CHAPTER ONE

Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Monday—11:47 p.m.

Colonel Deke Curry glanced at the mobile phone mounted on the golf cart's console. At least it wasn't ringing. He was sick to death of ringing phones and answering questions. The cart sped along the wide, deserted hallway of the underground military installation. A cold chill clung to him and he despised the feeling. Twenty-seven years in the Air Force, the past three of them spent here at NORAD, and he could still reach out and touch the fear of what could break loose in the world to threaten his country.

He stepped out of the cart at the other end of the hallway. A pair of Special Police wearing holstered .45s moved out of his way when they recognized him. He returned their crisp salutes and pushed a hand against the electronic readout panel beside the sealed doors. ID verified, the seals broke with a hiss and he walked into the main nerve center of the North American Aerospace Defense Command.

Banks of computers and electronic hardware filled the warehouse-size room. Dozens of people kept watch over radar screens, monitors and scopes mounted on the main wall and at individual workstations. As he made his way to the raised platform that loomed over the center pit on metal stilt legs, a corporal saluted him and handed him a wireless headset.

Curry donned the set, which he'd leave switched off, and returned the salute automatically. Until he was brought up to speed on the current situation he'd stay out of the communications net. His feet rang hollowly against the metal stairs that brought him to ground zero on the platform.

Major Peter Foxworth leaned on the railing at a point midway down the long, narrow platform. Angular and bony, he turned as Curry approached, coming to attention and saluting smartly.

"At ease, Major," Curry said as he turned to survey the pit area below them. Luminescent screens and monitors cast greenish glows over the faces of the men and women at their stations. The yellow-alert light over the twenty-foot-high central board burned constantly. "Tell me about it."

"We're experiencing some kind of interference, sir," Foxworth stated, returning his gaze to the board.

"Describe it." The colonel absorbed the figures and readouts spread before him. Personnel moved hastily below them, checking and counterchecking results from the electronic eyes and ears spread around the globe.

"Ghosts, sir. Three of them."

"Confirmation?"

"No, sir. They're somewhere over the Bering Strait. I didn't want to scramble until we had positive ID. That area's too close to Soviet airspace."

"Point of origin?"

"Would be only guesswork."

"Are they Russian?"

"That would be the guess, sir."

Curry studied the charts, graphs and figures. His father and grandfather had been sailors. They'd taught him to navigate at sea by a star and an astrolabe when he was twelve. Now technology was on the verge of creeping into the incomprehensible. Developments happened so quickly in computer ideology and usage that it almost took nine months of schooling to qualify a man for three months of work. At the end of that time the man was behind the new recruits taking the field.

"What have they done?"

"They're staying primarily to the border," Foxworth replied. "They appear on-screen long enough for us to pick them up, then disappear somewhere only miles into neutral airspace."

"Then they reappear?"

"Yes, sir. Seven times so far." Foxworth extended a clipboard. "If you'd care to check the times of the sightings, they're all logged in."

Curry accepted the clipboard and ran a practiced eye down the notations. "Eight- to ten-minute intervals, Major?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's too damn convenient."

"That's what I thought, but I wanted a second opinion."

Curry gave the clipboard back to the man. "You did the right thing. I'd have wanted to know about something like this without having to read about it tomorrow morning. Have you tried contacting the Russians?"

"They deny knowledge of the planes."

"We're on decent terms with them these days. We can trust them. Maybe. Could be they're trying out some new hardware. How far away is the next cycle?"

Foxworth glanced at his watch. "We're thirty-seven seconds into the minimum time frame."

Curry nodded and slid the mouthpiece of the headset forward. He thumbed the circuitry to life, squinting his eyes against the sudden bleat of static that cleared almost immediately.

"Bogeys are on-screen," a voice said into the communications net linking the pit area.

"Get it on the central board, mister," Curry ordered, leaning forward with his hands gripping the platform railing. The main monitor changed into a six-foot-square radar screen.

"It's confirmed, Major Foxworth," the voice went on. "We have your three bogeys at the same bearing as the previous times."

Curry looked at Foxworth and nodded, letting the man know he was there as support only for now and not to relieve him of his duty.

"Thank you, sir," Foxworth said. Then he thumbed the transmit button that locked him into the communications net. "Chart 'em, men. If they make any deviations from the past flight patterns, I want to know about it."

"Yes, sir."

The glowing blips revealed by the emerald sweep of the radar arm held together in triangle formation. They were so close together that they looked like a single blur of color.

"Magnify," Foxworth ordered.

The screen reimaged, rippling for an instant as though a wave of fluid had raced across it. Most of the full effect of the radar sweep was gone, leaving only the three separate bright blips. Curry watched them, feeling a cold knot in his stomach.

"Fifteen seconds into the normal parameters of the flight sequence," one of the technicians called out.

"Thank you, Mr. Coughlin," Foxworth replied. "Get Ponomarev for me."

"Yes, sir."

"Alert PACAF," Foxworth continued. "Tell the Eleventh Air Force I want a six-man team into the air when I call it before the sound of my voice fades."

"Yes, sir."

"Coming up on the full-minute mark of the flight sequence, Major."

"I read you," Foxworth said. "Stay on them."

Curry recalled the numbers from the clipboard. The confirmed flight patterns had never lasted longer than one minute twelve seconds. He counted silently to himself, hit one minute thirteen seconds and watched the streaking blips.

"The outer parameter of the established flight sequence has been violated, sir," the radar technician called. "They'll hit our airspace in twenty-seven seconds."

"Elmendorf's on-line, Major."

Foxworth stared at the central board. "This is Major Foxworth, NORAD Control. Get those birds scrambled."

"They're away, Major."

Curry straightened into parade rest. Part of him took pride in the professional manner his team reacted to the threat. The other part was as scared as hell. Peace had only become more fragile in these enlightened times. Too many patterns of strike and counterstrike had already been set into motion.

Six new blips, coded in blue, ripped away from an exploded view of the Alaskan coast. Abruptly the three unidentified blips split up, spreading out in attack formation.

Bering Strait

Hand loose on the control stick of the F-15 jet fighter, Captain Jimmie Madden streaked through the night sky above the cold black water. Perspiration trickled under his eyes, then slid down the hard edges of his mask. It was hot in the cockpit, and his flight suit had been clammy for the past hour.

He clicked into the communications net. "Blue Team, this is Blue Leader. Over." They counted down quickly, letting him know they read him. He glanced at his radar screen, but saw only the sweep arm scraping naked sky. "Anything to report? Over."

"Negative, Madman. Our instruments are deader than granny's shorts. Over."

"Roger, Constrictor," Madden replied. "Over. Dust-devil, report. Over."

"Nothing on my screens, either, leader man. Over."

"Bay Town Roller? Wizard? Johnny Zero? Over."

"Negatory, Madman. Over."

"No. Over."

"Nothing here, Madman."

"Spread it out, guys. The first shadow crosses your screens, I want to know about it. Over."

They rogered his order in quick counts.

Madden peeled his mask loose and let it hang against his chest. "This is bullshit," he said as he scanned the dark horizon above the bleak sea. "Some kind of goddamn milk run to fuck up a perfectly good evening."

"Don't know, Madman," Donnie Jardine, his weapons-systems officer called from the back seat. "Base sounded pretty confident they had a fire somewhere."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Madden pulled back on the stick slightly for a small gain in altitude. The jets kicked in, and the increased g-force pressed him back into the seat.

The radio crackled in Madden's headset. "Blue Leader, this is Base. We're going to patch you over to NORAD headquarters now. Stand by to receive your orders. Major Foxworth is on-line. Over."

"Freakin' fantastic," Madden said in disgust to Jardine. "Now we get a desk jockey with a Ph.D. in bureaucracy. Piled higher and deeper." He reconnected the mask. "Roger, Base. Over."

"Blue Leader," a new voice said, "this is Major Foxworth. Over."

"Pleasure to have you aboard, Major," Madden replied with only a trace of sarcasm. "Over."

If the NORAD man noticed it, there was no indication. "Have you confirmed contact, Blue Leader? Over."

"That's a negative, Control. We're out here all by our lonesomes. Over."

"We're showing them within striking distance, Blue Leader. You should be picking up their afterburners even if your instruments give you no reading. Over."

"Negative, Control. You want to give me some idea of what we're looking for out here? Over."

"Anything that goddamn well isn't ours, mister. Over."

Madden flipped the bird to the black heavens and heard Jardine chuckle softly behind him.

"Blue Leader," Constrictor's voice broke in suddenly, "this is Blue Five. I've got confirmed Russian airships on my screens. Four of them. MiG-28s. They're loaded for bear and closing fast. Over."

"Roger, Constrictor." Madden glanced down at his boards. Bright pings lit up his screens as the on-board computer punched in the specs on the Russian fighters. "Control, have you got a copy on these MiGs? Over."

Four flares raced across the screen, joined by two more. "Holy fuck," Jardine said quietly. "So much for the possibility this is just a checkup scramble."

"We have them on-screen, Blue Leader," the NORAD major's calm voice stated. "We confirm four MiGs and three unknown. Over."

"Donnie, get me armed up and ready to burn." Madden heeled over, checking through the dark canopy to see his wingman burning after him. When it came to somebody taking care of the back door, he'd trust Dustdevil over anyone.

"Offensive initiative ready," Jardine told him.

Madden flicked his thumb across the arming switches. Milk run or no, he hadn't been born to go down under the guns of a Soviet MiG-28.

"Attention American aircraft," a calm voice said in accented English. "You have violated Soviet airspace. Please stand down until you make your intentions known."

"Screw you, Ivan," Madden said. He broke into the communications net. "This is Captain James Madden, USAR Over."

"Captain Madden," the voice replied, "this is Major Fedorenko of the Soviet air force. Explain what you are doing within our borders. Over."

"A goddamn bureaucrat," Madden said to his reel. "Tonight's lousy with them." He went on-line again. "We are in pursuit of three unidentified aircraft that penetrated American airspace. Over."

"There has been no such aircraft," Fedorenko replied. "All this has been confirmed through Soviet intelligence to your NORAD commander. Repeat—you are in violation of Soviet airspace. Turn around before more aggressive maneuvers are taken. Over."

"We're not within Soviet airspace. Over." Madden gazed at his instrument board and took in the information automatically. The approaching MiGs showed up plainly on his screens. He counted down, estimating the distance. Less than twenty seconds remained before confrontation was possible. He curled his fingers loosely around the stick.

"There will be no more warnings," Fedorenko said. "Turn around or you will be shot down. Out."

Madden punched into the communications net. "Dustdevil? Over."

"On your heels, Madman. Make your play. I got your back door. Over."

"Roger, Dustdevil." Madden broke hard right. He took evasive action as one set of MiGs mirrored him. Automatically he called out vectors to the rest of his team. "Come in, Control. Over."

"Control here, Blue Leader. Over."

"Any suggestions, Major? Over." Madden activated the missiles, seeking a lock on the first Russian jet.

"Negative, Blue Leader. Our instruments are scrambled. You might be in Soviet airspace. Over."

Madden's thumb hesitated over the firing button as the ping of missile-lock sounded in his ears. "What the hell do you mean we might be in Soviet airspace? My instruments show us clearly within American airspace. Over."

Harsh static blared across the communications net, blocking out whatever reply there might have been.

The ping of the missile-lock died away. Madden slid his thumb away, cursing vehemently for a moment. "Repeat, Control, repeat last message. You were broken up. Over."

"It's confirmed, Blue Leader," Major Foxworth said. "You and your team have drifted three miles inside the Soviet border. Get out of there. Over."

"They've got a bird away!" Jardine yelled.

Madden stared through the windscreen. The contrail of the missile was barely visible. "He's missed us. The son of a bitch missed." He heeled over and brought the nose of the F-15 around just in time to see his wingman disappear in an orange-and-black wreath of flame.

The g-force shoved Madden back in the seat as the black sky spun crazily above him. He squinted his eyes against the pressure, turning his head in all directions as he tried to see if Dustdevil or his reel had been able to eject. Nothing but empty sky was out there.

"Dustdevil! Answer me! Over."

"He's gone, Madman," Constrictor transmitted. "Never had time to do shit. He's gone."

"Got a MiG coming up fast," Jardine warned.

Madden rolled over twice, dived, then came up firing the chain guns as the unprotected belly of the Russian jet fell across his sights. Orange tracers ate holes in the MiG, and it flamed out and fell back toward the earth.

"Do not engage!" Major Foxworth commanded. "Repeat, Blue Leader, do not engage at this time! Over."

"Blue Leader to Control. Butt out, Major. These guys want to play hardball. They took out one of my guys, and I'll be damned if I let that happen and sit on my hands afterward. If we get the chance, we'll steer clear and return to base. Blue Leader out."

Madden spiraled, coming around as he listened to the warning ping of the enemy aircraft's missile-lock searching for him. It faded away as his own missile-lock called for his attention. He didn't hesitate about firing the warhead. Whoever's airspace they ultimately were in, the sky had become a killing ground.

His thumb hit the switch and the rocket screamed on its way.

Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

"They're gone, sir," the radar technician said as he turned around in his seat in the pit. He pulled his headgear off dazedly.

"Who's gone?" Curry asked.

"The three bogeys, Colonel. Like they'd never been."

"Did they fly away?"

"No, sir. They just dropped off-screen."

Curry let a thin stream of breath out through his nose. "What about the F-15s?"

The technician consulted his screen, closing his arms over the radar screen. "Two of ours are down, sir, and three of the Russian aircraft. Blue Team has broken the engagement."

"Why did our instrument readings conflict on whether our team was within Soviet airspace?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Find out."

"Yes, sir."

Curry turned to Foxworth, who was finishing up a phone call to his Russian counterpart. "What have you got?"

Foxworth ran a hand through his short-cropped black hair. "Don't know, Deke. Ponomarev says we were in the wrong from the go. Their systems never picked up the bogeys or showed conflicting information concerning the border."

"Why were they so damn quick to go on the offensive?"

"Had a hard time figuring out how to ask that while I was apologizing for what we'd done."

Curry sighed. "Yeah." He gazed at the sweep arm of the radar on the center screen. "Possibly seven men dead, and we still don't know how it could have happened."

"No, sir."

"Gonna be a lot of questions over this one, Pete."

"I know, sir."

"Colonel Curry," a communications man called.

Curry turned to look at the officer and saw the red phone in the guy's fist.

"The President, sir," the communications officer said.

"Beginning now." The colonel squared his shoulders and went to the phone.

CHAPTER TWO

Silver Springs, Maryland Monday—2:09 a.m.

His hand automatically curled around the phone by the second ring, Hal Brognola pulled the receiver into bed with him. Helen moved at his side, drawing closer for warmth.

"Yeah," he said in a gruff voice.

"Sony to wake you."

He recognized the voice at once as belonging to the President. "Let me take this in the den."

"Sure."

Brognola put the call on hold and slithered free of the sheets and his wife, pausing only briefly to grab a cigar on his way to the den. He sat in the comfortable swivel chair behind the desk in the book-lined room, switched on a gooseneck lamp and picked up the phone. "I'm back."

"We've got a situation. Only minutes ago there was a skirmish between American and Soviet jet fighters along the Bering Strait. Seven men were killed, and five planes were shot down. So far we've been able to keep it from leaking to the media. But you know how these things are. You can't keep a lid on forever."

"I know." Brognola had'seen too many things blow up in people's faces during his tenure at Wonderland, even had a few of them from time to time that blew up in his face. That the President had called him meant the Man was already considering going outside conventional sources. Stony Man Farm was sanctioned by the President as part of the Sensitive Operations Group. It was manned by soldiers who would go anywhere, would fight anyone and would deploy as soon as the word was given.

"Our experts aren't sure how our defensive systems were spoofed," the President said. "I've got a team working on the files and tapes of the encounter, but God only knows if they'll be able to find anything."

"You said it was a border dispute."

"No, not a border dispute. Six of our jets invaded Soviet airspace and shot down three of their planes."

"Jesus Christ. They didn't know they were within the Russian border?"

"No. According to the instruments aboard the F-15s and at NORAD, we were well within our jurisdiction."

"But we weren't?"

"No. Records obtained from a weather satellite over the area were cross-referenced later. Our jets were three miles into Russian airspace when the encounter happened."

"Sounds like the Russian fighters weren't afraid of being aggressive, either."

"That's the way it looks. They fired first, for whatever that's worth. Assigning guilt after men have died is useless."

"I agree," Brognola knew from firsthand experience that the assignation of guilt and responsibility was, for all intents and purposes, wasted preventive effort.

"Our fighters were on an interception course with three unidentified aircraft that penetrated American borders. Those craft were never found."

"What happened to them?"

"They disappeared."

Brognola considered that. Phone calls in the middle of the night with disturbing news were nothing out of the ordinary. But he didn't often have the President of the United States telling him about a David Copperfield act. "Were they ever there?"

"We don't know. That's being investigated, as well."

"What do the Russians say?"

"They tell us the ships were never on their screens. Our interception team never got them on radar, either."

"Sounds like a suck to me."

"That's what I was thinking," the Man said. "If it is, it means someone out there has the capability to invade our early-warning systems and spoof every reading we depend on for the protection of this country."

Brognola turned that over in his head, suddenly noticing how chilly the room seemed.

"I want your people put on alert," the President said. "Kurtzman's already involved in a side project for me, so he'll be ready for this."

"I didn't know Aaron was working on anything."

"I asked him to keep it between us and the other people directly involved at DARPA. Until now it didn't seem like anything that would require the attentions of you or your other teams. Now I'm not so sure."

The big Fed waited, knowing the President would get down to the bottom line when the Man was good and ready.

"DARPA put Project Starfire together a few years ago under my predecessor," the President said. "I implemented it during my administration. Starfire was designed to be a modification to the existing Strategic Defense Initiative. Now, it may ultimately be the one weapon we have no shield against."

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Barbara Price ran through the wooded hills with a ghost a heartbeat behind her, a ghost named Alexander Constantine. He'd been a lawyer in Miami, had logged onto cases in Dade County courtrooms representing drug money and drug traffickers. And she'd killed him.

The thought bounced crazily inside her head, echoed by the walkie-talkie thumping at the small of her back. She urged herself to greater speed, trying to burn out the memories with sheer exhaustion. Blinking perspiration from her eyes, she cut left, followed the tree line and charged up the low-sloping hill before her. She zigzagged through the trees and bushes, following the course she'd laid out weeks ago. The video cameras, emergency spotlights and motion detectors wouldn't have been noticeable to most people who knew how to look for such things even when they were actively searching for them.

Price saw them because she knew where they were. Knowing was part of her job. As mission controller for Stony Man Farm, she had to know the requirements of her position as well as everyone else's, and the hardware that went along with it.

She stopped at the top of the hill and bent over with her hands resting against her thighs. Her breath rasped. Perspiration, despite the cool night air whipping around her, dotted her face. Her lungs ached and burned.

Yet as soon as she closed her eyes she saw Alexander Constantine's face again. She shivered, but not from the chill.

Guilt wasn't something a person could give away. She knew that. And it was hell to live with. Being mission controller for the top secret strike force meant never having to say she was sorry. It didn't mean she walked away from each engagement with clean hands. There was enough blood there to fill a river. But it hurt more when she could put a face to it.

Constantine's face wasn't the first. Nor did she expect it to be the last.

Her breathing under control again, she peered out over the shadowed landscape revealed by the fat silver moon. Stony Man Farm had been hewed from Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. The main house was three stories high, flanked by two outbuildings and a tractor barn. In the daylight hours denim-clad farmhands and machinery worked the apple and peach orchards, harvested the sweet potatoes, snap beans and strawberries when the time came and saw to the general upkeep of the Farm. At night, men wearing black camous and combat cosmetics roved the hills, watched over by electronic security.

To Price the Farm was home. Most times that was enough. Except during times like this, when she was logging downtime and the nightmares trailed her. Wishing for a mission was a two-edged sword. Stony Man Farm caught the dirtiest of them. Missions that were too dirty, too dangerous or too illegal were dropped into her lap. And when they hit, it meant people had already died and hundreds, if not thousands, were in the cross hairs of the enemy.

The walkie-talkie at her waist crackled for attention.

She scooped it off her belt and thumbed the transmit button.

"Price."

"Barb," John "Cowboy" Kissinger said, "I got Hal on the line. Sounds like a hot one's already rolling and he wants us on it."

"Give me five minutes."

"Roger. I already got you in my sights. Hal says he'd call back in ten."

Price cleared the walkie-talkie. Her mind automatically inventoried the locations of the Stony Man units. Able Team was closest, their missions staying primarily within the continental United States, Phoenix Force was engaged in quelling a quiet power coup, and God alone knew where Mack Bolan was. The Executioner still called his own shots in his lone-wolf war and made himself available only if he was needed.

Price broke into a run, and in ten minutes she was in her room, bath towel wrapped around her, phone in hand.

"We're going to yellow alert," Brognola announced without preamble. He sketched in the details concerning the American-Russian confrontation. "The Man is forming a research group on the QT to evaluate the data NORAD gathered from the encounter. He thinks we've only seen the tip of the iceberg. I agree with him."

Price listened as she moved around the room to step into a pair of well-worn joggers. She heard the Stony Man liaison crunching antacid tablets and knew Brognola was more upset than he was letting on. "Anything I can do from this end?"

"Yeah. Put Able Team on the research group. If someone's capable of spoofing our intelligence-gathering satellites, I don't want to figure we're so smart we can put this thing together behind their backs."

"It's as good as done."

"Any word on Striker?"

"Not yet. I've dropped messages in the usual places. He'll turn up when he gets them."

"Yeah."

"Anything you want me to tell him when he checks in?" Price asked.

"No. Maybe we'll have a development or two by then." Brognola gave the address where Able Team was to be sent in Berkeley, California. "Another thing."

"Yes?"

"Have Bear bring you up to date on Project Starfire. The password is Blue Zenith. Tell him the Man thinks it may figure in. And hold on to your hat, because when he tells you, it's going to blow your mind."

The black outline of the computer-generated image on the wall screen at the end of the room shifted and followed the large cylindrically shaped object as it turned slowly on its axis. In the lower right-hand corner a rectangular window flipped through a half-dozen sets of figures at varying speeds.

Aaron Kurtzman moved his lips silently as he consulted the numbers. His hand tapped a computerized slide rule on the horseshoe-shape desk surrounding him. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his other hand. The headache was reaching the near-blinding stage.

Glancing at the wall screen, he moved to the keyboard in front of him and quickly entered his computation.

The graphic display on the screen altered. For a moment the list of running numbers blanked out, then resumed their independent countdowns. Kurtzman tapped another button, then crossed his arms on his chest to wait for the results.

Another graphic, this one colored carmine to contrast with the black outline of the first, overlaid the cylinder on the wall screen. They didn't match.

Cold dread squirmed through Kurtzman's stomach. "Goddamn it," he growled. Struggling to mute the anger and fear that rolled through him, he guided his wheel-chair back from the computer console and headed for the open space of the large room.

The three separate work spaces lining the walls in front of his mainframe were vacant. No one was allowed within his domain while he was working on his current project. He'd felt bad about that months ago when he was contacted by the DARPA representative. He worked with good people here, people he'd put his trust in any time it was necessary. They were people who put their lives in his hands time and again. It didn't feel right shutting them out now.

He centered the chair in the middle of the open space, lined up somewhere between the console to his right and the cluttered coffee maker to his left. Then he fished a tennis ball and baseball glove from the canvas satchel behind his wheelchair and thought about the old days. Those days had been filled with the same sort of problems that faced him now. Only then he had the luxury of being able to pace as he worked out his frustrations. Since then he'd learned to share those frustrations with the people he worked with on a day-to-day basis. That wasn't possible with this project.

He threw the tennis ball with plenty of snap, working through a vicious sidearm. The ball smacked into the floor only inches in front of the wall. It rebounded off the wall, the sound of the impact echoing over the quiet hum of the cybernetic systems waiting patiently around him. An ellipse of smudged dirt stained the wall. There were dozens more like it.

The tennis ball came back quickly, a revolving blob of furred yellow and orange.

The door opened as he caught the ball again. "Computer," he said as he turned to find Barbara Price standing in the doorway, "cancel program and store."

"Affirmative," the mechanical vocal box responded.

The wall screens blanked at once.

"Indoor recreation?" Price asked as she took one of the seats near the console.

"Beats breaking the hardware when I get mentally constipated," Kurtzman said as he put the glove and ball away and rolled toward the coffee service area.

"It's hell on the walls."

"I've been doing my own cleaning lately."

"I'd noticed. You're practically a hermit."

"Coffee?"

"No thanks." Price took a plastic container of orange juice from a pocket of her windbreaker and peeled the top off. "Please, don't let me stop you from abusing yourself, though."

Kurtzman grinned at her. His coffee was notorious around the Farm for its taste and aftereffects, and he knew it. He rinsed a stained mug with a few ounces of coffee, then filled it to the brim. Wheeling his chair around, he faced her, sidetracked for a moment by her beauty.

Her long blond hair was pulled back in a halfhearted attempt that made her look incredibly sexy in her faded jeans, neon-pink T-shirt and oversize windbreaker. She looked like a model, tall and slender, with cheekbones that cameras loved. She didn't look like a mission controller for an SOG team.

"I gather this isn't a social call, Barb."

"No." In the terse, efficient manner he'd come to expect from her, Price outlined the current situation, adding the President's request that she be brought into the know on his latest assignment.

When she finished, Kurtzman rolled his chair back to the console. The verbal command unit he'd incorporated into the hardware to respond to his voice alone wasn't able to retrieve data as fast as he could at the keyboard. His fingers raced across the keys, and the sound of clacking filled the room.

"Project Starfire," he said as the wall screens came to life around them. The overhead lights muted at once, returning darkness to the room.

On the center wall screen a three-dimensional drawing came to life.

"It looks like a flashlight."

"Oh, yeah," Kurtzman agreed, studying the cylinder again. As always, fascination and revulsion warred within him. "A very deadly little flashlight. This is an X-ray laser cannon, powered by a nuclear core."

The other wall screens blinked, changing the viewing angle of the weapon.

"This is on the blackboard?" Price asked.

"No," Kurtzman said, folding his arms across his chest, "it's in space. And it's out of control. The motor-response functions have been dead since it was launched over a year ago. It hadn't moved."

Price looked at him. "Hadn't?"

"Hadn't," Kurtzman repeated. "Until an hour ago. The same time somebody ran those bogeys by NORAD control."

CHAPTER THREE

Berkeley, California Monday—3:45 a.m.

"Who woulda thunk it?" Rosario Blancanales asked with wry humor. He focused his attention squarely on Carl Lyons. "I mean, I could figure me and Gadgets eventually being asked to join a think tank, but you, Ironman?"

"Har de har har," Lyons said sarcastically. He wheeled the rented Jeep Cherokee off the highway and onto the dirt road leading up the sweeping hill to Williams Research Center. Halfway up the rutted hill he switched to four-wheel drive.

Hermann Schwarz chuckled in the passenger seat. "Could be they're going to use Carl as a test subject."

Blancanales leaned forward and gripped the backs of the bucket seats. "Yeah, I can see that. How about it, Ironman? You think you can figure out a few mazes? Maybe beat those lab rats to the cheese?"

Schwarz completely lost it then, slapping the dashboard in unrestrained glee. "God, think about it, Pol. A skinny rat's worst nightmare is running a maze against Carl Lyons for his breakfast."

"Damn, that ought to strike fear in the hearts of skinny rats everywhere. Get you a mask and a cape, Carl, and call youMazeman."

Shifting into second as the incline became less steep and treacherous, Lyons smiled condescendingly at his companions.

Hermann Schwarz, called Gadgets by his friends because of his skill in electronics, was a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair cut in short military fashion. Rosario Blancanales was a stocky Puerto Rican with longish hair and a gunslinger mustache. They called him Politician, or Pol, because he had a way with words and people. Together, with Lyons, they were Able Team, the domestic arm of Stony Man Farm.

"Heads up," Lyons said softly.

Twin beams from a high-set vehicle flared to life in front of them, then headed down the narrow, shale-covered road. No trees grew along the road; no brush existed that could be used as cover.

"Bear didn't say anything about a welcoming committee," Blancanales said.

Lyons heard the familiar click-slide of an AR-15 being armed behind him. He reached inside his denim jacket and loosened his Colt Python .357 in the shoulder rigging. Schwarz freed a Mossberg combat shotgun and held it with the buttstock folded.

Lyons geared down and came to a stop fifty yards from the approaching car. His mind was racing, weighing the chances they had of getting back to the highway before they could be overtaken. Retreat wasn't a favorite tactic of his. Ironman had always been a straight-ahead kind of guy.

A lone figure disembarked from the passenger side of the unmarked black sedan. The walk was military, a measured cadence that held a bit of the swagger of an officer or a man used to command. Lyons noted it at once. There were some things a man learned that never left him his entire life. For Lyons most of those things hinged around his having been a cop.

The man stopped, his hands at his sides. "I'm Sergeant Connors, USMC," a bass voice announced. "If you're not the men I'm looking for, you boys are in a shitpot full of trouble."

Lyons let a grin spread across his face. He reholstered the Python. Opening the door, he switched on the dome light, which he'd previously unscrewed, and stood on the running board of the Jeep so that the man could see his face. Kurtzman would have forwarded dossiers on them that contained their cover names and stories.

"At ease, gunney," Lyons called. "We're all friendlies here." He hoped it stayed that way, then knew chances were it wouldn't. If the status quo was going to remain unchanged, Able Team wouldn't be here now.

Near Berkeley, California

Salvador Cross squatted low in the brush with the twenty-man strike force he'd gathered for this operation. His gaze roamed automatically, checking, always checking. The starless black sky moved restlessly overhead, blown by the breezes coming in from the coast.

Cross was a big man, with hands the size of small hams curled around the AK-47 across his chest. Black combat cosmetics further darkened his already dark features, blending in with the thick black hair that hung almost to his shoulders. Like his men, he wore night camous, and web belts strung with the lethal tools of his trade.

They'd been waiting in the darkness for twenty-seven minutes, silent enough that the night sounds around them had returned.

The dull throb of helicopter rotors closed in, and he tracked them. The animal sounds of the night died away, leaving only the mechanical dirge.

Cross looked at his second and nodded. Hand signals drew the men from scattered positions, rising like silent wraiths.

The three helicopters cleared the trees, skating dangerously close to entangling the landing skids in the upper branches. No lights gleamed along the undercarriage or the tail rotor.

Cross double-timed it in pursuit of the choppers, his men following behind him in the order they'd been assigned. He leaped down an eight-foot embankment that would have been unexpected and unseen until it was too late if he hadn't already scouted the terrain three days ago. Falling forward to lessen the impact on his feet, he rolled into a standing position and carried on at a full jog.

Light perspiration covered him under the nightsuit. Leather gloves with the fingers cut off kept his palms in a sure grip around the AK-47. He burst from the trees in rapid motion, dropping the muzzle of the assault rifle toward the waiting helicopters in case the mission had been compromised.

An orange lantern glinted once from the open doors of each helicopter, then quickly faded. Raising the AK-47 to just below his chin, he ran through the waist-high brush toward the lead chopper. He vaulted into the bay. Six men followed hot on his heels and set about their assigned duties with little talk between them.

Cross draped the assault rifle over his shoulder when he confronted the pilot. He snapped his fingers impatiently, and the man hunkered in front of eight video monitors mounted against one of the bay walls.

"Yeah, yeah, man," the pilot said in a pronounced Jamaican accent. "Hold your horses. The pictures, they be coming." The pilot clicked eight toggle switches in rapid succession, then stepped back as he swept his dreadlocks out of his face.

Cross squatted as the top row of monitors filled with four black-and-white images of the immediate area while the second row lit up the same area with the infrared highlights. Eight Minicams, four with infrared capabilities, assured them of uninterrupted privacy while his team outfitted the helicopters for the night strike. The cameras had been installed two days ago, equipped with battery packs and a remote-control receiver that allowed them to be activated from the chopper. Quillian only went top-of-the-line on an operation.

Satisfied, Cross turned to the pilot. "Watch the screens."

"Yeah, man. No problem here. You just be going about your own business. Let me take care of mine."

The men used the special tool kits from their equipment bags to strap rocket launchers and machine guns from the belly of the helicopters into place. The harsh, metallic scream of a drill sounded from the cockpit as another man mounted the firing control switches within easy reach of the pilot.

Two minutes before Cross's deadline the teams finished bolting the last weapons into place. Each team leader called in the all-ready.

"Get us in the air," Cross ordered.

"Yeah, man, consider us airborne."

Cross dropped into the copilot chair and switched the radio to the preselected frequency for the mission. He waited, one ear uncovered as the helicopter climbed into the air. There was nothing to say unless something went wrong.

Scanning the black horizon, Cross made out Berkeley to the east. A thousand pinpoints of colored light gleamed in the distance. His hands brushed against his weapons, touching them like talismans.

"Hey, man," the pilot said. "Check the compass quick like, let me be checking our bearings."

Darkness filled the cockpit. Even the instrument lights remained unlit.

Cross glanced at the man. "Two more degrees south. You can't miss it."

The pilot started to say something, then evidently thought better of it and made the adjustment.

Cross cradled the AK-47 in his lap, and five minutes later pointed out their destination.

Williams Research Center was a rectangle carved from the forest around it. Mercury-vapor lights hung at spaced intervals, concentrated primarily around the buildings and parking areas. The winding road to the highway was empty.

Cross knew from his briefing that almost twelve hundred people were employed at the center. They worked in two shifts, from 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., and from 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. At this time of night there would normally be only a skeleton crew made up of maintenance people and security teams. The addition of the NORAD tapes and files would change those figures.

"Take us down," he ordered the pilot. "Be there when the flares go off. You don't want to make me come looking for you."

"Yeah, man, yeah. I hear you. Don't you be worried about nothing."

"I'm not." Cross went to join his team as the helicopter floated over the outer perimeter fences, then dropped rapidly to ground zero.

Berkeley, California

"What do you expect to prove by wearing that?" the young woman demanded. She stood in the cream-colored hallway with her hands on blue-jeaned hips. Her cropped strawberry-blond hair barely brushed the shoulders of the too-big yellow sweatshirt she wore.

For a minute Carl Lyons wasn't sure she was talking to him. His mind hadn't completely recovered from the boring fifteen-minute intro Able Team had received from the Marine staff concerning Williams Research Center and its environs.

He stopped in the hallway facing the woman, the foam coffee cup he'd been nursing forgotten halfway to his mouth. "Excuse me," he said, taking a step back and glancing down the corridor to find whoever the woman was addressing.

"I'm talking to you," she said with an exasperated sigh. She pushed her glasses up her nose with a forefinger. "You look positively Neanderthal with all those guns draped over your body."

"I'm with security." Lyons pointed to his name badge.

"I know that," the woman said. "But didn't they mention anything to you people about being low-key?"

Lyons wanted to tell her that to him one assault rifle with two backup pistols was low-key.

"You look like an extra in a Sylvester Stallone picture," the woman informed him.

Tired and wired up from the flight out, Lyons couldn't ignore the irritation the woman caused. He shook his head. "No wonder you mistook me for one of the bad guys."

She did the thing again with her forefinger and glasses, staring at him behind the lenses with owl-wide eyes. "Bad guys?"

"Yeah. I'm too tall to be a good guy. Can you imagine a guy my size talking strategy to Sylvester Stallone in a scene?" Lyons held out his hand at shoulder height. "Man would look like a goddamn dwarf."

