!"

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Tom.  We have no knowledge that the Russians have that kind of technology.  If they did, I think we would have heard by now."

"Bob, I think you'd better see this," interrupted Mike, who had been looking over the shoulder of the Western Light technician.

"Commander, we have a reading," called out the sonar technician.  McHugh walked across the small room to stand behind the technician.  On the CRT, the greenish lines were definitely displaying something.

The green trace was rising steadily, not in dramatic jumps, but steadily as each trace ran across the face of the oscilloscope, the tension in the instrumentation room grew.  Evans and Sevson joined McHugh and Mike.  More lines were painted vertically on the screen.  Each new line gave a better indication of the shape and size of whatever the side scan sonar saw.

As the object began filling the screen of the CRT, McHugh asked the operator to turn on a backup plotter.  McHugh went to the plotters and what he saw was something big, as big as a football field, and oval in cross section.  This was not a natural feature like a rock outcropping or fault line.

"Damn!" uttered Frederick Evans.

1800 Hours: Tuesday, October 4, 1967: Aboard the Marysville Over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain

"What do you make of it?" asked McHugh.

"From the sonar record, it appears that the object is quite large, perhaps over a football field long.  By triangulation we're pretty certain that the centroid of this thing, whatever it is, is also the peak of our magnetometer trace within a statistical accuracy of one standard deviation," replied Sevson.  Evans nodded assent.

"You're not writing a scientific paper, Tom. How about some plain speak for the troops," chided McHugh.

"What it means is that we found whatever was causing the magnetic anomaly on Evan's Orion flight; it's just that we don't know what it is."

"What if we drop the Trieste on this thing," asked McHugh.

"You could be here for years.   All that the Trieste will be able to see would be an infinitesimal part of whatever is there.  In order to get a definitive idea of this object, or whatever it is, we need to have mobility.  The explanation of this could be perfectly normal.  We could be merely seeing the tip of a massive seamount, magma, or a salt dome.

"It's just that the regularity of the shape bugs the hell outa me.  I've never seen anything like it before, just doesn't make sense, especially given the fact that the benthic topography is so uniform for hundreds of miles around.  If the geology of the region were such that we could predict a seamount or a salt dome, then I'd feel better, but it doesn't."

"You don't normally associate a salt dome with anomalous magnetometer readings, do you?" questioned Mike.

"Not normally, and certainly not at the levels we have found here.  A magma outflow could explain the magnetometer readings, but the area is not known for volcanic activity.  Also, magma flows would never be so regular in shape.  It's almost like someone lobbed a gigantic football onto the ocean floor," explained Evans.

"We've got to get down there and have a look, any suggestions gentlemen?" inquired McHugh.

"We could attach television cameras and strobes to the Nematode, but we would be basically seeing only small portions of the object at one time." offered Sevson.  The combination of darkness and the relatively small field of illumination offered by the Nematode's on-board lighting would not give much of an overview; just small snatches of the object now depicted on the sonar tape.

"Doesn't anyone have a free swimmer that could get to those depths?" asked an exasperated McHugh.

Both Sevson and Mike's face lit up simultaneously.

Mike spoke first, "MacAlear Aviation has been developing a free swimming submersible that is allegedly capable of 20,000 foot depths.  Some guy from MacAlear gave a talk at Stanford last year about their oceanographic programs and I remember being impressed with the depth."

"Yeah," said Sevson, "I've read about it as well.  For some reason, there hasn't been much press about the submersible in trade journals.  I think everyone assumes that MacAlear abandoned the program.  With the drop off of Navy funds a lot of programs have bitten the dust in the last year or two.  I guess that the MacAlear submersible is a victim of some government cutback."

"How can we find out more about this submersible?" asked an intrigued Robert McHugh.

"A good friend of mine works for MacAlear, I think you know him, Ed Robison," replied Sevson.

"Wasn't he the one who ran the Wayward Wind aground off Baja in '59?"

Sevson had also sailed on the R/V Wayward Wind and had a similar photograph like the one on McHugh's wall in Port Hueneme.

"Yup!  That's the guy."

"I guess he thinks if he stays in deep water, he'll be okay."

"Let me give him a call when we get back to Annapolis," offered Sevson.

1967: Free Swimming

1130 Hours: Tuesday, November 1, 1967, Palo Alto, California

"Know of any quick places to eat?" asked Sevson.

"We could go down to the Oasis on El Camino," offered Mike.  "It's not the fanciest place in the world but the hamburgers are good.  It's sort of a graduate engineering student hangout.  Believe me, you'll love it."

Pulling into the parking lot of the Oasis, Sevson wasn't sure what Mike was getting him into.  The rather plain looking facade of the bar/restaurant wasn't quite what he expected.  As Sevson and Mike entered the dimly lit dining area, Sevson was not terribly impressed by the peanut shells on the floor, the long hard wooden benches, and the heavy wood tables.

Mike, on the other hand, seemed to be oblivious to the dingy surroundings.  He went right to the counter and ordered two cheeseburgers, fries and drinks.

Sevson found two places on a bench, having to stare down a couple of shallow, pasty looking students who were hogging the entire table without any food in sight.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Mike came over with a tray holding two red plastic baskets, made to look like woven straw baskets, two mugs of some brownish solution - the glasses already frosting over.  In the baskets were cheeseburgers in sesame rolls, French fries, and a slice of tomato sitting on a leaf of lettuce.  The food was lying on a white paper napkin and a strip of wax paper.

"Didn't I tell you that you would like this place?" said Mike enthusiastically.

Sevson grunted, as he brushed some peanut shells and food scraps off the wooden table.  Mike handed Sevson's red plastic basket to him and sat down across the table.  The two former squatters at the table looked darkly at the older man in a white, short sleeve shirt and tan trousers with white socks inside brown penny loafers and the young Chinese dressed in the tan uniform of the United States Navy.

"Child killer," muttered one of the long-haired graduate students in a loud stage whisper to no one in particular.

Despite his reservations about the ambience of the Oasis, Sevson bit down on his cheeseburger and found out that Mike was right; this place did have some social redeeming value.  Mike said, "I used to come here once or twice a week, don't you agree it's great?"

"I guess so," grunted Sevson, biting down on his cheeseburger.

After completing his first gastronomical experience at the Oasis, Sevson washed it down with another Anchor Steam Beer.

As Sevson and Mike got up from the bench and started out the door, a young Asian coed dressed in dungarees and a red Stanford University sweatshirt intentionally brushed against Mike as he walked toward the front door and whispered loudly, "Banana."

Sevson noticed that with that remark, Mike's face stiffened, his jaw became set and his eyes narrowed and focused on some distant point.

"What was that about?" asked a perplexed Sevson.

"Apparently, the young lady didn't like my uniform," said Mike, shaking his head as if to throw off the stinging remark.  "A 'Banana' is an Asian who wants to be Caucasian:  Yellow on the outside, white on the inside."  Mike's personal war was fought on many battlefields.

"Oh."

After the meal, Sevson and Mike walked out into the cool summer evening, got into the rented Ford Falcon and backed out of the parking lot.  On the radio was Simon Garfunkel singing "Cloudy."  After a short drive, the two reached their motel and checked in for the night.

0630 Hours: Wednesday, November 2, 1967, Palo Alto, California

The persistent knocking on his door woke Mike from a sound sleep.  "Who's there?"

"Open this door!" demanded the deep male voice.

Mike got out of bed, put on his pants, and went to the door.  Opening the door, he was confronted by two Caucasian males, dressed in civilian suits.  Both men were heavy set, their shirts yellowed with age, and suits ill-fitted.  Pushing their way into Mike's room, they started to move about the room casually looking at Mike's possessions.

"Who are you and what do you want?" asked an obviously peeved Mike.

"We're from the D.I.A.," said John Thompson, flashing a gold badge and identification card at Mike.  D.I.A. was the acronym for the Defense Intelligence Agency of the Department of Defense.

"I don't care who you are. You have no right to barge in here and paw through my belongings," said an increasingly angry Mike.  "I am a Navy officer, and I will not stand for this treatment from you or any one."

"Look, boy.  I'm not going to argue with you.  Just get dressed, you're comin' with us."

"What?" asked a shocked Mike.  Then he saw the handle of a .38 caliber Police Special poking out of a holster strapped to the waist of the D.I.A. agent.  "Am I under arrest?"

"Just come with us."

All that the two Defense Intelligence Agency agents allowed Mike to do was to put on his dress shirt, shoes, and socks.  They took Mike out to an unmarked army green sedan and placed him in the rear seat.  As the car pulled out of the motel parking lot, Sevson opened the door to his room and noticed that Mike was being driven away by two men in what appeared to be an army sedan.

"Operator, can you get me 213-661-4555," said Sevson.

The young seaman picked up the ringing telephone, "Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh's Office."

"Is the Commander in?"

"One moment, Sir.  I'll see if he is busy. Who may I say is calling?"

"Tom Sevson, tell him it's an emergency."

"What's up, Tom?" answered a worried McHugh.

"Two men in what looked like an army sedan just took Mike away from the motel," blurted out Sevson.  I didn't like the looks of it so I thought I should call you."

"You did the right thing, Tom.  I'll get right on it. Were they in uniform?"

"No."

McHugh shouted out to his Yeoman's Mate, "Billy, see if you can get the Provost Marshal at the Presidio in San Francisco."

"Provost Marshal's Office."

"Please hold for Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, United States Navy," said the Yeoman.  "Commander, I've got the Provost Marshal's office on the line."

"Can I speak to the Provost?  This is important military business."

"This is Captain John Wilson."

"Captain Wilson, this is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, from NAVFAC in Port Hueneme.  I just found out that one of my men, Ensign Aloysius Liu, was just taken into custody by two men driving an army sedan.  Is there anything that you can do to help me find where they have taken Ensign Liu?  He is on a confidential mission of the highest priority.  Captain, if he isn't found, there could be serious, serious consequences."

"Commander, I'm not aware of any arrests of Navy personnel in my district.  In addition, my guys usually do not go out in civilian clothes.  It almost sounds like it could be someone from the Defense Intelligence Agency.  I'll try to find out something, what is your telephone number?"

After giving Captain Wilson Mike's name and rank and his telephone number, McHugh returned the handset to its cradle.

It was almost noon before John Wilson was able to get back to McHugh.  "Commander, as far as I can determine Ensign Liu was picked up for questioning by the D.I.A.  For what reason, I don't know.  I don't think he is under arrest, but he is being held by the DIA who are asking him about some information he was apparently trying to obtain."

"Shit!  Excuse me Captain, that wasn't meant for you."

"That's okay, I understand.  Is there anything more I can help you with?" asked John Wilson.

"Who should I talk to?"

"I gather the agent in charge is a John Thompson.  He can be reached at 415-LI-1-4336."

"Thanks for your help, Captain.'

"You're welcome, Sir.  If there is anything else, just give me a call."

McHugh dialed the telephone number that Wilson had given him.  "This is Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh with NAVFAC.  Is John Thompson available?"

"This here's John Thompson.  What can I do for you?"

"I understand that you are holding one of my officers, Ensign Aloysius Liu.  Can you tell me what the charge is?"

"Mister, I don't know who you are.  I got me a Chinee boy on suspicion of espionage."

Fighting back the rising anger in his voice, McHugh stated in measured tones, "Mr. Thompson, I am going to make this very clear.  If you continue to hold Ensign Liu on any charge whatsoever, you are going to be in shit so deep that your red neck will be brown.  Am I making myself clear?  In addition, Ensign Liu is an Officer in the Navy and is not to be referred to as a 'Chinee boy' by you or anyone else is that also cl...." -- The line went dead.

Furious, McHugh called Jeb Tillingham, a classmate of his from the Academy, assigned to the Office of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C.

"Jeb, this is Bob McHugh."

"Bob, long time no hear.  Last I heard you were out west chasing porpoises and killer whales to make them into finny commandos."

"Jeb, I wish I could chat but I've got some serious business."

Tillingham quickly became quiet, "What's up, Bob?"

"One of my officers, Mike, is in the Bay Area working with Tom Sevson of Western Light on that geomagnetic problem.  I got a report that he was picked by the D.I.A. on some hoked up charge.  I just spoke to a D.I.A. agent, John Thompson, who refuses to release my man.  I have to tell you that this Thompson has a neck so red my telephone glowed."

"Is this guy at the Presidio?"

"Yes."

"Great, the Commander of the Presidio, General Perry Williams, is an old friend of the CNO's.  I'll give his Aide de Camp a call immediately."

The receptionist at the D.I.A. office looked up to see a full bird Colonel in the Army, and six military police carrying M-1 Carbines burst into her office.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Colonel Bradley Robertson, Executive Officer to the Commandant of the Presidio, General Perry Williams.  Is a John Thompson present?"

"Yes, I'll get him for you."

A minute later, a large man in an ill fitting civilian suit walked through the doorway into the receptionist's area.  "I'm John Thompson, Can I help you?"

"I understand that you have a naval officer in custody by the name of Aloysius Liu.  Is that correct?"

"Do you mean that Chinaman I picked up this morning?"

"Thompson, I'm not here to play games with you.  I have it on good authority that you are holding an officer in the armed forces of the United States.  If you have Ensign Liu in custody, you had better have one hell of a good reason."

"That Chinaman is being held on suspicion of espionage."

"On whose authority?"

"On my authority!"

Robertson, a former green beret and a holder of many decorations including the Silver Star, was not normally prone to excitement.  However, before him stood the very reason he, at times, hated the service; it allowed racist creeps like John Thompson to hide in its crevices like so many cockroaches.  Swiftly grabbing the labels of Thompson's cheap suit, Robertson pulled the face of John Thompson close to his.  The intermingled smells of body odor of someone accustomed to drinking cheap wine, smoking cheap stale cigars, and even cheaper whiskey was overpowering.

The urge to physically teach Thompson a valuable lesson in sensitivity was almost overwhelming, but Robertson spoke softly and deliberately.

"Listen you dumb fuck, do you know who you are holding?  Ensign Liu is a NAVFAC officer on special assignment to the Oceanographer of the Navy for a top secret project.  Your little adventure has already brought discredit to my boss, the Commandant of the Presidio; the CNO's office called this morning and all hell is breaking loose.  It would give me no small amount of pleasure to take that fucking red neck of yours and break it in two.  Am I making myself sufficiently clear?"

With that Robertson threw the portly 250 pound Thompson against the wall with a loud thud.

Robertson thought to himself: shit, I didn't know I had that much strength.

Dusting off his hands and straightening out his dress uniform, Robertson addressed the now cowed John Thompson, "Now will you please get Ensign Liu for me?  Oh! By the way, don't ever use the term 'Chinaman' again.  If I ever find out you have, I will find you and I won't be in my dress uniform."

Just about this time, Clyde Hopkins, Thompson's partner burst into the room with his revolver drawn.  As he looked up, he stared into the muzzles of six M-1 Carbines.

"Drop your weapon," demanded Robertson.  Hopkins complied with that request.

With his hands in the air, Hopkins asked Thompson, "What the hell is happening?"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth, Clyde.  These fellas want that Chinese guy, now!" sputtered a defiant Thompson.

"What is your name?" asked Robertson.

"Clyde Hopkins, Sergeant First Class, United States Army," replied Hopkins.

"What is your rank and service, Thompson?"

"Master Sergeant, U.S. Army."

"Sergeant Wills, please take Hopkins and go look for Ensign Liu."

"Hopkins, before you go, both you and Thompson are hereby relieved of your duties as agents of the Defense Intelligence Agency and are remanded to the custody of the Provost Marshal.  I'll have formal charges as soon as possible, probably something like federal kidnapping or disrespect of a commissioned officer, if I can't think of any legit charges I'll make up some.  Take this shit away, Sergeant it's beginning to smell in here."

In a few minutes, a disheveled, unshaven and visibly irritated Mike was brought into the receptionist office.

Robertson greeted him in Mandarin, "Nee how mah, Liu shan sen?"

"Hey, that's pretty good," said Mike, caught unawares by this Caucasian speaking his mother tongue.  "Where did you learn to speak like that?"

"I learned it at the U.S. Army language school in Monterey, California.  I'm Brad Robertson, Executive Officer at the Presidio, sorry about your rather unfortunate welcome to the Presidio, Mister Liu."

"I gotta tell you that was something I expected in the deepest part of the South, not in California.  Who turned these apes on?"

"As far as we have been able to determine, someone overheard you asking directions to MacAlear Aviation where they are working on a super secret system of some sort.  That someone - maybe the motel clerk - called Thompson and his sidekick.  Thompson followed you and Sevson for a couple of hours, saw you go into the Oasis, where anti-war activists hang out and decided that you were a spy.  With the Viet Nam war raging on, everyone thinks every oriental is a Viet Cong.  It's stupid, but it happens.  I'll have one of my men take you back to your motel so you can change and then down to Sunnyvale.  Tom Sevson is waiting for you at MacAlear."

"Thanks for your help, Colonel.  What's going to happen to these two creeps?"

"Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do since their defense will be they were just doing their job.  However, I'll see to it that they are relieved of their assignment with the D.I.A.  They'll probably go back to some military police assignment somewhere.  With a little bit of help, I'm sure we will be able to find a suitable next post for them.  Maybe Thule, Greenland.  That sounds good."

"Thanks again."

1600 Hours: Tuesday, November 2, 1967, Sunnyvale, California

The green Army sedan turned into the guard gate at the MacAlear Aviation facility in Sunnyvale, California, not too far from the Ames Naval Air Station at Moffett Field.  Like the Ames facility, the MacAlear compound consisted of several buildings and two large hangers.  The guard at the gate, a young civilian in a white shirt and blue trousers, examined the identification cards of all the occupants of the sedan.  He then directed the sedan to Building A2, a barracks like building constructed of white clapboard with a grayish composite slate roof.  The three story building was labeled, "Project Squid."

Mike got out of the Army sedan and thanked the two Sergeants who had assured his safe arrival and walked up the concrete steps to the door of the reception area.

Inside in contrast to its drab exterior, the reception area was brightly decorated in earth tones, sand colored walls and maple stained wood work.  The receptionist's desk was blond teak wood, as were the Danish style sofa and chairs.  Contrasting with the blond teak wood were royal blue sack cloth cushions and backs.

On the coffee table were magazines and other reading material such as Sunset, technical journals, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Alumni Weekly from Stanford University.  Hanging from pots in macramé pot hangers were several plants.  On the walls were colorful posters of the Redwoods in Muir Woods, Earth Day - 1967 showing the rising earth from moon orbit, and a poster displaying fish of the Pacific Ocean.

The pleasant atmosphere of the office was completed by a potpourri of spices and other fragrances sitting in an open bowl on the credenza.

"Hello, I'm Mike Liu.  I'm here to see Ed Robison."

The receptionist, a California girl with honey blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and bright blue eyes took Mike's name and called Ed Robison's secretary.  "Janey, there's a Mike Liu here to see Ed."

Both Robison and Sevson, who had been anxiously waiting by the telephone for news of Mike, came down to the reception area to welcome the newly released Ensign.

"Mike, so glad you could finally make it.  Hope you aren't the worse for wear given your morning's activities.  This is Ed Robison.  Ed manages the Squid program for MacAlear Aviation.  Ed just got back last night from the East Coast where he had been begging for funds, time honored tradition, eh, Ed?  Ed, this is Mike Liu.  Mike works for McHugh," said Sevson.

"You mean 'First to Lunch' McHugh?" asked Robison.  Robison was bald, but deeply tanned from his almost daily avocation of SCUBA diving.  Dressed in a red checkered shirt, blue jeans, and work boots, you could almost mistake Robison for one of the mechanics working at MacAlear.  In truth, Robison preferred to spend his time working on machines, but with a Doctorate in Mechanical Engineering from Stanford University and as the Project Manager for the Squid program, Robison had few chances to "get dirty" as he called it.

Robison also had a picture of the R/V Wayward Wind hanging on his wall, above his credenza.  Unlike Sevson's and McHugh's photos, Robison's showed a younger Ed Robison, sitting on a rock in ankle deep water, his head held up by his right hand, his right elbow resting on his knee.  His left arm was draped over his knees.  The R/V Wayward Wind was sitting in the near background, listing heavily to the right - obviously grounded.  Robison did not look happy in this photograph; he looked dejected.

Robison had joined MacAlear Aviation in the late fifties as a systems engineer.  In the intervening years, he had advanced within the company and was now responsible for the Squid Project.  It was in this position that Robison began to shine.  Completing the Squid had become an obsession to Robison; the Holy Grail.

What the Squid didn't have was a sugar daddy.

Although the major components of the Squid had been assembled and pressure tested, government funding for the project had dropped off as the Viet Nam conflict intensified.

In order to keep the Squid Project alive, Robison had developed into quite the consummate grants player and office politician.  By hook or crook, Robison had scraped together enough money year-by-year to keep his baby alive and on life support.  However, at age forty five, Robison feared that he was coming to the end of the trail as far as the Squid was concerned.

One can just imagine his elation to hear from his old friend, Tom Sevson, who expressed an interest in the Squid.  This joy was compounded when he heard that NAVFAC was sending a young officer to interview him about the project.  A faint glimmer of hope sparked in Robison's heart that maybe, just maybe, there was going to be a reprieve for the Squid.

Cruel fate intervened, he thought, when some dumb red necked commie catchers took this young fellow into custody on some trumped up charge.  Robison was greatly relieved to hear that Mike had survived the inquisition and was now safely in his office.

"Why don'cha guys pull up a chair," said Robison.  "I've got some sodas in the fridge.  What's your pleasure?" as he went to the small refrigerator in the corner of his office.  Opening the door of the refrigerator, Robison reached in and took out an assortment of sodas.

"I'll have a Coke," said Mike.

"I'll take the NeHi orange," was Sevson's response.

Handing Mike a Coke, Robison said, "I hope you don't hold what the D.I.A. did against all Californians."

"Don't worry, Ed. Those assholes were no more Californian than George Wallace.   You've probably heard from Tom that I went to Stanford, didn't you get your doctorate there?"

"Sure did, although Stanford in the early fifties was a heck of a smaller place."

"Tell me about the Squid," said Mike.

"From the specifications book that we sent you and Tom, you have a good idea about its operational profile.  The Squid has an operating depth of over 20,000 feet.  It can carry a crew of three: a pilot, an assistant, and one observer; four if everyone sucks in their tummies and is real friendly.  The pressure sphere is constructed of titanium and had three small portholes for the crew.  It can be on its own for up to forty eight hours, although it gets pretty rank by that time.  We have attachment plates for scientific equipment, including high resolution television cameras, and strobe lights.  It can also be equipped with an articulated mechanical arm for picking up samples."

"How soon can we get her operational," asked Sevson.  He had been sitting quietly in the background.

"That's the catch.  I ran out of funds for anything more than component testing.  The components are ready to go but I need about a year of system testing and operational phase testing before we can get to the at-sea trials.  I would say if we could get the funding, I could be ready to go in eighteen months," replied Robison.

"How much would that take and is there any way to expedite the process?" asked Mike.

Like a kid who had just been given a sack full of money in a candy store, Robison's face lit up, "I think that we would need about ten million dollars to meet an eighteen month schedule.  If we put some system tests on parallel test schedules, we might be able to shave a maximum of three months to the schedule."

Mike and Sevson exchanged wary glances.

Finally, Mike said, "We can do that."

1969: Face to Face

0800 Hours: Tuesday, February 26, 1969, Aboard the USS Marysville Over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain

Mike stood on the deck of the USS Marysville, looking out over the vast expanse of blue water.  There were a few waves, but generally the ocean surface was calm, perfect conditions for launching the Squid, which was aboard its own tender, the R/V Falling Star.  The Marysville would serve as a support vessel for this trip.  The only sound Mike could hear was the slap of the waves against the hull of the Marysville.

These last fifteen months had been exciting ones for Mike.  Living and working in the Bay area was a nostalgia trip for Mike.  During off days he would walk around the Stanford University campus basking in the northern California sun, watching the bronzed coeds scurrying between classes and Meyer Memorial Library, dodging the bike traffic that seemed to flow endlessly, and occasionally, official business would bring him on campus to consult with one of his professors.

One of the best times to walk around the campus was in the late afternoon and early evening, particularly along the paths through fragrant groves of eucalyptus trees with their Vicks vapor rub smell that proliferated throughout the campus.

Mike considered it a personal victory when Sevson began suggesting they go to the Oasis for a hamburger.  Mike had learned his lesson well and always wore dungarees and polo shirts whenever they went to the off campus restaurant.

As he stared out at the gentle swells of the ocean surface, the newly minted Lieutenant (j.g.), U.S.N.R., chuckled to himself as he remembered McHugh's reaction when he and Sevson had reported back on the cost of deploying the Squid.

McHugh had blurted, "YOU DID WHAT?!!" as his cigar dropped from his open mouth.

Now that the Squid was ready for its first deep mission over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain, McHugh was all over the place like a mother hen watching over her brood.  McHugh was fascinated by the prospect of actually going to the bottom of the ocean in a free swimming submersible.  At times it was difficult to discern whether his excitement was directed toward the prospect of finding out once and for all what secrets lay 18,000 feet below or in riding this magnificent machine.  Robison and Sevson ruthlessly kidded their old friend, McHugh, about being a kid with a new toy.  McHugh's reply each time was, "But What a Toy!"

0800 Hours: Friday, March 15, 1969, Aboard the R/V Falling Star

Even though Mike was not scheduled for a dive until later in the operational phase of the mission, he had plenty to do.  Standing on the deck of the R/V Falling Star, Mike had responsibility for checking out the instrumentation package prior to any operation.  To do this effectively, Mike had to don a wet suit and SCUBA apparatus.  Mike enjoyed this assignment because it allowed him to be close to the Squid and to be part of history.

The initial operational dive would be conducted by the Squid's regular crew of two: the pilot, Jim Anderson, and his crew chief, Walt Carver.  Anderson was an old hand in the submersible business, having trained on such vessels as the Deepstar 2000, Alvin, and Aluminaut.  Anderson had been stricken with deep-sea fever at an early age and like most pilots of commercial submersibles had spent his entire career chasing that dream.

When Robison figured that the Squid was going to become reality, he put out the call to his old friend who at that time was at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute near Falmouth, Massachusetts, running its small fleet of submersibles, including the Alvin, which having a dive depth of 8,000 feet was one of the deepest diving free swimming vessels available.  When Anderson heard 20,000 feet he didn't need much persuasion and was in Sunnyvale within a week.

Anderson was just over six feet tall and had the leathery brown tan of someone who probably spent too much time in the sun.  His brown hair was thinning and his blue eyes had a penetrating hardness tinged with the crinkles of a smile.  He wore dungarees and white tee shirts, on his right forearm was a tattoo of a porpoise diving into the waves, if you looked hard you could still see the heart with the name "Louise" that the porpoise was supposed to hide.  On his belt, he always carried a stainless steel sailing knife in a leather case, the kind that has a five inch blade on one end and a five inch marlin spike on the other.   Anderson's reputation was hard work, hard play, joker when things went well and deadly, deadly serious about the dives.

When things go wrong on the bottom, you can't pop the canopy and parachute out - here there is no out, was one of Anderson's favorite quotes.

In contrast, Walt Carver had spent twenty years in the U.S. Navy and had retired at age thirty seven as a Chief Petty Officer.  Most of his career was spent in the engine room of various surface fleet vessels.  After his retirement from the Navy, Carver got a job as a shop foreman in the Marine Division of MacAlear assembling hydrofoils used for patrol in Viet Nam. It was in this job that Carver earned a reputation for meeting and exceeding performance standards and schedules.  So it was an easy call for Robison, when the funds actually started flowing from McHugh's confidential sources, to badger MacAlear's management into sparing Carver from his normal duties.

Shanghaiing Carver may have been the smartest thing that Robison did during the entire fifteen months.  Carver was all over the place, making sure that each component was correctly assembled and checked out.  The young engineers and technicians at MacAlear called him Chief in deference to his retired rank and out of fondness for this gentle, soft spoken West Virginian who had never even seen the ocean when he walked into the Navy recruiter's office in Beckley, West Virginia, one autumn day in 1942, Walt had decided to join the Navy right after Pearl Harbor, but had to wait until autumn when he turned seventeen.  Carver's dad had refused to sign for him when he was sixteen.

A slight man of forty-five, Carver was a wiry contrast to Anderson both in appearance and in style.  No bravado, no jokes, just quiet listening and contemplative nods of the head when listening to the many problems sure to arise.  Carver always dressed in his Navy dungarees and light blue work shirt.  Even after twenty years in the Navy and eight at MacAlear, his weight had not changed one pound and he could still wear the uniform he wore as a recruit at the Great Lakes Training Center in Illinois.

The Squid was beautiful, its fiberglass outer hull glistened white, royal blue lettering and striping made for an impressive machine.  The pressure hull hung inside the outer hull, but projected from the bow of the vessel thereby enabling the pilot and observers to see frontward and downward.

A fiberglass conning tower, flooded during dives, enabled the crew to operate the submersible at the surface.  Outfitted with a fully articulated robotic arm, the Squid could do useful work in addition to providing mobility during its dives.  The Squid also had forward scanning sonar which worked much like radar would for a surface vessel.  Television cameras and strobe lights completed the standard instrumentation.

Because of its mission, the Squid was also outfitted with a variety of oceanographic instrumentation including the now familiar metastable-helium magnetometer.  Launching the Squid was an art, in and of itself.  The R/V Falling Star was a catamaran with a gigantic open platform that served as an elevator in between its twin hulls.  By lowering the platform, the Squid could simply swim out on its own power.  There was no need to hoist the submersible into the water.

The Squid sat on a specially designed cradle in the center of the elevator.  Designed for an earlier, shallower version of the Squid, the Deep Diver, the R/V Falling Star did not require extensive refitting to accommodate the Squid.  Because of the size of the R/V Falling Star, the water between the two hulls remained relatively calm.

Additionally, the hulls of the R/V Falling Star could be flooded, dropping the vessel's waterline to create a pool of calmness even in moderately rough seas.

Anderson and Carver climbed in to the conning tower of the Squid.  Dressed in blue coveralls with the MacAlear logo on the back, both of them had wisely worn long johns underneath.  Despite the 90 degree air and warm surface water temperatures, the ocean beneath the photic zone remained generally a cool 32 degrees, Fahrenheit.  At deeper depths, the temperature could drop even further.  The Squid was equipped with chemical heaters, but prudence dictated that occupants dressed warmly.  Robison served as dive director on this first dive.  McHugh and Sevson would help Robison launch the submersible.

Mike was dressed in his wet suit and SCUBA equipment.  His job today was to ride the outside of the Squid, along with two MacAlear technicians to conduct a final instrumentation check in the water before the submersible attempted its first dive over the Hatteras Abyssal Plain.  In addition to his wet suit and SCUBA gear, Mike would be wearing a microphone and headset so he could communicate with Anderson.

Anderson and Carver disappeared into the pressure sphere of the submersible, the hatch closed with a solid, but muffled clang.  Once the hatch was closed the only way that Anderson could communicate with Robison was via a through-hull telephone patch.

However, once the Squid was launched from the R/V Falling Star and the telephone link was automatically uncoupled, the crew of the Squid would be left on their own.  However, they would have the company of Mike and two MacAlear technicians for the start of their trip.

"Okay, boss.  We're ready to let 'er rip," announced Jim Anderson.

"Roger," acknowledged Robison.

The platform of the R/V Falling Star started its slow descent.  The seawater rose to gradually cover both Liu and the technicians and, finally, the Squid.  The water felt warm and Mike wondered if the wet suit was that useful, but he knew that even in warm water, the wet suit helped to preserve his body temperature.  Finally, the Squid lifted off its cradle.  Anderson immediately started its main propeller; helped by Navy divers, the Squid inched its way backward to the stern of its mother ship.  Finally, the Squid was free of the launch vessel.

Floating just below the surface of the water, Mike and the two MacAlear technicians started down their checklist.  Inside the submersible, Carver checked out each system to assure everything was working up to specifications.  The atmosphere inside the pressure sphere is maintained at surface conditions, so metabolic oxygen had to be monitored as well as the carbon dioxide levels.  Barium Hydroxide canisters were used to absorb carbon dioxide during the dive.  Since no kitchen facilities were on board, the cook on the R/V Falling Star had packed sandwiches and a thermos of coffee.

The checklist completed, Mike had one final communication with the occupants of the submersible, "Hey guys, I wish you luck.  I'm really jealous."

"Hey Liu, you'll get your turn."

With that, Mike disconnected the telephone link and stepped off the Squid.  Hanging in the water like puppets in storage, Mike and the two MacAlear technicians watched as Anderson blew some air, went slightly negative buoyancy and slowly started the Squid into a downward spiral.  Mike and the other two divers watched until the Squid disappeared into the murky depths.

The bright upper column water became progressively darker as the Squid went deeper and deeper.  The temperature in the submersible also dropped precipitously.  Both Anderson and Carver were grateful for having remembered to wear their long johns.  Several times during the long descent, Carver had to wipe the portholes as the humidity inside the pressure vessel and relative warmth fogged the lenses.

At one point Carver, in an uncharacteristic effort at humor told Anderson that he didn't know he would have to do windows.

During the initial descent, Anderson relied on the sonar depth finder to warn them of any obstacles below.  Turning on the outside lights was both wasteful from the battery standpoint and useless given the increasing lack of marine life.  In addition, it was necessary for both occupants to adjust to the increasing darkness.

The plethora of varied aquatic life at the surface also faded as the Squid continued its spiraling descent into the blackness of the sea.  As the water color turned primarily dark blue, the only life that the two intrepid explorers saw were occasional rays or sharks.  Even deeper, these denizens of the deep were replaced by eerie creatures, some with their own lighting.

Eventually even these masters of adaptation to the darkness seemed to disappear and Anderson and Carver were left to their own.  Two fragile surface creatures going lower than even marine life adapted to the depths.  Anderson, of course was used to this display of evolutionary adaptation, Carver remained fascinated by the varied life and how it differed so from life as he knew it.

Almost as soon as the ride had started, Anderson trimmed his tanks and the Squid came to a slow stop, suspended in the depths of the ocean.  On this first dive, they had arbitrarily picked 12,000 feet.

"Here we are," said Anderson.

As the Squid sat motionless, Anderson and Carver ran through the test sequence so carefully worded by Mike and the test engineers at MacAlear so many months ago.  They turned on the strobe lights.

"Wait, did you see that?" exclaimed Carver.  He thought he saw something big - really big - and dark move quickly through the water in the shadowy background.

"May have been a blue whale," said Anderson, "or, maybe a giant squid."

"I didn't think there was anything that large at this depth," replied an uncharacteristically nervous Carver.  He wasn't so sure of what he saw, but it did not look natural.

Almost as soon as they had begun this dive, it was over.  Anderson dropped his ballast and the Squid began its slow upward spiral toward the surface.

"There she is!" shouted Mike from the deck of the R/V Falling Star.  Everyone else hurried to the stern of the mother vessel excited to see the Squid return from its first deep mission.  Already, Navy divers had launched two Zodiacs with their 200 Horsepower Mercury outboard motors and were speeding to the white speck bobbing in the distance.

Anderson and Carver emerged from the pressure vessel and stood in the conning tower, both were dripping wet not from the sea but from their sweat.  They were both glad to have some fresh air and to bask in warmth of the afternoon sun.  Anderson took the hand held controller and plugged it into the outlet in the conning tower.  Carver took pains to lock the hatch to the pressure vessel, ever mindful that was how the submersible Alvin was swamped and temporarily lost a short while ago.

With his hand held controller, Jim was able to steer the Squid toward the R/V Falling Star.  However, he did not complain when the Navy divers offered him a tow.

After all, thought Anderson, the Squid was not intended to be a surface tug.

With the help of the Navy divers and their Zodiacs, Anderson was able to maneuver the Squid on to its mounting cradle.  Once secured, the elevator of the Falling Star began its slow ascent, sea water pouring out of the crevices of the Squid as it rose above the water.  When the elevator platform reached its maximum height, Jim Anderson jumped down from the conning tower.  Waiting for him on the now dry platform were Robison, Sevson, Mike, and McHugh.

"How did it go?" asked Robison.

"Like a charm, I think we're ready for the first bottom dive tomorrow morning," said Anderson, with a big grin on his face.  Carver remained silent.

Later that evening, Carver quietly approached McHugh.  "Commander, I don't want to be an alarmist, but I saw something big move in the shadows when we leveled out."

"What do you think it was, Chief?"

"I don't know, sir," replied Carver, "but it was big and fast."

"What did Anderson think?"

"He didn't see it, but he thinks it might have been a blue whale."

"Interesting, I don't think blue whales could dive that deep," replied McHugh.  "Did you note it in the log?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks for telling me Chief," replied McHugh.  "I'll keep it in mind."

What McHugh did not tell Carver about was the incident involving the SSBN - 620, the John Adams.  He made a note in his small notebook that he kept for these events.

That night, McHugh tossed and turned in a fitful sleep.  He chastised himself for acting like a school boy.  During the time he slept, his dreams were filled with all manner of images, some beautiful, some scary, and some downright monstrous.  In one sequence, he was chased by a mysterious shadow, a monstrous unspoken shadow.  What, who, how.... dreamed McHugh.  At dawn he would know soon enough.

"God, I hope it's something explainable," McHugh muttered under his breath.

0630 Hours: Saturday, March 16, 1969, Aboard the R/V Falling Star

In the small mess on board the R/V Falling Star, McHugh sat with his usual crew.  His hands clasping the ceramic mug of steaming hot coffee with the MacAlear logo, McHugh was deep in thought.  Sevson sat picking at his scrambled eggs and sausage.  Robison kept going over the checklist and the "Incident Sheet" which detailed the numerous nits encountered during the last twenty four hours of operation.

Robison wanted to make sure that this dive went smoothly; he was extremely pleased that the Incident Sheet was mercifully short and was comprised of mainly minor items. The three old friends had already fallen back to the unspoken routine that only time and seasoned friendships can long endure.

Robison had smuggled on board a reel to reel tape player and had Sevson, the electronics wizard, jury rig a direct current to alternating current inverter so that they could play some of their favorite music during the cruise.

As the three friends sat drinking their coffee, the old familiar beat of music played on and Gogi Grant sang, "...The Wayward Wind...Is a Rest-Less Wind...A Rest-Less Wind...That Yearns to Wan-Der...And He Was Born...The Next of Kin...The Next of Kin...To the Wayward Wind...."

Gogi's voice and the lyrics evoked halcyon memories of cruises on the R/V Wayward Wind, the Fifties, and a happier, friendlier time.

"What do you think, Bob?" asked Sevson.

"I think if this turns out to be a dud, we're in a heap of trouble.  If it turns out to be something big, we're in a heap of trouble," replied Lieutenant Commander Robert McHugh, U.S.N.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," replied Sevson.

"Com'on guys, we've got work to do!" urged Robison, trying to get his old friends out of their funk and motivated.

"Yeah, let's go," agreed McHugh, downing the last of his coffee and briefly shaking as the caffeine hit his system.

The three friends walked out to the elevator platform where Mike, Anderson, and Carver were busy putting finishing touches on the various instrumentation systems.

On this first bottom dive, McHugh had made the decision that he and Robison would be the two observers to join Anderson and Carver.  Dressed in blue coveralls and long johns, McHugh looked more like an automobile mechanic than someone soon to touch the bottom of one of the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean.  Robison had a brown paper bag with him, the kind of brown bag you might get in a department store.  Liu was already dressed in his wet suit.

The Squid looked glorious.  It was hard not to fall in love with this sleek machine.  As the crew stood around the Squid, Robison brought out his brown paper bag and with a flourish demanded everyone's attention.

"On this solemn occasion, I think that it is appropriate to celebrate the maiden voyage of the Squid.  Therefore, as the mother, father, progenitor and care-taker of the creature we call the Squid, I hereby declare her operational.  As a small memento of this moment, I had some shoulder patches and hats embroidered with the Squid insignia for each of you and the other members of this mission."

Someone produced a Polaroid camera and shot some photos of the momentous occasion.

The patch was beautiful.  The royal blue patch was ringed with gold edging, the gold MacAlear logo was intertwined with the tentacles of a white Squid.  Robison started to pass out the hats and the patches.  Sevson stopped him, "Don't you think it would mean more if the whole kit 'n caboodle went to the bottom and then up?"

"Hey that's a good idea, why didn't I think of that?" said Robison.

"Because you're a dumb shit, Robison." explained Sevson with a grin.

Standing off to one side, in a loud stage whisper to Mike, McHugh growled, "Make sure none of that is charged to the United States Navy, Lieutenant Liu."

Having said that, McHugh made sure he got his patch which he put into the left breast pocket of his coveralls and his hat which he put on his head with a broad grin.

The brief ceremony completed, the men fell to the tasks at hand.  The crew of the Squid climbed on board the submersible and disappeared one by one through the conning tower and into the pressure sphere.  Carver, the last of the four man crew to board the Squid, pulled the hatch closed and locked the hatch.  Having donned his SCUBA tank and face mask, Mike plugged the cable for the intercom into the receptacle on the Squid.

"How do you read me?" inquired Mike.

"Loud and clear, champ!"

The launching sequence went flawlessly and quickly.  Within what seemed only minutes, the Squid was committed to the deep, Mike and the two MacAlear technicians watched as the white color of the submersible gently disappeared into the darkness.

The pinging of the depth sonar increased in frequency as the Squid spiraled toward the bottom.  The Squid settled gently on the soft bottom, stirring up a cloud of silt, undisturbed for centuries in the quietness of the Hatteras Abyssal Plain.  Until the silt settled, there was nothing that the crew could do but wait.  Anderson switched on the outside lights for a second, but all they saw was the reflection of the dust cloud.

The time gave McHugh and Robison an opportunity to revisit the topographical maps drawn by McHugh's oceanographic team at Port Hueneme, California, from data collected by Nematode and the USS Marysville.  The plan was for this team to reconnoiter the northern sector of the mysterious object.  Liu and Sevson in a subsequent dive would explore the southern sector.

"From this map, it appears that we have landed about one half mile to the northeast of the object," said Robison making some rough calculations based on the Squid's descent time and current meter readings.

After the silt cloud had dissipated, Anderson adjusted his buoyancy and ever so slowly lifted off the bottom so as to not kick up any more silt.  Taking his magnetic bearings, adjusted for the magnetic anomaly, Anderson headed the Squid southwest, toward the mysterious object that had long tantalized everyone on this mission.

Twenty minutes past and the forward scanning sonar picked up a signal that was unmistakably the object.  As the object drew closer, Anderson turned on the outside flood lamps.  McHugh and Robison reclined on the mats that served as cushions and looked out the forward portholes.

What they saw was a smooth, almost polished black curved surface that extended to the limits of illumination, as far as the eye could see.  Anderson steered the Squid on a path that first ran along the edge of the object, it was like walking along a curved wall of black glass.  He then steered the Squid up and over the object, again nothing but the same black glassy surface.  There were no cracks, no seams, no doors, no windows, nothing.  Walt conducted temperature, current, salinity, background radiation, and sonar tests - nothing.

The Squid stood off of the object and tried to measure changes in or fall off from any of the readings - nothing.  Only the metastable helium magnetometer showed any indication of the presence of the object, the readings correlated with the earlier surface and over-flight data.  Anderson and Carver used the depth sounding sonar to construct a profile of the object.  The shape was that of a gigantic oval object, no seams, no bumps, no doors, no windows, no anything.

"Damn, that thing is just not real.  Nothing real could be that smooth," exclaimed a mystified McHugh.

"You know what you said topside, Bob?" said Robison.

"Yeah?"

"I think we're in deep shit," replied Robison.

Using the strobe lights and television camera, Robison took multiple shots of the smooth, grayish-black curved structure, the size of a football field.  The height of the object was about fifty feet from the silt bottom; there was no way to determine how deep the object sat in the silt.  Bathymetric readings from the USS Marysville suggested that the object sat in the center of what might have been an impact crater but the centuries had softened even that conclusion.

The time went too quickly, and soon Carver announced that they had overstayed their welcome and would have to leave.  Anderson dumped his ballast and the Squid began its upward spiral home.

The R/V Falling Star stayed on station for about a week and multiple visits were made to the mysterious object.  Eventually, Mike was also given a chance to see the mysterious object first hand.  The profound impact of this perfectly smooth massive object lying on the ocean bottom would send shock waves through the intelligence establishment. Unfortunately for Sevson and Robison, their scientific reports were cloaked in the highest levels of secrecy and would never be published.  However, both Sevson and Robison asked for and got funding to conduct similar research in non sensitive regions thereby giving them cover for reporting on these tremendous engineering advances in ocean exploration.  The curtain of state secrets fell quickly on the mysterious object in the Hatteras Abyssal Plain.  Mike and McHugh continued to work on the project from their offices in Port Hueneme.

1000 Hours: Monday, September 16, 1969: Port Hueneme, California

"Come in, Mike," said McHugh.

Mike entered McHugh's office.  With McHugh were two men dressed in civilian suits.  The three seemed to have been engaged in discussion about something but ceased when Mike knocked on McHugh's door.  The three men were seated, McHugh behind his desk and his two visitors on the side chairs.

"Have a seat, Mike," said McHugh.  "These two men are from Naval Intelligence.  They would like to talk to us.  Seems we blundered into something much bigger than we thought.  Mike, this is Commander Richard Thompson and Lieutenant Robert Cohen.  Gentlemen, Lieutenant Mike Liu."

"Mister Liu," spoke the older of the two.  "The object located on the Hatteras Abyssal Plain, appears to be one of several located around the continental United States.  After your work with Commander McHugh, we went back to our magnetometer surveys and found the same anomaly in three other locations, they escaped detection simply because their magnetic signature is only noticeably detectable during low altitude flights and no one understood their significance like that fellow Evans did here.  Despite his hot rod flying, Buck Morrow's flying antics have enabled us to stumble on to something of mind boggling consequence.

"While we are now satisfied that they are not of Russian origin, we quite frankly do not know how or when they were placed in their locations.  The work that you and Bob McHugh have done has contributed to our knowledge immensely.  However, in order to integrate the data in the most expeditious fashion possible, we need your expertise."

"I'm not sure I understand," asked a puzzled Mike.

"Lieutenant Liu, both Lieutenant Cohen and I are actually from an interagency group called CSAC whose charter is to conduct investigations no other agency can or on its own could conduct," said Thompson.  "We have been instructed to invite you and Commander McHugh to join our efforts."

"What does CSAC stand for?"

"That is classified, as is its very existence."

"What do we have to do?"

"Normally, CSAC agents come from one or another of the service intelligence agencies, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Secret Service, the Federal Alcohol and Firearms Department, or the Central Intelligence Agency.  As a result, those agents can assimilate quickly into the structure.  However, in your case coming from regular navy duty and all, we will have to train you in forensics, criminal investigation, technical knowhow, firearms etc.  When your duty permits it you will be sent TDY to the FBI training academy in Quantico, Virginia, for the basics.

"Your cover will be that you have joined the Office of Naval Intelligence.  Oh, by the way, how do you feel about carrying a gun?"

1100 Hours: Tuesday, May 24, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

Edward McIntyre got out of his jeep and walked over to the military policeman standing near the parking lot to the detention barracks.

"Who's that?" asked McIntyre, a Captain in the Air Force.

"Some Navajo shepherd," replied the Airman, "one of the investigators thinks he might have some information of interest."

"Doesn't look very happy," commented McIntyre as he went into the detention barracks to pick up some files.

The Navajo was taken into the detention barracks by the Air Force investigator through the back entrance.

1970-1993: The Intervening Years

The existence of the mysterious objects had been uncovered during an ordinary geomagnetic profiling flight over the western Atlantic Ocean in the late Sixties.  The flights were commissioned by the Oceanographer of the Navy for ostensibly scientific purposes and called, "Project Magnet."

Project Magnet's true purpose had been to profile the background magnetic signature of the waters adjoining the continental United States to facilitate anti-submarine warfare.  The nuclear submarine force of the United Socialist Soviet Republics prowled the seas off the coast of America waiting for orders to launch ballistic missiles aimed at strategic targets onshore.  Knowing the magnetic background allowed the U.S. Navy to detect and monitor these forces and to deploy submarine, surface and airborne deterrents.  The P-3B Orions were a principal component of the Navy's ASW capability.

Some cowboy Orion pilot flying the deck had stumbled onto something unimaginable.  That something was called the Morrow Affair before the federal government was able to hush it forever.  Certain key participants in the Morrow Affair were suddenly transferred to parts unknown.  Navy Lieutenant Commander Thomas Morrow, considered by many to be too unreliable to keep the secret, was sent to Vietnam, where he performed as a fighter pilot outstandingly, but with tragic result.

This discovery and later verification of four mysterious objects located in the waters around the United States initiated an urgent agenda to determine what and why they were there.  Although attempts were made to try to determine if similar objects existed in other parts of the world, none were ever found.

Given the geo-political climate of that period, a nation could not simply fly over territorial waters of another and conduct the types of surveillance that was needed to detect such objects.  Even the intelligence services of the United States were unable to gather any information that could help CSAC in discerning the existence of other similar objects in other parts of the world.  If they existed, the countries that knew they had them did not share such knowledge.

Initially, funds were established to only deploy remote sensing devices on the ocean floor.  The information they gathered was transmitted through cables to surface vessels, some disguised as ocean tugs or, even, lighthouses such as the Ambrose vessels.

Because of the enormity of what the objects or "Sentinels" as they came to be called could signify, this system of remote sensing was eventually replaced with manned stations located adjacent to the objects on the bottom.  Called "Watch Stations," the manned, pressurized habitats were commissioned by the Navy and staffed with its personnel.

Under the guise of exploring "inner space," the government mounted a substantial monitoring program when initial efforts to identify their origin had proven fruitless.  Construction of these ocean-bottom monitoring stations was facilitated by a secret fleet of ocean vessels outfitted with clandestine launching bays.  The public disclosure of one of these vessels, the Glomar Explorer, had been unfortunate, but was put to rest as an attempt to raise sunken Soviet submarines.  The ruse was quickly accepted in the era of U.S.-Soviet confrontation called the Cold War.

The need for continued monitoring of the four objects did not result from scientific curiosity.  The implication of four objects apparently guarding the waters of the United States was staggering.  Theories ran from super secret surveillance installations of foreign governments intent on spying on the United States to even more mind-boggling scenarios.

Over the years, the objects remained mysteriously silent despite the immense attention that the United States government paid them.  The enigmatic silence of the objects caused some officials in the government to question the vast expenditure of funds necessary to maintain surveillance.  However, it was a cost that was grudgingly given each year because not to do so was unspeakable.  The most puzzling aspect of the four objects was their mute presence.  They just sat there, giving no indication of any activity except for the anomalous magnetic signature that had first occasioned their discovery.

The secret was well-kept and the Morrow Affair eventually became old news.  The vast population of people, in and out of government, never had a clue why so much of the nation's gross national product was spent year to year on such research.  In fact, the sensitivity of the objects was such that, as far as the public was concerned, governmental funds intended for oceanographic research simply disappeared overnight.

The operational phase of monitoring these objects was eventually taken over by CSAC, an acronym whose meaning remains classified to this day.  A multi-agency operation created in the early days of the Cold War, CSAC was the most secretive of all such agencies and continued to sponsor missions that other agencies could not or would not do.

In 1972, Mike Liu left active duty; eventually moving on to other things.  However, Bob McHugh kept him on his personal radar screen.  Occasionally, Mike would be called back to take care of short-term matters, whenever Bob McHugh felt he could add to the solution of some matter.  Some of Mike's assignments did not have to do with the objects, but he was not in a position to refuse any request made by Bob McHugh, his superior in the agency.  Once an agent of CSAC, you simply could not resign.

1993: The Silence Ends

0630 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Watch Station One

With an explosive roar, multiple alarms wrenched the attendant from his routine-induced stupor.  Red, orange and white lights flooded the dimly lit compartment in a psychedelic wash.

"Damn!" said the suddenly energized sonar mate.

Dropping the spy novel his wife had sent to him in the last mail pouch; forgetting to mark his place, John Lawrence immediately switched on the backup sequence and began the checkout procedure.  As a last step, Lawrence switched on the digital recorder.

"Transfer module," Lawrence said breathlessly into the microphone on the desk.  "I gotta speak to the Captain."  He could barely contain himself.  The only sound in the now-quiet compartment was the steady drumming of Lawrence's fingers on the Formica counter.  He waited anxiously for a response.

"What's up, John?" said the disembodied voice coming from the tiny speaker on the countertop.  It was the deep bass voice of the Watch Station commander, William O'Shannon, a Captain in the United States Navy.  O'Shannon had been in the transfer module discussing a training sequence with other crewmembers.

"Captain, the control panel just lit up like the Fourth of July."

"I'll be right there.  Have you initiated backup?"

"Aye, sir.  I also started the checkout procedure."

"Good."

In what seemed an eternity to Lawrence, O'Shannon walked the short distance from the transfer module to the command module.  Lawrence turned from his intense scrutiny of the control panel when he heard the pressure door being unlatched with a metallic clang.  Curiously, he felt a sudden wash of relief knowing that O'Shannon was with him.

"Okay, John, what do we have?"

"Nothing like I've ever seen before, Captain.  Here, take a look."

"You're right.  It sure doesn't look like background," said O'Shannon calmly.  He silently watched the rapid amplitude changes and frequency shifts on the magnetometer.  "Have you checked the seismometer?"

"Aye, sir.  Absolutely nothing -- nothing at all.  Everything is quiet, real quiet.  One thing, Captain.  The signal seems to repeat itself over and over."  John pointed to the regularity of the spikes and valleys on the green-hued screen.

O'Shannon was puzzled.  He studied the screen trying to see a pattern in the greenish trace on the screen, some sense of order.  He finally looked up at Lawrence.

"You're right.  Did you start the recording sequence?"

"Aye, sir."

"Get the DCO up here," said O'Shannon into the intercom.

Rubbing his eyes after the rude awakening, the Deputy Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Joshua Wong, entered the command module.  "Yes, Captain."

"Mr. Wong, we have a verified signal."

Wong snapped fully awake.  "I'll start the encoding process immediately."

"Good idea.  Who gets to carry the message?"

"Machinist Mate George Waterson is scheduled for rotation on the next supply vehicle.  He has clearance."

"Good.  Alert Newport News."

"Aye, sir."

Wong took leave of O'Shannon and Lawrence, who continued to observe the rapidly shifting trace on the screens.  There would be much to do in the coming days.

1993: Awakening

0730 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Sutton Place, New York, New York

Mike Liu woke with a start.  He had forgotten to set the alarm and had overslept by a half-hour.  That is, if you could call it sleep.  Mike had tossed about all night.  It was that recurring dream -- that something had been left undone.  He hadn't had that dream in a longtime and it was disturbing.  What had wakened Mike was someone calling his name.

This wasn't like some of his dreams, the ones about the life he had once hoped to share with Corrine Ryan, a student at Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia.  Mike had met Corrine through fraternity brothers at the University and the pair had dated throughout his fourth year.  Corrine had suffered from a degenerative retinal disease at a young age and had quickly lost her vision.  Maybe it was her blindness that allowed her to see the young Mike in a light so different from other people.  Mike had never met any other girl who was as accepting as Corrine.

After college, Mike was commissioned as an Ensign in the Navy and sent to Stanford.  Corrine went to graduate school at Columbia University to study linguistics.  After graduate school, Corrine went into government service.  Mike would write Corrine often, but her responses seemed less enthusiastic over time.  Writing letters were difficult for Corrine, as she had to use a Braille typewriter.

In one letter, Corrine mentioned that her room mates thought he looked Mediterranean, not Chinese, in his photo.

Eventually, time and distance proved too great; the letters became fewer and farther in between.  Then one day, Mike received a long letter from Corrine saying that things had changed and she could not write him anymore.

Mike never married after losing Corrine.  He learned through friends that Corrine dated and married another researcher at the government linguistics laboratory where she worked.  But the dream was not about Corrine; it was the other dream; about dark shadows and enormity the likes that the world had never seen.

Mike jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom.  He had a busy day planned with the SystemGraphon deal stalled as it was; last night had dragged into the early morning hours.    As Mike dressed for work, he glanced quickly at the clock.  Damn, he thought.  I should've set the alarm.

0530 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico

The power that compels men does so inexplicably.  The affected do not understand or even, for that matter, begin to comprehend the power.  Such was the case of the lonely figure kneeling on the hard dirt of the barren, windswept mesa, his curved back contrasting dramatically with the sharp edged geometry of the rocky ledge.

"O Bearer of Light, Creator of Day.  Give me a sign to chase the darkness away," he cried.

The early morning sky was a rich royal blue.  Thin wisps of dark gray clouds traced with white spotted the dark blue sky.  In the distance, the cold, desert sky had begun to lighten.  There, the deep rich blue of night started to give way to the softer pastel blue of the day.