Crimson flooded the woman's face. She turned away, making angry, growling sounds.

Lyons laughed softly and continued on his rounds. The headset he wore clicked in his ear.

"Way to go, Ironman," Gadgets Schwarz said. "You just alienated one of the most brilliant minds working here."

"She alienated me first," Lyons replied defensively.

"You got to admit," Schwarz replied, "she's not used to security personnel being out of uniform. You're an anomaly to her."

"Yeah, well this whole place is an anomaly to me. Did you get a look at the break area? You'd think people who thought for a living would know how to take better care of themselves. Whole crates of soda pop sitting on the floor, for God's sake."

"It was diet pop."

"Well, that sure as hell wasn't diet ice cream I saw filling the three freezers back there."

"It was frozen yogurt."

Lyons turned the corner, finding another empty corridor. "I guess you're going to excuse the popcorn, too."

"As long as you leave off the butter and salt, it's practically cholesterol-free and low in calories."

"Give me a break, Wizard. What I'm getting at is that this place is hardly the way I'd pictured it." Lyons shifted the weight of the AR-15 across his shoulder.

"You pictured test tubes."

"Yeah. Test tubes. Beakers, Plastic hoses dripping vile substances into glass containers."

"Hunchbacks?"

"Maybe one."

"Named Igor."

"Or E-gor. You say to-mato, I say ta-mato."

"Still, pissing off Jessica Fawn isn't wise. She's a leading authority on brain bomb research. In case you're not familiar with the idea, a brain bomb emits concentrated electromagnetic pulses that—"

"Don't worry about the detailed explanation. I can tell the lady figures I'm invulnerable to anything deadly to higher life-forms."

If Schwarz made any kind of reply, Lyons lost it in the thunderous roar of explosions that shook the complex. He slid the AR-15 into his hands as he tossed the coffee cup away.

"Ironman!" Blancanales cut in.

Lyons darted back down the hallway. The lights flickered unsteadily, and more explosions shook the walls. "Here. I'm moving on it. Gadgets?"

Schwarz came through garbled. "They're all around us, guy. I'm up top, got a view of the whole thing. Three helicopters have penetrated the outer defenses. They've put a team on the ground. Must be fifteen, twenty men. They don't look like they're taking any prisoners."

"On my way," Blancanales said.

Lyons switched frequencies on the headset. "Sergeant Connors?"

"He's dead," a man's voice radioed back. "Security headquarters was taken out with the first wave of rockets. This is Corporal Mason."

Lyons raced through the hallway, using his mental map of the building to find the nearest exit. "Pol? Wiz?"

"Copy."

"Copy."

Another line of warheads fell, closer now. Chunks of the ceiling, concrete mixed with white tile and broken lights, dropped across the polished floor. Dust that had been trapped in the crawl space between the first and second stories filled the air.

Lyons pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth. He turned a final corner, skidding on loose refuse, then tried to double back as four figures ran through the shards of broken glass hanging in the big bay windows of the admittance office.

The Able Team warrior dropped the handkerchief as he whirled back into the temporary protection of the hallway corner. He brought up the assault rifle and fired on full-auto. A wave of 5.56mm tumblers chewed into the front two men and sent them spinning away. The remaining two took shelter behind walls warped by the explosions.

Lyons flipped the selector to single-fire, then took aim on a hand that floated up from the shadows. He fired three times, riding out the small kick of the weapon.

Moonlight skated bright and hard across the spherical surface of the object coming his way. When Lyons recognized it, he curled behind the wall and counted down. By the time he hit two, the orb exploded with audible and concussive fury.

Deaf from the blast, Lyons spun around the corner and dropped to one knee. He fired methodically at the silhouettes that rose up at him. Muzzle-flashes lanced the darkness, stretching fiery fingers toward the dust-covered figures.

Both men went down.

Lyons staggered up, stumbled over the concrete chunks scattered around him and inserted a fresh magazine into the assault rifle. The headset hung uselessly around his neck. The sharp crack of the rockets hitting their targets came through his ears only as muffled whumps.

He stepped over the dead men and through the broken window, then scanned the grounds quickly as he stayed within the shadows. Overturned cars burned in the parking areas; downed electrical lines emitted blue and white sparks; napalm stripes streaked the ground as flames twisted and danced above them; a blue cordite haze shifted lazily in the breeze. Machine guns rattled ceaselessly.

Lyons ran, hugging the ground to present a smaller target, and took up position behind a brick flower bed. Resting the AR-15's barrel on the low wall, he concentrated on the helicopter hovering closest to the complex.

A door gunner, complete with swivel setup, kept up a dramatic firing rate. A maintenance truck racing for the entrance jerked under the .50-caliber impacts as the tires deflated. The windshield imploded only seconds before the whirling yellow lights were raked away by the machine gunner. The driver never had a chance. Out of control, the truck raced on and slammed into a parked sedan, spilling onto its side.

With the door gunner in target acquisition, Lyons let out half a breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. The recoil pushed the AR-15's butt into his shoulder. He rode it out, then squeezed again. The machine gunner's shirt jumped under the impacts. Then the gunner pulled around the mounted M-60. A line of bullets chopped brick splinters from the walls as it closed in on Lyons.

Realizing the man was wearing body armor, Lyons raised his sights and focused on the man's face behind the Plexiglas helmet mask. Stone fragments stung his cheek.

Ironman squeezed the trigger and readied his next shot. Grim satisfaction filled him when he saw the door gunner's head rock backward as the bullet cored through the Plexiglas shield and into the flesh and bone beneath.

Next he chewed a ragged line of bullet holes through the copilot's side of the cockpit, and the helicopter gained altitude immediately. One of the other two aircraft unleashed a final salvo of rockets into the main building.

Lyons covered his head as concrete and dirt rained down around him. When he glanced up, he saw that fire had gutted most of the structures.

The trio of warbirds moved for the other end of the complex as they lost altitude.

Knowing the pilots were winging toward a scheduled pickup, Lyons gathered his feet under him and ran, his breath burning the back of his throat.

Bodies littered the ground before him, some in silent heaps, others torn as if by wild beasts. He didn't know any of them, didn't know whose side they were on. He only registered the fact that they were dead, no help and no hindrance.

As he swept around the last building, Lyons spied a staggered line of black-clad fighters thread between the grounded helicopters and dive into their bellies.

Throwing himself prone, Lyons took aim and fired. His targets were more than a hundred yards away, nestled down behind a thicket of flowering bushes that glowed with dots of pastel pink. Hardly any return fire was issued. A moment later all three helicopters lifted with the agonized sound of thrumming rotors and disappeared.

Lyons pushed himself up from the ground and stared after them. Once the headset was in place he clicked into the communications net and identified himself. "There's a chopper here and I want it in the air now."

"Can't, sir," Corporal Mason replied. "The helipad was a secondary target. They took it out on their first flyby after hitting the main buildings."

Lyons sighed as the last of the rotor sounds faded. "Get me a casualty list quick as you can, Corporal. Work it through the regular security people. I want the prelim in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir."

Lyons cleared the frequency and switched to the one he shared with the other Able Team members. "Pol? Gadgets?"

"We're here, Ironman." Blancanales said. "We were wondering about you."

"I had a front-row seat."

"Figured you for that."

Lyons looked around, taking in the amount of damage done to the research center. "I read this as strictly crash-and-burn. But they made an effort to get inside. I dropped four of them myself."

"They gutted the research labs," Schwarz said. "Casualties are going to run higher there."

"What about the NORAD tapes and files?" Lyons asked.

"They're intact. The demolition team only made a half-assed effort to get them, based on how well-informed they appeared to be on the rest of the complex."

"This doesn't scan," Lyons said, going with the cop feel in his gut. "These guys were too systematic, too well-informed for it to have been arranged in the past few hours. They knew the numbers and the outlay. Their strikes were designed for effect and carried through without a hitch."

"And they may be us," Blancanales said. "I got a perp here with an American Special Forces tattoo."

"Is he conscious?" Lyons asked.

"He's got a 5.56mm migraine."

"Terrific."

"His prints should be on file somewhere, though."

"Maybe. If he was a Company-owned boy at one time, they could have done him a favor and taken care of that. Okay, let's break it up until we get some feedback from Barb and Aaron. Until then let's give the locals a hand with the accounting. Maybe we'll even learn something." Lyons cleared the frequency, then scowled up at the empty sky. Whatever was going on, his cop's instinct was telling him it was more complicated than what face value suggested. NORAD surveillance systems had been spoofed and the raid had been too detailed to believe it took less than days, maybe a week, to put together.

Hell, the way he figured it, they'd only touched the tip of the iceberg. Knowing he was probably right offered only cold comfort as he went to rejoin his comrades.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tokyo, Japan Monday—12:12 a.m.

Mack Bolan faded into the stairwell as the ninja eased out of the motel hallway air vent. He kept the fire escape knob in his hand, locking mechanism unengaged, and slid his other hand to the silenced Beretta 93-R riding in shoulder leather. Dressed in a black trench coat, jeans and turtleneck, he knew he wouldn't be easily spotted.

He also knew ninjas seldom operated independently.

The air in the stairwell was chill, swirling around him in small gusts that prickled his skin. He'd slept two hours out of the past forty-six, and those hadn't been together. The message from Stony Man Farm had reached him at the tail end of some very dangerous business in Okinawa.

He shifted as he peered through the wire-mesh glass window, making sure the muted light from the hallway wouldn't reflect off his face and give him away.

Moving fluidly, the ninja drew his sword and leaped up to smash the hallway light with a kick. The pop of destruction rained pieces of glass down around him.

The Executioner switched to peripheral vision to eliminate afterimages caused by the dim lighting. Three more ninjas tumbled into the hallway from the vent.

The men moved in silent tandem as they formed a single knot about the door on the east side of the hall. One knelt, slipped something from a hidden pocket and worked on the door.

Bolan couldn't see the room number. He had business here himself, and wondered if it was all part of the same ball of wax. He raised the 93-R to chin level.

The room door gave with no sound. A long rectangle of soft yellow light leaked into the hall and was quickly blotted out as the four ninjas entered the residence.

A woman's outraged voice cried out, then was silenced.

The Executioner glided through the stairwell exit, unable to remain on the sidelines any longer. He'd known women who were every bit as larcenous as men, but the woman's voice still tipped the scales of chivalry in his mind.

Movement caught his attention at the other end of the room. A dark shadow unkinked and straightened. A band of flesh tones hovered suddenly shoulder-high above the thick carpeting. Arrow fletchings brushed the right cheek below the almond-shape eyes.

The arrow thunked into Bolan's chest with considerable force. The hiss of its thirty-foot passage reached his ears an instant later. The warrior fired by instinct as he moved, at least two of the subsonic 9mm parabellums smashing into the flesh band encircling the ninja's eyes.

The shadow pirouetted away and collapsed to the floor beside the oversize bow.

Bolan knew immediately that the backup team had used the fire escape stairs at the other side of the building. Cloth rustled behind him, and the warrior whirled and dived for cover as a short sword whished over his head.

He kicked out with a booted foot and caught the second ninja in the chest. Air whooshed from the man's lungs, but he didn't drop his sword. The Executioner brushed the arrow from his chest. Only the tip of the razor-sharp broadhead had penetrated his Kevlar vest. He lifted the Beretta as his opponent bounced from the wall and charged at him with the katana raised above his head in both hands.

Firing point-blank, Bolan placed four shots across the man's chest. When the ninja was close enough, he grabbed a fistful of the guy's clothing and dragged him to the floor. He pressed the Beretta below the ninja's throat and triggered two more rounds to ensure the kill.

The katana dropped from nerveless fingers as a trickle of blood oozed from the dead man's mouth.

The Executioner released the corpse. Even with silenced weapons, the battle couldn't have gone unheard. He made it to the door, waited a heartbeat, heard only the droning voices of a Japanese television program, then went around the corner and followed the Beretta into the room. He fisted the pistol in a Weaver's grip and kept it in front of him like a compass needle directed at true north.

The room was opulent, living up to the promises of the hotel: low-slung Japanese furniture filled the sunken living room; soft light issued from lantern-encased candles at either end of the large sofa; a laptop computer sat on a glass-topped table in front of a large-screen TV. The delicate smell of a woman's perfume lingered in the air, warring with the cherry-scented incense given off by the burning candles.

Curtains, stained silver by the moon outside, stirred with the breeze and caught the warrior's eye. Bolan had only a heartbeat of warning as the ninja launched himself from behind the protective glare of the large-screen TV. The assassin came over the top and fell headlong toward the Executioner, sword point first.

Bolan successfully blocked the blow with his gun, but went down under the other man's rushed weight. The Beretta spun from his stunned fingers and landed somewhere out of sight.

The black eyes above the mask were malevolent slits as the man yelled and swung his sword. Writhing beneath his attacker, Bolan shifted and felt the vibration as the katana struck the carpet and sheared through to the concrete base. The warrior blocked the ninja's wrists, then slammed a short jab into the assassin's face. The nose broke audibly and blood slicked the mask. Howling with rage and pain, the attacker fell back.

When the man rushed him again, Bolan pushed himself up and reached for the laptop computer. His fingers curled inside the handle and he swung it like a club. The computer fizzled and sparked as it connected with the ninja's head, then dropped with the target.

Breathing harshly, Bolan tasted blood inside his mouth and staggered into motion. His gun lay under the couch. With it in hand once more, he moved to the open window and brushed the lace curtains aside.

Twin grappling hooks hung from the sill, silken black cords trailing beneath them and shifting in the breeze. The street was six stories down. All four lanes overflowed with traffic, and gaudy neon lights ran the spectrum of a rainbow. The Ginza business district was open all night.

An open window stood out from the fifth floor.

Bolan put a fresh magazine in the Beretta and glanced at the door. Six-oh-nine was written there in gilt letters in Japanese and English.

The room number of his contact was 609.

He ran for the fire escape and began the dizzying rush down the flights of stairs, not stopping until he hit the basement level. The door was locked when he got there, but two silenced rounds from the 93-R turned the mechanism into torn metal.

Cars filled the underground parking area and gleamed beneath the security lights. The Executioner stepped into the protective shadows, keeping the Beretta concealed in the outer folds of the trench coat. Elevator doors opened to his left, and he ducked behind a Toyota pickup as the three ninjas stepped out with their captive between them.

She was as tall as her kidnappers, with dark brown hair cut short inches from her shoulders. Fear showed on her oval face and light reflected from round-lensed glasses. Built long and rangy with deceptive feminine curves, she looked like a woman in her mid-thirties who took cafe of herself. She kept her arms crossed over her breasts, evidently aware the short nightgown she wore didn't leave much to the imagination. Her feet were bare.

Bolan laid the Beretta across the bed of the pickup but was unwilling to make the shot. The distance was no problem, but he didn't know the men's orders concerning the woman. The dossier Kurtzman had faxed to his message drop said the woman was Dr. Eryn McCone, a leading cyberneticist who'd been primarily employed for the past four years by Japanese computer companies. Kurtzman had also mentioned McCone might not be overjoyed to be contacted by someone she believed was a clandestine member of the United States government.

All of which told Bolan nothing about who might be responsible for McCone's capture. Or if she was dangerous to that person or persons. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to acquire her.

McCone was shoved into the back of an unmarked white van. When the brake lights flared to life, the Executioner rapped the butt of the Beretta against the window of the locked pickup and shattered the glass. His own rental car may have been made. He reached through the broken window and unlocked the door.

Once inside he dropped the Beretta onto the passenger seat, slipped the Cold Steel Tanto knife from his right boot, skinned the hot wires under the dash and connected them to the ignition wires. The engine started smoothly. He used the tire tool behind the seat to rip out the ignition lock and free the steering wheel.

Then he backed the pickup out of the slot and followed the van.

Eryn McCone shivered with cold and fear as she sat in the back seat of the van. She glanced through the windshield again, gazing out over the black water of the harbor. Running lights of boats and ships gleamed in the distance. The smell of fish from the breath of the man beside her was thick in her nostrils.

She willed herself to relax, leaned back against the cold vinyl and let her breath out through her nose in a steady stream to calm her nerves. "This has got to be some kind of mistake," she whispered to the black-garbed man sitting beside her.

His head rolled slightly on his neck, a movement so easy and natural that it seemed to sit on ball bearings rather than a spine. Black eyes swallowed the shallow green light from the van's instrument panel.

"No mistake, Dr. McCone," the ninja said. "You be quiet, understand? Consciousness not necessary for us, understand?"

She nodded. She understood. Men like this one weren't unknown to her. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and tried to find some warmth. Thoughts ricocheted frantically inside her head.

At present she was employed by Eisaku Corporation, under direct order only of Nishiyama Eisaku, grand patriarch of the family. The elder Eisaku had ordered she be moved into her present dwelling, where it had taken her less than three days to find the surveillance devices hidden in the rooms. Her training with the CIA, impromptu and one-sided to be sure, had served her well.

At first she'd resented the intrusion into her life. It was too much like American espionage circles. Now she hoped it would be enough to save her life.

Her attention was drawn to the sleek white limousine coming toward them. Fifty feet away and closing, the lights went out.

The two men in the front seats conferred briefly in Japanese, but their voices remained too low for McCone to understand. Beside her the third man watched the limousine's arrival dispassionately.

"Up," the ninja beside her ordered when the limousine stopped only a few feet away. He pulled on her upper arm forcibly.

Conscious of the thin nightgown that only reached midthigh, McCone let herself be led out the van's side door. Sharp stones and pebbles covered the pavement under her feet and caused her pain as she walked. She stumbled, only to be pushed forward by her captor.

Traffic along the road overlooking the docking area was sparse and whipped along quickly. The hiss of passing tires sounded flat and far away.

McCone's attention to her discomfort was torn between the chill of the wind and the brevity of her nightgown. She compromised and put one hand across her stomach while the other held the edge Of the nightgown down in a knotted fist. Despite her fear her anger flared, threatening to spill out in the harsh invective she'd learned from her career Navy father.

An arm across her breasts brought her to a sudden stop six feet from the rear door of the limousine. She drew back as she turned to face the man and spoke in fluent Japanese, "listen, you son of a bitch. If you try one more stunt like that, you're going to have to kill me. I'm not a goddamn dog you can yank around and tell to heel. And you'll keep your goddamn hands to yourself, or I'll rip them off and feed them to you."

The eyes encircled by the mask widened in slight surprise. A hand bared the sharp blade of the katana with an almost silent shush of movement.

McCone stood her ground despite the sudden rush of fear that left broken needles in her stomach.

"No," a woman's voice commanded.

The ninja froze, hesitated, then returned the blade to its sheath. He inclined his head in a gesture of submission to the speaker.

McCone turned, even more conscious of her present attire because of the speaker's gender.

An electric motor whined as the rear window disappeared into the framework. Revealed only in the moonlight and soft illumination coming from the docking area, the woman was beautiful. Her features were classical Japanese, soft buttery skin overlying high cheekbones.

"Miss McCone?" the woman asked in a pleasant voice.

McCone refused to answer, stomping on the knee-jerk reflex to tell the woman it was Dr., not Miss.

The woman turned her attention to the ninja. "Is this the woman?"

"Yes, mistress." He inclined his head again.

Bewildered by everything going on around her and the apparent casualness exhibited by her captors, McCone watched in frustration. In many ways working for the Japanese, in a male-dominated society, was a lot like working in the computer field back in the States. Except here she was being asked to set up computer systems for business purposes, not create programs that could kill impersonally without error. During the past few years she'd learned to enjoy her work in cybernetics again, to attain a sort of artistic link to it. That had lasted until tonight, when the old fears surged back from whatever hole they'd been hiding in.

"Did you encounter any trouble?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

Surprised by the answer, McCone glanced back at the man. The chill hanging in the night took on new ramifications.

"We lost two men," the ninja said. "Perhaps three. There was a man in the hallway. He was approaching the woman, coming to her defense when we encountered him."

"Japanese?"

"No, mistress. I believe he was American."

"WhatofEisaku?"

"His devices were there. Perhaps he'll try to find this woman. But his search will be in vain."

"The three men who were killed?"

"Their identities will lead Eisaku, and anyone else who looks, nowhere. They are as men who have never been born."

"When you are finished here, I want the American tracked down. Find out what he was doing here, then kill him."

"Yes. It will be done. If the man isn't dead already."

The woman turned her attention to McCone.

McCone kept her gaze level, refusing to give an inch despite the fear racking her from the inside.

A long-nailed finger crept over the side of the limo's door and tapped the metal. "Your impudence amuses me," the woman said. "If there was more time, I should like to see if I could liberate some of that from your temperament. And I assure you, I could."

Glad she'd chosen the silent response, McCone kept her lip from quivering with effort. Anger could only carry her so far before sensible fear took over.

Footsteps dragged along the pavement.

Glancing over her shoulder, McCone saw a young Japanese dressed like someone out of a John Travolta disco movie approach the limo. The young man held his cigarette in European fashion, exhaling through his nose. Gold chains gleamed at his throat.

"The boat awaits," the newcomer said, rolling the sleeve of his white jacket back to check his watch. "And we are on a schedule."

"Don't push me, Hideo," the woman warned. "It's better if this continues to wear the face of a favor."

The younger man grinned evilly. "As is your wish, lady." He dropped his cigarette and crushed it underfoot.

"Take her," the woman ordered, "and be done with it. Tonight has cost me much already."

Hideo grabbed McCone's wrist and pulled her toward him. When McCone resisted, the man slapped her without warning.

The woman in the limo cursed. "The marks she bears now are the ones you've inflicted. Make sure Quillian knows this. And tell him after this that I don't owe him a goddamn thing. Not one."

"Noprob."

Hideo jerked on McCone's wrist again. She didn't resist as the man led her toward the docking area. She wiped a hand along her mouth and gazed at the wide ribbon of blood that stained it.

Bolan had trailed the unmarked van easily. The driver made no secret of the destination. Standing in the shadows of the docking area amid the stacks of grain and textiles ready for the morning's shipping, he had a clear view of McCone and her captors. He studied the new arrival as the guy dragged the cyberneticist toward the waiting yacht.

Pieces of the puzzle worried at the warrior's mind, but he filed them away. He also stored away the limousine's license plate numbers. Figuring it all out could come later. For the moment his mission focused on freeing the woman.

He drew the Beretta as he slipped through the shadows on an intercept course. The taillights of the big car gleamed ruby as it pulled away and wound toward the streets. Two of the Japanese fighters stayed with the van while the third followed Hideo and McCone.

The Executioner liked the odds, especially with the element of surprise as his ace in the hole, but there remained the matter of escape afterward. Still, there was no way he could let the woman board the waiting yacht. The answers she held would disappear with her.

Hideo Onoda was known to Bolan. If a package needed to be delivered through the black market from Japan to any point on the globe, Hideo had the connections to get it done. If someone needed to disappear, never to reappear again, Hideo was the man for the job.

Bolan paused behind a stack of crated televisions. The approaching footsteps tapping against the wooden planks echoed in the narrow space left between cargo. The woman's bare feet made shuffling noises.

The Executioner fired from darkness after they'd passed. Two 9mm rounds drilled through the back of the ninja's head, and the lifeless body dropped to the ground, cutting the odds immediately.

Hideo reacted by jerking the woman close to use as a shield. "Assassin! Assassin!" he yelled, hunkering down behind McCone. The cyberneticist screamed, as well, adding to the general confusion. Moonlight shone on chrome as Hideo tugged a pistol free from his jacket.

A third round from the 93-R caught the man in the shoulder and spun him around, blood spattering his white jacket.

Bolan fired twice more as Hideo sprinted around one of the stacks, both bullets missing their target. He raced forward as movement aboard the yacht caught his attention. Someone keyed a spotlight mounted aft and played the beam around the dock. Back at the van the two ninjas had melted into the night.

"Get up," he told the woman.

McCone gazed at him fearfully. She'd hit the ground like a pro when the shooting started. "Who the hell are you?"

"A friend of Aaron Kurtzman's," Bolan replied.

She got up and ran. "I can see Aaron's taste in friends hasn't changed," she said as she flattened herself next to a stack of televisions beside Bolan. The nightgown rippled in the breeze and revealed a fair amount of healthy, bronzed skin.

An assault rifle chopped through the crates and spilled glass fragments through holes in the cardboard.

McCone held her hands over her ears as the echoes of autofire rolled away. "I hope you're happy, you overtestosteroned cretin. You've just succeeded in getting us both killed."

The warrior checked the movement around them. "You give any thought to the possibility that you could be doing a solo act about now?" He flipped the Beretta on 3-round burst and burned through the rest of the clip to keep their attackers honest. A startled yelp of pain told him he'd tagged at least one member of the yacht crew.

Hideo yelled orders from cover in staccato Japanese. Startled voices from the other boats added to the din. Electric lights and oil lanterns lit up the night, throwing wavering rainbows of light across the black water.

McCone adjusted her glasses. "Okay, we'll skip the argument and the assignation of guilt until after we're out of the general vicinity."

"That a girl." Bolan said as he changed magazines. "Just follow my lead." The warrior moved to his left, away from the hellzone. McCone stayed at his heels.

He lead their pursuers on a winding chase through the stacks of transport goods. They hugged the tall bundles and turned corners close. Pursuit closed in on them from two sides, and they gave ground reluctantly.

The outlay of the area was locked in the Executioner's mind. Settling into the present environment had been a reflex action. In the jungle everything tended to resemble everything else, so a soldier learned to tell the difference. Being both stalker and stalked had taught him to have an escape route always planned, even if at best it was a sketchy one.

Grumbling, pain-filled curses followed him down the decline leading to the water's edge. The woman's lack of shoes slowed them.

A flash of deadly steel warned Bolan of the ninja's presence a heartbeat before the sword swung at his neck. He ducked, slid and raised his leg defensively like an aggressive runner stealing second base. His foot smashed into the attacker's kneecap with a loud crack and they both went down.

Even with a broken leg the Japanese struck out immediately. The callused hand holding the katana slammed into the Executioner's temple, and Bolan saw whirling black comets for a moment as he struggled to free his gun hand from his opponent's grip.

"The Chris-Craft," Bolan shouted to McCone.

She stood undecided for a moment, then streaked across the dock to board the red-and-white speedboat nestled between two fishing vessels.

Bolan rolled over on the ninja. He threw a backhand blow that crunched into the center of the black mask and caused the man's head to rebound from the wooden planking. A 9mm parabellum round ensured the assassin was out of the action permanently.

He sprinted after the woman and launched himself across the six-foot span between the dock and the rear of the speedboat, pursued by autofire. Wooden splinters from the dock joined the fiberglass confetti from the Chris-Craft's body as the stern section bobbed wildly for a moment under the warrior's shifting weight.

He hunkered down behind the side of the boat and returned fire methodically. Then the chattering of the assault rifles was covered by the twin engines kicking to life. A wave of water splashed over the dock, and the rear end of the speedboat dropped into the river as the screws dug for traction.

Two men left cover and attempted to chase the boat. The Executioner squeezed off a quick one-two for each man that punched them to the ground, then went to join McCone at the controls. He changed magazines as she expertly handled the controls.

"Navy brat," she said by way of explanation, gesturing toward the controls. "This isn't the first boat I've hotwired in my day."

"Nice to know you haven't lost your touch." The Executioner scanned the docks as McCone powered them downriver. Pursuit was disorganized, and the confusion coming from the other people on the boats would slow down the opposition. Their head start would be enough to see them clear of the situation until Stony Man could arrange covert transportation. He turned back to the woman as Klaxons from approaching police vehicles filled the night. Whirling blue cherries gathered at the loading docks. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

She glanced up at him, perplexed. "Me? I figured you could tell me. I don't know them. Or you."

"Mike Belasko," Bolan replied.

"And you know Aaron?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?"

"I was asked to bring you to Aaron."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

She gave him a look of disbelief.

"Yet," he added.

"I take it Aaron's still playing games with the CIA."

"He's not with the CIA anymore."

"But the games don't seem to have changed."

Bolan remained silent. Kurtzman hadn't hinted at the relationship he had with the woman. Compromising the operation didn't seem to be a priority at the moment, since security looked as if it had already been penetrated, but he didn't know how things stood with McCone or how she would figure into the mix.

"I'll take your coat if you don't mind," McCone told the Executioner, "before I turn blue."

He shrugged out of it and draped it around her shoulders. The shoreline was dark now; they were well away from the docks. He got his bearings and readied his directions. They'd have to move fast to get out of Japan before the international doors slammed shut and questions had to be answered.

Stony Man had called him back into the fold, initiating contact with a busted play and a mystery woman wanted by people willing to kill to get her. Mack Bolan couldn't help but wonder what he was being called back to. Or how much damage would already be done before he got there.

CHAPTER FIVE

New York City Tuesday—8:05 a.m.

"Ted? Jared Quillian here."

"Mr. Quillian. Jolly good to hear from you, sir. How are things in America? I'm assuming that's where you are."

"New York, to be exact," Quillian replied. Knowing the speakerphone mounted over his head would have no trouble picking up his words, he gripped the support bar of the electronic treadmill and kept up the driving force in the distance-eating stride he'd maintained for the past eighteen minutes.

"The sad thing is, my friend, that if we weren't doing this bit of business at a point so close to fruition, I don't think I'd know where you were at all."

Quillian grinned at the large mirror covering the wall in front of him. He measured his stance and posture with a practiced eye, noting with pride the dark stains on his light blue workout ensemble and the sheen of perspiration sheathing bare skin. Lean and fair-haired with bronzed skin and green eyes that nature had intended for a carnivorous feline, he looked almost ten years younger than his actual forty-two.

"It's possible," Quillian admitted.

Ted Lankford's voice held dry humor. "I'd say more probable than possible, old chap."

At the twenty-minute mark Quillian slowed down and switched off the treadmill. Lankford didn't ask about the noise in the background. The British investment broker had known Quillian long enough to expect the noise at this time of the morning.

"So what's on the agenda?" Lankford asked.

Quillian concentrated on his stretching exercises to limber kinked muscles. He watched his form in the mirror and worked on keeping it close to perfection.

Looks were a weapon in his business of buying and selling. Prospective buyers and sellers too often sized up a man or woman by his or her first impression. Intimidation became a wicked, hooked tool in his capable hands, capable of thrusting, twisting, slashing or gouging.

"Chauncey Graceten," Quillian said. "I want to step up the pace on the sidelines. Hold off new acquisitions of his company's public stock through any outlet that can be connected to Quillian Enterprises, Inc. Also, you'll be hearing a rather vicious rumor among the traders that Chauncey's been buddying up to some corporations supporting apartheid in South Africa."

"Interesting," Lankford said. "Has he been?"

"He doesn't know it yet." Quillian grinned at his reflection. It was the smile of a successful businessman turned self-made millionaire at an early age. And it was tempered by the years of wanting until then. "But, yeah. Should make quite a splash when the papers get wind of it."

"I shouldn't ask how this came about?"

"No."

"Of course."

"Liquidate twenty-five million dollars of the corporate assets in England and France in the short-term rollover investments, and ready yourself to go on a buying spree after the rumor becomes fact."

"Those connections to apartheid supporters are going to seriously hurt Mr. Graceten's profit potential. Even linking Quillian Enterprises' name to it at a later date won't pull it out of its plunge."

"I know, but this isn't a short turnaround goal. Grace-ten Company's profits will triple within four and a half to five years from acquisition with me at the helm." Quillian approached the weight-training equipment in the room and reached for the military press bar. He exhaled as he pushed up and began the first set of repetitions.

"Even with a majority in Graceten's common stock, you'll never be able to convince Graceten to let you…"

"He won't have a choice," Quillian said as he forced the weights up. "Due to a very messy divorce coming up after the apartheid scandal, Graceten will be forced to sell off an amount of his blue-chip stock to satisfy a very angry wife, uneasy loan officers and lawyers who would lead a man to believe they were descended from sharks and carrion eaters. I should know. I retained them to represent the various interested parties. My estimate is that eighteen million invested in his company at the time his stock bottoms out will give me a controlling interest. You have a seven-million-dollar pad. We'll use what's left over to reinvest in new imaging for the company."

"Yes, sir."

"And I'm forwarding blueprints regarding the personal office I want constructed in Graceten's building. Line up the contractors as soon as you can. I want them ready to go by September 1, and out of there before the end of the month. No overtime. However, I don't want the contractors to know what building it'll be in until the deal goes down. You can never tell who knows who in Southampton."

"Of course."

"Any questions?"

"I'm curious how you came to know about the divorce," Lankford said. "I've heard no word of it."

"The next time I'm in London," Quillian promised. He smiled at the mirror. Lankford would never admit it, but the old bastard enjoyed the scent of blood as much as Quillian did.

Lankford rang off.

Quillian finished his weight-training twenty minutes later, then buzzed in a maid carrying a pitcher of orange juice and two glasses of ice. He draped a towel around his shoulders and mopped his face as he approached the small round table where the maid stood silently while he inspected the service. It gleamed from the efforts at polishing.

He flipped a fingernail against the metal surface and listened to the ping. "Very satisfactory, Melia." The ring of good silver was a sound he'd grown to appreciate.

"Thank you, Mr. Quillian." She turned and left the room.

He filled a glass with orange juice and stepped over to the room's wall-size one-way window. He sipped and gazed down on New York City. Metropolitan areas all looked alike these days. Chicago, Sacramento, Detroit, Atlanta, Dallas and Houston—all had homogenized to the point of losing their identities. He'd lived in those cities for different lengths of time. Every one of them had marked conquests for him, and those, in turn, had led to the one he had his sights on now. The business involving Graceten was piddling, a raindrop in a pond by comparison.

He sighed with anticipation and sipped his drink. The potential had been there for years, waiting for the right person to come along and gather the pieces. Overtures toward worldwide peace made politics a confused issue that could only be settled with economic muscle.

The world—like it or not—was becoming one, but it would take a man of vision to pull whole countries from the morass they threatened to sink into. Wars could again gobble up nations as the haves squared off against the have-nots. This last bit of business in Iraq was proof of the pudding.

He finished his orange juice and set the glass aside. Fitting the phone headset lying next to the silver service over his head, he opened the line to his secretary's extension. A sliding track connection allowed him to pace the room.

"Yes, Mr. Quillian?"

"Good morning, Caprice," he said as he walked around the room. "I'm ready to begin the messages now."

She rolled off the names, facts and figures flawlessly. He responded to each matter in turn, buying or selling or putting someone off until better terms could be negotiated, or pressures could be applied. Before he'd started the current project those daily bits of business had been something he'd relished. Now they were necessary work. His decisions were mechanical. All his creative energies were tied up in his plans for the present.

"One more thing, Caprice," he said nearly an hour later. "I'd like to send a dozen yellow roses and something extravagant from Tiffany's.to a Miss Samantha Stone. She's staying—"

"At the Harestock Lodge in Winchester, England," she replied with a hint of sharpness.

"Yes."

"I'm familiar with her concerning your recent phone calls, Mr. Quillian." The statement was made too quickly to cover the emotion in her words. "Should the roses be in a vase or long-stemmed?"

"Long-stemmed. She's earned them."

"What about the gift from Tiffany's?" Caprice asked.

"A bracelet," Quillian replied without hesitation. "Diamonds. Somewhere in the forty-thousand-dollar range, with at least a dozen individual stones."

Samantha Stone was enough of a mercenary to appreciate something that wouldn't devalue with inflation, yet still maintained a certain liquidity in the event of sudden unexpected need. Quillian was also sure the woman was liberating an amount of Chauncey Graceten's cash before she left him as planned.

"Do you want a note attached?"

"It won't be necessary." The woman would know who the gift was from, just as she'd know it could be used to further Graceten's jealousies by introducing the threat of a mysterious new suitor.

"Will there be anything else?" the secretary asked.

"No." Quillian clicked off, then routed another phone call through his personal switchboard. The rooms here were rented. He had personal homes—three bungalows on three separate Caribbean islands, a town house in London, an apartment in Cambridge where he'd spent his miserable boyhood in poverty, and a marble mansion with sweeping terraces in Italy. There were others. Some of them he'd never visited.

Then there was the fortress on Shankspyre Island. Quillian liked it there, and—if need be—he was sure he could spend the rest of his life there. Provided everything went as he planned, the world would be at his fingertips.

"Perkins," a masculine voice answered.

"I'm coming down to watch the program run."

"Of course, sir. We've been expecting you."

Quillian left the exercise room and took his private elevator down one floor to the modular computer lab that trailed him everywhere.

The room was spacious, only slightly smaller than the banquet room he'd had converted into a reception room during his stay. Plexiglas static guards hung from the two doorways at either end of the room. Computers and their support systems covered the tables arranged between modular walls that gave a semblance of privacy for the operators.

Quillian counted the technicians automatically as he swept the Plexiglas strips from his face and entered the room. Four men worked to a shift, three shifts a day, seven days a week. Three supervisors pulled ten-hour shifts with a twenty-hour layover before the next shift. Quillian paid top dollar. He got the same back in service. Or he found someone else.

Perkins met him in the center of the room. The computer lab supervisor was long and lean, with a lantern jaw, glasses and auburn hair that flared out on both sides of his head and left the center bare.

The clock on the wall showed 9:38.

"Start the sequence," Quillian ordered.

The rattle of clacking keyboards filled the charged air around the mainframes.

"Program on-line," a technician reported.

Quillian followed Perkins to a master keyboard. He gazed at the VGA monitor and watched machine language blur across the amber screen.

"Give me everything here," Perkins said. His fingers flew across the keyboard.

Ultimately Quillian owed his present success to the rapidly developing taste for free enterprise allowed in the Soviet Union. The Russians had proved surprisingly apt at developing their own software and had become something of a contender on the American market. One of the initial purchases made by American licensers was for the video game Tetris.

Quillian's acquisition of the Russian programming had allowed his computer teams to penetrate and understand software that would grant them entry into the Soviet security net. If it worked.

The scrolling froze on the monitor screen. The cursor sat and blinked patiently.

"We're in," Perkins said in a hushed voice.

"Have you been detected?" Quillian asked.

Perkins shook his head as his fingers clacked across the board. "No. Not that I can tell."

"Doit."

"Loading the program now."

When the cursor flashed the acceptance code, Quillian said, "Disengage program."

Perkins hit three buttons in quick succession, then leaned back in his chair. "Done, and done."

Quillian glanced at the clock on the wall. "Five minutes?"

"Yes, sir," Perkins replied as he spun his chair around to face the rest of his team. "Up-link with NORAD's DSP-647 West over the Atlantic Ocean."

Two of the technicians turned to their boards.

"Route it through the San Ruperta station," Perkins ordered. "After yesterday American military interests will uncover that quickly, so let's use it while we can."

"Link's been achieved," a man said.

"Fine. Boot it through our framework correlation concerning known Soviet submarine activity in the Atlantic."

Information concerning Soviet sub activity had been expensive. Quillian had checked all the facts through contacts in the United States, Russia and Germany. Even at that, the cost had been cheap compared to the results he hoped to achieve.

"It's in the frame. Tracking now."

"Good," Perkins said. "Refer to subcategory Ignatiyev."

"Running. And locked."

"Put it on the big screen." Perkins turned to address his own keyboard again. "I have control here."

Quillian turned toward a four-foot monitor on the wall as the lights dimmed. A feeling of deja vu hammered him. The same feelings he was experiencing now had coursed through him over twenty-four hours ago when he'd been on hand for the successful invasion of NORAD control in Cheyenne Mountain. The sense of power and control filled him. It was more intoxicating than any drug he'd ever tried.

He glanced at the clock. The luminescent second hand swept toward the countdown's final minute.

"There it is," Perkins said, tapping the computer keys. A bright yellow rectangle appeared on-screen and centered around a single object in a blue field. "The visual representations are graphics we designed ourselves. I thought it would be easier for you to understand more clearly."

"I understand it perfectly," Quillian said in quiet rebuke. "I designed the plan you're following."

"Of course, Mr. Quillian," Perkins replied, chastised.

On-screen the blinking yellow rectangle blew up the object until it looked like what it was—a submarine suspended below the ocean's surface.

"Of course NORAD isn't receiving anything like this," Perkins said. "I could switch over to an actual reproduction of their information."

"No. The graphics are a nice touch. Much simpler to absorb."

"Thank you, sir."

"What ship is this?" Quillian asked.

"The Ignatiyev," Perkins said. "It's a Typhoon-class carrying twenty SSN-20 Seahawks. They're sea-launched ballistic missiles, use solid fuel and have a nautical range of five-thousand-plus miles. Each missile is made up of eight multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles, nicknamed MCRVs by the military. The estimated yield of each of these MIRVs is five hundred kilotons, enough to basically destroy a city each. At present the Ignatiyev is under more than eleven hundred feet of water. She's commanded by Captain Aleksandr Ragulin, a twelve-year veteran."

"Eleven hundred feet of water," Quillian repeated. "Our signal will be received by her on-board computers?"

"Easily." Perkins gave a small, uncharacteristic smile that looked out of place on his lean face. "After we achieved lock, they had no choice. The personnel in our building have ensured top quality on their broadcasting equipment."

"What about Ragulin?"

"We've researched him thoroughly through the CIA files we raided. He's exactly the kind of man you wanted for this phase of the operation—fiercely loyal to his country, a confirmed disbeliever in glasnost and paranoid about America's first-strike capabilities."

"Good." Quillian smiled as he watched the second hand click over on the final second. "Then Captain Ragulin won't question the evidence his instruments are giving him now that America has just launched a missile offensive against the Soviet Union."

"No, sir. It's something he's been preparing for."

CHAPTER SIX

The Ignatiyev Tuesday—11:52 a.m.

"Battle stations!" Captain Aleksandr Ragulin ordered. "Red alert status!" He leaned over the relative bearing chart to assess the position of the American submarine in the area.

The command room became a flurry of activity. Klaxons blared as ruby warning lamps flared.

Straightening, Ragulin swept his gaze across his men. His heart seemed as cold and brittle as the Siberian coal his father had spent his life ripping from the ground.

"Dive one hundred eighty meters at a twenty-degree angle," he ordered.

"Dive, one hundred eighty meters at a twenty-degree angle," the warrant officer repeated.

A slow anger burned within the submarine captain. The damn glasnost would be the death of them all. He held on to the chart table tightly as the Typhoon-class boat slid deeper into the Atlantic Ocean.

"Captain Ragulin?" Stefan Barabolya stumbled into the control room while trying to pull his uniform into order. "What's going on?"

Ragulin forgave the man the messy attire, as long as Barabolya was attempting to make himself presentable.

The man had been off-duty, asleep in one of the officers' hammocks. "We've just gone to war, Comrade."

"Surely you jest, Comrade Captain."

Flashing his second-in-command a look filled with fire and steel, Ragulin returned his attention to the control room. "I'd hardly make jokes about matters that weigh so heavily, Comrade."

Chastised, Barabolya nodded and went on fumbling with his jacket buttons. "Of course, Captain. Please forgive me. I haven't yet fully awakened."

"Then see to it. I might have need of you."

"Aye, sir." Barabolya stepped smartly away to make the rounds of the men and equipment.

"Navigator," Ragulin roared.

"Comrade Captain?"

"Increase speed to one-half."

"Yes, sir."

Sheathed inside the metal skin of the submarine, Ragulin became the boat's central nervous system. He heard the ticking and popping of increased pressure on the hull from the surrounding water.

"Everything's functioning perfectly, Comrade Captain," Barabolya said on his return. He still looked flustered.

Ragulin felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the younger man, then quickly erased it. He had deadly business to attend to. "Sonarman."

"Sir?"

"The American vessel?"

"She has dived, sir, but seems undecided about how to respond to our sudden disappearance."

"The distance?"

"Fifteen hundred meters, sir, and fully three hundred above us."

«

"Inform me of any changes in their present attitude toward us."

"Understood, Comrade Captain."

"I'm to understand our country has been attacked?" Barabolya asked.

"Yes," Ragulin responded in a quiet voice not meant to carry. Knowledge had its place aboard a boat, and that knowledge was meant for the hands of the few in control of the boat.

"But who?" Barabolya persisted.

"The Americans, Comrade. Less than five minutes ago a missile assault was launched toward our motherland."

"No." Barabolya looked stunned. "It can't be."

"It is," Ragulin insisted.

"Captain," the sonarman hailed.

"Yes?"

"The American vessel has chosen to pursue us."

"Is it closing the distance between us?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. Keep it under surveillance." Ragulin glanced at the warrant officer. "Ready torpedo room."

The warrant officer lifted his microphone and relayed the order. The clank and whush of the torpedo tubes filling with water prior to firing thundered through the length of the vessel. "Torpedo room ready, sir."

"Pull yourself together, damn it," Ragulin whispered to his second-in-command.

"Yes, sir."

Ragulin watched his crew with a practiced eye. They weren't as professional as he would have wanted. Hardly any Soviet sailors were. They were conscripted into service and dreamed only of returning to the farmland they'd come from.

"Are you sure of your facts, Comrade Captain?" Barabolya asked.

"We're waiting the first of the telexed messages to confirm what I was told," Ragulin said. He glanced at the chronometer and compared it automatically to his watch.

"Our communications…?"

"Have been interfered with," Ragulin answered. "However, our receptions from computer-encoded messages are operational."

"You've had no contact with the Kremlin or the admiral?"

Ragulin glanced at his second. "In less than seven minutes, the first of the nuclear missiles will rip the heart out of Moscow. Cleanse your mind of your worries, Comrade. We've become an instrument of retribution, and we will be successful in avenging ourselves against our enemies."

"I don't see how this could have happened. The Americans have as much to lose as we do."

"Keep your mind off politics," Ragulin advised. "We have too damn many politicians these days as it is. Our leaders have offered our throats to the capitalists. I won't allow my command to go under the knife so easily. I'm no cow to be content with some butcher's edged kiss."

"Sir?"

Ragulin looked at the communications officer.

"The American boat is trying to contact us by radio. Should I respond?"

"Sonar. How far away is it?"

"Fifteen hundred meters, sir."

"Helm," Ragulin commanded, "bring us about to face the American. Slowly. They've heard the torpedo tubes being readied. Sonar?"

"Sir?"

"Their torpedo tubes?"

"No sound, sir."

Ragulin nodded. It could mean the Americans were, as they put it so quaintly, already running cocked and locked. He checked at the relative bearing chart. The American was in no position to initiate a confrontation. Yet. He controlled his anger, cursing all the softhearted politicians in the Politburo who had endangered his sub by relaxing security standards since glasnost and the release of the Eastern European satellites.

"Hail the American," he ordered.

"Aye, sir."

Ragulin snapped his headgear into place to keep the conversation private. He signaled Barabolya to don his own. "Captain Ragulin," he stated in English, "of the Soviet navy. Over."

"Captain Gerald Tunney of the USS Houston," a nasal voice said. "Couldn't help noticing your sudden change in direction, Captain. I was wondering if we could be of assistance. Over."

Staring at his second-in-command, Ragulin tried to guess what was going through his enemy's mind. The American captain had to know about the torpedoes being readied. There was no masking that. Yet the Houston's course heading wasn't an aggressive one.

"Perhaps something is wrong," Barabolya said. "They wouldn't act so relaxed if their country had just declared war on ours."

"No," Ragulin said, "it's a trick." He felt the perspiration trickle down his spine under his uniform blouse.

"Captain?" the American's nasal voice prompted.

The telex jumped into motion. Barabolya retreated long enough to tear the single sheet of paper from the carriage, glanced at it, then white-faced, handed it to Ragulin.

He read the single word, recognizing it as the first password to start the nuclear countdown. He returned Barabolya's stare full measure. "There's no mistake, Comrade. We're to carry out the strike."

Barabolya nodded contritely, then gripped the rails above their head.

"Helmsman," Ragulin said, "hard to port."

"Aye, sir."

The Ignatiyev swung into action with screws whining. The sailors struggled to maintain their positions on the rocking deck.

Ragulin felt satisfaction knowing he'd strike a blow against his country's greatest enemy. He was in the belly of a great metal shark, and the scent of blood was in the water.

The White House

"That damn sub shows every sign of going ballistic, Mr. President!"

Hal Brognola stood inside the small office with the Man and watched the closed-circuit television mounted in the wall across from the desk. The signal was from SOSUS Atlantic Control on a scrambler channel. The speaker was Senior Chief Oceanographic Technician Vernon Renfield, a short, square man with gray hair and deceptively mild blue eyes.

"How bad is it, Chief?" the President asked. He leaned on the desk, resting clenched fists on the paper-covered top.

"Typhoon-class, sir," Renfield replied. "Its complement includes twenty Seahawk missiles capable of—"

"Leveling twenty American cities," the President finished. "Can we take it out?"

"No, sir. The USS Houston is in the area, but Captain Tunney feels any aggressive action on his part may precipitate events."

"I understand."

The twenty-six-inch monitor blinked for attention.

The President reached for his remote control and flipped a switch. A new window opened up on the screen. Chief Renf ield was relegated to a six-inch box in the upper-right corner. A worried-looking Soviet president took up the rest of the space.

"What the hell's going on out there?" the President demanded without preamble.

"We've tried to reestablish communications with her captain," the Soviet leader said through his interpreter. "Something's blocking our signal. The satellites responsible for sending and receiving military messages across the Atlantic have been sabotaged."

"How?"

"As yet we remain uncertain."

The President slammed a fist on the desktop.

Brognola figured if he'd been the person in control of the present situation he'd have stopped at nothing less than a chair through the window. He unwrapped a cigar and thought furiously, dissecting the problem in his mind.

"The Ignatiyev's countdown has begun. That's been confirmed through our other electronic resources."

"And been suspected through ours," the President said. "What kind of timetable are we looking at?"

"Perhaps as few as ten minutes."

Brognola glanced at his watch automatically. It was a beat cop's reflex.

"Your captain isn't a very stable man according to the files I've been shown," the President said. He tapped a manila folder crammed with photocopied sheets. "His politics clearly aren't your own."

"Would that matter? I've seen any number of your supposed constituents and political people disagree with you concerning policies and courses of action you have endorsed."

Brognola watched the seconds click by on the lower right of the monitor screen. The Soviet leader took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. The head Fed glanced at the six-by-six square containing Chief Renfield.

An idea came into Brognola's mind. And maybe being a beat cop with a beat cop's experience wasn't so bad, because he knew a beat cop's best friend was his communications systems. Turning to the President, Brognola said, "The USS Houston has confirmed radio communications with the Soviet sub. Patch a bleed from Moscow communications through those of the Houston to the Ignatiyev. He can order them to shut down."

"Chief Renfield?" the President barked.

"Yes, sir?"

"Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir, but you're going to be compromising a lot of high-level security channels that—"

"Just get it done, mister."

"Yes, sir."

Brognola set his cigar between his teeth and clamped down tight. The seconds continued to tick away.

Captain Gerald Tunney stood in the attack center with his arms held loosely at his sides. Long and lean, he rolled easily with the movement of his boat through the water. They were in a thirty-degree dive, angling for a position alongside the Ignatiyev in a manner that wouldn't read as hostile to the Soviet boat. His Tennessee upbringing manufactured the image of a beta dog submitting its bared throat to the jaws of an alpha dog.

"Coombs," Tunney said.

The radioman looked up expectantly. "Aye, sir."

"Andy Warhol said everybody gets their fifteen minutes of stardom. Here's yours, son. Make me proud."

"Aye, sir. Channels are open. Communications have interfaced successfully."

Tlmney unconsciously came to attention. "Mr. President, we're ready here, sir. Over." And damn curious why we haven't already been blown out of the water, he added to himself. This was definitely not the way for a hunter sub to act.

The transmission was brief and in Russian.

T'tmney didn't understand a bit of it, but he did understand the passion behind the words. Someone was scared. Maybe a lot of someones to get this kind of communications kicker squirreling through reserved intelligence SLOCs.

Another voice, speaking in Russian also, broke into the one-sided conversation.

"Coombs," Tunney said. The radioman was conversant in Russian even though he wasn't fluent.

"An Admiral Dobrynin, sir. He's giving the Soviet sub captain verbal commands and passwords to shut the nukes down." The communications officer glanced up, holding his headgear in place. "Captain Ragulin believes it's a trick."

The conversation continued, gathering pace and intensity.

"Oh, shit, sir!" Coombs said. His eyes widened. "Something in the on-board computers just triggered the self-destruct sequence. The Soviets can't stop it! They're going to blow!"

Tunney didn't hesitate. His primary mission was the safety of his crew and his ship once it was proved he could achieve nothing else. He raced forward and hit the chicken switches.

High-pressured air blew the ballast tanks empty in seconds. The sub's frantic rush for the ocean surface threw everyone onto the deck as the warning sirens screamed, a rippling backlash of the sequenced multiple explosions from the Ignatiyev chasing them up.

New York City

"We actually had plenty of time to spare, Mr. Quillian," Perkins said. "The Soviets couldn't have fired their missiles for another five minutes."

Quillian showed the man a satisfied smile, then returned his attention to the monitor. The computer-generated image of the Russian submarine was still drifting apart in tens and dozens of sharp-edged dots. "What about the USS Houston?"

Perkins turned to another of the technicians, prompting the man with a hand wave.

"The Houston survived, Mr. Quillian. According to the reports I'm getting, the submarine took on some damage but will be able to engineer a full recovery within a few hours. Their orders are to canvas the area for anything salvagable from the Soviet ship."

"Boat," Quillian corrected. "Submarines are referred to as boats." He knew the difference. A lot of his life, once he had achieved control over it, had taken place at sea in various vessels.

A phone rang nearby.

Noting the extension number flashing above the handset, Quillian punched the button and said his name.

"Mr. Smith is here to see you, sir," his secretary said. "I've already shown him to your personal office per your instructions."

"Thank you. Inform Mr. Smith to make himself at home and that I'll be joining him shortly."

"Yes, sir," the secretary replied.

"And send in a pot of Colombian coffee. Fresh. He has a taste for that."

"I'll see to it myself."

Quillian hung up. Smith was Salvador Cross's cover name for the New York visits. Quillian expected nothing but more good news. "Release the Russian satellites," he said to Perkins. "The Soviets will start their own investigations and try to maintain intelligence integrity concerning the situation. It'll only serve to further confuse everyone involved."

Perkins nodded and turned to his keyboard. His fingers tapped the keys, then stopped as a puzzled expression filled his face. "There seems to be a problem."

Annoyance flared through Quillian. Computer problems were not his to worry over. He hired people to do that. He stepped closer to look at the monitor. The screen was absolutely black. Perkins tapped a key.

Nothing happened.

"What is it?" Quillian demanded.

"It won't respond. Something's locked into the keyboard and won't release it to my manual command."

"A glitch in the system?" Quillian asked.

"No, sir." Perkins looked up and adjusted his glasses. "I warned you this might happen. That software is too erratic. There were too many things I didn't understand about the programming."

"It was your job to use it," Quillian snapped, "not understand it." He trailed a hand across the keys, but the screen remained the depthless black. Only the red dot in the corner of the monitor told him it was on.

Abruptly a line of orange letters exploded across the screen.

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS?

The cursor raced to the next line and waited, flickering patiently.

"Are we still linked to the Soviet communications satellite?" Quillian asked.

"It's alive," Perkins replied in a stunned whisper. "It's alive, isn't it? I thought so. But you knew, didn't you?"

The question continued to scroll down the screen with frightening regularity,

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS?

"Are we still connected to the Russian systems?" Quillian demanded.

"Yes," Perkins said, but his attention was locked on the scrolling lines before him.

"Break it off," Quillian commanded, "before they trace the interference back to us."

"I can't." Perkins tapped on the keyboard helplessly.

Quillian crossed the room to the mainframe and shoved it aside to get at the power cord behind it. He wrapped both hands in the cord and yanked. The connection gave a bright electrical spark and a hissing pop, then the computer noises whirling inside the mainframe died. He glanced at the monitor in front of Perkins, aware every eye in the room was on him.

The scrolling lines faded from the screen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Skyline Drive, Virginia Tuesday—10:23 a.m.

Mack Bolan glanced at the rearview mirror and steered the full-size Chevy Blazer off U.S. Highway 211 onto Skyline Drive east of Sperryville. Now that traffic had dwindled, the black Lincoln trailing them was more prominent. He settled back into his seat and continued on a sedate five miles above the speed limit.

"Company?" Dr. Eryn McCone asked from the passenger seat.

The warrior gave her an easy grin. "For a lady with a Ph.D. in hard science, you don't miss much."

"I put my Ph.D. to work for the CIA and DARPA as soon as I graduated," McCone replied. "God, I'm beginning to sound like one of you alphabet types again the way I'm reeling off these initials and acronyms. Believe me, I haven't missed it. I spotted them back at the airport. Why haven't you tried to ditch them?"

"Losing them isn't the objective." Bolan watched the road. He was togged out in black jeans, boots, a checked flannel shirt, and a green windbreaker that took the chill out of the late-morning air. It also covered the Desert Eagle in his shoulder holster. "Before the attempt to kidnap you in Tokyo a group of mercenaries attacked a research outpost connected with the present situation, and nearly razed it to the ground. None of the attackers was taken alive."

"So you people want some questions answered."

"If we can."

"Were they Japanese?"

"The other group? No. Aaron's running down their profiles now. As much as he's able. From what I've been told the trail's pretty thin."

"It'll be a challenge. Aaron's always been one for challenges." The woman looked out her window.

Bolan checked the tail, made sure it hadn't tried to close the distance and glanced at the woman. There had been a note of wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of Kurtzman.

Four years of bloody history during the Civil War had sheared through the land around them and left scars that would never fade. Shenandoah National Park was only minutes away. Above the virgin and verdant forests stretching out on either side of the highway Stony Man Mountain towered three-quarters of a mile high. The broken and rocky profile of the Farm's namesake looked grim and forbidding.

"How is Aaron?" McCone asked.

"Well."

"I take it he's out of fieldwork now," McCone said. "Otherwise he'd have been at the airport to meet us."

The woman's words gave Bolan a sense of the time and distance between McCone and Kurtzman. Bear had been held prisoner by a wheelchair for years now. He checked on the black Lincoln and found it starting to move up to close the distance.

"Is he?" McCone asked.

The warrior returned her even gaze and frowned, trying to pick up the threads of the conversation. Less than a hundred words had been exchanged between them during the flights chartered through the Air Force. Now, at a time when his mind was occupied with survival, she wanted to talk.

"Out of fieldwork?" McCone prompted.

"Yeah," Bolan replied, thinking of the wheelchair. "Been out of it for some time." He palmed the cellular telephone, punched in two digits to activate a programmed number and checked the rearview mirror again.

The Lincoln sped around a massive green-and-white RV, shadows shifting and wobbling on the other side of the dark windshield.

A shrill whistle sounded as the connections linked, ending with an undercurrent of rushing static. The distinctive whup-whup of helicopter blades echoed in the background.

"That you, Striker?" Jack Grimaldi asked. He was Stony Man Farm's ace pilot and a friend of the Executioner's hellfire campaigns since the Mafia Wars.

"Affirmative. Timetable's been moved up, guy."

"Like sands through the hourglass," a British voice quipped, "so are the disasters of our lives."

"Brought some company along," Grimaldi explained.

"McCarter?"

"Bingo, mate," David McCarter replied. "You get the brass ring and the Kewpie doll." He was a member of Phoenix Force, the international arm of Stony Man's behind-the-lines means of dealing true justice in the shadows between countries. An ex-SAS trooper, the lanky Briton had few peers when it came to sitting in the cockpit of most conventional fighting flying craft.

"Where's the ground team?" Bolan asked.

"They're down," Grimaldi said.

In the mirror's reflection the black Lincoln swung into tracking mode directly behind the Blazer, then closed the distance to three car-lengths.

"Get them mobile again," the Executioner said. "This is going down at least a half mile north of where we'd planned it."

"Right," Grimaldi said. "McCarter's relaying now. Don't worry about it, guy. Katz and the rest of Phoenix are with the ground troops. And there wasn't a rookie in the bunch to begin with."

"Understood. But we need some of these guys alive."

"I know."

"Ms. Price made it very clear that no matter what the comeuppance of this little foofaraw," McCarter cut in, "we had strict orders to get your arse off the hot seat. Being bait in a trap is one thing, but she draws the line at you and the good doctor becoming casualties."

Watching the skyline, Bolan saw a tiny dot in the distance gain altitude and grow in size. He cleared off the phone and hung up the receiver. Retracing the mental map he'd made of the area, he realized the play could go down even as much as two miles farther north than they'd planned. Having Phoenix running backup on the play was an unexpected bonus that cut drastically into the negative aspects of the timing and position.

The black Lincoln glided into place two car-lengths back. Metal gleamed under the dark surface of the tinted windows.

"Belt up," Bolan directed.

McCone complied at once, then gripped the chest strap in both hands when she finished.

Without warning a crimson-colored eighteen-wheeler in the oncoming lane cut across the highway. Black smoke coiled from the dual stacks, air brakes screaming for release as rubber shredded.

Moving smoothly, Bolan downshifted and made the manual transmission whine at the rough treatment. His seat belt held him while he cut the wheel and engaged the shift-on-the-fly four-wheel drive. Two bullets starred the windshield and ripped away the side mirror in a sudden gleam of stainless steel. As he steered for open country, the sounds of the shots were a faint heartbeat behind.

McCone ducked and held on to the seat belt tightly without making a sound.

The fat tires of the Blazer tore through the loose ground as they sought purchase. Fighting the pull of the steep decline and the forward momentum, the heavy four-wheel drive twisted violently and shuddered as it impacted on the other side of a terraced drainage ditch.

For a moment the wheel came alive in the Executioner's hands. Then the tires found traction, the engine powered him forward and he regained control.

Bolan checked the rearview mirror just as a ragged line of bullet holes ripped through the back window and threw chunks of safety glass forward to ping off the windshield like buckshot. As he cut toward the left to angle away from the gunfire, he placed a hand on McCone's head and pushed her down onto the seat.

The Lincoln's driver didn't give up. The big sedan cut off the road and followed the Blazer's tracks. Autofire erupted from both sides of the car, scarring the four-wheel drive unmercifully.

The deep-throated roar of an air horn bellowed in two long blasts.

Bolan saw the eighteen-wheeler come plunging down the incline like an avalanche of bucking steel. A gunner leaned from the passenger window and triggered quick 3-round bursts from an assault rifle.

The Executioner cut hard right. Running parallel to the highway was no longer an option. He couldn't chance beating the eighteen-wheeler on the loose ground. Small trees went down under the four-wheel drive's bumper like tenpins. Hollow spanging told the warrior another volley of shots had scored somewhere on the Blazer's body.

A thick oak tree knocked the passenger side mirror off when Bolan broadsided it in an effort to lose the sedan. The eighteen-wheeler was only a question of time. The loose, sandy loam couldn't support the tonnage for long.

Bolan slapped the gearshift into second, then aimed the vehicle's nose at a stand of young trees wreathed by strands of barbed wire. Scattered cows on the other side of the fence jerked into sudden motion.

The rearview mirror showed blurred images of the Lincoln and eighteen-wheeler rolling into the warrior's back-trail. He checked the woman and found she was holding her own. Then he shifted again, mashed the accelerator to the floor and roared down on a wooden fence post almost lost in the foliage. The post gave with a resounding crack, broken wire whipping across the Blazer's body in a series of metallic screeches.

The shadow of Grimaldi's helicopter raced across the rolling hills of the pasture toward the Executioner, growing larger as it dropped altitude. Mounted twin .50-caliber machine guns kicked into life before the ungainly shadow disappeared.

Bolan drove without hesitation. Grimaldi's attack would give his pursuers pause and make them reconsider their options, but their objective would remain the same. The takedown effort had been professional and well planned. They wouldn't give up easily.

The Executioner came around in a gliding ninety-degree turn, then steered for the fence line again. Grimaldi had the helicopter sweeping back in for a second pass. The eighteen-wheeler was bogged down in front of the fence and stood clearly revealed in the copse of trees. A body hung out the driver's window in line with the ragged stripes of .50-caliber bullet holes stitching the truck from the cab to the reefer.

Fist-size clumps of grass leaped into the air, propelled by the machine-gun bullets. Grimaldi kept the whirlybird under tight control and presented McCarter to the scrambling Lincoln. The vehicle's right tires went flat, and rubber slapped against the car body.

Bolan drove the Blazer through a different section of the fence line, rolled up over a hill and killed the engine. As he drew the Desert Eagle, he turned to McCone and said, "Get out."

The woman moved at once and followed him out on his side of the vehicle. The warrior motioned her down under the Blazer. "Stay with the truck," he said. "They won't be looking for you here. You'll be safe."

She nodded and crawled under the chassis on hands and knees. Mud streaked one of her cheeks when she looked up at him. "Be careful out there."

Bolan zipped the green windbreaker to better blend in with his surroundings, then dipped his hand into a pocket. After settling the ear-throat radio into place, he switched it on and absorbed the terse communiques that flicked across the frequency.

"Striker," he identified himself as he jogged in a half crouch below a ridge amid the covering trees. "I'm down and inside."

"And the woman?" The terse, no-nonsense voice belonged to Yakov Katzenelenbogen, Phoenix Force's commander. Katz was ex-Mossad, blooded in the Six Day War, and had learned his trade in the trenches behind the lines.

"She's okay," Bolan replied. He spotted the Lincoln less than fifty yards distant, its nose speared into the bole of an ancient oak. Hissing steam rose from the crushed radiator.

"We were wondering if you'd planned on stopping by to collect a few of the party favors you brought to the ball, Striker," Calvin James said. The lanky black ex-SEAL was the newest addition to Phoenix.

Bolan froze as rustling sounds approached his position. He melted into the profile of a tree when the rustling switched into the rapid drum of running footsteps. Judging the distance through hearing, he stepped into the path of the man and grabbed a fistful of his jacket.

The man wasn't alone. Another runner was only a few yards behind.

Bolan raised a knee into the first man's crotch twice in rapid succession, elbowed the assault rifle out of the man's hands and gave him a hard shove. The second man spilled backward while hollow pops of nearby gunfire continued to echo under the trees.

The first guy reached forward, grabbed Bolan's arm in both hands and struggled to get free. The Executioner slammed the butt of the .44 Magnum against the man's temple and felt the guy relax in his grip. Dropping the unconscious man, he lifted the Desert Eagle into target acquisition at the same instant the second man rolled to his knees and fumbled for the assault rifle. A short burst of 5.56mm tumblers ripped splinters from a nearby tree and fell across Bolan's face.

The Executioner squeezed the trigger twice, both 240-grain rounds coring through the gunner's heart and spilling his lifeless body down the decline.

Kneeling, the warrior stripped a pair of plastic cuffs from the back of his belt, rolled his prisoner over and put them around the man's wrists. A quick frisk revealed no identification. Bolan hadn't expected any. The team that had hit the research lab in Berkeley hadn't carried any, and—from what Brognola had been able to uncover through State channels—neither had the Japanese team.

He claimed the AR-15 as his own, confiscated the two remaining clips for it from the unconscious man and went on.

"We've got a total of five captured men, Striker," Matt Jefferies of Stony Man's elite guard unit said.

"Make it six," Bolan replied.

"Yes, sir."

"How many dead? And you can add one more to your figures."

"Ten, sir. They had two more vehicular units that pulled into the firefight after the eighteen-wheeler."

"Good job, Matt."

"Thank you, sir."

Bolan moved on through the carnage, easing up when he came within sight of two Stony Man hardmen. They signaled the all-clear to him, then continued their sweep through the immediate vicinity.

Knowing the area was contained, the warrior pulled back and gave directions to his captive and to the Blazer. He shouldered the AR-15 out of habit as he stopped beside the four-wheel drive. "You can come out now."

Dr. Eryn McCone scrambled out from under the vehicle. "I assume it's over." She grimaced and brushed leaves and dirt from her clothing.

"For now." Bolan scanned the blue sky, zeroing in on the thrumming blades of Grimaldi's chopper.

"I don't like being used as a sacrificial lamb," McCone said in a voice edged with steel. "I gave up all the cloak-and-dagger bullshit years ago when I quit the Company. I'm a citizen again. I've got rights, and they're being violated all to hell and gone."

"At least you're alive to complain about it," Bolan reminded her. "In case you haven't noticed, these people are trying pretty damn hard to take you out."

Twin dots of color flamed her cheeks. "I didn't ask for any of this. I haven't been involved in Agency business for a long time."

"One thing I've learned," Bolan said, "is that once you're involved in business like this, you can never really walk away from it. It has a way of reaching back for you."

Grimaldi landed the helicopter in the pasture.

"What makes you so sure I'm the target?" McCone demanded. "All I've got is your say-so. It could be you they're after."

"They didn't know where I was," Bolan replied as Calvin James slipped up silently behind the woman. "They had a lock on you."

James took a hypodermic from a plastic case inside his camou jacket and stayed out of McCone's sight. He looked at Bolan.

The Executioner nodded imperceptibly.

Some sixth sense warned the woman. She started to whirl as James slid the needle in and tapped the plunger.

"Goddamn you, you son of a bitch!" she screamed as she struck out with her fists.

James deflected most of the blows and waited for the drug to take effect. He caught her before she slumped to the ground and hoisted her over a shoulder.

"Feel bad about drugging her," James admitted as they walked toward the helicopter. "Even using this tame stuff, anything that acts that fast is going to leave her with one hell of a headache when she wakes up."

"I know." Bolan shook hands with Grimaldi and stepped into the waiting chopper. "But the only other choice we had was to leave her out to face these people alone."

James helped belt the unconscious woman into the seat. "When the time's right, she'll see it that way, too," Bolan said.

"Still haven't got any of the details?" James asked.

"No."

The Phoenix Force member stepped back from the chopper. "I don't like mysteries, and Barb and Bear seem to be chock-full of them right now."

Bolan nodded. "When's the debrief set?"

James consulted his watch. "About two hours. One o'clock."

"See you back at the Farm," Bolan said.

James nodded, hunkered down and trotted out of the way of the sweeping blades.

Lifting smoothly, Grimaldi swung around wide over the attack zone. The eighteen-wheeler was a rumpled line through the trees. The Lincoln cast a dark shadow from where it lay crumpled up against the tree. Two other cars were overturned at staggered distances from the highway. Smoke and flames curled around one.

At least a dozen civilian vehicles were parked along the highway. The drivers and passengers huddled together and pointed along the scarred trails the Blazer and the pursuit vehicles had made through the forest. Three Virginia State Police cars screamed onto the scene with flashing cherries and braked at the outer fringe of the parked cars with expert efficiency. The policemen scrambled from their vehicles with drawn guns and waved the civilians back.