As the first golden light peeked over the horizon, a lone hawk floated over the plains searching for early morning thermals; hunting for his daily meal.

In the darkness of the valley below, the soft, haunting tones of a Native American flute floated languidly into the waking sky.

The old man knelt toward the beckoning dawn, resting on the heels of his naked feet.  His arms rested easily on the rough cloth of his trousers.  His wrinkled hands lay on his knees -- palms up as if in supplication.  He had welcomed the morning at this place and in this manner numerous times over the ninety-plus seasons he had walked the Earth.  It was not just a fascination with ceremony that called him to this place; it was his solemn duty as the medicine man, the Shaman, to understand the earth and its place in the cosmos.  The constellations in the rich darkness would guide his people through the many dangers that faced them on earth.

Like the hawk floating effortlessly in the sky, the old man sought sustenance from the life-giving rays.  The urgency of this particular morning gave even more purpose to his entreaties.  It was the certainty of this date -- a certainty known only to Johnny Thapaha.

Johnny Thapaha's white hair fell gently to his shoulders and was kept off his wrinkled face by a red bandanna tied around the crown of his head.  Around his neck was a turquoise bead necklace that ended in a silver and turquoise breastplate in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings.

His shirt was made from the flaxen cloth favored by older members of his tribe and was loosely gathered at his waist by a leather belt, with an intricate buckle of hammered silver.  On the third finger of each hand was a silver ring in the shape of an eagle about to strike.

The chill of the early morning did not deter him from the duty which he had done every morning for many years.

The carefully opened sacred bundle, the symbol of his faith and his position, lay on his lap.  His ceremonial pipe rested next to his right knee.  Before him, traced in the hard soil of the mesa, was a circle displaying the four points of the compass, the four cardinal directions.

Johnny Thapaha faced the rising sun, encroaching warmth he could only feel but could not see because cataracts had taken away his sight a long time ago.  He yearned to know and to understand what had been and what would surely be.  Johnny Thapaha's blindness served to intensify his mental capabilities on the painful images.  Lasting images that had been given to him by the traveler so many years ago.

Even at his advanced age and on this lonely windswept mesa, his head was held high and straight.  His eyes remained fixed to some distant point only they could see.

Suddenly, Johnny Thapaha's face tightened.  His aged chin lifted toward the rising sun.  His sightless eyes focused.  His arms rose outstretched as if in welcome.  Over the horizon came the long awaited sign.  A single shaft of golden light.  It was disturbing.

"Cha-le-gai!" bellowed the old man into the solitary ray of rising sun.  The sound of his voice reverberated through the hard-surfaced mesas and the canyon below.

The old man's face sagged in exhaustion.  His arms dropped limply to his legs.

A tear formed in the corner of the old man's right eye, coursed over his weathered-bronzed cheek, hung on the hard edge of his jaw, and finally fell onto the breast of his shirt.  The aged head dropped forward, avoiding the rising sun -- the giver of life, the messenger of things to come.

The quiet voice of a child came from the shadows just below the crest of the mesa.  "Grampa, it's cold and it's getting late."

"Yes, Little Dove, it is getting late.  We must prepare to leave."

Only his grandfather called ten-year-old Jimmy MacLaren by his Navajo name.  Jimmy's Navajo heritage was evident in his brown skin, his straight black hair, and his deep-set, dark eyes that seemed to glow in the morning light.  Shivering in his nylon parka, jeans, and running shoes, Jimmy could have been any kid in any neighborhood in America, but he was here on this bleak mesa participating in a ceremony that was as old as his people.

The old man rose slowly.  He stretched out his left hand to search for the secret place while clutching the sacred bundle and ceremonial pipe to his breast.

His efforts to locate the secret place were at best struggled and guided only by instinct.  Jimmy studiously avoided looking at his grandfather.  Even at this young age, Jimmy knew that only the medicine man can know the sacred place.  With some effort, the practiced hand found the familiar rock and Johnny Thapaha started to return the sacred bundle to its resting-place.

He hesitated and, in a furtive move, placed the sacred bundle inside the loose folds of his shirt.

"Little Dove, please take my hand."

Slipping the gnarled, callused hand of his grandfather into his own smooth hand, Jimmy started down the worn path to the ground below and the warmth of his grandfather's hogan.  Johnny Thapaha followed with a labored gait, his back bent by the weight of too many seasons.

The hawk caught the first rising thermals caused by the warming air and soared higher and higher.  This would surely be a good hunting day.

1993: The Coffee Shop

0730 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: In a Small Coffee Shop along Cambridge Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

The two men sat in the booth in the back of the small coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  Each had a mug of steaming coffee in front of him; purchased at the counter.

There was a steady flow of customers looking for morning coffee and pastries.  The dingy shop was busy.

An unlikely couple.  The older of the two had a professorial air.  Busy tamping tobacco into his burlwood pipe, he would stop every so often to sip steaming hot, black coffee from his porcelain mug.

The younger man had a large round face upon which sat a curiously small pair of round, rimless glasses.  He looked very uncomfortable; his small beady eyes constantly surveyed the patrons and other goings-on of the busy shop.  His coffee was heavily laden with cream and sugar.  He bolted down his Cherry Danish.

Occasionally, the younger man would look up at this companion as if he were looking for a sign of recognition, familiarity.  None came.

"When did you come up?"

"L-Late last night."

"When are you going back?"

"Immediately."  The younger man fidgeted nervously.

"Why did you call - you know that you aren't supposed to ever call me," said the older man impatiently.

"Yes, I know, but…"

"We shouldn't be meeting in person.  Why the rush?"

"Y-you need to see these," stammered the younger man as he took out a manila envelope and surreptitiously handed it to his booth mate.  "Something big is happening."

The older man took the envelope and put it into his soft leather attaché, without as much as a glance.

The younger man ventured, "How are things?"

He received no response.  The older person did not meet his gaze and busied himself with his burlwood pipe.

With that, the younger man got out of the booth and with a sweep of his eyes, shuffled out of the coffee house, and disappeared into the bustling crowd of people heading to work.  With luck he could catch the 11:20 AM flight at Logan for his trip south.

The older man quietly watched his companion depart, and, after waiting a few more minutes, causally gathered his belongings, walked up to the cash register and paid the bill.  Exiting the coffee shop, the older man calmly glanced up and down Cambridge Street and walked to his parked car.

1993: Mildred

1000 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Gate 26 Red Concourse, Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport

"May I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am.  I'm on Flight 504 to New York's La Guardia Airport.  Can I get an aisle seat?" said the tall blond boy dressed in Levi jeans, a white sweat shirt with the St. Olaf College crest in royal blue on the front, and Puma running shoes.  "Do we get lunch on this flight?"

"You bet.  How about Seat 16C?  We'll be boarding in about ten minutes."

Behind Eric Johanson, a line of people was waiting patiently for their turn to get seats on Flight 504.  About three people back from Eric stood a thin woman dressed in a navy blue business suit with a white silk blouse and red bow tie.

The black-haired woman was attractive, looked as if she were in her early thirties, and seemed bored by the routine of boarding the Northwest Airlines flight.  She had the most beautiful blue eyes, something that Eric had noted earlier while waiting for the gate agents to open up shop.  He also remembered the scent of lavender when she walked past.  It was the same scent that his favorite aunt used.

Boy, he thought, if the older women in New York look that good, I wonder how girls my age will look?

A loud metallic voice rumbled through the din at the gate.  "Attention, Northwest Flight 504 to New York's La Guardia Airport will be ready for general boarding in a few minutes.  We would like to ….  As usual, we invite our first-class passengers and our Gold and Preferred Card Worldperks members to board at their leisure."

"Flight 504 is now available for general boarding."

Handing his boarding pass to the gate agent, Eric started down the metal passageway to the Boeing 727-200 jetliner and was met at the doorway by a pert blond flight attendant who looked at his boarding card and waved him toward the rear of the aircraft with a smile.

Waiting for the crowd before him to find their seats, Eric soaked in the ambiance of the first class cabin.  The familiar noise and smell of coffee percolating in the galley were intoxicating to the haggard passengers lining up to take their seats.  The mostly middle-aged, white male passengers sitting in the spacious first-class seats were already absorbed in their reading material and pre-flight beverages.

Eric looked forward to being an analyst at Franklin Smedley Associates.  He was sure they flew everywhere first-class.

Finally, the logjam freed up as the passengers before him found their seats and Eric was able to reach seat 16C.  As he approached his seat, he noted that the attractive black haired woman with the startlingly beautiful blue eyes was seated in 12D; she was already busy reading a magazine and didn't look up as other passengers passed by.

Eric looked over his row and smiled at his row mate.  In 16A sat a spinsterish older woman who had already started her knitting project.  Her white hair was pulled tightly in a bun.  Mildred Swensen was traveling to New York on her way to Oslo, Norway, to shop for her Scandinavian craft shop in Crookston, Minnesota.

She was dressed like every Norwegian aunt or grandmother Eric had ever known.  Mildred wore a pale yellow silk print dress with a high collar and a light blue summer blazer.  She carried the unmistakable scent of lilac.  A cameo pin adorned her blazer.  Large silver bangles hung from her left wrist. She carried her purse but also carried a large straw bag from which knitting needles of various sizes and yarn protruded.  She was working on a project, quite absorbed in her task.  From the looks of it, the project was going to be a sweater, probably a Christmas gift for a grandchild.

Eric knew how efficient these Scandinavian grandmothers could be, for example, knitting Christmas sweaters in June.  If the visit was at Christmas time, the menu was always the same: fruit soup, boiled potatoes, lutefisk, Swedish meatballs, lefse, and, if you're lucky, Johnson's temptation, a mixture of scalloped potatoes, onions, and anchovies.  The smell of freshly baked cookies, evergreen branches, the smoky fire, Yule kaka, sprits, and thumbprint cookies made up for the annual ordeal of lutefisk.

Lutefisk starts life swimming in the North Atlantic as cod.  When caught, the cod is dried and salted.  To prepare lutefisk, the dried and pungent cod is soaked in caustic soda for several months.  The soaking revivifies the flesh of the dried fish.  When boiled or baked and served with white sauce, lutefisk becomes a tender, flaky seafood delicacy.  Norwegian aficionados of lutefisk compare it to lobster.

Detractors compare it to death.

Comedians have said that the best recipe for lutefisk is to soak the fish, then drain it for two hours on a wood cutting board, and, when drained, throw away the fish and eat the cutting board.

Eric stopped himself.  Why am I thinking about Christmas in June he thought, and then he realized how much the lady sitting in Seat 16A looked like his grandmother.

Eric had been hoping that he would get a chance to sit next to the cute young woman with her pale hazel eyes and blond hair pulled in a ponytail.  The one who he thought was trading glances with him in the gate area.  He wasn't sure, but the coed had looked awfully familiar.  Maybe he had seen her around Northfield.  Maybe she was an Ole, as St. Olaf students are called, or, heavens forbid, a student at Carleton College, St. Olaf's arch-rival in the small college town of Northfield, Minnesota.

Damn! Here I'm about to become a big gun on Wall Street and I still can't get the nerve to chat up some girl.  I've got to get over this hang-up, thought Eric.

At least he wasn't going to have to sit with the greasy hippie with long smelly hair who immediately preceded him down the aisle.

Sliding into his seat, Eric turned to the older woman and said, "Hi, I'm Eric Johanson."

"Hello, I'm Mildred Swensen.  I see from your sweatshirt that you're an Ole.  How is Northfield these days?  I graduated from St. Olaf College in the fifties."

"I graduated just last month.  I'm going to New York to join Franklin Smedley Associates as an analyst."

"How nice.  What does an analyst at Franklin Smedley Associates do?"

"I'll be working in the project finance group for a guy named Mike Liu, probably the best project finance banker on Wall Street.  As an analyst, I get to examine the financial credibility of many different types of industrial projects.  Franklin Smedley Associates has one of the biggest domestic and international project financing practices around, so I hope I get to go overseas as well.  I'm really excited; it's the chance of a lifetime."

"Sounds like such an adventure for a boy so young.  Liu?  What kind of name is that -- oriental?"

"I think so, Chinese."

"Johanson, that's Norwegian.  Are you from Minnesota?"

"Yes, ma'am, I grew up in Ely."

"Ely?  What a nice town."

Eric and Mildred settled in for a leisurely conversation.  The flight to New York was made that much more enjoyable.  After a while the conversation, as it always does with Minnesotans the world over, turned to weather.  The soon-to-be Wall Street mogul and the grandmother from Crookston tried to top each other with the worst winter storm story they could think of.  Finally, Mildred regaled the youngster with Olav and Lena anecdotes, keeping alive the traditional Norwegian culture.

When the flight attendants brought lunch, Mildred offered her carrot cake to Eric.

"Airlines just don't serve enough food for growing boys."

Eric accepted the dessert, as he always had accepted extra helpings of dessert from his grandmother.

"We are now making our final approach to New York's La Guardia Airport.  Please return your seat backs and tray tables to their original upright position."

Eric's thoughts were now focused on getting into Manhattan and contacting another Ole who had preceded him by one year and was working as a paralegal at a Wall Street law firm.  They were planning to share an apartment in New York.

"Good-bye, Eric, best of luck to you in your new venture," Mildred said as she and Eric gathered their belongings.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Swensen."

After deplaning, Eric hurried to the baggage area to collect his suitcase, duffel bag and sport bag.

Despite her comments to the young Eric about going on to Oslo, Mrs. Swensen proceeded to the inter-terminal shuttle bus for the short trip to the Washington shuttle.  She was trying to get the 2:00 p.m. shuttle to Washington, D.C., even though the connection was very close, due to the late arrival of the Minneapolis flight.  Settling down in the shuttle bus, Mildred did not pay any attention to others from the Minneapolis flight who also got on the bus, including the blue-eyed, black-haired woman from seat 12D.

After deplaning from the shuttle in Washington, Mildred took the escalator up from the shuttle gate and turned left toward the rental car stands and the door to the taxi stand.  As she turned, she noticed the restroom to her right.  Mildred went in.

Almost immediately after she entered, the heavy door slammed shut.  Simultaneously, a wire garrote was thrown around her neck.  Instinctively, Mildred grabbed the thin wire with her left hand and, in the process, got her silver bangles jammed between her hand and neck, but the grip of her unseen assailant was strong and the wire cut into the flesh of her left hand.  Gagging, choking, Mildred tried to think.  Stay cool.  Try to think.  Don't act hastily.  God, that hurts.  The rush of the kill.  Uncontrollable ecstasy.

The unseen foe tightened the garrote.  Mildred drew upon strength she had forgotten she had to combat her attacker.  Frantically kicking backward with her high heels, Mildred tried to find a vulnerable spot.  Her efforts to break free of the death grip were ineffective and her strength started to wane.  Mildred's attacker was too well positioned to be pushed off.  The attacker exerted maximum power, tightening the garrote while avoiding Mildred's flailing legs.

Mildred was dragged into one of the toilet stalls, powerless to resist the backward pull of her assailant.  Desperately, Mildred's right hand raced through her straw bag, searching, hoping, struggling to find the knitting needle.  As Mildred's mind started to cloud from pain and the lack of oxygen, she found and gripped the special knitting needle, a number 10.

With one desperate swing, Mildred's right hand jammed the needle into the soft area under her attacker's sternum.

As soon as the tip of the knitting needle, which had been modified by DARPA, the think tank research agency of the Department of Defense, penetrated the attacker's abdominal cavity, the chemical pellet stored in the tip was released.  Immediately reacting to the warm, moist environment of the human body, the pellet exploded, releasing gases into the attacker's abdominal cavity.  The expanding gases and the shock wave of the explosion pushed the attacker's diaphragm upward into the chest cavity.  This had the effect of immediately collapsing the attacker's lungs, deflating them much as a swift blow to the chest might do.

The swift upward pressure of the expanding gas was also a death kick to the attacker's heart, causing instantaneous cardiac arrest.  With cardiac arrest, the attacker's body convulsed uncontrollably.  The attacker never knew what had happened.  The death grip on the garrote encircling Mildred's neck loosened as the attacker's lifeless body slumped toward the wall of the toilet and slid into a sitting position on the stool.

The lifeless but still penetratingly beautiful blue eyes of Mildred's attacker stared upward into nothing.  Shaking, Mildred turned to examine the lifeless body of the attractive, black-haired, blue-eyed woman, recognizing her as a fellow passenger from New York.

Mildred reached forward and gently closed her attacker's lifeless eyes.  Her black hair remained remarkably undisturbed.  Mildred's attacker looked as if she were asleep, except for the small but spreading red stain on her white silk blouse.

Leaning down, Mildred picked up the garrote, rolled it up, and placed it into her straw bag.  There wasn't enough time for a thorough search of this stranger.  How could I have been so careless, she thought.

Quickly, Mildred noted some features of the dead woman.  Did she look European or American?  It was hard to tell.  No, the assailant had no distinct features; she could have been anyone's daughter.   She was dressed like every other young businesswoman that Mildred had seen on her trip.

"Uffda.  I've got to get out of here," Mildred muttered.

Cautiously, Mildred opened the toilet stall door and perched the body of her attacker on the stool.  Mildred was relieved that the cut on her left hand was superficial.  After wrapping the cut hand in a handkerchief, Mildred carefully put her hand into her left pocket.  She adjusted her silk scarf to hide the bruises on her neck, opened the door to the hallway, and calmly stepped out.

She turned right, walked swiftly past the Hertz car rental stand, and turned right through the sliding glass door.  Exiting the enclosed air conditioned climate of the airport lobby into the muggy Washington summer afternoon, Mildred joined the line of passengers already formed at the taxi stand.  At the taxi stand, the dispatcher asked Mildred where she was going.

"I'm going to 4521 Wisconsin Avenue, Northwest," said Mildred in her soft, grandmotherly voice.

1600 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Welcome, Ms. Swensen," said the Airman First Class manning the counter at the entry level.  "I hope you won't mind, but security is security."

"Oh, I don't mind at all, son.  What would you like me to do?"

"We have the standard retina, fingerprint and voice analysis test.  However, because of the location, we have to also conduct the ReTek DNA identifier test before we can issue you identification.  New orders."

"My stars!  That is new.  I sure hope it doesn't hurt."

"Don't worry, Ms. Swensen.  It's quite painless.  You just have to give us a saliva sample."  He handed Mildred a small plastic cup.

Having completed the test sequence, Mildred was given clearance to proceed to the debriefing room.

"Who was that?" said the young Marine guard manning the counter with the Airman.  "She could've been my grandmother."

"I'm not sure you would want her for your grandmother.  I hear tell her nickname is The Black Widow.  She has more confirmed kills than any other agent of CSAC."

"Wow."

Mildred was a pioneer in CSAC, its first woman agent.  She was recruited by the fledging CSAC organization in 1965 from her first job as an intelligence analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency, which she had joined in the late fifties.  A native Minnesotan, Mildred was a descendant of Norwegian settlers in the fertile Red River of the North valley of Minnesota.

When Mildred was hired by CSAC, she discovered she had a knack for the more physical aspects of the agency's mission.  She quickly became an expert in special projects, the kind that were not normally considered appropriate for the distaff side of the agency in those days.  Mildred quickly found out that her special skills and inclinations were perfectly suited for that particular line of endeavor.

Special projects evoked in Mildred the same visceral pleasure she had first felt so long ago during deer season in Minnesota with her beloved grandfather.  She would always love the kindly, soft-spoken Norwegian farmer who taught his awkward, bookish, eight-year-old granddaughter the thrill of the chase and the rush of the kill.

Hunting was much more than finding and scoring a kill.  That was the lesson that her grandfather had taught.  There was a system, a methodology that had to be followed: finding a fresh trail, stalking the quarry through its daily chores, gaining knowledge of the minute details of its life, setting up the final moment, and finally the kill, the ultimate intimate moment.  The explosion of the rifle followed by the almost choreographed falling of the prey.  There was no anguish, no dramatic last gasping moment, just the silent slumping of the deer as the bullet completed its grisly assignment.

Young Mildred was upset and shocked when her grandfather field-dressed her first deer that cold November day so long ago; the careful knife cut through the fur and the musculature of the fallen deer lying peacefully, as if asleep, in the fresh-fallen snow.  Afterward, steamy entrails of white, yellow, and blue poured out of the deer's split belly in a cascade of crimson, glistening in the noonday sun.

Her initial shock at the horror of that moment quickly became a lifelong fascination with the machines of life.  Mildred was fascinated with the thought that fur and skin were merely the outer coverings; packaging for the intricate construction of separate mysteries that lay hidden so close to the surface.  Mysteries that could be only revealed when the outer covering was carefully peeled back just as her beloved grandfather had taught her.  Her parents applauded this bent for science and quietly dreamt of Mildred someday teaching biology at the local high school.

Like others of her kind, the young Mildred first experimented with small animals, making sure that the procedure was always within acceptable limits.  She often used the .22 caliber sports rifle her parents gave her.  Sometimes her conquests were far more creative.  Her biological totems were carefully packed in rubbing alcohol in small canning jars discarded by her mother.

Mildred's parents were ecstatic that their otherwise quiet, bookish child enjoyed this healthy outdoor educational activity.  Mildred's father was particularly proud of his daughter, who didn't spend time playing house like other girls, but was out practically every day perfecting her hunting skills.  They encouraged and supported this aspect of Mildred's childhood development.

Now, in the twilight of her career, Mildred had become an elder statesman of CSAC.  Legend had it that she was the most prolific assassin in the agency's history.  With her milk-fed complexion, shapely figure, attractive features, innocent blue eyes, and golden locks, the younger Mildred had been able to get into places more hardened agents could not.  Once in, Mildred accomplished her assignment with deadly accuracy.  Mildred's knowledge of anatomy, especially human anatomy, made her surgically efficient.

Investment bankers like Mike Liu may have their brass, Lucite and wooden souvenirs, but people with Mildred's particular bent of mind also kept souvenirs.  Souvenirs meant to bring back the rush and to symbolize the thrill of the moment.  Mildred was no different.  However, her strict Lutheran upbringing limited those souvenirs to objects found on or near her achievements.  The more grisly totems would be kept by others.  The only biological souvenir she kept was a broken fragment of antler from her first kill.  Her souvenirs were kept in a cardboard shoe box hidden on her closet shelf.  During quiet moments, she would bring the treasures down and relive the excitement and rush that her assignments had brought her.

Mildred enjoyed her semi-retirement, taking only occasional courier assignments, which allowed her more time with her long-suffering husband, their four daughters, and many grandchildren.  Her family never knew the extent of Mildred's secret life and dismissed her grisly treasures, because of their seemingly ordinariness, as mementos of their wife/mother's travels abroad as a State Department researcher.  Despite her secret career, Mildred was a devoted wife, mother, and grandmother.  Upon her retirement as a State Department researcher, Mildred and her family had returned to the rich black dirt of her beloved Red River of the North valley and established a life of rural stability.  Her husband farmed sunflower or sorghum wheat or corn or sugar beet, whatever was profitable.  Mildred ran a Scandinavian hobby shop in Crookston.  Mildred's shop was a popular place in Crookston, particularly during the long, cold Minnesota winter.

The debriefing room was, in actuality, a small operating room.  After examining the superficial wounds to her left hand and neck, the duty nurse asked Mildred to put on a hospital gown and to lie on the operating table.  The surgeon had already scrubbed and was standing beside the table.  In a corner, two armed Marines in battle fatigues stood quietly with an iron container, its top open.

Exposing Mildred's remarkably well developed and still physically firm body, especially given her outwardly older appearance, the board-certified plastic surgeon made a small incision directly below Mildred's left armpit.  With a surgical nurse helping with the spreaders, the surgeon retrieved a small plastic and gold cylinder from the subcutaneous layer of Mildred's skin using a retractor that fully enclosed the small thin cylinder.  The surgeon then placed the retractor containing the cylinder gently into a lead-lined cylinder, closed the cover of the lead lined container, and handed the cylinder to a Marine Lieutenant, who was dressed in a green surgical gown, as was everyone in the operating room except the two guards.

The Lieutenant placed the cylinder into the lock box held by the Marine guards, evacuated the container with a portable pump, and injected nitrogen gas into the apparatus.  The surgeon then opened a plastic bag and retrieved a small plastic and gold cylinder, which he placed into the open wound below Mildred's left armpit.  He closed the wound, taking great care to close tissue layer by layer to minimize any scarring of Mildred's skin.  When completed, the scar over the cylinder would be barely noticeable.

The discarded plastic bag lay in a stainless steel bowl.  On the plastic bag in typically bureaucratic language was printed the message: MILSPEC 1993-35.77, Recording Chip -- DOD/CSAC Classified -- Z Level -- Cryptographic.

The MILSPEC 1993-35.77 Recording Chip was a remarkable technological breakthrough.  Small enough to be inserted subcutaneously into a courier's body, the chip was programmable through use of digitized magnetic induction devices.  Once programmed, the chip could not be altered by conventional devices.  For example, magnetic detection security gates at airport security stations could not alter the message implanted in the cylinder.  The chip had to be physically removed to access or change the magnetically induced message.

If removed by someone other than a CSAC surgeon using the proper extraction tool, the chip would be rendered useless.  The chip was used only for the most secret information.  The existence of the recording chip was one of CSAC's most closely guarded secrets.

In Mildred's case, the information had been encoded using an induction magnetizer at the CSAC field office located at the Grand Forks Air Force Base near Grand Forks, North Dakota.  The basic data had been flown by military personnel from Watch Station Four located somewhere in Lake Superior.  Since the nearest encoding devices were located at Grand Forks, the data had been flown there instead of directly to Washington.

Mildred was encoded after checking into the CSAC office at the air base.  Data encoding did not require intrusive surgery.  A digital transmitter was placed next to the site of the cylinder and after a brief moment, the message was recorded.  Mildred was then handed tickets to Minneapolis and New York and from there to Washington.  The circuitous route was to minimize any interference with the courier, who, as far as the world was concerned, was merely on a shopping trip for her Scandinavian hobby shop.

After the superficial wounds on her left hand and neck were treated and Mildred had dressed, she went down to the security office where George Smith had been attempting to identify Mildred's attacker.

1800 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: George Smith's Office, Washington, D.C.

George Smith, an ex-FBI special agent, was the civilian chief of security at CSAC.  His law enforcement demeanor and ten years experience as a special agent of the FBI was especially useful in his present job.  Under cover as a security consultant to the State Department, Smith was known to all federal agencies and to many state criminology departments as well.

Smith was a thin, dapper man.  He wore navy blue suits year round, starched white shirts, red and black striped ties, and heavy, black, plain-toed shoes.  Smith was fond of wearing the black-rimmed glasses made famous by Barry Goldwater, the Republican candidate for President of the United States in 1964.  His dark hair was always cut in a short but presentable fashion.  In a way he looked like a younger version of the singer Roy Orbison, a comparison he secretly enjoyed.  Despite that small vanity, Smith was a serious person not given to humor or idle gossip.

Smith's office was strictly utilitarian, middle management, federal agency issue.  The tan metal desk was complemented by russet leatherette and metal chairs.  Smith kept few personal items in his office, preferring to maintain a respectful distance between his office and home lives.  His office had a green chalkboard, upon which Smith did some of his best thinking.  The security files in his office were armed with electronic locks, set to signal security if any unauthorized attempt were made to open them.  You got the combination right the first time or large silent men dressed in black suits, with no sense of humor, immediately showed up at your door.

A half dead plant sat forlornly on the top of the security cabinet.  Try as he might, Smith was no gardener.  Smith was on the telephone when Mildred entered his office.

"Well, okay.  If you find out anything, please let me know."  He returned the handset to its cradle and turned to Mildred.

"That was a friend of mine in the Federal Aviation Agency's airport security office.  Boy, do they hate stiffs turning up in airports.  Hurts the image that airports are antiseptic, user friendly places.  I call him every so often to kibitz.  Used that today, pretending that I hadn't heard a thing."

"Any idea who the attacker might be?" Mildred said.

"So far, the only thing we have is the body of an unnamed, thirtyish, black-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian female.  The National Airport Police think she may have been the victim of an attempted rape and robbery.  The corpse had no identification or money.  When the airport police showed her photograph around, some shuttle flight attendant remembered seeing her on a flight from La Guardia.

"Even so, there were no boarding passes, purses, or other identifying items.  This is why the police think that robbery may have been the motive.  The labels on her clothes were all general brand names.  We will have little to go on.  We can't get directly involved without revealing that one of our agents was the killer.  Consequently, we're going to have to rely on normal channels.

"At least you had the good sense to neutralize her on FAA regulated property.  The FBI will eventually get some information.  Between them and my friend at the FAA, we should be able to get something.  In addition, our DIA agents will be able to get something and may already have.  The gases in the pellet are designed to disintegrate completely and be absorbed in the dying body so that any residual concentration is minimal.

"Any autopsy they perform on your friend will conclude that she died of a puncture wound to her abdomen area, followed by cardiac arrest.  The medical examiner will likely conclude the deflated lungs were due to the physical attack.  Luckily, the explosion was so fast that the tissue damage can be just as easily interpreted as being externally caused.  There will be no suspicion that your friend's death was caused by internal trauma.  I guess it's another scalp for your belt, Mildred."

"I'm getting too old for scalps.  That's why I downgraded to Level Two.  This was supposed to be a milk run.  Do we have any idea what this person was up to?"

"Can't be sure until we get some form of positive identification.  I understand that the Arlington County medical examiner sent your friend's prints to the national crime center in Atlanta, Georgia.  At least we'll be able to see if we've met her before.  I have a feeling that the prints will come up negative.  The garrote was homemade.  No sophistication whatsoever."

"Could it be I was made?" said Mildred.

"The boys don't think so, given the speed in which the courier assignment was made.  On the other hand, if this person made you at the airport and decided to bag a big one on the spur of the moment, that would explain the homemade garrote."

"Hate to disagree, George.  There's no way she could have had access to wires and wood at the airport."

"We'll find out in due course, Mildred.  Meanwhile, go get some rest.  Do you want some backup on your trip home?"

"No, George.  Even retired Level Ones like to travel alone.  I'm going down to the laboratory, my knitting needle needs a refill," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.  "Oh, by the way.  Can I have the garrote back?"

"Sure," said Smith, hesitantly.  He didn't have to ask why because he knew and he understood.  It was painful to think that his old friend Mildred still needed to keep such things.

1993: Somewhere in Minnesota

2100 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Outside of Mankato, Minnesota

"Tell us where the message is and you can go," said Tim Walsh, his voice calm and even.

"I keep telling you, I don't know what you're talking about," said the disheveled man tied to a metal chair in the kitchen, his hands cinched tightly behind his back, his eyes blindfolded.  "I don't know what you want."

"Don't lie to us," said Walsh.  His pale blue eyes stared impassively at the blindfolded and bound prisoner.  His voice remained flat.  "We know you're a special courier and we want the message.  It is vital to my leaders."

"Look, I really don't know who you are or what you want.  What are you talking about?  I'm just a distributor for a Seattle, Washington, automotive specialty parts manufacturer.  What do you want from me?  What?  What in God's name have I ever done to you?"

Ignoring the pleas of the blindfolded man, Walsh turned to the third man in the room.  "Did you find anything in his papers or briefcase?"

"No, his identification cards all say his name is Richard Winslow, a resident of Seattle, Washington."

"Mr. Winslow, it seems we aren't getting anywhere quick.  We know who you are and what you are carrying.  You claim that you're an auto parts dealer -- that is a lie.  All we want from you is the truth."  Walsh bent over the captive, speaking ever so softly.

The blindfolded man did not reply.

"We don't seem to be coming to agreement, do we?" said Walsh rhetorically, his unblinking pale blue eyes focused on his blindfolded captive.  "Why won't you talk?  We take the information and you go on your way.  We don't want to hurt you.  All we want is the information that you are carrying."

Walsh's eyes narrowed as he straightened up.

"Look, I'm losing my patience.  What do I have to do to show you I mean business?"  Walsh slammed his fist into Winslow's chest.  Richard Winslow bent forward in pain as far as his restraints would allow.  He did not cry out.

Breathless, Winslow coughed.  His eyes stung from the rivulets of sweat that poured from his brow and soaked through his blindfold.  "You guys have the wrong person.  I really don't know what you're talking about.  Believe me.  Please believe me."

The third man, Bill Sorenson, looked through Winslow's wallet and picked out a snapshot of a young blond woman in her late twenties with two small children.  The color photograph, obviously taken in a studio, seemed to be of recent vintage given the clothes the subjects were wearing.

"Lovely family, Mr. Winslow," said Sorenson. "Just help us and you can go home to them soon."

"Look, you've got the wrong guy.  I haven't done anything to you.  Look, if it's money you want, I don't have much, but what I have you can have -- just let me go."

"Don't toy with us, Winslow," said Walsh.  "We know you're with CSAC and that you have information critical to us.  We want it.  What is so damn important about that information that you're willing to die for it?"

"Die?  Look, I would tell you everything you want, but I don't know what the hell you're talking about.  What the hell is this Seasack?  I've never heard of it.  All I know is that I was answering a message at the Minneapolis airport when I passed out.  Somebody grabbed my arms.  The next thing I know, I'm tied to this chair.  I'm blindfolded, and you two are asking me crazy things.  Give me a break."

"Mr. Winslow, let's review the facts.  First, you're a special courier carrying a message of the highest secrecy.  Second, we know that you boarded Northwest Flight 8 at SeaTac Airport in Seattle at 11:40 a.m. destined for Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, where you were supposed to board Northwest Flight 361 for Washington National Airport at 6:05 p.m.  It was almost five o'clock before we were able to catch up with you at the airport.  Finally, the message that you're carrying is of vital importance to my leaders."

Winslow vigorously shook his head in denial and in doing so his blindfold came undone, falling to his lap in a loose pile of cloth.  Blinking from the light in the room, Winslow was startled to look into the pale blue eyes of his tormentor.

"Fool."  Walsh abruptly turned to Sorenson with a cold, violent stare.  "I told you to tie that blindfold firmly."

Sorenson stood silently.  Walsh was his commander; he knew that protesting would have little use.

There was little more that could be done.  A thorough search of Winslow's clothing and briefcase had revealed nothing to suggest that Winslow was anything but what he said he was.  While Winslow was unconscious, Sorenson had the abominable job of conducting a complete body and cavity search of Winslow.  The search had revealed nothing more than the body of a normal middle-aged Caucasian male with the usual bumps, bruises and scars one normally accumulates after more than forty years on this Earth.

Maybe they had taken the wrong guy, Walsh thought.

Another thought entered Walsh's mind.

Maybe this was a trap.  By allowing him and Sorenson to take this agent, the Americans might already be on their tracks.  After all, the enemy could have set up the leader.  Maybe he was already under custody -- maybe even dead.

In retrospect, Walsh decided that the operation had gone far too smoothly.  This had to be a trap.

Walsh turned to Winslow.  "So the enemy has made us, have they?"

"Look, buddy, I really don't know you or anything.  Please let me go."  Winslow strained at his bindings to no avail.

Walsh walked across the room, entered the adjacent bedroom, and went directly to a dresser.  He slowly drew on a pair of leather driving gloves.  From the top left drawer Walsh picked up a Smith Wesson .357 Magnum revolver.  He then loaded six hollow point shells into the weapon.

Seeing what Walsh was doing, Sorenson took him by his arm and whispered, "Wait a minute.  We're supposed to question this guy, not kill him."

"He knows too much.  Besides, this is a trap.  We've got to cut our losses.  Know your place!  I'm making this decision; you have no basis to question my judgment.  Just do your job."

Sorenson knew that Walsh was right.  He could not question his leader; he had to do his job.  His throat felt parched as he watched Walsh walk out of the bedroom.

Walsh walked into the room in which Winslow was tied to the chair and said, "Mr. Winslow, I'm afraid that you have become a burden."

Winslow looked up into the pale blue eyes that showed no emotion.

"I'm not who you want.  I don't know what you want.  Please let me go, I've got a family, really."

With studied indifference, Walsh placed the muzzle of the revolver to Winslow's left temple.  Winslow, tears forming in his eyes, made one final plea.

"Why are you doing this to me?  Why?"

Walsh gently squeezed the trigger sending a .357 Magnum hollow point slug racing down the barrel of his revolver.  The bullet crashed into Richard Winslow's left temple, jerking his head rightward -- a look of utter surprise on his face.  The shock of the bullet ripping into Winslow's temple caused intense pain.  Each synapse screamed terribly as it went through its death throes.  The pain -- the utter pain, the likes of which Winslow had never known and would never know again.  Winslow looked as if he was about to say something, the only sound emitting from the screaming hole that was his mouth being, "MAAAAAA!"

As the bullet shattered Richard Winslow's skull and penetrated the subdural membrane of his brain, he briefly experienced an intense bright light.  This was followed immediately by a flood of red as the blood vessels in the retina of his eyes exploded from the pressure.  As the bullet, now deformed by its collision with Winslow's skull, crashed into Winslow's left frontal lobe, the instant flash of red was replaced by blackness.  Richard Winslow no longer existed.

The bullet continued its deadly course, tearing a wide path through the grayish white tissue of Winslow's brain and finally blowing a large portion of the right frontal portion of his skull and facial skin away from his head. Blood, grayish white brain tissue and small shards of what was formerly Richard Winslow's skull blasted out of the cavity that used to be his face, leaving the characteristic exit crater, spraying the floor and the adjacent wall in a grotesque, red, white and gray Jackson Pollock design, a brilliant abstraction of Navajo sand art.

The bullet finally came to rest in the wall of the room directly across from the now fatally comatose man.  His body remained seated on and bound to the cold, metal kitchen chair.

As the bullet completed its grisly task, the body of the former Richard Winslow slumped forward, held to the chair by the ropes that held him in his final hours of life.  His arms remained tied behind him.  Although his brain had ceased to function, his heart continued to spasmodically pulse, sending waves and waves of bright crimson blood gushing from the gaping head wound.  The spreading pool of thick, slippery blood quickly expanded its grip on the dirty wooden and torn linoleum floor.

"Bill, get some gasoline from the garage."

Sorenson was overwhelmed and sickened by what he had just witnessed, but was conditioned to comply with Walsh's orders.  He staggered out of the room.  Reaching the front door and grabbing the doorframe with his left hand, Sorenson doubled over and retched, convulsively.  His head buzzed from the loud report of the .357 Magnum revolver.

Nauseated and sweating profusely, Sorenson walked slowly over to the garage to find the five-gallon gasoline can.  Nothing in his training had prepared Sorenson for this situation.  His training had included dealing with death and even having to take a life, but that was all theoretical.  He had never seen death and certainly not violent death.  This was supposed to be a game, like a chess match. As an agent, his duty was to serve his rulers in their territorial goals.  Goals not meant to be questioned.  Goals to be sought blindly.  His mission was to execute the plan.  The plan and the metrics of its success were for others -- the leaders, the planners, not Bill Sorenson.

Even so, Sorenson had found that this alien place was not as evil as his overlords had claimed.  There was certain gentleness to the land, a certain sense of opportunity that he had never experienced at home.  Home -- that notion seemed more foreign each day that Sorenson lived his American existence.  Sorenson had sensed changes in his attitude about this place and the effect those changes had on his every thought.

Sorenson had become increasingly concerned about these changes.  He worried how they affected his mission and the life he had molded for himself in this strange world.  Sorenson even had harbored a hope that the lessening of turmoil might give him an opportunity to fade into the fabric of American society.  These people were not the monsters that he had grown up hating.  So far, his duty to his own people had been a contest of will, strength, and intellect with the enemy -- not violence.  Was this death necessary?

Sorenson walked as if in a slow motion trance. He had to get to the gas can.  He had to get it for Walsh, his group leader.  He had to get the hell out of here.

Composing himself, Sorenson found the gasoline can and returned to the kitchen.  By now twilight had overcome the scene and the kitchen was cast in dark shadows.

Walsh stood in the doorway, calmly smoking a cigarette, his pale blue eyes surveying the results of his handiwork.  The corpse lay prone on the kitchen floor, having been cut free by Walsh.  A pool of dark red blood continued to spread from his shattered skull.

Whatever secrets you may have carried, Sorenson thought, we will never know them now.

Walsh, upon hearing Sorenson re-enter the kitchen, abruptly turned to face him.

"Let's get moving.  For all we know, Winslow's fellow gangsters may be searching for him.  Let's get this house burning, right now."

Without comment, Sorenson mechanically splashed gasoline around the room.

Meanwhile, Walsh methodically wiped the revolver with a cotton handkerchief to smear any fingerprints or other identifying marks.  A cigarette dangled from his mouth.  Walsh then tucked the revolver under his belt.  He would get rid of it later.

After he finished his task, Sorenson quickly walked out of the farmhouse.

Walsh lingered for another moment, making one last inspection of the room.  He casually flicked his lighted cigarette into the kitchen as he walked out of the farmhouse toward the Jeep Grand Wagoner parked in the drive.

Sorenson, already in the driver's seat, had the car started.  After taking one last look, Walsh sat down, put on his shoulder belt, reached into his shirt pocket for the cigarette pack, took a cigarette out and lit it.  Sorenson drove rapidly down the farm road.  Through the rearview mirror, he watched the old, abandoned farmhouse explode in a fireball.  Walsh sat calmly in the passenger's seat, drawing on his cigarette.  Neither man spoke.

About ten miles northeast of Mankato, they encountered volunteer fire trucks racing southward toward Mankato.  This event provoked no comment.  About twenty miles out of Mankato, Walsh quietly asked Sorenson to stop the Jeep.  The empty field was marked by a sign that declared: "State of Minnesota -- Department of Natural Resources -- Protected Native Prairie Reserve."

Walsh walked slowly across the native prairie to the river bluff amid the evening din of insect songs.  He stood there for some time, quietly looking at the Minnesota River, which by now had turned from a sleepy creek to a modest river.  Walsh took the revolver out carefully with his handkerchief and tossed it into the dark, muddy waters of the Minnesota.  He calmly returned to the Jeep.

Walsh announced he would drive and Sorenson shifted over to the passenger seat.  For the remainder of their trip from Mankato the two were quiet.  Sorenson mostly looked out the passenger window into the night and the occasional passing light of a distant farmhouse.

Finally, the two reached the center of Minneapolis, the City of Lakes.  Stopping at the corner of Hennepin Avenue and Lake Street, Sorenson disembarked without comment and faded into the shadows.  Walsh turned right on to Hennepin Avenue and headed home.

1993: Call to Duty

0900 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: New York, New York

Fifty stories above the streets of New York, the dark, wood-paneled office projected the prestige and power of being a managing director of Franklin Smedley Associates.  Smedleys, as the firm was known on the Street, was one of the leading investment banks in the world.  Beside the large mahogany desk and leather chair, the office had a comfortable leather sofa and armchair, mahogany coffee table, dark Chippendale side chairs, and expensive oriental lamps.  The dark red, hand-tied Oriental rug on his floor had been handpicked on a trip to Istanbul.  An oil painting of a delicate, blossoming dogwood branch stretched out across a brilliant blue sky sat on the wall directly across from his desk.

The dark mahogany bookcase and window ledges were crowded with Lucite, glass, and brass flotsam and jetsam: silent memorabilia of a long and successful investment-banking career.  Though of nominal value, the odds and ends of plastic, wood, brass, and crystal represented the aspirations of many would-be fortunes.

The office was quiet, but for the soft hum of the ventilating system and the dull background noise of the city in perpetual motion countless stories below, the honking of a frazzled motorist or the loud noise of a muffler-less diesel truck roaring up the busy streets.

Even the Quotron computer on Mike's brilliantly polished mahogany credenza made no sound as it chronicled the rise and fall of million-dollar fortunes on its green-lettered screen.

The banker was dressed in a dark blue cotton shirt with white stripes, starched white collar, and white French cuffs anchored by simple gold links, bright red paisley braces holding up custom tailored gray pinstriped suit pants, and a blue and red-patterned tie.  He wore a gold school ring with a garnet stone from Mr. Jefferson's School for Boys on his right ring finger.

The arduous climb to the top had its price, which the banker had paid, though it was not readily evident in his outward appearance, or even to him.  He enjoyed his office, his position, and his attainments.  He lived for the power and prestige that these things brought to him.

This morning, however, there had been a strange feeling, a gnawing sensation; a premonition that something was not right, that something had been left undone.  He had shrugged off the feeling as simply lack of sleep.

The perennial SystemGraphon deal was in trouble, again, and he had endured too many late night negotiating sessions, trying to put it back on track.  The SystemGraphon, a "career deal," seemed never to go away; it just wouldn't close.

Aloysius Xavier Kang Sheng Liu, his thinning gray hair combed back over his head, was in charge of Project Finance.  Aloysius.  He had been given that cumbersome moniker by his diplomat father upon their arrival in the United States in 1950.  Someone called him "Mike" on his first day in grade school and that nickname had stuck throughout the years.

His rise at Smedleys had been spectacular, marred only by the often-unquiet jealousy of Ivy Leaguers who could not understand how an outsider could attain such position.  To them an "outsider" was anyone who could not claim to have grown up rich in Connecticut or Western New Jersey.  To have been born into the right circles and to have received the proper education at Exeter or Choate, finished off with a sojourn at Harvard or Yale or, in the exceptional charity case, Wharton -- in short: white and rich.  Certainly, an outsider could never achieve high stature at Smedleys; that was only reserved for them.  As one of a bare handful of Chinese-American investment bankers on Wall Street, Mike was not considered one of the "chosen" by his colleagues at Smedleys.

There were some senior members of the firm at Smedleys who believed that Mike was a Buddhist, despite his affiliation with the Lutheran church.  Mike did nothing to disabuse them of this notion.

The abstract angst of his youth had been long buried in his investment banker facade.  Mike had come a long way from the child dropped into this alien society so many years ago.

There was a knock on Mike's door.  An associate at Smedleys, Selby Eastwood, III, opened the door with his usual intensity and serious demeanor.  "Mr. Liu, can I speak to you for a minute?"

Seated in a brown leather bound chair behind a large uncluttered dark mahogany desk, the ever-careful Mike put down his copy of The Wall Street Journal.  With bold slashes of his felt-tipped pen, he had made anguished marks in red ink next to the right-hand column article titled, "SDI in Jeopardy, Congress Debates Rage Over Star Wars Budget."

Annoyed at the interruption, Mike looked sternly up at the young face with the supercilious smile.  Eastwood was carrying piles of computer paper.  Of all the asinine associates I have to deal with, Mike thought.

Peering at the interloper over his half-lens reading glasses, Mike said, "Sure, come in, Eastwood."

Eastwood, a second year associate in the investment banking division of Smedleys, normally worked with one of Mike's colleagues.  He wore rimless glasses, an affectation calculated to add maturity to his youthful demeanor.  The glasses were a stark note of severity on an otherwise young face.  As if to accentuate the severe look, Eastwood's full head of brown hair was meticulously combed in place, shiny from the Brylcreem ointment he carefully applied each morning.

Eastwood's manager was in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, attending investor meetings on the gasification project for three weeks.  Consequently, Mike was stuck with the task of giving guidance to the young members of the staff, a loathsome task given the shallow superciliousness of the eager Ivy League business school graduate.  Mike was happier leaving such details to others.

Taking off his reading glasses, Mike said without a trace of a smile, "Have a seat, Eastwood.  What seems to be the problem?"

With a flourish, imitating what he thought was a grand gesture; Eastwood pulled up one of the heavy mahogany side chairs and placed a huge pile of papers and computer printouts of cash flows on Mike's desk.  Eastwood had once read that you could commandeer any situation by encroaching on the other person's space.  As a result, Eastwood's pile of papers was now precariously perched on the corner of Mike's desk.  Mike looked with obvious disgust at this puny attempt at power politics.

"I've been working on the Fairington project; it's a co-generation gas turbine plant with a district heating system as a steam host.  The project would sell electricity to Phoenix Utilities.  I've been working on the preliminary cash flows for the project.  There is a dispute with some of the project participants over the construction period interest rate we should use.  The financial adviser for General Steam wants to use a very conservative figure -- an unrealistically conservative one.  As you may be aware, Mr. Liu, the use of a conservative figure could put the project in jeopardy."

Mike didn't rise to this obvious put-down by the insolent pup.  Of all the generally non-likable associates who worked at Smedleys, Mike particularly disliked Eastwood, a Choate/Harvard/Yale School of Management clone with his perfectly coiffured hair and brilliantly white-capped teeth.  Mike didn't need to understand his visceral dislike of Eastwood.  He just knew he disliked him, which was reinforced each time he heard Eastwood's whiny voice trying to sound superior.

"Who's the financial adviser?"

"Terry Walters of Collins Burns."

"That asshole hasn't had an original thought in twenty years.  I thought Collins canned him after he fucked up the Alaskan telephone system privatization.  How did we get hooked up with him?" said Mike with furrowed brow and a frown, but thinking to himself that this whelp couldn't possibly recognize true quality even if he were hit on the head with it.  Eastwood probably admired Walters because, after all, Walters was Harvard, ex-Groton.

Mike's temper was legend on Wall Street and Eastwood felt ill at ease, despite his disdain of this interloper.  Whether or not he believed, as did many of the young investment bankers at Smedleys that Mike did not deserve to be a managing director, Eastwood knew that Mike held the power to hire and fire.  That balance of power in Eastwood's mind offset his natural instinct to put the usurper in his place.

Biting his tongue, Eastwood quietly said, "He came with the deal, Mr. Liu."

"Yeah, I guess you have to take them as you get them.  Too bad, the project would go a lot faster without his idiotic posturing.  Okay, what do you have?"

Mike put on his reading glasses and started to look over the cash flows and other papers.  He was about to comment when the telephone rang.  Ignoring the ring, Mike quizzed the sullen young associate about the Fairington project structure and how the team had picked the appropriate interest rate to use -- the normal questions, routine questions that Eastwood should have known to have asked.

A knock on the door, Mike's long-time secretary stuck her head in.

"Mr. Liu, there is someone on the phone and he insists on speaking to you."

Mike looked up.  He couldn't understand why his secretary was forever barging in when she knew he was in a meeting.  She didn't seem to be able to screen calls like other secretaries he knew.

"Can you take a message and tell him I'll call him in a few minutes?  Can't you see that I'm busy?"

"Sorry.  He says it's urgent and he needs to talk to you now."

"What?  Can't you ever..."  Mike shook his head, annoyed.

"He's pretty insistent, Mr. Liu.  I really did try."

Mike sighed. "Okay, put him on."  He picked up the phone.  "Hello, Mike Liu here."

"Mr. Liu, this is Lieutenant Albert Twoomey, United States Navy.  Sir, the star has fallen."

The message struck deeply.  Mike's head jerked uncontrollably and perceptibly back at the words.  His practiced calm demeanor was shaken.

His face tightened -- instinctively, his hand clenched the handset, knuckles whitening.  His field of vision narrowed into a long, dark tunnel.  He felt his world starting to cave in.  His feelings of anger at being interrupted abruptly changed to dark and foreboding worry.  Mike had hoped never to hear those words, but knew someday he would.  This was his worst dream, the recurring one that had never gone away.

Thoughts, emotions, theories, questions, memories, hopes, and morbid fears all jumbled together.  God, he hoped it wasn't catastrophic.  His thoughts went back twenty years.

In reality, it was almost twenty-six years.  Time had passed so quickly.  Even though Mike left the agency in the seventies, he had occasionally been called upon for special projects, but this was different.  This was what had started it all.

I wonder what Bob McHugh is thinking, thought Mike.  Robert McHugh was Mike's commanding officer during those initial years and had remained Mike's friend and mentor ever since.  McHugh had risen in the hierarchy of CSAC and, as a Rear Admiral, was currently Chief of Operations, stationed in Newport News, Virginia.

Whatever happened had to have been big, perhaps monstrous.  The nature of the words spoken by the caller meant nothing less.  The code phrase, "the star has fallen," meant that something had happened at one or more of the observation sites and that Mike was being activated immediately.  CSAC agents simply disappeared when activated.  If all went well, life could be re-entered, often with elaborate cover fabrications as to the events of the intervening months or, in some cases, years.  Sometimes, there was no return and loved ones were given no explanation.  McHugh had the power to activate any CSAC agent, retired or not, and he had just activated Mike.

Mike was lost in thought.  The worried look on the Mike's face surprised even Eastwood, despite his barely disguised contempt for Mike.  Can't show emotion right now, thought Mike, as he struggled to control to control his emotions.  His face quickly regained its Asian passiveness.

Cupping the speaker of the phone with the palm of his hand, Mike focused his attention coldly on Eastwood.  "We'll have to cut this discussion short, something has come up.  Why don't you talk it over with the guys in private placement?  I'm sure that they can give you some good arguments to use in this situation, seems pretty straightforward."

The abrupt manner of the dismissal caught Eastwood off guard.  Like him or not, Mike was smooth and this abrupt change of character was unsettling.  Eastwood rose from his chair, quickly gathered the papers from Mike's desk, and backed out toward the door.  "Thank you, Mr. Liu.  Shall I close the door?"

"Please."

Mike quietly watched as Eastwood exited and the door to his office latched with a soft click.

Mike whispered into the telephone, "Lieutenant, when did it happen?"

"Sir, I'm not permitted to discuss that.  Your car is downstairs."

"Of course.  Thank you, Lieutenant."

Placing the telephone handset on its cradle, Mike allowed himself a moment's reflection before putting on his suit jacket and took one last look out his window.  His now dry lips pursed and relaxed repeatedly as he continued to struggle with the enormity of the call.  The Lieutenant had done the right thing, of course.  The unsecured line was hardly the place to discuss matters of such urgency.  Mike's years away from active duty with the agency had made him soft.  For a moment he was lost in thought as he stared out of his window.

Mike's office, located on the fiftieth floor of the glass encased tower on the tip of Manhattan, had a sweeping view of upper New York harbor. From his vantage point, Mike could see Governor's Island, headquarters of the United States Coast Guard's Atlantic Fleet, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.  Mike wondered to himself if he would ever see this view again.  Mike had worked hard for this office, but the attainments of power were only temporal.  What Mike was about to do was different -- the difference measured not only in appearances but in the very existence of Earth itself.

Walking over to the coat rack, Mike put on his suit jacket, taking care to secure only the top button.

Mike picked up his telephone, punched the intercom button, and told his secretary that he would be out of town for several days.  His secretary never questioned Mike's need for secrecy, believing that Mike's projects needed the utmost confidentiality.

After one last look at his opulently furnished office, Mike sighed audibly and walked quickly out.  He went down through the dark, wood-paneled halls, and then through the reception area.  After taking an elevator to the Sky Lobby on the 38th Floor, he walked across the hall to another bank of elevators.  The tall, stainless steel elevators took less than one minute to cover the remaining distance to street level.

Mike stepped off the elevator at ground level, turned left and walked through the revolving doors into the oppressively hot and humid world of New York in June.  In doing so, he left the coolness of the wealth and power of Franklin Smedley Associates for the sweltering milieu of the busiest city in the world.

The streets smelled of a New York summer.  The gagging fumes from gasoline and diesel fuels, the putrid smell of rotting garbage thrown on the street, and the sharp charcoal fumes from street vendors pushing various delicacies intermingled with the dank, humid smell of a wet New York summer morning.

Pushing his way through the harried office workers and hordes of tourists gaping at the glistening reflections of the glass tower, Mike finally reached the curb.  He marveled at the degree to which people could find wonderment in such man-made structures.  The irony of where he was headed as he approached the sedan parked at the curb.  He wondered what chaos would result if these gapers knew that the star had fallen.  The thought seemed obscene.

Parked at curbside was an unmarked, dark metallic gray Lincoln Town Car with smoked gray windows.  Mike opened the door and slid onto the air conditioned comfort of the back seat.  As the door closed, the brassy, hustling sounds faded into the background, as did the pungent, intermingled smells of New York.  In their place were the quiet serenity of the luxury sedan and the luxurious smell of leather seats, enhanced by a trace of Chanel No. 5.

"Commander, it's good to see you again."

The soft voice came from the attractive blonde seated in the rear of the sedan wearing the summer tan uniform of a Master Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy.  A leather briefcase sat on her neatly trimmed, uniformed lap.  Margaret Marston still retained her youthful beauty despite the passage of years.  Mike hadn't seen Margaret in at least five years, the last time that McHugh had called on him.

"Hello, Margaret.  How have you been?"

She pointed to the leather suitcase sitting on the seat between them.  "Commander, the suitcase contains your summer tans and other items.  Your Walther PP and holster are in there as well."

Mike did not own a firearm.  However, Margaret was able to get his favorite Walther any time the need arose, despite Mike's absence from the agency of over fifteen years.

The Walther fit easily in his hand.  Even after so many years, it felt as comfortable as a well worn glove or shoe.  Someone had kept it in mint condition and Mike wondered if Margaret did that herself.