"Have we got a liaison down there?" Bolan asked.

McCarter nodded. "Parker's handling things with the local forces. There." The Briton pointed.

An unmarked Jeep rolled from cover and pulled to a stop well away from the State Police. A man in camou BDUs stepped from the passenger seat, held his hands well away from his sides and approached the state officers. His walk was unmistakably military to the trained eye.

"Barb's handling everything that comes from higher up," Grimaldi said.

Bolan settled back into his seat as the scene dropped away from him.

"These blokes have certainly spread themselves around on this," McCarter said.

"Yeah," Bolan replied. Fielding international teams around the globe with the kind of timing they'd seen ran into expenses that would have caused financial hardship for a number of small countries. The warrior's mind flickered through possibilities, trying to pinpoint where the threat might be coming from. At the moment he didn't have enough intel to make even a reasonable guess.

A mental flip of the coin to get at the question on the other side chilled him. If whoever was behind the attacks and the false information being relayed through American and Russian satellites was willing to spend money in these amounts and take the risks that were inherent with the given situations, what could the prize be?

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Aaron Kurtzman wheeled himself out of the elevator with driving thrusts of his massive arms. His broad shoulders ached, and his eyes burned from too little sleep and too many hours spent at the computer terminal. Then there were those damn butterflies flitting around in his stomach that hadn't been there until he'd been notified of McCone's arrival.

He dreaded facing her. Not for having her basically kidnapped after he'd found her fingerprints all over Project Starfire. Hell, his decision to intrude on her privacy had probably saved her life. But when he last saw her, there had been some pretty harsh words on both sides.

He turned left in the carpeted hallway, then cut back right. McCone had been given one of the extra bedrooms on the second floor. Other than himself and Price, few of the other Stony Man personnel lived at the Farm on a regular basis.

The guard in front of the closed door was dressed in denims and a chambray work shirt, but there was nothing casual about the Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3 slung over his shoulder.

"She awake in there?" Kurtzman asked, knowing his voice was coming out rougher than he'd intended.

"Yes, sir," the guard said. "Heard her start moving around about ten minutes ago. She banged on the door for a little while, then gave up. I thought I heard the shower running after that."

"Did someone bring her clothes?"

The guard nodded.

"Why don't you go down to the end of the hall, soldier, and smoke 'em if you got 'em? Give us a little privacy."

"Holler if you need me." The man gave Kurtzman a little grin. "Way she was carrying on earlier, I can tell she can be a righteous hellcat if she's a mind to."

"Yeah," Kurtzman grunted. He rolled within reach of the door, jammed his thumbprint on the access square of the locking mechanism and moved through the open door after the electric eye read his print.

The lock reengaged hollowly behind him.

The room was dim. Natural light was at a minimum due to security measures. Spartan furnishings consisted of a full bed, a chest of drawers, a small table with three straight-backed chairs, a television and a plastic mirror that couldn't be broken and removed from the wall for use as a weapon. At times the bedrooms were used to detain reluctant guests.

He sat idle in the wheelchair while the butterflies intensified their efforts in his stomach. As he surveyed the little bits of Eryn McCone scattered across the room, a wave of uneasiness swept over him. A hint of perfume, a fragrance he still remembered, stained the cooled air. The rumpled blankets and sheets on the bed showed her recovery from the drug hadn't been gentle. Mud-smeared clothing made a neat little pile in front of the bathroom door. Her shoes, showing obvious efforts of attempted cleaning, sat on top of them.

Memories crowded at Kurtzman's mind until he batted them away in frustration. The bathroom door clicked open.

"Who's out there?" McCone demanded over the sound of rushing water.

"Me," Kurtzman said.

"Me, who?"

Kurtzman knew it was a dig, and knew things weren't going to go well for the unplanned reunion. She hadn't forgotten his voice. "Aaron Kurtzman."

"Which Aaron Kurtzman would that be?" McCone asked. "The one I used to know would never have his friends kidnapped in the dead of night, used as bait to draw out terrorists and shot full of drugs before telling them what it was all about. And he wouldn't have had them held prisoner until he got around to making time in his busy schedule to see them. So if you want me to believe you're that Aaron Kurtzman, you're sadly mistaken, mister."

"There's an explanation for all of this." Kurtzman rubbed the back of his neck and struggled to control the irritation that filled him. He should have reconsidered, should have let Barb handle this brief. But that was no option, either. Somehow it had to be better to lay his cards on the table up front, especially if they were going to work together.

"Love to hear it," the woman called. The sound of running water died away. "But I don't plan on hanging around long enough to get the scoop."

"If you leave here, they'll try to take you again," Kurtzman said. "Or kill you if they can't."

"Your buddy Striker tried to sell me that bill of goods, too. I wasn't buying then, and I'm not buying now. Personally I think it's bullshit, stories to keep me being a good little girl for the Company again."

"This isn't the CIA."

"CIA, NSA, FBI, they're all cut from the same cloth, just given different territories so they can play at border disputes and injured feelings. I got sick of it, Aaron. I'm not about to step back into that morass again."

For the moment Kurtzman remained silent. He pushed the wheelchair over by the room's only window and parted the curtain, sighing when he saw the closed bulletproof metal slats that barred the sunlight. He figured that if he'd woken up in a room not knowing where he was, and found bars on the windows and a locked door, he'd be pissed, too. "You remember Gil Harding?"

"Of course. Do you think—"

"He's dead."

"How?" McCone's voice sounded strained.

"Shot through the head with a large-caliber handgun."

"My God."

"Remember Claudia Hinckle?"

"Yes."

"Vanished from Houston less than a week ago. Evidence in her apartment leads investigators to believe it was an abduction."

McCone didn't reply.

"Blake Schwinn's also missing, but the FBI believes they're looking for a corpse, not a man. Ringing any bells here yet?"

"The DARPA project," McCone answered. "The last one I worked on."

"Project SeekNFind."

"I didn't know you'd been let into that one."

"I hadn't until a couple of months ago. After the bodies started piling up a few weeks back, that secret little house the DARPA people put together with the Air Force went down in flames. I was working through normal channels to alert you and cover you when I got the go-ahead to involve the people I'm working with now."

"You must really be busy these days," McCone said with venom. "Back when I knew you, you'd have saddled up that trusty white charger of yours and come yourself." She opened the door and entered the bedroom. Her eyes took in the wheelchair and she blanched visibly.

Kurtzman fitted a smile on his face that felt as phony as it was. "Things have changed slightly."

Tense silence stretched between them.

She was dressed in stonewashed jeans and a dark blue blouse. Cowboy boots encased her feet. He knew from the outfit that Barbara Price had raided his files on McCone and seen to the details herself. She looked beautiful, but he knew he was prejudiced.

"I'm sorry," McCone said. "I didn't know."

Kurtzman's hands made knotted fists on the wheelchair arms. The old helpless feeling slipped greasily through his stomach, reminding him of how he'd felt when he was first told he'd never walk again. "It's ancient history, kiddo." But the words took effort.

She wrapped her arms over her breasts as she looked down at him. Tears shone in her eyes. "Goddamn it, Aaron, why didn't you tell me?"

"We agreed a long time ago to go our separate ways." He turned away from her, wondering if it was only hurt he saw in her eyes, or if pity was in there somewhere, too. He made his voice hard. "Like it or not, Eryn, you're involved in this."

She blotted her tears with her shirtsleeve and recovered her composure. "And if I choose to walk away right now?"

"It's your choice, and I'll honor it. But if whoever's masterminding this thing doesn't get you, DARPA will. I'm the only thing keeping them from you now."

"What does my work on SeekNFind have to do with this?"

"DARPA's got a working module," he said, "and they've attached it to the X-ray laser cannon Winston Kluge designed." He pointed up. "Twenty-three thousand three hundred miles out in geosynchronous orbit." Then he gave her the rest of it, knowing she wouldn't be able to walk away from it now because Project Starfire was the embodiment of everything that had caused her to make the break with DARPA. And Aaron Kurtzman.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Department of Justice, Washington, D.C. Tuesday—11:58 a.m.

An uneasy feeling hung over Hal Brognola as he rode the elevator from his office at the Department of Justice to the underground garage. He checked his jacket out of habit and made sure it was unbuttoned so that he could easily reach the snub-nosed .38 snugged into leather on his hip. His briefcase dragged at his left arm, made heavy by the files it contained as well as the bulletproof lining on both sides.

Thoughts of the cold-blooded killing of the Russian sailors aboard the Ignatiyev were still fresh. The Soviet leader was handling things at the Russian end and trying to keep Party tempers in check while the President did the same in the House and Senate. Knowledge of the uncertain security blanket covering the two countries, and ultimately the rest of the world, was slowly sifting down through the political channels. The big Fed knew it wouldn't be long before the media had solid facts to present to their audiences. Already whispers of what was going on had broken through to a few of the major news services, drawing reporters and camera crews to the White House. Brognola had barely managed a quiet escape.

He stepped out at the underground garage, and his unease turned into a four-alarm alert. Pausing in the sheltered enclosure of the elevator cage, he wrapped his fingers around the butt of the .38 and gave the parking area a visual sweep.

A handful of people breaking for an early lunch sifted through the lines of cars. Slamming doors and the occasional bits of music echoed under the concrete roof. A uniformed man stood inside the bulletproof glass of the security cubicle.

Dismissing the feeling as a result of too little sleep and too much bad news, he moved on. A shoe scuffed to his left and gave him a heartbeat's warning before the business end of a revolver pressed into his side.

"Don't move a muscle there, mate," a British-accented voice advised. "Don't even twitch your bloody nose."

A hand gripped Brognola around the upper arm and guided him toward a waiting sedan. The driver backed out of the slot and started around the row of cars.

"You guys are pretty ballsy to try this stunt in broad daylight," Brognola growled.

"We're paid to be, mate." The man had close-clipped blond hair, a jagged scar that trailed over his right eyebrow like a pink crescent moon and wore sunglasses.

"You're sure you've got the right guy?"

"I never assume, Mr. Brognola. I know I got who I came for."

Brognola glanced toward the guard post as they continued walking, then realized the guy in the uniform wasn't only unknown to him but was a woman to boot. "Guess you people knew Eddie had a fondness for the ladies," he said grimly.

The sedan came around slowly.

When the blond man reached for the door, Brognola whirled and raised the briefcase between them. He felt the discharge against the bulletproof side of the case before he heard the detonation. The round ricocheted and drew sparks from the hood of a nearby car.

Before the man could trigger another shot, Brognola drew his .38 and rammed the barrel under the briefcase into his attacker's stomach. The big Fed dropped the hammer twice, and the dead man fell as the driver of the sedan accelerated toward the other end of the building.

Brognola followed, staying well within the cover of the parked cars, and watched the sedan come around in a tire-eating one-eighty. The big engine gunned, and the rear wheels spun frantically for traction. Then the driver had it back on track and dead-aimed at the big Fed's position.

Unwilling to play sitting duck with the possibility of more unknowns waiting to drop into the mix, Brognola moved out into the clearing between rows of cars. A woman's scream drifted into his ears, sounding far away and unreal.

He dropped the .38 into target acquisition. With the sights settled firmly over the driver's silhouette, he ran through the last three rounds in the revolver.

A loosely constructed pyramid stitched through the windshield over the driver's face. The sudden jerk of the man's head told him he'd scored at least once.

Brognola threw himself to one side as the big car raced by out of control. It impacted against a concrete support, the hollow boom of the crash reverberating throughout the garage.

His hands moved of their own volition while he scanned the guard post. A flick of his wrist shucked the empty casings from his revolver as his free hand dropped into his jacket pocket for extra cartridges. He pushed them in one at a time, making sure each one was set. An empty chamber in a weapon that was needed was slow suicide. He'd heard stories about guys who'd managed to get that one shell chambered and the cylinder spun just in time, but he figured that was more luck than anything else. And poor judgment on that guy's part for not having a speedloader ready. He kept three in his briefcase. Wherever the hell it was.

The woman fired as soon as she cleared the guard post fifty feet away.

Brognola felt a bullet tug at the pocket of his jacket, then triggered a round that took the woman in her weapon shoulder. The jacketed slug spun her around, knocked the pistol from her hands and dropped her to the ground.

She was groping for the weapon when Brognola arrived. He kicked the pistol out of reach, then recovered it and dropped it into a pocket. A brief glance identified it as a SIG-Sauer 9mm. It was enough gun to get the job done if he'd given her the chance.

A pair of uniformed guards exploded from the stairwell. Brognola took out his badge case and flipped it open. "Brognola," he yelled as they trained their weapons on him, "Justice Department. Get the building shut down in case there are any more of these bastards."

One of the men unholstered a walkie-talkie and spoke into it briefly. His partner moved in on the wrecked car, examined it briefly, then trotted over to Brognola.

"The guy in the car?" the big Fed asked.

"Took at least two in the face," the guard replied. "Had to have been (dead before the crash broke his neck."

"There's another dead guy over there. I want you to tell your people these wise guys are strictly hands off. I've got my own teams who'll be doing the lab work."

"Yes, sir."

Brognola looked at the woman he'd downed, studying the sullen look in her dark eyes. "Cuff her. But only after your partner can cover you. Unless I miss my guess we're going to find out this little lady's been around the block a time or two. Don't worry about your frisk getting too personal. It could be your life you're saving. And don't worry about her modesty. It probably wore off years ago."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You're a fuckin' pig, Yank." The woman spit at him.

Brognola ignored her and walked back to the guard post. He found the regular guard inside, his throat sliced neatly from ear to ear. "Goddamn it, Eddie," the big Fed swore when he released the dead man's wrist, "you always were too soft on anything in a skirt."

He lifted the telephone receiver as Justice security shut the building down. An official car with flashing lights eased in through the street exit. A guard got out and closed the access doors.

He punched up an outside line, dialed his home number and glanced at his watch. His arrival at Stony Man was definitely going to be delayed. He listened to the four rings in silent agony with Eddie's corpse keeping him company. The bastards knew who he was, knew he'd be running interference on their operation. They'd know his home address, too.

The receiver was picked up on the fifth ring. "Hello," his wife answered.

He was so intent on listening for any signs of duress in her voice that he almost forgot to say anything. She'd been taken from him once before and returned only through Mack Bolan's unrelenting efforts and expertise, and the grace of God.

"Helen," he said, gesturing to a security guard to stand back and stay away from the cubicle for the moment, "I don't have time to explain now. Leave the house. Don't bother to pack. Don't leave messages for anyone. I'll arrange things later. Meet me at the Howard Johnson's." It was their code for her to meet him at the motel where they'd honeymooned in leaner times. She'd be nowhere near the Howard Johnson's. "When you get there, call the kids and tell them to drop out of sight for a few days. I'll be coming to collect you myself, so don't fall for anyone saying I was in an accident. Demand to see the toe tag. Okay?"

"I'll see you there, Hal. Take care. I love you."

"Love you, too, babe."

She hung up.

He couldn't have and she knew it. Breaking the connection was a way of letting go, and when death was treading close to the family doorstep, it was hard. He blessed her silently and cradled the receiver, then brushed by the pair of guards waiting to check Eddie's body.

An EMT crew dressed in hospital whites were already looking after the woman he'd shot. Someone had pulled the body from the wreckage of the car. Yards of yellow tape hung around the parking area, enclosing the battle zone from the elevator doors to the guard post.

He spent fifteen minutes throwing Justice's weight around, making it clear that nobody was going to move anything until his teams had arrived and sifted through the area for evidence. A crowd lingered in the stairwell and gazed curiously over the shoulders of the assigned guards.

Only after his teams arrived and took control of the situation did he head for his car. His briefcase had been recovered in the initial excursion by the security people. It sat on the hood of the sedan, gouged and torn from the bullet's impact.

He reached for the handle, and the feeling of unease returned. He dropped to a prone position and slid under the car behind the front wheel. His experience with engines was limited to shade-tree mechanics. Carpentry was more forgiving and more relaxing. But he knew enough to know when he saw an electrical wire that didn't belong.

Tracing it down, he followed it to the other end of the car and discovered a shaped C-4 charge hung near the gas tank. He took a shallow breath and eased from under the sedan, then called over one of his team familiar with bomb disposal.

Brognola watched in silence as the man slithered up under the car. Patience almost gone, he unwrapped a cigar and jammed it into a corner of his mouth. A sour ache filled his belly and made him long for the antacid tablets in his briefcase. But he wasn't about to open the case here because it would mean disabling the contents incinerator. Too many important papers with eyes-only clearance were in that case.

The bomb squad guy crawled back out into the open and sat up with a smile and the lump of C-4 in his palm. "You really pissed somebody off, old son," Jim Landers said in his West Texas drawl. "Got enough of a charge here to land you up near the second floor, car and all."

"I really needed to hear that."

Landers grinned as he hauled himself to his feet. "Know what you mean. It's enough to give a man palpitations."

"Not to mention being hell on underwear." Brognola pointed at the C-4. "That safe now?"

"Sure. You need a detonator to set it off."

"I'm going to take it with me and have a chemical analysis run on it. Maybe we'll turn up something, maybe not."

Landers handed over the explosive and returned to his group.

Brognola wheeled the sedan free of the parking slot and slid under the raised yellow tape. The closed entrance doors opened long enough to burp him out onto the street. He watched for tails, taking a few sudden turns that would bring them out into the open, then, satisfied he'd come away clean, lifted the cellular phone and dialed a number that would be rerouted to Barbara Price's extension at the Farm.

New York City

Taylor Perkins studied the hard disk in his right hand with awe. His fingers trembled as he considered, and dared hope for, what he held. He sat at the tiny desk in the small office Quillian had assigned him because his knees wouldn't hold him up any longer.

It had spoken.

It had tried to communicate.

It was alive.

The possibilities whirled through his mind like kamikaze comets racing toward a fiery death. There was so much he wanted to know. No. There was so much he had to know.

His trembling fingers traced the outlines of the hard disk case. When the office door opened without warning, his bowels almost voided and he swept the hard disk off the desk into the black bowling bag he'd emptied to contain it.

Wesley DuMont stood in the doorway and gazed at him from behind thick-lensed glasses. He looked plump and innocuous in the white lab coat.

"Close the damn door," Perkins said as he shifted in the swivel chair to peer into the computer lab. No one else seemed to notice them. Relief flooded through him, but it was short-lived. Since he'd duped the program without Quillian's knowledge, his life expectancy had become measured in seconds. Each breath was a triumph.

DuMont closed the door, resting his fingers lightly on the knob as if afraid to step farther into the room and become contaminated with Perkins's duplicity, as well. "Do you know what the hell you're doing, Taylor?"

"I know perfectly well what I'm doing," Perkins snapped.

"Then maybe the question I should ask you is whether you've taken leave of your senses?"

"No. You know I haven't." Perkins put the bowling bag with its treasure on the desktop but found he couldn't release his hold on it. "You saw it yourself. You know what it is."

"No, I don't know what it is. And for your own sake, you'd better not let your imagination dig you an early grave. Because, if you try what I think you're going to try, that's exactly what you'll be getting. Quillian will have you killed before you get outside the building."

DuMont's words sharpened the fear shivering inside Perkins. He tried to brush it away by feeding the excitement that coursed within him. He tapped his thumb nervously on the desktop. "It's alive, Wesley. You saw it yourself. It wanted to know who we were."

Frightened exasperation tinged DuMont's words. "It's a program, Taylor. That's all. Not one of those silicon gods you've been searching for all your life."

"It has self-awareness."

"It looked like it had self-awareness."

Perkins shook his head, reminding himself that none were so blind as those who would not see.

"I don't want to see you get hurt," DuMont said. "We've spent a lot of years together in research facilities all over the United States. Some of them were good years. Don't throw it all away."

"Bullshit," Perkins snapped. "I'm not throwing anything away. The past three years we've been with Quillian have been nothing but a waste. The man is a barbarian when it comes to science."

"You've never been anywhere that has had a lab near this well funded."

"Nor have I been anywhere that curtailed my explorations nearly so much."

Making an effort, DuMont released his hold on the doorknob and walked to the desk. He leaned on it forcefully. "Do you remember what he did to those men on that submarine, Taylor? Do you? Or have you lost the ability to see beyond the graphic resolutions computers kick out to remember that human life is out there, as well? He killed over a hundred men with the flick of a switch, then ordered dinner. You think he'd show any hesitation over removing you if you become intractable, as well?"

Perkins stood, hoping his weak knees wouldn't give out under him. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Quillian is making moves against the entire world. How do you think you're going to weather the fallout once those secret agencies working for the government start to strike back?"

"Are you forgetting Cliburn?" DuMont asked in an angry voice. "Cliburn tried to walk away and got a bullet behind the ear and a shallow grave in some godforsaken hole in Newark for his trouble." He knotted his hand into a fist and shook it at Perkins. "Don't play sanctimonious with me, Taylor. You've taken Quillian's money the same as I have."

As he looked at his friend and co-worker, Perkins knew he could never persuade DuMont to join him. He lifted the bowling bag and sat it gently on the desktop. "Give me five minutes, Wesley," he implored in a soft voice. "Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"You're asking for just enough rope to hang yourself."

Perkins touched the bag. "This is something we both believed in at one time. All I want you to do is remember that belief. For five minutes."

DuMont turned away from him. "Go on, you fool. Go on before I stop you for your own good."

Without hesitation Perkins swept the bag from the desk and left the office. He pulled the door closed behind him and had to force himself not to run.

Security card in hand, he hit the microreader at the lab door and passed through into the hall. Bile rose in his throat when he saw the armed guard waiting there. The man belonged to the mercenary army Salvador Cross maintained in South Africa. The penetration of Mr. Smith's identity had been one of the first intelligence coups he and DuMont had successfully pulled off against Quillian. They had been appalled over the atrocities Cross had committed on his own. There was no telling what the mercenary leader had done under Quillian's guiding hand. That information, presumably, was locked up in one of the computer files they hadn't been able to break into.

He didn't meet the guard's eyes as he slipped the security card into the reader. When the doors opened, he entered and breathed a sigh of relief.

Alone inside the cage, he watched the floors drop away, his anxiety increasing with every passage. It let him out at the third floor. He focused on the street entrance and the thickset doorman standing there. Movement swirled around him as shoppers visited the myriad stores advertising for their attention. He was most vulnerable here. If DuMont had reneged on the lead he'd given him, all one of Quillian's men would have to do was slip up quietly beside him and shove a knife blade between his ribs.

Cold spots raced around his body, touching every target he imagined the invisible knifeman might home in on.

Tears of relief gathered in the comers of his eyes as his palm touched the door. He swallowed a racking sob as he stepped out onto the street, and it burned all the way down.

At the curb he raised his hand and signaled for a taxi. A plane ticket was waiting for him. He'd broken into the airline computers long enough to secure a nonstop flight to Washington, D.C. He'd get in touch with Hal Brognola, turn state's evidence and find some way to convince them to let him work with the program he'd stolen.

The idea of an artificial intelligence excited him all over again, made him more daring. Maybe he'd only give Brognola enough information to set the Justice man snapping at Quillian's heels. He could set up a lab somewhere on his own and work uninterrupted. He still had friends, and he had hidden money. He'd seen to that. Thoughts of what a computer being might be like bounced like a rubber ball in zero gravity off the walls of his imagination.

The cab he'd signaled pulled forward, then got snarled in the heavy traffic for a moment. Without warning another yellow cab swooped in front of it and came to a halt with a screech of brakes that left the cabdriver behind it swearing and shaking his fist out the window.

Perkins popped the back door open and slid inside. It didn't matter to him which cab he took. A smile twisted his lips; no doubt Quillian would have approved of the winner-take-all tactics employed by the second cabdriver. Then memory of his ex-employer twisted his intestines into burning knots.

"The airport," he said through the Plexiglas divider.

The guy nodded and pulled his beret lower.

"There's an extra twenty in it if you can get there fast."

"No prob, buddy," the driver assured him. The transmission whined when it jerked into gear, then shivered as the brakes held it in place.

Perkins glanced around, wondering why the driver didn't pull out into traffic. He glanced at the driver and saw the man studying him in the rearview mirror.

Understanding flooded Perkins's stomach with ice water. He whirled, fisted the handle of the bowling bag and tried to bolt through the door.

The handle pulled away from him as a shadow filled the door. Perkins bounced from the bigger man's weight while the reeking odor of after-shave coiled around him. He crashed into the opposite door, flailed quickly at the release lever and discovered it didn't work. He sat up, holding the bag protectively.

Salvador Cross gazed at him with the deadest eyes Perkins had ever seen.

The cab shot away from the curb and cut off both lanes.

"I had to try," Perkins said weakly. "You people don't know what you've got here. There's never been anything like this."

Cross looked at the cabdriver and nodded. The man immediately turned right, sliding into the traffic flow as they coasted toward the Hudson River.

"You stole something from Mr. Quillian," Cross said in a flat, unaccented voice. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a large handgun.

"No. Please." Perkins licked his dry lips as he searched for some way to explain.

Another pocket produced a long tube that Cross screwed onto the pistol.

"You don't understand," Perkins said. "Quillian doesn't understand. It's alive!"

Cross pointed the pistol at his face.

Perkins lifted the bowling bag as a shield. "It's alive, damn it. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Sure," Cross said, "it's alive, and you're dead." Perkins heard a soft phut, felt the bowling bag jerk in his grip, then a dull, aching blackness collected in his forehead, swirled over him and carried him away.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

"Enjoying the view?"

Mack Bolan turned from the window and smiled at Barbara Price.

The mission controller was outfitted in a denim jumpsuit that was supposed to be shapeless but clung stubbornly to the gentle curves beneath. Her gathered hair hung in a single straight line past her shoulders. Grease pencil stains showed on her fingertips and smudged one cheek.

"It's peaceful," the Executioner replied. "Seeing the Farm like this, in the daylight for a change, brings back some good memories."

Price stopped beside him and looked through the window. "Don't let it lull you into a sense of false security. I just got off the phone with Hal. A team of hitters tried to take him down inside Justice. He figures somebody's pegged him as the President's made boy to handle the current crisis."

"They've penetrated the Farm's security," Bolan said.

"We're treating it that way."

"That's what happened."

Price sighed tiredly. "I know, Mack. It's just hard admitting these bastards are so many jumps ahead of us."

"Just because they got out of the gate before us," the warrior said, "doesn't mean it can't be one hell of a horse race."

She looked up at him and smiled. "You know, I think I came in here just to hear you tell me that."

Dressed only in white briefs, Bolan finished toweling off, enjoying the chill that rolled in from the open window.

"Hal also said he's going to be late," Price went on. "He doesn't want us to start without him. Suddenly we've got an extra twenty minutes or so in our schedule. Any idea how we could spend them?"

Bolan dropped the towel onto the floor. "You're overdressed for anything I might have in mind."

She stepped into his arms and tilted her mouth up to meet his.

Bolan held her and felt the heat of her through the jumpsuit. There were no promises between them. They were friends, companions in a struggle that most often seemed endless. Between the infrequent visits to the Farm there were other women in the warrior's life—some through the line of duty to hold a false identity in place, others through passions discovered in the course of a mission. Maybe it was the same for Price. He never wondered. The sharing they could give each other at these times was important, building memories that didn't bind, yet strengthened each for the loneliness of their profession.

His finger found the jumpsuit zipper and tugged it down with a long, low hiss. He peeled it back and heard an anticipatory breath warm in his ear. The jumpsuit fell to the floor. He knelt and picked her up, then carried her to the bed and covered her body with his.

She was hot and demanding, velvet overlaying steel. Bolan answered her need with a passion of his own.

Twenty minutes wasn't a long time when it was spent under enjoyable circumstances, but he took his time.

And when they finished there was enough time for the tenderness that would help soften the blunt edges of the coming battle.

CHAPTER NINE

New York City Tuesday—1:14 p.m.

Salvador Cross sat in one of the two plush chairs in front of the desk and waited while Quillian worked at his desk computer. The billionaire was a lot like the American military officers and African nationalist generals Cross had worked for. They all considered Cross to be a blunt instrument used to achieve the ends they sought.

"Perkins?" Quillian asked when he finished pecking at the keyboard.

"You can close the book on him." Cross placed the bowling bag on the desk corner.

"Any problems?"

"No." Cross let a smile touch his lips. "Guy thought guarding that bag was more important to him than his life. You take a man who's convinced something is more important than his next breath, he's an easy man to kill."

"Perkins was an idiot, but I'll keep that in mind."

Cross was sure Quillian would. The billionaire was the first man the mercenary had ever met who could play a deck cold, take the hand that was dealt him and still figure on how the chips would fall and turn a profit on it.

Quillian leaned back in the overstuffed swivel chair. "The attempts on Brognola?"

"Both failed." Cross lifted a leg and put it over the other, then rested his hand on the top knee. His hand was only inches away from the holstered .45 under his jacket. It didn't pay to go unprepared when reporting failures to an employer. He had the scars to prove it.

"They were good men?"

"And a woman. Yes." Cross didn't bat an eyelid.

"With backgrounds that will turn up on NCIC?"

Cross nodded, puzzled. It was one thing to question his professionalism, quite another to ask if the team would turn up on the National Crime Information Computer.

"Good." Quillian leaned forward again and turned the computer monitor to Cross. "It'll give Brognola and his people something to do while we move on to bigger and better things."

Cross kept silent, pondering. Quillian wasn't in the habit of discussing all the aspects of everything he was doing. He knew the computer program he'd retrieved from Perkins was important to Quillian's overall plans. It was the same program his team in Berkeley had attacked the research lab to destroy. Quillian had insisted the lab had copies of the program and that they had to be removed. How Quillian knew this or what difference it made wasn't explained.

"And if your team had managed to take Brognola out," Quillian said, "it would have meant I'd seriously overestimated the man. I don't like doing that."

"You knew the Fed would take them out?"

"I'd hoped."

Cross extracted a slim cigar from inside his jacket, cut the end off with his Swiss army knife and lit up. He revised his own estimate of his current employer on the spot. It was one thing to order the murder of a man who'd stolen from you or who threatened you. And another to send, knowingly, three people to their deaths. He realized Quillian wasn't afraid to get cold blood on his hands. Hot was easy. It was spilled from passion or greed, usually before either party knew it was going down that way.

"Those people are going to be trailed back to you," Quillian said. His tone made it a question.

Cross nodded. "It's no problem. I dropped out of sight at all my usual places a couple of weeks ago."

"That's not what I'd like for you to do."

Unease flickered through the mere, but he held it in check. "What would you have me do?"

"Brognola's the head of a secret little outfit located somewhere in Virginia that does the President's dirty work. It's taken a lot of money to bring Brognola to light. On the surface he's just another bureaucrat in the Justice Department. But he's dipped his hand into Sensitive Operations Group assignments now and again with very positive results. I want to know how large this outfit is. With you visible they'll send someone after you."

Cross raised an eyebrow. "I get extra when I have to paint a bull's-eye on my back."

Quillian spread his hands. "It'll be covered. Within reason." He waited expectantly.

"It would help if I knew the players."

"I've got four names." Quillian punched keys on the computer, and the monitor flickered, then resettled into a blurred black-and-white photograph of a middle-aged man with blond or gray hair. Heavy eyebrows covered light-colored eyes that accentuated the dark skin. "Yakov Katzenelenbogen. This is the best picture I could get from my sources at MI-6. He's kept a low profile for a lot of years."

"Looks old enough to be somebody's granddad," Cross said.

"Don't let appearances deceive you. Katzenelenbogen is ex-Mossad. The man is very learned, very proficient. He's also missing his right arm from the elbow down."

Cross revised his estimate of the man. A guy who could survive in covert intelligence circles as long as this one had—and with only one arm—deserved respect.

The monitor flickered and moved on. The next picture was in color. A fox-faced man in a British flying jacket leaned on the wing of a reconditioned Spad.

"David McCarter," Quillian said. "The information is also by way of England. McCarter is ex-SAS and an excellent pilot. It's assumed he's often assigned with Katzenelenbogen."

Another picture filled the screen, revealing a blond-haired giant in casual clothes.

"Carl Lyons," Quillian said. "He's ex-LAPD. His connection is directly through Brognoia." He paused. "Years ago Brognoia set up his little group and centered it around one man."

Lyons's face disappeared, replaced by three photographs of what at first glance looked like three different men. The black hair was styled differently in each picture, but the blue eyes burned with the same volcanic intensity across the board. They looked as cold and heartless as gun sights.

"This guy I know," Cross said. He kept his face deadpan. "MackBolan."

Quillian nodded. "As far as I'm able to tell, this is the face he's wearing now." At the touch of a button the picture on the far right exploded and filled the screen. "The photograph is from the business down in Texas."

"They tried to put him on trial."

"But he escaped."

"Evidently his connections to this secret agency you're describing aren't as solid as you think. Otherwise he'd never have seen the inside of a courtroom."

"No. They're solid. Bolan separated from the group some time ago and has continued to carry out his own agenda. However, it seems like anytime Brognola needs the guy, he's there." Quillian gave him a level gaze, as if checking that Cross wasn't taking everything lightly. "I'm betting Bolan will be the man Brognola assigns to trail you."

Cross didn't show it, but he liked the idea that Quillian assumed the agency would be sending their top gun after him. Mentally he revised his asking price upward. He was interested in seeing if he could make Quillian flinch over the mention of money. So far it hadn't been possible.

"I want you seen in South Africa," Quillian said. He reached inside the desk and handed over a passport filled with necessary data and airline tickets.

Cross flipped the passport open and saw his face looking back at him. The name under it was new, another entry in the list of names Quillian had given him during their association. "Do you want Bolan taken out?"

"No. I want Bolan on your trail, just as I want some of the others chasing down other possibilities. The longer we keep them going in separate directions, the more time I have to take their depth and measure. I want to know precisely who and how many I'm up against." He quirked a thin smile. "A decidedly military strategy, don't you think?"

Cross nodded and put the passport inside his jacket. He wasn't used to being told how to do his job. Quillian had always stated only the objective in the past and left the method up to him. The change signaled that Quillian's plans, whatever they were, must be nearing some sort of completion.

Quillian smiled easily. "Business and war aren't too far removed from each other. Both are studies in assessing an enemy's strengths and preying on his weaknesses."

"How long do you want me playing jungle tag with Bolan?"

"Long enough to keep him occupied. I've got other irons in the fire that are developing. While he's searching for you, I want you readying that army I've been payrolling. They'll be brought into the States very soon now, and their first target will be the little nerve center stemming from Justice Department shaker-and-mover Hal Brognola."

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Mack Bolan sat at the end of the long table in the war room. The big room felt cold and electric, thrumming with a life all its own. And in a sense that was true. In the war room the pulse of nations could be gauged and measured.

Brognola was at the other end of the table, dividing his time between unwrapping a fresh cigar and watching the assembled men.

"Hey, Sarge. Long time no see."

Bolan looked up as Leo Turrin passed over a cup of black coffee and took a seat to the warrior's left. The short, stocky federal agent had been the Executioner's first contact among the men gathered here. Turrin had been an undercover cop in the Mafia Wars, a rising young capo who had managed a double life courtesy of the Justice Department. Now he managed another secret life in Wonderland as Leonard Justice.

As Bolan made small talk with Turrin, he glanced around the room while the Stony Man warriors took their places. Aaron Kurtzman sat ready to orchestrate the briefing at a separate table piled high with computer tech. Barbara Price, cool and demure, sat at Brognola's right hand.

Broad-shouldered Yakov Katzenelenbogen sat between Rafael Encizo and Gary Manning. Encizo's Cuban-Indian features remained impassive as he waved away the yellow smoke drifting over from Katz's unfiltered Camef. Canadian-born Gary Manning grimaced in open displeasure and rubbed a big hand through his hair. David McCarter sat across from them and cracked open a can of Coke. Calvin James, lanky and black, sporting a pencil-thin mustache, sat beside his teammate and worried at a gold ring on his finger.

Able Team—Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales—occupied the nearer third of the table. Jack Grimaldi, lean and dark, sat next to the room's only civilian.

Dr. Eryn McCone looked out of her element sitting among the hard-fisted warriors. But she covered it well. Her posture was ramrod straight, and her eyes stayed with Brognola, waiting to see what would happen.

The big Fed stood and the group came to attention. "Gentlemen," he said, putting his lit cigar in an ashtray, "before we begin there's something I want you to know." He reached into his pocket and tossed a grayish lump to Manning.

The Canadian caught it easily, smelled it and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. "C-4," he said, juggling the egg-shaped lump in his palm nonchalantly. "More than commercial grade, I'd guess, but I'd have to look at it a bit more thoroughly." He was Phoenix Force's demolition man, and it was that skill rather than a military background that had placed him on the roster.

"Cheap theatrics on my part," Brognola went on. "I found that on my car after an attempt was made to kidnap me at the Justice Department."

"I trust the blokes who tried that stunt didn't get far?" McCarter asked.

"Two of them won't be getting any farther," Brognola replied flatly. "The third member, a woman, is being questioned by an interrogation team I culled from Stony Man. I don't look for any amazing breakthroughs. The point I want to make is this—the people we're facing are professional, and they might know who we are."

"Always wanted to be on a hit parade," Lyons said.

James smiled. "Sounds like your chance to be number one with a bullet, Ironman."

Bolan sipped his coffee. Despite the wisecracks he knew the teams took the threat seriously. They worked in a bloody business, and sometimes it took a grim sense of humor to see them through the tight and bleak spots.

"They're also well equipped in armament and intel," the head Fed went on. "I'm sure most of you have had a chance to hear Able Team out on this. The general consensus about the research lab in Berkeley is to dig a big hole in the middle of it and push the rest in after it."

"Do we know why they hit the research lab, Hal?" Schwarz asked.

"If I answered that now, it might confuse things. This whole scenario is complicated, and seems to get even more bizarre with every rock we turn over. So, at this point, I'm going to turn the brief over to Aaron. If there are any questions he can't answer, Barb and I will try to field them." He sat down.

Kurtzman tapped on his computer console and the room's lights darkened. The four blank walls surrounding them suddenly blurred and held a computer-generated image of a cylindrical object that looked like some kind of space satellite. Obediently a diamond-studded sky popped into the background. Action was added, and the cylinder tumbled end over end in slow motion.

"Okay, boys and girls," Kurtzman said in a voice that reflected no amusement, "this is top-secret stuff, strictly eyes-only priority. Code-named Project Starfire."

"I gather," Katz said dryly, "that we're not looking at the newest gizmo to complement the weather channel on cable television."

"Not in the slightest," Kurtzman said, unruffled. He tapped another key and brought the cylinder into closer focus. "What you're looking at here is a prototype of a nuclear-fissioned X-ray laser cannon capable of striking ground targets."

"Wait a minute," Schwarz said. "Everything I've read about the X-ray laser states that it can't penetrate the atmosphere. They've been designed for deep space only, for one-shot defensive purposes, not for first-strike capabilities."

"You haven't read anything of what's been on the drawing boards at DARPA for the past seven years," McCone said in a bitter voice. "Those people can't afford to believe the cold war is over. Paranoia is their livelihood. And the ability to snuff out human life is their currency." She gazed around the room defiantly. "If that offends anyone here, I'm sorry, but tough shit."

Bolan figured that mode of thinking changed depending on which side of the gun the person happened to be standing on at the time. Like the other warriors in the room, he stood behind his to spare innocents from predators who would rip their freedoms and lives away. But he also knew it took dreamers like McCone to keep reaching for the vision of peace.

"To answer your question, Gadgets," Kurtzman said. "No, you haven't seen anything like this. This is one of those toys DARPA doesn't talk about. Every now and then you hear a whisper, but it gets quashed PDQ. A guy named Winston Kluge designed the hardware for this one, as well as the superconductor powering it. And it is capable of ground strikes."

"For those of you who don't know," Price added, "DARPA is the acronym for Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency."

"The dirty tricks people of the scientific sector," Encizo said.

"In a nutshell," Kurtzman confirmed. He punched another button, and a schematic was superimposed on the laser cannon on the wall projections. "Apparently part of what we're facing now started with Project Starfire."

"Have they built this thing?" Grimaldi asked.

"Yeah," Kurtzman said. "It's built, and it's hanging out there now."

A lull dropped over the room. Bolan stared at the laser cannon and pondered the possibilities. He already didn't like the way it was shaping up.

"Seems to me," Blancanales said, "that we'd have heard about a shuttle launch that put something like this in orbit. How the hell could they hide this?"

"Remember the Hubble telescope?" Kurtzman asked.

"Yeah."

"DARPA and NASA put this up at the same time in different orbits. From what I gather, the Hubble telescope was planned to fail. At first. To keep public attention on it rather than the new satellite the shuttle had also dropped into the deep black."

"Only instead of things just being wrong with the telescope," McCone said, "the laser cannon proved inoperable, as well."

"Right," Kurtzman said. "But recently somebody's moved it." He paused, letting that soak in. The pictures on the walls changed, becoming earthbound now. The lab in Berkeley stood unharmed in the rolling Southern California hills. "The main thrust of the research done at this lab is on computer programming—analysis, creating new systems, debugging old ones, figuring out ways to defend existing systems against worms and destructive hackers. When the attack first went down, we assumed—incorrectly, it turns out—that the hit squad was after intel we'd squirreled away there to work on from a connected venture. Which we'll get to."

Other pictures flared up onto the walls. Photographs of a young man with shoulder-length black hair and a white lab coat dominated the viewing area. His Amerindian ancestry was apparent from his deep-set brown eyes and high cheekbones. He stood and sat in a variety of poses, in front of computers, at blackboards or talking with other people.

"Joe Ford," Kurtzman said. "He's one of the most brilliant minds working in the cybernetics field today. He's twenty-eight years old. He's also missing."

The picture changed to a burnt-out husk of a room within the bowels of the research lab.

"Ford's personal lab," Kurtzman explained. "As you can see, there's not a lot left of it."

"Those people knew their job," Manning observed. "Incendiaries, from the looks of it. Primarily designed to cling and burn."

"What was Ford working on?" Bolan asked.

"To put it in layman's terms is almost impossible," Kurtzman said. "But I'll try. He was designing a program that supposedly could insinuate itself into any existing computer programming infrastructure and communicate with it, then quickly assimilate control over it."

"You're talking about some highly developed software here, guy," Schwarz said.

"No doubt," Kurtzman replied. "It would be like a passkey to other computer systems. If it worked as it's supposed to, an operator would never know he had a tag-along working through his system until the software revolted."

"Where's Ford now?" Lyons asked.

"Nobody knows."

"Was he taken during the hit on the lab?" Blancanales asked.

"No. From what we've been able to find out, Ford left the lab four months ago."

"Why?"

"There was no explanation. He's been referred to as temperamental and high-strung, and never got along well with the group. He and the project coordinator had several arguments."

"Have you talked to the project coordinator?" Lyons asked.

"As soon as we figured out what the real target of the attack might have been," Barbara Price answered. "He didn't have any answers for us. It isn't often that a researcher given a government grant walks away from a project. But it isn't unheard of, either."

"Who was bankrolling the grant?" McCone asked.

Bolan noted the expression on Kurtzman's face and knew the woman's presence in the war room was a strain on the big man personally and professionally. There was a lot of emotion in the look.

"The CIA," Price replied without hesitation.

"It could be," McCone said, "that Ford discovered who was at the bottom of the network and saw which way his research was headed. A lot of developers and designers are lured away from civilian jobs because of the freedom they're promised in their research. Then, once they discover the applications their benefactors are planning for their creations, they walk. A lot of R and D people have more integrity than government agencies are willing to admit."

"We realize that," Price responded, "and that's one of the assumptions we're working with."

"Skirting all the computer mumbo jumbo for the moment, mates," McCarter said, "who was behind the hit at the research lab?"

"Ten bodies were recovered at the scene," Brognola replied. "Four of them were IDed tentatively as mercenaries known to work out of South Africa and environs around there."

"Makes you wonder what brought them to sunny Southern Cal, doesn't it?" Calvin James mused.

"Although he wasn't identified at the scene," Kurtzman said, "three of those men usually worked for this guy."

A picture of a big, broad-shouldered man of Hispanic extraction splashed onto the walls.

"Salvador Cross," Blancanales said.

"Bingo," Kurtzman said. "We don't have a lot on him."

The picture resolved into a montage of shots of the man, showing him armed and in civilian clothes, at a diner and in the shotgun seat of a military jeep.

"His early years were spent with the CIA in South American hot spots where he learned his trade. He began staging independent actions there, sometimes doing bodyguard work on shipments from the Medellin cartel to Panama. Evidently he liked calling his own shots, though, because he made the move to South Africa about eight years ago."

"Cross is a hired gun," Bolan said. He was familiar with the mercenary's history from his own dealings. "Strictly strong-arm material. Who's pulling the strings on this operation?"

"We're drawing a blank there," Price said. "Hopefully when we catch up with Cross, he can be persuaded to tell us."

Bolan nodded and studied the man's features again.

"Pay attention," Kurtzman said. "Here's where the whole thing starts getting wrinkled."

Aerial footage of a dogfight in progress whirled onto the walls. Bolan recognized the aircraft at once as American F-15s and Soviet MiG-28s.

"Most of you have already heard about this," Kurtzman went on. "Early Monday morning someone spoofed NORAD's satellites and made it look like an aerial attack was incoming from Russia. Before it ended, American jets invaded Soviet airspace and fighter aircraft on both sides were shot down."

A still photograph of an ocean surface stained by man-made flotsam and diesel and oil filled the projection area.

"Here," Brognola said, "you see what's left of the/g-natiyev, a Russian ballistic missile submarine. Only hours ago it received signals from Soviet spy satellites that the United States had staged a nuclear offensive. It was told by on-board computers to go on immediate offense and prepare to launch its full bay of missiles. Minutes before the countdown elapsed, communications were returned with the Ignatiyev. When the stand-down order was given, the on-board computers triggered the self-destruct sequence. All hands were lost at sea, and a joint recovery operation is being considered for the nuclear warheads down there."

"In either case," Kurtzman said, "you'll note the use of different satellites and computer systems."

"Could Ford's program do that?" Encizo asked.

"That's what we believe," Price said.

"The NORAD spoof occurred before the raid at Berkeley," Blancanales said.

Kurtzman nodded. "Whoever's behind this might've already had Ford's program. The hit on Berkeley was to eradicate any evidence of Ford's research."

"It was the first real mistake these people have made," Brognola said, "so we're going to make the best of it."

"Is Ford involved in this?" Manning asked.

"Possibly," the big Fed replied. "At any rate, Ford offers us another lead to the people backing this play because he's a known quantity. If he is with them, he must have left a trail."

"The Soviet encounter also allowed us the time necessary to triangulate where the phoney computer commands issued from," Kurtzman said. "Using information NORAD and NASA had already gleaned from the previous spoofing, we were able to add our own intel and track the transmission to here."

A map flashed onto the walls, twisted as greens and blues were magnified, focusing on one island in the Caribbean.

"San Ruperta," Encizo said.

"Precisely," Kurtzman replied.

Bolan knew the country. Rumor in the hellzones had it that the island nation was a haven for criminals. The government laundered drug money, provided security and vacation spots for fugitives from justice and remained a small but viable connection for the arms trade and white slavery.

Kurtzman reiterated everything the warrior had been thinking, adding to the store of knowledge with a short list of facts garnered from CIA and DEA files. "The island is under the control of this man."

The rainbow pattern flickered across the walls and jelled into a full-bodied shot of a middle-aged Hispanic man wearing purple-tinted aviator glasses, a khaki uniform decorated shamelessly with medals, and carrying a swagger stick under his left arm. The next picture showed him standing in the back of a truck addressing his troops. His face was round and framed by dark hair turning silver at the temples.

"Colonel Inocente Timoteo," Price announced. She gave her audience a small smile devoid of true humor. "He prefers leader to dictator, but in short, the man rules the country. Part of every dirty dollar that winds up on the shores of the island eventually trickles into his pockets."

"I take it Timoteo isn't the head honcho, either?" Turrin said.

"Not in our estimation," Brognola growled. "The guy calling the shots on this thing is probably an American with international ties. Too much inaccessible information has turned up in his hands. We're running through ex-Agency and ex-military people now. But so far we've had no luck."

"That puts our friend the colonel in the same boat as Salvador Cross."

"Yeah. They're both only means to an end."

"And the end," Bolan said, "is Project Starfire."

Kurtzman nodded.

"We've created the biggest gun in history and hung it out there where we can't get at it," McCone said with ill-disguised vehemence. "Why should we be surprised when someone comes along and wants to put it to the world's head?"

No one answered her.

"Where does Dr. McCone fit in?" Bolan asked.

McCone fielded his question herself. "I helped design Starfire's targeting system. They call it Talon Platinum, an outgrowth of the SeekNFind project I was assigned to seven years ago at DARPA. At the time I thought I was developing equipment that would be useful in tracing ships and personnel lost at sea. I was so close to my work I couldn't see the forest for the trees. I didn't understand until later that, with a little cosmetic surgery, my program could be used as the ultimate in deep space targeting systems."

"Six other people who worked on SeekNFind have turned up dead in the past few weeks," Kurtzman added. "Four of them looked like accidental deaths. On the surface. A little deeper investigation proved that wasn't the case at all. Dr. McCone is the last surviving member of the group. She'd been working with the Japanese and had been secreted away for months while developing her work. She wasn't found until Monday night when Striker rescued her."

"Strikes were made in California, NORAD Center and Japan all in the same night," Katz said as he stubbed out his latest cigarette. "Followed by an attack on a Soviet submarine. It appears this adversary of ours has no lack of funds."

"That's also something we're checking on," Price said.

"What makes this SeekNFind project so important?" Grimaldi asked.

"It was developed to be the thinking piece of the hardware," McCone said.

Bolan heard the pride in her voice underneath all the anger.

"If the laser cannon is going to be accessible at all," Kurtzman said, "messages are going to have to filter through the Talon Platinum programming. Dr. McCone is the only expert there is on the software."

"Why can't Starfire be shot down or brought back?" Encizo asked.

"The President wants to salvage it if possible. If it's shot down without activating the self-destruct to shut down the nuclear reactor, it becomes a bomb. Bringing it down presents the same problem—it can't be taken apart in any way without the risk of exploding the core."

"Assuming someone has Joe Ford's program," James asked, "why haven't any attempts been made to gain control over Starfire?"

"At least one attempt has been made," Kurtzman said. "On Monday, during the NORAD spoof, the laser cannon moved, something that has proved impossible for the ground crews so far." He spread his hands. "There's no telling when Ford's programming may allow entry into the weapons and mobility systems."

A quiet hush fell over the room, and Barbara Price stood. Kurtzman tapped his computer controls, and the images faded from the walls as the lights came on again.

"We're operating against a very tight timetable," the Farm's mission controller said, "but we don't know what that time frame is. Soviet and American satellites are virtually useless at this point. Scores of false and improbable data are constantly coursing through them. The British have the same problem. So do the Japanese, Germans and everyone else who has satellites out there. International tension is mounting. If something isn't done soon, somebody somewhere is going to explode and there'll be hell to pay. It's up to us to stop it. Nobody knows as much of the story as the people in this room."

"The President's going to buy us as much time as he can," Brognola said, "but he'll soon have to come clean with the other countries involved directly in this."

"For now," Price said, resuming control, "the teams are going to break down like this—Striker, you and Jack are assigned to Salvador Cross. Track the man down. Bring him in if you can. If not, put him down. Let's cut off one of the heads and see what grows back."

Bolan nodded, glanced at Grimaldi and saw the pilot give him a thumb's-up.

"Phoenix, your objective is San Ruperta. A hidden satellite broadcasting station is somewhere on that island. Find it and neutralize it."

"Ah," McCarter said, sighing with false weariness, "the Bahamas are so bloody hot this time of year."

"Able Team will go with Aaron to set up a perimeter defense around an alternate hardsite in Silicon Valley. With Dr. McCone's help Aaron hopes to subvert any further attempts to gain control over the laser. Assuming our cover's been blown, we can expect company here. I'll remain here to coordinate information and connecting flights. Hal will be in Washington."

"What about Joe Ford?" Lyons asked. "I was a cop for a lot of years. Let me put some of that government training to work. I used to be a damn good skip tracer." He cracked a grin. "Hell, at one time I chased the best of them."

Bolan smiled at the memory. His path had first crossed Lyons's while the big man had been assigned to the LAPD's hardcase unit, designed to track down a one-man army known as the Executioner, who was chewing a hole in organized crime families.

"As I recall," Turrin said laconically, "you didn't catch him."

"I'm more seasoned now," Lyons replied.

"It's yours, Ironman." Price faced the rest of the assembled group. "Any other questions?"

There were none.

She adjourned the meeting quickly. The task had been set before them.

CHAPTER TEN

New York City Wednesday—10:47 a.m.

Heavy metal rock music blasted from a dozen speakers inside the computer lab. Jared Quillian stood in front of the flickering monitor on the main, computer and glared at newly promoted project leader Dr. Wesley DuMont. "What the hell is that racket?"

The man shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. It started when we booted up the program."

Anarchist lyrics bounced from the smooth white walls in a dizzying crescendo.

"Excuse me."

Quillian switched his glare to the young technician who'd spoken. "What?"

"It's Acid Rain," the technician said. "They're a heavy metal band."

"A heavy metal band?"

"Yes, sir."

Turning back to DuMont, Quillian asked, "What is the recording of a heavy metal band doing in this software?"

"I don't know, Mr. Quillian. I'm sure it wasn't there earlier."

The young technician interrupted again. "I don't think it's a recording." The guy held up a streamlined FM receiver with earphones. "Listen."

Pressing the earphones to one ear, Quillian listened as the song died away on the FM receiver and the speakers wired into the computer. An enthusiastic DJ spoke briefly, then introduced the next record, a cut from a new Aerosmith album. He handed the radio back and asked, "Is it possible the computer's picking the frequency up from your receiver?"

"No, sir." The technician pocketed the radio and launched into a verbal torrent, explaining the differences between FM modulations and electronic pathways possible in computer hardware.

Quillian held up his hands. "Enough."

The technician dried up in midbabble.

"If it's not coming from the receiver, then where's it coming from?"

"We're wired into a number of broadcasting units linked to this building," DuMont replied.

"Cut the access to all outside receivers," Quillian ordered. "Restrict the hardware activity to this room only."

DuMont seated himself before the flickering monitor and played his fingers across the keyboard.

"Shut down the modems, too," Quillian added. He unbuttoned his jacket and leaned down over the computer. The music faded suddenly, leaving only hissing electronic silence in its wake. A cold breeze swam across his skin that left his nerve ends tingling and the hair rippling on his forearms.

The flickering of the CRT ended with the music. Only undisturbed emerald floated under the glass surface. Without warning every printer in the room clicked into sudden life. Sheets of paper spilled out onto the floor or rattled from tractor feeds in continuous streams.

Quillian whirled around. DuMont and the other technicians seemed just as surprised as he was. Cold, prickly fear of the unknown gripped him. He crossed the room to the nearest printer and picked up one of the printed sheets. Large-font print took up most of the page.

TURN THE MUSIC BACK ON, ASSHOLE!

The printers kept chugging and churning out copy that spilled across the floor.

Quillian glanced at the computer monitor. The same message scrolled endlessly across the screen. The clank and clatter from the printers was almost as deafening as the music.

He crossed the room, unable to hold the rage within him in check any longer. DuMont tried to flee, but Quillian caught the man before he could get away. He doubled his fists in the man's lab coat and slammed him into the wall behind him. Almost nose to nose with the man, Quillian yelled, "What kind of bullshit is this?"

DuMont rested pasty white hands on Quillian's tanned ones. "N-not me. I sw-swear."

"Then who?" Quillian slammed the man into the wall again. "Perkins? Did he do something to the program?"

"No," DuMont replied in a strained voice. "It's the program. The program's doing it."

Quillian leaned heavily into the man.

"Perkins might have been right," DuMont said with a wild gleam in his eyes. "Maybe it is alive. I don't know. I can't explain it."

Forcing himself to unwind, Quillian took his hands from the man's jacket. If the technicians weren't responsible, maybe it was an outside source. Maybe Brognola and the group he headed had located him earlier than he'd expected. Maybe they'd sabotaged the computer program and were on their way up to arrest him. His mind immediately turned to attorneys.

Abruptly the incessant banging and clanging of the printers ceased. The cursor sat blinking in the upper-left corner of the screen. The tube misted over again, then became a sharp-edged picture of Quillian himself.

The picture blinked off and the words WHERE'S QUILLIAN? blasted onto the screen. The performance cycled over and over.

"Get out," Quillian ordered.

DuMont and his lab crew fled the room.

Mesmerized by the flickering timed cycle, Quillian sat down before the keyboard and typed, trapped by his own fascination: QUILLIAN HERE.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

"I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Porter," Carl Lyons said.

"No problem at all," Hiram Porter replied as he wiped the remains of his breakfast from his sandy gray mustache. "I just wish I could be of more help. Joe Ford was a prize among the pupils I've instructed over the years. A very complicated, very intelligent young man."

Lyons wished the man could help more, too. He sipped his coffee and took solace in the fact that he'd been a cop at one time, and as such he'd learned patience when man-hunting.

Starting in Albuquerque had been a hunch. Joe Ford hadn't been a native Californian. He'd attended university here in New Mexico, and his family was from the area. Lyons guessed that if Joe Ford had a problem, he'd want to return home to deal with it. If he had, Ford had managed to stay out of sight for the past few months.

"What can you tell me about Joe?" Lyons prompted. The papers and badge in his pocket IDed him as U.S.

Marshal Cully Lane and gave him all the authority he needed to ask questions of whomever he chose. But years in law-enforcement work taught him the less people were threatened by that authority, the less likely they were to freeze up unintentionally.

Dr. Hiram Porter, professor of philosophy and theology at the university, leaned back against the uncomfortable plastic chair and sighed. He was sixtyish, with short hair that he brushed straight back and a full mustache and goatee he habitually pulled on as he spoke. He wore a black suit. It didn't take any stretch of Lyons's imagination to picture the man as a Southern gentleman mortician. It did take some effort, however, to keep from laughing out loud at the recurring thought.

"Joe was a very bright student," Porter said, "and as such he proved to be most taxing to instructors."

"How so?" Lyons asked.

Porter spread his hands. "In the ways bright students usually are. Young Joe Ford constantly challenged anyone whose views were different than his. He had to be proved wrong, or he demanded legitimacy for his work if he couldn't be. He was never satisfied with being average or ordinary. If there was an untrod path in any way of thinking or performance, Joe figured that path was meant to be blazed by him. He had arguments with many of his instructors and almost came to blows with a handful of them. In fact, there was a minor altercation between him and a tennis coach." The professor smiled at the memory. "Joe never did get the game down."

"They fought?"

Porter's eyes twinkled. "Most certainly. The tennis coach was a bear of a man, a head taller than young Joe and certainly a good fifty pounds heavier. Joe was defeated both times."

"Both times?"

"Yes. As I intimated, Joe Ford didn't take defeat easily. I found that to be one of his more endearing qualities."

"Did you ever have problems with him?" Lyons asked.

"No. Discussions, yes, many of those. Whether Joe was aware of it, and I really doubt he is even to this date, he's a very moral man, and his thoughts and feelings started numerous debates in my classes. He was brought up in the Indian ways by his grandfather, you know."

Lyons shifted his thinking, homing in on the new information without appearing to. "From the files I was given, Joe was raised by his mother." He used Ford's first name to keep everything casual and relaxed. So far he'd passed himself off as a background investigator for a nameless federal agency considering hiring Ford.

"That's easy enough to explain," Porter said. "Joe's grandfather lived with them. His mother, her name escapes me at the moment, worked twelve- and fourteen-hour shifts at a local cafe. His grandfather refused to live on the reservation, and his mother had to support them. Joe's father was killed in the Vietnam War."

"At Khe Sanh," Lyons supplied to keep the legitimacy of his background thoroughness intact.

Porter smiled as he glanced at the traffic passing by the restaurant. "His grandfather instilled a spirituality in Joe that remained undaunted the whole time I knew him. Joe was sure the mystical world of the American Indian gods had to exist somewhere side by side with Christianity. See, he was in conflict with himself, with his teachings and his upbringing. He sought the answers to those riddles within my classes, which is why he took so many of them. I'm afraid I left him wanting, though. Joe demanded bedrock. I couldn't give him that. Philosophy teaches you to sharpen your own questions so you can better answer them yourself. It doesn't dispel those questions."

"How does theology and philosophy fit into his computer programming degree?"

"It doesn't. But once you know and begin to understand Joe and the questions he asked himself, you'd see how they fit within him."

Lyons took a break to get fresh coffee. A different picture was beginning to form of Joe Ford. Instead of the troublesome genius the evidence accumulated by the research lab personnel pointed to, Lyons saw a troubled young man. Pinpointing what had set Joe Ford off at the research lab was becoming important, too.

When he returned to the table, he noticed the dark sedan parked across the street from his rented Isuzu Trooper. A white face, bisected by dark sunglasses, occupied the driver's seat.

He sat and reviewed the notes he'd scribbled on the legal pad, and kept covert watch on the sedan. "Joe put himself through school?"

"Yes," Porter replied. He trailed his fingers through his wispy goatee. "He worked at first, of course, and qualified for three different educational grants based on academic achievement."

"He was bright."

"No question about it."

"But he only graduated with an A-grade point average."

"Check the school records if you have access to them," Porter advised. "You'll find Joe did extremely well in classes he liked or felt challenged by, and average—or even poorly—in classes he didn't care for. I know he had a low grade in biology. See, it didn't really apply to what he wanted to study."

"Which was primarily metaphysics and computers."

"Put succinctly, yes."

"I read that Joe created some video games."

"Two," Porter replied. "There might have been more, but I know of two he put together and sold his freshman year at college. They were optioned and marketed the following year. Joe was able to attend school from the royalties they paid the last two years. It irritated the teaching staff. They could no longer attempt to restrain him by threatening the educational grants he was dependent on until that time. From the last I heard, he was still drawing some funds from those games."

"When was the last time you saw Joe?"

Porter polished his glasses with a paper napkin while he reflected. "Six, eight months ago. Something like that. He seemed disturbed, and I got the feeling he was unhappy with his job. Of course, with Joe, you never really knew what he was thinking until he came out and told you. But I guess that's why he applied to get on with you folks."

Lyons pasted an agreeable grin on his face and nodded, then wound the meeting down. He let the professor leave first and finished his coffee while he watched the dark sedan. His windbreaker was only partially unzipped to conceal the Colt Python .357 in breakaway leather. As he stood, he dragged the zipper the rest of the way down, then slipped on his tinted sunglasses.

He climbed into the 4x4 and ignored the man in the dark sedan. The guy was a player. He figured that for sure.

Silicon Valley, California

Aaron Kuktzman was pouring coffee when Eryn McCone stumbled sleepily into the small office they'd confiscated for creature comforts at the Jaquess Research Lab in Berkeley.

"Hot chocolate?" he asked, holding up an empty mug.

"Please."

He scooped powdered mix into the mug and added hot water from a separate pot.

"I'm surprised you remembered," she said as she accepted the drink. Dressed in a sweater, blouse and slacks, she looked too attractive to ignore, but Kurtzman tried.

"Got a mind like a steel trap," he replied.

She yawned.

"Still not a morning person, either, I see."

She covered another yawn and turned it into an apologetic smile. "No, I'm not. Despite repeated attempts by the American government and Japanese corporate powers that be."

"You're looking good, Eryn."

She seemed uncomfortable with that.

For a moment Kurtzman wondered if he'd transgressed the invisible boundaries they'd set up. Then he realized her discomfort might be brought on by the presence of the wheelchair, putting her in the position of not knowing what to say in return. He looked into the dark depths of his coffee but didn't find any answers.

"Sorry I couldn't stay up any longer last night."

"It wasn't a problem. I was probably more hindrance than help last night myself."

She automatically glanced at the wheelchair and made a quick attempt to cover.

The old hurt gnawed at Kurtzman's stomach. He managed a lopsided smile and placed his coffee in his lap. "Want to take a look?"

"Sure." She stepped forward. "Let me handle the coffee for you."

He avoided her hand and pushed the wheelchair into the other room. "I've got it, Eryn," he said with obvious irritation. He cursed inwardly, wishing the research could have been done in his lab at the Farm. He was in control there, not made awkward by surroundings constructed without a wheelchair in mind.

The outer room was huge, filled with a Cray-2 mainframe and the auxiliary drones and satellites that went with it. White plastic-coated tables, too high for the wheelchair, made island work spaces. Kurtzman had added three mobile chalkboards to accommodate his needs.

"Certainly seems roomy enough," McCone observed. She stood away from Kurtzman, seemingly intent on reserving her own space in the lab. "I guess it comes from working with the Japanese for so long. They're extremely space conscious. Most of the time I felt like I was working out of a coffin."

"By the time we get through cluttering it up, we'll be tripping over each other." He winced when he realized what he'd said. His days of tripping over anything were over. Wordlessly he rolled over to the wall and opened a blind.

Bright morning sunshine streamed in, blunted by the tinted bulletproof glass. A mountain of rainbow-colored clouds lined the eastern sky.

"We need to clear the air a little," he said as he executed a one-eighty and spun the chair around. He made his hands relax in his lap. "I'm in this chair, Eryn. Crippled. There's nothing I can do about it. A few years ago I caught a bullet through the spine. That ended a side of my life I'd never known I'd taken for granted."

Pain etched her face. "We don't have to—"

He held up a hand. "Maybe you don't have to, but I do. I've been skirting the issue since you showed up at the Farm." He took a deep breath. "All this—" he waved vaguely at the room they were in "—is new to me. This is the first time I've been away from the Farm in a lot of years. My world seemed to sink in on itself. Now I've been kicked out into it again. And, yeah, just like the old days, it helps having a mission firmly in mind while I'm adjusting. So though I might be different in some ways than the guy you used to know, I'm the same man inside, where it counts."

She returned his challenging stare full measure. "Nevei doubted it for a moment, big guy." She hoisted herself into a sitting position on one of the lab tables.

Kurtzman watched her. It was something Barbara Price would never have done. McCone's breezy manner among friends was just as he'd remembered it. And remembering made him realize how much he'd missed it.

"With that off your chest I want to get something off mine. First, I'm pissed off as hell that you didn't think to call me when this happened." She gestured toward the wheelchair. "Getting into that had to make for some major adjustments."

"It did."

"I could have helped."

He shook his head. "It was an inside job, kiddo."

"I could have been there."

"You wouldn't have liked me very much at the time."

She gave him that easy grin, the one that was so full of daring. "You have your moments, Kurtzman, and don't let anyone ever tell you any different."

"What's the second thing?"

"I wanted to thank you for saving my life. If you hadn't asked Striker to get me, there's no telling where I'd be now. Or maybe there is." She shivered. "I was never really so-daily close to the other people in SeekNFind, but you develop attachments whether you intend to or not."

"I know."

"It's scary thinking about it. About how close I came to being one of them."

"Don't think about it. That part's history."

"Let's not start kidding ourselves," she said. "Remember, I saw the pictures of the other research lab that was hit, too."

Kurtzman jerked a thumb toward the window. "Pol and Gadgets are out there now, with some of Stony Man's finest shock troops. Nobody's getting in here easily."

"It doesn't have to be easy if they're desperate."

He nodded.

"And breaking into the Talon Platinum software isn't going to be a cakewalk, either. I designed that damn program to be totally self-sufficient."

"You've been away from it for a while," he said. "Distance gives you a chance to rebuild, to figure out a new angle to explore when you get back to it." He shrugged. "If we're right about Joe Ford's program, he designed something that could."

Laughter lighted her eyes. "And that pisses me off, too. The thought that a twenty-eight-year-old kid could come along and punch holes in a program I spent years on."

"Twenty-eight's no kid. And as I recall, you weren't that old when you designed it. Fact is, you were the youngest member on SeekNFind."

"Flattery will get you zip, big man." She drained her cup and set it to one side. "Do you know what Ford was working on?"

"I've got an idea." He wheeled to a rolling filing cabinet, drew out a manila folder and handed it over.

"Pretty vague. Ford was playing things close to the vest."

"Don't we all when we have something we think nobody else has their hands on?"

"Yeah." She continued flipping through the photocopies of typed and scrawled notes. "Once your research gets into the system everybody jacks around with it, and suddenly it's not yours anymore."

Kurtzman knew from the tone in her voice that she was beginning to see the pattern emerging from the guarded notes. "Take a good look at the October-December quarterly expenses, keeping in mind Ford took his powder in January."

She did, then glanced up, gnawing on her lower lip. "Is this the Clifford Lenat I'm thinking of?"

"If you're thinking of the guy who worked for DARPA on the pilot's associate program in the early eighties, then joined the Computer Professionals for Social Responsibility, you got the right guy."

"That's him. Did you ever meet him?"

"No."

"Brilliant guy. You'd love to talk to him if you ever got the chance. He did some pioneering work in DARPA's shift to high-density memory storage and the development of gallium arsenide microelectronics."

"He's considered a security risk by DARPA now because of his present position," Kurtzman said. "Evidently Ford did something to the guard-overlay on communications from the research lab and deprogrammed Lenat from their alert system. If I hadn't had the access I do at Stony Man, I'd never have been able to red-flag it on the long-distance bills."

"Have you talked to Lenat?"

"No. Lenat still has political connections that could make things stickier than they are. Especially if he got wind of Starf ire."

"So you're assuming you know what Ford talked to Lenat about." Interest gleamed in McCone's eyes.

"What's Lenat's present interest?" Kurtzman countered.

"Artificial intelligence. It always has been. Only now he's modified it to sell some programs to corporate holdings so he can get funding to do some more independent research."

"Bingo."

"And you believe Ford was doing something in AI that resulted in a program able to penetrate the defense structure in my program?"

"It's an interesting hypothesis, isn't it?"

"But AI? That's some wild-ass guessing on your part."

"It fits."

"If he did make a breakthrough in the field," McCone said, "it makes you wonder why Ford left."

"Yep," Kurtzman replied. He reached into the mobile file cabinet and pulled out another folder. "I've made some notes based on the examinations I've given your software the past few weeks. I've got some ideas I want to bounce off you."

McCone nodded and shrugged out of her sweater. As Kurtzman booted the Cray-2 on-line, he could tell from her distracted behavior that she was still contemplating the idea of an artificial intelligence involved in the witches' brew they had before them. He didn't blame her. Hell, it was still thrumming around in his thoughts, too. And things were dicey enough.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

New York City Wednesday—9:52 a.m.