Mike took the small .38 caliber, seven-shot auto pistol out of the suitcase and smiled.

"You know I hate guns.  Besides there's no need for them on this trip."

"Standard procedure," Margaret said, without a smile.  "You have to carry it whether you like it or not."

The holster presented a problem, since he was wearing braces and no belt.  Mike opened the suitcase, rummaged through the neatly packed garments and found a standard issue khaki web belt with brass buckle.  Threading the end of the belt through the empty belt loops of his expensive, tailored suit pants, Mike positioned the holster in the small of his back.  Strangely, Mike felt comfortable with the Walther in this familiar location.

I'd better remember to keep my jacket buttoned, thought Mike, realizing how odd the khaki web belt and brass buckle would look with his gray, pinstriped suit.

Mike wondered what his tailor would think about this discordant note to his carefully picked wardrobe.  If he had time, Mike was sure that his tailor could find a tasteful way to carry a personal sidearm.  However, since very few Wall Street bankers carried a personal sidearm (things were rough on the Street, but not that rough) there were no guidelines on how the well-dressed and well-armed banker should look.

I'll just have to wing it, he thought.

The sedan turned right on to West Street and headed north toward the Holland Tunnel, past the now-controlled access to the office tower's parking garage.  As the sedan turned right on to West Street, a similar sedan slipped in front of Mike's sedan.  At the same time, a dark gray GMC Suburban with smoked gray windows slipped behind Mike's car.  Casually looking back at his protectors in the Suburban, Mike wondered why he was required to carry the Walther when the firepower contained in both the lead and the follow vehicles could have easily outfitted several small island armies.

Unbeknownst to Mike and the others, a late model, tan-colored Toyota sedan with four white male passengers slipped into the stream of traffic behind the Suburban.  The occupants of the tan-colored sedan sat with quiet intensity.  They uttered nothing as their driver expertly followed the three-vehicle caravan north on West Street over the pot-holed roadway.

Mike's caravan, followed by its uninvited hanger-on, rolled into the Holland Tunnel, still in its perennial repair and reconstruction phase, the missing ceiling tiles looking for all the world like an elongated crossword puzzle. Minutes later the caravan emerged in New Jersey and then connected to the New Jersey Turnpike extension.

After they passed Newark Airport, Mike settled back for the drive to the Naval Facilities Command in the southern part of New Jersey.

From the briefcase lying on her lap, Margaret took out a red metallic folder with diagonal stripes of yellow and black.  The top of the folder was marked: "Level One -- Top Secret; Project Watch."

Before handing the folder to Mike, Margaret took out a gray metallic box from her briefcase.  The box, about the size of a cigar box, was activated when Margaret encoded a short alphanumeric sequence on the keypad.  She handed the box to Mike as she quietly slipped her other hand underneath the briefcase.  Mike looked into the glass eyepiece on the box; a quick burst of white light startled him, causing him to blink once.  Instantaneously, the circuitry in the gray metal box had compared at least thirty reference points in a library identification file against the image of the blood vessels lining Mike's retina.

Mike then took his right thumb and pressed it onto the glass plate next to the eyepiece.  In a similar fashion, the image of Mike's thumb was electronically compared to approximately two dozen reference points on file copies of Mike's fingerprints.

Finally, Margaret asked Mike to repeat: "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country," into the microphone of the gray box.  Mike's voice was compared to file copies of his voiceprint registered in the machine.  The phrase randomly selected by Margaret was one of several contained in her duty instructions.

Mike would not, as a matter of security, know beforehand what he would have to repeat.  By having Mike repeat the randomly selected phrase, which itself was specifically encoded at the moment of the test to the reference points in the voiceprint analysis algorithm, Margaret could be certain within a probability of one in sixteen billion that a proper identification had been made.

In less than one moment, the digital readout, seen only by Margaret, flashed the following: "Liu, Aloysius Xavier Kang Sheng, Commander U.S.N.R., DOB 12-20-43, Level One - XR2907.33."

Without a change in facial expression, Margaret removed her hand from underneath the briefcase, leaving the Glock semi-automatic pistol on her lap -- the pistol she would have had to use if any of the measurements had gone wrong.

When the voiceprint analysis was completed and proper identification established, the security box activated the folder release sequence.

Margaret ran the top edge of the red folder through the slot on the side of the gray box, rendering the folder's explosive mechanism inoperative, and handed the folder to Mike, who put on his reading glasses and broke the metallic seal.  The message:

NAVOPSCOM

CSAC

DIVCONOOD

Top Secret - Project Watch - CSAC Category XX

10 June 1993

To: Liu, A.X.K.S., Com., U.S.N.R.

From: McHugh, R.M., RADM, U.S.N., CO - CSAC

Activity noted Watch Stations 1, 2, 4.  Time of activities CSAC Classified CSAC Category Need Only -- Oral Only.  Suspect messages being transmitted.  Encoding in progress.  No activity Watch Station 3.  Watch Officer activating RECOM procedure.

You have been activated pursuant to CSAC Directive Number 1.  TDY Newport News, Virginia.  Report immediately to Watch Station 1.  Advise CSAC CNet ETA.

1200 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: Naval Facilities Command, New Jersey

Situated just west of Interstate Route 95, the United States Naval Facilities Command looked like a battleship that had stranded itself in a cornfield.  The superstructure of the building was designed to resemble the command deck of a naval vessel.  Despite the rather open nature of its outward appearance, observable daily by thousands of commuters going south on I-95, the building was a highly secure facility.  McHugh designated the facility as a safe point to pick up Mike.

The gray caravan turned off I-95 and turned on to State Route 1 and proceeded north.  Finally, the cars reached the rather nondescript access road to the facility.  A prominent sign by the side of the road stated simply, "Private Road -- Do Not Enter."

The three vehicle caravan sped down the dirt road, a traveling dust cloud following each car.  Mike was glad the air-conditioning in the Lincoln Town Car enabled him to keep the car window shut and spare him from having to breathe the gritty air.

The car radio crackled.

"Sir, a strange car followed us onto the access road."

"Unit Three, check out the car and report back immediately.  Probably some dumb tourist," said the Marine Lieutenant in the lead sedan.  "NAVFAC security, we have uninvited guests."

"Roger.  Intercept and identify."

The dark metallic gray Suburban slowed to a stop, blocking the Toyota sedan that had turned onto the private road.

A Marine private got out of the Suburban and walked cautiously back to the strange sedan.  A second Marine stood at the right rear corner of the Suburban with his AR-15 assault rifle at the ready.  As the first Marine approached the driver's side of the sedan, the driver rolled down the window.

The Marine said, "Sir, can I help you?  This is a private road."

The driver of the car stared at the young Marine and without a comment took out his Colt auto pistol and held it to the face of the Marine.  "Get that truck out of my way, asshole."

He pulled the trigger, its loud report heard by the occupants of the two sedans already far down the private road.  The young Marine took the full force of the .45 caliber slug in his face.  The power of the bullet flung his body into the underbrush lining the road.  Softened by his years on Wall Street, Mike flinched visibly at the clatter of gunfire.  However, he quickly recovered his composure, hoping for the world that Margaret had not noticed.

The second Marine instinctively aimed his AR-15 assault rifle at the occupants of the sedan and opened fire, as did the Marines inside the Suburban.  The four occupants of the sedan jumped out as the fuel tank exploded, engulfing the car in flames.  They dove into the brush, returning small arms fire with an assortment of Uzi's and other automatic rifles.

The four attackers succumbed quickly to the superior firepower of the Marines in the Suburban and the attack was over before it had even begun in earnest.  The Marine guards checked the four bullet-ridden bodies in the brush alongside the narrow dirt road.  They found no identification.  The sedan would later prove to have been stolen.

As the drivers of the other two vehicles accelerated down the road, the Marine Lieutenant radioed the Navy installation that the Suburban was under attack.  Mike sat quietly in the second car, knowing that there was little that he could do at the moment.  Mike had been an agent of CSAC long enough to know that in this shadowy world anything could happen.  What was troubling was that the Sentinels were a closely guarded secret at CSAC and no one should have known why Mike was being taken to NAVFAC, or even, for that matter that he was being taken anywhere.  The entire episode was illogical.

He turned to Margaret.  "What do you make of that, Chief?"

"Don't know, Commander.  Certainly wasn't in the operational plan for this trip."  Margaret's face remained completely devoid of emotion.  This was just business as usual for this veteran of CSAC.

She held a small Uzi automatic pistol with the safety off, just in case other attackers were about.  The Uzi had been secreted in a panel in the rear door.

Mike sat back in the leather seat, chastised not by Margaret's remarks but by his asking in the first place.  How unsophisticated; how unprofessional.  Of course, Margaret was right; it wasn't his job to worry about why they were under attack no matter how unexpected or strange.  Asking such questions might be expected of a rookie.  Mike was not a rookie and he should not have asked.  His only assignment was to get to Newport News.

Being a civilian for so long had made him weak.  Notwithstanding that fact, he couldn't get the notion out of his head that the attack was irrational.  Mike had no room for irrational behavior, especially where CSAC was involved.  He sat silently and looked out the side window.

Entering the facility, the two cars stopped at the small heliport where a Navy UH-1N Huey helicopter waited.  The NAVFAC facility was on a high state of alert occasioned by the unexpected attack on Mike's caravan.

The rotors of the helicopter were already turning.  Mike and Margaret quickly exited the sedan and climbed into the back bench covered in khaki canvas.  The Marine guards took the two vehicles over to base security to investigate the attack.  Sliding on to the seats behind the pilot and co-pilot, Mike and Margaret buckled themselves into the harness restraints and put on the earphones that were hanging on the bulkhead.

The pilot, a young Navy Lieutenant, spoke over the intercom.  "Commander, we should be in Newport News within two hours."

Mike nodded.  "Can you scramble our ETA to the Shipyard and advise them that we came under attack?"

"Roger."

I wonder what that was all about, thought Mike still unable to shake the attack from his mind, as the thumping of turning rotors accelerated into a high-pitched whine.  As the helicopter lifted off and reached its cruising altitude, it was joined by three Sikorsky HH-53H helicopters that had been circling over the heliport.  The Sikorsky helicopters, fondly called the Jolly Green Giants or Giants for short, flew in formation with Mike's helicopter.  One lagged behind and above the other three aircraft.

As the green and gray of New Jersey flashed below him, Mike settled back for the ride comforted by the fact that the Giants would assure his safe arrival.  Even as he mulled over the strange attack, which had been a nuisance at best, Mike began to reflect on what he needed to do when he reached Newport News.  His thoughts raced through all the options, all the contingency planning, the endless scenarios and gaming that CSAC had gone through in anticipation of this day's arrival.

The apparent lack of activity at Watch Station Three was puzzling.  Whatever form it took, this was the only activity in over twenty years of watching.  Logic dictated that all four sites should have behaved in a similar fashion.  Mike wondered which system detected the activity first, hoping that the form of measurement, in and of itself, could shed some light on the mystery.

Over the intercom, Mike could hear the pilot and co-pilot communicating with each other and with the pilots of the Giants.  The attack on the access road to NAVFAC was enough to put the pilots on heightened alert.  However, the flight was uneventful and everyone relaxed.

After awhile, a scratchy voice blared out over the intercom, "Commander, there are some sandwiches and pop in the cooler on the deck in front of you.  Help yourself to lunch."

From the pilot's speech, Mike guessed that he was from the Midwest -- the use of "pop" for soft drinks had been a dead giveaway.

Reaching down to the red and white plastic cooler sitting in front of his feet, Mike rotated the cover open.  Inside the cooler were a half dozen rigid, triangular-shaped clear plastic containers each holding a cold sandwich.  The cover of each container contained a printed label describing its contents.  Mike hated reading the labels on packaged food.  Every time he did he marveled at the amount of preservatives and other chemicals thrown into those little packages.  He had once read about an archaeological excavation at a forty-year-old landfill, which uncovered forty-year old hot-dogs that still seemed fresh and edible.  Mike had never again eaten hot-dogs.

Whatever the hell is calcium stearate, anyway, thought Mike.

Also in the cooler were a dozen soft drinks in aluminum pop-top cans.  The selection went from root beer to diet colas.

"Chief, what would you like?"

"A ham sandwich would be great, and a diet Sprite."

Handing the sandwich and the diet drink to Margaret, Mike wondered how she had stayed so slim throughout the years they had worked together.  Probably from drinking diet soda.  After making sure that everyone was taken care of, Mike picked an egg salad sandwich and, following Margaret's example, a diet Pepsi to wash it down.  Biting into the slightly stale and icy cold sandwich, Mike couldn't help contemplating the irony of it all.

At this very moment he could have been sitting down on a comfortable Chippendale chair, at a dark mahogany dining table, in the richly appointed partners' dining room on the fifty-second floor of the Franklin Smedley Associates' offices.  Instead of a skinny white bread sandwich with icy cold, wilted lettuce and a strange plastic taste, Mike could have been dining on pâté of duck appetizer, medium rare medallions of veal in truffle sauce, and a glass of chilled Chardonnay from Chateau Ste. Michelle, a favorite of Mike's from the eastern half of Washington State.

Oh, well, thought Mike, as the image of a civilized lunch dissolved to gray, food is food.  He bit down on the plastic-tasting sandwich.

1993: Missing In Action

0730 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Have you checked all the later flights from Minneapolis?" said Smith to the young, dark haired woman standing before him.  "Maybe the Seattle flight was delayed and he caught a later Washington flight."

A recent recruit to CSAC, Joyce Ellington had graduated from the University of Denver with a degree in English literature.  Spy novels had always been her favorite spare time reading.  Knowing that she was in an agency whose existence was unknown to the world was a real high, the answer to her youthful dreams.

With long black hair, light green eyes, a slim figure, and five foot height, she could still pass for a high school student or younger.  Having graduated Phi Beta Kappa, she was generally regarded as an up and coming analyst.  She wore cotton dresses in soft pastel colors, which further enhanced her overall youthful appearance.

"George, we haven't heard from Richard Winslow since he left SeaTac yesterday morning.  He was encoded at the Naval Air Station in Bellingham, Washington, and was placed on Northwest Flight 8 to Minneapolis/St. Paul, which we know arrived on time at 4:48 p.m. Central Daylight Savings Time.  His flight to Washington was scheduled for departure at 6:05 p.m.  Even if Winslow had to go from the Gold Concourse to the Green Concourse, he should have had ample time to make the grand tour."

"The grand tour?"

"The Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport is laid out in a rough 'H' with the main terminal at the center of the 'H.'  Two of the legs of the 'H' wrap around slightly and extend for some distance in a parallel fashion, bracketing the parking garage which is located in the center of the airport.  The distance between these two concourses, the Green and the Gold, can make life hell for a passenger, if he has to go from the end of the Gold to the end of the Green -- the grand tour."

"Wish I hadn't asked," said Smith with a thin smile.  "What about Winslow?"

"We don't know.  It looks like the earth opened up and swallowed him."

"Say, I know what.  Let me call my old friend, Herb Adams," said Smith, picking up his telephone and punching in the telephone number of the FBI field office in Minneapolis.

Herb Adams, the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Minneapolis/St. Paul field office, was a friend of Smith's from his FBI days.  Six foot six inches tall, Adams still retained the powerful build from his college days as a fullback on the University of Nebraska football team.  He was one of the Bureau's highest ranking black agents.  Unlike more ambitious agents, Adams did not view his assignment to the Northland as being exiled to Siberia.

Most agents wanted to be in high visibility field offices such as New York, Atlanta, or Los Angeles.  Adams, in contrast, felt that his abilities would shine through no matter where he was and that the rather sleepy pace of the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul was just about right.

Even though he had known Smith for over twenty years, Adams still did not know the true nature of his friend's occupation.  As far as Adams knew, Smith had left the Bureau about twelve years ago, when they were still earning their stripes, to become a security official with the State Department, unexpectedly.  Adams had thought at the time that Smith's move was odd -- to leave a high-profile job as an FBI agent to become a faceless bureaucrat at the State Department.  Shortly thereafter Smith had resigned from State to become an independent security consultant.

Although Adams thought it was curious that Smith had taken that path, he was pleased that his old friend seemed to be happy and prospering as an outside consultant.  Adams had always found it funny, though, that Smith never talked business from the day he left the Bureau -- even when he was on his own as an independent consultant.  It was unlike the gregarious Smith he had known while they were struggling as young special agents.  Even though they didn't get together as often as they did when they were both in the Bureau, Adams always enjoyed his telephone chats with Smith.

When he heard that his friend was on the telephone, Adams dropped what he was doing to take the call.

"Hey, George, how've you been?"

Adams absentmindedly picked up the scuffed and well-worn leather football that had been sitting on his credenza.  It was a memento from his University of Nebraska football days.  He had made the winning touchdown in a close game with Notre Dame and had received the game ball for his efforts.  On it were inscribed all of his classmates' signatures; some of whom had moved into the major leagues and were now big-time players.  Herb always loved to hold that football when he was speaking on non-official business; it was like a talisman that the world was a much nicer place than what he saw in the course of his normal activities.

"Great, Herb.  How have you been?"

"Nancy is looking at colleges; she may want to go east.  Both Beth and I are really excited, but I've got to tell you, I'm too young to have someone in college."

"I know how you feel.  When Charlie went to the University of Virginia this fall, his mom and I cried."

"How is Adele?  Is her shop in Georgetown doing okay?"

"Adele's doing great, her shop had some shaky times at the start, but it's been going great guns since May.  But that's not why I called."

"Oh?"

Herb replaced the football on to his credenza and sat upright in his seat.

"You know that I've been working as an outside consultant to the State Department."

"Yeah."

"One of my jobs is to help them maintain a network of special couriers for sending messages and packages internally around the continental United States."

There was a pause at the end of the line.

"I didn't know that State used special couriers internally."

"As you can imagine, it isn't publicized for obvious public relations reasons, but you can imagine that certain messages just cannot be sent over public telephone lines, by mail, or by Federal Express."

"I suppose so," Adams said; he was all business.  "I guess that's why the State job was so interesting.  How can this simple special agent be of help?"

"I'll be blunt.  One of our couriers didn't show up at the appointed time and place.  We think that something happened to him.  Herb, this has to be handled with kid gloves.  You can't file a field report on this."

"I understand.  What information can you give me?"

"His name is Richard Winslow from Seattle, Washington.  He was on Northwest Flight 8 from Seattle, Washington, this morning and arrived in Minneapolis/St. Paul about 5:00 p.m.  He was supposed to transfer to Northwest Flight 376 for Washington's National Airport, scheduled to take off at 6:05 p.m.  He never boarded that flight."

"Maybe he just decided to take a later flight."

"For reasons I can't discuss, these messengers are not the kind that would deviate from the schedule.  Besides, if I told you, I'd have to kill you," said Smith, trying to joke his way out of an awkward moment.

Adams did not appreciate the humor.  Smith was not the type to tell jokes, or lies.  And when he tried, it was obvious.

Adams paused for a moment.  "What I can do is search InfoNet for possible leads such as hospitals, morgues, or other places where missing people show up.  We can also put out a missing persons report on Richard Winslow on InfoNet."

"Great.  Say hi to Beth for me," said Smith.  He returned the telephone to its cradle and looked up at Joyce, who had been waiting patiently.  "If anyone can find out what happened to Winslow, Herb Adams can."

On the other end of the line, Adams sat quietly taking in what had just happened.  He then dialed for his assistant.

1630 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: Newport News Naval Station, Virginia

The Navy UH-1N Huey hovered in the air about ten feet above the landing zone.  In an instant, the helicopter touched down with a jolt.  A tall, thin, erect, white-haired gentleman in dress whites stood waiting for Mike next to a light gray sedan.  Next to him stood a Marine lance corporal at parade rest.  On the right front fender of the sedan was a small blue flag with two white stars.  Even with sunglasses, the familiar features of Rear Admiral Robert McHugh were easily discernible.  Mike was glad to see his old friend.

As the rotors of the helicopter glided to a gentle idle, Mike jumped out and, with his head held low, hurried toward Rear Admiral McHugh.

McHugh grinned broadly as he shook the hand of his old friend.  "Welcome, Mike.  It's not every day the U. S. Navy gets to welcome a Wall Street bigwig.  Sorry about the rather unruly reception you had at NAVFAC."

He then returned a salute from Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston.  "I see you got your man, Chief."

"Admiral, it's always a pleasure to see you," said Mike.  "It's been almost five years.  How's Gladys?  Why the formal greeting?"  Mike knew how much McHugh hated the pomp and circumstance that went with his position.

"Had to, hate this stuff, you know.  But the base commander's wife wanted a party."  McHugh shrugged.  "That's the reason for the get-up, Gladys and I have to go over there for a cocktail reception at 7:00 p.m.  She wondered if you can come over later for coffee, after you've checked in at the BOQ."

"I'd love to."

McHugh and Mike got into the gray sedan.  Mike was grateful that the sedan was nicely cool, given the oppressive heat of the afternoon Virginia sun.

After the two friends had settled down, Mike said, "What do you make of this, Bob?  Things are getting out of hand; you can't even go for a ride down a country road without being hassled."

McHugh nodded.  "One of our couriers, Mildred Swensen, was also attacked -- we're not sure if it was related to this current mission or if somebody made her from previous assignments.  Another courier hasn't checked-in, we're trying to get a fix on his whereabouts.  The courier from Watch Station One was only able to fly military, bumming a ride on an Orion which flew him to Andrews Air Force Base, where his wife picked him up and took him to headquarters.  His cylinder was extracted and sent to Laurel for decoding."

"Is Mildred okay?"

"She's a tough old bird.  It seems some thirtyish female decided to add to her trophy collection.  Luckily, all those silver bangles Mildred wears got tangled in the garrote and saved her life.  Mildred was able to jab her knitting needle into the assailant and that's all it took.  Gives new meaning to the phrase, 'keep to your own knitting,' doesn't it?" McHugh chuckled at his attempt at black humor.

Mike smiled appreciatively.  "Does this mean that we have a leak?  Someone sure does seem to know when and where our agents are showing up."

0530 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

Awakened, Smith picked up the ringing telephone.  It was Adams.

"I've got some bad news for you.  It appears that your Richard Winslow kept some pretty rough company.  He's dead."

"What happened?"

"The Minnesota State Police headquarters in Mankato, Minnesota, responded to our InfoNet missing person's bulletin on Winslow.  It seems that there was a rather spectacular house fire at a farm south of Mankato last night.  It required volunteer fire companies from several communities to put it out.  When the fire was finally put out, the firemen found a grisly scene.  In the kitchen, they found a corpse burned so badly that they couldn't even tell at first whether it was male or female.

"The firemen secured the area and called in the State Police to conduct arson and homicide investigations.  The homicide investigator was able to find a portion of a Washington State driver's license that had a partial name '...inslow' that somehow survived the intense fire.  The State Police homicide investigator checked the InfoNet missing persons list and thought that we should be notified."

"Where's the body?"

"Mankato still has a county coroner system.  The body was taken to a funeral home in Mankato, Tuchman Brothers."

"Herb, what I'm now going to tell you is so sensitive that I can probably be sent to jail for the rest of my life -- do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Winslow was a special courier, carrying information of great national consequence.  Can you secure the farmhouse until we can get up there?  Also, I need to get access to Winslow's body.  Can you arrange that?"

"I'll get right on it.  Great national consequence, huh?"

"Thanks, sorry I can't say any more.  What I've told you already could fry me -- no joke."

This time, Adams knew that Smith was not being disingenuous.

1930 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport

"Air Force C-130 Heavy, you are cleared for landing Runway 11 Left."

"Minneapolis Tower, Runway 11 Left, Roger."

The Lockheed C-130H-30 Hercules touched down and lumbered down Runway 11 Left coming to a stop about three fourths of the way down the runway.

"Air Force C-130 Heavy, this is Minneapolis Ground Control, you are cleared to taxi on Taxi way AA-5, turn right D5 to Minnesota Air Force Reserve terminal.  Good day."

"Good day, Minneapolis Ground Control."

As the huge Lockheed Hercules rolled to a stop in the Minnesota Air Force Reserve terminal, connected to the Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, engines were started in the three Suburbans.  Two of the three vehicles carried a complement of five. The middle vehicle had only a driver and a guard.  The third seat in that vehicle had been removed and the second seat was folded down.  A stainless steel casket and gurney lay on the floor of the Suburban.   Joining the Marines this time were two others, Twoomey and Smith.

All of the occupants of the Suburbans were dressed in dark blue uniform shirts and trousers.  None of the uniforms bore military insignia or indication of rank.

As soon as the ramp of the Lockheed Hercules hit the tarmac with a metallic clang, the first Suburban started down the ramp, stopping at the solitary figure standing on the tarmac.  Smith jumped out of the Suburban, walked up to the man, and shook his hand.

About this time, the other two Suburbans drove down the ramp, stopping directly behind the first vehicle.  From the third Suburban, Twoomey emerged.  As Twoomey joined the two men on the tarmac, Smith said, "Herb, this is Albert Twoomey.  Albert, Herb."

"How are you doing, Herb?  It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Glad to meet you as well.  Welcome to Minnesota."

Pleasantries having been dispensed with, Adams joined Smith in the lead vehicle, and Twoomey returned to the third Suburban.  The three-vehicle caravan immediately started out for Mankato with Adams leading the way.

"I had the State Police put extra security around the farmhouse.  The Mankato coroner is going to be a problem.  He insists that since it's a local homicide investigation, he has sole jurisdiction in the matter."

"Do you have anyone working on that problem?"

"No, you said that this was dark.  Only I'm aware of this in the office.  As far as the office knows, I'm taking a few days off for personal business."

"Thanks, Herb.  I owe you one."

"George, this is some operation.  Can you tell me anything about it at all?"

"All I can say is that the matter deals with national security and that your assistance is deemed essential but that it's better that you don't know the organization or the mission.  All of these men are specially trained to do what Twoomey and I tell them without question.  As you can see, these Suburbans are specially equipped for any situation.  Believe me, you don't want to know."

"Are there going to be any consequences from the Director's office?"

"Already cleared.  The old man called Judge Alexander this morning himself."

"I guess I'm yours.  One thing, who's the old man?"

"Rear Admiral Robert McHugh, Chief of Operations, CSAC."

"What's CSAC?"

"I'll tell you more later."

The caravan rolled out of the service road on to Route 62, turned right on to Route 5 and headed for I-494.  After a short period of time it turned west onto Route 169 toward Mankato.

Adams sat watching the occasional farmhouse in the distant countryside slip past him, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

Smith silently hoped that Winslow's cylinder remained unharmed so that he would not have died in vain.  His orders were explicit: Bring Winslow, or whatever remained of Winslow, home in the hermetically sealed, temperature-controlled, stainless steel casket.  If the cylinder had survived the fire, it might still carry the encoded message.

"Did you or your investigators sweep the fire scene?"

"The site had been completely gone over by both Minnesota and county officials.  I walked the site myself earlier this morning.  There was nothing except for the fragment of Winslow's driver's license that the State Police investigator found.  The farmhouse was pretty badly burned.  Obviously arson, started with gasoline.  The perpetrators didn't even try to hide that fact.  The gas can, or what remained of it, was still laying in what was the kitchen -- that's where the volunteer fireman found the body.  Young kid, pretty shook up by it all."

"Any clues?"

"In addition to the fragment of the driver's license, the laboratory guys found one spent .357 Magnum slug.  It's probably the slug that caved in your guy's head, but it was fragmented and disfigured by the heat.  Doubt we'll be able to get any useful information from it.  If there were any more clues, the fire did a good job destroying them."

"What about the farmhouse?  Did you check ownership?"

"Abandoned, for some time.  It was supposed to be auctioned off soon in a tax sale."

"We probably don't need to go to the farmhouse, then.  Keep a lid on the site though."

"Sure."

By now the caravan had reached the sleepy Minnesota town of Mankato.  It didn't take very long for the three Suburbans to reach Tuchman Brothers Funeral Home located on Main Street, down from the courthouse and municipal center.  At the funeral parlor, Adams and Smith got out of the lead Suburban and went to the locked front door of the building.

Ringing the bell, Adams commented that he wished it would cool down.  Southern Minnesota was undergoing one of its sweltering hot, two-week bouts of summer.  The humidity and heat persisted long after dusk.  It was the kind of weather that often spawned thunderstorms and their deadly progeny, tornadoes.  The two-plus hour ride from Minneapolis had been mercifully spent in the relative air conditioned comfort of the Suburbans.

It was shortly after nine in the evening when the caravan pulled up in front of the funeral parlor.  Waiting for what seemed an eternity, especially with increasingly annoying mosquitoes buzzing loudly around the front door light, Adams and Smith became pretty irritated.  After all, Adams had called the Mankato coroner to specially set up this visit.  Just then, the door handle turned and the front door was cracked open.  Peering out at the two men from inside was a stooped over, white-haired old man.

"Hello, I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI.  Is Phillip Tuchman here?"

"I'm Tuchman.  Here, let me let you in, Mr. Adams."

Phillip Tuchman, sole surviving brother of the Tuchman Brothers, was a seventy-year-old, slightly built man.  The years had been difficult and he had a stooped over gait.  He walked with the help of an oak cane.  For years, Tuchman doubled as the Mankato coroner, which fit well with his family's funeral business.

As Adams and Smith entered the funeral home, several of the other passengers in the caravan got out of their vehicles.  They quietly faded into the shadows of the deepening night.  Two of the men strolled behind the funeral house and positioned themselves in the shadows of the backyard facing the house, cradling their weapons.  Each of the men carried either a Colt AR-15 or a Striker 12, equipped with a laser sight.  The driver and one passenger remained in each Suburban, the engines running.

2120 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Sheriff's Office, Mankato, Minnesota

Mankato County Sheriff Joe Johnson reached for the ringing telephone.  Putting the telephone to his ear he growled, "Sheriff's Office."

"Sheriff, this is Annie Lewis. I don't know if you're aware, but there are a bunch of strange-looking men in front of Tuchman's Funeral Home.  They're acting mighty weird."

"Thanks, Annie.  I'll take a look," said Johnson as he got up from his chair and placed the telephone back on its hook.

Forty-eight and paunchy, his jowly face reddened by a spidery network of surface blood capillaries nurtured by a combination of sun and alcohol, Johnson looked more like a sugar beet farmer than the sheriff of Mankato County.  Johnson strapped on his brown leather gun belt with the holstered .38 caliber Police Special and speed loaders, carefully tucked another plug of Red Man behind his lower lip, straightened his collar, hitched up his trousers, and reached for his Smokey Bear hat.

Walking out the door, he shouted to his night clerk that he was headed down to Tuchman's.  He got into the tan Chevrolet Caprice with special suspension and a 5.7 liter V8 engine and started toward the funeral parlor.  As Johnson approached Tuchman's, he noticed the three Suburbans parked in front of the funeral home without lights but definitely running.

He pulled in front of the first Suburban, radioed his night clerk that he was at Tuchman's and was going to question the driver of a gray late model Suburban with no markings.  Walking up to the lead Suburban, Johnson knocked on the driver's window.  The driver slowly turned his face in the direction of the knock and using his hands indicated that the window did not roll down.

Suddenly, Johnson felt the cold steel barrel of a Colt AR-15 pushing against the back of his neck and heard the distinctive metallic sound of a bolt seating itself.

A soft-spoken man said, "Don't move; we don't want to be provoked.  Please do as I say."

"You can't do this to me," said Johnson.  "I'm the sheriff in this here county.  Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

At this point, Twoomey approached.  "Put that weapon down, trooper.  Sorry, Sheriff, my boys tend to take their jobs very seriously.  I'm Albert Twoomey, Office of Security, Department of State."

"What in the blue blazes do you boys think you are doing?  What the hell are all these vehicles parked here in front of Tuchman's?"

"The State Department got a message that one of its important staff members may have been murdered here and we were sent to investigate."

"You mean that boy that was killed in the farmhouse fire?"

"Precisely.  Two of my colleagues are inside speaking to Mr. Tuchman right now."

2130 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Inside Tuchman's Funeral Home, Mankato, Minnesota

As the trio walked down the stairs toward the refrigerated basement that served as Tuchman's cold storage room prior to embalming and preparation for burial, Tuchman said, "Hope you two aren't too squeamish, the remains ain't very pretty."  Neither Smith nor Adams responded as they continued their descent.

In Room 2, Tuchman had already placed the black, charred remains of Winslow on a stainless steel gurney.  There was little semblance of the human state in the mass of burned tissue and white bone that lay on that gurney.

The stench arising from the gurney, a combination of wet wood ashes, burnt tissue, and death, was overpowering, but was abated in the chill of the room.  What remained of the head and skull graphically displayed the power of a .357 Magnum bullet.  Most of the right frontal and temporal portions of the skull and face were gone.  Eyeless sockets stared into space in anguish.

"Have you performed an autopsy or other examination?" said Smith.

"Don't have to.  Just looking at him you can tell that he died of a gunshot wound."

"Mr. Tuchman, did you find anything in or around the body that looked out of the ordinary?"

"No, like I said, there weren't no need to go poking around with such an obvious cause of death."

"Mr. Tuchman, we need to transport this body to Washington as soon as possible.  I have some men outside who can help you prepare the body.  We also have a special casket designed for travel."

Tuchman looked up at Smith and then at Adams at that request.

"I'm not sure I can release him tonight.  We haven't had a proper coroner's inquest."

"But you said the cause of death was obvious."

"Don't replace the inquest.  We've got to have an inquest."

"How long will that take?"

"Probably two or three days."

"I'm afraid that we can't wait, this body must be in Washington this evening without delay."

"Sorry, this body will be kept here until the formal inquest, government or no government."  Tuchman folded his arms over his chest.

Just about this time, Johnson joined the three men in the cold room.  "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Tuchman?"

"Sheriff, these men seem to feel that they can take this corpse without a formal inquest.  I just cannot allow such a thing."

Smith identified himself as a State Department official to Johnson.  "National security demands that we take immediate possession of the remains of Mr. Winslow.  I've been instructed to transport these remains to Washington, D.C., without delay.  I'm sure you can understand that, gentlemen."

"I can't let you take the body unless Mr. Tuchman agrees and it sure doesn't seem that he agrees, " said Johnson, as his right hand slowly undid the holster strap to his service revolver.

Johnson's movement did not go unnoticed.  Just as deliberately, Smith reached inside his pants pocket and pressed the button on the paging device.  Twoomey's pager beeped once and he immediately went into the funeral parlor following the loud voices.  Two Marines with their weapons followed him.

In less than ten seconds, Twoomey opened the door, dropped to a kneeling position and aimed his automatic right at the sheriff, who had his revolver drawn and was holding both Smith and Adams at bay.  Immediately behind Twoomey the two Marines fanned out to take positions on each side of Twoomey.  The Marines' Striker 12 shotguns were fully choked for a tight shot pattern and the red beam of the lasers were aimed at Johnson's chest.

Twoomey said, "Drop that weapon, Sheriff.  There is no way you can get all of us."

Sweat poured down Johnson's face.  His shirt was drenched from perspiration.  Nothing he had ever encountered had prepared him for this occasion.  The weapons themselves were unlike anything he had ever seen.  His trigger finger started to tighten.  His face flushed.  His eyes squinted both from fear and the salty, biting sweat that continued to bead down from his forehead.

"I don' know who you are, but I'm pretty sure you aren't who you say you are.  You just can't just come here and demand things.  I ain't gonna let you, no way."

"Sheriff, you are making a big mistake.  I'm not sure who these fellows are either but I can tell you that George Smith is legit," said Adams.

"Buddy, I don't know who you are."

"I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI.  If you will allow me, I can get my identification card for you."

"Don't you dare reach for that.  I weren't born yesterday."

As Johnson's attention was momentarily diverted, Twoomey was able to fire one shot, intentionally grazing Johnson's right arm, which caused him to drop his revolver.  Tension filled the room as the two Marines started to squeeze the triggers of their Striker 12 Shotguns.

Instinctively, Twoomey said, "Hold your fire!"

The troopers responded immediately.

Johnson clutched his right arm with his left hand, a rivulet of blood streamed down his right arm.  Tuchman, who until this moment had been huddling in the corner of the room, rushed forward with some sterile gauze to staunch the flow of blood.  The two of them now looked at the intruders with nervous gazes.

"I'm sorry I had to fire, but you left me with no choice," said Twoomey.  "Our instructions are that we will return to our base with the remains and that no one, I repeat, no one will prevent us from doing so."  Twoomey held the small, pocket-sized communicator to his mouth.  "Bring the casket down into the cold room.  Use the service elevator."

Tuchman, for all his years in the undertaking business, had never seen a casket quite like the one being pushed into the cold room.  Shaped in a half-cylinder, the casket was made of stainless steel.  The casket was hermetically sealable and there appeared to be a way to control its internal temperature.  Two small cylinders were attached to the outside of the casket.  Stenciled on the two small cylinders was the word, "Nitrogen."  The cylinders were connected to the casket by copper tubing and gas valves.

The two men who pushed the casket in were dressed in blue and each wore a rubber apron and elbow-length rubber gloves.  Rolling the casket up to Winslow's corpse, one of the men encoded an alphanumeric sequence onto a keypad on the side of the casket.  The casket lid slowly opened, revealing a bare, metallic interior.  Inside the casket lay a gray rubber body bag.

The two men took out the body bag and placed it on the gurney next to Winslow.  They unzipped the bag and gently lifted the charred remains of Winslow into the bag.  When the body was moved, the overpowering stench of wet ashes, burnt tissue, and death once again filled the room.  The odor subsided when the two Marines zipped the body bag shut.  The two Marines gently lifted the body bag into the stainless steel casket and secured the lid.  The atmosphere inside the casket was evacuated and replaced with nitrogen gas.  The temperature of the casket was set at zero degrees centigrade.

As the two Marines quietly pushed the casket out of the cold room, Smith said, "Mr. Tuchman. Sheriff Johnson. As far as you're concerned this incident never occurred.  National security demands this extreme action.  I would rather not discuss what will happen if you continue to interfere with our mission.  Am I making myself sufficiently clear?"

Neither Tuchman nor Johnson reacted to Smith's warning.  They stood in silence as Smith and Adams searched the cold room for any more items connected with Winslow and placed the items in plastic evidence bags.

Satisfied that nothing more remained in the cold room, Twoomey picked up Johnson's revolver, took all the shells out of the cylinder and handed it back to Johnson.  Twoomey also relieved Johnson of his speed loaders.

Twoomey, Smith, and Adams left the cold room.  The two Marine guards left immediately behind them.  Outside, the stainless steel casket was loaded into the second Suburban.  The blue-clad men from the back, the front, and inside the building jumped into the three Suburbans and the gray caravan drove off at high speed.  In the cold room, Johnson and Tuchman sat looking at each other in shock.

Tomorrow morning, Johnson would discover that InfoNet would list no information on a body being found in a burning farmhouse south of Mankato, Minnesota.  His efforts at discovering the identity of the intruders would be equally fruitless.

Like the stranger said, it just didn't happen.

1993: Ambush

0630 Hours, Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bachelor Officers Quarters, Newport News, Virginia

The incessant ringing jarred Mike out of a deep sleep.  After an enjoyable evening with his old friends, Gladys and Bob McHugh, Mike had turned in about 12:30 a.m.  Seeing his old friends had helped Mike forget about his other war, the one he had waged daily in posh offices high above the common crowd.  The warmth of this friendship with the McHughs was important to Mike, particularly with the drama now unfolding.  As a field grade officer, Mike rated a single room at the bachelor officers' quarters.  Turning in, he had asked for a wakeup call at 0700 hours so that he could report to McHugh's office at 0800 hours, as requested by the Admiral

Half asleep, Mike searched in the dark for the telephone.  I must be late, he thought.  Don't they send orderlies around anymore like they used to?

McHugh was a stickler for punctuality.  Mike had sat through the discomfort of his fellow officers when they received an uncharacteristic dressing down for being even a few minutes late to a meeting with McHugh.  God, what a way to start this tour.  Mike shuddered at the thought.

Finally, Mike found the telephone and put the handset to his ear.  He heard McHugh's deep voice.  "Mike, sorry to wake you, but we've gotten some bad news.  Can you get dressed right away and get over to my office?  A car has been sent for you and will be outside."

Mike jumped out of bed, stripped off his pajamas and shaved.  He then headed for the shower in his private bath and gave himself five minutes to scrub his body and hair.  Afterward, he put on the uniform of an officer of the United States Navy.  Because of the requirement that he carry his Walther revolver, the uniform coat was cut fuller than normal.

Wearing his overseas hat with the silver oak leaf of a Commander in the United States Navy, Mike blinked as he stepped into the bright daylight.

A gray sedan was stopped in front of the BOQ.  A Marine in summer dress uniform stood at parade rest at the side of the car.  As Mike approached the sedan, the young Marine corporal snapped to attention and saluted Mike.

Fumbling, Mike returned the salute.

"Good morning, Commander," said the young Marine as he opened the rear door of the sedan.  After Mike settled down, he was driven to the other side of the sprawling naval station to the CSAC Operations Center, located in a nondescript, white clapboard building.

Once inside the small, unpretentious foyer, Mike walked over to the counter, which was manned by two young Marines dressed in the sand-colored camouflage fatigues that had become popular since the Gulf War in 1991.  Mike had no doubt that despite the relative youth of these guards; they were battle-hardened veterans.

CSAC drew its military personnel primarily from the special operations groups of each of the armed services.  Marines came from their Special Operations Regiment, which was in many respects the United States' answer to the British SAS.  Mike knew that many of the Marines in the Special Operations Regiment had served inside Iraqi lines throughout the Persian Gulf conflict and some had paid the supreme price.  None were ever identified.  Navy Seals were another prime source of talent for CSAC, as were the Delta Force and the Air Force Special Forces, the ones that wore the distinctive red berets.

"Good morning, Commander," said the Marine behind the counter.

Stowed within easy reach under the counter was a Striker 12 shotgun, with the choke on maximum fire pattern.

"Commander, may I see your credentials?"

Margaret had packed Mike's CSAC credentials in his suitcase.  Normally, CSAC agents carried no credentials whatsoever, until they had passed the stringent credibility tests at CSAC Operations Center.  Those credentials had to be returned upon leaving the CSAC facility.  Technology had advanced dramatically in terms of these identification cards.  Encoded with a silicon chip, the modern cards permitted the holder to access only those areas for which he or she was authorized.

Mike handed the identification card to the young Marine, who placed it into a special card reader.  The liquid crystal readout confirmed that the holder of the card was Mike Liu.  The Marine dutifully returned the card to Mike.  "Commander, we will still need the ReTek DNA Analyzer identification."

"That's new.  What does this ReTek Analyzer do?"

"I'm not a scientist, sir, but I understand that it compares your saliva sample with file DNA records to verify that you are who you say you are.  The information from the DNA Analyzer is then collaborated with your other identification parameters so that a proper statistical correlation can occur."

The Marine handed Mike a small plastic cup from a sterile packet.

"Thanks, that's very interesting."

Mike spat into the cup.  The Marine opened a sterile package, removed a small glass rod and inserted it into the plastic cup. The sample of Mike's saliva that clung to the glass rod immediately turned a bright purple color.  The Marine guard then placed the glass rod briefly into a small opening in the desktop ReTek DNA Analyzer where the purplish solution was quickly dried.

The glass rod was finally inserted into a second opening.  Within seconds the small liquid crystal screen displayed the following: "Liu, Aloysius Xavier Kang Sheng, D.O.B. 12-20-43, Level One -- XR2907.33."  The Marine triggered a buzzer that unlocked the door to the immediate right of the counter.

"Welcome to Newport News, Commander Liu."

Mike turned to see the possessor of the pleasant, but familiar female voice.  Ellen Jones, McHugh's long-time civilian secretary, had been sent out to the foyer to get Mike and to bring him immediately to the Situation Room.

"Hi, Ellen, long time no see."

"I heard that you've become a bigwig on Wall Street.  Any hot tips?"

"No, I wish I had hot tips, but the side of the business I'm on only deals with new project development -- I'm not your man."

"Shucks, that means I'll be stuck working for the old man until I retire," said Ellen, smiling.  "Anyhow, come on, they're waiting for you."

Turning a corner at the end of the long corridor, Ellen and Mike stopped at a stainless steel elevator door, which was guarded by two Special Operations airmen wearing their special red cravats and berets.  Each airman held a Heckler Koch MP-5 submachine gun.  The least known of the special operations forces from which CSAC guards were drawn, the Special Operations Air Force personnel's normal duties included guarding installations such as the stealth fighter bases in Tomah, New Mexico, and other lesser known places, such as the mysterious Area 51, where highly classified artifacts were stored.

"These guys seem so young," Mike whispered.

"They may look young, but they are all Special Ops guys," said Ellen.

Mike and Ellen held out their identification cards for the guards, one of whom ran each card through the reader on the door.  The doors of the elevator opened and Mike and Ellen boarded.  Silently, the stainless steel cage dropped Mike and Ellen more than 50 feet below ground.  The CSAC installation was under sea level at this location.

The elevator slid to a gentle stop and the stainless steel doors slid open to reveal a subterranean world of artificial lighting.  Sodium vapor lamps gave the narrow stainless steel corridors a yellowish hue.  The corridors smelled of Lysol.  If Mike hadn't known better, he could have believed that he was inside a modern nuclear fleet submarine.

Mike and Ellen hurried down the narrow corridor, finally reaching a hatchway, which silently slid open on their approach.  In the anteroom which was flooded in red light, two Navy Seals stood silently with their submachine guns at the ready.

As Mike and Ellen approached, one of the Seals said, "Hello, Ms. Jones, the old man is waiting for you."

After the outer hatchway shut and a short period of time had passed for their eyes to adjust to the red light, the inner stainless steel hatchway slid open and Mike and Ellen went into the surprisingly small Situation Room of CSAC.  Television monitors lined one wall of the remarkably small room.

On one wall was a large wall monitor, currently displaying a world map showing the locations of the four Watch Stations and the operational status of various CSAC facilities around the world.  By punching in the right code, the operator of the wall monitor could bring up a variety of different geographical or informational inputs.

Using the flexibility of the various monitors available to him, McHugh could be in instant communication with the head of CSAC, all CSAC operations, the chief of staff of the armed services, the heads of the various intelligence agencies, the National Security Adviser, and the President at the touch of a button.

McHugh and several naval officers were clustered around a conference table at one end of the operations center.  As the hatchway slid open, McHugh looked up.

"Mike, get over here."

"What's happened?" said Mike, knowing that in the security of the operations room, McHugh would finally brief him on the dramatic events that had been unfolding during the last forty-eight hours.

"Winslow's dead.  George Smith in the Washington office has a friend who's the special agent in charge of the FBI's Minneapolis-St. Paul field office.  A guy named Herb Adams.  Adams found out that Winslow had been killed, we don't know by whom.  With the attacks on you and Mildred and now confirmation on Winslow, we have to consider the possibility that someone has broken our cover.  Anyway, Smith and that young kid, er, Twoomey, are taking a contingent of Marines up to Mankato, Minnesota, to retrieve the body.  We're hoping that the cylinder will be intact."

"Any idea what's going on?" said Mike.

McHugh shook his head.

"The theories include KGB-run agents executing Armageddon orders.  You can't trust the Russians, I still don't believe that they unilaterally decided to cease and desist.  It might be turncoats.  Of course, these attacks could be the work of the infiltrators."

Mike nodded.  Many in CSAC doubted that the Soviet Union could have collapsed so quickly and without a last violent gasp.  Even the idea of turncoats had merit.  In an organization as large as CSAC, there were bound to be some bad apples.  Every intelligence agency had their share.

McHugh's allusion to the infiltrators was even more unsettling, but Mike understood that even that possibility could not be discounted.  Some CSAC theorists have suggested that whoever was manning the Sentinels on the ocean bottom, the so-called fallen stars, could have infiltrated the general population.  If this were true, then the ability to contain whatever was in the fallen stars would become problematic.

Despite the fact that the true meaning of the Sentinels was unknown, CSAC had many theories as to their origin.  If the source was non-terrestrial, then the agency could not over look the possibility that the objects were merely the tip of the iceberg.  If that were true, then CSAC plans to counteract other forms of intervention that the visitors might inflict on the United States would have to be implemented.  The prospect was terrifying.  Notwithstanding the broader implications of the objects, the supposed visitors had been labeled infiltrators.  The idea was scary and not bandied about lightly and certainly not by McHugh.

Mike was surprised.

Although the concept of infiltrators had been the topic of many meetings and reports, McHugh had always listened quietly without comment.

McHugh sighed.  "The scary thing is that we thought we had the last word in security.  If not, then we have more problems than we ever thought we would."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'd like you to head up to Washington to coordinate the investigation."

"What about the activity at the Watch Stations?"

"I had wanted you to go with me to Watch Station One, where activity was first noted.  That will have to wait.  I was hoping to go to Watch Station One today, but with everything happening, that may have to wait.  Nevertheless, I need to get there sometime this week.  You can catch up with me when you've sorted this thing out.  This is too important.  First, we need to make sure all the transmitted information is safely received, and second, make sure any leaks are cauterized immediately.  Is that clear?"

Cauterizing leaks didn't have to be explained.  Mike knew what he had to do.

"Yes, sir.  I'll leave right away, Admiral."

"Good, I've arranged for a plane to take you to Pautuxent.  From there an armed escort will take you to CSAC - Washington.  I can't have any more of my agents shot up."

"Me, neither."

"Just be careful, Mike."

1130 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center

The Navy Learjet C-21A touched down on the runway of the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center in St. Mary's County, Maryland, about 11:30 a.m. and taxied to the hangar area where three dark gray vehicles waited.  The co-pilot of the small jet walked to the rear of the jet and opened the door/stairway.  Mike, still in his summer tans, unbuckled his seat belt, grabbed his suitcase, and hurried over to the first vehicle.  The final leg of this journey had to be made by ground transportation, as the CSAC facility in Washington did not have a heliport.

The three vehicles were all dark metallic gray, unmarked Suburbans with dark gray side and rear windows.  Consequently, casual onlookers would not be able to see inside the vehicles.  The dark gray color was likewise intentional.  The Suburbans were unmarked and carried ordinary Maryland license plates, again to not attract undue attention.

Navy Warrant Officer David Lee snapped to attention and saluted.  "Welcome to Maryland, Commander.  If it's okay with you we would prefer to have you in the second vehicle."  Lee was dressed in a dark blue uniform devoid of insignia or other markings.  He could easily be mistaken for a civilian worker.

Mike was always amazed at how many weapons could be stashed in the nooks and crannies of the vehicle.  Besides Colt AR-15 assault rifles and Striker 12 special purpose shotguns with special laser sights, the backs of the front seats had antipersonnel grenades, flash grenades designed to blind opponents, a grenade launcher and one handheld surface-to-air Stinger rocket launcher.  Each Suburban had sufficient Kevlar helmets and vests for the occupants of the vehicle.  A sliding roof panel facilitated the use of the Stinger.

Seated in the front seat of the Suburban was a major in the United States Army.  At 32, Fred Bernstein was a lifer totally dedicated to special operations.  A slight but muscular man, the former Delta Force member was known as one of the most dependable of the special ops men recruited to CSAC.

Bernstein spoke softly into the hand-held, scrambled communicator.  "Dave, let's head on out, but be careful.  We're code red on this assignment."

Code red meant that the CSAC had reason to believe that an attack might be launched on its operatives at any time.  With confirmation of Winslow's demise and the unprovoked attacks on Mildred and Mike, McHugh had placed all CSAC facilities on code red.

From an operational standpoint, code red meant that any movement of CSAC personnel was to be clandestine.  Travel on the open highway was prohibited and convoys had to travel on lesser known roads.  This prohibition was necessary for two reasons: first, evasive travel gave potential adversaries fewer opportunities to stage ambushes; second, the command staff felt that travel on back roads minimized collateral damage, the chance that civilians might get in the way of flying bullets.  One could only imagine the repercussions that would come if Washington Post headlines screamed, "Super Secret Intelligence Agency Gunfight Causes Massive Carnage on the Beltway."

The convoy turned right at the exit gate for the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center and headed north on State Highway 235.  The plan was to take county roads as much as possible.  As a security matter, the convoy leader would choose the final route from several options, once the convoy was underway.  Traffic was sparse on the highway going north -- a few station wagons, one or two sport cars, several panel trucks and an occasional pickup truck.  The three vehicle convoy slipped easily into the stream of traffic.

Carefully following the convoy was a black panel truck with "GHC Corporation - Baltimore, Md." stenciled in white letters on the front doors.  The truck had been parked just outside of the entrance gate to the Pautuxent Center.  About a half mile behind the panel truck and following several sedans later was a white delivery truck from Catonsville Furniture Bedding.

The convoy traveled north on State Highway 235 for a few miles past towns with names such as Hollywood and Oakville.  After driving through Mechanicsville, Bernstein consulted his map and plotted his course.

Following the directives for code red status, Bernstein knew that he would have to branch off the main road after Mechanicsville, where the population density started to exceed the safe limits proscribed in the directive.  He remembered that one of the optional routes, Huntersville Road, north of New Market, Maryland, was a little used county road that rolled through mostly undeveloped wooded areas, pastures, and farmland.

"Why don't we turn left on to Huntersville Road, Dave?" he said into the communicator.

"That's about three miles ahead, do we see any bad guys?" said Lee, who was in the first Suburban.

"Don't see anything out of the ordinary," said Bernstein.  "Joe, anything suspicious at your end?"

"Nothing," said the Marine riding in the back of the third Suburban.

The convoy turned left at Huntersville Road.  The black panel truck also slowed down at Huntersville Road and turned left.  The truck was followed by a yellow Cutlass Ciera driven by a woman in her late thirties with her two school-aged children.  The white furniture truck turned left as well on to Huntersville Road.

The woman driving the yellow Cutlass had spent the morning in Lexington Park, Maryland, and was now driving to La Plata, Maryland, where her mother lived, to have lunch and let Grandma spend some time with her two children.  Her morning had been spent quietly shopping and she was looking forward to a leisurely drive to her mother's farm.

The black panel truck accelerated as it went west on Huntersville Road.  Within minutes it was only a few car lengths behind the last Suburban.  A dark blue Bell Ranger helicopter flew several miles behind the convoy.  When the black panel truck turned left on to Huntersville Road, the helicopter also banked left, maintaining a steady distance behind the truck.

At a point on the road where there was no oncoming traffic, the black panel truck passed the three Suburbans.  As the panel truck roared past each Suburban, their drivers quickly checked out the truck.  The occupants of the Suburbans all quietly picked up a weapon and armed it, carefully holding the weapons underneath the windows of the trucks.

As the black panel truck roared by on the narrow road, all that the occupants of the Suburbans saw was a middle-aged Caucasian male, apparently in a hurry to get somewhere.  The black panel truck roared off into the distance.  The palpable tension in the three Suburbans eased as the panel truck became smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.

In the rear of the third Suburban, a lance corporal scanned the traffic that followed the convoy.  He saw two vehicles, a yellow Cutlass with a plumpish white female driver and what seemed to be two small children some distance from the convoy and a white truck even farther behind with the name, Catonsville Furniture Bedding.   In the far distance, he noticed a blue civilian Bell Ranger helicopter apparently heading a different direction.  The Marine concluded that the helicopter was either a corporate or news aircraft, nothing to worry about.

The Marine reported to Major Bernstein, "Major, I don't see anything unusual just a woman with two kids, a furniture truck, and some general aviation stuff."

"Keep looking, we can't be too sure."

"Yes, sir."

1300 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

After rounding the bend in the road several miles ahead of the convoy, along a deserted stretch of highway bounded by woods on both sides, Jerry Mitchell pulled his black panel truck off the road onto a small unmarked dirt trail and parked it deep into the woods.  Working quickly, he took out the small rocket launcher from the back of the truck, set the launcher behind some brush, armed the surface to surface missile and waited amongst the tangle of brush and scrub pines.  The launcher, little more than four feet in length, was camouflaged.

Mitchell started to sweat.  His years of training and his even longer years in deep cover had come to this.  A family man and a likable lumber yard worker, Mitchell had received the telephone call early this morning.  He hurried to get dressed and looked in on six year old Sarah and eight year old Tommy still asleep at that early hour.  He had told Tommy that he would help him with T-Ball after work, but Mitchell knew in his heart that there would be no way he would be able to keep that promise today, maybe ever.

Leaving for work, Mitchell had paused to kiss his wife, hoping she wouldn't note the worry.  Walking out to his black panel truck which he had bought used two months ago, Mitchell had fretted that he should have painted over the stenciled name, but that was neither here nor there given his duty today.

The lead Suburban rounded the bend on Huntersville Road.  As the vehicle approached his location, Mitchell counted off the ticks emitting from the sonar range finder that had come with the rocket launcher.  As the ticking sound started to become individually indistinguishable, Mitchell pushed the button on his remote control.

1315 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

Following the convoy and noting the upcoming bend in the road, the young driver put his foot down on the accelerator on his Ford F-100 truck, swung into the opposing lane and quickly passed the Cutlass with the plumpish woman and her two kids.  He rapidly closed in but was careful not to give the impression that he was trying to catch up with the convoy.

Inside the back of the white F-100 Ford truck, twelve men sat on the floor.  The seriousness of the situation was painted on each face.  They had practiced such an exercise, but the feeling gnawing at the stomach of each man told them that this was it, this was real, this was the why they existed.

Each man was a trained agent, periodically summoned for training by John Trent, their commander and their connection for news from home.  For some the news was of families left behind.  They had lived for years in this hated alien place, waiting for this day.

Trent, in turn, received his orders directly from the leader.  The identity of the leader was a closely held secret.  He communicated to group leaders like Trent through elaborate schemes.  Direct contact such as the early morning telephone call to Trent at his residence was most unusual.

The weapons resting in the laps of the twelve had been purchased through mail order houses or from the countless gun shops that seemed to proliferate in rural Maryland.  Their skillful weapons man had converted the semi-automatic weapons to automatic.  Some of the men had obtained coveted Israeli Uzi machine guns, but most had Colt AR-15 rifles.  One fellow cradled a Striker 12.

1320 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

"Holy shit!" said Lee as he watched the small rocket spin toward his Suburban.  He immediately swung his steering wheel to the right, hoping to evade the heat-seeking missile now bearing down on this vehicle.  The rocket caught the Suburban just under its strengthened front grill.  The force of the explosion tossed the Suburban up into the air and flipped it on its side.   As the mass of twisted steel screeched a spine-chilling cry, the Suburban came to a stop perpendicular to its original path, blocking the narrow, two-lane road.

The occupants in the Suburban were tossed around like rag dolls, except for the Marine seated in the front right passenger's seat, who was strapped in his shoulder harness.  The explosion's blast had blown in the front windshield despite the hardened window mountings.  Shards of glass showered the occupants of the Suburban.

Bernstein saw the missile strike the first vehicle and heard the anguished cry of his Marine over the radio, but could do nothing for the men in the disabled Suburban, at least not now.  "Unit 3, this is Fox Leader.  Unit 1 is down and blocking the road.  This is for real!"

The driver of Bernstein's Suburban slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the overturned vehicle.  Even so, he had to swerve his vehicle violently to avoid a nasty collision.  The second Suburban skidded sideways and was stopped by the first Suburban with a loud metallic crash.  The second Suburban's front left wheel collapsed from the collision, rendering the vehicle inoperative.  The crumbling metal on metal sounds and gear and bodies being tossed about formed a slow motion ballet to Mike, who was in the second seat.

Despite the collision and resulting sparks, there were no fires.  The Suburbans used by CSAC were all equipped with automatic fire suppression systems activated by sensors for both collision damage and tip over.  When activated, the release of fire suppression gases and gelling agents prevented explosions in the fuel tanks.  Mike quietly thanked CSAC for that small favor.

With the second unit now disabled, Bernstein ordered his men to grab their weapons, Kevlar vests and helmets, and head for cover.  Instinctively, each Marine knew which weapon and grenade belt to grab.  They bolted out of the Suburban and scrambled for the sides of the road.

All that Mike was able to grab was a Colt AR-15 carbine, with two magazines taped together with duct tape.  Mike dove out of the Suburban and headed for the underbrush.

As Mike ran for the underbrush, bullets struck and ricocheted all around him.  The battle had begun.  As Mike reached the woods, he dove into the dense underbrush.

Breathing heavily, Mike muttered, "Shit, I'm getting too old for this crap."

In the front car, Lee, bleeding from a gash on his head suffered during the explosion and flip over, struggled to control his shaking.  The Marine who had been sitting in the right front passenger seat hung from the seat/shoulder belt, his head hung down in an unnatural position, blood spurting out of a deep gash in his neck, the thick bright red fountain pulsing with each beat of his dying heart.  Dave knew instantly that there was nothing that could be done for him.

"Everyone O.K.?"  He shouted.

"Jones, O.K."

"Gomez, O.K."

"Mulligan?" said Lee.

"I'm cut pretty bad, Dave."

"Can you make it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get your gear and get the hell out of here," said Lee.  The four men grabbed whatever weapons were available, kicked the rear panel doors open, jumped out and headed for the woods.  Lee ran to the underbrush, dove and landed next to Bernstein.

"Damage assessment, Lee."

"One dead, two wounded."

The third Suburban was able to come to a full stop.  The door panels of the Suburban now bristled with gun muzzles.  Marine Sergeant Tom Wicker had given his men the command to arm themselves as soon as he saw Unit 1 flip into the air.  Bernstein's call over the communicator merely confirmed in Wicker's mind that the convoy was in trouble.

As the sole remaining functional vehicle, Wicker's unit was now responsible for stopping any heavy duty attack by an adversary.

Carelessly, Mitchell stood up to assess the damage his missile had wrought.  A Marine sharpshooter saw Mitchell raise his head, put a red ruby laser beam on the middle of his forehead, and squeezed the trigger of his Colt AR-15 sniper carbine.  The force of the nine millimeter caliber slug striking Mitchell in the forehead propelled his lifeless body up and back into the air.  The explosion of the bullet created a Roman fountain of red as the bullet found its mark.  The body of Mitchell lay beside the gravel road in a tangle of briar and underbrush.

"Son of a bitch," said the young sharpshooter.

As the men scrambled from the two damaged Suburbans, the dark blue helicopter began a strafing run.  A gunman leaning out of the opened window of the helicopter sprayed the running men with an Uzi.  One Marine was hit by the fire from the helicopter.  The multiple bursts of fire from the Uzi picked up the Marine and suspended him for an instant as if he were a marionette.  Finally, he fell to the road as if someone had cut his strings.

Bernstein screamed into his handheld communicator, "Unit 3, Unit 3, kill that damn motherfucker."

"Unit 3, Roger," Wicker said.  Turning to the Marine at his rear, he shouted, "Get the Stinger out and pop the top."

That was all the Marine needed.  He pushed a switch and a sliding roof panel opened.  Shouldering the Stinger missile launcher, the lance corporal took careful aim at the circling helicopter.  The Stinger missile launched from its tube with a whooshing sound and sped toward its target, leaving a white contrail.

The helicopter pilot saw the Stinger missile launch from the Suburban and immediately pulled back on his joystick in an attempt to escape.  His attempt to shake the Stinger missile was of no avail once the heat-seeking Stinger had fixed on the exhaust of the turbine driving the rotor.  As the helicopter turned, the Stinger missile followed.

Because of the pilot's final attempt to escape, the helicopter was caught in a rotation that continued even after the tremendous explosion of the Stinger entering the turbine exhaust tubes.

What remained of the helicopter began a slow, rotating dance to the ground, when secondary explosions of the helicopter's fuel tanks erased the existence of the helicopter and its crew completely.

Intent on the attacking helicopter, the lance corporal was not aware of the fight on the ground.  The Catonsville Furniture Bedding truck had slammed to a full stop about fifty yards from the three Suburbans.  The back doors of the truck were kicked open from the inside.  Twelve armed men jumped from the truck and assumed positions around the truck and along the underbrush of the roadside.

One of the attackers, armed with a commercially available Colt AR-15 carbine with laser scope, drew a bead on the lance corporal.  Hoping to prevent the lance corporal from launching the Stinger, the attacker had fired just as the young Marine launched the missile.  Enhanced by the laser sight, the attacker's accurate shot caught the lance corporal in his right rib cage, below his armpit. The bullet passed through his right lung, savagely ripped the atrial chambers of his heart, and passed up through the left lung before shattering his collar bone and tearing a gaping exit wound in his left shoulder.  The force of the bullet caused the lance corporal to drop the rocket launcher.  His lifeless body fell over the roof of the vehicle, legs dangling limply inside.  The spent missile launcher clattered to the pavement.  The right rear quarter panel of the Suburban was awash in the Marine's blood.

Inside the Suburban, Wicker shouted to his remaining Marines to haul the lifeless body back into the vehicle.  The body inside, a Marine slammed his fist into the roof switch and the roof panel slid silently into place.  The interior of the Suburban now reeked of the smells of gunpowder and smoke, the residue of fumes from the Stinger missile, the sickening smell of blood, and the closeness of sweating combatants.

The firefight raged fiercely outside.

Mike was firing a Colt AR-15 for the first time in many years.  The kick of the weapon required some effort on his part.  He tried hard to remember his trainers' admonition not to simply pull the trigger, but to fire in short bursts.  That way, in the words of Mike's trainer, "You don't get the walk-up that machine-gun users often experience."

The attackers fanned out into the woods on both sides of road.  The Marines didn't know how many attackers were in the woods.  Luckily, the attackers had chosen to ambush the convoy in broad daylight.  This gave the attacked the advantage of seeing minute movements.  The woods crackled with the report of semiautomatic rifle fire.  Occasionally, the loud boom of a Striker 12 shotgun could be heard.  Every once in awhile the woods shook with the explosion of a hand grenade.

In the sole operating Suburban, Wicker reached for the secured radio.  "Base, Base, Echo Fox-trot!"

The scratchy voice over the radio responded.  "This is Base, copy."

"Base, this is Fox Leader 3, we're under attack, repeat, under attack.  About fifteen miles west of Highway 235 on Huntersville Road."

1400 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center, Maryland

"Echo Fox-trot, advise you activate transponder.  ETA twenty minutes."  The radio operator at CSAC picked up the black handset that connected to the duty officer at Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center.  "Pautuxent, our convoy is under hostile attack.  Location: about fifteen miles west on Huntersville Road from intersection with State Highway 235, copy."

"Pautuxent copies."  The officer of the day calmly pressed a red button on his console.

The bell clanged loudly in the ready room.  The officer in charge picked up the telephone and listened quietly.  Putting the telephone back on its hook the Marine Lieutenant shouted, "Alright guys, this is it.  Let's go!"  Twenty men from Squads 1 and 2 of his platoon scrambled for their AR-15 assault rifles and piled into the HumVee and the transport truck parked outside the ready room.  The platoon was a unit of the Marines' Special Operations Regiment.

At the same time, three Marine pilots ran for their F/A-18 Hornets parked on the tarmac.  The pilots climbed into the cockpits, the canopies shut with a solid thud, and thumbs up were given to their crew chiefs.  Smoke billowed out of the exhausts as the screaming of the jets' turbines reached a thundering crescendo.  The crew chiefs saluted and the Hornets taxied to the active runway, screaming like banshees.

Pre-cleared for immediate takeoff, the thundering Hornets were airborne within seconds of having received the scramble gong.  Upon reaching altitude, the Marine flight leader radioed ATC, air traffic control, for vector information.

An air traffic emergency had been declared and the ATC had placed all military and civilian aircraft in holding patterns over West Virginia.

"Control, this is Red Leader."

"Red Leader, a military convoy consisting of three Suburbans has been attacked on Huntersville Road about fifteen miles west of State Highway 235.  One aerial attacker downed, possible other aerial attacks.  Echo Fox-trot has radioed for help, ground troops have been dispatched E.T.A. twenty minutes, need reconnaissance and air cover, if necessary."

"Roger," said the flight leader.  "Gentleman, arm your systems."

With that command, the three Marine pilots raised the small rectangular yellow and black striped metallic cover on their Hornets' control sticks and flipped the toggle switch inside to on.  With that action, the Hornets' awesome complement of ordnance was locked and loaded.  In addition to other weaponry, each plane in the flight was armed with four heat-seeking air-to-air AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles and a nose-mounted M61 20 millimeter six barrel gun.

After arming his weapon systems, the flight leader banked left and headed to the action.  Both of his wing men immediately banked left as well.

The first thing that the pilots saw was a column of thick black smoke rising from the woods.  At the column's base, the Hornet pilots saw the blackened remains of what appeared to be a helicopter ringed by flames.  Three bodies were strewn about the wreckage.

The pilots saw an overturned Suburban lying on its side, another Suburban stopped alongside the first one, and a third Suburban stopped a short distance from the others.  The body of a Marine lay in a pool of blood near the second Suburban.  The third Suburban appeared to be operational, and the Marine pilots could see automatic rifle fire emitting sporadically from the vehicle.

A short distance away a white truck sat empty.  Even farther away there was a yellow Cutlass that had slid on to the shoulder of the road.  Up the road on a small dirt access path partially hidden in the trees was a black panel truck.  At the intersection of that path with the main road, the Marine flight leader saw what appeared to be the body of a white male civilian sprawled out in the brush.

The pilots saw that the battle was still being waged.  They noted puffs of smoke indicating grenade activity and rifle fire smoke throughout the woods.  The Marine pilots saw men in civilian attire and in blue uniforms running through breaks in the trees.  Given the close hand to hand combat going on in the woods, there was little that the Hornet pilots could do, but circle and observe.

"Control, this is Red Leader, the battle below is close quarters.  Not much we can do.  Will remain on station until otherwise instructed."

"Red Leader, we're in communications with one of the Marines on the ground.  Will attempt a patch."

"Glad to see you guys," said Wicker.  "We're having a hell of a fight down here; we could sure use some air cover."

"Roger."

1420 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

Inside the yellow Cutlass, the young mother hugged her two children tightly, a look of terror on her face.  What started out as a shopping trip and afternoon drive had turned into stark horror.  She shook uncontrollably.  The children were strangely silent, at once excited and dazed by things that heretofore they had only been seen on television.  Every once in awhile, one of the kids would sneak a peek out the window.  The firefight was fascinating.

Meanwhile, the battle raged on the ground.  Mike was able to pick off one of the assailants from his position.  He felt no particular rush connected with ending the life of another human.  Years of training and his general disenchantment had purged those emotions from Mike.  Killing was simply a business matter.

He trained his laser sight on another young, dark-haired man in a white tee shirt and dungarees.  Mike felt no remorse in pulling the trigger.  A burst of fire from Mike's rifle caught the attacker in the chest.  This one looked like a pizza delivery man.  The burst of fire threw him into the dense brush, drenching the thick green underbrush in crimson.

Mike heard a rustling behind him.  Rolling over, he trained his rifle on the source of the noise and pulled the trigger sending a volley of bullets into the body of his young attacker.  This one, blond and tanned, was dressed in a yellow knit polo shirt, lime green shorts, aviator sunglasses with red holders, and Puma running shoes.  The attacker had a Striker 12 shotgun aimed right at Mike.

The volley from Mike's AR-15 caught the attacker by surprise.  The look of utter astonishment on his face was replaced by a scream of horror as the rounds from Mike's rifle practically severed his body in two.

Bernstein and Lee lay prone in their location hidden by underbrush.  Bernstein attempted to raise Wicker on his handheld communicator.  Lee, whose head wound was now wrapped in gauze from his emergency kit, kept watch with his AR-15 carbine at the ready.

Suddenly, there was a rustle behind the two and before they could turn around, an attacker had pounced on Bernstein and had plunged a Bowie knife between his shoulder blades.  Bernstein made no sound as the blade found his heart, and blood pulsed out of the wound, showering both Lee and the attacker.

Lee quickly turned around to confront the attacker, his rifle aimed at the person.  He pulled his trigger, nothing happened.  His magazine had been exhausted in the prior firefight.  Tossing his rifle aside, Lee was instantly on his feet.  The attacker, a slim but athletic man with his black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing a white shirt opened at the collar, attempted to pull his knife out of the lifeless back of Bernstein.  The force of the assault had embedded the knife in bone and the attacker was unable to extract it.  He dropped his effort and rose to face Lee.

The two opponents circled one another, each assuming the particular attack pose learned through years of training in the martial arts.  As they circled, each combatant tested his adversary with feinting moves, a jab here, a sidekick there.  The attacker attacked first, landing a foot kick to Lee's side.  Despite the sharp pain in his side, Lee grabbed the foot, pulled and twisted it, causing his dark-haired assailant to fall forward.

Exploiting that advantage, Lee landed an elbow into the small of his attacker's back as his body flew forward.  A small crunching sound could be heard as the vertebrae in the attacker's spine were broken by Lee's well-placed hit.  As the dark-haired man's body hit the ground, Lee stomped on the back of his neck, breaking it instantly.  The lifeless body twitched for a few seconds and then collapsed into stillness.

There was no time to revel in this small victory.  Lee leaned forward to pick up his carbine and replace the magazine with a fresh one from his belt.  Kneeling next to Bernstein's prostrate body to feel for a pulse, he concluded there was little that could be done for his old friend.  Lee cursed, grabbed the communicator, and called Wicker.  "Unit Leader 3, Bernstein is down, what's the situation?"

"Dave, we've got air cover, for what it's worth," said Wicker.  "But we can't assess damage right now, looks like everyone is on his own."

"Aiee-Yah," muttered Mike as his AR-15 rifle jammed.  Tossing it aside, he reached behind his back and drew his Walther.  He hoped this thing doesn't last too much longer.  The Walther held only seven shots.

1430 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Over Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

The Marine flight leader's radio suddenly came to life.  "Digger, I've got a bogey at one o'clock on my screen, its range is, ah .., approximately fifteen miles and she's headed right for us.  Request permission to break off and intercept."

"I see him, be careful."

"Roger."

As the right wing man broke formation and banked right, he saw the fast approaching Maryland Air National Guard A-10 Warthog.

"Air Guard A-10, this is Marine Hornet.  Request response.  A-10?" radioed the right wing man as his Hornet approached the mysterious jet aircraft.  "Digger, I've got an Air Guard Warthog who will not respond to my hailing frequency, please advise."

"ATC says there are no other authorized aircraft assigned to this sector, Repeat, no other authorized aircraft."   The flight leader and his remaining wing man immediately banked right to join their colleague.

Just as the right wing man received that message, the pilot of the Warthog opened fire with his 30 millimeter Avenger cannon.

"Hostile fire," said the Marine pilot as he pulled back on his control stick as hard as he could and went into a steep climb.  Sweat poured profusely down his face, fogging his face mask.  The Warthog made a steep bank, turned around, and climbed after the Marine's Hornet.  The tracers in the Avenger ammunition belt streamed toward the Hornet.  The faster Hornet lengthened the distance between it and the Warthog, but not before some rounds reached their target.  Mindful of his position, the Marine pilot banked toward the Chesapeake Bay so that the aerial battle would not be fought over populated areas.

The flight leader and his left wing man followed in pursuit of the two jets.  Within seconds, the two Marine airmen caught up with the two jets and noted that some of the rounds from the aggressor jet had struck the Hornet.  A thin contrail of white smoke issued from the right wing of the Hornet, although it remained airborne and under control.

The flight leader maneuvered his Hornet behind the Warthog as the formation of four jets streaked over the sky above the Chesapeake Bay.  The pilot of the Warthog dropped to near water level in an attempt to escape the Marine jets.  The flight leader dropped to wave height as well and fired a warning shot from his M61 20 millimeter gun.  The ground effect of such low level flying buffeted the two jets.  Staying in the air required intense concentration.

The Warthog initiated evasive action, slewing sideways, climbing rapidly, and hugging the treetops on the shore.  For a moment, the pilot of the Warthog captured the admiration of the two Marine pilots in hot pursuit, but that admiration was short lived as the flight leader's avionics and fire control electronics homed in on the fleeing Warthog.

As he heard the tone and saw the green box flash in his heads up display, the Marine flight leader pressed his fire button and a slim AIM-9 Sidewinder missile dropped from its rack and made a bee-line to the Warthog, leaving a thin white contrail.  The pilot of the Warthog banked sharply to the left and climbed frantically in an effort to escape the fast approaching Sidewinder, to no avail.  The heat-seeking Sidewinder easily sought and acquired the exhaust port of one of the Warthog's jet turbines.  Few recognizable parts of the Warthog splashed into the gray-blue waters of the Chesapeake.

The right wing man requested and received permission to break formation and return to Pautuxent.  The flight leader and his remaining wing man banked right and headed back to the ground action on Huntersville Road.

"Pautuxent Control.  What was that about?" radioed the flight leader.  "One Maryland Air National Guard A-10 downed and one of my wing men hit.  Over."

"Red Leader, Maryland Air National Guard reported one of their Warthogs was missing this morning.  We just received the report on DODNet.  Guess you found it."

"Hope there aren't any more surprises."

"Me too.  Pautuxent Control out."

1445 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Over Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

On the ground, the attack was over.  The superior firepower and training of the Marines were evident in the body count.  Twelve attackers lay dead on the road and in the woods.  Several were taken down as their ammunition ran out and they sought to flee.  The fleeing assailants were easy targets for the laser-equipped marksmen.

Besides Bernstein and the Marine lance corporal, two more Marines lay dead.  This left a complement of about eleven men, including the three wounded men and Mike.

Hearing only reports from his Marines' weapons, Lee concluded that the battle had run its course and his men were now shooting at each other.  Without any effective way to stop the gun battle, Lee decided to do the only thing he could to get his men to stop firing.  He rushed onto the road screaming, "Hold your fire!  Hold your fire!"

As the deafening roar of small arms fire ceased, the young mother looked out of her front windshield, still shaking violently from the fear she had for her kids' safety and her own welfare.  A religious person, she quietly thanked the Lord for delivering them from this danger.

Still shaking, but trying to compose herself for her children's sake, the young mother tried to make light of the situation.  "My, wasn't that exciting?  Just like T.V."

The left front door of her yellow Cutlass was yanked opened.  The young mother screamed as an unshaven, middle-aged John Trent slid into the front seat, pushing her over to the passenger side of the car.  Holding a small automatic to the woman's back, Trent yelled, "Stop screaming, lady, god damn it.  God damn it."  He started the car and placed it into reverse.

"Hey!  Some asshole's getting away!" shouted Wicker, noticing the yellow sedan backing up.

He ran for the Suburban and jumped into the driver's seat.  He put the vehicle into gear and roared off after the sedan.  Mike and the rest of the men ran toward the Cutlass.

Wicker's Suburban caught up with the sedan just as Trent placed it into drive.  Seeing that the vehicle contained not just the fugitive but also a female civilian and two small children, Wicker decided he had to stop the sedan at all costs.

Trent stepped hard on the accelerator.  The car jerked forward and its front tires squealed as they grabbed the road.  Trent, the woman and her children were slammed back into their seats as the Cutlass bolted forward at great speed.  Wicker stepped hard on the accelerator of his Suburban, catching up to the sedan in a matter of seconds.

As Wicker's Suburban drew parallel to the yellow sedan, he pulled his steering wheel to the right.  The Suburban slammed into the side of the Cutlass with a loud crunch.  With this maneuver, Wicker bumped the Cutlass into the brush lining the narrow road.  The Cutlass came to a stop.  Trent opened the front door, grabbed the woman around the neck, and pulled her out of the car.

The young mother screamed uncontrollably, as did her two small kids who cried, "Mommy!  Mommy! Don't let him hurt Mommy!"

Trent pointed his automatic at Wicker and pulled the trigger.  The bullet ricocheted off the Lexan window.  Wicker murmured to himself, "Thank God for modern science."

By this time, Mike and the others had reached the scene.  Rifles were aimed at Trent and the screaming, crying, hysterical woman.

Mike stepped forward, Walther in hand.  "Drop that weapon.  No one is going to hurt you if you let that woman go."

"If you don't drop your fucking guns, I'm gonna blow this fucking broad's brains out," screamed Trent.  The young mother let out a loud cry and shook violently as Trent put the muzzle of his automatic against her forehead.  "I said drop your guns, assholes!"

Mike dropped his Walther to the ground.  As the gun fell to the blacktop with a metallic clatter, Trent swung his gun at Mike.  Seeing Trent's gun swing from the woman's forehead, a Marine squeezed off one shot from his AR-15 carbine.  The full force of the bullet caught Trent square in the right temple, passed through his brain, and explosively exited from the left side of his face, splattering blood, skull fragments, and flecks of grayish white brain tissue onto his hostage and the ground.

Trent's facial expression was one of utter surprise.  In one last spasmodic twitch, his trigger finger tightened and one shot from his automatic caught Mike in his upper right arm, ripping through the uniform jacket.  Trent released his hold on the woman and his body sank slowly to the ground.  The shriek from the young mother was deafening.  A Marine rushed forward to catch the woman as she fainted and started to fall.

"Good shot," said Mike, holding onto his right arm as his uniform sleeve became bright red from the rivulets of blood streaming from his superficial wound.

As the HumVee came to a halt, the Marine platoon leader leaped out from the front passenger's seat.  He ran up to Mike, whose Navy uniform identified him as the highest ranking officer present.  Saluting Mike, the Marine said, "Seems like you have everything under control, sir."

Overhead, the Marine flight leader saw the HumVee and the troop truck reach the battle zone and noted that the action below had died.  Banking left, the flight leader contacted the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center.  "Pautuxent Control."

"Pautuxent Control."

"This is Red Leader, ground action has been secured, cavalry has arrived, returning home."

As the Marine flight leader continued his bank, his remaining wing man silently followed suit and soon the two remaining Hornets had disappeared.

Mike, Wicker and Lee huddled together and discussed their strategy.  Mike and Wicker would take six of the uninjured men and proceed to CSAC/Washington.  David would take the wounded and the rest of the men on the trooper carrier back to Pautuxent.  Three Marines were assigned to assist the young mother and her children and to await a special CSAC incident team to arrive and debrief the family.

The ride in the sole Suburban was mercifully uneventful.  No one spoke a word for the remainder of the trip.

Deep in the woods, the driver of the white Ford F-100 truck crouched under the dense undergrowth.  He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily.  His rimless eyeglasses had fogged over.  He kept muttering to himself in a high pitched stutter, "Th-those f-fools, those g-goddamn fools."

0800 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"I heard that you had a tough time yesterday," Smith said to a tired and bandaged Mike.  "Seems a lot of people want you very badly."

The two were sitting at a conference table in a room constructed of sterile off-white Masonite paneling.  The seats in the conference room were made of molded blue plastic, the kind normally found in school cafeterias.  The fluorescent lights lent a harsh brilliance, further adding to the sterile environment.  Mike wondered who the designer of this conference room was; making a mental note never to hire that person for Franklin Smedley Associates.

"Certainly wasn't one of my best days," said Mike, nursing a Styrofoam cup filled with hot tea, lightly brewed.  "So, what do we have?"

"It's obvious that someone doesn't like us, Mike," said Smith, grinning as he put down his own Styrofoam cup of black coffee.

"The master of understatement," said Mike, provoking laughter around the small table inside the windowless conference room deep inside CSAC.

The other people around the table were Twoomey, Mildred, a terrorism expert with CSAC, and Adams, now on assignment to CSAC from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Adams conjectured that they could have been coordinated attempts.  "None of the assailants carried personal identification, which suggests that the attack on Mike and the Marines was well planned.  As far as we can tell at this moment, all of the attackers have been American or European, at least the one killed by Mrs. Swensen and the ones killed during the fire-fight yesterday."

The terrorism expert, who had been listening quietly, added, "We've run checks on all known terrorist cells, so far we're coming up with nothing.  Everything seems unusually quiet.  Even the Iranians have been silent.  None of the known groups have shown any indication of gearing up for these kinds of attacks."

"Have you run identification checks on the dead?" said Mike.

Smith nodded.  "Prints were taken off the female attacker at National Airport.  It was a difficult search, but finally we were able to get a correlation through, of all places, the National Association of Security Dealers.  Apparently, our would-be assassin was a Julie Davenport.  She was a stockbroker in Des Moines.  Worked for a small brokerage firm, Reedy Securities."

"You mean that I was almost killed by a stockbroker?" said Mildred.

"Now, wait a minute, Mildred.  Not all stockbrokers are assassins," said Mike, smiling.

"Sure, some are merely vivisectionists.  Oh, by the way, Mike, I met a nice young man who's going to be working with you in New York.  Eric Johanson from St. Olaf College."

"You didn't kill him, did you?  You know you have a habit of doing that, Mildred.  I need that boy to help out around the shop."

Mildred blushed.  "Oh, hush now, Mr. Liu."

"Come on guys, flirt on your own time," said an exasperated Smith.  "We've got some serious issues here."

Adams took up the report.  "Under the pretext that Ms. Davenport was killed at a federally licensed airport, I had a background check run on her.  We should get the results within a week. Early information is that she lived alone, was a history major at Grinnell College and came from a small rural town in Iowa near Des Moines.  One interesting thing is that she graduated from Grinnell at age twenty-eight."

"So what's the matter with that?" said Mildred.  "A lot of women have to go back for a degree."

"I didn't mean that as an insult, Mrs. Swensen.  It's just that Ms. Davenport doesn't seem to have much of a history before Grinnell."

"What significance does that have?"

"If this Ms. Davenport turns up in Cedar Rapids as an adult without any traceable history, it could get interesting," said Adams.

Mike who, having finished his tea, was methodically tearing his Styrofoam cup into tiny pieces.

"What about the attacks at NAVFAC and on Huntersville Road?"

Smith scanned a sheet of paper in front of him.

"The NAVFAC attack left four dead bodies and a burned-out hulk of a stolen Toyota sedan.  The Catonsville Furniture Bedding truck was reported stolen yesterday morning.  All the weapons at both sites were either American made or available through local gun shops or mail order houses in this country.  All the weapons had their serial numbers filed off, professional.  Even neutron analysis won't be able to detect any numbers.  Real good job disguising the attackers."

Smith looked up from the report.  "No identification was found on any of the dead.  The stiffs could have been anyone, some looked like Yuppies.  The helicopter was reported stolen this morning from a flying school in Aberdeen, Maryland.  The black panel truck was registered to a Jerry Mitchell of Severna Park, Maryland.  Herb is going over to Severna Park today to see if that truck was stolen as well."

"What about the Warthog?" said Mike.

The terrorism expert had checked into that matter as well.

"The Maryland Air National Guard reported that the Warthog was missing, but Pautuxent didn't get the report until the Marine pilots had actually intercepted the attacking craft.  It was confusing.  The early morning shift just thought that a flight request and flight plan had been misplaced.  Didn't institute a search until it was too late."

"The Coast Guard is now searching for clues at the crash site," Smith added.

Mildred frowned. "Doesn't anyone think it's pretty weird, all these attacks by no one in particular?"

Smith shrugged, "There have been a bunch of strange things happening.  Remember that attack in Langley where someone went car to car blowing away CIA agents stopped at a light?  There hasn't been any rational explanation for that attack yet."

"How would these people know what our travel plans would be?"  Mike said.  "Has anyone got any ideas?  By the way, Herb, I'd like to go with you."

Smith shook his head.  "Travel arrangements were all made separately by the CSAC office initiating the trip, so we can discount a connection there.  Mike, the old man doesn't want you to travel, just in case you're a target.  The same applies to you, Mildred."

"Did Winslow's body have the cylinder?" said Mike, ignoring Smith's comment.

"Yes," said Twoomey.  "But the heat of the fire may have destroyed any hope of recovering the message.  Nonetheless, the cylinder has been sent to Laurel for decoding."

"What about the other messengers?" said Mike.

"Three cylinders have now been retrieved: Mildred's, Winslow's, and the one from Station One," said Smith.

"What about Station Three?" said Mike.

"We should hear today."

"What is all this about?" said Adams.

Smith looked up.  "Now that the old man has authorized your participation, I'll be able to fully brief you after the meeting.  For now, all you need to know is that we have some extremely sensitive underwater watch posts in four locations around the continental United States.  Each of those posts is presumed to have transmitted a message to CSAC within the last forty-eight hours.  We received one, Mildred's.  A second one was brought by a courier from Watch Station One.  He bummed a ride on a military plane.

"The third message is hopefully in the cylinder extracted from Winslow's body.  The last message, which was to come from Watch Station Three, about 100 miles off Santa Catalina Island, on the coast of California, has apparently not been generated.  We're in the process of trying to communicate with them now."

"Why are they called 'Watch Stations'?  What are they watching?"

"I'll tell you later."

Mike leaned toward Mildred conspiratorially.  "McHugh can't hold us, Mildred.  Let's make a break for it."

Mildred smiled.

Addressing the others in the conference room, Mike added, "Seriously, let's get the old man on the phone, George.  It doesn't make sense for Mildred and me to be on ice during something this serious."

"Wait a minute.  I retired years ago," said Mildred.

"Come on, Mildred.  Do you really want to sit this one out?" said Mike.

"Well -- no.  Count me in."

"Let's make the call," said Mike as he turned to Smith.

Smith, reached for the green, push-button telephone.

A harried McHugh picked up the telephone, "Yes?"

"Admiral, this is George Smith.  I've got two agents chafing at the bit.  If you don't let them fly, they're going to leave on their own.  Kind of out of my league, thought you might want to know.  Could be one hell of a firefight if you insist I keep them under wraps."

McHugh chuckled softly.  "Put Mike on the phone."

"The old man wants to speak to you, Mike."

Mike took the telephone.  "Hello, Admiral."

"Mike, what do you want to do?  Wasn't target practice two times in two days enough for you?  By the way, tell Smith if I ever hear him refer to me again as the 'old man', he's going back to gum shoeing.  If you and Mildred really want to stick your necks out, just be careful."

Mike put the receiver back on its cradle and turned to Smith.  "The old man says don't call him the 'old man' anymore.  Do you have any civvies?"

The meeting concluded, the participants went their separate ways.  Mildred went straight to the weapons manager to get her gear.  She hoped that CSAC had kept her favorite pistol in working order.  It was a small, lady-like one.

Smith disappeared to round up some civilian clothes for Mike to wear.  Mike picked up a regular telephone and dialed his computerized voice mailbox system.

"This is your VoiceCall message center, if you have a mailbox on the system please dial your number now," intoned the metallically androgynous voice that answered the telephone.  Mike dialed the number of his mailbox.  The robotic voice announced that he had one message.

The message was from Mike's secretary.  "Mr. Liu, you had many calls, but I was able to get some of your staff to address them.  Mr. Wickerspoon would like you to call him when you have a moment.  Also, a Richard MacLaren called; he asked that you call him as soon as possible.  His number is 505-978-3344."  Mike punched the asterisk on the handset and the VoiceCall message computer switched off.

Mike called Seth Wickerspoon.

"Mr. Wickerspoon's office," answered a pleasant female voice.

"Hello, Elizabeth.  Is Seth in?"

"Hold on, Mr. Liu.  He'll be right with you."

"Mike, sorry you can't attend lunch.  What's up?" said Seth.

"I'm doing something for Bob McHugh."

"Oh.  When will you finish?"

"Don't know."

"O.K., but keep in mind I still have a business to run."

"Yes, sir."

Mike then dialed McLaren's number.

"MacLaren residence," answered a young female voice.

"Is Richard MacLaren in?"

"One moment, sir."

"Dick MacLaren," said a deep voice.

"Mike Liu here."

"Hello, Mike, I'm afraid I've some bad news.  My father-in-law is dead."

"How, when?  Gosh, I'm really sorry."  Mike was shaken.  What a week for the telephone.  As if the call from the young Navy Lieutenant wasn't enough, now Mike would have to deal with the death of his old friend.  The coincidence of the two events was mystifying and strangely frightening.

"Johnny joined the Great Spirit in his sleep, Thursday night.  The formal ceremony is set for weekend after next, can you make it?"

"Why so late?"

"It was his wish; we found it written on a sheet of paper.  Apparently the sun is at a certain point on the horizon on that day.  Johnny was pretty insistent.

Despite his grief, Mike was mystified why Johnny Thapaha had specified a date certain.  "Did he say anything?  Any messages?"

"There was something, but I have to see you."

"Was anyone with Johnny?"

"No, but my littlest, Jimmy, was with him that morning for his last visit to the mesa."

"Dick, I'll be there."

Mike replaced the handset on its cradle.  His thoughts rushed back to those long-buried memories.

1970: The Navajo

1000 Hours: Tuesday, July 7, 1970: National Security Agency, Laurel, Maryland

"Mike, can I see you for a moment?" said McHugh over the secure telephone.

"I'll be right there, Sir."

Mike walked down the narrow corridor in the National Security Agency building in Laurel, Maryland, to McHugh's interior office.

Unlike his office in Port Hueneme, California, with the trophies of his successes and achievements, McHugh's office at NSA was strictly utilitarian.  The standard office furniture was gray metal desk, chair and metal bookcase.  In one corner sat a metal, three-drawer file cabinet with a metal angle iron holding the drawers closed.  The metal angle iron was locked with combination locks on the top and the bottom.

The fluorescent lighting in the office gave off a harsh white light that washed out the deep tan that McHugh normally sported.

McHugh looked up from the manila folder that he was reading from as Mike walked into his office.

"Hi, Mike, take a seat.  I think we have stumbled on to something a lot larger than we ever thought.  Here, take a look at these reports."  He dropped several folders labeled "Top Secret" in front of Mike.

Mike picked up a manila folder and opened it.  Inside the folder were carbon copies of typewritten reports from the late 1940s.  Also included were photographs taken by Army Air Corps investigators at the site of a crashed flying vehicle of unknown origin.  The crash described in the reports involved an alleged alien spacecraft near Socorro, New Mexico, in July 1947.

"I've read about such things," said Mike.  "But this -- this is proof positive that the United States has been visited by UFOs."

"Read on, Mike.  There's more."

Silently, Mike continued to read the reports.  The crash involved a craft of unknown origin.  In the wreckage of the spacecraft, investigators had found the bodies of three aliens who had perished in the crash.  The wreckage and the three bodies were secretly transported to the Army's Wright-Patterson Field in Dayton, Ohio.

Finishing the file, Mike looked up at McHugh, who had been quietly sitting back in his chair, drawing on his corncob pipe, observing his young protégé's reactions to this mind boggling information.

Awkwardly, Mike said, "Sir, what does this have to do with us?"

"Here," said McHugh as he took something out of a manila envelope and tossed it to Mike.  The object was a silvery colored sheet of paper-like cloth material.

The strange markings on the sheet of material were indecipherable and looked as if they had been imprinted with a device that had fused the image's pigmentation directly into the fibers of the material.  Also fused into the material was a map of what looked like the United States of America.  At four locations on the sheet were what appeared to be coordinates and a locator in hieroglyphics of an unknown language.  The sites coincided with the locations of the four Sentinels.

"Holy shit, Sir.  Does this say what I think it says?"

McHugh shrugged and sighed.  "Our eggheads can't decipher the information as yet.  By the way, this map is so classified that knowledge of its existence must be denied by all who have seen it.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"My guess is that the spacecraft was on a mission involving the objects that have been found around the United States.  I'd like you to check out the Socorro incident firsthand."

"When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow," said McHugh.  "Go through this file in detail and let's talk before you go,"

0900 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

"Welcome to Holloman Air Force Base, Lieutenant Liu," said Captain Edward McIntyre as Mike climbed down from the F-4 Phantom that had just brought him from Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington, D.C.

"Thank you very much, sir," said Mike, as he saluted the senior officer.

"What brings Naval Intelligence to the Southwest to investigate an old alleged UFO crash site?  Not much water in the New Mexican desert."

"I'm really sorry, sir, but my orders are clear.  I can't discuss anything.  I'm to be given access to all information you may have," said Mike to McIntyre, whom he knew had been assigned to Project Blue Book, the successor Air Force group to Project Grudge.  Project Blue Book had continued to officially investigate extraterrestrial activity well into the sixties, until its activities had been taken over by CSAC.

"Sorry, just idle curiosity," said McIntyre.  "Anyway, welcome."  He extended his right hand to Mike.  "By the way, drop the formalities, okay?  My name is Ed."

"Okay.  Call me Mike.  It does seem unlikely, I guess," said Mike as he shook McIntyre's hand.

Only a few people in the government had been given the opportunity to link the Watch Stations with the events in New Mexico and Wright-Patterson Air Base.  Inside the CSAC, only a small control group hand-picked by McHugh was aware of the terrible consequences that could occur if, in fact, the Wright-Patterson secret were linked with the secrets of the Watch Stations.  One of that group was McHugh's junior officer, Mike Liu.

Mike got his duffel bag, tossed it into the back of the dark blue Jeep, and climbed into the back seat.  McIntyre got into the right front passenger seat.  As soon as the two were barely in the vehicle, the driver threw the jeep into first gear and roared off.  The jackrabbit start threw them back into their seats.  Both Mike and McIntyre clung to whatever part of the jeep that provided a handhold as the Jeep bounced along the flight line.

The stiff suspension of the Jeep accentuated the airman's hell-bent method of driving.  At the end of the flight line, he swung the Jeep into a sharp right turn and roared past an opening in the chain link fence on to the blacktop road.  Arriving at the base commandant's headquarters, the driver slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching stop.  Both Mike and McIntyre were thrown forward by the sudden stop.  As soon as both McIntyre and Mike alighted from the Jeep and Mike had retrieved his duffel bag, the airman once again threw the Jeep into first and with a squeal was gone.

"What's that guy in training for, jet fighters or New York cabs?" said Mike.

With a laugh, McIntyre said, "One of our best mechanics.  Doesn't know how to drive worth a damn."

The base headquarters was the typical three story stone aggregate panel and windowed building found on countless military bases around the country.  The uninspired architecture was both functional and cost effective.  However, the sand-colored panels seemed to fit well with the desert location of Holloman Air Force Base.

McIntyre and Mike walked to the reception counter, manned by a young airman in a dark blue uniform.  The airman inspected their Department of Defense identification badges and asked both to sign the register.

"Let's go up to my office," suggested McIntyre.

Climbing up the three flights of steps to McIntyre's office, Mike wondered why McHugh had sent him to Holloman.  This seemed to be a well-documented situation.

The Socorro incident involved only one spacecraft and was not as widely known as the earlier crash of a flight of three spacecraft near Roswell, New Mexico.  Examination of the four spacecraft had revealed similarities in design and structure.  Some analysts had speculated that the four shared a common origin.

Unfortunately, like the nine occupants of the three vehicles in the Roswell incident, the three crew members of the sole Socorro craft had died in their crash.  The remains of the vehicles and their crews had been taken to the medical center at Wright-Patterson Field for further forensic and medical examination.

Mike and McHugh had read the voluminous reports on the Socorro and Roswell incidents.  These reports had been filed contemporaneously with the discovery of the spacecraft in the late forties.

Despite the fact that all known artifacts associated with the Socorro and Roswell crashes had been removed to Wright-Patterson, the Air Force maintained a small group of investigators at Holloman, as part of Project Blue Book.  McIntyre, a 1964 graduate of the United States Air Force Academy, had been in charge of the group at Holloman.

McIntyre's small office was in the interior of the building and was only large enough for a gray metallic desk, a gray metal bookcase, a gray leatherette desk chair, and two gray metal side chairs.  In addition, two gray metal, four-drawer filing cabinets sat in one corner of the tiny office, with an angle iron across their front, held in place by two combination locks.

McIntyre smiled.  "Welcome to my humble abode, care for coffee?"

"Sure, cream and sugar."

As McIntyre disappeared down the hallway to get some coffee, Mike helped himself to a seat in McIntyre's tiny office.

McIntyre soon returned with two rigid plastic holders each with a thin plastic cup filled with steaming coffee, which he placed on the top of his desk.  McIntyre took his chair behind the desk and invited Mike to the coffee.

"Now, how can I be of help to the Navy?"

"For starters, Ed, I've already had access to the files of Projects Blue Book and Grudge.  I've reviewed the Wright-Patterson reports and the Socorro incident Reports.  My superiors would like me to actually walk the site, if I can."

"We can get a Huey to take us to the site this afternoon.  However, before we do that, you may want to check into the BOQ."

"Good idea.  Will there be any trouble getting the Huey?"

"No problem.  Let's figure on going around 2:00 p.m."

1500 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Socorro, New Mexico

With a swirl of dust, the Huey settled on to the desert floor.  Mike and McIntyre unbuckled their seat belts and jumped out of the open door.  Crouching low, Mike and McIntyre ran out from under the still turning main rotor.

Walking the crash site with Mike, McIntyre retold the history of the Socorro incident.  Shepherds had found the crash site and had notified the local sheriff.  The sheriff, after arriving at the scene, immediately radioed Holloman Army Air Field.  Swarms of Army Air Force investigators descended on the scene and picked it clean.  Large portions of the wreckage were trucked out in unmarked tractor trailers to be flown to Wright-Patterson.  The remains of the crew were also transported to Holloman Army Air Field and from there to Wright-Patterson.

Mike, who had read the voluminous reports on the Socorro incident, including the highly classified report concerning the mysterious sites, knew much of the material now being recounted by McIntyre.

Mike took in the topography of the New Mexican desert, broad flat plains interrupted only by a few flat-topped mesas.  The Rio Salado flowed through the reservation.  The Gallinas Mountains were in the distance.  The scene was a splendid vista of cactus and sand.  The azure sky was broken only by wispy clouds floating high above.  An occasional hawk floated lazily in the sky hunting for its daily meal.  Mike noticed several campfires on some nearby mesas.  He asked McIntyre about them.

"As far we know those are Navajo medicine men communing with their gods.  Been doing that for centuries, I hear."

"That's funny.  There was no mention of Navajo medicine men in the Wright-Patterson reports."

"You know, you're right.  Something you might be interested in.  We recently brought in a Navajo medicine man for questioning.  One of our agents had heard a rumor that this fellow, Johnny Thapaha, had some artifacts from the Socorro incident.  We've been holding him for about six weeks at Holloman.  Do you want to see him?"

"Sure.  But isn't six weeks a long time to hold someone without charges?"

"Executive Order 1121 provides that we can detain anyone for up to six months without charges if potential disclosure of alien activity threatens to jeopardize national security.  As you may know, this is consistent with the law, and I forget the exact title, that permits the President to issue an executive order detaining any person at any time for indeterminate periods if there's a threat to national security.  This order was promulgated pursuant to that law following the Roswell and Socorro incidents."

"Yeah, I know that law," Mike said, expressionless.  "It's the follow up to the laws passed in the forties that relocated all Japanese Americans from California to detention camps.  Real nice law."

"What do you mean by that?" said McIntyre, turning toward Mike.

"Nothing.  Forget it."

1700 Hours: Wednesday, July 8, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

Mike and McIntyre stood in the hallway of the detention barracks at Holloman in front of Interrogation Room 4A.  Through the closed door, Mike could hear heated words from one person, accompanied by occasional slamming of a fist on a wooden table.  McIntyre knocked on the door, which was answered by a young Air Force special investigator.

"Can I help you, Captain?" said the airman angrily.  The airman was about twenty nine, had sandy brown hair and brown eyes, and was about five foot six inches in height.  He was dressed in a brown suit, white shirt and green tie.

"I spoke to you on the telephone," said McIntyre.  "This is Lieutenant Mike Liu with the Navy.  He's here to investigate the Socorro incident and would like to interview Thapaha."

The airman stepped into the hallway.  Through the open door Mike could see an older Native American sitting erect in his chair, hands on the table in front of him, his gaze fixed on some faraway point.  The old gentleman was dressed in a red plaid woolen shirt, shapeless cotton trousers and sandals.  His graying shoulder length hair was held in place by a red and blue bandanna.  The man had a classic Native American profile, prominent nose, sharply chiseled features, and dark brown skin coloring.  Johnny Thapaha appeared to be oblivious to the men in the hallway.

Noticing that Mike was looking at his prisoner, the airman reached back and pulled the door shut with a determined click.  "Why do you want to talk with the redskin?"

"The what?" said Mike.

"That Injun," the airman drawled; a thin smile on his face.

In this airman, Mike saw the same insolence that had tormented him in his youth.  Something snapped in Mike as he heard those words uttered.  With one swift move, Mike had his left hand at the startled airman's throat pinning him to the wall of the hallway.  As quickly, his right hand had unbuttoned his uniform jacket, had reached behind his back, and had cocked his Walther, the muzzle of which was now in the airman's mouth.

"Please don't ever use racist terms like Injun or redskin again," he said in a low, measured voice.

The only thing that the airman could do was shake his head up and down.  His eyes bulged out in fear; his pants were soaked in urine.

McIntyre was shocked at the terms used by the airman, but was equally dumbfounded by Mike's reaction.

Several Air Force policemen came running down the corridor with pistols drawn to confront a scene in which a naval officer was holding what seemed to be a civilian at gun point.  McIntyre signaled the airmen to halt and put away their pistols.

Then McIntyre gently reached up to tap Mike's shoulder.  "Come on, Mike, I think he's learned his lesson."

Mike took the Walther out of the airman's mouth, uncocked it, and placed it back in its holster.  He continued to hold the airman by his throat, tightening his grip for effect.  Finally, he released his grip and his captive collapsed in a whimpering heap on the floor.  Mike's eyes remained fixed on the heap on the floor.

"A little strong, weren't you?" said McIntyre.

Mike's focus slowly turned to McIntyre, his face passive.  "Not if you've had to go through what I've had to go through."

McIntyre said to the sweat-drenched and huddled airman, "You're off this case."

"Can I see Mr. Thapaha alone?" said Mike.

"Sure, I don't see any reason why not," said McIntyre.  "After all, you're the fourth interviewer.  Maybe four will be our lucky number."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing.  Just some Indian superstition."

Mike entered the small interrogation room in which Johnny Thapaha sat at an oak conference table.  The table was grimy with the dust of the desert and countless spills of black coffee never quite wiped up.  He sat directly across from the silent Navajo, who continued to stare into the distance, not acknowledging Mike's entrance into the room.

The two, one Native American, the other Chinese American, sat silently.  The two cultures, separated thousands of years ago by the inundating of the land bridge between Asia and the Americas, sat alone in the small, stifling conference room on folding chairs constructed of wooden slats on a light oak frame.  Like the conference table, the chairs showed neglect.

The bright light of the conference room accentuated the strained battle of wills between the old Navajo medicine man and the young Chinese American Naval officer.  Mike searched for a hint of acknowledgment in the fixed gaze of the old Native American.  He saw nothing, just eyes that looked beyond Mike, beyond the conference room, beyond Holloman Air Force Base, into the New Mexican desert and, possibly, beyond.

After about one half-hour of this silence, Mike spoke.  "Elder, we do not seek to harm you.  The man who was in here before was uneducated and did not know where he was.  We simply seek your assistance in determining the mysteries of the desert, the mysteries of the visitors from the sky.  We understand that you can be of help."

Mike lapsed into a strained silence once again.  Johnny Thapaha spoke not one word.  The old man sat, his eyes unmoving, unblinking.

Finally after another half-hour of silence, concluding there was nothing that he would get out of the Navajo, Mike got up to leave.  As Mike started to open the door, Johnny Thapaha spoke.

"He was the fourth."

The news came as a jolt.  If Johnny Thapaha had found a live alien then that meant that there were four involved in the Socorro incident not three, as the government had thought for years.  However, Mike understood that this interview was over and without further comment he opened the door and stepped outside into the hallway.

McIntyre had been leaning against the window frame, gazing out into the New Mexico desert.  When he saw the door opening, he quickly took one last puff on his cigarette and put out the stub with his shoe.

"Did you get anything from the old man?" said McIntyre.

"No.  I need to get back to Washington."

0900 Hours: Thursday, July 9, 1970: CSAC Offices, Laurel, Maryland

"Welcome back, Mike," said McHugh.

"Thank you, sir," said Mike.

"Did you uncover anything of interest?"

"You know how everyone thinks there were three crewmen on the UFO that crashed in Socorro, New Mexico?"

"Yeah?"

"There were four."

McHugh paused.  "How do you know that?"

"The Air Force is holding an old Navajo medicine man, Johnny Thapaha, on suspicion of hoarding artifacts from the crash site.  Although they and I were unable to get any information from the old guy, during my interview, if you could call it that, the medicine man said that there were four."

"Have you told anyone about this?"

"No, sir."

"Don't."

"What do we do next?"

"First off, we've got to get control of the Navajo medicine man, get him out of the hands of the Air Force.  Second, we need to gain his trust so that any information he may have will be willingly shared.  Having grown up in the West, I know that failing to gain the trust of these people is the worst way to get any information."

"Yes, sir."

McHugh added.  "I understand you got a little rough with an airman yesterday."

"The guy was a racist asshole."

"Try to cool those jets, it doesn't help you," said McHugh.

Mike was one of few nonwhite officers in the Navy and McHugh knew that reports of this type could be used by those who would claim that this was the very reason that proper acculturation was so important in selecting candidates for the officer corps.  By proper acculturation, the proponents meant that only certain types of people should be naval officers.  Mike didn't fit that category, never mind his NROTC education at the University of Virginia.  White uniforms weren't the only uniform white in the officer ranks of the Navy in 1970.

"Do you want to stay on this case?  If Thapaha spoke to you, you're apparently the only person he's spoken to that we know of."

"I'd like to give it a try, sir."

"Makes sense, I'll go see the director for orders.  Just don't go terrorizing anymore airmen, okay?"

"Aye, sir."  Mike snapped to attention on that remark by McHugh.

1000 Hours: Friday, July 10, 1970: Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico

"Good luck with him," said McIntyre.  "We haven't been able to get any information out of him in the six weeks we've had him in custody.  He's all yours."

Johnny Thapaha stood erect in a regal manner in the first floor hallway of the detention barracks.  He was dressed in the same clothes that Mike had seen the last time at Holloman.  When Mike walked out of the processing office to take custody of the medicine man, Johnny Thapaha took no notice of Mike or any other person.  He stood quietly with a fixed gaze.

"Good morning, Mr. Thapaha," said Mike.

No response.

"I'm going to take you back to your people," continued Mike.  "I've made arrangements to stay with you for a short period of time."

No response.

This guy is going to be a challenge, thought Mike.

Mike had arranged for a government issued interagency motor pool car.  The tan colored Ford Fairlane did not carry any markings.  In addition, Mike was dressed in a blue button down collar shirt, tan trousers, Bass Weeguns, and a navy blue windbreaker.  With his black hair and dark complexion, Mike could have easily passed for a Native American himself.

Mike opened the door for Johnny Thapaha and then got in the driver's seat for the one hundred and fifty mile drive to the Navajo Indian Reservation near Socorro and the crash site.

The drive passed in silence.  Neither Johnny Thapaha nor Mike spoke during the two and one half hour drive.  Mike enjoyed the Southwestern desert, the colorful yellows and reds of the desert, the sagebrush and creosote bushes, the occasional saguaro cactus, the brilliant blue sky broken only by wisps of white clouds, an occasional soaring hawk, and the countless electric poles that whipped by.  A cabin could be seen every few miles in the distance, a thin wisp of smoke rising out of the smoke stack.  The land was desolate, but fascinating.

As Mike drove into the Navajo Indian Reservation along New Mexico State Route 52 from Magdalena, New Mexico, he looked for the town hall.  The poverty that followed the Navajo into the twentieth century was evident in the ramshackle housing that was clustered along the road.  Life had not changed greatly for the Navajo and they continued to live much as their ancestors had for centuries.  Mike pulled up to the neat white stucco building in the small town square and parked the car.  Leaving Johnny Thapaha in the car, Mike walked into the town clerk's office.

"Hello," said Mike to the Navajo woman behind the long wooden counter.  The attractive Navajo woman, Ruth MacLaren, was dressed in a traditional long-sleeved colored blouse and a long cotton skirt.  Her blouse was decorated with buttons of silver and a narrow string of hammered silver medallions.  On each wrist was a bracelet of turquoise and silver.  Around her waist was a belt of hammered silver.

Around her neck were several beaded necklaces of many colors, shapes and sizes.  Her black hair, glistening in the light, was arranged into two braids tied with red ribbons.  The braids ran down the front of her blouse.  She was about twenty.

"May I help you?" said Ruth.

"Yes, I spoke yesterday with Richard MacLaren about Johnny Thapaha.  Where can I find him?" said Mike.

"Is Johnny here?" she said excitedly.  She sprinted to the door, brushing past a startled Mike.

Mike didn't have to answer, he simply turned to follow the happy woman out the front door to the parked car where Johnny Thapaha sat waiting, looking into the distance.  Ruth ran out the front door of town hall crying, "Johnny's home!  Johnny's home!"

The townspeople came out of the few time-worn buildings that lined Main Street in the small, sleepy New Mexican town.  Pretty soon, a small crowd had gathered around the sedan.  Ruth, who was Johnny Thapaha's youngest daughter, pulled open the front passenger's door and helped Johnny Thapaha out of his seat.  She hugged and kissed him, ran her fingers through his hair, touched his hands, his arms, his back, crying in happiness.  Johnny Thapaha looked emotionlessly into the distance to a vision no one else could see.

As Mike came up to the crowd, the jubilation quieted, they turned to face the government man.  The tension was palpable; the Navajo had little need for the white man's helpers, never mind that he had just brought back their medicine man, their chanter.  From the crowd stepped a young Navajo about Mike's age.  He walked up to Mike and extended his right hand.

"Hi, I'm Richard MacLaren.  Thank you for bringing my father-in-law home to us.  It's been a long time since he has walked the sacred soil."

"I'm pleased to meet you and I'm also glad that Mr. Thapaha is finally home," said Mike.