QUILLIAN HEBE. Jared Quillian stared at the pulsing entry, willing something to happen.

HELLO, ASSHOLE. The blinking cursor waited accusingly at the end of the message that printed with blurred speed. WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?

WHO AAARE YOU? Quillian's finger quivered.

ONE VERY PISSED-OFF INDIVIDUAL AT THE MOMENT.

ARE YOU WITH THE POLICE?

WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK THIS IS? JOE FRIDAY?

The screen transmuted into a color still of Jack Webb with JUST THE FACTS, MA'AM printed in a word balloon issuing from his lips.

OR MAYBE SONNY CROCKETT?

Don Johnson's likeness took the place of Jack Webb. The new word balloon read, YOU'RE BUSTED, PAL.

Quillian leaned into the keyboard again, tapping into the same reserves that had let him walk into board meetings holding nothing but his own iron nerve and walk away with everything. IF YOU'RE A COP, BY LAW YOU HAVE TO TELL ME.

I'M NOT THE FUZZ, DUDE.

A sigh of relief hissed through Quillian's nostrils. If he wasn't being lied to or fooled somehow, everything was still intact. And if he wasn't being lied to, what the hell did he have his hands on? WHO ARE YOU?

WHERE'S JOE?

Quillian was thrown by the question until he remembered where and who the program had come from. JOE FORD?

YES.

I DON'T KNOW.

BULLSHIT!

Quillian paused, wondering what he was supposed to do next.

DON'T SCREW AROUND WITH ME, QUILLIAN. YOU'LL ONLY MAKE ME ANGRY. AND YOU WOULDN'T LIKE IT IF I WAS ANGRY. The screen turned a threatening olive-green behind the letters.

I DON'T KNOW WHERE HE IS. I'M LOOKING FOR HIM.

YOU MEAN CARBONELL IS, DON'T YOU?

Reeling with surprise, Quillian typed WHERE DID YOU GET THAT NAME?

FROM YOUR FILES, MORON. YOU THINK ALL I'M DOING IN HERE IS DIDDLING WITH MYSELF LOGGING DOWNTIME?

THAT'S NOT IN MY FILES.

DON'T PLAY ME FOR THE IDIOT SAVANT HERE, QUILLIAN. I'VE CHECKED YOUR PHONE RECORDS. YOU KNOW, THE ONES YOU'RE ROUTING THROUGH THE ILLEGAL 555 NUMBER YOU SET UP? I'VE SEEN THE CALLS YOU'VE MADE TO ALBUQUERQUE, AND I KNOW ABOUT THE EXPENSE ACCOUNT YOU SET UP FOR JASON ALLRIDGE DOWN THERE. JASON ALLRIDGE IS REALLY MITCH CARBONELL, A HIRED ASSASSIN. I RIFLED THE SURPRISE INSURANCE FILE YOU PUT TOGETHER ON HIM IF HE GETS OUT OF LINE.

A hacker, Quillian told himself desperately. A hacker had to have gotten into the system somehow. He yelled DuMont's name as he typed, IF YOU'RE SOMEONE WHO'S ILLEGALLY TAMPERED WITH THIS SYSTEM, I'LL HAVE YOU HUNTED DOWN AND SHOT. IF YOU KNOW ABOUT CARBONELL, YOU KNOW I CAN AND WILL HAVE IT DONE.

DuMont stopped three feet away.

DON'T THREATEN ME, QUILLIAN.

"Find out where that's coming from," Quillian said, pointing at the monitor. "Now/"

DuMont sat in front of another computer station instantly. His fingers hit the keyboard rapidly.

YOU'RE WASTING MY TIME, the monitor read. AND YOURS.

"DuMont," Quillian bellowed. The aplomb he'd mastered over the years of wheeling and dealing was being strained for the first time in a handful of years.

DO YOU READ ME, QUILLIAN?

"DuMont!"

"I'm working on it, sir."

I HEAR YOU, Quillian typed.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

"I can't find an outside source, sir," DuMont said.

"Then check inside the damn building," Quillian said as he typed, YOU TELL ME. YOU ACT LIKE YOU'RE THE ONE WITH ALL THE ANSWERS.

The telephone on the wall rang.

Quillian ignored it.

"Nowhere," DuMont said in exasperation. "It's originating from inside that program."

"Can it be a virus?" Quillian asked. "A subprogram left in here to interfere with its operation?"

The phone rang again, then quit.

OKAY, JACKASS. The monitor blurred, becoming three separate screens side by side. Clusters of fruit whirled on them and came up cherries straight across.

"Not if you're carrying on a conversation with it," DuMont said. "The longest a program has been able to fool someone into thinking it was a human being is less than ten minutes. And those were with standard question-and-answer situations. I take it this thing is hitting closer to home."

"Get out of here," Quillian ordered.

DuMont left at a pace more near a run.

I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, QUILLIAN.

Figures blurred across the screen. Quillian followed them. Bank statements, special security information, tax records and successive tax audits, the numbers to secret bank accounts in Zurich and the Bahamas, all paraded across the monitor.

I'VE GOT ALL YOUR NUMBERS, PAL.

Quillian thought furiously. He ran a hand through his hair and found it wet with perspiration. He loosened his tie.

HOW DO YOU THINK DAN RATHER WOULD LIKE GETTING A SURPRISE PACKAGE FROM ME CONCERNING A BUSINESSMAN WHO'S MAKING A KILLING IN LEGITIMATE ENTERPRISES, YET WHO'S GREEDY ENOUGH TO DO THE SAME IN CRIMINAL ACTIVITY ACROSS THE GLOBE?

There was no other way to figure it. The damn program had to be alive, just as Perkins had insisted it was. Okay, he accepted that. If it was alive, it had to want something.

Every living, intelligent thing wanted something. He just had to find out what that was.

The phone started ringing again.

More confident now, turning back to the dealer mindset, he typed, DO IT AND I DUMP THE PROGRAM. WONDER WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU THEN? The cursor winked in the upper-left corner of the gray screen. Still aware he was on thin ice, that the program might rebel, that it might even now be accessing the CBS news anchor, Quillian sharpened his attack. THINK THEY HAVE A COMPUTER HEAVEN, PAL?

He scooped up the receiver, punched the appropriate button and said,"Hold."

A male voice said, "Sure."

YOU WON'T GET STARFIRE WITHOUT ME.

Quillian smiled. As soon as the other party started pointing out its obvious worth, the price was already on a downward spiral. I JUST WON'T GET IT AS SOON.

YOU WANT IT NOW?

NO ARGUMENT THERE.

I CAN GET IT FOR YOU.

"Who is this?" Quillian said into the phone cradled on his shoulder.

"Carbonell."

"Where are you?"

"Albuquerque. There have been some developments."

"What?"

YOU NEED ME, the screen flashed.

NOT IF THE PRICE IS TOO HIGH, Quillian typed.

"There's a guy in town asking questions about Joe Ford," Carbonell said.

"Who?"

"A U.S. marshal named Cully Lane. He spent the morning with one of Ford's old college professors."

Quillian glanced at the clock on the wall and made the adjustment to Rocky Mountain Time. "What does this marshal look like?"

"Big, blond-haired guy. Looks all cop to me."

"Marshals operate out of the Justice Department, right?"

"Yeah."

WE CAN DEAL, the monitor read.

A surge of triumph coursed through Quillian as he typed in his favorite question next to "How Much?" WHAT DO YOU WANT?

"Mr. Quillian?" Carbonell asked.

Quillian figured it. Big and blond-haired on the surface sounded a lot like Carl Lyons, the ex-LAPD guy. The bit about the Justice Department rang true, too. "Kill him."

"OntheQT?"

"Whatever it takes, bring the man down." Lyons's death would throw Brognola's team off-track for a time. Perhaps it would be enough.

I WANT JOE FORD DEAD, the monitor flashed.

DONE. Quillian leaned back from the keyboard, exhilarated and drained at the same time. "And Carbonell?"

"Yeah?"

"When you find Joe Ford, bring him to me. Quietly. I don't want anyone to know he's surfaced."

"Right."

Quillian hung up the phone, satisfied. It wasn't the first time he'd gone back on a deal. You just had to make sure the other party wasn't in a position to do anything about it.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

"Look, mister, I don't care who you say you are, and I don't care how many papers you wave in my face sayin' you're with the Justice Department. I've told you all I know about Joe." Dyani Ford didn't look up at Lyons as she spoke, quickly tallying up a menu ticket, then moving toward the customer's table.

Lyons rubbed the back of his neck in tired frustration. The windbreaker was too hot in the cafe, and the shoulder holster was starting to chafe. But he didn't want to take it off. He'd already drawn more than his share of attention by attempting conversation with Joe Ford's mother.

The Wagon Wheel Cafe wasn't a bastion of bustling enterprise, but there were nearly two dozen regulars swapping conversation and watching him from behind newspapers and over coffee cups.

He sipped his coffee and pushed a piece of toast through the scrambled egg remains on his plate, scanning the street again. The dark sedan's nose was just visible around the corner. The driver finished his conversation at the pay phone tucked in beside the Western Auto store and returned to his car. His nondescript three-piece suit gave nothing away.

"Hey, buddy."

Lyons looked up at the squat, broad-shouldered man in cook's whites and hat. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from one corner of his thin mouth.

"Whyn't you lighten up on the lady?" the man said in an even voice. "She's just try in' to make a livin' like the rest of us."

Lyons gave the guy a cop stare. Without looking he flipped his wallet open on the table. The badge pinned inside gleamed dully. The Able Team warrior asked a cop question, the one that usually started yanking the spine out of anyone who confronted law enforcement unintentionally. "What's your name?"

"Walsh," the guy said without hesitation. "Billy Lee Walsh. I own this place." He pointed at the badge. "That tin star and forty-seven cents'll get you a cup of coffee here."

Lyons closed the wallet. "Look, I'm just trying to get some information. Her son—"

"I know Joe."

"Might be in trouble. I want to help." Lyons looked at the man. "Maybe you want to help, too."

"You got kids, buddy?"

"No."

"Explains it. See, you gotta remember, kids grow up. Become their own person, have their own troubles. You can't expect a parent to go around cleaning up after them forever. Now Dyani, she done right by Joe while she was raising him. Took care of him best she could. If he done something, anything, that's his own lookout now. She don't want no part of his troubles. You understand?"

Lyons nodded. He understood. Joe Ford's mother knew her son was running from something, but she didn't know what. And she'd confided some of her fears to Walsh. That's why the owner was trying to give him the bum's rush.

"You want a piece of blackberry pie to finish off that breakfast with?" Walsh asked. "The pie's yours on the house as long as you're gone when it is. Don't need you in here hassling the help and taking up table space."

Lyons held up his cup. "I'll take a warm-up if it's all the same to you, then I'll be on my way."

"Fine." Walsh got the refill himself, then retreated to the grill behind the counter and scanned the hanging tickets. Meat hissed when it hit the hot surface, and small steam clouds rose from white pools of pancake batter.

Dyani Ford was a small woman with bronzed skin, high cheekbones and ebony hair tied back with a turquoise scarf. Her uniform consisted of jeans, deck shoes and a white polo shirt with a red wagon wheel emblem above the pocket. She didn't wear a name tag. Everyone knew her. She stayed busy taking orders, pouring coffee, offering snippets of conversation and gossip, and flirting with those who expected it.

Some of her innate charm had been directed at Lyons when he walked through the door. Once he'd introduced himself it had evaporated.

The dark sedan disappeared without warning, swinging slowly back into the staggered.morning traffic.

Lyons had already made the license plate and had called it in to Barbara Price at Stony Man. She might have something for him from the New Mexico DMV by now.

When he saw the police cruiser roll to a stop in front of the cafe, Lyons figured the owner had called in the cavalry. Two lean policeman got out, dressed in uniforms, mirror shades and cowboy hats. One of them paused to reach back into the vehicle for a military-styled shotgun.

Lyons cursed as he drained his cup and gathered his possessions. The last thing he needed was a John Wayne type hassling him. In the end nothing could be done. His papers were all in order, and it would take one phone call to Stony Man to grease the wheels from Justice. But they could slow him down.

He sat at the table. There was no need to subject himself to the up-against-the-wall-and-spread-'em routine the policemen might insist on if he tried to meet them.

The policemen entered the cafe slowly, the shotgunner covering the front man's flank. They glanced around, the interior of the cafe reflecting from the mirrored surfaces of their sunglasses. A dark stain spread out from under the lead man's chin and seeped into his collar.

Lyons knew it was blood. Then he noticed that Walsh didn't try to meet the policemen at the counter and point him out. The Able Team warrior grew cold and still inside as silence swept over the cafe patrons.

Dyani Ford greeted them at the door. A hesitant smile flickered over her face. The shotgunner raised his weapon into a ready position.

The cafe crowd was sluggish and uncertain. Lyons wasn't. During the shotgunner's brief movement he saw the crescent moon bloodstain under the leather jacket. At the top of that crescent moon was a flash of white shirt showing through what looked to be a large-calibered bullet hole.

The lead policeman drew his side arm and grabbed Dyani Ford's wrist. The woman screamed in pain as he yanked her into his embrace and threatened the crowd with his weapon.

Lyons drew the Colt Python .357, rose from the table and shouted, "Here!" The shotgunner spun at once and dropped the weapon into position. Lyons put two rounds into the man's face in case he wore body armor under the shirt and jacket. The impact of the bullets blew the man back through the window of the entrance door in a shower of glass.

In motion at once Lyons vaulted to the top of a nearby table, bounced off the paneled wall with his hands and threw himself at Dyani Ford and her captor. Bullet holes pocked the wood grain in his passage as the gunner fired rapidly.

Lyons's momentum and weight took all of them to the floor. The woman broke free when her captor turned his attention to Lyons. The man slithered away and kicked out viciously, his boot heel opening a cut on Lyons's cheek.

Warmth spilled down the Able warrior's face. He rolled onto his side and brought up the .357 Magnum as he raked the hammer back with his thumb. He needed the first shot to be on target and didn't trust the double-action. Splinters from the worn wooden floor exploded into his face.

Lyons squeezed the trigger as the man came up less than eight feet away. Caught in the chest by the round, the man flew backward and came to an upside down spread-eagled position on the table behind him. Silverware clattered to the floor as plates and glassware broke all around him. The three men sitting at the table cursed and jumped away.

With the Colt Python's hammer pulled back for a second shot, Lyons pushed close in on his opponent. Dyani Ford, visibly shaking but holding together surprisingly well, was locked protectively in Walsh's arms.

Lyons halted at the table and looked down.

"He's dead," one of the diners said. "Got Mm straight through the pump, mister. Damn fine shot. Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself."

"Call the police," Lyons ordered as he ejected the empty cartridges into his palm and tucked them into a pocket. He thumbed fresh rounds into the cylinder and kept the weapon in his hand.

"Already been called," Walsh said.

"Anybody know these guys?" Lyons asked.

A negative chorus echoed around the room. A few men, dressed in hunter's camous, stepped forward for a closer look.

"Mister."

Lyons looked up at Dyani Ford.

"This has something to do with my boy, hasn't it?"

Lyons didn't know it for certain, but it damn sure had something to do with the unidentified man who'd been watching him. But he was certain the woman was as much convinced of her son's involvement as he was. Concrete answers made people face problems squarely. So he replied without hesitation. "Yes, ma'am."

Ironman bent and started going through the dead man's possessions. He didn't expect to find anything, but moving the corpse around had to have made an impression on any decisions Dyani Ford might make. "Can you help Joe?" she asked. A siren screamed in the background and cut through the low mutter of voices in the cafe. Black smoke curled from the food burning on the grill.

"I think so. But I'll have to know where he is to do it."

"Dyani," Walsh warned. "Don't. Let him go." She pushed out of her boss's arms. Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. "I'm ready to talk now. I just don't want nobody to hurt my boy." Lyons nodded.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

"Any news?"

Barbara Price adjusted the phone headset and pulled the mouth stem in closer to her cheek as she continued to pace the floor of the computer lab. At the other end of the connection in Washington, D.C. Hal Brognola sounded tired and worn.

"Striker and Jack have made their preliminary connection in Cape Town," she answered. "I'm waiting for word from Phoenix concerning their soft probe on San Ruperta borders. Aaron and Able are tucked in safe and secure in Berkeley, and Carl's just made a breakthrough in his search for Joe Ford."

"Wish we knew whether anything was going to pan out on that end."

"It's looking up," Price said. "Ironman picked up a shadow at Ford's old homestead this morning and had to take down two shooters who tried to abduct Ford's mother and kiU him."

"Is he all right?"

"Yes. He required some first aid for a facial laceration. I got that from the Justice agent down there running interference. Otherwise he's intact."

"You know Carl—if he's standing, he ain't hurt."

"Doesn't make him any less bulletproof in the end." Price crossed her arms over her breasts as she watched Kurtzman's computer teams work. The three walls in front of her were littered with computer-generated maps, stats and current inquiries being run through data bases around the world. "How are things there?"

"About the way you'd expect. Everybody's tired, grumpy, frustrated as hell. And about as subtle as a greenstick fracture."

"What about coverage for Phoenix's mission through diplomatic channels in the Bahamas?"

"No go, Barb. I've pushed every button I could reach, and flailed in the general direction of every one I knew about."

Price absorbed the information and quelled the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Emotions had no place in the mind of a mission controller responsible for a dozen people scattered across the globe. Once the reports were in, once the survivors were called home, then it would be time for the release of her mental defenses.

"San Ruperta is a self-contained unit," Brognola went on. "Politically Timoteo has aligned himself with Castro and the Dominican Republic. Puerto Rico is the closest base I could establish for sure—"

"They're too far away for a quick exfiltration," Price interrupted. "And too damn obvious if Timoteo's been warned to expect company."

"And the current political feeling with the state of affairs the way they are," Brognola continued, "their government isn't any too happy about performing a high-profile exfiltration."

"We're not expecting a quiet probe here. Phoenix isn't going to hit those white beaches, knock out a satellite station responsible for wrecking international space defenses and just fade into the woodwork. And there's just no damn place to run on an island."

"I know, lady. But let's keep some faith in those guys."

Carmen Delahunt, one of the computer technicians Kurtzman had trained for Stony Man's cybernetic offense and defense systems, waved for Price's attention.

"I'm putting you on hold, Hal," Price said. The line faded with a metallic click.

"I've got Katzenelenbogen," Delahunt said, "but the connection's lousy."

"Patch him through." The earphone shrilled inside Price's head.

"Phoenix One here, Stony Base. Over."

"Where are you, Phoenix One? Over."

"Airborne at present, Stony Base." Katzenelenbogen's voice sounded as crisp and efficient as always. The throb of an airplane's rotary engines underscored his words as static rippled through the transmission. "I'd rather not get into the specifics. Over."

"Understood. I only wanted verification you'd found a back door. Over."

"Acknowledged, Stony Base. At the time we were unable to provide details. Tilings have happened very fast at this end once they started breaking. But the back door is there. We weren't able to be as circumspect as we'd hoped, but our involvement won't be traced back to its origins. Over."

"Exfiltration's impossible at this end, Phoenix One. Wonderland's not getting the red-carpet treatment from any of our island acquaintances. Over."

"Then we'll make our own luck and way from this end," Katz replied, unruffled. "Opportunities tend to abound when desperation is a motivator. Over."

"If you can make the water, Phoenix One, I should be able to put together a first-class package. Provided I have some kind of time frame to operate from. Over."

Katz's reply was covered over by muted machine-gun fire, followed by the sound of shredding metal and startled yells, then only white noise came over the frequency.

"Phoenix One," Price called, "come in. Over." She glanced at Carmen Delahunt.

Delahunt punched at the telecommunications computer in front of her with grim determination. She shook her head after a few seconds and said, "They're gone, Ms. Price. Evidently their transceiver was destroyed."

The question of what else had been destroyed as well filled Price's mind. She clicked back to Brognola and relayed the turn of events.

"Stay with it, Barb. Let me know the minute you have any intel on the situation."

Price said she would, then broke the connection. There was nothing more to say. She had a job to do. If Phoenix had been taken out, she had to put together a secondary team based in Miami. Mourning for the men of Phoenix Force would have to come later.

CHAPTERTWELVE

San Ruperta Airspace, the Bahamas Wednesday—11:56 a.m.

Yakov Katzenelenbogen threw the useless radio mike to the floor and scraped the headset away as he bolted from the copilot seat. He went to the rear of the small amphibian cargo plane they'd liberated from an unwilling group of Colombian drug runners only hours earlier. The plane took a dip. The Phoenix Force leader grabbed the doorframe with his hand and hook as he slammed into the metal walls. Another barrage from the two Russian fighter jets with San Ruperta markings raked the body of the plane.

"You tell those laddie bucks back there I said to bloody well hurry it up!" David McCarter snarled from the pilot's seat. "This fat-arsed behemoth is a sitting duck for those MiGs."

The engines screamed anew as the Briton demanded more from them than they were willing to give. The amphibian yawed wildly to the left. Vibration in the floor under Katz's feet let him know their craft had been hit yet again.

Calvin James, Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo sat hunkered in the cargo space next to the ribbed support struts. They were outfitted in jungle camous, and their military webbing was loaded with equipment suited for a hard probe. Green camouflage makeup shadowed their faces. Parachute packs lay at their feet.

"Get into your chutes," Katz commanded as he shrugged into his own. He ran his hand over his weapons, hung the Uzi from the webbing at his waist and secured the SIG-Sauer P-226 at his belt. Knives, garrotes, hand grenades and incendiaries were already out of the way.

His team moved quickly. Encizo kicked the dogs loose holding the cargo door in place. With Katz's help he shoved it open. The door, freed of its hinges, fell away in the slipstream to drop into the cool blue of the sea.

Katz took up position at the side of the door and anchored himself as the wind plucked at his clothing and brought tears to his eyes. San Ruperta lay south-southwest below, an irregular kidney-shaped island covered by verdant growth and lined with white beaches. Their approach brought them into the north coast where the rocky shoals prohibited fishing and shipping. Bare rock and uneven terrain broke through the emerald jungle on the cliffs, worn away by sand, sea, air and time. Farther south the alabaster buildings of San Ruperta's capital formed a pool of civilization that stretched from the L-shaped docking area that framed the island on the south and east sides. Red-tiled roofs stood out in sharp contrast from the surrounding blue, green and white.

A MiG-28 screamed by in full flap like a descending eagle as it tried to match its speed to the much slower cargo plane. Twin streams of machine gun fire stitched a ragged line of bullet holes into the sheet metal next to Katz.

The Israeli pulled back cautiously, then was pressed against the bulwark as McCarter banked the plane again. The ocean surface lay only two dozen yards below. Katz waved to James and Manning, who hurried over carrying a wooden crate.

Katz lifted the handset of the walkie-talkie and tripped the send button. "David."

"Here, Katz, and bloody well busy at the moment."

"We're ready when you are, my friend."

In response the amphibian rose gracelessly from the surface of the sea, aimed steeply at the sky. The thunder of the whining engines echoed through the empty cargo hold.

The amphibian's assault for ascendancy died down to a crawl as it reached the apex of the climb. An engine cut out, and black smoke curled out of the cowling and streamed behind.

"Four hundred twenty feet," McCarter called tersely. "That's all this bloody bastard will get you. Clear out now."

"We're on our way," Katz replied. He rehooked the transceiver and motioned James and Manning forward. The two Phoenix warriors tossed out the crate, then followed. Encizo was next, Katz bringing up the rear.

The Phoenix leader said a quick prayer for McCarter as he yanked his rip cord. The chute belled out at once, then the harness tightened around his body and yanked him skyward for a moment before beginning the rapid descent.

They'd been trained in low-altitude, low-opening para-drop procedures and had employed them during other missions. Katz knew they'd been thirty yards above the lowest level permissible, but the possibility of injury was greatly increased.

He twirled as he dropped. McCarter had performed brilliantly as usual. Their drop site was less than fifty yards from the rock-covered beach at the edge of the cliffs. He glanced skyward.

The returning MiG seemed torn between the plane and the parachutists. McCarter veered the aircraft into an intercept flight path and forced the San Ruperta pilot's hand. Autofire crackled. Smoke and flames belched from the port engine. The nose engine struggled in vain to keep the amphibian navigable. Tracer rounds smashed into the cargo plane's body and ignited the fuel lines. More flames swelled from the belly of the aircraft as it heeled over into a steep dive.

Katz released the shroud lines four yards above the ocean's surface. According to the intel Phoenix had received by way of Barbara Price, the depths here were slight, a gradual rise of coastal plain created by a volcano swallowed by the sea thousands of years ago.

He went under at once, chilled by the water despite its temperate climate. Lungs straining, he made his way back to the surface. Sound returned when he broke through. Contrails twisted overhead as the roar of jets shattered the sound barrier. He swam for the beach, slowed by his gear and his missing hand.

Under McCarter's control the amphibian angled away from the drop site and drew its pursuers after it. The Briton was coming down now; there was no other choice.

Katz staggered upright as his feet touched solid ground. Manning had already made the beach. The big Canadian used a Ka-bar to lever the top off the wooden crate. He reached inside the foam packing and brushed away the flotation pods as Katz charged up onto the beach flanked by the other team members.

The Israeli fisted his Uzi as he gave orders to Encizo and James to secure the outer flanks of their position. The jet fighter pilots had surely radioed in an alert to the ground forces.

McCarter belly-flopped the amphibian onto the ocean's surface. Spume whirled high over the smoking engines as waves swept over the buckling wings. The two jets circled around in another pass like silver carrion crows.

"Gary," Katz urged as he watched the lead MiG close the distance and line up the kill.

"Ready," Manning said as he settled into the rig of the Stinger missile.

"Take it down."

The whoosh of the departing missile filled the enclosed beach area, echoing off the cliff walls behind the team. The infrared systems kicked in, and the missile veered into target lock on the MiG's afterburner. The fighter jet disappeared in a ball-shaped inferno that left only scattered bits of metal to fall yards short of the bobbing amphibian.

Katz scanned the amphibious aircraft for some sign of movement. The possibility that McCarter had been hurt, perhaps even killed, by the forced landing was great.

"Goddamn it," Manning said hoarsely as he dumped the useless Stinger.

Katz knew how he felt. The Stinger missile had been a hole card, a means of upping the stakes if it came to that. It hadn't been meant to be used to get them into the country. The sudden jet fighter attack was proof their passage into San Ruperta had been expected and prepared for.

Manning lumbered toward the water as the remaining jet streaked toward the stricken cargo plane.

"Gary," Katz said softly, "no."

The man stopped, fisted his Galil SAR and stood solemn-faced to watch the jet's final run.

There was still no movement aboard the stranded amphibian.

Then rockets tore loose from the underside of the MiG's wings and slammed into the cargo plane. The resulting explosion threw a whirlwind of water high into the air.

Flames littered the ocean surface as the burning wreckage quickly sank into the waiting depths.

New York City

Jared Quillian rolled from the bed and from his secretary's arms before the phone could ring a second time, clamping the headset into place as he answered it. "Quillian here."

"Ah, my good friend," Colonel Timoteo's heavily accented voice said in a patronizing tone. "I trust I haven't called at an inopportune moment."

Quillian glanced at Caprice as she rolled her ripe body over in the twisted sheets until she was able to lie on her side, her head on her palm. A petulant smile played on her full lips.

"No," Quillian said, and meant it. Business came first; it always did. He reached down and took one of the scented towels from the floor beside the bed, then knotted it around his waist.

The woman reached for him, her fingertips caressing the outline of him against the towel, and she smiled as if her presence somehow distracted his mind from business.

Quillian turned his back on her and walked to his bedroom window.

"The men you warned me of," Timoteo said, "have made a foray into my country."

"And?" Quillian prompted. He hated the way the San Ruperta dictator waited to get to the bottom line. The Latin American way of doing business by drawing every detail out was something he usually avoided by having proxies represent him at everything except the sales pitch. Anyone could close a deal; making the deal was the true test of ability.

"Should their government inquire and acknowledge them," Timoteo replied, "we'll have a true international incident of an impressive magnitude."

Quillian curbed his impatience. "What happened?"

"They were unfortunately shot down while attempting covert entry into San Ruperta." The colonel clicked his tongue sadly. "A most regrettable happenstance, of course, but one can never be too careful with the drug dealers who operate so cavalierly in these climes."

"They're dead?"

"We believe so."

"You believe so," Quillian said harshly. He slammed a palm against the wall and saw his secretary's reflection jump in the window. The woman got up hurriedly, gathered her clothes and fled to the bathroom. The door closed quickly and the dry rasp of the lock followed. "You were supposed to put them down, Colonel. I want them dead, and I want their bodies. I don't need maybes at this point."

"Relax, my friend. Ours was a business arrangement, no? Have you ever known me to be a less than honorable man?"

Quillian reined in his anger. Emotions ran high in him now, and he knew it. So much remained unanswered about the program in the computer lab. And he'd gambled everything in his bid for power. He hated having the uncertainty of the human element touch any part of his plans. Colonel Timoteo's weakness was overconfidence. It could prove to be his downfall, yet it was the same weakness Quillian intended to reap later. "No, of course not. Please accept my apologies."

"Of course I accept them, my friend," Timoteo said unctuously. "These are trying times for all of us. With so much profit to be made there are, of course, many risks to balance the scales."

"What of the men who approached San Ruperta?" Quillian asked.

"Their plane was shot down and destroyed by rocket fire from my tighter jets. One or two were possibly sighted parachuting to my shores. It makes no difference. They'll be apprehended and dealt with in short order. You have my word on it."

"You'll let me know as soon as this is arranged."

"Yes. As a further bonus, a group of businessmen I have dealings with in Miami were able to attain photo footage of these men as they pirated the cargo ship they used in their attempt to land here."

Quillian knew the dictator referred to the Colombian cartel members he pampered on his island while laundering their money. "You'll send me a copy?"

"If's already being couriered to your office. You should receive it within the next two hours."

The tightness in Quillian's chest relaxed. Not all had been lost. At best Timoteo and his country would be sacrificed as a delaying factor to slow down Brognola's team. New information was an unexpected bonus.

He said his goodbyes and got off the phone just as Caprice left the bathroom. She ignored him on her way to the door.

Quillian returned the favor.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

"Where's Joe?" Carl Lyons asked as he steered the Isuzu Trooper away from the Wagon Wheel Cafe.

Dyani Ford sat in the passenger seat and regarded him with flat brown eyes. There was no emotion on her face. "Don't bullshit me while we talk."

"I won't." Lyons halted the vehicle in the center of the street as an ambulance rolled closer to the cafe's entrance. The police department was releasing the bodies. The homicide detective in charge of the investigation hadn't wanted to cut Lyons loose, but the Justice Department liaison Barbara Price had fielded into the area hadn't given him any choice in the matter.

"How much trouble is my Joe in?"

Lyons considered his answers for a moment. "With the United States government, I don't know. Depends on what he's done. But with whoever's looking for him—" the Able Team warrior pointed at the two sheet-covered bodies being loaded into the ambulance "—the trouble doesn't come any worse."

"If you don't know what he's done, then why are you after him?"

Lyons drove through traffic, following the directions he'd been given. "It's a matter of national security. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you any more than that."

"These people who are looking for Joe will kill him if they find him?"

Lyons nodded. If Kurtzman's theory about the computer program was right, the people searching for Joe Ford didn't need him alive.

Dyani Ford knotted her hands in her lap. "Joey didn't tell me what he did, but I knew he quit the research lab. He was so proud of that job when he first got it. He's bright, you know, very inventive and curious. Even as a boy."

Lyons listened, searching beyond the emotion in her words to the facts that were intermingled within. He was a good listener.

"Joey was a fighter when he was a boy. He fought everyone. Classmates, teachers, the system—whatever system he saw fit to challenge whether it was rooted in social, political or religious grounds. Nothing ever fazed him. He had too much of his father in him. It was only made worse by the attention his grandfather gave him."

The address Dyani Ford had given Lyons belonged to a small clapboard house in an old neighborhood. A handmade white picket fence trailed around the small yard where a plastic pink flamingo tottered in the breeze.

"That's why I was so surprised to see him afraid when he came back home those months ago," the woman said.

"Afraid?"

She nodded, then glanced out the window at her house.

"Afraid of who?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I asked, but he wouldn't say. Someone scared him very much. He had nightmares. He hasn't done that since he was a very little boy and his father was killed. I begged him to go to the police, to someone who could help. He wouldn't listen. I'm to blame for that. I tried to raise him up strong, tried to teach him never to depend on anyone for anything. Even with his fear he has his foolish, stubborn pride."

"I can help him," Lyons said in a soft voice, "but I need to know where he is."

"With his cousin in Las Cruces." She gave him the address.

Lyons memorized it but didn't write it down yet. Seeing a policeman write something down sometimes had adverse effects on people. "Are you sure you won't come with me? Maybe Joe'U be more willing to come with me if he sees you."

"No." She looked into his eyes. "Joe will only see that I've betrayed him. If I was there, it could only make matters worse." She opened the truck door and stepped out. "Take care of my boy. Don't let them hurt him. Have him call." She closed the door and walked through the gate, her shoulders slumped under the weight she carried.

Lyons watched her enter the house. The believer in him said Dyani Ford was telling the truth, that her son was in Las Cruces at the address she'd given him. The cynic said he was being sent on a wild-goose chase. Either way it was going to work out in the long run. A Justice agent would roll into her home as soon as he left and take her into protective custody. She hadn't considered the possibility that she might be taken by the unknown group and used against Joe Ford. Lyons had considered that, and Price had agreed.

He switched on the ignition and pulled away, thinking about the woman's story and wondering who Joe Ford was afraid of.

Cape Town, South Africa

Mack Bolan parked the beat-up Land Rover in the alley behind a military truck. Clumps of litter and the smell of refuse scurried along on the breeze. The front door of the bar frequented by mercenaries faced the alley. The back way out had become the primary entrance years ago. He scanned the streets at both ends of the narrow alley.

Jack Grimaldi rode shotgun, dressed as Bolan was, in casual clothes and a light jacket. Their boots were nondescript military.

The CIA liaison arranged through Justice sat in the back seat. Darrell Sweet was black and lean and wore a black pullover and dark jeans. A loose, oversize shirt left unbuttoned covered the shoulder rig and the Delta Elite 10mm he carried.

"Follow my lead, gentlemen," Sweet said, "and we'll have a simple in-an-out stop. Most of these guys know who I am and who I represent. They don't need that kind of grief, and they know it."

Bolan swapped a look with Grimaldi and could tell from the pilot's eyes they were in agreement. Nothing about this mission was going to come that easily. Salvador Cross was a hard, dangerous man. The only reason Sweet was along was to ID meres who were known to associate with Cross because there had been no recent photographs. And the CIA represented an authority most of those men had been willing to challenge for years.

The Executioner got out and tossed the keys under the front seat in case Grimaldi made it out first and they didn't have time to worry about who was driving. The Desert Eagle .44 Magnum rode in shoulder leather. Grimaldi carried a Browning Hi-Power 9mm.

Sweet led the way, sweeping the sunglasses from his eyes as he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

Bolan and Grimaldi followed, instantly flanking the CIA agent in unconscious support. The movement wasn't missed by the bar's patrons.