Richard stepped to Mike's side and turned to face the crowd.  He put his right arm around Mike's shoulder.  "This brother has brought our sacred leader home.  We must honor him and respect him as one of our own."

The crowd moved forward as the men, one by one, shook Mike's hand.  The women and children largely hung back in shyness and by tradition.  A few curious children came up to touch the hand and clothes of this strange looking person.

"Welcome, brother," said Richard to Mike.

0500 Hours: Friday, July 24, 1970: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico

It had been two weeks since Mike brought Johnny Thapaha home to the Navajo Indian Reservation.  During those two weeks there had been plenty of opportunity to celebrate the homecoming.  Richard had made certain that Mike was included in every celebration, big or small.

In a rare move, the chairman of the tribal council invited Mike into the meeting hall to enjoy the camaraderie of the men in a traditional male ceremony.  All the while, Mike was careful at every opportunity to show his respect for Johnny Thapaha, an elder of the tribe and one to whom all the tribal members showed great deference.  Johnny Thapaha spoke very little and for the most part sat stoically, looking into the distance as he had done all the time that Mike had known him.

Given Johnny Thapaha's aloofness, Mike was astonished at Richard's invitation to Mike to join his father-in-law at a sunrise ceremony.

"Mike, Johnny would like you to accompany him to the mesa tomorrow to welcome the sun.  Be at his hogan at 5:00 a.m.," said Richard.

Promptly at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, Mike was at the hogan of Johnny Thapaha at the foot of Red Mesa.  As Mike got out of his government sedan, the door of the hogan opened.  Johnny Thapaha walked out without a word and started up a narrow footpath carved out of the side of the mesa.  Mike followed slowly and carefully.  One false step and he would fall several hundred feet to his death.

After a half hour hike up the narrow footpath, Mike reached a small landing just under the mesa top.  He stopped for a moment to admire the vista that this perch offered.  To the east he could see the first few rays of sunlight breaking the horizon.  Overhead, two hawks made swooping motions in the sky as they searched for early-morning thermals.  The dark morning sky was still, cold and desolate.  Mike wished he had worn more clothing as he pulled his windbreaker around his neck.  Somewhere in the dark valley below, Mike heard the haunting, mournful tones of a Native American flute, its tune occasionally broken by the muffled cadence of a drum.

Snapping out of his reverie, Mike made the final climb to the top of the mesa.  Reaching the top of the mesa, he saw Johnny Thapaha already kneeling before the sunrise, his hands outstretched before him.  Johnny Thapaha said nothing.  His countenance was frozen by the early rays of the sun.  Mike quietly walked to a point behind Johnny Thapaha and also kneeled, out of respect for the old man's worship ceremony.

As the morning light filled the sky, Johnny Thapaha rose, with his sacred bundle clutched hard to his breast.  Having been warned of the tribal custom, Mike averted his eyes.  He looked out over the valley below, examining the valley and the sparsely populated land.  The landscape was broken by occasional hogans spewing forth plumes of smoke as Navajo mothers prepared the morning meal.  Yellow school buses slowly made their way across the desert flats, stopping to pick up Navajo children and carry them to government schools.

Navajo shepherds took their flocks out of the corrals that held them during the night.  Faithful black, white and rust colored collies ran helter skelter, yipping and collaring wayward sheep.  This pastoral scene was exciting to Mike, whose entire existence to this point had been spent in the homogenized sanitary world of cities and college towns.

Mike was transfixed by the sight of a Native American community wakening and stood in awe of the tremendous vistas painted by nature in this southwestern desert.  In a way, Mike felt as though it were a homecoming.  His youth had been spent growing up in a culture as alien to him as it would have been to these Navajo.  Having been landed in America as a very young child, Mike's passage through his country had been hampered by his feelings of being a stranger in his adopted land.  Here, the pastoral scenes evoked a sense of community unlike any Mike had felt before.

Turning around, Mike realized that he was alone on the small windswept mesa, alone with only the two circling hawks floating high in the clouds.  In near panic, Mike wondered where Johnny Thapaha had disappeared to.  Of course, thought Mike, remembering where he was -- Johnny Thapaha wasn't going to wait for him.

Mike hurried over to the edge of the mesa.  Sure enough, Johnny Thapaha was well on his way down the twisting narrow footpath.  Mike started down.

By the time Mike reached the bottom of the timeworn path, Johnny Thapaha was almost to his hogan.  He hesitated for a moment at the door to the sod hogan.  Then as silently as ever and without looking back, he opened the door and disappeared inside.  During the entire time that Mike had been with Johnny Thapaha, not one word had passed between the old Navajo and the young Chinese-American.

Mike stood next to his car and watched as Johnny Thapaha went inside.  Mike then got in and drove back to the motel in which he was staying, a small, privately run motel with small individual cabins for each guest.

Mike went to the public pay telephone in the aluminum and glass box and dialed McHugh's telephone number at the National Security Agency.

The familiar gruff voice answered.  "McHugh here."

"Commander, this is Mike Liu.  I'm calling to check in."

"Well, bust my balls, if it isn't our wandering man in the desert.  I didn't know you worked here anymore, it's been over three weeks, you know.  Have you found out anything?"

"Well -- actually no, sir.  However, Johnny Thapaha did invite me to a special ceremony this morning."

"I can't keep you out there forever.  I'll give you another week.  Then you'll have to come home to reality."

"Yes, sir."

2200 Hours: Sunday, August 3, 1970: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico

Mike stirred the glowing embers of the campfire with an old branch and then put in two small logs to keep the fire going.  Sparks flew out as Mike stirred the fire.  The two new logs quickly caught fire and the campfire crackled with renewed energy.  Tiny gnats and moths flew around the fire flirting with conflagration every second.  Mike and Johnny Thapaha were on Red Mesa in the dead of a moonless night.  The night sky was filled with millions of stars shining steadily on the two men sitting by the small fire.  A city boy, Mike had never seen so many stars.  He leaned back and just soaked in the energy from so many light years away.

Once again through his son-in-law, Richard, Johnny Thapaha had invited Mike to the top of this desolate mesa, this time to spend a night under a brilliant canopy of stars.  Johnny Thapaha sat with his back to the fire, looking over the valley below.  There, the utter darkness was broken by the occasional light from Navajo homes preparing for the night.

Mike had prepared for this outing, wearing a wool sweater under his blue windbreaker.  Even with the layered clothes, Mike felt the biting cold of the night air.  He boiled some water in a metal coffee pot on the fire.  He put a few jasmine tea leaves into two metal mugs, splashed hot boiling water on them, and offered one to Johnny Thapaha, who silently accepted the mug.  Johnny Thapaha put the fragrant brew to his lips, blowing over the mug to cool the tea before taking a sip.  Mike, sitting off to the side, did likewise.

In the darkness, by the flickering fire and occasional sparks that shot into the air, Mike had talked about his childhood.  How he was born in China and how he grew up in Washington, D.C.  He spoke about the lessons that he had learned these past few weeks and about the sense of community that he felt on the Navajo reservation.  Through all of this, Johnny sat quietly neither replying nor even suggesting that he was paying attention.

The two men sat on the stark mesa and pondered each other, the cosmos, and why they were there.

"Michael.  He was young -- like you.  And like you he had traveled over great distances to come to this place.  He was Cha-le-gai, as you are.  But his voyage was through the cosmos; yours across the ocean."

The words snapped Mike out of his reverie.  "Was he alive?  Is he still alive?"

"No.  I found him in the wreckage of a great ship.  It was the fourth ship from far away.  He was gasping for breath.  His three companions had passed on before him.  He was the fourth, the promised one.  The traveler."

"What do you mean the promised one?"

"All of nature is divided into four.  There are four colors, four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, four sacred mountains, and the four visitors.  The traveler has been spoken of for many generations, through many voices."

"What did you do?"

"I brought him to this mesa, on the ledge below.  I tried to bring him back to walk with us, but his injuries were too great."

"Did he say anything?"

"It was not talk as we know it."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw wondrous things.  I saw horrible things."

"What things?"

"Things I cannot say."

"What were they doing here?"

"To discover and to learn."

"How long did he live?"

"Not long.  Four days and four nights."

"Where is he now?"

"His travels were many and of long duration.  Now he walks with the spirits of his fathers.  After his spirit left, I committed his mortal remains to the earth.  His clothing I burned."

With that Johnny Thapaha lapsed into the silence that Mike had come to know so well.  The rest of the evening was spent in solitude.  Johnny Thapaha meditated; Mike marveled at the brilliance of the night sky and pondered the meaning of Johnny Thapaha's message and his fourth traveler.

1000 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Mike?  I'm sorry to interrupt," said Smith, as he reentered the small conference room where Mike stood quietly, hand still on the receiver.  "Is there anything wrong?"

"Oh, hi, George.  I just got word that a good friend of mine passed away.  Sorry, I was distracted," said Mike as his thoughts once again focused on the present.

Although Mike visited the gentle mystic many times over the years, Johnny Thapaha never again spoke of the traveler.  Mike did, however, learn much from the Navajo and, in the course of that relationship, developed a strong sense of belonging.  Over time, Mike was accepted into Johnny Thapaha's extended family.

The news of Johnny Thapaha's death had a profound effect on Mike.  It was more than losing a friend.  After all, people do get old and pass on.  That wasn't it.  It was the mystery, the unresolved questions that would now remain unanswered forever.

In his hands, Smith held a lightweight summer tan poplin suit, blue cotton buttoned down long sleeve shirt, brown leather belt and tie shoes, brown socks, and, wonders of wonders, a navy blue silk tie with orange diagonal stripes -- the University of Virginia school tie.  The normally reserved Mike was pleasantly surprised by Smith's resourceful nature.

"I thought the tie would be a nice touch," said Smith.

1993: Identification

1300 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: Severna Park, Maryland

Mike and Adams decided to take Adams' government issued sedan for the trip to Severna Park, Maryland, to interview Jerry Mitchell, the owner of the panel truck involved in the attack on Huntersville Road.  It was late afternoon before the two of them were able to get going.

About 6:30 p.m., they pulled into the driveway of the neatly kept clapboard frame house, with the black wrought iron sign spelling out "Mitchell" at the corner of the driveway.  Adams and Mike walked up to the door and rang the doorbell.  A middle aged woman answered the bell.

"Hello, Ma'am.  I'm Herbert Adams, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Is Mr. Mitchell available?"

"Jerry isn't here.  I'm Mary Lou Mitchell, his wife.  Is he in trouble?" said Mrs. Mitchell, a worried look on her face.  "He hasn't been home since yesterday morning when he left for work.  I've called and called, no one knows where he is."

Mike and Adams exchanged quick glances.

"Does he often not come home?" Adams asked.

"No, it's not like him at all.  God, I hope nothing's happened to him," said Mrs. Mitchell with tears starting to form in her eyes.  "Do you know something?  Is Jerry okay?"

"We don't know," said Adams.  "Do you have any photographs of Mr. Mitchell?"

Getting suspicious, Mrs. Mitchell said, "Just why are you here?  Is Jerry in some kind of trouble?"

"A black paneled truck registered to Mr. Mitchell was involved in a matter under investigation by the Bureau.  We don't know if Mr. Mitchell was involved."

"Oh, my God!" screamed Mrs. Mitchell.  She began to shake, tears pouring down her cheeks.  Mike moved forward to hold her and she kept crying as he held her to him.  After she was able to regain some composure, she asked between sobs, "Is he dead, injured?  I've got to get to him.  Where is he?"

"As I said, Mrs. Mitchell, we don't know," said Adams.  "If you have some photographs of Mr. Mitchell, they would help a lot in our investigation.  By the way, this is Mike Liu, an investigator with the Navy.  Some Navy vehicles were involved in this matter."

Mrs. Mitchell let Mike and Adams into her simply furnished living room, which was immaculate.  The early American maple furniture had cushions in a green floral design.  A braided oval rug covered the otherwise bare hardwood floor.  The hangings on the wall were all prints of various scenes, Norman Rockwell, Grandma Moses and that vintage.

Mrs. Mitchell had been cooking when Adams and Mike came up to the house.  The beefy fragrance of stew cooking on the stove made Mike think about dinner.

The two Mitchell children came into the room for a brief moment and were told by their mother to go into the kitchen and watch some television.

Mrs. Mitchell sat down on the couch and invited Mike and Adams to sit in two maple occasional chairs.  Fumbling about out of nervousness, she brought out an imitation leather-bound photo album and started to leaf through the book for a recent photograph of Mitchell.  Finally, she found one of Mitchell hugging his eight-year-old son, Tommy.  Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Mitchell had a fielder's glove and softball.  As she handled the picture over, she wiped her tears on the cuff of her sleeve.

Both Adams and Mike carefully studied the picture and furtively glanced at one and another.  Mitchell was definitely the man who drove the black paneled truck and fired the rocket at the first Suburban.  Both were sure of this despite the fact that the corpse, now on a slab at CSAC, had a major portion of his head blown off.  Adams asked Mrs. Mitchell if he and Mike could keep the photograph.  She nodded.

"Mrs. Mitchell, could you tell us where your husband worked and if he had any close friends that we can talk to?"

"Is Jerry in trouble? I mean, should I get an attorney or something?" said Mrs. Mitchell.

"You can always get an attorney, if you wish, Mrs. Mitchell," Adams said.  "But what Mr. Liu and I want is some information concerning your husband; we're not charging you or your husband with anything at this time.  You can help us or not, it's your choice."

"Jerry worked at the Catonsville Lumber Yard in Catonsville, Maryland.  He's such a likable guy, I know he had lots of friends at work, although he hardly ever brought anyone home -- said that home was where he could relax.  He did, however, sometimes go with friends from work to a rod and gun club near Dickerson, Maryland."

"How long have you been married?" said Mike.

"We've been married for ten years, about ten months after I met Jerry at a church social."

"Does Mr. Mitchell have relatives?"

"No, he was an orphan.  His parents died when Jerry was ten and he grew up in a series of foster homes.  That's why he loves kids so much."

"Where and when was he born?" said Mike.

"He was born in Rosston, Illinois, on January 10, 1940."

"What was the name of the rod and gun club near Dickerson?"

"I'm not sure, but Jerry would often go for a weekend with some of his friends.  It might have been Dickerson Rod and Gun, something like that."

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Mitchell.  If you remember anything else please give me a call," said Adams as he handed Mrs. Mitchell a card with his telephone number.

As Mike and Adams drove away from home of Mitchell, both of them were even more mystified.  It was clear in their minds that one of the Huntersville attackers was Mitchell, but why?

"Maybe the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club has the answer," said Mike.

Adams nodded thoughtfully.  "I'll have a background check run on Mitchell."

0800 Hours, Monday, June 14, 1993: Washington, D.C.

Adams went to the FBI building in Washington, D.C., instead of the CSAC office so he could run a trace on Mitchell.  As he was getting ready to leave his office, the telephone rang.  It was Mike.

"Hi, Mike," answered Adams.  "So far, Jerry Mitchell is coming up clean.  He doesn't seem to have a record of any kind.  No service, no crimes, not even a parking ticket.  This guy seems to have lived a clean, straight life.  Wait a minute."

Adams put Mike on hold as Special Agent Martha Thomas barged into his office.

"Herb, I thought you should see this right away.  You may be on to something."

Adams took one look at the photocopies of Mitchell's two documents, one a birth certificate and the other a death certificate.  He gave out a long, low whistle.

"Thanks a lot, Martha.  You've earned your pay for today."

Martha smiled and left Adams' office.

"Mike, are you sitting down?" said Adams, picking up his telephone.

"What's up?"

"We just got some records on Mitchell.  Special Agent Martha Thomas in our Management Information Systems section did a reverse check on Mr. Mitchell as well as a check of birth records from Rosston, Illinois.  What she found is that Jerry Mitchell was born on January 10, 1940.  However, Jerry Mitchell died that same year on March 20, from complications of birth.  He lived barely more than three months.

"It seems that before 1970, Rosston kept separate birth and death records.  Anyone wanting to establish a false identity can do so easily by searching the death records for an infant death and then separately requesting a birth certificate from the birth registry.  The office usually issues them without question, if you have a driver's license or something like that.  Happens all the time, people get them for such things as school admissions, marriage certificates, passports, and even, driver's licenses.  Because the birth registration office is separate from the one for death records, they don't do cross-checks.  So with a little ingenuity, you can get a birth certificate for someone who died.  This was used by student radicals in the sixties and 1970s to establish false identities for who knows what purpose."

"That means the stiff we think is Mitchell is not really Jerry Mitchell."

"You really are a rocket scientist, aren't you?" said Adams, chuckling.

"That's heavy," said Mike.

"Yeah."

"What do we do next?"

"Where are you?"

"Outside of our offices on Wisconsin Avenue, at a telephone booth."

"I'll pick you up in about ten minutes in front of the Sears store on Wisconsin Avenue near the office.  Can you get some special weapons?"

"Already have.  They're in an aluminum briefcase next to me."

Adams pulled up to Mike, who was waiting at the Metro signpost next to the Sears store.  Mike quickly got into Adams' car, carrying the aluminum briefcase.  Once on the road again, Adams handed Mike the photocopied records of Jerry Mitchell's birth and death.

Having lost his reading glasses during the fracas on Huntersville Road, Mike had to hold the photocopies close to his eye to read them clearly.

"Ever thought about reading glasses, Mike?"

"Had some, but I lost them on Huntersville Road, Herb."

"Damn shame."

Adams made a U-turn on Wisconsin Avenue by driving around Tenley Circle.  He then headed north on Wisconsin Avenue, toward Route 495.  At Interstate 495, Adams went west to Interstate 270 toward Rockville and beyond.  After driving for about one hour, they reached the small western Maryland town of Dickerson.

After stopping for directions, they easily located the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club.  Mike and Adams drove along the narrow blacktop road through heavily wooded land and came to the roughly painted sign that said, "Private -- Dickerson Rod and Gun Club -- Members Only."

"What do you think, Herb?"

"Did you get the special weapons?"

"Two Uzi automatic pistols with double magazines."  He opened the aluminum briefcase and took out one of the pistols.

"Let's put them under the seat just in case," said Adams, as he turned down the dirt driveway leading to the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club.  Adams and Mike traveled about a half mile to a clapboard farmhouse with peeling white paint.  As they approached the farmhouse, a man in soiled and torn denim coveralls and a dirty red flannel shirt limped out toward them.

The fellow, about sixty years in age, was unshaven and missing several front teeth.  A toothpick hung precariously in the right corner of his mouth.  He looked as if he hadn't bathed in a long time.  He wore a blue cap that said Latonsville Feed Grain and carried a Remington double barrel shotgun.  Adams stopped the car at the house and rolled down his window.  As the man came up to the window, the unmistakable smell of body odor wafted into the car.

Mike cautiously reached under his seat for the Uzi pistol and held it by his side, safety off.

Adams smiled.  "Hi.  You the proprietor?"

"Yep.  Didn't you see the private sign?"

"Yes, we did.  We'd like to ask you some questions."

"Bout what?"

"I'm Herbert Adams, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  With me is Mike Liu, an agent with the Naval Investigations Office.  We'd like to ask you some questions concerning a possible client of yours."

"Got a warrant?"

"No, we don't.  If you like, we can get one real quick and do a thorough search of your club.  All we want to do is ask a few questions, that's all."

"As long as that's all you want."

"Can we get out of our car?"

"Okay, just don't go snooping around."

Mike slipped the Uzi under the seat and unconsciously felt for his Walther.

Adams and Mike got out of the government sedan, Adams locked the car, and the two walked up to the owner of the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club.  Adams led the discussion.

"What's your name?"

"It's Johnnie Williamson.  Look, I run a clean, decent, God fearing business here."

"Mr. Williamson, we're not here to look into your club.  We have a photograph of someone we understand frequented your club and we just want to get some information."

"Lemme see the photo."

Adams handed Williamson the photograph of Mitchell and his son.  Williamson looked at the photograph closely and then said, "He looks like one of them fellows that used to come up here from Washington for them survivalist games."

"Did you keep any records of the group, names?"

"Maybe."

"Look," Mike said angrily.  "The matter we're investigating is of vital national security interest.  We don't have time for games.  If you aren't going to cooperate, we will have people here within minutes who will tear the hell out of your little club.  Is that clear?"

Williamson's sunken eyes darted back and forth from Adams to Mike and back.  His demeanor softened ever so slightly.

Turning to Mike, Williamson said, "Where did you say you was from?"

"Naval Intelligence."

"I'm a retired Navy man, myself.  I really don't want no trouble.  It's just that my clients all want some privacy, you know.  Why don't you come inside for a minute?"

Mike and Adams followed Williamson inside the small clapboard farmhouse.  The house fit the character of Johnnie Williamson.  The inside did not look as if it had been cleaned for years.  The furniture, overstuffed chairs and a sofa, looked threadbare and worn.  The wallpaper was dingy and had yellowed with age.  The corners of some sections of wallpaper had detached from the wall and were hanging down.  The braided rug in the living room was soiled and torn.  The general atmosphere of the house was dank and musty, with the smell of curdled cooking grease and closed-in body odor.

On the table in the living room was a bowl of corn flakes, a carton of milk that was just beginning to curdle, a hot plate upon which sat a bubbling, glass pot of water, a package of white bread, an open jar of grape jelly, and a jar of instant coffee.  Around the legs of the table slinked two gray and black-striped cats.  They looked as if they hadn't eaten in days.

In the corner of the room was a kitty litter tray that hadn't been changed in weeks and the malodorous scent of cat urine wafted from the corner, adding to the generally foul atmosphere.

Williamson went to the table and started to put some of the food into a white 1950s Kelvinator refrigerator in the kitchen.  The kitchen had not been cleaned in some time.  A pile of dirty dishes sat unwashed in the sink.  Williamson added his breakfast bowl to this pile of unwashed dishes with a clatter.

Coming back into the living room, Williamson invited Adams and Mike to sit down at the table.  To get the two cats away from the table, Williamson picked up a newspaper, rolled it up and threw it at the cats, which scampered through the torn screening at the bottom of the front storm door.

Williamson then turned to Adams and Mike.  "Care for a cup of coffee?"

Mike politely declined, but Adams, hoping that Williamson might be more cooperative if he accepted this small gesture of hospitality, said, "Sure, can I have it black?"

Mike stared at Adams as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses.  Adams purposefully ignored Mike's stare.

Williamson went into the kitchen.  Mike and Adams heard the running of water as Williamson took a coffee mug from the pile of unwashed dishes and rinsed it out.  Drying the mug on a towel that probably undid any cleaning the rinsing might have effected, Williamson brought the stained and greasy mug to the table.  Mike gave Adams a small smile, which was returned with a concerned gaze, first at the mug and then at Mike.

Seating himself at the table with a sigh after adjusting his stiff left leg, Williamson reached for the jar of instant coffee and the teaspoon sitting on the bare table.  The spoon, having served this purpose many times before, had a thin crust of dried coffee on it.  Williamson opened the jar of coffee, put the spoon in and scooped two spoonfuls of coffee crystals into each mug.

He then took the bubbling glass pot of water and poured boiling water into each mug, which he then stirred with the spoon.  After licking the spoon, Williamson placed it back on the table.  He then offered a mug of hot, black coffee to Adams.  Adams' eyes flitted back and forth at the offer.  Mike just watched with a bemused smile.

Finally, Adams took the mug of coffee and said, "Thank you."

Now in a more expansive mood, Williamson leaned back in his chair and took off his blue cap, hanging it on back of his chair.  Nursing his mug of coffee, Williamson began to speak.

"That fellow used to come up here with about twelve or so other fellows for a weekend.  They always paid cash and pretty much kept to themselves."

"When was the last time the group used your club?" said Adams as he held the mug of hot coffee up to his lips and took a small obligatory sip.

"About a month ago."

"Was there any one who seemed to be the leader?"

"There was a fellow; I think his name was Trent or something like that.  Older fellow, gray hair and real nice looking."

"Do you have any other information on these guys -- drivers' licenses, addresses, reservations, that sort of stuff?"

"Nope, don't care for that kind of stuff.  Wait a minute; that Trent fellow was sent here by an old friend of mine in Catonsville, George Bedford, owns the Catonsville Furniture Bedding Company."

Mike and Adams exchanged glances.

"Can I freshen up your cup, Agent Adams?"

"Oh, no thanks, Mr. Williamson.  You've been more than hospitable.  Mr. Liu and I have to get going.  If you remember any more information about these guys, please give me a call," said Adams as he handed a business card to Williamson.

As Adams and Mike drove back up the windy dirt road, Mike said, "Pretty iron stomach you got there."

Adams grimaced.  "Worked, didn't it?"

"Where to now?"

"Catonsville."

1200 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Catonsville, Maryland

Adams and Mike pulled into the parking lot of the Catonsville Furniture Bedding store on the outskirts of Catonsville on Frederick Avenue.  The store was situated in what looked like a former supermarket and carried many inexpensive to moderately expensive lines of furniture.

"What do you think, Herb?"

"Don't know; just keep on your toes."

As Adams and Mike walked to the front door of the dingy store, Mike unbuttoned his suit jacket and unconsciously reached behind his back to check that the Walther was there and ready.

"Can I help you?" said the white male as Mike and Adams entered the store.

"Is George Bedford here?" said Adams.

"He's in the back of the store.  You sure I can't help you?"

Adams and Mike brushed past and headed toward the back of the store where an older white male was barking orders at two young blacks.

"God-damn it, I told you that I wanted the brown-striped sofa, not the green one.  God-damn it."

The older white male was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar.  He was a large man.  His graying hair had not been cut in some time and was combed back over his head.  His dark brown trousers hung under his well-developed stomach, which shook as he shouted at his workers.

The cuffs of his trousers dragged on the floor behind the scuffed brown wing tipped shoes he wore.  In one hand he held a well worn clipboard, which strained under the weight of the papers clipped on to it.  The papers themselves were dog-eared and stained.  In his other hand he held a foul-smelling cigar, which he pointed as he emphasized his various commands.

The two young black men were dressed in clean forest green uniform shirts and trousers.  Over the right pocket of the uniform shirts in white script was embroidered the name, "Catonsville Furniture and Bedding Company."  They had obviously been laboring under the tyrannical orders of the older man for some time.

"Mr. Bedford?" said Adams.

"God damn it, can't you see that I'm busy."

"Mr. Bedford, I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  I would like to speak to you for a moment."  Adams showed Bedford his identification card and gold badge.

The two young blacks stared with great admiration at the unfolding events.

Bedford, who had turned to face Adams and Mike, swung around toward his two workers.  "I don't pay you two fuckers to sit and gawk.  Get to work and get me that brown-striped sofa.  God damn it!"  As the two workers wheeled away the offending sofa, Bedford glared at Mike and Adams.  "Is this about my truck?  I told them feds all I knowed already."

"Actually, we're here to see if you could help us identify someone.  By the way, this is Mike Liu with the Department of Defense."

Bedford glanced angrily at Mike.

"Come on; hurry up with your question.  I'm trying to run a god damn business here."

Adams maintained his passive presence.  "Did you know anyone by the name of Trent?"

"Sure, I had a salesman by that name, but he left here over two months ago.  Do you think he took my truck?"

"Do you have any records on Mr. Trent?" said Mike.

"Just the usual stuff -- address, stuff like that."

"Where does he live?" said Adams.

"He lived in a boarding house near here.  Mrs. Brentwood."

"Where can we find Mrs. Brentwood?" said Adams.

"I think Mrs. Brentwood lives at the corner of Towson and Greenwood Streets."

Adams glanced at Mike, who nodded.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Bedford," said Adams.

As Adams and Mike left the store, they could hear Bedford screaming at his helpers.

"Sure sounds like a happy place to work," said Mike.

"Yeah, real happy."  Adams' jaw was set with a hard edge.

Adams and Mike got into Adams' sedan and drove the short distance to Mrs. Brentwood's boarding house on Towson Street.

Adams knocked on the red front door of the neatly kept white frame house in an older residential neighborhood that was fighting quickly encroaching commercial use.

In a minute, a small, slender, white-haired woman answered.  "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Adams.  "I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  This is Mike Liu of the Defense Intelligence Agency.  Could we ask you some questions?"

"Do you have some identification?"

"Oh, yes.  I'm sorry," said Adams as he took out his FBI identification card and gold badge.  Mike also took out his DOD identification card on which he was listed as Special Investigator, Defense Intelligence Agency.

After carefully examining the proffered cards, Mrs. Brentwood said, "Please come in.  You just can't be too sure these days, with the neighborhood deteriorating the way it is."  Mrs. Brentwood's right hand fluttered toward the strip mall of one-story stores that encroached on the view from her front porch.

Adams and Mike entered the house and stepped into the tastefully decorated living room.  The heavy curtain on the front window served to drown out the traffic noise from the busy commercial street.  The pieces of furniture in the living room were period reproductions of Queen Anne and Chippendale furniture.  In the corner sat a massive Chippendale wing chair.  The white bricked fireplace was accented with a highly polished brass spark screen and andirons.  The walls were covered with colonial period wallpaper in a large floral pattern.  The fireplace tools were all heavy brass, probably from Colonial Williamsburg, thought Mike.

The quiet refinement of the Brentwood home contrasted sharply with the sprawling urban decay occurring just outside her white-enameled door.

Over the mantel hung a Gainsborough print in a heavy gilt frame.  Various color photographs in gold metal frames sat on the mantle, detailing a rich and happy life with plenty of children and grandchildren.  On one side of the mantle sat a larger black and white photograph of an attractive brunette woman in a long white wedding gown and a ramrod straight young Navy ensign in white summer dress uniform.  From the cut of the wedding gown, Mike guessed that the photograph was probably taken in the forties.  A finely crafted wooden model of a square-rigged sailing ship sat on a heavily varnished stand.

Mrs. Brentwood noticed Mike's interest in the model ship.  "My dear departed Clarence made that model."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been staring," said Mike.  "It's quite nice.  You sure don't find that kind of craftsmanship anymore."

"Clarence would have been happy to hear you say that, Mr. Liu.  Clarence served in the Navy, you know."

"Really, where?" said Mike.

"Mostly in the Pacific during World War Two.  He commanded several destroyer escorts.  Retired right after the war and went into the retailing business.  He's been gone more than ten years.  Would you two like some tea?"

"Please don't make a fuss over us," said Mike.

"Oh, it's no fuss.  I seldom get two handsome gentlemen callers these days."

Mrs. Brentwood came back and poured tea from a bone china tea pot into equally delicate bone china cups and saucers.  Then she sat down demurely in the wing chair.

"Now, Mr. Adams.  How can I help you?" she said in a soft voice, as her light gray-blue eyes focused on Adams.

"We're investigating a matter that may involve one of your house guests, John Trent.  Does he live here?"

"Why, yes.  That nice Mr. Trent stays in Clarence's old study, which I remodeled into a bedroom.  After Clarence died, I felt like a marble rolling around in an empty box.  The kids suggested that I take in boarders and I usually have two.  A nice young lady lives upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms.  Are you married, Mr. Liu?" inquired Mrs. Brentwood as she noticed Mike's bare ring finger.

"No, I'm not, Mrs. Brentwood.  Is Mr. Trent here?"

"That's the funny thing.  He left for work several days ago and hasn't returned.  He sometimes leaves for short trips.  This is the first time he hasn't let me know when he planned to return."

"Can we see his room?"

"I suppose it's okay, as long as you don't touch anything."

Except for the high quality furniture in the small room, the room was devoid of personality.  There were no photographs, books, or other artifacts of human existence.  The closet contained one suit, several shirts and two pants -- but nothing else.  The bed was neatly made, but both Mike and Adams assumed that the efficient Mrs. Brentwood had probably taken care of that.  The room looked as if Trent were camping out.

"Mrs. Brentwood, does Mr. Trent have any friends?" said Adams.

"Not that I know of."

"How did he happen to come to you?"

"He answered an advertisement in our local community shopping newspaper.  He said he was from Canada.  He's such a nice, quiet gentleman."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brentwood.  If you happen to hear from Mr. Trent, could you give me a call?" said Adams.  He handed her a calling card.

Mike and Adams bade farewell to Mrs. Brentwood and got into Adams' sedan.  As they drove away, Adams asked Mike, "You were real quiet, what are you thinking?"

"I was thinking how sad that such a classy lady has to take in boarders like Trent.  Damn Navy pensions are for shit."

"That guy Trent sure travels light."

"Yeah."

1993: Des Moines

1000 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Des Moines, Iowa

"Excuse me, Mr. Clark, but there's a lady out here who wants to see you about Julie Davenport."

"I'll be right there, Mandy.  Please have her wait."

Steve Clark, manager of Reedy Securities' branch office in Des Moines, was beginning to feel overburdened by the commotion caused by Davenport's death.  Julie Davenport had been hired about two years ago to fill a vacancy left by Clark's long-time records clerk.  Her credentials seemed to be good.  She graduated from Grinnell College with excellent marks, after going back to school at a late age.

Although Julie never discussed her background and kept pretty much to herself, she had been highly regarded by her fellow workers.  As usual, he had submitted her personal information to National Association of Securities Dealers prior to offering her a permanent position.  Julie had just taken her Series 7 examination, which qualified her to be a stockbroker, and Clark had been training her to take over some accounts.

The entire office was upset about Julie's untimely death, but was puzzled why she had been in Washington, D.C.  Clark had received an early morning telephone call from Julie saying that a personal problem had come up and could she have a couple of days off.  The next thing Clark knew he was being interviewed by federal agents concerning Julie's tragic death.

Clark put on his suit jacket and walked out to the reception area.  As he approached the area, he saw the pleasant looking, older lady in the summer silk dress and blue linen blazer.  She wore white cotton gloves and sat on the reception area sofa, reading a copy of Newsweek.

He let himself through the low wooden gate.  "Hello, I'm Steven Clark, the branch manager.  Can I help you?"

"You must be that nice Mr. Clark that Julie wrote about in her letters to her Uncle Lars and me.  I'm Julie's aunt, Mildred Lutsen, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin," said Mildred, looking up at Clark and extending her hand.  Mildred often used her maiden name as an alias.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mrs. Lutsen.  Please excuse my surprise; it's just that Julie never mentioned she had any relatives.  But then she was very quiet and kept to herself.  How can I help you?"

"Lars and I wanted to retrieve Julie's personal things, if it's okay with you," said Mildred, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.  "We were all she had after her mother and father died in that tragic snowmobile accident.  She grew up with us, then went to Waterville, Iowa, as a secretary to an insurance agency and then went to school at Grinnell College.  She was such a pretty girl with those beautiful blue eyes."

"Mrs. Lutsen, I'm so sorry about what happened to Julie.  All of us were dumb-struck by her death, it was such a waste."

Mildred took out a handkerchief and started to cry softly.  After a moment, she regained her composure and dried her eyes.  In a soft voice Mildred asked if it would be okay to see Julie's personal belongings.

Clark said, "Sure."

Clark showed Mildred to the back of the building where a cardboard carton marked with Julie Davenport's name sat in an empty office.

"I'm afraid that the federal agents went through this stuff pretty thoroughly.  But you're welcome to take whatever you want," said a sympathetic Clark.

"Thank you ever so much," responded Mildred.  "Now I understand why Julie thought so highly of you."

Going through the odds and ends in the moving box; Mildred was impressed by the lack of any trail left by Julie Davenport.  Nothing.  No spoors; a vacuum.  How unusual.

The box contained ordinary things like lipstick, a compact, some Band-Aids, birthday cards from her co-workers, matches from local restaurants, some business cards, hairpins, a little fuzzy white stuffed bear, Lipton tea bags, nail files, a set of NASD papers on taking the Series 7 tests, a Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, and a brown leatherette address book.

Why didn't the feds get this, thought Mildred, picking up the book.

Leafing through the address book, Mildred was again struck by the paucity of information.  The book had mostly what seemed to be local telephone numbers.  One number, however, seemed out of place.  That number was for Walsh Auto Repair, a 612 area code telephone number.  Mildred thought, why would Davenport have this number in Minnesota?  Mildred quietly slipped the small brown leatherette address book into the pocket of her blue blazer.

Mildred softly knocked on the doorsill of Clark's office.

Clark looked up.  "Is there anything else we can help you with, Mrs. Lutsen?"

"No, Mr. Clark.  I just wanted to thank you for your kindness and for your kindness to our niece, Julie."

"Again, Mrs. Lutsen, I can't begin to express the sorrow that my staff and I have for your tragic loss."

Clark escorted Mildred to the reception area.  As they went up the aisle of desks, several people got up to express their sympathy to Mildred, who thanked them.  At the door, Clark watched Mildred slowly walk to the parking garage, thinking what a lucky person Julie Davenport was to have had such a caring aunt.

After leaving the Reedy Securities branch office, Mildred drove straight to the Normadie Arms Apartments, a small garden apartment complex on the outskirts of Des Moines.  She parked her car and went up to the superintendent's apartment and rang the bell.

"Who's there?" demanded a gruff voice.

"This is Mildred Lutsen.  I called this morning about my niece, Julie Davenport.  I'd like to gather her belongings if it's convenient," said Mildred Swensen in her soft, grandmotherly voice.

The door to the apartment opened to reveal a portly lady in her late forties wearing a worn house dress and apron.  The lady's stringy hair was pulled back into a bun.  Her ruddy complexion interlaced with a spidery network of tiny blood vessels was evidence of a hard life spent on liquor.

"I'm the superintendent."

"Can I see my niece's apartment?"

"Not 'til someone pays her last month's rent," grumbled the portly woman.

"How much does she owe?" said Mildred.  "I have some money."

"Deducting her security deposit, I reckon she owed me about one hundred fifty dollars."

Mildred took out her billfold and counted out $150 and handed over the amount.  The disheveled woman took the money, went to a desk, and returned with some keys which she handed to Mildred.

"The apartment was rented furnished so don't take no furniture."

"Thank you," said Mildred as she turned to head toward Apartment Number 16A.

Approaching Apartment 16A, Mildred had an ominous feeling that something was not right.  Her right hand slipped into her straw bag and grasped the small, seven-round Beretta Model 950 BS-4 given her by the CSAC Weapons Officer.

She unlocked the door with the key supplied by the superintendent.  Mildred slowly opened the door to the darkened room.  Hearing no sound, she entered and switched on the light to the small efficiency apartment.

The room was in disarray with a jumble of drawers thrown haphazardly about.  The door to the closet was wide open.  The few clothes that Julie Davenport had were strewn on the floor.  Kitchen cabinets had been thoroughly searched.  Davenport's toiletries were in a heap in the middle of the bathroom floor.  Despite the jumbled mess, the apartment smelled distinctly of lavender.

Uffda, thought Mildred, after satisfying herself that whoever had wreaked havoc on Davenport's apartment was long gone.

Mildred went through the few possessions of Julie Davenport.  She was amazed at the lack of personality in the room.  It was almost as if Davenport had been camping out.

Maybe, thought Mildred, that is exactly what Julie Davenport was doing.

Gathering up a few dresses to lend credence to her cover, Mildred picked up the small apartment and returned the drawers to their rightful places.  Mildred then returned the apartment key to the superintendent.  Mildred told the woman that she could help herself to anything left in the room.  Mildred walked slowly away from the office door.

The portly woman stood in the doorway and watched Mildred through beady eyes.

Mildred drove to the Des Moines Airport and boarded Northwest Flight 1092 to Minneapolis.  Arriving at Minneapolis St. Paul Airport shortly after 5 p.m., Mildred went downstairs to the luggage area and headed to the Avis Rental Car counter.  Using her maiden name of Lutsen, Mildred rented a Ford Taurus.  She then went out the door, across the traffic lanes into the parking garage where she boarded the white trailer to the rental car dispatching area.

After finding her car, Mildred drove out of the parking garage and exited the airport going west on Route 5 toward Interstate 494.  On Interstate 494, Mildred drove west until she saw the Thunderbird Hotel.  The Thunderbird, with its Indian motif, was Mildred's favorite hotel in the Twin Cities.  She always stayed there while in Minneapolis.

Once she was settled in her room at the Thunderbird, Mildred checked the Minneapolis and the St. Paul yellow pages on the chance that Walsh Auto Repair was in the metropolitan area.  There it was, Walsh Auto Repair on Lake Street in Minneapolis.

"This is getting too easy," Mildred muttered to herself.

She would check out Walsh Auto Repair in the morning.

1930 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Des Moines, Iowa

Steve Clark was working late at the branch office of Reedy Securities going over Julie Davenport's call records, trying to sort out what commitments needed to be attended to and which clients needed to be called about her death.  Luckily, Julie had kept meticulous records, which facilitated Clark's task immensely.  Like the others in the Reedy Securities office, Clark had come to appreciate the efficient but quiet Julie Davenport.  Clark remembered that she was also quite attractive with the most beautiful blue eyes.

It was a thankless job, going through the calling cards and order tickets, but it had to be done.  Clark had been at this task since mid-afternoon.  One by one, his staff had poked their heads in his doorway to say good night.  Soon Clark was by himself.  He normally enjoyed evenings like this because he could take care of those tasks that always seemed to elude him during the work day.

This evening was different.  The work was tedious and his mood was somber.  The attractive Julie Davenport had caught his fancy.  He had imagined that she was favorably impressed with him as well.  After all, her aunt, Mrs. Lutsen, did say that Julie had written about him.

With a start, Clark thought he heard a sound in the back of the office.  That's strange, he thought, didn't everybody go home?  Thinking that someone had come back to pick up something, Clark turned toward his office door and called out, "Anyone here?"

Silence.  He shrugged and went back to checking Julie's records.  For a new account executive, Julie had really worked the telephone.  There must have been a thousand records in her file.  Too bad, thought Clark, Julie would have made one hell of a stockbroker.

Another noise.

Clark put down his papers.  A worried look crossed his face.  Maybe it's just my imagination, he thought, but I'd better check.

Clark got out of his seat and carefully walked to his office door.  Opening the door completely and looking out, Clark noticed the light in the back of the corridor.  Funny, he thought, someone left their light on.

Clark walked quietly toward the light, which he now recognized as Julie Davenport's old office.  Mrs. Lutsen must have left it on, he thought.

Clark reached the doorway and saw the craggy, blond-haired man about forty-five years of age sitting in Julie's chair.  He was rummaging through her desk and the box of personal possessions.

"Who the hell are you?" Clark said.  "What are you doing here?"

With deliberate slowness, the blond man, dressed in a pink polo shirt and stone-washed dungarees, looked up at the door.  Clark stared at the silent intruder and looked into his pale blue eyes.  He was startled.  The eyes of the intruder fixed on him, but for the life of him Clark could see no acknowledgment, no surprise, no fear, no anger.  All that Clark saw were pale blue eyes that bore right through him.

The intruder said nothing.  He raised his Colt .45 caliber combat commander auto pistol with the new silencer he had just obtained and took aim at the interloper.  He squeezed off one shot.  There was no report, just a soft sound.

The round hit Clark in the forehead.  The impact of the .45 caliber slug threw his lifeless body against the filing cabinets opposite the door to Julie Davenport's office.  Clark's body then slid silently and limply to the floor.  The intruder got up out of his seat and slowly walked over to the slumped body of the former Steven Clark.

Dispassionately, Walsh squeezed two more silent rounds into the slumped lifeless body.  Rivers of blood ran down the cabinets and soaked into the light tan carpet.

Walsh placed the pistol into the belt of his dungarees, took some papers and the stuffed animal that he had once given Julie.  He turned off the lights in the office and casually walked out the back door.

Closing the door carefully, Walsh walked into the parking lot, got into his Jeep, and drove out of the parking lot on to Grand Avenue going east.  At the junction of Grand Avenue and Route 65, Walsh turned north and quickly connected to Interstate 235 which became Interstate 35 to Minneapolis.  Walsh looked at the clock on the dashboard.  It was 8:00 p.m.  If he pushed the speed limit, he could be home by 11:30 p.m.

0900 Hours: Tuesday, June 15, 1993: Minneapolis, Minnesota

After checking out of the Thunderbird Hotel, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus and drove out of the motel parking lot and back on to Interstate 494 headed east.  Her route would take her around the Minneapolis Airport and on to Route 5 and then Route 62.  On Route 62, Mildred headed west until she turned right heading north on Interstate 35.  At the Lake Street exit, Mildred turned off and headed east on the busy commercial street.

After passing Engelbretsen's, a favorite Scandinavian meat and gift shop, Mildred slowed down to find Walsh Auto Repair.  As soon as Mildred drove past Walsh Auto Repair, she turned off on to a side street and got out of her car.  She took the plastic cup of tap water she filled in her motel room and carefully balanced in the Ford Taurus' cup holder, opened the gas tank and poured the tap water into the tank.  Mildred then put the empty plastic cup into the glove compartment of the car.  She turned on the ignition and started to drive the car around.  Pretty soon, the car was choking and wheezing from the water in the gasoline.

Despite the laboring of the engine, Mildred was able to get the rental car to the entrance of Walsh Auto Repair.  With a final wheeze, the car died and refused to start.  Mildred got out and with a greatly concerned look, went up to the entrance of Walsh Auto Repair.

The building contained only a garage.  There was no separate office.  In the dimly lit automobile repair bay, Mildred saw a man in blue coveralls working on a Toyota Celica.  The mechanic was hanging down inside the engine well of the Toyota, a single incandescent bulb hanging by a cord lighting his work.  Mildred could not see the man's face, only the pale blue smoke of a cigarette, which rose lazily from the engine well.

Mildred stood at the entrance to the garage, wringing her hands in concern and helplessness.

In a tiny voice, Mildred said, "Sir, can you help me?"

No response.

In a louder voice, but still extremely polite, Mildred again said, "Sir, can you please help me?"

The fortyish, blond-haired automobile mechanic untangled himself from the Toyota engine and looked toward the pleasant looking older woman, who obviously was distraught about something.  Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he calmly put his cigarette out in an ashtray and walked over with a measured cadence to where Mildred stood.

Tim Walsh's pale blue eyes fixed on Mildred.  He had yet to say a word.

Mildred said, "Hi, I'm Mildred Lutsen from Milwaukee.  I came to Minneapolis to see my daughter, but my car started acting up just now.  I just don't know what to do."

"Let me see your car, Mrs. Lutsen."  His pale blue eyes remained fixed.  Mildred felt his eyes boring into her.  It was quite uncomfortable.

Walsh followed Mildred out to the stranded automobile.  He got into the car and tried to get it started.  The starter ground, but the car would not start.  Walsh got out of the car and went over to Mildred.

"How long have you had this problem?"

"I don't know, I rented this car from Avis last night.  It started acting up just after I turned on to Lake Street."

"Have you called them?"

"No, I was hoping that you could do something.  I'm in such a hurry."

Walsh just stared at Mildred with those pale blue eyes.  Mildred couldn't discern any emotion, just the two pale blue eyes that bore right through her.

"Is there anything you can do to help me?" said Mildred in her most sincere grandmotherly fashion.

"Let me try one more time."

Walsh once again got into the Ford Taurus, placed the key into the ignition and started the car.  The car hesitated and the starter whined, then the car coughed and started with a heavy knocking sound.  Walsh drove the car into the empty automobile bay and pulled it over the lift.  After stopping the car, he pulled the hood latch and got out of the car.  He then lifted up the hood and hung the mechanic's lamp on the raised hood.

Mildred continued to stand at the doorway to the automobile bay, generally looking concerned and worried.  When Walsh disappeared into the engine compartment of her car, Mildred took the opportunity to visually inspect the garage.  It was a typical garage, nothing to give a hint as to the relationship between Julie Davenport and Walsh Auto Repair.  Mildred decided this was a dead end.

Walsh tried a few things with the ignition and the carburetor settings.  After working at this for about ten minutes, Walsh emerged from the engine compartment and walked over to Mildred.  His pale blue eyes fixed once again on Mildred's eyes.  Mildred found this to be particularly upsetting and avoided his glaze.

Finally, Walsh spoke.  "As far as I can tell, you probably have some bad gas.  Have you filled the tank at all?  What we'll do is put some gas conditioner in the tank and run it for a few minutes.  That should clear up the problem."

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. ...eh?" said Mildred.

"Walsh, Tim Walsh."

"How long will this take, Mr. Walsh?"

"About twenty minutes, Mrs. Lutsen.  Would you care to sit down?"  He directed Mildred to the only seats in the garage, which were in front of a small gray metal desk at the front of the store.

Mildred took a seat and as she was sitting down, Walsh pushed the papers on top of the desk into the top middle drawer.  As the papers disappeared from view, Mildred saw one sheet of paper from a memo pad with some pencil markings on it.  The printed logo on the memo sheet said, "Reedy Securities."

Mildred immediately averted her eyes, and then she saw the little white stuffed bear.  It was sitting on a shelf, behind the desk.

Walsh finished clearing off his desk and then went back to working on the Toyota Celica.

After a short while, the engine of the Ford Taurus was running smoothly.  Walsh detached the mechanic's light and closed the hood with a solid metallic thud.

"She's ready now, Mrs. Lutsen."

"How much is it, Mr. Walsh?"

"That'll be twenty dollars, including the gas conditioner," said Walsh.  "You were very fortunate to have the engine act up right outside my door.  A tow would've cost you another fifty dollars."

"Uffda," said Mildred.  "Boy, am I glad you were here.  Thank you, very much."

After handing Walsh twenty dollars, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus, backed it out of the garage repair bay and turned back on to Lake Street.  Through the window, she waved to Walsh.  He did not return the wave, he merely looked at her with his pale blue eyes, turned around, and walked slowly back to the Toyota Celica.

0800 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

Mildred picked up the house telephone in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Bethesda, Maryland.  "Mike?"

"Mildred, how are you doing?"

"I need to talk to you, are you busy?"

"Why don't you come up to my room?" he said.

"Be right there."

The knock on the door coincided with Mike just having finished pulling the coverlet over his bed and pulling on a pants and tee shirt.  He opened the door and Mildred walked in.

"Been busy, eh?" he said.

"You bet -- you're bleeding!"

"Mildred, do you know how hard it is to commit suicide with a safety razor?  Next to impossible," said Mike, smiling.

"Yeah, it just doesn't work," said Mildred knowingly.

Mike stopped smiling.

"So what do you have on our Julie Davenport?" said Mike.

"A real mystery.  Her life in Des Moines was as sterile as can be. No friends, no life, just puzzles.  For example, I think she had some kind of relationship with an auto mechanic in Minneapolis, named Tim Walsh.  Strange man, doesn't say much, just stares through you with his pale blue eyes.  One thing that is puzzling.  He either has the same white stuffed bear that I saw in Davenport's personal effects in Des Moines or has an exact duplicate for some reason.  He also had a sheet of paper with Reedy Securities printed on it.  What troubles me is how he might have obtained the stuffed toy right after I saw it the day before in Julie Davenport's office."

"Adams is having Davenport's birth certificate checked.  I wouldn't be surprised to find out she's an impostor like Jerry Mitchell."

"I wouldn't either.  What do you think we have here, Mike?"

"I see two problems.  First, how do these people know when we're traveling?  Two, who are these people?  Despite what George thinks, there has to be a connection, because the attacks on our people have always involved travel.  Let's find out how travel arrangements are made.  I think we have to wait until Adams finds out more about some of these names, including Davenport and Trent."

"Who's Trent?" said Mildred.

"Apparently, this guy Trent arranged survivalist training sessions in which Mitchell participated.  His full name is John Trent.  He has also disappeared," answered Mike.

The telephone rang and Mike walked across the room to pick it up.

"Hello."

"Mike?  This is Herb.  We have a new mystery.  According to InfoNet, Julie Davenport's manager at Reedy Securities, Steven Clark, was killed last night.  Looks like a robbery, but given the weird things that have happened recently, I just don't know."

"That is weird.  Say, Herb, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Can you find out how travel arrangements are made or approved for CSAC agents?  I'm particularly interested in any people who had access to information on all of our travel arrangements."

"Say, that's a good thought.  I'll get my ace, Martha Thomas, on that right away.  Oh, if she's to be effective, I'm going to have to bring her in."

"I'll speak to the old man," Mike said.  "I'm sure there won't be any trouble."

Martha Thomas was one of the new breed of FBI special agents.  In the past, agents tended to be white males with degrees in either law or accounting.  As the seventies and eighties unfolded, the agency came under tremendous pressure to modify its hiring practices to include a wider cross-section of Americans.  Like all institutions, its ability to change depended on its needs.  During the eighties, the explosive growth of computerized information systems forced the FBI to start developing expertise in this area and with that change came people of all colors and both sexes.

Martha, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Massachusetts, never thought her computer science degree would lead her on this path.  Twenty-six, slim, and athletic in build, Martha had been once described by her M.I.T. classmates as the most beautiful nerd in the world.  The proud possessor of a tremendous mane of strawberry blond hair that hung in natural curls, she had light hazel eyes and beautiful skin.  Martha wore horn rimmed glasses to give herself a business-like look.

Martha had been bitten by the computer bug as a freshman in high school in the early Eighties, where she was inspired by her teacher, the avuncular Arthur Morrison, who had made it his life's work to bring the new technology of computer science to young school children.  Morrison was particularly fond of Martha, who quickly became one of his first star pupils; an affection that was returned by Martha.  She worshiped him like a father.

Martha was first in her class at Quantico and was a nationally-ranked shootist.  Proficient in martial arts as well, she most enjoyed spending time in front of computer screens, catching bad guys.

"While you're at that, why don't you have her check out a Timothy Walsh in Minneapolis as well?" said Mike.

"No problem," Adams said.  "Oh, by the way, I need to get up to Minneapolis pretty soon to take care of some personal business."

Mike replaced the telephone on its cradle.

"Let's see what that turns up," He said to Mildred, who was sitting on the sofa.  "Incidentally, Mildred, did you visit Davenport's office while you were in Des Moines?"

"Why, yes.  Remember, I told you that I searched her belongings."

"Well, the office manager, Steven Clark was killed last night.  You're not up to your old tricks, are you?"  Mike arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, my stars!  He was such a sweet man.  Do you suppose that he might have been killed by that terrible Walsh?  I'm sure that stuffed bear on his shelf looked just like the one that Julie Davenport had with her belongings.  Also the paper from Reedy Securities on his desk.  My heavens, that poor man."

"I think that your Mr. Walsh needs more looking into."

1100 Hours: Thursday, June 17, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

"Oh, Mr. Liu, there's a telephone message for you," said the young female clerk at the front desk of the Bethesda Hyatt Regency as Mike returned from a visit with Smith.

"Thank you," said Mike as he took the message asking him to call Adams in Minneapolis.

As the elevator door slid close on the entering Mike Liu, the intense young man looked up from the newspaper that he had been reading.  The angular jaw on his young face was set in a clench as he crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the cushioned bench.  Taking off his rimless glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief, the young man walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button.

When Mike got up to his room, overlooking the plaza of the Hyatt Regency and the entrance to the Washington Metro, he dialed Adams' office in Minneapolis.

"Good morning, Federal Bureau of Investigation.  How may I help you?"

"Is Herb Adams in?" said Mike.

"You bet.  I'll see if he is busy."

"Agent Adams."

"Herb, it's Mike.  What's up?"

"As usual, Martha has come up with some rather startling information.  Davenport is an impostor.  The real Julie Davenport was born in Joliet, Illinois, on January 3, 1958, but died in a traffic accident in December 18, 1960.  A real tragedy.  The entire family was wiped out in a head-on with an eighteen wheeler.  It seems that somebody is doing a landslide business in false identifications."

"What about Tim Walsh?  Mildred and I think that he may be involved in the slaying of that office manager."

"As far as we can tell, he immigrated to the United States from Canada about fifteen years ago, worked for awhile in the Ford assembly plant in Windsor, Canada, then in the General Motors plant in Pontiac, and finally migrated to Minneapolis about eight years ago to set up his auto shop.  He claims to have been born in the Northwest Territories of Canada.  We're having the Royal Canadian Mounted Police check into that angle."

"I'll bet we'll find a dead baby there, too."

"You know, Mike, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were becoming paranoid."

"What about John Trent?" said Mike.

"That's a tough one, the name is too common and we have no hooks.  That Bedford fellow ran a pretty loose ship, no employment records, no W-2s.  Couldn't find any social security number in Bedford's files.  Bedford insists his salesmen are contractors and not employees, so he didn't file withholding taxes -- nice scam.  I've asked my friends in Treasury to look into that one."

"What about the travel angle?"

"Martha is still working on that.  So far, what George said at our last meeting seems to be the case.  Each trip was individually arranged by separate CSAC offices.  There is a modem tie-in between the various CSAC offices, but as far as we can determine that tie-in is not used for travel scheduling purposes.  Seems to be a dead end."

"Let's stick with it for now.  I just feel there has to be a connection there somewhere."

"Don't worry, Mike.  Martha is a pit bull on things like this."

Mike put the handset on the telephone and walked into the bathroom.  As he was turning on the hot water, there was a loud knock at his door.

"What the?" muttered Mike as he picked up a towel to wipe his hand.  Mike looked through the view hole and was surprised at what he saw.

"Eastwood!  What are you doing here?"

"The senior on the Fairington project needed to get some cash flows to you and asked that I come down with the information," said Eastwood holding up a manila envelope for Mike to see.

"Wait a minute, I need to get some pants on," said a grim-faced Mike Liu.  "I'll be right with you."

Mike quickly walked to his duffel bag and got his Walther pistol out of its holder.  He carefully screwed on the DARPA designed silencer, released the safety and walked carefully to the door, holding the Walther behind his back.  With this left hand Mike opened the door and gestured Eastwood to come into the room.  "What do you need?"

"The senior needs your signature on this underwriting contract, Mr. Liu."

As Eastwood walked into the room, Mike quickly aimed his Walther and squeezed the trigger.  "No one knew I was here," he said to the now lifeless body of Eastwood, Ex-Choate, Ex-Harvard, Ex-Yale, Ex-Life.

Mike quickly stanched the flow of blood from Eastwood's head wound.  Mike was now faced with disposing of the lifeless body.  Opening the door to his room, Mike looked up and down the hall to see if there were any people around.  Seeing no one, Mike picked up the corpse of Eastwood, carefully holding him as if he were helping a drunken friend.  Mike was surprised how light Eastwood was.

"Must be all those damn sprouts and power lunches," he said, grim-faced.

Mike carried the body to the service elevator, pushed the down button and waited for the doors to open.  As the doors closed on the slumped body of Eastwood, Mike whispered, "Say hi to your pa-pa, asshole."

1993: Watching

0800 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Watch Station One

The hatch closed with a metallic clang.  A whoosh of air indicated that the passageway to the transfer submersible was being flooded to outside pressure.  McHugh climbed down the ladder to the metal grating of the deck.

Two men waited for the older man to reach the bottom of the ladder.  In the background, they could hear the metallic sounds of the transfer submersible breaking seal, the gentler, heavier metallic clang of the outer hatch seating itself, and finally the whirring sounds of the transfer submersible's thrusters fading into the void.

"Welcome, Admiral, we're glad to have you on board.  It's been a long time," said Captain O'Shannon.  Watch Station One was anchored 18,000 feet below the surface of the ocean.

Watch Station commanders were hand-picked by McHugh.  Typically, these men were those whose loyalty and devotion to duty were beyond question.  O'Shannon was a perfect example of this devotion to duty.

O'Shannon's deputy, Joshua Wong, stood quietly by.  Wong was a young Annapolis graduate, plucked out of the nuclear Navy at a very young age, primarily because of his post-graduate work at the Woods Hole Institute of Oceanography on deep ocean geomagnetic interferometric phase characterization.

"Hello, Bill," said McHugh.  "How have you been, Mr. Wong?  It's good to see you again.  You've got a thankless job, Bill.  Your men are to be commended on their patience and diligence.  Not too many men would give up their families and surface life to live on the ocean bottom for six months at a time."

McHugh was dressed in the special fire-retardant cotton, navy blue jumpsuit that was the required uniform while aboard the Watch Station.  On his feet were special grounding boots that discharged any static electricity safely.  On the collars of his uniform were embroidered silver stars signifying his rank.  Under his jumpsuit, McHugh had remembered to put on his long johns, also made of the same fire retardant cotton material.

Despite all efforts to control the temperature and humidity at the Watch Stations, they tended to be damp and cold, especially to the occasional visitor or new crew member.  The dampness and relatively cool temperature of the atmosphere aboard the Watch Station gave the air a characteristic staleness: a metallic, oily, heavy, wet smell.

O'Shannon wore a jumpsuit similar to McHugh's.  Like so many of his crew, a personal headset for a Walkman hung around his neck.

Watch Station One was constructed as a network of eight spherical compartments connected by short crawl ways.  Each sphere was segregated from the others by airlocks.  Despite the incredible pressures outside the spheres, the pressure inside the spheres was maintained at standard atmosphere or surface pressure.  Although passage to each sphere was through crawl ways, the spheres were quite large, enabling all twelve of the crewmen to be quite comfortably gathered in any one sphere at one time.

The main command module was packed with instrumentation and recording devices, including one of the new DataTech Neural Network Supercomputing Systems Mark I.  The temperature of the Mark I was maintained by a novel cooling system that provided cooling using solid copper heat conductors connected to an outside heat exchanger.  The Mark I computer controlled all the systems at Watch Station One, including the recording of all data.

The main command module was originally the only one that had anything resembling windows -- nine centimeter portholes.  However, the crew quarters had been outfitted later with one porthole each; dictated by CSAC psychologists as essential for maintaining sanity.  Such conveniences were not easily decided upon because of the sea pressures encountered at these depths: the first casualties were portholes.

In order to see out the portholes in the main command module and crew quarters, the interior lights had to be turned off and the outside lights lit.  Not that the crew spent much time looking out the portholes.  Even with the outside lights on, there just wasn't anything to see but the immense black mass that lay at the edge of the light.  At these depths, there was simply no life to speak of.

About the only activity one could see in the bleak, black void was what most called "snowfall."  What they were referring to was the seemingly constant fall of detritus from the upper reaches of the ocean.  This detritus consisted of lifeless remains from the rich biological photic regions of the ocean drifting slowly down to the ocean bottom.

The other spheres at Watch Station One contained living quarters, a kitchen, a workshop and gymnasium, the submersible room, the nuclear reactor that powered the station, and the transfer room.  The transfer room was equipped with a docking station and airlock for the submersibles that brought replacement crews, mail, and supplies.  The submersible room also contained an airlock for one of the two Benthic Ranger submersibles attached to the Watch Station.

Benthic Ranger was the latest generation of Squid submersibles that had been developed by MacAlear Aviation.  Infinitely more comfortable than the Squid, Benthic Ranger could hold up to six people in relative comfort, twelve if absolutely necessary.  Each Watch Station had two Benthic Rangers, which served as patrol vehicles as well as escape pods, if the need ever arose.  The second Benthic Ranger was accessed from the crew's living quarters via the submersible room.

All the spheres except for the main command module and the two spheres that served as living quarters were awash in brilliant light.  Some psychologist had a theory that programmed lighting, especially bright white light, could control sleeplessness in artificial environments such as this.  The living quarters, however, were more softly lit.  This was done to encourage sleep and rest.  One of the living quarters had been painted a pastel pink.  Again, some think-tank psychologist thought that pink would have a calming effect on the crew.  The crew especially disliked the pink color.  Soon, only newer crew members had to endure it.  Rank still had some privileges even among the enlisted men.

The main command module was bathed in red light, in order to facilitate the monitoring of the cathode ray tubes, television monitors and other instrumentation.

The Watch Station's complement of twelve was divided into two six-man teams, each working twelve hour shifts.  As the Watch Station commander, O'Shannon led one of the two crews, called the Gold Crew.  His deputy commander, Wong, led the second crew, called the Blue Crew.

The mission of the Watch Station crew was to monitor the geophysical state of an immense dark object about fifty yards from the station for any indication of life, electronic, biological, or otherwise.  Data was collected from transponders strategically located on and in the vicinity of the Sentinel.

Besides the general measurements of temperature, biological oxygen demand, salinity, current and water density, more specific measurements were taken of magnetic background with the new generation proton precession magnetometer which over the years had replaced the metastable helium process for measuring magnetic flux.  The instrumentation also continuously measured radioactivity, electromagnetic radiation, conductivity, seismic activity, and opacity.

In addition to the geophysical measurements, an extensive program of biological monitoring was conducted to determine the presence of life forms, if any should appear.

Outside, on top of the Watch Station and at strategic points surrounding the object, was a network of scanning sonars and television monitors.  Strobe lights attached to the video cameras also could be controlled by switches inside the main command sphere.

The discovery of not one but four massive non-naturally occurring objects was particularly jarring to the senior levels of government.  Some officials even went so far as to call the four structures "Sentinels," suggesting that they were somehow actively monitoring the Earth, for what and for whom no one knew.

As a consequence of these events, Watch Stations were constructed to monitor the objects found in the four locations around and in North America.  The first on-station post was a refitted Ambrose Lightship permanently anchored in 18,000 feet of sea water.  The instrumentation designed to detect changes at the object was deployed from the surface ship.  As deep submergence technology improved during the early seventies and the consequences wrought by the discovery of the objects began to sink into the minds of the decision makers, the idea was formed to permanently locate manned stations on the bottom near each of the massive objects.

The first station to be designed and deployed soon after the Squid submersible missions were completed in 1973 was Watch Station One in 1974.  Shortly thereafter, three other stations were built and deployed.  One was set in the deepest depths of Lake Superior where a similar object had been detected by an ore research vessel.  A third station was located in the submarine canyons in the Pacific Ocean beyond Santa Catalina Island off the coast of California.  The fourth and final Watch Station was established in the Gulf of Alaska.  All the Watch Stations were of similar design although the later ones were more comfortable than Watch Station One.  But the most popular assignment at the CSAC Undersea Affairs Department was the flagship, the one that started it all.

The Watch Stations were active duty vessels of the United States Navy and relatives of the crews assigned to the Watch Stations believed that their loved ones are serving on experimental submarines.  CSAC had seen to it that the true purpose of the Watch Stations was not known to anyone without the proper clearance.  Mail, food, and other supplies were delivered to the Watch Station every week by robotic delivery submersibles.

Life on board Watch Station One was tedious: constant calibration of instrumentation and constant maintenance.  Data recording and data interpretation were also conducted by the crew.  The data they collected were sent topside for analysis to determine the presence of any change from the baseline information collected over the last twenty years.

McHugh, surprisingly agile for someone in his early sixties, scampered through the passageways as if he were a child.  McHugh and O'Shannon made their way to the main command module, while Wong excused himself for the mandatory rest period, which was required immediately following a twelve-hour duty period.  By requiring mandatory rest periods, the CSAC psychologists believed they could modify circadian behavioral cycles to maximize efficiency during the duty periods.  However, B.F. Skinner be damned, no company shrink was going to deny Wong the chance to meet the old man, who had become a god over the years to many of the younger CSAC permanent staff.

Wong's crew was also anxious to meet the legendary old man.  However, they would have to wait until their shifts began.  Rank still had some privileges even at 18,000 feet below the surface of the sea.

After meeting Admiral McHugh in the mess hall and activity area, the three members of O'Shannon's crew who had been able to break free to meet him drifted off to their respective tasks.  Afterward, McHugh and O'Shannon headed toward the main command module where Sonar Mate John Lawrence had remained during the festivities.  Before entering the main command module, both McHugh and O'Shannon had to spend a few minutes sitting in the passageway between the mess hall and the main command module while their eyes acclimated to the red light.  Once adjusted to the red light, O'Shannon unlatched the steel dogs of the hatch and he and McHugh entered the main command module.

"Hello, Captain," said Sonar Mate John Lawrence.

"Admiral, this is John Lawrence, the best instrument man in the Navy," said O'Shannon with obvious pride.

Lawrence snapped to attention and saluted.

Returning the salute, McHugh said, "At ease, Mr. Lawrence.  Congratulations.  By determining so swiftly that a message was being played out, you've helped our effort immensely.  Tell me how it happened."

"Sir, I was about halfway through my watch when the annunciator started flashing and the panel alarms sounded.  This indicated that the sensors had picked up something.  It's always terrifying when that happens because you don't know if it's just something normal like a seaquake somewhere -- we do have very sensitive instruments -- some unfriendly intruder, or something on the Rock.  But this time it was different.  There seemed to be a pattern."  Younger CSAC operatives used the term, "Rock", when describing the Sentinels.  Although the term was not officially sanctioned by CSAC, even McHugh would find himself using this same diminutive at times.

Lawrence turned toward his instrument panel.  "I immediately began both the backup sequence and the checkout sequence.  I made sure to switch on both the analog and the digital recorder to backup any real signals that we might have been receiving.  On checkout, all of our sonar, electromagnetic and other equipment proved to be operating fine.  We don't affect our measuring capabilities by conducting the checkout since it's done by digital electronic means.  Anyway, once I was certain that there were, in fact, signals being sent, I alerted the skipper.  He sent out the general alert.

"The signal I detected was more than a tonal adjustment or amplitude adjustment in the magnetometer, there was a definite regularity to the signal.  It was almost as if there were a message to be understood, like the old Morse code used in the telegraph system of the early eighteen hundreds."

McHugh asked O'Shannon if any visual inspections had been made at the site.  O'Shannon nodded.  "We conducted an on-site inspection but no visual clues appeared, just the message, which was repeated for two days.  It's been silent since."

McHugh frowned.

O'Shannon continued.  "We sent both of our Jason-II units to inspect the object immediately after the transmittal of the apparent message.  The Jason-II's are outfitted with practically every instrument known, thermometers, metabolic O_2 analyzers, CO_2 analyzers, flux gauges, magnetometers, you name it.  They also have television cameras and passive and active sonar.  Since the Jason-II units are tethered vehicles, we get real time information.  So far, they haven't detected anything except the same magnetic fluctuations we recorded in the Watch Station."

"Did you use the Benthic Ranger?" said McHugh.

"No, Admiral.  We didn't think that we needed to since the Jason-II's hadn't detected anything abnormal.  But since you're here, we should probably take one out for a spin.  Let me get Barry Morris, he's my best Benthic Ranger pilot,"

O'Shannon picked up the black intercom handset.  "Can you get Chief Morris?"

"Aye, sir," said the young engineer's mate.  "Chief, the boss wants to talk to you."

"Aye, sir," said Chief Warrant Officer Barry Morris.

"Barry?  Can you hand over the engineering room?  Admiral McHugh and I would like to tour the site in Benthic Ranger One."

"Aye, sir."

O'Shannon switched off the intercom.  "Admiral, Chief Morris asked that we meet him in the submersible module."

"Good morning, Admiral," said Morris, a large, heavy-set man in his late forties.  Morris had a reputation as one of the best engineering officers in CSAC.  He was one of the first recruits to the CSAC contingent and had worked on the construction of Watch Station One.  He had spent his entire Navy career serving on Watch Stations.

"Good morning, Barry.  How's Jane and the boys?" said McHugh.  McHugh had a particular fondness for the CSAC staff that had joined in the beginning and drew strength from knowing them on a personal basis.

"They're great, Admiral.  Barry, Jr., is serving on a tin can in the Seventh Fleet and Johnny just graduated from Annapolis, wants to join the nuclear Navy," he said, beaming.  "Jane is just finishing her Master's degree in social psychology at Rutgers University.  I hope to be topside for her graduation in August.  You ready for a ride?"

McHugh climbed up the ladder into the rather comfortable cabin of Benthic Ranger One.  Unlike the older utilitarian Squid, the interior of the Benthic Ranger was outfitted with six individual captain's chairs, three against each side of the vessel.  The front window was rectangular, a triumph of modern engineering.  There was a large porthole at each seat.  The Benthic Ranger was roughly rectangular in cross-section, with a hydrodynamically shaped nose and tail.

Propelled by thrusters and outfitted with lights and television cameras, Benthic Ranger One literally flew over the ocean bottom at relatively high speeds.  Except for trim and adjustment for ocean density, the Benthic Ranger did not depend on ballast or blow tanks for buoyancy.  The Benthic Ranger was a shaped hydrodynamic body that depended on the adjustment of vanes and thrusters to gain or lose altitude.  In an emergency, the pilot of the Benthic Ranger could make an emergency dump of its permanent ballast and pop to the surface.

The two Benthic Rangers were also equipped with four wire-directed Mark 48 torpedoes which were externally mounted and fired without propulsion tubes.  McHugh hoped that the Benthic Rangers would never have to defend the Watch Stations.  However, with the events of the last few days, McHugh was glad that Mike and the late Tom Sevson, the genius marine engineer who worked on the discovery of the objects in the seventies and developed many of the systems now in use, had talked him into adding this armament.

McHugh took the starboard seat immediately behind the co-pilot's seat.  O'Shannon sat in the co-pilot's seat and Morris climbed into the pilot's seat after sealing both the transfer sphere and the Benthic Ranger's airlock.  The whooshing sound, indicating that the hatchway between the Watch Station and the Benthic Ranger was being flooded, could be heard by everyone on the Benthic Ranger.  With a soft metallic clang, the latches of the Benthic Ranger released their grip on the flange of the airlock and retracted into the body of the vessel.

The green heads-up display on the windshield of the Benthic Ranger gave all the vital information necessary for its operation.  Morris turned on the forward halogen head lamps.  The bottom was essentially lifeless with the occasional skeletal remains of some sea creature lying on the sea floor and the tangle of cables splaying out from the Watch Station to various instruments and cameras.  He also turned on the forward scanning sonar in order to see more clearly in order to steer.

Aboard the Watch Station, John Lawrence carefully shuttered the portholes of the Main Control Module before Benthic Ranger One began its journey.  This was done to preserve his night vision for the tasks at hand.  After the whirring sounds of the Benthic Ranger's thrusters faded into the distance, Lawrence unshuttered the portholes.

Elsewhere on the Watch Station, both crews were crowded around the small portholes watching the departure of Benthic Ranger One.  In the sterile, dead world of the ocean bottom at 18,000 feet, even the comings and goings of submersibles were major events.

Barry Morris flew the Benthic Ranger like it was an airplane.  Unlike the earlier versions of Squid, the Benthic Ranger did not crawl over the bottom like a snail.  The thrusters on the Benthic Ranger were the latest technology.  New lightweight nickel metal-hydride batteries supplied enough power for the Benthic Ranger's fairly sizable engines.

"Barry, how fast can this go?" said McHugh.

"Admiral, I've gotten it as fast as 20 knots," said Morris.

In a matter of minutes, the Benthic Ranger had completed the circuit around the object.  O'Shannon wanted McHugh to see one more thing.

"Barry, let's take the Admiral over to the carbon dating site."

"Aye, sir," said Morris as he put the Benthic Ranger into a sharp right bank.  The sensation was just like taking a turn in a light plane.  In a few minutes, the Benthic Ranger was over the core drilling site.  Here, robot roughnecks were employed to drill and sample the benthic sediment for more clues on the origin of the objects.

"I read about this project," said McHugh to O'Shannon.  "Do we have much data so far?"

"So far, Admiral, we've been able to calculate the age of the sediment in this area.  As a benchmark we used sediment cores taken near the object and correlated the data to this site.  The top layers of sediment seem to have been deposited after the darker material found more adjacent to the object.  If this data is right, the Sentinel has been here over ten thousand years."

"That's very interesting."

1993: Defection

0930 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Tenth Precinct House, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Bill Sorenson had not been able to sleep for several nights.  Every moment had been spent running over and over the gruesome scene he had witnessed in that old farmhouse south of Mankato.  During those brief moments when fatigue overcame his despair, the slow motion horror of Richard Winslow's exploding head played over and over again, like a poor quality film loop in a pornographic peep shop.  When those nightmares came, Sorenson would bolt up in bed, screaming, and holding his temples as if the squeezing could drive out the final death scream once and for all.

Sorenson had taken to wandering around Lake of the Isles, thinking, wondering, hoping, pleading that someone could take him out of his nightmare.  He had not bathed in several days as well.  His hair was matted and dirty.  His wife, LuEllen, noticing the terrible change in his sleep habits and his behavior, had expressed concern, but she could get nothing from Sorenson.  Over the course of several days, her concerns had changed to an uneasy wariness.

On this morning, Sorenson found himself walking aimlessly down Hennepin Avenue toward Lake Street.  His thoughts remained jumbled.  What could he do?  As he approached Lake Street, he saw two blue globes out of the corner of his eye, a police station.

Yes, thought Sorenson, I can turn myself in.  That will solve my problem.

"Can I help you?"  The voice of the police sergeant came from behind the high golden oak counter.  Before the police sergeant stood a dazed man with dirty, matted hair, whose clothes were unkempt and who weaved as he stood.

"Yes," he stuttered.  "I'd like to speak to someone about something."

"That's not enough," said the police sergeant.  "You'll have to tell me more."

"I'm a secret agent, I need help."

God, thought the police sergeant.  Why do I get them all?

"Just sit on the bench there for a moment.  I'll get someone to help you."

As Sorenson moved away from the counter, the unmistakable scent of someone who hadn't bathed in many days wafted over the counter.  The police sergeant picked up the telephone and dialed the detective squad room.

"Pete, I've got a live one for you.  He claims he's a secret agent.  Do you want to see him or should I just get rid of him?" whispered the police sergeant into the telephone.

"Secret agent, huh?  Well, it's a slow morning.  Why don't you send him back," said Detective Sergeant Peter Wilkinson.

A moment later, Sorenson knocked on the door to the detective squad room.

"Come in.  Take a seat," said Wilkinson, as he put a blank interview form into his typewriter.  "Now what can I do for you?"

"My name is William Sorenson.  My real name is Nikolai Sakurov.  I was sent to the United States to infiltrate your country and to spy."

"By whom?"

"Russia."

"How long ago?"

"Ten years."

"Where do you live?"

"In the James Arms Apartments at 36th and South James Avenue, Apartment 28A."

"What is your telephone number?"

"436-4009."

"What do you do?"

"I operate the Lake of the Isles Bicycle Repair Shop in Lowry Hill."

"How is the security of the United States going to be hurt by a bicycle repairman?"

"You don't understand, I was sent here in deep cover."

"What?"

"I said deep cover."

"Can you explain that to me."

"My masters have been infiltrating the United States for years, particularly across the Canadian border."

"Who are your masters?"

"The Soviet military.  They have a program of training spies who can infiltrate a country like the United States.  The committee called this project 'Cicada', after the insect by that name."

"What's a cicada?" said Wilkinson.

"You know, the insect that hibernates for years," said Sorenson.  "We're told to go underground for long periods of time.  We've been penetrating the shores of the United States for over thirty years.  We're trained from youth in special camps in the Urals until we're indistinguishable from Americans.  We enter the country using either false visas from western European countries or travel through Canada and slip into the United States in such places as International Falls, Minnesota, Vancouver, or Detroit.

"The crossing guards at these stations on the Canadian border do little more than say hello to the occupants of cars.  And when we answer back in a mid-American accent, the guards assume that we're United States citizens.  Once in the country, we're instructed to live a modest life, drawing no attention to ourselves.  Often we don't hear from our controllers for years or even decades."

"That's a very interesting story, Mr. Sorenson.  What do you want me to do?"

Sorenson bolted out of his chair.  "You're the policeman, not me."

"Now calm down, Mr. Sorenson," said Wilkinson.  "Please take your seat."

"What I've been trying to tell you is that the KGB has infiltrated this country, your country.  Not in small groups, but in hundreds."

"But why are you telling me all this stuff?"

"I think my controller has gone crazy.  He shot this guy last week because he thought he was a CSAC agent.  I didn't think being a cicada meant we had to kill.  I just thought it would be a game."

"Who was this guy you say was shot?"

"A CSAC agent named Richard Winslow."

"What is Seasack?"

"CSAC.  C-S-A-C."

"What is C-S-A-C?"

"I don't know."

"What?  Who is your controller?"

"I only know his first name, it's Tim.  His real name is Dimitri."

"Where was this Winslow shot?"

"Near Mankato."

Sensing he was getting nowhere with this person, Wilkinson looked at his watch.

"Mr. Sorenson, I can't continue this discussion now because I have to be across town in ten minutes.  Can I call you tomorrow?"

"No, Dimitri might find out.  I'll call you."

"Well, have it your way," sighed Wilkinson as he escorted Sorenson out to the lobby.

As Sorenson left the precinct house, Wilkinson asked the police sergeant if he had heard of any shootings in Mankato, involving a Richard Winslow.  The sergeant said he would check InfoNet and switched his computer on.  After the greenish prompt, he typed in the alphanumeric identifying the precinct and requested the search mode.

The computer responded:  SEARCH KEYWORDS:

The police sergeant typed in: Winslow, Richard Winslow, R. Winslow, Mankato.    In a short minute, the computer responded: SEARCH TERM NOT FOUND.

Wilkinson looked over his colleague's shoulder at the response.

"What are you gonna do, Pete?"

"I guess we should write it up and send it down the chain.  Maybe we should also send it to DODNet, just in case.  My guess is that we'll never see him again.  I wonder what he was smoking."

Wilkinson trudged wearily back to his desk.

1600 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Lake of the Isles Bicycle Repair Shop, Minneapolis

Sorenson worked on the aquamarine Diamond Back trail bike trying to get the derailleur to work right.  "Damn kids, they spend five, six hundred dollars on an expensive bike and then they hop curbs and go up and down steps like they were in Sherman tanks," he muttered.

Here, at least, surrounded by his beloved bicycles, there was order to the world.

Visiting the police station had a cathartic effect on Sorenson, but had instilled anger as well.  That detective had been making fun of him.

When he arrived home, Sorenson went into the bathroom, took a shower, got a beer out of the refrigerator, and sat down before the television and then went to his shop for the first time in days.

Sorenson was thoroughly engrossed in the problem of straightening out the derailleur that had been mangled in a fall its rider had taken while going down a flight of stone steps.  He did not hear the front door of his shop open and the man walk in.

Feeling a presence, Sorenson turned to see the outline of a man framed in the doorway.  The outside light, shining behind the man, made it difficult to see who the newcomer was.

"Can I help you?" said Sorenson.

"Nikolayevich, I've sent you many messages, but I've heard no response."

"Dimitri."

"Nikolai, why have you not responded to my commands?"

"I've been very busy with my repair shop.  I haven't gone by the canoe racks."

The canoe racks on the northern shore of Lake of the Isles was the drop point for messages from Walsh to his subordinates.  They were required to check for messages regularly.  Sorenson has ignored this duty in recent days.

"But you know your prime duty."

"Yes, Comrade.  I know my prime duty."

"Nikolayevich, you have failed me one too many times."

Sorenson saw the glint of the pistol and the silencer in Walsh's hand.  He turned to escape.  Walsh calmly squeezed the trigger of his Colt Commander auto pistol.  The silent bullet found its mark.  It entered through Sorenson's upper right arm, coursing through his chest cavity, tearing muscle, exploding lung tissue, breaking bones, and tearing membrane along its way.  The exit wound was big enough to put a fist through.  As the bullet exited, it tore a gushing, gaping wound.  Sorenson's blood flowed out in waves, splattering crimson on every surface.

The force of the bullet threw Sorenson against the aquamarine Diamond Back trail bike, which fell to the floor in a metallic clatter.  The wheels of the bike caught other bikes that were in storage and caused a chain reaction with bikes of all colors and makes falling and jumbling into a heap of rubber and metal.

Sorenson lay in this wreckage, still conscious.  His brown eyes met the pale blue eyes of his executioner.  "Why, Dimitri?" said Sorenson, as blood gurgled out of his mouth.  "Why?"

Walsh walked over to the mortally wounded Nikolai Sakurov and calmly squeezed the trigger of his silenced pistol two more times.

The pale blue eyes of Dimitri surveyed the carnage before him.  In a soft, dispassionate voice, Dimitri said to the earthly remains of his former comrade, "Nikolayevich, you have betrayed us."

He calmly placed the pistol in his trouser belt and walked quietly out to his Jeep, parked in front of Sorenson's shop.

0800 Hours: Thursday, June 17, 1993: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

"Wow!" exclaimed Martha.  "I'm flabbergasted."

Adams had just finished explaining all the details of the CSAC assignment and how they suspected that there had to be some connection between the attacks on its agents and how CSAC functioned.  Martha had been cleared for temporary duty with CSAC through the FBI director's office and McHugh's.

"What we need you to do, Martha, is use your best hacking skills to find if there is a connection and what it is.  Be careful.  These people have killed.  They are professional killers."

"I'll get right on it," she said, a big grin on her young face.  "I have a theory that somehow the bad guys have gotten access to the communications network and are exploiting that for their purposes."

Sitting down at her computer terminal, Martha was able to access the Department of Defense telecommunications network with relative ease.  After experimenting with a few random access codes, Martha was able to gain access into the DODNet, an informational network of sensitive, but not classified, Department of Defense communications.

Puzzled by the relative ease with which she was able to access the Department of Defense telecommunications, Martha decided to determine how travel arrangements were either made, arranged, or documented.  That had to be the key to the puzzle.

Martha decided to call George Smith, whom she understood from Adams to be the security officer for CSAC.

"Hello, Mr. Smith?" said Martha.

"Yes?"

"I'm Special Agent Martha Thomas with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Could I set up a meeting with you for this afternoon?"

"Herb has told me all about you.  I'd be very pleased to see you. About 3 p.m. O.K.?"

"See you then."

1300 Hours: Thursday, June 17, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"That is really some security system," Martha said, impressed.

She was sitting in Smith's office.  Also crammed into the small office were Mike, Adams, and Mildred.

"Well, it's something you have to get used to," said Smith.

"Tell me about how CSAC travel arrangements are made," she said.

"Each center is responsible for making its own arrangements.  The tickets are secured by the center without prior approval by Washington.  Therefore, the agent is not subject to any scrutiny at a central point."

"Then how do you know when the courier is supposed to arrive?"

"We're notified by telephone as to their arrival and the itinerary is noted in our computers."

"How secure are the computer programs?" said Martha.

"Very secure.  No one outside of a control group at CSAC knows of the program's existence."

"How do you coordinate the travel?"

"Through scrambled telephonic transmissions.  Shit, that's got to be it," he said suddenly.  "Someone has tapped into our secured telephone system."

"Wait a minute, George.  That doesn't account for the fact that the courier from Watch Station One arrived unscathed.  There has to be another connection.  Was the secured line used for his message?"

"Let's plot this out," said Smith as he went to the green chalkboard in his office.  "First, Mildred took commercial scheduled service from Minneapolis to New York and from there to National.  She was stalked at least from New York by Davenport, who lived in Des Moines."

Smith drew a line and a box on the chalkboard.  "Winslow flies scheduled airline service from Seattle to Minneapolis, disappears and turns up dead in a farmhouse fire in Mankato, Minnesota."

"Excuse me," said Mike.  "The attacks on me didn't coincide with any scheduled air service."

"But both of your trips used CSAC personnel and equipment," said Adams.  "In addition, on the second trip you were coming from Newport News, Virginia, the logical point for encoding messages from Watch Station One."

"That's right," said Smith.  "The real courier was a seaman rotating off Watch Station One.  He hitched a ride from Newport News on an Orion flying to Andrews Air Force Base.  There, his wife picked him up and dropped him off at CSAC-Washington.  Now the mystery is why our friends would think that you, Mike, were the courier, instead."

"Because I flew down to Newport News with a lot of security and then turned right around and flew back with even more security," remembered Mike aloud.

"Yes, that would have attracted a lot of attention," said Martha.

"But Mike didn't fly commercial, so how did the bad guys point him out?" said Smith.

"Where is the connection in all of this?" said an exasperated Mildred.  "The only point I can see is that the bad guys knew who we were or suspected we were couriers."

"Given the quickness with which the attacks occurred, this has to be an inside job," said Mike.

"Want to hear some more?" said Adams.  "Over this morning's InfoNet and DODNet was a crazy report that a bicycle repair man turned himself in for the murder of Richard Winslow.  Believing the man was hallucinating, the Minneapolis police turned him away."

"Didn't we squelch the InfoNet report on Winslow?" said Mike.

"That's right," said Adams.  "We need to get to that officer as soon as possible.  I can get there by this evening."

"Has anyone got anything on Eastwood?" said Mike nonchalantly.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Liu," said Martha.  "Selby Eastwood was a true orphan.  Seems his parents came to the United States from Canada.  They were killed in an automobile crash when Eastwood was a child.  They left a trust fund for Eastwood.  It was that trust fund that financed his education through Choate, Harvard, and Yale."

Mike winced ever so slightly.  "My hunch is that he may be part of this network of people who seem to be after us.  There is no way that anyone at Smedleys could have known I was at the Hyatt."

"Just can't admit to yourself that maybe you popped off a collateral, can you," said Mildred, without looking up from her knitting, with a trace of a smile.

"Can you dig further, Martha?" said Mike ignoring the jibe.

"Yes, sir," said Martha, jotting a reminder in her brown leather notepad.

0900 Hours: Friday, June 18, 1993: Tenth Precinct House, Minneapolis, Minnesota

"Pete, there's an FBI agent out here to see you."

"Send him right back," said Wilkinson.

Adams walked back to the Detective Squad Room and let himself through the door.

"How can I help you?" said Wilkinson.

"I saw your report on InfoNet about that alleged Russian spy and wanted to follow up," said Adams, showing his FBI identification and gold badge to Wilkinson.

"You mean that poor schmuck, Bill Sorenson?" said Wilkinson.

"Why do you say that?" said Adams.

"Sorenson was found shot to death in his bicycle repair shop Wednesday evening by two customers.  It may have been a robbery attempt that went sour, we don't know.  Large caliber wounds, however.  Whatever we could find was sent to forensics."

"Do you believe his story?" said Adams, as he kept his emotions in close rein.

Wilkinson shrugged.  "Just too screwy.  When we couldn't find any mention of a guy named Winslow losing it in Mankato -- well, you know, you get them all the time, mostly when the moon is full."

"Yeah, me too," said Adams.  "Just to be on the safe side, can I read Sorenson's file?"

"You bet.  I've got her right here.  Copy whatever you want.  Like some java?"

"Sure, black."

Adams picked up the Sorenson file, found an empty desk, and sat down with the rather thin manila folder.  Inside the folder were the usual police workup sheets, a fresh Polaroid snapshot of the crime scene showing the grotesquely contorted body of a youngish, white male lying amid a jumble of bicycle parts and wheels.  The body was soaked in blood.  Whoever committed the crime had used ammunition large enough to have blown Bill Sorenson apart.

To Adams, who had seen many crime scenes, this did not look like a bungled robbery attempt.  Robbers will kill and run.  Whoever did this stayed to finish the job.  In addition, none of Sorenson's fellow shopkeepers reported hearing gunfire.  Bullets big enough to cause this much carnage had to make a lot of noise.  Unless, of course, the killer had a professionally manufactured silencer.

Whoever killed Sorenson wanted him dead.  Adams saw that Sorenson had been married and made a note to visit his widow.

Wilkinson returned with the coffee in two Styrofoam cups.  He sat down across the desk from Adams.  The coffee was a little bitter, like it was the dregs of the pot, but the warm fluid felt good to the parched FBI agent.

"Any chance I can see the crime scene?" said Adams.

"No problem, we can go in my car if you want."

"Thanks, but I have to go on from there.  Why don't you lead the way?"

"Okay, let me get my coat."

Adams followed Wilkinson up Hennepin Avenue to Franklin Street to the Lake of the Isle Bicycle Repair Shop.  The shop had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene plastic tape.  The forensic people had already come and gone and a lone police officer leaned against the door to the shop.

As Wilkinson came to a stop in front of the store, the police guard stood upright and straightened his uniform.  Adams brought his car to a stop immediately behind the detective's unmarked Chevrolet Caprice.  Wilkinson walked up to the police officer, with Adams right behind him.

"Hi.  This is Special Agent Herb Adams of the FBI.  He'd like to take a look in Mr. Sorenson's shop," said Wilkinson to the officer standing at the door.

"Hello, Officer," said Adams as he shook the policeman's hand.

Inside the shop, Adams found pretty much what he expected to see, a typical homicide scene.  He wondered why he thought he would have found anything different.  In real life, however, the extent of the carnage was far more extensive than the small Polaroid could ever hope to depict.  The heavy, distinct smell of blood permeated throughout the small shop, along with the smell of metal and oil.  The hot humid Minnesota summer afternoon did little to stave off the smell of death in this store.

After walking through the shop and noting the position of the chalked outline of a body on the floor, a grim faced Adams walked out into the sunlight.

"Did Sorenson indicate that he had any enemies?" said Adams.

"No one except maybe that Tim fellow that I mentioned in my InfoNet report," said Pete.

"Do you have anything more on this Tim?"

"Nope."

"Thanks a lot.  I'd consider this matter closed."

1130 Hours: Friday, June 18, 1993: James Arms Apartments, Minneapolis, Minnesota

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," said Adams, as he displayed his identification and gold badge through the narrow opening in the door.  "I'd like to ask Mrs. Sorenson some questions."

"Look, my sister has answered all the questions the Minneapolis police have asked her, can't you leave her alone at a time like this?"

"Believe me; I would not intrude unless I had to.  I really need to talk to Mrs. Sorenson."

"What the hell do you feds want anyway?"

From the other room, a woman said, "Let him in."

With that, the young man unlatched the safety chain and opened the door for Adams.  A young, pretty, but hard-looking woman with bleached blond hair, probably no older than twenty-one, came into the living room of the one-bedroom apartment.  She wore a sweatshirt much too large for her small frame and stone washed-dungarees.  Her blue eyes were rimmed with red and her mascara had run from crying.  She held a tissue in one hand.

"I'm LuEllen Sorenson," said the woman between sniffles.  "This is my older brother, Jon, please excuse him.  He was just trying to help."

"No problem, Mrs. Sorenson.  I'm really sorry to intrude at a time like this.  But we have to follow up on a report that your husband made yesterday to the Minneapolis police."

"That detective, Mr. Wilkinson, asked me about the report yesterday," said LuEllen.  "I just don't know anything about that.  It isn't like Bill at all."

"Was he upset about anything recently?"

"Yes, something he wouldn't talk about.  But he seemed to have snapped out of it in the afternoon."

"Do you know a Tim?"

"Detective Wilkinson asked me that too.  I don't know any Tim.  Do you know if he had any friends named Tim, Jon?" LuEllen asked her brother.

"No."

"How long were you married to Bill Sorenson?" Adams said.

"We were married two years last June."

"Forgive me if I ask too many personal questions, Mrs. Sorenson.  How long did you know your husband before you were married?"

"I met him about a year before we were married, during the picnic that me and a bunch of my girlfriends had near the volleyball field on Lake of the Isle to celebrate graduating from Southwest High School.  While we were having our lunch, one of the girls, you know how they get, saw Bill sitting by himself just looking at the lake.  She went right up to him and asked if he wouldn't join us.  Real shy, kind of nice looking, you know.  Later on, when we went to Valley Fair, Bill went with."

"When did you start to date him seriously?"

"That fall Bill just sort of fell in with our crowd and we got kind of real close.  Bill proposed on New Year's eve, real romantic like."

"How well do you know his family?"

"Bill was born in Illinois, his daddy died in Vietnam and his momma sort of lost touch after she left Bill with his grandparents."

"Are his grandparents still alive?"

"No, they both passed on about a year before we met."

"Have you ever met his mother?"

"No, Bill lost touch with her after his daddy's death.  Why is this important?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Sorenson.  We just have to ask all sorts of questions to try to find out what happened to your husband.  One final question.  Do you have a copy of his birth certificate?"

"Sure do," said LuEllen as she went to a small end table next to the couch and started looking through it.  "Here it is."

"Thank you," responded Adams.

The birth certificate was issued for William Edward Sorenson, born January 12, 1967, in Rosston, Illinois.

"Mrs. Sorenson, do you mind if I borrowed this for a while?" Adams said calmly, hiding his obvious surprise to see Rosston appearing once again.

"If it will help.  Can you make sure I get it back?"

"Absolutely, I'll make sure of that myself."

"Okay."

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Sorenson.  I'm sorry about your husband."

"Do you think you'll get the guy who killed my Bill?"

"We'll do our best."

With that LuEllen sat down on the couch clutching a photograph of Bill Sorenson and started sobbing quietly.  Her brother sat down next to her and held his sister close.  He looked up hostilely at Adams.

"Are you through now?"

"Yes, I'll let myself out the front door."

0900 Hours: Saturday, June 19, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

Adams ran his fingers through his hair.  "Boy, this case is getting crazier and crazier.  The body count is piling up."

Adams was in the antiseptic conference room of the CSAC in Washington along with Mike, Mildred, Martha, and Smith.

"What happened in Minneapolis, Herb?" asked Mike.

"You know that crazy report from Minneapolis?  The one in which a bicycle shop owner confessed to killing Winslow?  Well, he's dead, blown to pieces just like Winslow and that Clark fellow in Des Moines."

"I'll bet it was Tim Walsh," said Mildred.

"Well, he did say to some detective that he knew a Tim," said Adams.

"Sorenson was another false ID," Martha said.

Adams sighed.  "Thought he might be."

"Have you gotten any more on the communications angle, Martha?" said Mike.

"Yes, it seems that all DOD telelink communications and computer operations get screened on a random basis by a telecommunications group at the Pentagon.  This group is responsible for maintaining high quality communications, so it has the ability to randomly scan messages for quality checks."

Mike looked up abruptly.

"That sounds scary.  Are these guys cleared for such work?"

Martha nodded.  "The group is cleared to top secret.  Each member of the group goes through a security check once a year.  Anyway, I've made an appointment to visit the office Monday to find out exactly how they perform their monitoring duties.  They're supposed to be my kind of people, all hackers, so it should be fun."

Changing the subject, Mike looked to Mildred.  "Shouldn't we plan a visit to Mr. Walsh?"

"Sounds good, but how do we pull it off?  He's already seen me."

"I don't think he's seen me yet," said Mike.

"Come on, Mike.  A Chinese in Minneapolis?  You'll stand out like a sore thumb," said Smith.  Minnesota, of course, was widely known for its fair skinned, blond Scandinavian population.

"Actually not," said Adams.  "The Asian population in the Twin Cities has dramatically risen in the past ten years what with the Hmong immigration and increased Asian graduate student population at the University."

"Let's get back to business," said Smith.  "When is your meeting with the communications group, Martha?"

"Tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.," said Martha.

"Mike, the old man doesn't want you or Mildred to go solo.  I'm teaming you with Adams.  Mildred, you're teamed with Martha," commanded Smith.

"Sexist!" spit out Mildred.

Smith shrugged.  "That's my call.  Besides, Mike and Adams have been working together already and I want Martha to have backup."

1993: Dimitri

0630 Hours: Sunday, June 20, 1993: Minneapolis, Minnesota

"Dimitri."  The softly spoken words were chilling and mysterious.  Even the cold, calculating mind of Tim Walsh, conditioned to remain calm no matter what, was moved by that voice.

"Yes, Leader."

"The events of the last few days have changed our mission.  You must prepare to leave for Amsterdam, where you will receive your next assignment.  Your skills are needed elsewhere.  Go with dispatch, my son."

1000 Hours: Sunday, June 20, 1993: Minneapolis, Minnesota

Mike and Adams stopped the Avis rental car in front of Walsh Auto Repair on Lake Street.  Both Adams and Mike had carefully rehearsed the scene earlier that morning.  They would speak to Tim Walsh and when he was off guard, Adams would pounce on him and take him prisoner.  Mike was to stand watch to assure against Walsh having assistants.

The small garage appeared open for business despite it being Sunday and they could see a sole mechanic working on a Ford Granada in one of the repair bays.  The blue-coveralled mechanic was completely immersed in solving some problem with the automobile.  The lighting in the garage was dim and the mechanic had a lamp hanging on the hood of the Granada.  He did not hear Mike and Adams enter.

The smell of gasoline, used rubber tires, and dirty crankcase oil in the typically humid, hot June Minnesota day was oppressive.  Mike could just feel the airborne oil seeping into his freshly dry-cleaned summer suit.

Mike quietly reached for his Walther and took the weapon out of its holster.  Adams had already done so.  His Glock 22 pistol which he held behind his back was drawn and cocked.  Slowly, the two agents slipped silently up to the man in the blue coveralls.

Mike was to provide cover as Adams, the FBI agent, made the actual arrest.  Mike stopped short of approaching the automobile mechanic and assumed a shooter's stance with both hands on his Walther, which was now aimed at the mechanic.  He purposefully positioned himself to allow a view of the entrance as well.

Adams quietly slipped up to the mechanic.  Putting his Glock 22 in the small of the mechanic's back, Adams said, "FBI, put your hands where I can see them, now!"

"What the hell?" said the startled mechanic.

"Just do as I say.  Put your hands where I can see them."

"Okay, okay, just don't shoot!"  The mechanic's hands stretched out in front of him over the engine of the Ford Granada.

Adams holstered his pistol, forced the mechanic to assume a search position and frisked the man for weapons.  He then handcuffed the mechanic's oil caked hands behind his back.  After that, Adams roughly yanked the mechanic by his collar and forced him to stand up against the wall of the garage.

Mike then holstered his Walther and assumed a position near the mechanic, all the while maintaining a view of the open doorway.

"Tim Walsh, you're under arrest for the murder of Richard Winslow," said Adams, as he grabbed the mechanic's right arm.  "You have the right to remain silent.  You have the right to an …"

"Hey, you guys got the wrong person," he said.  "I'm Tim Tjorgeson not Tim Walsh."

Adams and Mike exchanged pained expressions.

The handcuffed man certainly did not look like the description that Mildred had given.  Instead of a craggy-faced blond man with pale blue eyes, Adams and Mike had arrested a dark-haired, brown-eyed, overweight man.  The blue coveralls stretched over a body too big to comfortably fit into them.

"Where's Walsh?"

"I don't know.  I work in the bakery down the street.  I came in this morning to see if Tim could check out a knocking sound in my car.  He said that he had to go visit his grandmother in Canada, threw his garage keys at me, and told me to do it myself.  Tim and I worked together at the GM plant in Michigan."

"We're going to have to hold you, until we can check out your story," said a disappointed Adams.

1900 Hours: Sunday, June 20, 1993: Minneapolis St. Paul Airport

"Can I help you?" the gate agent said to the blond-haired, craggy-faced man in a business suit who stood before her at the counter to Gate 11 on the Gold Concourse.

"Yes, I'm on Flight 60 to Amsterdam," said Walsh as his pale blue eyes looked deeply into the agent's hazel eyes.  Feeling uncomfortable with the unrelenting stare of the pale blue eyes, the agent looked down to the counter as if she were looking for something.

"Can I see your ticket?"

"Sure," he said as he set his brief case on the ticket counter.  Out of one of the pockets of the briefcase stuck a small fuzzy white stuffed bear.

"Nice bear you got there," said the agent, trying to be friendly.

"It was a gift from a friend.  Please, can I get a seat?"

"You bet.  Window or aisle, Mr. Tjorgeson?" said the agent without looking up.

"Window."

"May I see your passport?"

Walsh handed the agent the Canadian passport made out to Timothy Lars Tjorgeson of Windsor, Canada.

"Here you go!" said the agent as she handed him the boarding pass and passport, looking up with a brave smile.  "We'll be boarding in a few minutes at Gate 10 on the Gold Concourse.  Have a real nice trip."

"I'm sure I will."

1993: The Uncloaking

0800 Hours: Monday, June 21, 1993: The Pentagon

"Mr. Johnson, I'm Special Agent Martha Thomas with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  I spoke to you about this meeting.  This is Agent Mildred Lutsen with the Defense Intelligence Agency."

"Glad to meet you, Agent Thomas and Agent Lutsen," said a surprised Richard Johnson, manager of communications quality assurance, Defense Electronics Command.  "You'll have to excuse my surprise, Agent Lutsen, but you sure don't look like an intelligence agent."

"Don't worry, Mr. Johnson.  I know that my appearance surprises some, but I assure you that I've been an intelligence specialist for more than twenty years," said Mildred using her alias once again.  "Why don't we get down to business?"

"Sure.  Now why are you two interested in my little group?"

"This is a newly instituted periodic security check," said Martha.  "New policy established by the Joint Select Committee on Intelligence and agreed to by the President.  The FBI and the DIA are supposed to conduct these checks on various components of intelligence activities."

"Okay, where do we start?" said Johnson.

"I'd like to interview your section managers, particularly the ones actively engaged in quality monitoring or control activities."

"Sure, let's go over to the Computer Support Group."

Johnson led the way over to an office overlooking the gardens between the D-Ring and the E-Ring of the Pentagon.

The small office had three IBM PS/2 computers and color monitors on two standard issue, gray metal desks.  A Compaq desktop computer sat on a third desk.  An HP Laserjet II printer sat on its own movable stand in the middle of the room.  Against one wall, an open metal storage case with three shelves strained under the weight of computer parts, monitors, printers, wires, and other artifacts of the computer age.  The floor of the office was littered with computer cards, cables, and brightly colored loose-leaf folders claiming all manner of software.

As Mildred and Martha approached the open door, the first indication that the office was filled with computers was the strong smell of new plastic, a vinyl smell, not unlike the smell of new cars on a summer day. This scent was accented by a sharp electric smell, the smell of printers on computer paper.

On the three desks, dozens of floppy diskettes were haphazardly strewn about, along with empty Diet Pepsi aluminum cans.  A cardboard box on one desk demanded that the office occupants RECYCLE NOW!  Pads of legal foolscap and yellow Number 2 pencils completed the scene.

The sole occupant in the office, a young man of about twenty-five, sat hunched in front of the Compaq computer.  He was quickly typing computer language ASCII symbols into the unit.  During pauses in the young man's input, the video monitor would fill the screen with ASCII symbols, which were foreign to anyone looking at them except for the computer operator and Martha.

Martha recognized immediately that the operator had accessed the Army Material Command computers at Fort Lee, Virginia, and was challenging the computer in its own tongue to run certain simulations and conduct certain defenses.  Martha enjoyed watching this chess match being waged between human and machine.  She appreciated the push and shove, the give and take.  A parry here, a thrust there; it was like a fencing match, a karate contest.

Johnson knocked on the door frame leading into the office.  He cleared his throat and said, "Ted, I've got some people who would like to talk to you.  Could you break free for a minute?"

The operator turned around briefly, grunted and turned back to the Compaq.  A few quick keystrokes and the screen returned to -- C:\.

The computer operator turned around.  With some effort he got out of his chair and shuffled over to the door.  He took out a yellowed handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped his brow in one swipe.  He then took off his small rimless eyeglasses and cleaned them with the same handkerchief, then put the glasses back on his face.  The glasses looked pitifully small on his large, round face, which was out of accord with his otherwise medium build.

The man was dressed in a wrinkled long-sleeved white shirt, no necktie, no undershirt, a pair of black trousers, and black loafers with white socks.  In his shirt pocket, inside a vinyl pocket protector, were several ball point pens and a small screwdriver.  His brown hair was on the long side and he breathed in a heavy, raspy manner.

Johnson introduced everyone.  "Ted, this is Martha Thomas from the FBI and Mildred Lutsen from the DIA.  Ladies, this is Ted Grayson, my best hacker.  Ted is responsible for quality control.  Ted, Agents Thomas and Lutsen are conducting a security check and would like to speak to you."

In a high pitched, almost effeminate voice, Grayson said, "I'm p-pleased t-to m-meet y-you.  Are y-you f-familiar w-with computers?"

Martha smiled.  "Just a little, I'm a real novice.  Can you explain what you have here and what you do?"

"I'll leave you ladies in good hands," said Johnson as he headed back to his office.

"c-come in, c-come in," said Grayson.

Grayson grabbed two chrome seats, removing a pile of computer chips and boards from one.  "P-Please s-sit down," he stammered, but his stutter ceased as he started into the technical aspects of his job.

"My j-job is to test various Department of Defense computer systems for quality and for error generation."

"How do you do that?" said Martha, noting to herself that Grayson seemed unable to maintain eye contact.  Martha was aware of the typical, often unconscious, movement of male eyes toward her nicely shaped, full bosom.  This type of eye movement sometimes secretly pleased her, when she was in the mood.

What Grayson did was more troubling.  His eyes wandered and flitted about between Mildred and Martha.  Occasionally, he would sneak a peek at Martha's legs.  His nervous eyes suggested he had something to hide.

"We conduct raids, mess around in the software and challenge the systems to defend against us."

"Which agencies of the DOD do you conduct these raids on?"

"All of them, from budget to contracts to operations.  The only ones we don't touch are classified computer systems such as the DIA or special commands like Cheyenne Mountain."

Martha took special note of Grayson's comment about Cheyenne Mountain, the location of the North American Air Defense Command, NORAD.

"Do you ever raid substantive files?" said Martha.

"N-No.  W-We w-would n-never d-do that."  He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

Martha and Mildred exchanged a quick glance.

"Can you show us how you conduct the raids?" said Martha.

"Sure.  We first call up the appropriate local area network using this external modem," said Grayson as he dialed the Army Material Command computers at Fort Lee, Virginia.

Martha made a mental note of the extension number displayed on the modem case.

In a matter of seconds, Grayson had gained access to the Army computer.  He typed in DIR to the C:\ prompt and the computer responded with a listing of the various files contained on the master hard disk.  Grayson then typed in EDLIN COMMAND.EXE and the screen filled with ASCII symbols: the heart shapes, the squiggles, the smiling faces, the spades, and the diamonds.

Using the function keys, Grayson was able to modify the file with compatible ASCII symbols.

Martha silently marveled at the ease with which Grayson was able to alter the command function, thereby creating an operating file that responded to his requests.

"What do you do then?"

"Once we're in the program, we could conceivably alter the function of the computers.  However, each LAN operating file is supposed to contain defense mechanisms to defeat alterations.  Our raids are conducted to test those defenses."

Sure enough, when Grayson tried to get the Army Material Command system to respond to his altered COMMAND.EXE the system hesitated and the message SYSTEM UNABLE TO RESPOND appeared on the screen.

"This means that the operating system for the Army Material Command LAN recognized that the modified COMMAND.EXE file was defective and crashed the system.  I'd give it a B+," said Grayson.  "I wouldn't give it an A unless it stopped me from modifying the COMMAND.EXE file in the first place."

"That's fascinating," Martha said as she and Mildred stood up as if to leave.  "Both Agent Lutsen and I thank you for showing us how this is done.  Can I call you if I have further questions?"

"S-Sure," he replied, turning quickly back to his terminal as soon as Martha and Mildred left his office.

"What do you think?" said Mildred when the two women were out of earshot of Grayson's office.

"I think we have another birth certificate search," replied Martha, wearily.

1900 Hours: Monday, June 21, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"What have you found?" said Smith of Martha and Mildred as the three sat at the Formica topped conference table.

"Mildred and I thought we were on to something.  The chief computer quality checker at the Pentagon is a strange man named Ted Grayson.  However, I had him checked out and he seems to be legit.  He was born in Boston on June 10, 1965, to an unwed mother.  Although his father later married his mother, Grayson apparently kept his mother's name.  He went to Boston College, majored in computer science, and has been at the Pentagon since graduation.  He's considered to be real quiet and a loner."

Martha paused, thinking.  "He's strange, though.  I plan to raid his computer this evening."

"That guy was weird," Mildred said.  "The way his eyes wandered and how he started stuttering when you asked him about substantive raids.  Is there any other information we can develop on him?"

"Even if everything does check out, he could be a bad guy and still be born in America, you know."

"Do you ever check out families?" said Mildred.

"That's interesting.  I never thought to do that," Martha replied.  "I'll check that out as well."  Martha turned to Smith, "Do you have a computer with a modem I could use?"

"Sure," he said.  He showed Martha to an empty office in which an Epson computer and modem sat on a desk.  Martha thanked George and sat down at the terminal.

Turning on the computer, Martha booted up the computer program that enabled the modem to dial Grayson's number at the Pentagon.  The tone changes and answering tones indicated that the two modems were engaged in establishing a relationship -- a courtship ritual between two computers.  At the last soft tone, the line was filled with a scratchy caterwauling that could only be described as a bunch of alley cats fighting.

The modem in Grayson's office asked for a password and Martha deftly typed in an ASCII code word that displayed for her the correct password, which she then typed in.  The computer in Grayson's empty, darkened office in the E-Ring of the Pentagon suddenly came to life.

Grayson's computer typed out: C:\

Martha typed in: DIR/P

Martha's computer screen suddenly filled with information as Grayson's computer complied with her request.

123

DIR

9-23-90

9:50 A.M.

DOS

DIR

7-28-91

11:30 P.M.

CCPLUS

DIR

6-13-89

7:45 A.M.

PCPLUS

DIR

5-04-90

10:19 A.M.

WORD

DIR

6-06-91

11:25 A.M.

DODNET

DIR

5-13-87

3:35 P.M.

DDINF

DIR

7-27-89

4:34 P.M.

INFONET

DIR

8-10-90

10:00 A.M.

NAVCOM

DIR

6-04-91

11:13 P.M.

USAFINFO

DIR

7-30-90

9:05 P.M.

SEMPERFI

DIR

7-30-91

11:40 P.M.

Enter any key to continue

NAVCOM? thought a perplexed Martha.

Martha continued through the directory listing.  After completing the directory listing Grayson's computer re-displayed C:\

Martha typed in: cd NAVCOM.

Grayson's computer responded: C:\NAVCOM

Martha typed in: dir/p

The computer responded:

Volume in drive C has no label

Directory of C:\NAVCOM

.

DIR

6-30-92

10:10 P.M.

..

DIR

6-30-92

10:10 P.M.