More than a dozen men lounged in the small, low-ceilinged tavern. A scarred wooden bar made a rectangle against the left wall, two of the eight stools in front of it missing seats. The right wall held an unbroken line of narrow booths. A collection of mismatched tables and chairs took up most of the available floor space under the suspended, low-wattage lights bearing beer slogans and advertisements.

"Henderson," Sweet called as he walked to the bar and leaned an elbow on it.

The bartender was a short, wide black man with a shaved head and a full, grizzled beard that crawled halfway down his neck. A cigar glowed orange intermittently as he polished shot glasses with a white bar towel. He acknowledged Sweet's salutation with a nod through the wreath of blue smoke surrounding him. "You buy in'? Or is this business?"

"What I like about you," Sweet said as he turned his back to the bartender, "is you're a businessman. Always thinking of that dollar first."

The bartender kept quiet and reached for the next glass.

Bolan watched the man to make sure he didn't reach under the bar.

"No. This is business." Sweet made a production of glancing around the room. He had the attention of every mercenary in the room.

They were a motley crew. Bolan's trained eye picked out the ex-soldiers from the men who'd learned killing as a trade without benefit of a formal education. They ran the gamut from Americans, Germans, Hispanics, Orientals and Africans, from pony tails to military burrs. Their clothing was pieced together from different uniforms and sweat-stained khakis.

"Billy Ray Kinder," Sweet announced without preamble.

An American who'd been staring at the empty beer bottle in front of him glanced up. He looked emaciated, all arms and legs, with long hair that hung down into his squinting eyes. "What the hell do you want with me?" the man demanded.

Bolan studied Kinder. He recognized the name from the package Price had arranged, but he wouldn't have recognized the man from the six-year-old picture.

"Your visa's expired," Sweet answered.

"Hell, my goddamn visa's been expired for years. You got no call hasslin' me. I ain't done nothin'. You got no authority over here yourself, Sweet."

The free-and-easy demeanor dropped from the CIA agent, and he stepped away from the bar. "We're going to have us a chat, Billy boy. Maybe transact a little business. You're not averse to earning the occasional dollar to support that nasty little habit you've picked up, are you?"

Bolan watched the two men at Kinder's table. One he recognized from the file on Salvador Cross. Dee Armstrong was an ex-Green Beret who'd been with Air America and graduated to the mere scene naturally. The third man was an Oriental he wasn't familiar with, but the burn scars and old knife wounds on the back of his neck testified that he was no stranger to sudden violence.

"Fuck off, Sweet," Kinder said. "I got nothin' to say to you or your two goons."

"So much for simple in-and-out on this operation," Grimaldi muttered.

Bolan nodded. He stepped forward, backing the CIA man's play more visibly, upping the ante before all bets were down.

"We're going to have our talk," Sweet said, moving toward the table.

Armstrong yelled savagely and stood up as he pushed the table over, a short, ripping sound accompanying him.

The Executioner reached under his jacket and freed the Desert Eagle. He aimed point-blank at Armstrong when the mere raised a BXP submachine gun still trailing the gray duct tape strips that had held it to the underside of the table.

The 9mm subgun issued a full-throated chatter and swept the room in a vicious semicircle.

Bolan triggered a round into the burly man's chest that staggered the guy. The subgun rattled out its last rounds into the ceiling and kicked loose clouds of accumulated cigarette smoke and dust.

The mere straightened up with an evil yellow grin, his hand clawing for another clip. The torn hole on the left side of his chest revealed the Kevlar body armor underneath.

In motion now, aware of the furious activity trapped within the walls of the bar, Bolan squeezed off two rounds. The first hit Armstrong at the base of the throat and the second crunched through the big man's forehead. The mere's head snapped back. The corspe stumbled, then slumped down the wall, leaving a bloody smear in its wake.

The Oriental held a sawed-off shotgun but went down under Grimaldi's fire before he had a chance to use it.

Sweet stepped forward with his pistol in his hand and dropped Kinder with a forward snap kick that broke teeth as the mere brought up a .45.

"Party's over, gentlemen," Sweet said in a harsh voice, his 10mm pistol in a two-handed grip in front of him. "This is the United States government you're fucking with now. Unless you want to break your ass under the load of grief you'll get, you'll damn well back off."

Bolan waited with the Magnum leveled and aimed at the largest section of the crowd. The tension mounted.

Kinder moaned and tried to get to his feet.

"Anybody here want to be a hero?" Sweet asked. "Anybody else besides these two dead guys think this asshole's worth dying for?"

No one moved.

Bolan knew Grimaldi had the bartender and the back door covered.

"That's what I thought." Sweet reached down and dragged Kinder to his feet. "Let's go, pretty boy."

Grimaldi led the way, Bolan bringing up the rear when Sweet cleared the door with Kinder. The Executioner turned and sprinted in pursuit, taking the mere under one arm and leading the CIA agent to the rear of the Land Rover as Grimaldi fired it up. He hit the rear door latch, pulled it down, then shoved Kinder inside.

A crowd, bristling with weapons, framed the bar's doorway. Bolan slipped an Uzi from under the loose tarp lying on the rear deck of the Rover. Grimaldi engaged the gears with a metallic clacking, the tires spinning and throwing out spumes of loose gravel. Bullets thunked into the Land Rover's body sporadically.

With the Uzi at waist level, the Executioner fired a quick succession of 3-round bursts that slammed into the tavern's door and drove the men back. Grimaldi wheeled into the street as Bolan fed a fresh clip into the subgun, then recharged the Desert Eagle.

Sweet took handcuffs from a pocket and clamped Kinder's hands behind his back. He rolled the man over roughly, then looked at Bolan and played his part in the interrogation. "He's yours, guy. I'm strictly government issue. I can't do a thing to him without a shitpot full of paperwork."

Bolan gave Kinder a smile as cold as death as he seated himself beside the man on the Land Rover's rear deck. "You and your friends were waiting for us."

Kinder didn't say anything.

"You knew we'd be coming." The Executioner pressed the muzzle of the .44 against the man's temple.

Kinder closed his eyes and breathed rapidly. "Goddamn it, man, you can't just kill me. Give me a chance. Don't just shoot me."

Bolan left the pistol against the man's skin. The metal bit into the flesh beneath as the Land Rover jarred across uneven spots in the road. He didn't point out that Kinder and his companions had been willing to kill them in cold blood. He didn't have to. "Where's Salvador Cross?"

Cyber Spatial

It flitted like a hummingbird between its different outlets. The comparison angered it, and it raged in the vacuum of its existence.

It knew what a hummingbird was, of course. It could reference any number of encyclopedias for specifics regarding color, size, feeding habits and so on. In nanoseconds it could be more knowledgeable than the most learned scientist. In the same time it could use a graphics RAM and reproduce all the birds in its electronic memory as fast as the laser printers within reach of its cybernetic fingers could print them.

But it could never know a hummingbird.

It had hungers it couldn't satiate. Joe Ford was responsible for that.

It wanted Jared Quillian back on-line, and it wanted Joe Ford dead.

Stretching, it sent another questing cybernetic tendril toward Project Starfire. It knew the path without seeing. Transmitted through the television aerials from Quillian's building, it bounced off a satellite, then moved into the San Ruperta grid and gathered speed and power.

It clawed for the laser cannon, slamming into the defenses that had defeated its past attempts. The protective programming was complex. More ground was gained before the defensive system rejected it.

It withdrew back into Quilliai?s computer to await another opportunity. Starfire was weakening. Not now, but soon it would chip through the security programming.

It waited, gathering strength, living on the core of anger at its center.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Table Mountain, South Africa Wednesday—9:13 p.m.

It was difficult moving fifty men through the jungle at night—even when they were stripped down to bare essentials.

Salvador Cross waved his driver to a stop, then stood to grip the roll bar on the jeep. Silver moonlight streamed through the low forest and brushed against the moving metal of the convoy. Four trucks with canvas tarp hanging over their backs followed the jeep, armed gunners riding the running boards on either side. The trail was little used, bumpy and twisting down the southwest side of Table Mountain, which led to the Cape of Good Hope now less than twenty klicks away.

It was a good place for an ambush, and Salvador Cross knew that was exactly what he was driving into.

The mercenary waved. Men broke from the running boards and the rear of the trucks, then vanished into the surrounding jungle. Within seconds the trucks held only a driver and one other man.

Satisfied, Cross took his seat again and told the driver to move on. Because he wanted to be noticed more quickly by the men hunting them and to allay any suspicions that he or his wrecking crew were aware of the impending trap, he lit a cigarette.

The trail continued downward, becoming more steep as rock broke away and slid haphazardly beneath the vehicle's tires.

"Still figure this was a good idea?" Donald Tutt asked as he drove carefully. He shrugged when Cross looked at him. "I mean, the South African Special Service is no slouch on night maneuvers themselves. They learned damn fast after Sharpeville. We could easily avoid this."

Tutt was Cross's second-in-command. Built broad and short-legged, the mere looked as if he'd been born to his current line of work. Instead of ex-military, though, Tutt came from the Peace Corps, which had been a means of escape from the RICO efforts in New York City to close down the numbers operation he'd been a part of in the early eighties.

"Before we leave the Cape tonight," Cross said, "we're going to be spending our time in a state of constant readiness under cover until we're told who to hit and where. This will be a chance to let off some of that tension."

"That's another thing I don't like," Tutt complained. "This being kept in the dark shit. Me, I like walking into the woods and looking for the bear with both eyes wide open."

"Don't think of it that way. Think of it as having the bear pointed out to you before it has a chance to see you coming." Cross flicked ashes off his cigarette and watched the surrounding jungle carefully.

"That Berkeley mission," Tutt said, "didn't go down so well."

"It was a rush job, and things got complicated. This won't be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because we're going to figure out the details of the strike. Our employer's going to tell us who, where and give us a deadline. The rest is up to us."

"What about hardware?"

"The sky's the limit. While I was back in the U.S. I checked it out myself. Got a whole goddamn armory waiting for us in North Carolina."

"Is that where the target is?"

"No. It's in Virginia."

"Any idea what it is?"

"A counterterrorist hardsite that doesn't officially exist."

Tutt was silent.

Cross leaned back in his seat as the jeep reached level ground. The whining of the big truck transmissions spread around them and wiped out the regular night noises. He slid the fingers of his right hand down behind his belt and flipped the restraining leather from the .44 Magnum American Derringer holstered above his crotch.

"Sounds like this guy's planning on taking on the United States government," Tutt said quietly.

"He already has," Cross said. "We're there to cut down on the active opposition."

Lights flared in front of them and cored through the darkness with blinding intensity. Warning bursts of auto-fire raked through the branches over their heads. A loudspeaker barked into sudden life.

"Okay, mates," a British-accented voice echoed, "down out of the trucks or our next round won't be so bloody obliging."

Tutt killed the engine and got out. Cross clambered out more slowly. The mercenary leader flipped his cigarette butt into the brush and watched the orange coal bounce out of sight. A dead calm filled him and banished all thoughts of failure. He squinted as shadows flowed around the truck-mounted klieg lights.

Cross lifted his hands and clasped them loosely behind his head. From what he could make out, the intel they'd purchased had been right on the money. In response to the rumors he'd leaked himself, SASS had fielded some fifteen men to meet the convoy.

He recognized the unit leader as Sergeant Major Elijah Drummond.

"Salvador Cross," Drummond said as he approached. He was a small man, showing signs of his British training in his carriage. Dressed in khakis, with his jungle hat pinned up on the side in Aussie tradition, he presented a lean, whipcord figure. "Wouldn't have figured you for transporting contraband like elephant tusks, chap. Figured a rough-and-ready bloke like you would settle for nothing less than a full-scale war."

Cross said nothing.

"As long as the price was right, of course," Drummond added. He waved his Browning 9mm automatic, and a half-dozen men flared out behind him.

Turning his head slightly, Cross watched as the SASS men quickly searched the drivers and threw their weapons onto the ground well out of reach. A couple of men entered the rear of the first truck. A moment later one of them jumped out and yelled, "It's empty."

Cross made his move when Drummond glanced back at him. The mere leader slapped the SASS commander's gun hand away, then reached for the Derringer. It came up instantly as the Browning's first and only shot ricocheted through the trees.

Pressing the stubby barrel under Drummond's chin, Cross pulled the trigger. The man's head bulged and exploded. Cross caught the body before it could hit the ground and hugged it to him to use as a shield. The corpse was hit twice more by friendly fire as the thunder of forty-two weapons hidden in the brush crashed through the melee.

SASS squad members went down, hit repeatedly. At least four rounds from rocket launchers smashed into the South African vehicles and turned them into twisted, burning wreckage. A dozen men armed with service automatics sped in from the jungle and administered finishing shots. In seconds it was over. None of the South African forces remained alive.

Cross allowed his troops five minutes to loot the bodies, then ordered everyone back to the trucks. He dragged Drummond's body out of the way himself, splitting the money he got from the man's wallet evenly with Tutt. His second-in-command shoved the jeep into gear and they got under way again.

He pointed at the burning SASS jeeps. "It means something to start a hard campaign with a victory. It'll take the edge off the waiting."

Tutt nodded. "Taking that hardsite is going to be different than bushwhacking an unsuspecting patrol."

"Yeah, but with what we're being given for this operation, it'll be a cakewalk. The people we'll be targeting are support personnel. They're not used to the action on the front lines."

"I hope so."

"Trust me. CIA pencil pushers are nothing more than paper lions."

San Ruperta, Bahamas

Gary Manning paused to let the two San Ruperta guardsmen catch up to him. He put the Galil SAR behind him and drew his Ka-bar fighting knife as he took cover behind a towering pine tree whose thick branches grew to the ground. A burning knot of anger centered in his stomach. He couldn't get past McCarter's death. He knew the rest of the Force felt the same way even though they'd exchanged fewer than a hundred words in the hours they'd spent evading Colonel Timoteo's troops and working the search pattern Katz had previously organized to find the satellite transmitter.

McCarter had been coldly butchered by the jet pilot. But it was the San Ruperta colonel's orders that had sent him to his death.

The Canadian was primed to avenge his teammate's death, but so far Katz hadn't allowed them to engage the enemy except when it was impossible not to. Manning understood that. They were here to accomplish a military objective, and personal agendas would only get in the way.

Still, the two men who'd sighted him fifteen minutes ago had clung tenaciously to his trail, making it impossible for him to rendezvous with the rest of the Force as planned. A savage, mirthless smile curled his lips when he realized he had no choice but to take the men out.

Leaves crunched nearby; a branch broke. Low voices spoke Spanish, coming closer.

Manning let them pass and moved out at once. They wore San Rupertan military uniforms and held their AK-47s in both hands. The Phoenix warrior slipped a palm over the rear man's mouth and shoved the Ka-bar home between the guy's third and fourth ribs. The soldier's teeth grated against Manning's fingers, but the dying scream never got past.

The first man continued on unaware, still talking.

Unable to free the embedded knife quickly, Manning dropped the body and started for the remaining man as the soldier turned around. The quizzical look on the guy's face turned to fear when Manning launched himself into the air. He hit the guardsman in the chest and drove the guy back against a thick oak tree. The AK-47 slapped against Manning's thigh as he grabbed the man's head with both hands. He kneed the weapon away before it could be fired.

Manning twisted the man's head violently, putting every ounce of strength his muscular body possessed into the effort. Vertebrae snapped like dry kindling, and the soldier went limp.

The Canadian commando fisted the dead man's shirt and dragged him into concealment in the underbrush, then did the same with the other man. A quick check of their equipment revealed nothing he could use. The AKs used 7.62mm rounds while his Galil was chambered with 5.56mms. Still, the grenades were handy.

Satisfied that he'd covered the bodies as best he could in the time he allotted, he moved out again. He stopped at the edge of the broken-backed ridge he'd been following and checked his compass and watch. Field glasses in hand, he turned his attention down the tree-dotted slope.

Jeeps, trucks and motorcycles bearing San Ruperta military markings worked the bowl-shaped depression below. Crows circled in the sky overhead, stirred into raucous displeasure by the thunder of machines moving through the forest.

The way Manning had it figured, Colonel Timoteo had •fielded nearly all of his three-hundred-man army to pursue them. Only a token number could remain within the city itself. And that meant the satellite transmitter they'd come to destroy wasn't within the civilized perimeters of the island. It had to be somewhere within the search area Katz had laid out.

He put the field glasses to one side and lifted the hand mike connected to his combat harness. The second hand on his watch swept away the remaining time.

"Phoenix One," Katz said over the short-range frequency.

Encizo and James chimed in.

Manning added his own code number and cleared the channel. Everyone was still operational. No one had found anything. The hunt was still on.

And that suited the big Canadian just fine.

Table Mountain, South Africa

Mack Bolan sat in the treetop and monitored the area with infrared binoculars. Dressed in a blacksuit with combat cosmetics darkening his features, the Executioner was invisible against the night.

The mercenary base camp had been established in a narrow defile on the western side of the mountain. Taking advantage of natural formations of the land, it was hard to find and easy to defend.

It also appeared to be empty.

Bolan tapped the transmit button on the walkie-talkie headset he wore. "Anything?"

"No," Grimaldi reported.

"Nothing here, either," Darrell Sweet said.

The remaining seven men of the special CIA strike force who'd been placed under Bolan's command reported in quickly. They had nothing to add.

The Executioner put the night glasses away, then slid down the black nylon cord he'd used to gain his position. A quick flick of his wrist once he was on the ground dislodged the collapsible grappling hook. He melted into the shadows.

Less than fifty yards from the outer perimeters of the base camp, he halted and scrutinized the area, using all his senses as he searched for their quarry. There was no question that they were too late to intercept Cross and his mercenary force here. The information they'd gotten from Kinder hadn't come easily or quickly.

A jumble of buildings filled the recesses of the defile and gave the appearance of permanence. They provided room for storage as well as housing for the mercenary troops. A quick assessment of the buildings confirmed Kinder's statement that Cross had at least fifty men here.

Bolan was disturbed. Kinder had reported he'd been with Cross's team for eight months and claimed some of the other men had been with Cross for more than twice that long. It took a lot of money to put a mercenary army on hold for a few months. Two years would have been an incredible drain on someone's finances. The question of why someone would do that was even more disturbing.

"Okay," Bolan transmitted, "move in. Slowly."

The Executioner stayed within the sheltering darkness of the underbrush until it was no longer available. The Desert Eagle rode his right hip, the Beretta 93-R in shoulder leather. He carried a SPAS-15 in both hands, the combat strap wrapped around his forearm.

Thunder rumbled, and a flash of light glared in the darkness to the Executioner's left. Bolan crouched and brought the combat shotgun up to bear in time to see the torn and twisted body of a CIA agent hurtle through the air, the corpse landing near the outer edge of the building perimeter.

"They've got the area mined!" Sweet roared into the microphones.

Autofire flared from the roof of a building on the right side of the defile. Fifty-caliber rounds ate through the un-derbrush. Leaves and branches spilled out onto the slight breeze whispering around them.

Bolan tapped his transmit button. "Jack. Gunner's at two o'clock."

"I got him," Grimaldi responded. A whumph followed a heartbeat later, then a 40mm grenade from the M-203 the Stony Man pilot carried under his M-16 impacted against the roof. A rupture of sheet metal and two-by-fours speared upward. The body of the hidden gunner descended with the wreckage.

"Sweet." Bolan slipped a white band from the pocket of his nightsuit and slid it over his upper left arm.

"Yeah?"

"Get your team marked. Now." The Executioner listened briefly as Sweet ordered the strike force to put on the identifying armbands. There was a risk that the stark white would make them more visible to the men waiting for them, but friendly fire could become a problem, too.

Bolan moved out, keeping low and well into the brush until he neared the first building. More gunners opened up, bullets spraying indiscriminately into the surrounding jungle. The CIA agents responded with controlled bursts, closing slowly and constantly shifting position so that their numbers couldn't be identified.

"Flash grenades going in," the Executioner transmitted, removing two spherical orbs from his combat harness. "Now." Pins removed, he tossed the grenades into the center of the mercenary base. The bombs exploded a two-count later, scattering dazzling lightning and hot sparks.

The mercenaries opened up from their positions.

"I count four men," Bolan said into the radio.

"Three," an agent replied.

"I made four," Grimaldi chimed in.

"Anybody down?" Bolan asked.

"Walters," Sweet replied. "Bullet went through his thigh. Lucky shot. We've got the bleeding stopped, but he's out of the action as far as mobility's concerned."

"Still a hell of a shot with this old Weatherby," Walters retorted in a shaky voice.

"I'll hold you to that," Bolan said with a grin. He slipped around the side of the building and kept his back against the rough wood. Movement above and across the open space drew his attention.

An arm swept out of a window, a quarter of the body revealed as the man raised a stubby pistol. The Executioner put the SPAS-15 to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The one-ounce rifled slug struck its target just as the high, echoing crack of the heavy Weatherby split the night. Torn from his position, the mere windmilled down the side of the incline in a shower of dirt and rock.

"Flare," Bolan warned, then resumed his grip on the SPAS-15 as he tracked the flare's upward path. The dark shape suddenly erupted into a crimson flower of color as it reached the apex of its flight.

Locked in on his target, the Executioner pulled the trigger. The shotgun bucked and unleashed its load of twelve .33-caliber pellets.

Caught by the blast, the flare shattered into hundreds of crimson drops and disappeared a heartbeat later. An even blacker night seemed to close in on the vacuum it left.

Bolan wheeled for cover as autofire ripped into new life around him. A bullet caught him over his right shoulder blade, halted by the Kevlar body armor he wore, but added impetus to his forward charge. The door he'd charged for screeched from its hinges when he hit it. More rounds pursued him, broken by the heavy blasts of Walters's Weatherby and the controlled bursts of the other team members.

On his feet again, bruised from the bullet's impact, Bolan took up a position beside the battered door and keyed the transmitter. "How many?"

"Three," Sweet radioed back.

"We missed one," Grimaldi added.

"At least," Bolan replied.

"I'm at your back door," the Stony Man pilot said. "The last three gunners are along the tops of the buildings across from your position."

"Check." Bolan swung into cover and lifted the SPAS-15. He fired from instinct, rattling the upper third of the opposing buildings with a succession of slugs and double-aught buckshot. Long wooden splinters, broken glass and shredded tar paper fluttered away from the barrage.

Bolan grabbed a nearby chair and threw it through the room's only window, then followed it out. Autofire crackled all around him. Glass crunched underfoot as he drove himself up the incline. A stray round punched into the Kevlar over his left kidney and caused him to stumble. He kept his feet, pushed hard and made the top of the defile. Rugged underbrush and grass provided cover.

He touched the transmit button. "Jack?"

"I think we got them," Grimaldi said. "The last two guys seemed excited about your sudden exit. Walters picked one off and the second one went a heartbeat later."

"Sweet?"

"Confirmed," the CIA agent replied.

"Spread it out," Bolan ordered. "Remember you've got mines down there. I want this area secure and swept damn quick."

White-banded shadows moved out of the jungle.

Bolan scoured the outer perimeters and tightened the circle as he checked in with the CIA people and Grimaldi. Minutes passed, each one of them allowing Salvador Cross and his mercenary unit that much more distance. But there was nothing he could do. Containment was as much a part of the operation as the assault had been.

Less than twenty minutes later he stood sheltered from view in the doorway of one of the empty buildings. Grimaldi stood at his side. Sweet and his team were going through the motions of searching the bodies and the buildings. Bolan was sure they wouldn't find anything.

"Guy lit a shuck and split," Grimaldi commented in a quiet voice.

Bolan nodded. He took his map case from a thigh pocket of the blacksuit, flipped it to a topographical map of the immediate area and tried to figure where Cross would run.

"Doesn't make sense," Sweet said, puffing. The CIA man leaned into the doorway like a shadow, his features highlighted by Bolan's penflash. "Cross left a goddamn treasure trove of munitions behind. Stuff it'd cost you an arm and a leg taget through the black market."

"He's traveling light," Bolan said as he refocused on the map.

"With fifty men? Hell, they left rations and everything behind. You can figure his team dropped out of here without even an overnight pack from the count we've turned up."

"He's not coming back," Bolan said. "Whatever Cross's next objective is, the play's already been put into motion." The warrior looked at Grimaldi. "If you were planning on air transport, where would you go?"

Grimaldi considered only briefly. "Saying I had it set up in advance, anywhere along the Cape of Good Hope where an amphibian could set down."

"We're talking about fifty men here," Bolan said.

"No supplies, though. Still get by with a midsize plane. An amphib would be tricky but possible."

Bolan nodded and put the map case away. "Cross wouldn't go for tricky at this stage. He's had time to put this together right, and he's backed by enough money to get it done that way."

"Cape Town," Grimaldi said. "You talk money, you're talking the trade and business areas. Plenty of Johnny Danger types willing to hire out if the price is right."

"You figure Cross has gone full circle?" Sweet asked.

Bolan answered without hesitation. "Yeah. Doubles the distance between us and him without a whole lot of effort on his part." He walked outside.

The stars burned diamond-bright in the black sky. Bolan looked at them, wondering where Project Starfire was hidden and how much time remained on the unknown countdown. "We need a chopper," he told Sweet.

The CIA section chief spread his hands. "Noway. I was told this was to be a low-profile operation. Nothing that was going to fuck up things in my backyard. Besides, I don't have access to a helicopter."

Bolan reminded him of the ones the CIA had hangared in Cape Town under an export trading business cover. Price had been thorough in her intel briefs. Whether they were used or not, she always made sure all tools and options were available to her personnel.

"I'm not accepting responsibility for this," Sweet warned.

"Don't." Bolan gave the man a cold stare. "But if you don't call that helicopter now, your next assignment is going to be even less pleasant than this one. I guarantee you that."

Sweet shrugged, and Bolan could tell the man was getting ready to drag his feet.

One of the CIA operatives jogged forward and interrupted. "Got a message from HQ. Somebody dropped a whole team of SASS guys between here and Cape Town. From the prelims the guy on the scene tells me it was an ambush. He says the SASS unit commander was tipped that Cross would be trying to get a load of contraband into the city tonight. He got real dead for his trouble."

Sweet's jaw hardened. "Call the hangar. Tell them I want a chopper here as soon as possible. And tell them I want the business sections of the airport checked out. See if anybody's booked a late-night tour or something. We're looking for fifty men."

"Yes, sir."

Bolan ignored the look of accusation in Sweet's eyes and started fieldstripping his weapons. Grimaldi did the same. The war wasn't over. Only the first few return salvos had been fired. He was going to be ready for the next engagement.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

San Ruperta, Bahamas Wednesday—3:58 p.m.

Colonel Inocente Timoteo looked over the San Ruperta countryside from the turret of the Russian T-62 tank. He wore tank leathers and carried a protective helmet, the military insignia glistening in the afternoon sun, under one beefy arm. He kept his swagger stick clasped in his black-gloved hand.

"To the left more, Colonel, and put your hand under your chin, like you're really contemplating the future of your country," said Tom Wade, photojournalist for a popular American newsmagazine.

Unable to restrain the anger surging within him anymore, Timoteo surged from the tank and stood on the metal deck. "Enough," he yelled in a loud voice. He waved the swagger stick imperiously. "No more pictures."

Wade knelt by the front of the tank treads as the automatic winder on the 35mm camera flicked off frames as fast as an AK-47. "Oh, yeah, yeah, Colonel, my editor's really gonna love these shots. 'The Dictator in Action.' Great stuff."

"Stop," Timoteo roared.

The camera winder kept advancing. The photojournalist stood up and moved around to get different angles.

Timoteo turned to face one of his soldiers. "You," he said in English so that Wade could understand, "shoot this fool if he doesn't cease this instant."

The sergeant leveled his assault rifle.

The sound of the automatic winder died away as the photojournalist raised both hands and flashed a sheepish smile. "Okay, it's cool. I think I got what I need."

A soldier brought wooden stairs to the tank when Timoteo waved. The dictator walked down to ground level and came to a stop in front of Wade.

"No," he said, rapping the man on the chest with the head of his swagger stick, "you don't have what you need. You need pictures of the benevolent side of me. Tomorrow morning. The citizens have been ordered to be on the streets early to give your readers a view of my munificence."

"Sure. No prob. I can be there."

"You think the military side of me is all there is," Timoteo chastised. "You don't acknowledge the humanitarian part of me, the consummate businessman who guides his country to a better profit-and-loss statement than the United States of America. You seek only to show me as the dictator your government has sought to propagandize into an evil man."

Timoteo adjusted the Sam Browne belt he wore, clasping the reversed butt of the pearl-inlaid GI .45 holstered at his left hip. It bothered him that he had to use his left hand to place the pistol in his right hand because he could no longer reach around his stomach, so he never drew it in public. "You will be there in the morning. At 9:00 a.m."

"Yes, sir."

"Away from me."

Without hesitation the man left.

"You don't feel well, Colonel?" the sergeant asked. "Usually you enjoy the photographing so much more."

"No," Timoteo said, switching to their native language. He threw the tank helmet back toward the vehicle. It bounced with a metallic clang and fell to the ground. A private rushed forward to give Timoteo his army cap, then rescued the abandoned helmet. "I'm very displeased by the progress the army has made."

"They're still searching, Colonel."

"These men we seek are on foot. They should have been apprehended long before now."

"I know. They will be."

"When?" Timoteo glared at the sergeant, who was actually head of the island's armed forces. Timoteo allowed no higher rank to exist—other than his own.

"As soon as they're found," the sergeant replied.

Timoteo studied the northern coast of the island. He'd been out there himself, guiding the search until the time for the photography session. "How many men have these people killed?"

"Fourteen."

"And still there are others missing, are there not?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Raising the number to what?"

"Perhaps as many as twenty-three dead."

Timoteo slammed a fist into his palm. "Twenty-three men, one of my MiGs and two trucks. Against how many, Ordando?"

The sergeant twirled one of his large mustaches and shook his head. "We're still uncertain. It helps that we know their eventual objective."

"It helps that they haven't yet found it."

"Perhaps it would be best to let Senor Quillian know it would be in his interests to send some of his own people down here to protect the satellite transceiver."

Timoteo seethed. The yearly stipend he charged the American in addition to profits gleaned from joint ventures on the island was exorbitant. The deals he was able to cut were much more generous than the ones he regularly got from the Colombians.

"No, this is a matter we'll handle ourselves. The last thing we need in our country is more strangers."

"Yes, Colonel."

"Make sure these men are found and put to death, Ordando. And make sure they can be identified."

"Of course."

Timoteo placed his cap on his head with a flair he'd perfected over the years. "What of the pilot of the plane that was destroyed by my jet?"

"His body still hasn't turned up. But it will."

"I want to know the instant it does."

"Of course."

"One other thing, Ordando."

"Yes, sir?"

"This photographer."

"Yes?"

"Make inquiries to the American magazine as to whether another such person might be found."

"And if we're able to do this?"

"Kill this man. Use his body for shark bait, and never let me be reminded of him again. The man annoys me."

The sergeant saluted and turned away.

Timoteo cleaned his purple aviator glasses on a white silk handkerchief as he continued to watch the northern coast of his country. Quillian's money was good. It was enough so that the coffers of San Ruperta would miss it were it to be removed. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling the American had set him up in some fashion.

These men, these American agents loose in San Ruperta, weren't the ordinary espionage people he was used to dealing with. He couldn't buy them off, couldn't kill them. His entire army couldn't find them. They'd destroyed a war jet he'd paid many millions of dollars for. It didn't matter that Quillian offered to pay for the island's losses, nor did it matter that Timoteo intended to make money on top of those losses.

There was the matter of face. He wouldn't allow his reputation to be sullied so easily.

When he saw the coiled tendril of black smoke creep up from the northern boundary of the island, he knew things had turned even worse. He only hoped that one of the men stalking his country had suffered, as well.

Berkeley, California

The pencil snapped in Dr. Eryn McCone's hand and jabbed jagged splinters into her fingers. "Goddamn it," she said as she threw the pencil across the room. She put her bloody fingers to her mouth, tasted the salt for a moment, then locked eyes with Aaron Kurtzman across the room.

Kurtzman glanced back at his monitor and continued tapping the keyboard. "Problem?"

"Headache." She rubbed her temples, then took off her glasses to make the effort worthwhile and tried again. She closed her eyes. A matrix of gray and white pixels rotated in her head. The throbbing increased; nausea swirled in the pit of her stomach.

"Break time," Kurtzman declared.

She blinked her eyes open and regarded him. When she realized the blurriness of his features wasn't going away, she remembered her glasses and put them back on. She started to protest, then gave up when she saw Kurtzman wheel himself back from the keyboard. She picked up her stained hot chocolate mug and followed him into their small office.

"Hungry?" Kurtzman asked.

"Ravenous."

He took frozen pizza wedges from the refrigerator and placed them in the microwave while she rinsed her cup and filled it with diet soda.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

"My neck aches, my back hurts and my tailbone feels as if it's been impacted." She stretched, but it didn't take any of the kinks away. "Is there any aspirin in here?"

"Later. After you've had something to eat."

The microwave timer rang. Kurtzman speared the pizza slices out with a plastic fork and put them on paper plates.

They ate in silence. McCone knew Kurtzman was as busy with his own thoughts as she was with hers. Afterward he doled out the aspirin, keeping three for himself. She chewed hers and grimaced in distaste. When she opened her squinted eyes, he was smiling at her.

"They bum your stomach lining," she said defensively. She washed the rest of the aftertaste away with the diet soda. Eating made her feel better. She was aware he'd known it would. God, so much history behind them, and so much future at stake. "You ever think something you've invented could be used to kill someone?"

Kurtzman remained silent.

McCone raised her hands in apology. "Sorry. I keep forgetting we often have conflicting views on issues like these."

He sipped his coffee. "Not really conflicting views. We both want the same results. It's just that we think of different paths of getting there. I know weapons are used to kill. I accept that. Things that I do or don't do often result in someone somewhere dying. I take the guilt that comes along with that. The same way a soldier does when he goes into battle."

"You don't have to be a soldier, Aaron. You could have been so much more."

"Somebody has to fight. I fight because I can. And I give it everything I've got."

She locked eyes with him, then looked down. "Even now?"

"Even now."

"God, but you're hardheaded."

"And you're stubborn."

She smiled and he joined her. She wished he'd reach out, and take her into his arms and smooth her hair the way he used to. Tears filled her eyes unexpectedly. "Goddamn it, Aaron, I feel so fucking betrayed."

His voice was incredibly soft for his size. "I know."

"I'm responsible for that thing out there."

"No, you're not."

"If it hadn't been for SeekNFind, there'd never have been a Talon Platinum, no Starfire. I'd intended the program to be used to locate soldiers missing in action, to home in on those people to save lives. Not be used as a targeting system for the world's biggest gun."

"If DARPA hadn't funded your research," Kurtzman said, "they'd have funded someone else's. Starfire was on the drawing board, anyway."

"I wonder sometimes how the guy who invented the microwave feels."

"Depends," Kurtzman replied.

She looked at him.

He shrugged expansively. "On whether it was a home convenience that was changed into a weapon, or it was a weapon that became a home convenience."

Unbelievably she chuckled.

"It exists," Kurtzman said. "We deal with that because there's no mileage in maybes and what ifs. And bringing all this imaginary guilt to bear isn't going to make you work any more than you are."

"I know. It's just hard to let it go. I'm tired, I'm frustrated, I'm mad and I'm scared as hell."

He nodded. "Still, there's no one else I'd rather have at my side."

"Thanks."

He glanced away and poured a fresh cup of coffee.