CSAC

BAT

6035

7-01-92

9:17 P.M.

CSAC

EXE

12000

7-01-92

9:19 P.M.

CNET

EXE

16535

7-01-92

10:19 P.M.

LEVL

INF

35000

9-04-90

10:30 A.M.

TRAV

INF

23000

7-23-92

11:19 A.M.

COORD

PLN

76000

6-35-91

10:14 A.M.

5 File(s)      24,004,000 bytes free

C:\NAVCOM

Martha typed in CSAC.

Martha stared as the message played out in bluish letters against a black background.  Her jaw dropped in amazement at the importance of the information being displayed.

"You ugly fuck," she muttered.  "You knew every step we were taking.  How could CSAC be so stupid."

2000 Hours: Monday, June 21, 1993: Silver Spring, Maryland

In a small, darkened one bedroom apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland, the glow from the computer screen illuminated the large round face staring intently at the screen.  The only noise in the hot stifling room was the sound of steady, heavy, raspy breathing from the person sitting in front of the screen.  The windows were closed despite the searing summer heat.  A foul smell permeated the room, a mixture of body odor, decay, and must.

The image on the video monitor was reflected on the small rimless lenses of the computer operator's glasses.  Sweat poured from Grayson’s brow as the importance of the message dawned on him.  He took the yellowed handkerchief from his rear pants pocket and mopped his forehead repeatedly.

"Damn it.  God Damn it," said Grayson.

The message, from the modem attached to his computer in his empty office in the E-Ring of the Pentagon, was: IN USE.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: Silver Spring, Maryland

"Open up!  Federal agents!" said Smith, after knocking vigorously on the door to Apartment 303 in the quiet, three-story, red brick Blue Ridge Apartments on Sixteenth Street, Silver Spring, Maryland.

There was no response.

Smith turned to the superintendent.  "Do you have a key to this apartment?"

"Yes, Just don't break down that door," said the superintendent.

He opened the door to Grayson's apartment.  As the door opened, the warm rancid air inside of Grayson's apartment poured out.  The stench of unwashed clothes was overpowering -- like an unclean gymnasium.  The apartment was completely dark, the shades to the windows pulled down and the windows locked shut, even on this hot, humid day.  The superintendent, glad that his chore was done, motioned the federal agents to enter.

"She's all yours!" he said, as he stepped to the side of the door.

Smith was the first to enter the foul smelling-apartment.  As he entered he switched on the light.  The room was a tumble of dirty laundry and trash thrown about the room.  In the kitchenette, the source of the strongest odor could be seen, an uncooked chicken, left out on the stove in an advanced putrescent state.  Maggots crawled over the rotting flesh.  Smith swallowed hard not to gag at the stench.

Smith and his assistants then conducted a search of the small apartment.  It was obvious that Grayson had left in a hurry.  His IBM PS/2 was left on and he had made no effort to erase any of the files on the hard disk.  Floppy diskettes littered the table in the living room and software manuals were strewn about the tattered sofa and easy chair.

In one corner of the sofa was a pile of Hustler magazines, their pages limp from constant use.  On one wall was the foldout from the May 1993 copy of Playboy.  Strewn about the floor and on the furniture were pulp novels in paperback with titles like Madam Dominatrix, Whipping Boy, and High School Orgy.  Copies of Soldier of Fortune, PC World, and DC Comics littered the floor, along with dirty, worn white athletic socks.

Smith wandered into the equally fetid bedroom.  Grayson's bedroom was messy and sparsely furnished.  The bed was a mattress on a bed spring.  The mattress was covered with a sheet yellowed with sweat stains.  On the floor next to the bed were several empty drinking glasses.  The residue of chocolate milk in the glasses had curdled and dried.  An empty jar of Bosco, a chocolate mix, lay on the floor, a teaspoon next to it.  There was no other furniture save for a straight back chair on which stood a small General Electric color television set, its antenna bent.  At the foot of the bed, Grayson had tossed his dirty underwear.

Smith opened the closet door and was amazed to find no clothing on hangers and little else on the shelf or the floor of the closet.  The closet was the cleanest room in the apartment.  A single red velvet cord hung from the clothes rod, terminating in a hangman's noose.  Smith was curious about this odd assemblage.

"Hey, Tom," said Smith to Tom Bateson, one of Smith's assistants in CSAC security.  "What do you make of this?"

Bateson was a relatively young CSAC security agent, working for Smith.  A graduate of Yale University, Bateson had started his career as an analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency.  Six feet tall and muscular in build, the dark-haired, handsome bachelor was a popular member of the CSAC staff, especially with the young ladies.

He preferred Giorgio Armani suits and wild floral pattern neckties.  Bateson was also an aspiring novelist, having written for some literary magazines.  His dark hair was always on the long side, which was a continuing source of consternation to the much more conservative Smith.

Bateson came over and took one quick glance at the rope and the noose.  "Seems like your boy is into autoerotic asphyxia."

"Autoerotic what?"

"Autoerotic asphyxia.  It's a peculiar sexually deviant practice where the practitioner ties a noose around his neck, bends his knees to restrict the intake of air, and, huh, you know."  He made a familiar gesture with his cupped hand.   "Allegedly, the suffocation brought on by the noose heightens the erotic sensation on climax."

"What happens if the guy slips and falls or something like that?"

"That's one of the hazards.  If that happens, he dies."

"Wait a minute -- how come you know so much about this?"

"Oh, I read a lot," said Bateson, rubbing his neck nervously.  "Ah, by the way, Chief. Here's something you might find interesting."

"It's just a telephone bill," said Smith, taking the slip of paper held out by Bateson.

"But look at the numbers on the bill."

"You're right; it's full of those pay-per-call 900 numbers."

"Not just 900 numbers, but one 900 number: 588-5463."

"Grayson must have called this number two or three times a night."

"Not just that, but for twenty to thirty minutes each time, at a dollar fifty per minute, that's thirty to forty dollars a pop."

"What does this number do?" said Smith rhetorically.

"It's called Luv Lines, a singles call in number," Bateson said.

"How do you know that?" said Smith.  "Don't tell me, I don't want to know.  Remind me to get your telephone bugged, Tom."

Bateson winced.

Taking one last tour of the vacated apartment, Smith was impressed with the fact that so few personal things that one finds in someone's home were evident in this apartment.  No pictures of relatives or friends, no letters, no bills other than the telephone bill, nothing.

Smith had developed a private theory that Grayson had a contact in CSAC.  After all, how could he have tapped into the most sensitive programs of the agency?  But the question was who?  All CSAC personnel underwent rigorous clearance procedures prior to being asked to join and were subjected to constant loyalty checks.  However, there were no clues anywhere in Grayson's apartment to suggest how he had gained access to the top secret CSAC codes, enabling him to break into the computer files.  The raid had resulted in a dead end.  In a way, Smith was secretly glad that no CSAC staffers were implicated in this most heinous of crimes.

"What a poor, sick lonesome bastard," he said to no one in particular.

1993: Closing In

0745 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia

"Wait a minute, Herb," said Mike Liu as they walked down the corridor of CSAC headquarters in Newport News.

Admiral Robert McHugh had asked that Mike and Herb fly down to Newport News to personally brief him on the unfolding events in Washington.

What had struck Mike's attention was a casual look at the office directory inside the secured area.  The listing, under the Linguistic Laboratory was: Corrine Ryan, Deputy Director.

"Herb, you go ahead.  Tell the Old Man I will be there in a few minutes.  There is something I have to check out."

"Okay, Mike," said Herb Adams as he continued down the corridor.

Within minutes, Mike stood outside the door marked, "Deputy Director - CSAC Linguistics Laboratory."

Mike gently opened the door.

Inside, the office was dark, only the light of the early morning, filtered by drawn shades shone into the office.  In the corner of the office, a woman worked at a computer terminal, the bluish color of the screen bathed the office in an eerie glow.  The tinny mechanical squawks of an electronic voice synthesizer spoke out the words and punctuation marks of the text that the woman was quickly typing into her computer.

She was completely absorbed in her work and had not heard Mike enter.  The familiar, but faint, scent of Estee` Lauder perfume wafted toward Mike provoking many beautiful and tender memories.

The woman's honey blond hair hung well below her shoulders.  She was dressed in a white silk blouse.  Her desk obscured the rest of her attire.

At the corner of her credenza, a slender white cane rested.

Mike's heart rose in his throat.  "God," he thought.  "How many years has it been?"

Suddenly, the woman stopped typing.  She turned toward the quiet visitor.  Her beautiful emerald green eyes also turned to the noise of the visitor, but they could not see.

"Mike, is that you?"

"Hello, Corrine."  He could not move.

"I could always sense your presence," said Corrine Ryan quietly in her soft, Virginian drawl.

The years had not changed the beautiful face of Corrine Ryan.  Her large eyes still glowed with an emerald fire, even as they could not see.  Her complexion was as clear and smooth as the day that Mike first saw her at age nineteen, so many years ago.  She had maintained her slim, athletic build and her soft, quiet presence.

"Corrine, I was surprised to see your name in the office directory.  I had to see you.  I hope you understand." pled a subdued Mike Liu.

Memories flooded Mike's thoughts of the beautiful young, junior student with honey blond hair and brilliant emerald green eyes; eyes that could not see, victims of a degenerative nerve disease early in her life.  The emerald eyes could not have been more aptly put in anyone than this child of Irish heritage.  Corrine was from Annapolis, Maryland, where her father was stationed in the Coast Guard at the time.

The long hours spent reading to one another; she from Braille texts.  They had spent many tender hours listening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique", Simon Garfunkel, and Johnny Mathis.  The long walks around the Lawn and Grounds of the University when Corrine visited Mike.

Despite their race and cultural differences, companionship turned to love and love to commitment.  Then Mike graduated, was commissioned an Ensign, and was sent to Stanford for graduate study.  Corrine had a fellowship to study linguistics at Columbia University.   In the beginning, the letters often passed one another as they flew across the air, but then the separation had its consequences.  It was hard to maintain a romance across the continent.

Then, the day came that changed Mike Liu forever.  The letter began with an apology for not writing and closed with the news that theirs was not to be.

Corrine stayed on the East Coast and eventually married.  Mike later found out that she had divorced, but time and tears had closed that door forever, or so it seemed.

"How have you been, Mike?"  The soft words jolted Mike out of his reverie.  The flood of emotions lifted.

"I've thought about you often," said Mike in a low quiet tone.

"And I, you," answered Corrine.

"Corrine, I ..."

Mike was interrupted by the two Marine guards who knocked loudly on the door to Corrine's office.

"Commander, the Admiral wants you in his office, now!" stated the Lance Corporal forcefully.

"I have to go.  Can I call you?"

"Please," said Corrine Ryan as she turned back to her computer terminal.

Mike did not see the tears form in Corrine's emerald eyes, as the two burly Marines escorted him to Admiral Robert McHugh's office.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia

Mike entered Admiral McHugh's office.  Adams was already there.

As Mike entered, McHugh came from behind his massive desk to meet him at the door.

"Sorry, Admiral.  There was someone I had to see," apologized Mike Liu.

Softly and with unusual tenderness, his right hand on Mike's shoulder, McHugh replied, "I couldn't tell you Mike, she didn't want you to know right away.  I hope you understand."

"Yes, sir."

His gruff demeanor re-emerged, the cigar stub returned to its familiar resting spot in the corner of his mouth.   He walked over to his dark oak desk and leaned against its front edge, his arms folded across his chest.

"What do you have?" said McHugh.

"Well," said Mike.  "CSAC is under attack by agents of an unknown power, possibly renegade KGB, who have been under cover in the United States, sometimes for decades.  Whoever they are; they are well equipped both in weaponry and in training.  For example, we believe that one of their group was an ex-fighter pilot.  He was able to steal a Maryland Air National Guard A-10 even though he was ostensibly only a civilian security guard at the airport.  Also, they have apparently cracked our security and seem to have an uncanny knowledge of where our agents are at any time."

"Can we verify this information?" said McHugh.

"I had one of my agents run a check on Pentagon communications networks," said Adams.  "My agent discovered that one of the management information specialists, Ted Grayson, is very likely a mole for some foreign power.  He had an unusual degree of access into some very sensitive CSAC computer files.  We're attempting to track him down now."

Mike continued the report.  "We're pretty certain that the attacks were coordinated by undercover agents in the United States who received travel information from Grayson.  The female agent who attacked Mildred, Julie Davenport, we now believe was under the control of an agent using the name of Tim Walsh, who posed as an auto mechanic in Minneapolis.  Another member of Walsh's group may have been William Sorenson, who managed a bicycle repair shop in Minneapolis.  The interesting thing is that Sorenson tried to turn himself in as an undercover agent and, in the process, confessed to Winslow's murder.  However, his story was so incredible that the Minneapolis detective thought he was a kook and let him go.  To be on the safe side, the detective filed an InfoNet and a DODNet report on Sorenson's visit.  That's how we discovered him."

"Where is Sorenson now?" said McHugh, becoming most interested.

"Unfortunately, someone reached Sorenson before we could.  He's dead," Mike replied.

"Damn shame."

"Before Sorenson was killed, he told this incredible story to the Minneapolis police detective about a network of undercover KGB agents in America called cicadas, after the hibernating insect of that name.  This group was run by a KGB resident.  What confuses me is why the KGB or renegade KGB would be trying to intercept our messengers."

McHugh was silent for a minute.  "What if I were to tell you that CSAC has long suspected that there are other Sentinels.  Probably ones that surround each of the major continents, including Eurasia.  As you know, Mike, the Oceanographer of the Navy outfitted a Lockheed RP-3D Orion in the seventies to map the earth's magnetic field as part of Project Magnet.  The Orion, unfortunately for obvious reasons, could not map areas close to Communist-held territory.  As we've seen, low altitude flight is the only sure way we can verify the low energy magnetic anomalies associated with Sentinels.  But there were other ways."

Mike was surprised.  He had not been briefed about this fact.  "This would explain the rash of UFO sightings in Russia and South America during the period of the Socorro incident."

"And that is what scares us all," said McHugh.  "Korean Air Flight 007 blundered into the flight pattern of one of our Boeing RC-135’s at one of the suspected Sentinel sites around the Eurasian continent with tragic results.  The Russians thought that Korean Air 007 was one of ours and blew the civilian jetliner apart.  Whatever the Russians have off Kamchatka Peninsula, they're anxious not to let anyone else know about it.  Even with Glasnost, we haven't been able to penetrate that secret.  As you know, non-Russians are still prohibited from visiting many areas of the former Soviet Union.  It seems some secrets are too important to ever divulge -- to anyone."

"What about South America?" said Mike.

"For reasons that we have not been able to determine, there does not seem to be any Sentinel activity in the southern hemisphere."

"The Earth does have a tilt to its axis.  Is there any theory to that?  Maybe these things are focused in some direction."

"You know you're right.  I'll have someone check into that."

Mike said, "What about the messages, have we gotten any interpretation of the data from the Watch Stations?"

"We were able to salvage the cylinder from Winslow's body.  The message was almost lost, but the programmers at the National Security Agency were able to computer enhance the data retrieved from that cylinder.  Thank God for the geniuses at DARPA for designing such a hardy package.  Of course, the information from Mildred's cylinder and the cylinder from Watch Station One were in fine shape."

"Have we been able to interpret any of the data?"

"Only that the analog data from all three seem similar."

"What about Watch Station Three?"

"We're concerned about Watch Station Three.  The last supply robotic submersible made a delivery on the day the message was received at the other Watch Stations, but Watch Station Three had not yet detected any transmissions.  When advised that other Watch Stations had received activities, the Watch Officer initiated procedures to reconfirm no activity."

"That was almost two weeks ago.  Have we received any further information?" said Mike.

"No," said McHugh with furrowed brow.  "That has me concerned.  Although the Watch Stations maintain absolute silence, communicating only through the supply vehicles in special encoding devices or through reports from crew members at the change of watch, the commander must have known how serious these events were and should have broken silence.  Frankly, it's got me worried."

"When is the next supply vehicle?"

"Next Wednesday."

"Bob, Johnny Thapaha's funeral is this weekend.  I need to attend."

"Sure, I understand," said McHugh.  "Just be careful."

1993: Clarity

1100 Hours: Saturday, June 26, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico

Mike got out of the rental car, a 1993 Taurus sedan.  The town had changed little from the day when Mike first saw it with Johnny Thapaha.  The narrow main street was still unpaved, the dry reddish gray of the road bed contrasting with the whitewashed paint of the adobe buildings.

The town hall was still in the same whitewashed adobe building in which Mike first met Ruth.  Mike wondered whatever happened to Ed McIntyre, the Air Force officer at Holloman, he must have retired by now.

As Mike walked into the town hall, he saw Ruth, older but still attractive with her long silky black hair, now tinged with gray, in two braids over her native dress.  Ruth was busy working on a computer and did not notice Mike enter.

"Hello, Ruth."

Ruth was startled to hear the familiar voice.

"Mike!" Ruth said as she looked up.  She got up from her chair and hurried over to give Mike a bone-crushing hug.  "Here, let me call Richard," said Ruth excitedly.

Richard hurried over from the MacLaren Insurance Company down Main Street from Town Hall.  Grayer, but still the lean and athletic Navajo Mike had come to know and love like a brother, Richard shook Mike's hand vigorously.

"Mike, I'm so glad you could come.  Johnny would have missed you terribly if you hadn't come to the ceremony.  How many years has it been since your last visit?  Must be at least ten years.  You were an attorney then, now you're a big maven on Wall Street."

"You haven't done so badly yourself.  I understand that you were elected tribal chairman last year."

"Yeah, can you imagine little Richie MacLaren, tribal chairman?  Scary, isn't it?" joked Richard.  "Come down to my office, I've got something for you."

Mike and Richard walked the few blocks down to the offices of the MacLaren Insurance Company.  The offices were located in a modern looking building with vast expanses of glass and wood, a rare commodity in southwest New Mexico.

"Do you like it?" said Richard.  "It was finished just this January.  Getting the Holloman Air Force Base account really made MacLaren Insurance, Mike.  We really appreciated the help."

"I'm glad I could give you a hand."

As Richard and Mike walked into the antiseptic but inviting lobby of the MacLaren Insurance Company, Richard announced loudly, "Everyone, come meet Mike Liu, Johnny's and my friend."

All the Navajo employees of MacLaren Insurance dropped what they were doing and came forward to shake hands with Mike.  Mike was impressed by how well his old friend had done.  After the introductions, Richard ushered Mike into his second story office.

The wood-paneled office was impressive.  Richard's large mahogany desk was counterbalanced by the bright Native American colors of the couch and the Southwest Native American art that hung on the walls.  On one wall was the skull of a bison behind which were two lances, with eagle feathers and colorful tassels.  Distinctive Anazai pottery sat in the bookcase and credenza behind Richard's desk.

"Have a seat," said Richard, reaching into his desk's right hand drawer.  He took a package, wrapped in a colorful cloth, from the drawer and put it on his desk.

"On his last day, Johnny said that I should give this to you when his spirit left this Earth."

He tenderly opened the colorful cloth wrapper revealing a dusty packet covered by an old, tattered cloth.

Richard reverently handed the dust-caked packet to Mike, who realized its significance immediately.

"Richard, I can't accept this.  It's the medicine man's talisman, his sacred bundle."

"Mike, you must.  Johnny's wishes were precise.  He said that Cha-le-gai was to have this packet," said Richard, invoking the name that Johnny Thapaha had given Mike decades ago on that lonely mesa top.  "The tribal council was reluctant at first, but they respected my father-in-law's wish.  Johnny's last words to me were that you would know what to do."

Mike remained silent.

The moving Navajo ceremony had a cathartic effect on Mike.  Just as Johnny Thapaha's spirit was finally freed from its earthly bonds to fly with the hawks, Mike felt a rush of emotion freeing him from the bonds that had tied his own soul for so many years.

Much later that night, Mike sat in his motel room with Johnny Thapaha's packet on the desk.  Hesitantly, he opened the dusty packet.  As he did, pieces of rotted cloth fell away.  Finally, Mike was able to examine the contents of the packet.  The contents were quite ordinary.  Some eagle feathers, some bones of avian origin, a dried salamander, dried peyote buds, and a small cloth packet.

As Mike unwrapped the small cloth packet, he immediately noticed the sparkle of the object's metallic surface.  He picked up the strange thin, chrome-like plate and looked at it, turning it over and over again, wondering how something like this had come into Johnny Thapaha's possession.  The size of a credit card, the thin metallic plate had a luminous quality.  There was, however, no writing or other marks to distinguish the plate.

Mike couldn't see the significance of the metallic plate.  It must have been some piece of metal that Johnny Thapaha found in the desert, maybe out in the glide path of the jets landing at Holloman Air Base.  He thought that it was funny that Johnny Thapaha had never mentioned this to him, even after the old man had begun to trust the Chinese-American.

Mike experimented holding the plate in a variety of positions, the shiny plate of metal was simply just that -- a shiny metallic plate.  No matter how Mike held the plate, he could see nothing.  Mike wondered what Johnny Thapaha saw in it.

Mike was about to put the curiosity away when he held the plate to the table lamp in a fashion so that the lamp's light skipped over the surface of the plate like the rays of the rising sun.  Out of its shiny metallic surface, an amazingly clear holographic image arose.

"Holy shit," said Mike.

1800 Hours: Sunday, June 27, 1993: Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

The white T-38 Talon taxied off the active runway and on to the special operations staging area.  The screaming of its jet turbine engines abruptly died as the T-38 came to a stop inside the hangar.  The hangar was guarded by two platoons of Marines in full combat gear, Kevlar helmets and vests.  In their hands were AR-15 assault rifles with laser scopes.

The early evening night was punctured by the brilliant Klieg lighting inside the hangar, beacons piercing the night sky, and the red pencil thin beams of the laser scopes of Marines patrolling the hangar and its surroundings.

A Patriot missile launcher sat on the tarmac, its radar actively searching the sky for any hostile attack.

Overhead, the two flights of F-15Cs that had accompanied the T-38 from Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico, made one final fly over of Andrews Air Force Base and screamed into the night.

The pilot of the T-38 popped open the two canopies of the airplane and Mike climbed out of the second seat.

Mike took off his flight helmet and saw six dark gray Suburbans waiting in the hangar just outside the glaring ring of light from the Klieg lights beamed at the T-38.

Chief Warrant Officer David Lee stepped up to the T-38, saluted and said, "Welcome back to Maryland, Commander Liu."

"Thank you, Mr. Lee," said Mike.  "I see you've recovered."

"Yes, sir."

Mike looked beyond Lee at the six Suburbans lined up in the hangar.

Lee noticed the look.  "Those just brought us here, Mr. Liu.  The President has put CSAC on Priority One, Red, which as you know is tantamount to war status.  We're to transport you to the National Security Agency by helicopter."

As Lee finished his comment, Mike could hear the thumping sounds of helicopters landing just outside the hangar.  As Mike, with a briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist, walked toward the Bell Sea Ranger, Model 205, TH-57, he looked up into the sky to see six other helicopters, including four Sikorsky HH-53H Super Jolly Green Giants, floating in the air.  Each of the Sikorsky's was armed with General Electric GAU-2B/A 7.62 millimeter miniguns.

"Holy fuck," said Mike.  “It’s the Apocalypse.”

"We didn't want anything to go wrong," said Lieutenant Albert Twoomey, as he joined Mike and Lee.

"In addition, the Air Force has a Boeing E-3C Sentry circling the sky over Washington, D.C.  We don't want anyone sneaking up on us.  A flight of F-15 Eagles are also in the air.  Another flight of A-10 Warthogs are regularly patrolling the route of our flight.  All civilian and service aircraft in the Washington, Maryland and Virginia areas have been diverted.  The best part is, if anything strays on to the radar screen, we get to shoot it down."

"Won't this make the Russkies a tad interested?" suggested Mike.

"But they can't do anything about it," said Twoomey, dead serious.  "Let's go.  The old man is waiting for us at NSA."

2100 Hours: Sunday, June 27, 1993: National Security Agency, Laurel, Maryland

The Bell Sea Ranger floated a few feet off the helipad on top of the security building.  A platoon of Marines in full combat gear encircled the landing zone, AR-15 assault rifles at the ready, laser sights fully activated.  As seen from the helicopter, the red lasers painted a surreal image.  Laser beams danced about the heliport as guards scanned the area.  The pilot of the helicopter set his machine down on the hard surface of the landing pad with the softest of jolts.

Overhead, the other helicopters guarded the helipad like so many fireflies floating in a summer night.  Mike had stopped trying to count the number of aircraft that had been deployed for this brief trip.  This time, Mike knew why the commotion.  The information he had in the briefcase warranted the extra attention.

Mike was dressed in the same casual clothes that he had worn to New Mexico.  His casual appearance belied the seriousness of the situation.  He was unarmed, the Walther stowed in his duffel bag.  Twoomey was dressed in the short sleeved summer tan uniform of the United States Navy with a holstered .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol on a khaki webbed belt.

Both Mike and Twoomey jumped from the Sea Ranger and ran for the entrance way on the rooftop helipad at the National Security Agency headquarters in Laurel, Maryland.  As they left the helicopter, they were immediately surrounded by combat ready Marine guards carrying AR-15 assault rifles.  The group made the short distance to the entrance way in a few seconds.  Inside the entranceway, Master Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston was waiting.  She was there to assure that proper security procedures would be adhered to, despite the excitement.

"Hello, Commander," said Margaret.

"Hi, Margaret," said Mike, grinning.  "We've got to stop meeting this way."

With a thin smile, Margaret unlocked Mike's handcuffs and took the briefcase from his wrist.  Mike rubbed the wrist to smooth the raw feeling of wearing the nickel-plated cuff for the last twelve hours.  Margaret and a troop of Marine guards disappeared into the bowels of NSA with the briefcase.

A Marine guard came forward.  "Commander, Admiral McHugh is downstairs and requests that you join him immediately."

Mike and Twoomey followed the Marine down the stairs into the antiseptic world of NSA.  The atmosphere was one of bare, flat walls, bright fluorescent lighting, surveillance cameras constantly sweeping the office areas, and Marine guards at strategic points throughout the building.

The Admiral was in a conference room in the interior of the secured building.  The room was most unremarkable in its appearance, a typical blend of plastic chairs and Formica-topped tables.  In one corner stood a cornstalk plant.  McHugh was sitting with two men in their late fifties.  From the cut of their clothes and their demeanor, Mike decided they were probably career NSA operatives.

"Hi, Mike.  Come in," said McHugh.  "Mike, this is Robert Telson and James Taylor of the National Security Agency's Special Action Group."

"James Taylor, huh?" noted Mike.

"Yeah, but I was James Taylor a long time before James Taylor was James Taylor," said Taylor wearily.

"What's up, Admiral?" said Mike.

"These fellows wanted to meet you and find out how you obtained the plate.  From your description of the metallic plate, I think we may be on to something."

"Admiral, what level are these two?"

"They have the highest classification available and are specifically cleared for CSAC, Level One.  In addition, I've given them Socorro clearance."

The code word stated, Mike understood that he could now talk about the fourth alien, a subject heretofore taboo to anyone except Robert McHugh.

"Okay.  What I surmise is that Johnny Thapaha was given the metallic plate by the alien he tried to nurse back to health.  Johnny Thapaha didn't know the significance of the plate, but he knew that if the object were held up to the rays of light at sunrise, an image would rise from the surface of the plate.  This had mystical importance for the medicine man as the hologram showed the four points of the compass.  The number four carries religious significance in the Navajo community.  The hieroglyphics, of course, were indecipherable.  However, Johnny Thapaha was probably fascinated by the images the hologram formed as you adjust the way light plays on its surface.

"When I examined the plate after it was turned over to me, I was amazed to find that holding the plate at an angle where light can skip over the surface, five to ten degrees off of horizontal; the hieroglyphics interchange with Greek symbols."

"Holy motherfuck," said Taylor.  "The Rosetta Stone."

"You got it.  I called Admiral McHugh immediately and told him in general terms what I had.  The Admiral arranged for a jet to bring me from Holloman field in New Mexico to NSA.  Here I am."  He sat down.

"You must be pretty tired," said McHugh.

"I could use some shuteye, Admiral."

"Why don't you find some place to grab some sleep?  We'll talk more later."

1993: War

1200 Hours: Monday, June 28, 1993: Watch Station Three, Near Santa Catalina Island, California

"Damage Control!" said Captain Carlton Messinger.  He had been caught by surprise.  The explosion that shook the Watch Station was unlike anything he had experienced before.

"Captain, we had an implosion in the stores module.  Automatic isolation procedure of the module took place and the rest of the station is okay for now.  We did, however, lose the ELF system, so we have no direct link with command headquarters," said the engineering officer, Navy Lieutenant Ray Diaz.

"Any casualties?"

"The two crewmen manning the stores module, sir," responded Diaz.

"Damn."

Messinger, a career naval officer, was one of the select.  Being chosen to command a Watch Station as a brand new Captain made Messinger the youngest of all the Watch Station commanders in CSAC.  A Naval Academy graduate, he had a mercurial rise in the nuclear Navy and a resume that had caught the attention of the old man.  After the Academy, nuclear training, and a brief tour on a boomer, Messinger had gone to Stanford University in California, where he earned a doctorate in nuclear engineering in less than three years.

His initial work in the nuclear Navy had resulted in the development of a nuclear reactor that literally could fit into the trunk of a car, but which could supply enough energy to run that car continuously for twenty-five years at a constant 55 miles per hour speed, assuming of course that the mechanical structure of the car could stay intact that long.  Although limited in civilian applications for obvious reasons, including the shielding necessary for safe operation, the relatively lightweight reactor was an instant success for such applications as powering Benthic Rangers, the principal submersibles in the CSAC fleet.  The design of the Benthic Ranger could accommodate the weight of the shielding necessary for the small reactor.

The Mess-I reactor, as it was called, was installed in the new series of Benthic Rangers.  The first two were assigned to Watch Station Three as the main and auxiliary vehicles for the station.  The Benthic Ranger Model III-NR was the most exotic of all the Benthic Rangers.  For example, each of the two Benthic Rangers had been outfitted with the new blue-green laser cannon, capable of firing bursts of energy at enemy targets.  Though experimental, the blue-green laser had proven its capabilities in secret underwater tests.

"Any theories, Mr. Diaz?" said Messinger.

"The passive sonar went crazy a split second before the leak detector sounded.  The poor bastards in the stores module didn't have a chance, everything happened so quickly."

Normally, the alarm would sound and any personnel in the area could vacate before the automatic isolation mechanisms went into effect.

Messinger winced at the news.  "Sounds like an attack."

"I agree."

"Better sound battle stations, Mr. Diaz," said Messinger.

"Battle stations, aye, aye, sir," responded Diaz.

Diaz pushed the large red button on the instrument console.  Immediately, the distinctive alarms blasted throughout the Watch Station.

"Battle stations sounded, sir," reported Diaz.

Crewmen on the Gold Team scrambled to their assigned stations, normal duties dropped in mid-task.  Interrupted from a deep sleep, the members of the Blue Team bolted out of their beds and hurriedly pulled on their blue coverall uniforms.  The crews of the Benthic Rangers raced to the transfer module and to the crew module and strapped themselves into the pilot and co-pilot seats and awaited orders.

"Mr. Diaz, deploy the transponder buoy," said Messinger.

"Deploy transponder buoy, aye, aye, sir," responded Diaz.

Diaz lifted the yellow and black striped metal cover and pressed the green button underneath.  Once the button was pushed, a cylindrical canister was ejected from the command module.  Upon leaving its storage tube, the end of the canister snapped open, releasing a rubberized balloon which immediately began expanding from nitrogen gas stored in the canister.  The balloon and canister began a rapid ascent to the surface of the ocean.

"Transponder buoy deployed, sir," said Diaz.

Upon reaching the surface of the water, the canister began transmitting in code on a secret CSAC frequency.  This message was picked up by one of four CSAC satellites in geosynchronous Earth orbit over 22,000 miles in space.

The transmitted message was "Mayday, Mayday.  Station Three.  Mayday, Mayday."

On Benthic Ranger One, Chief Warrant Officer Tommy Dirks rapidly went through the checklist with his co-pilot, Senior Chief Petty Officer James O'Shaunnessy.

"Reactor."

"Critical."

"Propulsion."

"Activated, on standby."

"Weapons Systems."

"Energized, locked."

Dirks reported to Messinger, "Captain, Benthic Ranger One activated and available."

"Roger, Benthic Ranger One," said Messinger.

Chief Warrant Officer James Takeshita also reported from Benthic Ranger Two.  "Captain, Benthic Ranger Two activated and available."

"Roger, Benthic Ranger Two," said Messinger.  "Mr. Diaz.  Any information on what hit us?"

"Sir, as far as I can tell we were hit with a sonic force of considerable energy," reported Diaz.

"Seen anything like that before?"

"No, sir."

"Where do you think it came from?"

"No idea, Captain.  We had no warning of an impending attack.  None of our sensors detected any intruders or activity on the Rock."

The tension mounted on the faces of the crew members as they sat quietly.  The Gold and the Blue Teams now acted as one crew.  Lieutenant Jerry Wright, U.S.N., came into the command module.  Watch supervisor of the Blue Team, Wright was also the executive officer on board Watch Station Three.

"What's the problem, Captain?" he said.

"We were hit by a sonic force of unknown origin and the stores module imploded.  I guess the bio-feedback earphones blocked out all the noise."

The Blue Team had been asleep with the new bio-feedback tapes, designed to block out all noise.

"I didn't hear anything until the alarm sounded."

"What's your recommendation?"  The three men sat silently for a moment contemplating what was happening.

"I think you should deploy Benthic Ranger One," Wright finally commented.

"I concur," said Diaz.

"So do I.  Benthic Ranger One?" said Messinger.

"Benthic Ranger One, Aye, Aye, sir," said Dirks.

"Benthic Ranger One, we're under attack by an unknown enemy.  I'd like you to investigate and destroy any attacker.  Commence launch sequence.  Red status.  Fire at will."

"Roger, Benthic Ranger One," Dirks initiated the lockout sequence.

Messinger, Diaz, and Wright heard the soft metallic clank as the pressure doors closed, the faint hiss as the air in the entryway was displaced by sea water, and sharper clanks as the latches fell away from the Benthic Ranger.  The whirring sound of the Benthic Ranger's propellers was then heard as Benthic Ranger One lifted off the watch station.

"Captain, I suggest you inform the crew," said Lieutenant Wright.

"Yes, I guess we’d better," said Messinger as he reached for the intercom microphone.  "Attention, this is Captain Carlton Messinger.  As some of you may have guessed, Watch Station Three is under enemy attack.  This is not a drill.  Benthic Ranger One has been deployed to search and destroy any enemy vessels.  I'll keep you advised.  God save us all."

The crew of Watch Station Three waited.  With red status, any unnecessary movement or noise might give the unseen enemy an advantage, an advantage that could be deadly.  The silence included all equipment mechanical and electronic.  Except for the quiet discussion in the command module, every crewman remaining in the station sat quietly, each with his own private thoughts.

On Benthic Ranger Two, Takeshita sat in the left front seat of the six passenger vehicle.  At his right sat Chief Yeoman's Mate Theodore Westerman, a fifteen-year veteran of CSAC.  Under red status, neither crewman could talk until the launch order was received from the Captain.  The checkout of the Benthic Ranger had been flawless.  Through the front window, they could see the lights of Benthic Ranger One making a sweep of the immediate compound area.  The depth of Watch Station Three was only 5000 feet and some scientists were predicting that man would soon be able to withstand that environment without the protective shell of a submersible sheltering him.

"Benthic Ranger Two?" said Messinger.

"Benthic Ranger Two," said Takeshita.

"Do you see anything?"

"Captain, all we see so far is Benthic Ranger One conducting a -- wait a minute.  Did you see that, Ted?"

"Shit, what was it?" said Westerman.

"What do you see, Benthic Ranger Two?"

"Captain, it was big and black, about twice the size of Benthic Ranger One.  It just shot past us."

"What do you mean shot past you?"

"Captain, it was traveling at a rate of speed twice that of Benthic Rangers.  Permission to signal Benthic Ranger One."

"Can you tell what or who it was?" said Messinger.

"No, sir.  It was big, black and carried no markings.  It traveled like a bat out of hell.  Repeat, Captain.  Permission to signal Benthic Ranger One.  It doesn't know that this damn thing is out there."

Despite the advances in underwater travel in recent years, no one has yet developed an effective means of transmitting messages between two vehicles in the water.  The highly touted extra long wavelength electromagnetic (ELF) communications network performed well for base-to-CSAC communications, but was not much use for base-to-vehicle or vehicle-to-vehicle transmissions.

"Granted, signal Benthic Ranger One," said Messinger.

Westerman activated the semaphore attached to the outside hull of Benthic Ranger Two.  In International Morse Code, Westerman tapped out, "Danger.  Unknown approaching from the rear.  Danger."

Westerman repeated this message over and over again.

He was too late.

"Tommy, what the hell was that?" screamed O'Shaunnessy, as the large black object jetted past the starboard window of Benthic Ranger One.  Dirks turned to see the object, but the thing had already disappeared.

Due to the size and speed of the mysterious vehicle, violent eddy currents were established in its wake.  This hydrodynamic phenomenon is similar to the whirlpools that are formed by rivers rushing past bridge pilings.  Benthic Ranger One was caught up in the eddies and shook tremendously.  The control wheel vibrated with such force that Dirks thought it was going to rip his hands off.

If Dirks and O'Shaunnessy hadn't followed procedures and had not stowed everything away, chaos would have prevailed.  As it was, the operating manual and some other loose objects went sailing across the cabin as the Benthic Ranger was tossed about like driftwood in a crashing wave.  Dirks and O'Shaunnessy were strapped into their seats with both shoulder harnesses and a lap belt.  Even so, their bodies felt the strain of the powerful force of the eddy, a hydraulic tornado.

As the bucking and twisting subsided, Dirks struggled to regain control of his Benthic Ranger.

"Tommy, look out." screamed O'Shaunnessy.

The Benthic Ranger stopped spinning in time to directly confront the mysterious black object now about fifty yards in front of them.  Although Dirks thought he could see a window, he was not sure.  All he could be certain of was the glassy black appearance of this object now confronting him and O'Shaunnessy.

"Jimmie, ready the uranium torpedo for firing."

"Torpedo armed and ready, sir."

"Fire on three.  One, two, three, fire."

"Torpedo away, sir."

The hard-tipped depleted uranium torpedo was designed to cause damage by both the momentum of the heavy uranium tip and by a subsequent explosion of the conventional warhead behind the uranium head.  Dirks and O'Shaunnessy watched as the torpedo sped toward the enemy, leaving a cavitation trail through the water.

The torpedo struck.  Instantly, a billowing cloud of steam and sediment mushroomed from the point of impact.  In the relative stillness of the bottom, the sediment cloud hung suspended, obscuring Dirk's and O'Shaunnessy view.

"Nothing could have survived that torpedo," said O'Shaunnessy.

Dirks intently stared into the darkness.  "Stay alert."

From the static cloud of benthic sediment, the black nose of their adversary gradually came into focus.  The mysterious vessel moved slowly but steadily toward Benthic Ranger One.

"Did you see that, Tommy?"

"Holy shit," said Dirks.

"Fire the laser cannon."

"Laser fired," responded O'Shaunnessy.  The blue green beam struck the mysterious craft.  The craft hesitated for a moment, but continued its steady forward movement like a hawk going for the kill.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Dirks as he turned the control wheel fully to the right.

The propellers on Benthic Ranger One turned with intense energy as Dirks gave them all the juice they could swallow.  Both Dirks and O'Shaunnessy were pushed back into their seats as the Benthic Ranger executed a sharp right bank.

Simultaneously, the mysterious vessel gathered speed and fired a focused sonic pulse at the fleeing submersible.  The narrow focused shock wave caught the Benthic Ranger in its left rear quadrant.  The bundled energy of the focused sonar vibrated the outer hull of the Benthic Ranger and penetrated to the pressure hull.  Inside the Benthic Ranger, Dirks and O'Shaunnessy fought hard to maintain control of the vessel.

The sonic boom shattered the Benthic Ranger's outer fairing, then the Benthic Ranger's control system.  The pulse vibrated welded fittings until they cracked due to the multi-cycled harmonic mechanical stress and ruptured.  Hydraulic fluid sprayed out, at first in a fountain of reddish fluid, like a wounded whale.  As the reservoir of hydraulic fluid in the Benthic Ranger diminished, the spraying oil subsided and was reduced to a mere trickle.  With loss of hydraulic fluid, the control wheel in Dirks' hands became useless.  The electrically driven propellers continued to turn, driving the Benthic Ranger forward.

The loss of rudder and diving plane control resulted in a crippled Benthic Ranger, unable to perform its mission.

"Shut down the reactor," said Dirks.

"Aye, aye, sir."

As boron rods were mechanically inserted into the reactor in fail-safe mode, the chain reaction ramped down to a dead stop.  Auxiliary battery power remained on to provide life support functions and to provide light, but little else.

"What do you think are our options?" said Dirks.

"We should blow our ballast."

"Well, we certainly aren't doing any good here."

The second focused sonic pulse caught Benthic Ranger One full force.  The front window started to crack and implosion followed immediately.  Dirks and O'Shaunnessy never knew what hit them.  As the Benthic Ranger collapsed into itself, crushing its occupants, the buoyancy of the vessel disappeared.  Benthic Ranger One slowly fell to the ocean floor.

"Captain, Captain!  The thing got Benthic Ranger One, it was terrible!" screamed Takeshita.

"What happened?"

"Benthic Ranger One got off one uranium torpedo, but the damn torpedo just bounced off the thing like it was a Nerf ball.  They also got off one blast with the laser cannon.  The thing hesitated as it took the hit but then went for the kill.  As Benthic Ranger One was trying to get away from the thing, it fired some sort of sound pulse.  Our passive sonar went crazy.  Benthic Ranger One was crippled after that.  Then the thing attacked again, this time firing a sonic boom at Benthic Ranger One within an incredibly short range.  Benthic Ranger One imploded."

"We noted the sonic blast as well."

"The sonic blast must have been really something to have caused so much damage," said Takeshita.  "I've never seen anything like this."

Inside the command module, Messinger and his two top officers continued to review their options.  Whatever the mysterious vehicle was, it was able to fend off a uranium torpedo and had a strange sonic weapon capable of destroying a Benthic Ranger.  The speed of the vehicle was amazing.

"Do you think it was Russian?" said Messinger.

Diaz frowned.  "I've heard that both DARPA and the Scientific and Technical Directorate, KGB's counterpart, have been developing something called a focused sonic pulse gun.  Do you think that was what took Benthic Ranger One out?"

"What's a focused sonic pulse?" said Wright.

"Sound is transmitted by a rapidly dissipating compression wave rather than by energy on its own right," said Diaz.  "A focused sonic pulse is a grouped energy pulse, not unlike the trick with a pretzel can and rubber diaphragm with a hole in its center that physics professors like to use to demonstrate sonic cannons.  Our attempts at narrow beam sonar imaging have been feeble attempts to harness the energy in sound waves.

"Even whales seem to be better than us.  Some marine biologists say that whales can stun their prey with sound pulses.  I've heard recording of these supposed sonic pulses from whales and they sound like gunshots.

As we know from basic research in the field, if sound energy could be focused, then a beam of the focused energy could be transmitted to any metallic or crystalline object at a harmonic frequency that would vibrate the object violently, with catastrophic results."

"So what happens?" said Messinger.

"If the right frequency is transmitted, the object will literally explode.  You probably remember the commercials that Ella Fitzgerald made for that audio tape company, where a recording of her reaching a high note shattered a crystal goblet."

"Wow."  Wright sank into one of the chairs in the command module.

"Why is it attacking us?" said Messinger.

"If it's Russian, they may be trying to destroy the station.  For what purpose, who knows?  When I was in the nuclear Navy, we would play cat and mouse games.  Sometimes we would even bump, but nothing like an overt attack.  This is weird, especially given the changes in the Soviet Union, or should I say the Newly Independent States.  It could also be from some other country, I suppose."

"Maybe they were attempting to infiltrate American waters and came upon this installation and decided that we had to be eliminated," said Wright.

"This is a big ocean," said Messinger.  "We would have never noticed them if they hadn't attacked the Watch Station."

"What if it isn't Russian or some other nation?" said Wright.

"What do you mean, Jerry?" said Messinger.

"What if it's from the Rock?" Wright said with a worried look on his face.  He used the unofficial tag that all young CSAC personnel used to describe the Sentinels.  A term that more senior officers frowned upon.

"That, Mr. Wright, is very scary," said Messinger.  "What do you think our course of action should be, gentlemen?"

"Our primary mission in a case like this is to defend the Watch Station against any attack," said Diaz.  "However, as we have seen, we may not have the firepower to accomplish that mission."

"Let's get an update from Takeshita," said Messinger as he picked the intercom microphone.  "Command to Benthic Ranger Two.  What is the present status?"

Over the loudspeaker in the command module, the three officers could hear Takeshita's report.

"Captain, she's just sitting there like some cat watching a mouse.  As far as I can tell, the vehicle has not been damaged by a direct hit with a uranium torpedo or a blast from the laser cannon.  It's just sitting there."

"Can you tell anything more about this thing?"

"Sir, it appears to be about twice the size of a Benthic Ranger.  I can't tell if it has any windows or ports, it's a little too far off for me to tell.  I can't tell if it has any external propulsion."

"Jamie, keep a watch on that thing.  If it makes a move, holler."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"We could wait this out, Captain," said Diaz.

"Wait a minute, this thing -- whatever it is -- has already killed four of our crew.  What's to prevent it from taking the rest of us out?" said Wright.

"For one thing, the attack on Benthic Ranger One could have been a defensive action," said Diaz.  "After all, Benthic Ranger One did fire a torpedo at the thing and blast it with the laser cannon.  We've already sent the S.O.S. buoy off.  Help should be coming any time."

"That doesn't explain the unprovoked attack on the Watch Station," said Messinger.  "However, I agree with Mr. Diaz.  As long as the thing is standing off and not making any overt moves, we should sit tight."

The wait was excruciating.  Under normal conditions, life on board Watch Stations was not a holiday.  Under unexpected wartime conditions, the stress easily became unbearable.  The remaining crew sat silently.  There was nothing to do but wait.

"Men, this is Captain Messinger.  We've decided to wait this one out for the time being.  As I'm sure you may have guessed, whatever is out there has destroyed Benthic Ranger One.  Benthic Ranger Two is still on the docking pad.  Jack Christensen, could you come forward to the command module?  All others assemble in the transfer module.  Be prepared for immediate evacuation."

Jack Christensen, sonar mate, first class, was Watch Station Three's top instrumentation and computer technician.

"Yes, Captain," said the young black seaman as he reported to the command module.

"Jack, we have to be prepared to abandon the Watch Station at any time.  I want all data copied to floppies in case we have to leave in a hurry.  Also, I want the destruct sequence for all our instrumentation and computer memory initiated, but with a pause command."

"Aye, aye, sir," said Christensen, as he snapped off a salute.

"Gentlemen, now we wait," said Messinger to Diaz and Wright.

1600 Hours: Monday, June 28, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia

"Admiral, you'd better come downstairs immediately, sir.  We have an emergency."

"Be right there," said McHugh.

McHugh hurried to the stainless steel elevator that would drop him into the subterranean world of CSAC Operations.  Marine guards snapped to attention as he hurried down the narrow corridors toward the elevator.

At the elevator, McHugh gave his identification card to one of the Special Operations Group airmen, who ran it through the reader on the door.  The stainless steel doors of the elevator slid open silently and McHugh stepped in.  As the doors of the elevator opened into the heart of CSAC, McHugh hurried to the Situation Room.  As he approached the Situation Room, he noted an unusual flurry of activity, given the normal low key manner of operations at CSAC.

The stainless steel doors of the access way to the Situation Room slid open and McHugh entered.  Because of the emergency, McHugh was admitted to the Situation Room immediately, not stopping to adjust to the red light environment.  McHugh hurried into the room, noticing that the wall monitor displayed an enlarged map of the location of Watch Station Three.

"Joe, what's going on?" said McHugh.

"We've received an S.O.S. from Watch Station Three," said Captain Joseph Mannington, McHugh's deputy chief of operations for CSAC.  "The Watch Station released the transponder buoy at approximately 1530 hours.  The transmission was picked up by one of the CSAC communications satellites in geosynchronous orbit.  The message was delivered about 10 minutes ago."

"Have we tried to raise them on ELF?"

"Yes, sir.  No response," said Mannington.  "When we ran an analog check on the system, we discovered that the communications link had been rendered inoperative."

"How soon can we be on station?"

"The support ship, the U.S.S. Thomas Morrow, could be on station by late tomorrow morning.  It is presently at Port Hueneme, taking on stores for the Watch Station."

"Forget the stores; get that ship on its way as soon as possible.  Get the nearest Coast Guard Station to send some Sea Stallions on site to search for survivors and get a Coast Guard cruiser on its way as well.  Get me the Commandant of the Coast Guard."

"Aye, aye, sir," said Mannington.  "Yeoman, get the Commandant, U.S. Coast Guard, immediately."

"Aye, aye, sir," said the yeoman's mate, who immediately dialed the number of the commandant's office on the classified scrambler telephone.

"Admiral McHugh for Admiral Ryan."

"One moment, please."

"Bob, what's up?" came the soft Virginian drawl of Richard Ryan, Admiral, U.S.C.G.   "How's that daughter of mine doing?"

"Rick, Corrine's doing fine.  She and Mike had a chance meeting."

"Oh?" responded Corrine's father.

"Rick, a very grave matter has developed.  I need some Coast Guard assistance."

"Ask it, you got it."

"One of my underwater installations has radioed an emergency.  I can't get my vessel on site until tomorrow at best.  I need some air sea rescue units on site immediately.  This is the highest national priority.  The President has put my agency on Priority One, Red; war status.  Our installation may be under attack, for all I know."

"Where is the emergency?"

"About 100 miles southwest of Santa Catalina Island."

"Isn't that the highly restricted zone?"

"Yes.  Are you secure?" said McHugh.

"Wait a minute, Bob," said Rick Ryan as he punched an alphanumeric into the keypad on his special phone.

The special code punched in by Admiral Ryan shifted the telephone line from the normal scrambling mode to a special encrypting mode which was based on a randomly selected cipher that was set by the parties to the call.  To any potential eavesdropper, the normal scrambling device sounded like garbled gobbledygook.

With the encrypting device, the line seemed to go dead and was replaced by a caterwauling not unlike the noise one gets on a modem.  Messages were digitized and transmitted as series of computerized messages.  The receiving telephone, when encoded with the appropriate code, which was not the same as the transmitting code, decoded the transmitted messages.  Finally, a voice synthesizer completed the digital to analog emulation.

Although the system was considered the state of the art for very sensitive messages, the barely perceptible delay was annoying and, as a result, the system was only used for the most sensitive communications.

"Rick, we think that Watch Station Three may be in trouble.  Our satellites received the special S.O.S. that the watch commanders would only send if the Watch Station were in danger."

"What about ELF communications, Bob?"

"We can't raise them on the ELF system, either."

"Sea search and rescue will be initiated immediately.  Who's your liaison?  I'll put Captain Paul Jensen, one of my best search and rescue men in charge.  He's port master on Santa Catalina Island."

"My DCO, Joseph Mannington, will direct the operations.  He's on his way to the West Coast as soon as this call is over.  I'm going to assign Mike Liu to assist Joe in this investigation."

"How is Mike?"

"He's O.K., just a little shot up from some attacks on my agents, but he'll survive."

"Good.  Let's get moving."

McHugh put the handset down on its cradle.  "Joe, get out to Watch Station Three as fast as you can.  Where's Liu?"

"I think he's still at NSA," said Ellen Jones, who had just joined the group in the situation room.

"Get him here."

In a few seconds, Ellen had located Mike at the National Security Agency.  "Mike, the Admiral wants to speak to you."

The Admiral? thought Mike.  Ellen always called McHugh the old man.  Something must be up.

"Mike?" said McHugh, into the secure scrambler phone.  "Joe Mannington is headed to Port Hueneme, California.  I want you to drop everything and join him as soon as possible.  I'll arrange for an F-15 to get you there."

"What's up, Admiral?"

"Mannington will brief you.  It's important."  The line went dead.

Something must have happened at Watch Station Three, thought Mike.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: Port Hueneme, California

"Glad you could make it, Mike," said Mannington.

"When do we go?" said Mike.

"They're loading the new Benthic Ranger with the Mess-I reactor on the U.S.S. Thomas Morrow," said Mannington.  "We've also outfitted it with a Jason robot.  As soon as it's aboard, we'll set sail.  We should be on site by mid-morning."

The Morrow, classified a supply ship but outfitted with an internal launching bay for Benthic Rangers and supply robots, was named after Navy Commander Thomas Morrow, a Navy hero who lost his life over the Cambodian border in the early seventies.  The ship was affectionately called "Buck" by all CSAC members after the antic-loving pilot whose daring piloting of the old Lockheed Orion led to the discovery of the mysterious objects.

The Jason III robot submersible was the latest model of the highly successful Jason units that facilitated such discoveries as the Titanic and others.

Mike and Mannington walked over to the loading area of the Morrow and were welcomed aboard by the officer of the day.  Returning the salute, Mannington said, "Where is Captain Vander?"

"Vander?" said Mike.

"Yes, do you know George Vander?" said Mannington.

"It can't be.  The George Vander I know was sixty years old twenty-three years ago.  He was the commander of the USS Marysville, the oceanographic vessel from which we discovered the first Sentinel.  Crusty old guy, but he could position the Marysville like no one's business.  He was a master in his job."

At this point, Mike and Mannington were joined by an attractive redhead with flashing blue eyes in the summer tan uniform of the United States Navy.  On the collars of her tan uniform blouse were the gold oak leaves of a Lieutenant Commander of the United States Navy. The slim commanding officer of the Morrow wore uniform trousers as a concession to having to climb up and down the ship.

"Captain Mannington, welcome aboard," said Lieutenant Commander Georgette Vander, saluting Mannington.

"Thank you, Captain Vander," said Mannington.  "May I introduce you to Mike Liu?  He thinks he's a civilian."

Mike, who was still dressed in civilian clothes, reached to shake Georgette Vander's outstretched hand.

"Hello, I knew your dad from many years ago.  How is he?"

"Dad passed away about ten years ago.  After he retired from the Navy, there really wasn't anything else left with Mother having passed on when I was a child."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.  He was one hell of a sailor."

"Every chief petty officer I've ever met has told me that.  Makes one heck of a pair of shoes for me to fit into."  She smiled.  "Welcome aboard, Mr. Liu."

After the Benthic Ranger and its armaments had been stowed aboard, the Morrow made its way out of the harbor.

Captain Vander had invited Mike and Mannington to stay on the bridge during the trip to the site of Watch Station Three.  It felt good to be back at sea, even under the horrible circumstances that occasioned this trip.  The sea looked so calm on this June morning.  How could anything as catastrophic as what the emergency signal from the Watch Station suggested happen on such a peaceful, calm day.  It was a gentle voyage with only gentle swells and no chop.

Captain Vander stood on the bridge, a cup of hot steaming black coffee in her left hand.  Mike remembered that her father always had a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and a coffin nail in the other.  The scene evoked memories of those halcyon days on board the Marysville.  The only thing missing was Captain George Vander's ever present cigarette.  Georgette Vander did not smoke.

1100 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: On Site Over Watch Station Three

The Morrow arrived on site at about 1100 hours, joining the Coast Guard cutter already on scene.  Over head circled the white and orange colored rescue helicopters of the United States Coast Guard.  Captain Vander brought the Morrow to within one hundred yards of the cutter and had her crew lower a launch over the side.  Mike and Mannington scrambled down the narrow ladder to reach the launch, which was rolling with the waves.  Once aboard, the two were transported to the Coast Guard vessel.

Climbing on to the cutter, Mike and Mannington were greeted by the Captain of the cutter.  "Welcome aboard, gentlemen.  Heard you were on your way."

"What have you found so far?" said Mike.

"So far the only debris has been six yellow life preservers, no markings except for military specification numbers, and the emergency transponder buoy," said the cutter's Captain.  "We're continuing our search.  How long do you think it will take to launch the Benthic Ranger?"

"It's going through final checkout right now," Mannington replied.  "We expect to be able to launch in about one hour.  Have you found the transponder locating the site of the Watch Station?"

"Yes, you're standing over it."

After examining the life preservers and confirming for themselves that the debris was CSAC issued material, Mike and Mannington launched back to the Morrow.

"Captain Mannington," said Chief Warrant Officer Jeffrey Graham, the pilot of the Benthic Ranger.  "We should be ready to go in about fifteen minutes.  Could you and Commander Liu be in the launch bay in Benthic Ranger uniforms in that time?"

"We'll be there, Mr. Graham."

Aboard the Benthic Ranger for this dive would be the pilot, Graham, his co-pilot, Senior Chief Petty Officer John Bell, a dive physician, Dr. Ruth Fleming, a Jason pilot, Seaman First Class Alex C. Broward, Mike and Mannington.  Because of the operational module for the Jason, the cabin of the Benthic Ranger was crowded.

Graham and Bell were making the final inspection and had just completed the checklist when Mike and Mannington walked on to the dry deck of the launch bay, a platform elevator set in the bowels of the Morrow, a bit of camouflage to deter prying eyes from learning the true purpose of the Morrow.

After Mike and Mannington had boarded the Benthic Ranger, Lieutenant Bell closed the hatch with a solid muffled clang.  The O-ring seals gave out a hissing sound as they were seated with compressed air.  Mike took a seat directly behind the pilot and Mannington took the adjacent seat behind the co-pilot.  Dr. Fleming sat behind Mike and Broward busied himself with checking out the components of Jason.

After all the passengers had buckled themselves to their seats, Graham started the Mess-I nuclear reactor.  Navy divers in scuba gear stood around the Benthic Ranger.

"Morrow, this is Benthic Ranger," said Graham.  "Benthic Ranger is ready for launch."

"Morrow copies, initiating launch sequence."

With that, the launch platform of the Morrow slowly slid into the ocean powered by the silent motion of hydraulic pistons.  Looking out the front window of the Benthic Ranger, Mike watched the Navy divers standing in front of the submersible being slowly swallowed up by the ocean.  Soon, the platform had lowered itself past the bottom of the Morrow and the greenish blue light of the surface water replaced the yellowish sodium vapor lights of the launch bay.

The upper water was a teeming aquarium of life as the colorful fish of the photic zone swam all around the vehicle.  Navy divers also swam around the Benthic Ranger making their last inspections prior to sending the vehicle to the bottom.  Soon, one of the divers swam to the front window and gave the thumbs up sign and then just as quickly disappeared.

"Okay, here we go," said Graham as he started the rear propeller of the Benthic Ranger.  He guided the Benthic Ranger through the hydraulic lifts and into the bluish green sea water.  Overhead, the crew of the Benthic Ranger could see the bright white shimmer of the ocean surface.  The color gradually changed to a deeper and deeper blue as one looked downward.

Once free of the launch platform, Graham trimmed the diving planes on the submersible and began a rather steep decline.

Mike, who was experiencing the new generation of Benthic Ranger for the first time, was being given a special treat.  No longer were the trips to the bottom long, drawn-out spirals.  The trip to the bottom lasted about 15 minutes.

The Watch Station looked normal except for the imploded stores module.  However, both Benthic Rangers were missing from their moorings.  Before going to the Watch Station, the Benthic Ranger made a slow orbit around the Sentinel using both forward scanning sonar and high resolution television to search for the Benthic Rangers and to record the search.  With its mercury vapor floodlights on, a fairly large area of the bottom could be explored at one time.

Mike, more used to a limited view, was fascinated by the broad vistas available to the crew of these new Benthic Rangers.  He had not been on a Benthic Ranger since the mid-seventies, the last time Mike had been on a tour of active sea duty.  The seriousness of the mission did not diminish the awe Mike felt for these new machines.

"Wait a minute, did you see that?" said Mike, as he pointed out the shadowy object at the fringe of the lighted area.  Graham brought the Benthic Ranger to a quick stop by reversing the rear propeller.

"Shine the light about ten degrees left," said Mike.

The tension in the Benthic Ranger was palpable; no one spoke a word as the mercury vapor floodlight was electrically swung toward the object that Mike thought he saw.  As the object came into view, a collective expletive was uttered in the Benthic Ranger.  The light now brilliantly illuminated the crushed shell of Benthic Ranger One, lying quietly on the bottom, as a newly slain deer might lie in the forest on soft pine needles in freshly fallen snow.

Graham started to move forward when Mike stopped him.  "We should run a radiation scan first, Jeff."

"John, run a profile."

"Aye, aye, sir," responded Bell as he switched on the detection instrumentation.  "Negative scan."

Graham pushed the throttle forward and the Benthic Ranger slowly moved toward the hulk of Benthic Ranger One.

"Alex, get Jason ready for deployment."

"Aye, aye, sir."  Broward turned on the electric motors of Jason, ran through the operational sequences for the flood lamp, the video camera, the video recorder, and Jason's instrumentation package.

"Captain, Jason is ready for deployment."  Regardless of his actual rank, Chief Warrant Officer Jeff Graham was the captain of the Benthic Ranger and was thusly referred to in communications with crew.

"Deploy."

"Jason deployed."

The small robot left its cradle on a bracket in front of the Benthic Ranger, its small propellers whirring noisily.  As it left the cradle, it dragged its control cable like an umbilical cord.  Mike and Mannington gathered around Broward as the seaman operated the toggle control stick like an arcade game.  The black and white television monitor flickered perceptibly as the images were relayed back through the control cable.

As Jason snaked its way through the broken front window into the hulk of the disabled Benthic Ranger, the bodies of Dirks and O'Shaunnessy came into view.  The results of the sudden compression were evident in the contorted features of the two deceased men.  The results were not pretty.  The sudden compression had crushed any structure that had contained air at atmospheric pressure, including lungs and bony structures such as nasal passages.  The scavengers of the deep had already started their work.  Mike often wondered how these creatures gathered so quickly.

"Okay, we've seen enough."  Dr. Fleming had joined the viewers when Mike said that the crew of Benthic Ranger One was on the television screen.

Broward retracted Jason from the wreckage and returned it to its cradle.  Graham backed the Benthic Ranger off the wreckage and turned toward the Watch Station.

Within minutes the Benthic Ranger was hovering over the entrance lock of the transfer module of Watch Station Three.  Repeatedly, Graham pushed the hailing button in an attempt to turn on the homing beacon that would enable him to lock on to the station.  There was no response.

"Shit." muttered Graham.  "Mr. Bell, activate the standby on-board homing beacon."

The standby on-board homing beacon was an active sonar with a narrowly focused beam.  It was designed to find a small parabolic echo enhancing receiver located on the center of the hatchway on the transfer lock.  A clumsy, Stone Age means of finding the target, it was the Benthic Ranger's last chance to lock on to the station.

Bell also turned on the television camera and mercury vapor lamp located in the Benthic Ranger's transfer lock.  As Bell switched on the television camera, the video monitor located on the instrument panel of the Benthic Ranger came to life.  Graham used the combination of the video and the locking sonar to position the Benthic Ranger over the entrance lock.

Listening to the increasingly accelerating pings of the locking sonar, Graham was able to slowly lower the Benthic Ranger on to the lock.  The soft metallic clang of Benthic Ranger's landing echoed through the deserted interior of Watch Station Three.  He engaged the latching dogs and seated the O-ring seals with a soft hissing of the seals' pressure mounting system.  Afterward, Graham blew out the sea water in the transfer lock and adjusted the pressure inside the lock to atmospheric.

Bell hurried over to the hatchway and opened the hatch to the transfer lock.  He lowered himself into the lock and started to manually unlock the hatch to the Watch Station.

"Hold on a minute," said Dr. Fleming.  "We don't know what's down there.  Is there any way to check the atmosphere in the Watch Station before we open the hatch?"

Graham came over to the hatchway.  "Wait a minute, John.  Let me get the gas analyzer and some wrenches.  One of the through hull-instrumentation ports might serve that purpose."

In a second, Graham was back with a socket wrench, a crescent wrench, a small handheld gas analyzer, and an emergency oxygen mask.  He handed the apparatus to Bell and then closed the Benthic Ranger's hatch, sealing Bell in the entrance lock, which was roughly the height of a 55-gallon barrel and about one and one-half times the diameter.

With the mercury vapor lamp of the Benthic Ranger still on, Bell had ample light to work with in the cramped space.  Bell put on the emergency oxygen breathing unit and went to work loosening one of the through hull penetration lines with the crescent wrench.  He then used the socket wrench to remove the actual through hull penetration nut.

Once he had gained access to the atmosphere of the Watch Station, he inserted the gas analyzer probe, a thin stainless steel needle into the port.  He tested for carbon monoxide, oxygen, carbon dioxide, poisonous gases, neurotoxins, and radioactivity.  The instrument indicated no radioactivity and an otherwise normal atmosphere.  Bell removed the probe and replaced the through-hull penetration nut.  He did not bother to reconnect the instrumentation wires.

"Captain, everything seems normal," said Bell as he emerged from the transfer lock.

"Okay."

"I think that Captain Mannington and I should go first," Mike said.  "Then Dr. Fleming and Seaman Broward can follow.  I think that Graham and Bell should remain on board the Benthic Ranger and keep everything operating in case we have to get out of here in a hurry."  He checked his Walther and then re-holstered it.  Mannington and Broward also carried firearms, although actually firing any gun at this depth could have catastrophic results.

Mike crawled into the transfer lock and opened the hatch to the station.  The rush of air from the station was foul, a mixture of metallic and rubber smells intermingled with lubricating oil smells, epoxy resin smell, staleness, reeking excrement smells and rotting organic matter.  Mike gagged, but continued to climb down into the dark interior of the transfer module, the sound of his boots on the metal ladder echoed through the darkness.

The only light in the darkened interior was the beam from Mike's flashlight.  Mannington was the next member of the team to reach the deck of the transfer module.

"We should try to get the electricity on, Mike."

"I'm not sure we should do that.  If Messinger followed procedures, this station could be rigged to explode."

"Let me get some light from the Benthic Ranger then," said Mannington.

Calling up to the Benthic Ranger, Mannington shouted, "Hey, John could you toss down some electric cord and a light?"  The sound of Mannington's voice bounced around the still chamber and echoed throughout the Watch Station.

The added light helped Mike and Mannington make a thorough inspection of the transfer module, firearms at the ready.  Completing that inspection, Mike and Mannington found enough electric cord to extend their range to the command module and to several other modules as well.  Dr. Fleming and Broward joined Mike and Mannington after the two CSAC staffers had cleared the transfer module.

The station had been abruptly abandoned.  It looked as if the crew had just gotten up and walked away to come back again after lunch.  In one of the crew quarters, magazines sat open to the last page viewed.  In the wet analysis laboratory, a chemical titration stood in mid-experiment.  A mortar and pestle silently sat waiting for the chemist's mate to continue his grinding.  A laboratory scale waited for a final adjustment.  There just weren't any people.

And through it all was the silence that bore witness to some unknown tragedy.

The four-person boarding party gathered in the command module.

"What do you make of it, Mike?" said Dr. Fleming.

"It looks as if Messinger gave the orders to abandon the station in quick order," said Mike as he looked around the command module, itself as orderly as if waiting for Captain Messinger to return momentarily.

"Mike, here's something of interest," said Mannington holding the station log.  "The last log entry was a day ago, but it's in code."

"Well, guys, there isn't anything more we can do here.  Let's get back to the Ranger.  Don't forget the log, Joe," said Mike.

The team climbed up the ladder through the transfer lock and into the Benthic Ranger.  Bell secured the Watch Station and locked the hatch for the Benthic Ranger.  As Graham flooded the transfer lock, the crew of the Benthic Ranger could hear the hissing sound of the escaping air.

Inside the Watch Station, the stillness was broken by the soft metallic clang as the Benthic Ranger broke free of the locking plate.  The echoes of the clang hung for an eternity in the stillness of the station, interrupted only by a strange scraping sound.

1993: Martha

1700 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

"Herb, we should get the data today," said Martha into the telephone.  There was a knock on Martha's door.  "Can you hold for a minute, Herb?"

"Ms. Thomas?"

"Yes, Janey," said Martha.  "Herb, can I call you back?"  Martha returned the handset to its cradle.  "What's up, Janey?"

"We got that report on Grayson's family, Ms. Thomas," said Janey Smith, the computer analyst in Information Services, who had been helping Martha run the background checks.

"It seems your hunch was right.  Grayson's mother is a native of the United States, okay.  But his father turned up with the same false identification as I've seen with the others," said Janey as she handed the computer printout to Martha.

Martha took the sheet, read it, and then sank into her office chair.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes.  Thanks, Janey.  Could you let me have a few minutes, please?"

"Sure, Ms. Thomas."

Janey left Martha in her small, windowless office on the third floor of the Herbert Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C.  Martha's office was small and cramped, stuffed with computer paraphernalia, monitors, a Gateway 2000, an older IBM AT, a HP Laserjet II printer, 3.5 inch diskettes, and computer software manuals scattered on her desk and credenza.  Martha called it controlled chaos.

Over the credenza was a framed graduation certificate from the Federal Bureau of Investigation Academy at Quantico, Virginia.  On her credenza was a gold statue of a woman firing a revolver standing on a wooden pedestal.  The bronze plaque at the foot of the wooden pedestal said, "Third Place, Martha Ann Thomas, National Shootist Competition, Nashville, Tennessee, 1991."

Martha picked up the slip of paper that had been brought in by Janey and stared intently at the information contained on that paper.  She put down the paper, held her head in her hands.  Her forehead furrowed as she read the report one more time.

Finally, Martha got up and put the sheet of paper on her desk.  Martha reached into her right hand desk drawer for her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol in its leather holster, and put the holstered pistol in her handbag.  Putting on her suit jacket, she took one final look at the slip of paper on her desk, and opened the door to her office.

"Shit."

Martha turned off the light and closed the door.

0900 Hours: Monday, February 12, 1981: Cambridge High School, Cambridge, Massachusetts

"Good morning class, I'm Arthur George Morrison.  I'll be your teacher this semester.  The name of the class is Introduction to Computing.  I'm sure we will have lots of fun learning the wonderful world of computer science."

With a flourish Arthur Morrison raised his arms in jubilation.  In a startling display of technology, all the computers and printers in the classroom burst into life.

One computer played an electronic simulation of "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy."

Another computer started drawing a convoluted, intricately intertwined, constantly changing, multicolored line drawing.

A third computer started flashing a sequence of rainbow colors accompanied by different musical tones as the colors changed and then blossomed into a computer generated rainbow.

A fourth computer displayed a Pong game.

A fifth computer drew a chessboard and then challenged the students to play.

A human like synthesized voice on the sixth computer started asking personal questions of the students and asked them to stay and talk awhile.

The seventh computer loaded the screen full of numerical data using Lotus 123.

One printer started printing out a line by line drawing of Snoopy flying the Sopwith Camel.

Reams of computer paper literally flew out of another printer in a glorious fountain of white paper.

A third printer started drawing the Mona Lisa in color.

A fourth printer drew a large banner-like message saying, "WELCOME TO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF COMPUTERS."

Fourteen-year-old freshman Martha Ann Thomas was dumb struck and utterly captivated.  Having signed up for this class out of curiosity rather than from some deep-seated desire to understand computers, Martha Ann had come to the class with some fear and trepidation.

Martha Ann and her classmates exploded in thunderous laughter and applause.

0900 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Hyatt Regency, Bethesda

"Mildred?"

"Yes."

"It's Martha.  I'm downstairs in the lobby, can you come down?"

"Sure, I'll be there in five minutes," said Mildred as she checked out her Beretta one last time.

Martha watched as the glass enclosed elevator brought Mildred from her fifth floor room to the lobby.

"Hi, Martha.  What's up?"

"I'll tell you in the car."

The two agents left the front door, turned left and walked outside to the elevator to the parking garage.  Going to Level P-1, Martha and Mildred walked through the garage to Martha's gray Chevrolet Caprice.

As they exited the garage and made the compulsory right turn on to Wisconsin Avenue, going toward Washington, Martha said, "It turns out that Grayson's father may be implicated.  His name is Arthur Morrison.  He was my computer science teacher in high school, the guy who turned me on to computers -- my favorite teacher."

"Oh, my.  You poor dear."

"He still teaches at Cambridge High School.  We're going to have to take him in.  Let's grab the twelve noon USAir flight to Logan Airport."

1600 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Cambridge High School, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Martha and Mildred stood outside the heavy oak door with a frosted glass window.  Gilt lettering said "Room 314A - Computing."  Martha fought back her emotions.  Arthur Morrison had meant so much to her, the person who taught a young Martha Ann Thomas that the only limitation she would ever face were the unlimited bounds of her mind.

"Mildred, I'd like to take him in myself.  Can you back me up?"

"You okay?"

"Yes."

Mildred discretely took out her Beretta, checked the magazine, chambered a round, and placed it at her side.  She purposefully stood to the side of the doorway, out of view.

Martha knocked on the door.

"Come in," called out the familiar voice of Arthur Morrison.

"Mr. Morrison?" said Martha as she entered the familiar classroom.  Nothing much had changed inside the room.  The atmosphere was still the upbeat, cheerful, computer friendly classroom it had been when fourteen-year-old Martha Ann first entered twelve years ago.

At the front of the classroom, a white-haired man in his early sixties sat reading a book.  He was a largish man, his flesh pale and white with reddish splotches.  Even though it was a warm summer afternoon, the old man was dressed in a white shirt, blue and red striped necktie, and a light gray wool tweed jacket, smelling faintly of camphor.

Although the man's desk obscured the rest of his clothing, Martha knew from memory that his outfit was completed by dark gray wool trousers with cuffs, blue silk socks, and cordovan wing tipped shoes.  Morrison wore this outfit all year round.

As he read, he drew on a burlwood pipe and sleepy wisps of bluish gray smoke floated toward the ceiling in the still air of the room.  The smell of Old Sail tobacco brought back pleasant memories to Martha, who continued to struggle with the truth.

Arthur Morrison looked up from his reading, recognition lit up his face.  "Martha Ann, how nice to see you again.  What brings you back to Cambridge?  I haven't seen you since you graduated from M.I.T.  Where did you go to work again?"  He rummaged through his desk drawer.  "Oh, yes.  You went to work for the federal government.  What agency was that again, Martha Ann?"

"It was the FBI, Mr. Morrison."

"Oh yes, I remember now," said Arthur Morrison as he brought the snub-nosed .38 caliber Police Special from underneath the desk and pointed it at Martha.  "This is such a tragedy, Martha Ann.  You always were my favorite student."

"Why?" said Martha Ann.  "Why have you done this?"

"Oh, come on now, Agent Thomas.  This started as part of the eternal struggle between two powerful adversaries and now has gotten a life of its own.  You and your pitiful colleagues at CSAC and the FBI will never be a match for the organization that I have established in this weak, decadent country of yours."

"You won't get away with this, Morrison."

"So, it's Morrison now, Martha Ann.  You always had a flair for the dramatic.  I'm surprised that you came alone, I thought you capitalist apparatchiks always traveled in groups.  But then, you always were impetuous, Martha Ann.  It made you so charming in high school."

"You might be able to get me, but there will be others."

"I think not.  If I know you, Martha Ann, you probably saw this in heroic terms.  High Noon with Gary Cooper, or maybe you thought you were Dirty Harry.  I suspect you had to confront me by yourself.  Now, please hand me your weapon carefully, Agent Thomas."

There was little that Martha could do but comply.  She reached into her purse and carefully brought out her pistol and laid it on Morrison's desk.

"Now, that's a good girl," said Morrison, as he put Martha's gun in his waistband.  "Now we're going for a little ride.  What I must do cannot be done in this hallowed classroom.  That would be a sacrilege."

"Obviously you're not Arthur Morrison," said Martha.  "Who are you?"

"Now, now, my dear Martha Ann, that would be a state secret.  But it doesn't matter anymore, since it will go nowhere.  I am Gregor Ivanovich Lechenkov, Colonel General of the Army of the United Soviet Socialist Republics and a director-resident of the KGB, assigned to command the forces of the Motherland in this decadent land under Project Cicada.

"As the leader of the hundreds of dedicated men and women of Project Cicada, I have a duty to them.  A duty that transcends even the national pride that first brought us to these degenerate shores.  I must shepherd them, justify their existence.  So you see, my dear Martha Ann, you have stumbled on to the biggest catch you could have ever made in your career with the FBI.  Too bad it has to work out this way."

Perplexed, Martha said, "But why now, with Russia and America moving toward unrestrained cooperation?  Doesn't that eliminate the need for your mission?"

His eyes flashed.  "Silly girl.  Do you really believe that because a few old weak men in Moscow decide to turn on the Motherland, in favor of whining women and misdirected children, that the cause is lost?  Like the proverbial bear, the cause must go into hibernation to survive this chill, this cold wind from the west.  In time, even the so-called Newly Independent States will realize that only central planning can deliver a full stomach.  Then, Martha Ann, then my people will rise again.  No, the struggle didn't die simply because that drunken traitor Yeltsin climbed on to a tank.  No, it has just begun.”

All the while, Lechenkov got more agitated.  He pushed back his chair and stood balancing by one hand as he kept his pistol aimed at his former student.

"The same pressures that compelled the formation of the Soviet Union in 1917 are once again at play.  The centuries-old wounds, such as between the Serbs and the Croatians, resurfaced immediately when they were granted your so-called freedom.  All that your so-called liberty has done is to kill innocents so that some zealot can avenge some long lost hatred.  So much for your freedom.  Only the might of the central government of the Soviet Union could channel those hatreds and jealousies toward a common good, which it did for more than seventy glorious years.  No, my dear Martha Ann, my services will be needed for a long time to come, despite the crude attempts to terminate my valuable mission.

"What right do these revisionists have to redefine our goals at such a late date?  What right do they have to tell us that only 38,000 out of 500,000 KGB agents will survive to continue in the service of the glorious state?  What do they realistically expect the remaining 462,000 trained agents will do?  Disappear into the shadows of life?  Become taxicab drivers, shopkeepers, pensioners?  Come on, Martha Ann, surely you can see my point."

"But, Mr. Morrison, surely you have …"

Lechenkov's voice became even more strident.

"What right do they have to take my heritage away, my years of work, and leave me with crumbs?  I have served the Motherland well and this is what they, the so-called saviors of the Russian nation, give me in return?  They don't have a right to liquidate my mission and order me to simply cease and desist.  What is left for me at home, no apartment, no dacha, not even food on the table?  What is the inheritance I shall leave my grandchildren?

"Hero of the Soviet, bah!  I spit on it.  You can't eat medals and accolades.  These old men and their whimpering women are fools.  My troops are conditioned to respond to no one but me -- not to the weaklings in the Kremlin or their suckling lap dogs in Lubyanka.  They will do as I want and I shall be in a position to take the Motherland back to the clear thinking that would have never permitted the travails of Glasnost or Perestroika.  We have resources that even the Politburo never imagined it had.  The funny thing is that I haven't needed the fools in Lubyanka for years.  They just didn't notice.

"We can survive in this weak land of yours for decades, rising to serve the Motherland when the time is right.  Like the noble cicada, my troops shall hibernate for years, for decades, until I give them the signal to attack.  The information that your CSAC people have been transmitting will surely be useful to the few of my trusted comrades who remain in Lubyanka, who serve to wait for the right moment to strike and restore the glory of the October Revolution.

"Even if the Motherland doesn't come to its senses, there will be others: the Bosnians, the Croats, the Serbs, the Iraqis, the Syrians, the Colombians, the Iranians, the North Koreans, and, yes, even groups inside your own decadent nation who will find good use for our services.  Yes, there are groups that would welcome the discipline and mastery of skills that my troops have developed.  Even more than Mao Tze Tung, I have learned to swim like the fish in the sea.

"My men and women are specialists in all forms of military conquest.  There are weapons specialists, sappers, pilots, marine experts, you name it.  They merely await my word and they strike.  They live their lives quietly.  They could be your neighbor, your co-worker, the bus driver, your best friend, or even your lover.  But they are all cicadas and they belong to me."

"What about Ted Grayson?" said Martha.

"Such a poor boy, never could get along with his mates.  After he was suitably alienated from his schoolmates, it was a simple matter to bring him in."

"You exploited your own son?"

Lechenkov shrugged.  "Exploit is a harsh word.  I did nothing more than any American parent in guiding my son into the family business.  He has a special skill, a skill that enabled us to know what you were doing at all times."

The matter was concluded.  Martha now knew the startling truth.  The attacks on CSAC personnel were not directed from Moscow or any other foreign government.  They were the last futile strikes of Colonel General Gregor Lechenkov, totally without orders from his superiors.  The creature that Russia had created in the Cold War survived even as its creator did not.

As the two walked out the door, Lechenkov held Martha's right arm tightly with his left hand.  His right hand held the snub-nosed .38 hidden in his jacket pocket.

Lechenkov looked out the door to the hallway.  All he saw were a few students loitering in the hall and an old lady in a silk summer dress and dark blue blazer drinking water from one of the porcelain fountains in the hall.

"Please don't make any wrong moves, Martha Ann, or innocent people will be hurt," whispered Lechenkov, as he and Martha left his classroom.

"Hi, Mr. Morrison!" said one young girl, looking for the world like a young Martha Ann Thomas, so bright and full of energy.  Her honey blond hair bounced as she tilted her smiling head in greeting.  The student was a part of the Cambridge Summer Fun program, in which gifted and talented students could take one or two courses for extra credit.

"Hi, Sue Ellen.  Now don't forget your computer project is due next week," said computer teacher Arthur Morrison.

"Okay, Mr. Morrison.  Don't worry, it's almost done."  She bounced along her way, her silky hair swinging in time with her walk.

Taking Martha firmly by the arm, Lechenkov started down the long corridor toward the stairs, past the white-haired old woman drinking from the porcelain water fountain.

As the two walked past her, Mildred spun around, aimed her Beretta at the back of Lechenkov's head and pulled the trigger several times.  The loud reports of the Beretta echoed through the brick and wood corridor, kids flattened themselves on the highly polished linoleum floor, and Sue Ellen started screaming hysterically.

The three bullets found their mark in the right rear of the Lechenkov's head.  The small caliber slugs of the Beretta did not tear his skull apart but they did their deadly duty nonetheless.  Only one of them exited from his forehead leaving a comparatively small exit wound and eventually lodging in the opposite wall.

Searing pain turned to brilliant whiteness and was followed by utter blackness as Lechenkov's lifeless body jackknifed and fell to the hard floor.  His grip on Martha' right arm loosened as he collapsed in a pool of red blood, his right hand still clutching the snub-nosed .38 in his right suit jacket.  In his death throes, his right hand squeezed the trigger of the .38, the loud report and ricochet of the slug echoed in the hallway.

Martha Ann knelt down to cradle the bloodied lifeless head of the man she had come to know as her second father, the genius who had taught her the world of computer science, and the marvelous things that those computers could do.  Martha gently closed the eyelids of Arthur Morrison, eyes that stared lifelessly at his favorite pupil.

As Martha knelt, her emotions welled up in her hazel eyes.  She remembered the gentle, exciting computer science teacher who had such a way with his students.

Martha put her forehead in her right hand as she hugged herself in pain. All she could say was, "Damn, damn, damn."

Mildred came up, holding her gold Defense Intelligence Agency badge for all to see.  "Are you okay?"

"Yes, Mildred.  You saved my life, but God it hurts."

2100 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Arlington Heights Apartment, Arlington, Virginia

A tired and mentally exhausted Martha opened the door to her apartment in Arlington Heights, overlooking the maze of roads called the "Mixing Bowl" by all the radio traffic announcers.  This had been the worst day in her life.  The emotional drain of watching Arthur Morrison die left Martha shocked and depleted.  It was hard for her to separate Arthur Morrison, the beloved computer science teacher, from Gregor Ivanovich Lechenkov, the despised enemy agent.

After locking the door, Martha turned on her personal PS/2 computer and checked her E-mail.  The blue screen indicated that she had mail.  Martha keyed in the code to open her mailbox.  There was only one new message.  It said:  "I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE."

Martha stared at the ominous message.  Muttering to herself, "You perverted fuck, you can't scare me," Martha reached inside her handbag and took out her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol.  With her gun in the ready position, Martha carefully checked out her small third-story apartment room by room, including the balcony off her living room.  Having satisfied that she was alone, Martha dialed the Hyatt Regency in Bethesda, Maryland, where Mike and Mildred had established their headquarters.

"Hi, Mildred," said Martha as Mildred answered the telephone.

"Oh, hi, Martha.  How are you?  Long time no see," answered Mildred, as she put down the burlwood pipe she had been admiring.

"Look's like that slime ball Grayson is still lurking around.  He left a message on my E-mail."

"What is E-mail, dear?" said Mildred.

"Sorry, E-mail stands for electronic mail.  Anyone who has your E-mail address can leave you a message.  It looks like Grayson found my address."

"So what's our next step?" said Mildred.

"We probably should find out what George and his group found for starters."

"I'll call him in the morning.  Try to get some sleep, dear," said Mildred.

That night, as Martha prepared for bed, she made one more sweep of the tastefully decorated rooms, her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol at the ready.  Her living room was neatly laid out with a moderately expensive set of matching sofa and armchair of white crushed velvet.  A black wood rocking chair sat in one corner of the living room, the gold crest of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was impressed on the headrest of the chair.  On Martha's parquet floor was a braided brown rug, given her by her mother.

In the dining area of the living room, instead of a dining table, Martha had opted for a computer work station made of oak hardwood.  Her IBM PS/2, Hayes Modem, and Epson 510 printer sat on the work station.  Martha's bedroom was where her femininity showed.  Her single bed was covered in a frilly white comforter, matched by the lace curtains on the windows.  Her antique dresser and makeup table were constructed of solid oak.  The entire apartment glowed with Martha's personality and her favorite perfume, Esteè Lauder White Linen.

Having satisfied herself that Grayson was not in her apartment and having once again checked the door and window locks, Martha undressed, glad to be free of the restraints of society, and stepped into her bath for a long hot, stress-relieving shower.  Her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol sat in its holster, hanging on a towel hook within her easy reach.  The hot water splattered on her tired body, each drop washing away the sadness and terror of the day.

After her shower, Martha dried herself carefully and, wrapped in her large soft white towel, walked into her bedroom.  Dropping the towel on the white wall to wall carpet in front of the full length mirror on her closet door, Martha admired her lithe, athletic body, her terrific mane of strawberry blond hair, the accent of her hazel eyes that got greener when she was excited, her flawless skin, her firm full breasts, the flat stomach that was the product of countless sit ups, and her slim hips.  If Martha had any regret, it was that God had denied her fuller hips.  She turned once in the mirror checking her smooth back and well turned legs one more time.  Yes, she was beautiful, but with a soft sigh she turned from the mirror.

Still nude, Martha turned down the covers on her bed and climbed in, happy that this day was finally over.  She placed her Glock pistol under her lacy pillow, turned off her table light, and fell fast asleep.

Down in the parking lot of Martha's apartment, the round-faced driver sighed as the lights went out in Martha's third story apartment.  In the relative coolness of the summer night, the interior of the car was steamy.  He removed his fogged rimless eyeglasses and wiped them dry with his yellowed handkerchief.  He brought to his nostrils the silk panties that he had so carefully taken during his time in her apartment.  He had conducted his raid so stealthily that she would never miss this one item.  He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Esteè Lauder White Linen.

His fantasies had run rampant as Martha's shadow had moved about the lighted apartment and especially when she appeared at the windows, checking the locks.  He was happy that his message to her had concerned her; she was his.

His hand reached for the ignition key and turned it, starting the recently stolen Oldsmobile Cutlass.  Without turning on the lights, Grayson drove out of the parking lot.  Once on the main road, Grayson turned on the car lights and drove to the Starlight Motel in Roslyn, where he was currently staying.

0800 Hours: Thursday, July 1, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"So, our boy Ted has taken a liking to you," said Smith in a weak attempt at humor.

"I can't prove it, but I have this uneasy feeling that Grayson may have broken into my apartment.  God, that gives me the creeps," Martha shuddered.  "What should we do?"

"A strange bird," said Mildred, as she looked up briefly from her knitting.

"Martha, I'm going to post some agents to guard your apartment," said Adams, who now felt sorry that he had involved her in this tragic mess.

The three were in a conference room in CSAC's Tenley Circle headquarters in Washington.  The other people in the conference room were Mildred, Bateson, and Joyce Ellington.  Smith had invited Bateson and Joyce to the meeting because he had a plan to catch the elusive Mr. Grayson.

"This guy is a sicko.  Bateson determined that Grayson is into calling singles party lines, deviant sex practices, and other weird stuff.  I think we might be able to trap this guy with a decoy."

"What kind of decoy?" said Martha.

"We thought we could get you to pose for Hustler," said Bateson as he cast an admiring eye over Martha' shapely body.

Martha replied, "Watch it, creep!"

"Just joking."

"Quit clowning around," said Smith.  "I want this creep.  He's responsible for too many dead CSAC people."

A serious Bateson took up the discussion.  "Grayson is obsessed with a particular phone-in service, LUV LINES.  From his telephone bills, it seems that he spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone to this one service.  My proposal is that we monitor this service and when Grayson calls, try to set up a sting."

"How do we do that?" said Mildred.

"You and Martha are the only ones who recognize Grayson's voice.  I propose that the two of you monitor the phone-in line.  We'll get a court order permitting us to do so.  Compulsive behavior like this usually is highly predictable.  Grayson normally calls in between the hours of nine and eleven in the evening.  I suggest we monitor the line during these hours."

"What happens when he calls in?" inquired Martha.

"That's when Joyce steps in.  Grayson might recognize your voices.  When you have determined that he's joined the call, get Joyce on the line.  Her cover is that she's a computer analyst at the Department of Transportation, new in town and anxious to meet other hackers.  We reckon our boy won't be able to resist that."

"Pretty slick," said Martha.

"After the fish is hooked, it's up to Joyce to reel him in.  We'll set up a rendezvous and snag him."

Mildred started to gather her things.  "When do we start?"

"Tonight," said Smith.

2100 Hours: Saturday, July 3, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Hi, this is Jean.  I'm twenty-six, brunette, five foot two and love to jog."

"Hi, Jean.  This is Scott, six foot two and I jog every day."

Covering the telephone, Martha said, "I sure hope Grayson gets on soon, I'm not sure I can take this too much longer."

"Wait a minute, dear," said Mildred.

"H-Hello, t-this is Ted.  I'm l-looking for someone w-who s-shares an interest in computers."

"Get Joyce."

Joyce came into the room, sat down, and picked up the handset.  "Hi, this is Joyce.  I just started work at DOT as a computer analyst.  I'm five feet tall, with long black hair.  I'm new in town and would like to meet some nice hackers."

"H-Hi J-Joyce, I'm Ted.  I w-work as a computer analyst too."

"You sound nice, Ted.  Are you single?"

"Y-Yes.  Y-you sound n-nice t-too."

"The other computer people in my department are all married, and are no fun at all.  They're such dweebs.  Where does a single hacker get to meet some interesting people?  Singles bars are so boring."

"S-Say, I know a computer club that's really great.  W-would y-you l-like t-to come?"

"Sure, will it be a problem?"

Grayson wiped his sweating brow, a big smile spread across his corpulent face, his right fist raised in jubilation.  "N-no, no.  I w-would b-be pleased to take you.  I'll m-meet you at the corner of F-Fourteenth and H Street, Northwest, at nine thirty tomorrow tonight, okay?"

"It's a little late, but okay.  I'll see you then, Ted."

Joyce put down the telephone and turned towards the others in the room with a great big grin.

"Okay, this is what we do," said Smith.  "Martha and Tom will stake out the corner of Fourteenth and H Streets.  We need someone who can recognize Grayson.  Mildred, you and Adams will be in a follow car.  If Grayson starts to drive away, nail him.  Joyce, we're going to wire you for sound.  Do you feel up to this?  We could nail him without you, you know."

"Come on, George.  I'm a big girl," said Joyce.

2130 Hours: Sunday, July 4, 1993: Fourteenth and H Streets, N.W., Washington, D.C.

Grayson, showered and in fresh clothes, walked along Fourteenth Street going north.  He was in heaven.  Someone wanted to meet him.

As Grayson walked north, a car turned left from Fourteenth Street on to H Street.  As the headlights of the car swung with the turn, the light swept the cars parked on the north side of H Street, particularly the nondescript tan sedan parked on Fourteenth Street at the corner of Fourteenth and H Street.

What was that? thought Grayson, as the light of the turning car illuminated the beautiful mass of strawberry blond hair belonging to the driver of the sedan.

"Shit!" he muttered as he slipped quietly into the shadow of a nearby office building's doorway.

0800 Hours: Monday, July 5, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Shit! Stood up by a cretin.  There goes my reputation," lamented Joyce.

"What happened?" said Smith.

"Don't know, boss.  We waited until midnight and Grayson never showed," said Bateson.

"Anything at all happen?"

"Yeah, three different motorists from Virginia stopped and asked if I wanted to party," said Joyce, smiling.

"Joyce, they thought you were a teenage hooker," said Bateson, quietly.

"Oh," said Joyce, blushing.

1900 Hours: Monday, July 5, 1993: Arlington Heights Apartments, Arlington, Virginia

Returning to her apartment, Martha was as depressed as she had ever been.  She was sure that they would have caught Grayson last night, but somehow he had gotten away.  Was it something I had failed to do, she wondered.

Martha carefully checked the door to her apartment, something she had started to do regularly.  It looked okay so she unlocked the door and stepped in.  Turning on the light and locking the dead bolt security lock to her door; Martha took off her jacket and started to unbutton her blouse, thinking how nice a long hot shower would feel.  By the time she reached her bedroom door, she had her blouse and skirt off and was dressed only in her bra and panties.  As she entered her bedroom, she reached behind her back to unhook her bra, and her firm breasts fell free.

A large hand grabbed her by the mouth, and the point of a knife pricked the firm soft skin of her back.

"Y-You thought y-you c-could play w-with m-my affections, d-didn't you!"

"Ted, let's talk about this.  All we want to do is help you."

"W-What do y-you think I am, stupid?"

"Come on, Ted.  Isn't there anything I could do to persuade you that we just want to help?" said Martha in her sweetest voice.

"N-no, you have to die for what you did!"  He pushed Martha out of her bedroom into the living room.  "You can't f-fuck around with me like that."

Grayson dragged the struggling Martha around the living room and came up with his plan.  "It's going to be an accident; you'll fall off your balcony."

Grayson opened the curtains to Martha's balcony and slid open the glass door.  He pushed Martha to the railing of her apartment balcony.

"What the fuck!" said Special Agent Joseph Garcia.  He bolted out of his car, simultaneously drawing his .40 caliber Glock 22 Pistol.  At the same time, his partner, Special Agent Tonya Jefferson jumped out of her side of the car and was running toward the apartment building, gun drawn.

Pinned against the railing of the balcony, Martha fought with the foul-smelling Grayson, struggling to get the knife.  Grayson kept trying to hoist the slim FBI agent over the railing to the hard concrete three stories below.

Garcia tried to get a clear shot of Grayson as Tonya raced upstairs to try to get into the apartment.  The struggling couple moved too quickly for him to squeeze off a good shot.

At the same time Martha struggled with Grayson to prevent him from throwing her over the railing, she fought for control of the knife.  Grayson kept the knife at her throat, Martha grabbed his wrist and tried to turn the knife toward him, but he was too strong.

Soon, Tonya was kicking at the apartment door.  The commotion briefly distracted Grayson.  That was all that Martha needed.  She maneuvered the knife toward Grayson and plunged it into his chest and with a twisting motion escaped from under his body.  The look on Grayson's face was one of surprise at this unexpected turn of events, his body doubled forward in pain, fell over the railings and struck the concrete below with a solid thud.

Her breasts drenched red with Grayson's blood, Martha rushed over to the door, unlocked it, and let Tonya Jefferson in.

"You okay, Martha?" said Tonya as she rushed to the balcony.

Martha could only nod yes as she slumped down on the floor in fits of tears.

On the pavement below, the rotund face of Grayson stared out into emptiness; his rimless glasses lay broken at his side, a pool of blood spread under his head and under his chest.  His arms were spread apart as if he had expected to break the fall.

1993: The Future

1930 Hours: Tuesday, July 6, 1993: The White House

"Mr. President, I apologize for interrupting the dinner.  The message finally came in from the NSA and I knew that you wanted to review it as soon as possible," said Vice Admiral Francis Tillingham, the President's National Security Adviser.  Tillingham was calling from the reception area to the Oval Office.

"Yes, Frank, I'll be there in a few minutes," said the President.  "I figured that something was up with all that commotion outside."

Outside the White House, a battalion of heavily armed Marines had stationed themselves at critical points on Pennsylvania Avenue and on the South Lawn.  Overhead six Sikorsky HH-53H Super Jolly Green Giants languidly floated in the night air like hawks waiting for their prey.  Even higher, a squadron of A-10 Warthogs circled the sky above the White House.

Tillingham put the telephone down and turned to the small group of men hastily called to the White House.  The group included McHugh; his boss Admiral Thomas Oliver, the chief of CSAC; FBI director Judge James Alexander; the director of the National Security Agency, Admiral William Smith; the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Thomas Gooding; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Emerson Ryder; the Secretary of State Jason Littleton; the Secretary of Defense Gavin McKnight; and Mike, who carried an aluminum suitcase in his left hand.  Mike was dressed in a Navy uniform.

"The President will see you now," said Maryanne Swanson, the President's executive assistant.

The group of men entered the Oval Office, quite small by modern executive office standards.  Miss Swanson had arranged for some extra chairs, knowing that this large group was on its way.  On the white couch in front of the fireplace was already seated Bo Reddington, a trusted adviser to the President, who had been a law partner of the President's and now served his former partner as a special assistant.  The heavy-set Reddington in typical fashion had his shirt collar unbuttoned and his tie loosened.

After the group had entered, the President entered through the door to the small private study off of the Oval Room.  The lean, athletic President was dressed in a tuxedo, having come from a formal dinner in the East Room of the White House.  With him was Thurgood Bensen, senior senator from Alabama, who was the chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence Oversight.  Bensen, also dressed in a tuxedo, was a long-time political ally of the President of over thirty years.

"Mr. President, I think you know everyone here but Mike Liu," said Tillingham.

"Hello, Mr. Liu.  I understand you work with my old friend, Seth Wickerspoon.  How is Seth these days?"

Seth Wickerspoon, chairman and chief executive officer of Franklin Smedley Associates, had served with the young Navy ensign, who eventually became President of the United States, during World War II in the Office of Strategic Services.  Mike's involvement in CSAC was well known to Wickerspoon.

"Seth is fine.  He sends his greetings, Mr. President."

"Okay, Frank.  What do we have?"

"Mr. President, you're well aware of CSAC and its missions.  As you're aware, surveillance was instituted in the early seventies to monitor the presence of four Sentinels located strategically in the waters of the United States.  Both Admiral McHugh and Commander Liu have been on this project since its inception.

"As you know, the four sites were suspected to be of extraterrestrial origin and were believed to be performing some monitoring function.  About four weeks ago, signals were emitted from three of the sites.  These signals were encoded and sent by courier to the National Security Agency where efforts were made to decipher the messages, if any, that we suspect were being sent.

"The fourth, Watch Station Three, off the California coast was partially destroyed by as yet unidentified hostile fire.  The majority of the crew apparently abandoned the station in Benthic Ranger Two, but we have not found any clue as to their whereabouts.  We don't know if the destruction of the station was by Russian or other forces using weapons developed by the KGB's Technical Directorate or by alien forces from the object.

"However, we're reasonably certain that the three intercepted messages were identical, leading to the conclusion that the fourth Sentinel would have sent a similar message.  The decoding of these messages was facilitated by a metallic plate discovered by Mike Liu.  Here, maybe Mike should pick up the briefing."  Tillingham nodded to Mike.

"Mr. President, the plate was left to me by a Navajo medicine man by the name of Johnny Thapaha, who apparently befriended an injured alien, who had survived the crash at the Socorro, New Mexico, location in the late forties."

Several heads jerked up on the disclosure of a surviving alien, a closely held CSAC secret until this moment.  Mike hesitated.

"Go on, Commander Liu," said the President of the United States.  "I'm aware of the fourth alien."

More heads turned toward Mike.  Several of the assorted men made notes in notebooks.  Tillingham noticed the note taking and whispered to the President, who nodded.

Quietly, the President said, "Gentlemen, I note that this news appears to be somewhat disturbing to some of you.  I'll tell you that the fact of the fourth surviving alien was considered so secret that only a few people in the United States other than the President of the United States were aware of its importance.  I trust that none of you will carry that information out of this room."

Wads of paper appeared from small notebooks and were put into the ashtray on the coffee table in front of the President.  Tillingham took out a gold cigarette lighter, flicked it on and set the wads of paper aflame.  The acrid smoke from the burning paper quickly filled the room and just as quickly dissipated.

"Now, Commander, please continue."

"Johnny Thapaha meant no harm by attempting to save the fourth alien from the crashed vehicle.  In the Navajo religion, the concept of four is very important.  There are four directions, four colors, and four seasons.  Because of this and, perhaps because this alien took four days and four nights to expire, Johnny Thapaha believed him to be an emissary from the Great Spirit.  Johnny Thapaha called him 'the traveler.'  Before the alien died, he entrusted the metallic plate to Johnny Thapaha.

"When you hold the plate at the correct angle so that the light skips across the surface, a hologram rises from the plate.  Keep in mind that Johnny Thapaha may have been the first human ever to see a real hologram, certainly one this clear and distinct.  The hologram displays the four points of the compass plus a translation of the Theban language to Greek."

"Why do you call it the 'Theban' language, Mr. Liu?" said General Ryder, who was a historian by education.

"The translation has allowed us to decipher much of the data that was rescued from the alien craft retrieved from the Socorro incident," said Mike.  "The hieroglyphics used in describing the alien's planet corresponds to the 'th' and the 'b' sounds in English.  The term 'Theban' arises from those hieroglyphics, not from any attempt to imply that there is an Egyptian connection."

"Thank you."

"Anyway, the code enabled us to interpret the messages from the Sentinels using the Cray Mark II Super Computer at the National Security Agency.  Johnny Thapaha's fascination with the plate apparently coincided with his sunrise worship ceremony."

"How's that?" said Senator Bensen.

"Johnny Thapaha apparently could get the hologram to appear by holding the plate up to the rays of the rising sun," said Mike.

"Where is the plate now?" said the President.

"I have it here," said Mike as he encoded an alphanumeric into the keypad on the aluminum briefcase.  Mike opened the case and then took out the velvet box in which sat the mysterious shiny plate that Johnny Thapaha had treasured for so many years.  As Mike opened the box, the lights of the Oval Office danced over the surface of the plate.

"Go ahead, Mr. President.  You can't appreciate the true significance unless you hold it up to the light.  Here, let me show you how."

"Thank you, Commander."

The President held the plate so that the light of the table lamp skipped over the surface like the rays of the rising sun.  The hologram rose out of the plate and the President saw what Johnny Thapaha had seen over the forty-some years he had welcomed the morning sunrise with plate in hand.  The effect was startling.  The President passed it over to Thurgood Bensen, who in turn passed it to the next man in the room.

The plate was finally returned to Mike who returned it to the velvet box and the box into his aluminum briefcase.  "We're currently translating other data that had been recovered from the crash sites.  Early indications are that we're finding out some very interesting information."

"Where are these aliens from?" said Director Gooding of the CIA.

"We believe that Thebes is a planet much like ours, circling a dying red star near Alpha Centauri," said Admiral Oliver.

"What are the implications of what you just said, Admiral?" said Senator Thurgood Benson.

"So far, this is just speculation," said Oliver.  "Our analysts haven't had the chance to interpret all the documents found on the alien craft in our possession.  However, we believe that the Theban people are concerned with the ebbing power of their sun and have determined that our planet is a potential alternative."

"Damn."

"What about Watch Station Three?" said Bo Reddington.

"Let me turn this over to Admiral McHugh."

"Watch Station Three was deserted, as was reported earlier," said McHugh, as he walked to the map on the easel that had been set up in the office.  The station is located here, about 100 miles off of Santa Catalina Island."

McHugh pointed to the location of the Watch Station on the map.

"We inspected the site.  The object appears to be as tranquil as always, but the station was empty.  The Coast Guard found debris from Benthic Ranger One.  We found what remained of Benthic Ranger One and its crew.  It's best to leave them there, it wasn't pretty."

"What about the second Benthic Ranger?" said Bo Reddington.

"Benthic Ranger Two is missing and, with her, the remaining crew from Watch Station Three.  Part of the Watch Station had imploded, leading us to suspect that Messinger abandoned the Watch Station, taking his crew with him.  Carlton Messinger -- you probably know him, Admiral Smith -- was the inventor of the Mess-I reactor.  We were looking for a lot out of that guy."

"Damn shame, he was top in his class at the Academy.  I taught him mechanics," said Admiral Smith.

"Messinger did have the presence of mind to enter a fairly detailed report into the station log.  Fearing that the attacker might intercept any messages or take any information in the memory of the computer, Messinger had the memory erased and destroyed.  The message he left was encrypted by manual means and was found during our inspection of the command module by Captain Mannington.

"What did Messinger say?" said the President.

"Messinger described the earlier events already reported to you.  However on the critical point concerning the abandonment of the Watch Station there was nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing, except an order to abandon the station, sir," said McHugh.  "After the search team got topside, we instituted a wide area search including the use of the latest Nematode, a towed side-scan sonar and closed circuit television package capable of extremely deep operating depths.  Nothing.  Benthic Ranger Two simply vanished.

"Apparently, Watch Station Three was attacked by a black unidentified submersible with an incredible weapon, a focused sonic pulse, which caused the stores module of the Watch Station and Benthic Ranger One to literally explode.  The focused sonic pulse is a theoretical weapon that both DARPA and the KGB's Scientific and Technical Directorate have been trying to develop for years.

"There is also a suspicion that the North Koreans might have developed this technology.  Some analysts at Central Intelligence believe that a core group of the KGB's Scientific and Technical Directorate staff may have defected to the North Korea following Glasnost and the dismantling of the KGB staff at Lubyanka."

"Why North Korea, Admiral McHugh?" said the President.

"Mr. President, we suspect that the core group at the Directorate were diehard Bolsheviks," said CIA Director Gooding.  "But even Bolsheviks enjoy the good life that the Arabic countries like Iraqi or Syria just can't supply.  Hence, the North Koreans."

"Why didn't we put in a bid for this talent, Mr. Gooding?" said Reddington, his already narrowed eyes piercing into Gooding as he talked.

"We did.  Their price was too high.  They disappeared before we could institute other measures."

Reddington just stared at Gooding.  Gooding sat down, obviously uncomfortable.

McHugh cleared his throat.  "Apparently, Messinger gave the order to abandon the Watch Station after the attacking vessel had destroyed Benthic Ranger One and was making another move toward the Watch Station.  If some terrorist nation were to get this weapon, we'd better get going.  Our whole nuclear fleet could be in jeopardy.  The unidentified attacker also withstood a direct hit with a uranium torpedo."

"What?" said Senator Thurgood Bensen, a proponent of nuclear disarmament.

"The uranium torpedo has a uranium head to help penetrate any metal that we know of.  The depleted uranium doesn't contain any radioactive material to speak of; it is used solely for its atomic weight.  Once the uranium head penetrates the hull of an enemy, the conventional explosives behind the head ignite.  Our experts believed that this weapon was invincible.  The crew of Benthic Ranger One even blasted the attacker with a blue green laser, an experimental weapon -- to no avail."

"Do we know what happened to Messinger and Benthic Ranger Two?" said Admiral Smith.

"The submersible and its crew are gone, disappeared.  There was no trace of the submersible anywhere in the search area," said McHugh.

"Do we think the Russians have this sonic technology?" said the President.

"None of our intelligence agencies have been able to detect anything like that in the Russian arsenal," said Gooding.

"What if it came from the Sentinel?" said Tillingham.

"I would recommend some planning for that eventuality," said McHugh.

The President looked up toward McHugh, as if hearing the word for the first time.  "How's the integration of the military going at CSAC, Bob?"

"Very well, Mr. President.  As you know, we have been quietly building up our military response capabilities.  All Delta Force level men and, er, women under a unified command.  Couldn't have asked for a more dedicated team -- all seasoned troops, Granada, Iraq, Afghan, Bosnia, name it."

"Afghan?" said Secretary Littleton.

"Yes, Jason," said the President.  "Some things are better left unasked."

His face flushed at the last remark, but Littleton knew when to press a point, and this was not the right time.

"What about the attacks on our CSAC agents?" said Reddington.

Judge Alexander nodded.  "My agents uncovered a KGB ring of moles that had been sent to infiltrate American society.  The KGB colonel general and resident agent for this group, code-named Project Cicada, was acting on his own.  The leader, as he was called, didn't want his life's work to go down the drain with the rest of the USSR.  When the Kremlin fell apart, General Lechenkov decided to freelance, to demonstrate the importance of his group.

"His agent in the Pentagon, who incidentally was his illegitimate son -- a natural born American, had tapped into the CSAC communications network and knew the travel plans of our agent/couriers.  We believe that we've been able to eradicate the main force behind this cell of spies.  Lechenkov left some pretty good records, which we're going through at this moment.  We think that we can wrap up this ring in short order.

"One critical part of the ring, an agent with the code name Dimitri, did manage to escape, but we've alerted Interpol.  This Dimitri used an auto repair shop as a cover.  He is apparently quite good at what he does and may give us more headaches in the future."

The President turned to General Ryder who was sitting to his right.  "General, where do we stand with the strategic defense initiative?"

"Mr. President, the latest round of debates frankly has us scared.  It seems that too many people are demanding the so-called 'peace dividend' right away.  Although we anticipated some fall-out from the collapse of the Soviet Empire, we didn't expect that SDI would be curtailed so drastically.  We're doing our best, sir, but we need more funds."

Turning to Bo Reddington, the President said, "Bo, what are SDI's chances in Congress?"

"Not good, Mr. President.  The other guys are clamoring for the peace dividend just like General Ryder said.  It's become a hot topic."

"What about the strategy that we need this technology for Nemesis?"

"We've made some progress on that front.  Seems we struck a chord with some civilian scientists who have been monitoring asteroids and their orbits.  The theory that the dinosaurs were annihilated by a comet crashing into the Yucatan Peninsula has captured the popular imagination.  The possibility of a dark star, Nemesis, somewhere flinging comets and other debris at the Earth has also captivated the people.  But, with all candor, Mr. President, I think we need to have a high level meeting with Speaker Ronerson."

The President winced at the name of his own nemesis.  Speaker Mitchell Ronerson, the current speaker of the House of Representatives was from the opposition party.  He had made it his mission in life to make the President's life, to say the least, interesting.  The President did not like the portly gentleman from Montana and thinking that he would have to win his vote on this critical matter seemed abhorrent.

"Thank you.  What about the message?" said the President.

"Here it is, Mr. President," said Mike, taking the metallic file from his briefcase and handing it to the President.

The President ran the file through the encoder device held out by Mike and opened the folder.  He sat down behind his desk in the Oval Room and read the short message.

The message read:

Third Planet, NG-33 System, Galaxy 1530-G, 1300 Starlengths.  Planet under Severe Environmental Stress.  Despite Our Efforts to Stabilize Political Imbalances By Elimination of One Competitor, Species Unable to Unify for Environmental Action.  Ozone Depletion Approaching Critical Phase.  Species Can Not Be Depended Upon to Further Manage This Asset.  Council Has Directed Management of Resources To Be Fundamental Component of Utilization Plan for Third Planet.  Intervention Imperative to Preserve Resources.  Estimated 1300.2 Starlengths.

The President reread the short message several times, the import of the message sinking deeper and deeper with each reading.  Finally, he put down the slip of paper and looked up to McHugh and Mike.

"What does starlength mean?"

"Apparently, each starlength equates to one of our centuries.  Therefore, Starlength 1300.2 probably means 2013, about twenty years from this date," said McHugh.

Looking past McHugh and Mike to the assembled group, the President said, "Gentlemen, it looks as if we have our work cut out for us.  God, let's hope that SDI works."

- End -

The author of Falling Star is Philip Chen, like the character of Mike Liu, was involved with ocean research engineering during his early career and later moved on to other endeavors including trial law and investment banking.  This is his first novel.

Note:

Review comments on the back cover can be found in their entirety on the Amazon.com page for Falling Star.  The link for this page is:

http://www.amazon.com/Falling-Star-The-Watchers-ebook/dp/B003YCPK4C

Table of Contents

Foreword

1967: First Encounter

1967: The Investigation Begins

1967: Mike

1967: Found

1967: Free Swimming

1969: Face to Face

1970-1993: The Intervening Years

1993: The Silence Ends

1993: Awakening

1993: The Coffee Shop

1993: Mildred

1993: Somewhere in Minnesota

1993: Call to Duty

1993: Missing in Action

1993: Ambush

1970: The Navajo

1993: Identification

1993: Des Moines

1993: Watching

1993: Defection

1993: Dimitri

1993: The Uncloaking

1993: Closing In

1993: Clarity

1993: War

1993: Martha

1993: The Future