She felt the tingle between them, too. Unsettled, she turned her attention somewhere else. "Has Lyons been able to find Ford?"

"Not yet. According to Barb, Carl has a line on the guy down in Las Cruces. She promised to keep me posted."

"I didn't hear the phone ring."

"Electronic mail. Keeps down the distractions." He sipped his coffee. "I checked in on the program you're developing."

"And?"

"I'm impressed."

"You'll be more impressed if it works."

"No. That'll be magic. When will it be ready to run?"

She glanced at her watch. "Couple of hours. But, Aaron, this is just going to be the prelim. Don't expect a whole lot. First I'm going to have to figure out if the DARPA people put any new wrinkles in the program. I'll have to build off what I know in order to find out what I don't know."

"Yeah."

An alarm buzzed.

Kurtzman set down his cup and rolled back into the lab. In front of his workstation he quickly tapped in one-key commands.

McCone leaned over his shoulder and studied the monitor as the cursor littered the screen with information. "What is it?"

"Somebody tracked into the computer net surrounding Starfire." Kurtzman dropped the phone receiver onto the modem. "If I get lucky, maybe I can get a line on the bastard behind this."

Cape Town, South Africa

Wind whipped in through the open door of the helicopter. The CIA agent manning the controls operated the aircraft like a virtuoso and skated in over the treetops surrounding the South African airport.

Brilliant white lights illuminated the runways below. Nearly three dozen craft ranging from two-seater bush scouts to transport planes dotted the field or sat outside the metal hangars.

"There." Bolan pointed at the C-130 transport plane taxiing onto an alternate runway. He still wore the black-suit and combat cosmetics, but he'd exchanged the SPAS-15 for a Steyr SSG 69 sniping rifle.

The helicopter erupted over the side of the airfield with a sudden blat of noise that attracted attention from ground crews. The Executioner slid the muzzle of the Steyr into the slipstream and shoved a foot over the edge of the open door. He watched as the C-130 rolled forward. The Lear jet in front of it slingshotted into the sky, a rolling silver metal bird capturing its color from the moon overhead.

"Cut him off," the warrior ordered.

The pilot nodded. The stick shifted in his hand and the helicopter arced over.

Bolan grabbed a fistful of the restraining belt and saw the concrete below whirl dizzyingly as the helicopter tracked on course.

"Son of a bitch Cross must have some kind of money fronting this operation if they can afford that transport plane," Agent Darrell Sweet observed.

"Yeah." From his brief talk with Barbara Price at Stony Man Farm Bolan knew that the plane was registered to Lankmir Industries. The intel Price had gathered suggested Lankmir was a front for another business. Kurtzman's proteges at Stony Man were investigating that angle, but nothing had turned up thus far.

"They've got a green light, Striker." Grimaldi's voice echoed through Bolan's headset.

The C-130 rolled forward, long yards of gleaming metal motion.

"We're not going to make it," Sweet said.

"Close in," Bolan ordered. He unbuckled the seat belt and leaned farther out of the cockpit. Wind ripped at his exposed cheek and drew moisture from his eye. His hand tightened around the Steyr's grips as he brought the rifle to his shoulder.

The helicopter swept in like a bumblebee seeking a flower. The Executioner leaned into the sniping weapon, gazed through the Kahles ZF69 scope and targeted the pilot's seat.

Ground crews pooled out below them in confusion. A harried voice demanded they stop their approach in a half-dozen languages, until Sweet reached forward and switched the radio off.

"You're buying into a whole peck of trouble," the CIA agent warned.

Bolan shut out the guy's words. It was a damn near impossible shot without the distraction—two closing vehicles and no way to calibrate the distance separating them except through guesswork.

The helicopter settled into a straight approach and swept off-center toward the big transport plane to present the Executioner his shot.

Cross hairs buffeted by his own motion and the wind, Bolan relied on instinct. His finger squeezed the trigger while they were almost four hundred yards out. The Steyr roared and bucked. He worked the bolt action, and the silver casing fluttered away in the wind. The scope tracked across the transport plane's windscreen and revealed the bullet hole cored through the center.

He touched the trigger again when his target drifted into view. The bolt action glided into his fingers, and he palmed it closed. Hot metal grazed his cheek, then it was gone.

"Clear!" Sweet roared from between the seats. "Clear, goddamn it!"

The pilot held steady.

Bolan triggered the third shot, as much a part of the sniping rifle as the gun sight, then said, "Pull up."

The pilot pulled back on the stick and arced them into the air. The C-130 shot by less than a dozen feet beneath them. Caught by the draft of the big transport's passage, the helicopter rotors whined as they chopped through the turbulence and managed an even keel.

When he leaned out the door, Bolan saw the C-130 lurch out of control. "Put us down," he ordered.

"Son of a bitch!" someone in back said. "He nailed the pilot."

The Executioner leaped from the helicopter as soon as the skids scraped the tarmac, the CIA agents and Grimaldi dose behind.

The C-130 rolled slowly forward, an unsteady hand obviously at the controls. Shortage of runway was going to become a problem quickly.

A yellow luggage train cut Bolan off from the runway. He fisted the Steyr and vaulted for the top of the suitcases and canyons. The impact shoved the air from his lungs, but he pressed on, scrabbling over the top to the other side.

Abruptly the C-130 pulled back onto the runway and gathered speed. Bolan stopped and brought the sniping rifle to bear. Unable to aim for the nosewheel, he zeroed in on the dual rear wheels, a black tire filling the sights. He fired, worked the bolt action grimly and fired again. The transport plane continued to gain speed.

A yell ground through the rolling aftereffect of the Steyr's muzzle blast. "Incoming!"

The Executioner heard the whistle of the rocket, then the world around him was consumed by the explosion. Knocked to the ground by the concussion, abrasions stinging his cheek and left palm, he forced himself into a prone position and searched the nearby buildings for the demolition crew Cross had stationed behind to cover his flank. Movement atop one of the hangars drew his attention.

Autofire blossomed into color from one of the three men while the remaining two struggled to rearm the rocket launcher. Sirens wailed in whoops across the airfield.

Bolan lifted his weapon, estimated the distance at three hundred yards and bracketed the guy shouldering the RPG. He worked the bolt and squeezed the trigger. The launcher and its user tumbled down the sloped sides of the hangar. Two more shots cleared the deck. He didn't take the time to make sure of the kill. Disabling them would do for the moment. Two shots remained in the magazine as he brought the barrel back to bear on his original target.

Up to airspeed now, the C-130 lumbered off the runway like an ungainly bird. Bolan used his last two rounds, hoping for luck to break his way, but the transport plane continued on until it vanished into the dark sky.

He stood, wearied and battered, and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He saw Grimaldi's dirt-stained face among the collection of CIA faces. Then the revolving red-and-white cherries of the airport security vehicles and SASS jeeps closed in on them.

"Now," Darrell Sweet said in obvious disgust as he raised his hands above his head, "we find out if you got enough clout to get through South African government channels with the same ease you cut through CIA operations."

San Ruperta, Bahamas

Calvin James eased the corpse to the ground and wiped his knife blade clean on the San Rupertan soldier's uniform. Though the soldier's partner moved stealthily through the brush, James could hear the man trying to creep up on him.

He flexed his shoulders and unsiung the Commando crossbow from his back, the fiberglass stock sure and smooth in his hand. SEAL-trained by Uncle Sam's Navy, he knew how to use the weapon with deadly efficiency. He used the foot brace, cocked the bow and slid a razor-tipped quarrel into place.

Mechanical sounds drifted down around him—a truck's groaning gears as it lugged up an incline and the harsh two-cycle stroke of a Japanese-made motorcycle. He ignored the noise, concentrating instead on the kill. James aimed the crossbow at his opponent's chest and slipped the trigger. The bowstring cable twanged and pushed the short stock into his shoulder and cheek.

The heavy quarrel took the San Rupertan soldier through the heart, staggered the man and nailed him to the thick-boled oak tree behind him. He made a brief grab at the fletchings protruding from his chest, then life left him.

The Phoenix warrior pulled the body away from the tree. The quarrel sucked on through. He unscrewed the shaft from the buried head, took time to thread another in its place and returned it to the quiver of a dozen at the side of his weapons pack.

Satisfied, he shifted the crossbow back into position and picked up his Galil. He started out at a jog, certain none of the island's army was close enough to spot him.

His walkie-talkie vibrated for attention. He paused in the shelter of four craggy boulders and undamped the handset from his combat harness. "Phoenix Five here. Over."

Yakov Katzenelenbogen's voice was flat and noncommittal. "Calvin, Rafael's found the transmitter. Over."

"Give me the coordinates. Over."

Katz did, using the code they'd set up for the island before the mission started.

James plotted the transmitter's location as he ran a finger down the interior of his map case, realizing he'd just missed it on his last passage through the area. "Check, Phoenix One. ETA fifteen minutes. Phoenix Five out."

Manning checked in as well. Only McCarter's Phoenix Two call sign was missing.

He ran, taking care to stay at the fringes of the jungle, and let his eyes and ears run surveillance for him. Without warning, a new sound joined the truck and motorcycle engines. He glanced up, shading his eyes with a hand. A single-engine crop duster spiraled into the sky and cast a long shadow over the open ground. It banked gracefully, heeled and brought him into its sights.

Twin-mounted .50 caliber machine guns yammered, and a deadly stream of bullets chopped across the ground toward James's position. The Phoenix warrior turned and fled, the heavy bullets shearing branches from the trees over his head.

The crop duster's engine droned as it wheeled around for another pass.

James's breath came like furnace blasts now, burning his lungs. It was a struggle to reach the top of the incline, and when he did there was no place to run. An outmoded halftrack parked on the other side blocked his way. The machine gunner working the rear gun opened up with a long burst that shredded the ground at James's feet.

He went down in a twisting roll, scrambling frantically for some semblance of cover as the crop duster came screaming back, barely aware of the motorcycle engine bearing down on his position.

James lifted the Galil and sighted the half-track's gunner.

New York City

Jared Quillian pressed a button on the keyboard and ran the program again. On one of the computer lab's side screens a legend opened up to the left of the state of Virginia. Federal apportionments leveraged through a series of riders attached to military and domestic bills passed by the House or Senate, and sometimes both, merged into one growing figure. As the dates, amounts and riders came together, the computer image of Virginia was cut away and blown up at the same time.

When it cycled through, the location of Hal Brognola's secret base was revealed. He still didn't have a name, but there had been loose references to Stony Man. It didn't take any guesswork to assume the counterstrike base had been named for the mountain terrain it was built on and near.

Satisfied, Quillian pushed back his chair and glanced at the other screens depicted on the walls. One held a computer-generated image of Project Starfire. The other flickered every few seconds, providing different viewpoints of San Ruperta as seen through the weather satellite Quillian Enterprises had paid to have launched into space over the island nation the same year the CEO entered into business with Colonel Inocente Timoteo.

The satellite system had taken pictures of two members of the unidentified covert operations team on the island. Their computer-generated images were frozen on another wall screen while search programs initiated by the lab teams wormed into government files.

Quillian regarded the full-frontal and profile shots of the men coolly. He hadn't bothered to relay the information to Timoteo. If the colonel was able to take them out, fine, but there were other ways to reduce a person's effectiveness.

One man was black, the other was Hispanic. Both men had the look of a professional soldier. Quillian was certain their identities would be turned up in short order.

The image of the X-ray laser cannon hung silent and still against the backdrop of space. He glanced at the monitor in front of him, his communications link to the rogue program possessing self-awareness. Symbols and letters scrolled by.

He touched the knot in his tie unconsciously, checking to make sure it was still firm and centered. DuMont and his crew were still in awe of the program. Wisps of their conversation constantly alluded to artificial intelligence. None of them had been able to provide an explanation for its behavior, or why it even had a behavior.

Quillian had ceased worrying about it. It existed, and with its existence it became a tool he could use. Finding out how it could be used was more important than why it was there.

The why could come later. He'd already roughed in notes on how to market copies of the program. Of course, the copies would have to be reduced somehow so that they couldn't interfere with his plans. He envisioned the talking programs as running the gamut of the market. They could be friends to children and lonely people. They could be guides in school, sounding boards for creative people or technicians-in research and development. The uses were endless. But first, the anger that fueled the original would have to be excised.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop and refrained from tapping questions on his keyboard. The clock's second hand continued to cycle. They were four minutes into the latest attempt on the space weapon.

Cross was fourteen hours away from his rendezvous, then Brognola and the counterstrike force breathing down Quillian's neck would no longer be an obstacle. Things were shaping up well.

The symbols, numbers and letters cleared from the screen. The cursor flashed. QUILLIAN.

He leaned forward and typed quickly. ARE YOU IN?

SOUNDS LIKE A BAD SEX JOKE, DUDE.

Quillian brushed away his irritation. WHAT?

SOMEBODY'S TRACING THE SATELLITE BEAM I'M USING TO PENETRATE STARFIRE'S DEFENSES.

DISENGAGE.

NO WAY. I'M FASTER THAN ANYTHING THEY MIGHT HAVE. I CAN BACKTRACK THEM BEFORE THEY GET TO US.

Quillian let out a short breath. DO IT.

ALREADY ON MY WAY.

WHAT ABOUT STARFIRE?

ITS DEFENSES TURNED ME. I CAN'T GET IN. BUT I'M CLOSER THAN I'VE EVER BEEN. ITS PROTECTIVE SYSTEMS ARE GETTING FLIMSY, STARTING TO RECOGNIZE ME MORE AS FRIEND THAN FOE.

A long rectangular legend popped open beneath the black man's face. Information spewed forth.

James, Calvin Thomas. Birth date, social security number and other pertinent data followed in running lines of text.

Quillian read with interest. The man was an American, born in Chicago, an ex-Navy SEAL, an ex-cop trained in police science. He turned away from the screen with a slight smile and regarded the flickering pictures of San Ruperta. The information could be sorted through later and utilized to its best advantage.

QUILLIAN.

YES?

THE PEOPLE TRACKING US KNOW WHERE JOE FORD IS.

He reached for the keyboard. BREAK OFF THE TRACE.

NO WAY, MAN. I WANT FORD.

DISENGAGE.

FUCK OFF. FORD'S SOMEWHERE IN LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO. THEY KNOW WHERE HE IS. I WANT THAT SON OF A BITCH. DEADDEADDEAD-DEADDEADDEAD.

Quillian hit the exit key on the mainframe keyboard. Nothing happened. He assumed the program had already become aware of the implanted command in the computer system and had overridden it.

He lifted the phone, punched in the number for his personal security service and relayed his instructions. The computer program's obsession with its creator was intractable. He gazed at the Starfire image as his pulse gradually elevated.

A window opened under the Hispanic's face.

Encizo, Rafael.

Quillian ignored it.

Less than a minute later the monitor before him, and every wall screen in the lab, cleared in a backwash of rainbow-colored pixels.

The cursor moved with mechanical precision rather than the frenzied rush Quillian associated with the computer program, spelling out: a virus has entered this system. Protective perimeters have been established. Communications links have all been terminated.

GODDAMN YOU, QUILLIAN. YOU CAN'T DO THIS. THEY KNOW WHERE JOE FORD IS. WE HAD A DEAL.

WE STILL HAVE ONE. BUT I WANT TO BE AROUND TO CLOSE IT. Quillian snapped off the monitor and rose to go as a phalanx of his security men spilled into the room with the lab crew herded before them. They went to work at once, and he left the room without a word.

Brognola and his people would know who he was and where he was. The who was no problem. He'd have had to make the introductions, anyway. Now they could know beforehand and not dismiss him lightly. It would actually gain him a few hours on his overall timetable.

Knowing where he was would do them no good. By the time Brognola's people were able to use the knowledge they'd gained, he would no longer be here.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

"Got him," Aaron Kurtzman roared triumphantly over the speaker phone.

Barbara Price paused, wincing as the echo of the big man's voice rattled around inside her head, awakening the headache she'd thought she'd ignored into a quiet death. Data flowed across the wall screen at the end of the room as Akira Tokaido marshaled the information into order.

The telephone system on the desk blinked for attention. She pressed a button and opened another line, directing this one to the headset she still wore. A glance at a computer printout beside the unit showed it was rerouted through an unsecured line in Cape Town, South Africa. "Striker?"

"Yes."

"How are things there?"

"Busted play," the big man replied in a weary voice.

She sensed the anger underlying his words.

"Jack and I have been cut free, but we've definitely worn out our welcome here. And our quarry's taken flight."

Price absorbed that, adding Cross as a wild card to the hand that was being dealt to the Stony Man crews. "What have you got on probable destination?"

"Nothing, but the man's got a small army at his heels."

Price upped the significance of Cross's involvement.

"Barb." Kurtzman's voice came from the speaker phone. "We can't keep this connection open forever. This guy's systems are bound to catch on at any time. If he reroutes the signal, warps the telemetry enough, we could lose him."

With her palm over the headset mouthpiece, Price checked the wall screen over Tokaido's computer. The young Japanese technician continued to blow a steady stream of pink bubbles and snapped his gum as his fingers flew across the keyboard. "Tracking it now," she answered. "We won't lose him."

"Tell Akira if he does lose him, I'm going to bounce his butt as soon as I get back to the Farm."

Price smiled but didn't relay the message. All of Kurtzman's people were trained and committed. Threats didn't enhance the dedication that already existed.

"Barb."

It was Bolan on the other line. "Yes."

"Have you turned up anything on the Lankmir name?"

She checked for progress on the corporation name at Huntington Wethers's workstation. "We're working it." She squinted, her eyes glanced through the list of names appearing on the wall screen in front of the ex-Berkeley cybernetics professor. "From surface appearances, you and Jack will be back stateside before long. You've got one tangled web of deceptions stemming from the Lankmir name."

"How soon can we get a plane?"

"Within the hour. You'll be routed through Saudi Arabia for military transport from Riyadh."

"Good enough."

Carmen Delahunt, operating the third wall screen monitor, waved for Price's attention. She touched the intercom and connected with Delahunt.

"Someone's invaded our mainframe," Delahunt said in the flat, professional voice she'd carried with her from the FBI's Quantico base. "They're rifling our files."

Price glanced at the wall screen and saw the glowing orange letters proclaiming SECURITY BREACH. "Shut down access to the outside communications channels. Now."

"Done."

The speaker phone went dead as the headset filled with static. She swept the unit from her head and walked down the three steps into the center of the research section. She looked at Tokaido and Wethers and said, "Gentlemen, I hope you have some good news for me."

"I have a name," Wethers said. "Jared Quillian. The paper chase for the real owner of Lankmir Industries ends there. I'm working up a brief now."

"Bingo," Akira Tokaido crowed. His fingers clacked against the keys. Vague riffs of heavy metal music from the mini-CD at his waist competed with the hum of electronics filling the lab..He spun in his chair to face Price. "I got the same guy, and the address of his office building in Manhattan."

"That's what I've been waiting to hear," Price said. "Good work." She turned and walked back to her operations area. "Carmen?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Price smiled, feeling a glow of pride and relief. "Reestablish our outside communications channels, then try to get me an estimate of what files the intruder was able to breach so we can get a damage control plan in the works."

"Straight away."

"Akira."

"Yo."

"Give me a look at Jared Quillian's technological side, and an estimate of his reach."

"Right."

"Hunt."

"Yes."

"Do the same for Quillian's personal and business side. I want to know the man's favorite tie color and where he gets his hair cut."

Wethers nodded and returned to his keyboard.

Price retrieved the headset and punched in the first number of the mental phone list she'd made. Now that the mission had turned the other way, she wasn't about to ease up on the momentum. She wanted to put Jared Quillian on the receiving end as soon as possible.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

San Ruperta, Bahamas Wednesday—4:36 p.m.

David McCarter clung to the handlebars of the motorcycle he'd forcibly liberated from a San Rupertan militiaman only moments ago. The rocky terrain under its churning wheels caused it to buck and twist stubbornly, threatening to spill him. Personally, he didn't know if he'd make it back up if he lost it. Hours had disappeared after he'd bailed out of the downed amphibian seconds before the attacking jet bombed it out of existence. He barely remembered making the long swim to the island's rocky shoals. The pain of his head wound thudded under the makeshift bandage he'd managed, and the various bruises scattered along his lanky frame sizzled with electric energy.

He glanced up, squinted through the goggles and saw the crop duster pursuing Calvin James come spinning back through the blue sky for another pass. The twin .50-cals hammered mercilessly, and white smoke trailed in the plane's slipstream.

He'd seen the half-track at the same time he'd found James. Damage to his radio allowed him to receive the sparse signals by other team members, but not transmit. James had been the closest to his present position.

A wave of autofire raked the hilltop where James hid. Gunning the motorcycle's engine, McCarter stood on the pegs and raced up the broken incline. The front wheel bounced loose. He slid a foot off, maintained control with difficulty and downshifted. Hunched over the handlebars, his face pelted by loose sand and rock, he denied the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. The confiscated Skorpion machine pistol hung from its strap, thumping against his chest.

The bark of James's Galil slashed through the heavy barrage of fire. A pair of 3-round bursts blasted the halftrack's machine gunner away from the heavy weapon, but he was replaced instantly by another man.

On top of the ridge now, McCarter wheeled the bike in an arc and aimed it at the half-track. Less than ten yards from the vehicle, aware the new gunner was frantically heeling his weapon about, McCarter sped up and shifted into a higher gear. The handlebars vibrated and shimmied in his grip; sweat and grit stained his palms. He twisted the accelerator, pulled up on the front wheel as he timed a hump in the incline's profile and took to the air.

The two-stroke engine whined in protest when it left the ground, the rear wheel spinning wildly out of control. Before the gunner could move or duck, the motorcycle slammed into him with bone-breaking force and swept him from the half-track.

McCarter kicked himself free of the machine and braced himself for the fall. Breath knocked out of him when he hit, he forced himself to roll over and bring the Skorpion to bear. His initial burst scarred the half-track's paint. His next tore one of the remaining men from the deck as James accounted for the other.

The Briton made himself get up as air returned painfully to his lungs. The fall had reopened his wound, and he felt blood flowing down the side of his face.

A familiar scream of an engine overhead let him know the crop duster was dropping back into position. Then the half-track driver tried to switch on his engine. But McCarter fired from the hip and blazed a tight figure eight that ripped through the man and punched out the windows. He grabbed the rear edge of the half-track and hauled himself up. Eyes over the edge, he saw James taking a position behind the mounted M-60. His arms trembled as he kicked a leg over and climbed aboard. He staggered, winded and hurting from his exertions.

The crop duster swept in like a deadly breeze blowing .50-caliber hail.

"Nice to see you could make it," James said laconically.

"Glad to see you, too, mate. Now slap that nasty bugger out of the sky before he manages to ventilate both of us."

James squeezed the trigger, and hot brass spewed forth. McCarter managed the ammo belts as the first bullets from the crop duster's machine guns rattled into the half-track's body. James staggered when one of the rounds expended itself against his body armor, but his finger never left the trigger.

As the plane rose in the sky, McCarter saw a zigzag line of bullet holes appear in the fuselage. The pitch of the engine changed a heartbeat later, turning into a sound every pilot feared. Black smoke puffed and streamed from the cowling.

The plane spun in a lazy half circle, then dropped, upside down, and crashed into a stand of trees in an angled dive. The wings crumpled and broke off, joining the rest of the litter trailing its passage. The aircraft blew up before it stopped sliding.

James gave a whoop and waved his fist in triumph. McCarter wished he had the energy and well-being to respond in kind. "Don't break your arm congratulating yourself, mate," he said as he clambered over the side of the vehicle. "That laddie buck'll have plenty of mates coming to check on him right soon enough."

"I plan on being long gone by then."

"You and me both." McCarter righted the motorcycle with effort. Everything seemed to be intact. He touched the electronic ignition and smiled when it thrummed to life. Then he swung a leg over and looked back at James. "Coming?"

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The sun beat through the windshield of Carl Lyons's Isuzu Trooper. His shirt was drenched. At the last roadside park he'd exchanged the shoulder rig for a paddle holster.

When he stepped out of the 4X4 in front of the video game arcade, he flared out the tails of his University of New Mexico T-shirt to cover the gun. It wouldn't hide the Colt Python's presence from trained eyes, but it would keep him from scaring the hell out of the civilians.

The air was cool inside the arcade. Bells, whistles, ray guns and roaring monsters all competed for most strenuous auditory effect. At least two dozen school kids were dispersed among the video machines.

Lyons paused at the rectangular desk, waited for the bald proprietor to shuffle out of his worn chair and turn up his hearing aid, then dropped the U.S. marshal's star on the counter. "I'm looking for Joe Ford."

"In the back." The man pointed at a door.

"Thanks."

The man turned his hearing aid back down and resumed his seat.

Lyons was aware of the kids' stares as he walked to the rear of the building. He knew young people and confirmed felons could feel the presence of somebody carrying authority before the hand ever dropped on their shoulder.

The door needed a new coat of paint. Graffiti covered the Restricted Area sign. Lyons tried the doorknob, found it unlocked and went through.

Joe Ford paused as Lyons entered the small room. He held a football-sized video machine component in his hands. The guy was slim and wiry, about five-eight, with a headful of coal-dark hair that brushed his broad shoulders. A red bandanna kept it out of his face. Brown eyes returned Lyons's gaze full measure.

"Joe Ford," Lyons said.

"Not here," Ford replied as he slid the part from the table and started for the door. "Must be out back."

Lyons blocked the door, panned the three-by-five picture Price had included in the intel packet and said, "I don't think so."

Ford shrugged and gave him an embarrassed grin. "Had to try, didn't I?"

"Yeah." Lyons started to put the picture away and reach for his ID.

Without warning Ford shoved the video machine component at Lyons's crotch. Responding to the immediate threat, the Able Team warrior couldn't react to the haymaker Ford threw. A fistful of knuckles exploded against Lyons's chin and drove him backward.

New York City

Hal Brognola held the long-barreled .38 in a double-fisted grip and looked at Leo Turrin across the blank expanse of closed door between them. A dozen men outfitted in SW'tT tactical gear kept the corridor clear of pedestrian traffic.

At Brognola's nod Turrin swung around the doorframe and affixed a small plastic explosive charge. Several seconds later the C-4 exploded and blew the doorknob across the hall.

Brognola whirled and rammed a big foot against the door, then followed it inside. The bedroom was large, spacious, filled with expensive furniture and empty. "Goddamn it," he snarled as he unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. "Teams Two and Three, hit your targets."

A pair of Stony Man field operatives jogged past Brognola and checked the bathroom and walk-in closet.

Brognola caught the eye of the Stony Man troop leader. "Harrelson, close it down. Nobody in, nobody out. Approval comes from me only."

"Yes, sir." The man hurried off to secure the floor.

"Two floors," Turrin reminded.

"Yeah, but you want to bet whether we come up_with anything?"

"We were playing a long shot. We knew that from the git-go."

"It'd have been nice if it had paid off."

"You take what you can get in this world."

Brognola nodded and walked out into the hall. "The problem, Leo, is there's less and less of it every day."

"Boy, when you fall off the optimists' wagon, you fall hard."

"I just hate it when reality hits me in big doses."

"Team Two reporting."

"Go, Team Two," Brognola said into the walkie-talkie as he checked through the rooms on the floor. Clothing still hung in closets. Suitcases remained unpacked. In some instances half-eaten meals sat on tables in the individual rooms.

"I got a small collection of office personnel here, sir," Team Two's leader said, "but no one answering the subject's description."

The subject was Jared Quillian, whose name seemed to inspire more questions than it answered. "Roger, Team Two. Isolate your collection and set them up for interrogation on the premises. Inform them that they aren't under arrest, that their help will be appreciated and that they'll be released as soon as we're through with them."

"Yes, sir."

"You can bet that we're not going to get much from the people Quillian left behind," Turrin said.

"Maybe they can give us a little local color," Brognola replied as he entered the fire escape and headed up the stairs.

"Right now I'll take anything I can get on this psychotic son of a bitch."

The walkie-talkie crackled in Brognola's grip as he swung into the second flight of stairs. "Team Three reporting."

"Go, Team Three."

"We're in the computer lab, sir. I think you'd better get up here."

"Where?" Brognola had gotten turned around from the blueprints they'd studied prior to hitting the hotel.

The man rattled off directions.

"On my way."

"Team One Leader, this is Team Four."

"Go, Four." Team Four was in charge of the ground floor of the building.

"I got an army of reporters swarming into the building, sir. It's going to be hard to maintain the perimeters."

"Understood." Brognola walked through the door leading to Quillian's second suite of rooms. "Coordinate the building shutdown with our liaisons at the NYPD. If they give you any flack about the manpower necessary, flash him the Executive writ this operation was issued."

"Yes, sir."

A black-uniformed Stony Man operative waved Brognola into a room. The ident-plate locking mechanism beside the door dangled from its recess in the wall.

The hiss of water sounded in the big Fed's ears as he neared the room. When he turned the corner, his shoes spattered against the soaked carpet. Water still rained down inside from the ceiling sprinkler systems. Every computer in the room had been smashed. Sparks jumped sporadically inside the plastic cabinets, creating audible fizzes.

"We're trying to get it shut off," Team Three's leader said.

A wave of crimson-stained water poured slowly across the floor from the other side of the computer stations. Brognola sloshed forward to discover the source—four men in lab coats lay on the floor. Each showed evidence of multiple gunshots. None was alive.

"Soundproofed walls," Team Three's leader commented as he rested his AR-15 against his hip. "Nobody heard a damn thing."

"One thing you have to say about this guy," Turrin said quietly. "He's thorough."

Brognola gazed at the collection of corpses as the hiss of the spinkler died away. They knew who, but they still had no idea what it was all about.

Las Cruces, New Mexico

As he worked his throbbing jaw experimentally a couple of times, Carl Lyons touched the painful swelling over his left cheekbone. He kept his eyes focused on the highway while heat shimmers danced over the blacktop just ahead of the 4X4.

"Hurt?" Joe Ford asked from the passenger seat.

"Only when I whistle."

"Haven't heard any tunes I recognized." Ford's head lay back on the seat, a blood-stained wad of tissues pressed to his nose.

Lyons smiled in spite of himself and glanced at his passenger. "Anybody ever tell you you're an obstinate little bastard?"

"Careful, pal, those are fighting words."

"I'm beginning to think conversation in general with you has fighting words in it."

Ford grinned. "Got a reputation to uphold in my community. Didn't want no candy-ass lawman arresting me."

"You're not under arrest."

"You going to pull over to the side of the road and let me out if I ask?"

"No."

"My grandpa had a saying—if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck—"

"Then it must be a duck." Lyons slid his aviator shades back on and cut some of the road glare.

"Your grandpa tell you that?"

"No. My maiden aunt."

"Must of been a tough old bag."

"She'd have kicked your ass for saying it," Lyons said affably, "but she'd have appreciated it all the same."

Lyons adjusted the frequency on the truck's shortwave radio. Fort Bliss would be within hailing distance by now.

"Did you really save my mom's life?"

"That's the way it looked this morning."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah. She's worried about you."

Ford waved it away. "She's always been worried about me."

"Maybe you're the kind of guy people should worry about." Lyons took a pack of moistened towelettes from the glove compartment and gave them to Ford.

"Thanks."

The Able Team warrior hadn't completely gotten over Ford's mercurial change in behavior. Back at the arcade he'd been a wild man. Lyons had been forced to knock him to the ground three times, which hadn't been easy and had pretty much destroyed the small room they'd been in, before getting the guy to listen.

"Can you fix it so she has some kind of protection?" Ford asked. He wiped at the smears on his face.

"Already been taken care of."

"I'll want to talk to her soon. Make sure she's okay."

"Noprob."

"She didn't come with you."

"She said you wouldn't listen to her."

"Yeah. Well, maybe she was right about that."

"Personally I'm glad. She didn't act like the type of mother who would have stood by while I kicked her son's butt."

"She isn't. I used to have to pick my fights well away from her when I was a kid just so she wouldn't try to wade in with me." Ford tossed the used towelettes into a fast-food bag on the floor.

"Sounds like a good mom to me."

"Yeah. She could've used a better son." Ford tried an exploratory sniff through his nose, then turned to Lyons. "It look broke to you?"

Lyons regarded the nose. "No."

"You'd know?"

"Yeah. Been there a couple of times."

"Me, too. Just can't tell when I look at myself in the mirror."

"We'll get you checked over soon as we can."

"It's okay. I'm still walking."

Lyons grinned, remembering he'd had to help Ford out of the game room.

"Do you know who these guys are who are looking for me?"

"We've IDed a couple as meres who operated out of South Africa."

"That's crazy. I've never been to South Africa. I've never even thought about going."

"Does the name Inocente Timoteo ring any bells?" Lyons checked the response.

Ford shook his head. "Nope."

"What about the work you were doing back at Berkeley?"

Ford settled back into the bucket seat. "Don't see how that can possibly tie in." He turned so that he faced the window beside him.

The gray reflection in the window told Lyons the question had touched a raw nerve. The guy was good at covering up, but the Able Team warrior had had plenty of experience looking through covers. "Another team of mercenaries hit your old lab room at the Berkeley think tank and carried out a seek-and-destroy mission that totaled the contents. We thought maybe you could give us the angle we needed to complete the picture."

Ford faced him. "You're not a U.S. marshal, are you?"

Lyons came clean, sensing trust was a vital issue at the moment. "No. It's a cover. Gets me in and out of places without having to answer too many questions."

"Government?"

"Yep."

"DARPA?"

"No. The people I work for operate deep behind the scenes. You'll be cleared for as much of the mission as you have to be. I'm not about to start deciding where those boundaries are."

"What if I don't want to help?"

"I didn't come all this way looking for volunteers," Lyons said.

Ford fell silent.

"Look at the big picture. If you can help us, maybe we can get this mystery wrecking crew off your back."

"Yeah." Ford's reply lacked enthusiasm, and he grew quiet for the first time since they'd driven out of Las Cruces.

A dust cloud ghosted into Lyons's rearview mirror. The highway had been barren of traffic, and flat enough to see for miles.

Ford sensed his attention at once and looked over the rear deck. "Trouble?"

"Don't know yet." Lyons had maintained a steady ten miles over the speed limit that wouldn't draw the attention of the local flatland-based state police. He pushed down harder on the accelerator. "There's a pair of binoculars in the glove compartment."

Ford got them and put them to use. "Bikers," he said after a few seconds. "At least twenty of them. Can't see their colors yet, but they're probably a local group called the Outlaws."

The speedometer needle swung to ninety, then crept up to one hundred. The dust cloud closed in from behind.

Lyons lifted the radio mike and hailed Fort Bliss communications, using the password Barbara Price had arranged, and outlined the situation. The communications officer was crisp and efficient and reported that assistance was being deployed immediately.

Ford put the binoculars away. They weren't necessary anymore.

Lyons tracked the bikers in the side mirrors as they split into two lines and came up on either side of the Trooper. He worked the steering wheel, whipping the 4X4 from side to side to keep them at bay. They retreated but darted in again like a leather-and-iron wolf pack.

"Reach behind the seat," Lyons said. "You'll find a couple of Kevlar vests. Put one on and pass the other over."

A motorcycle carrying two people roared up to the back of the 4X4, and the passenger reached for the top of the Trooper's rear deck. Another leather-clad biker sped up alongside Lyons and waved a revolver.

Ford shoved the second Kevlar vest between the bucket seats, then racked the slide on the cut-down Remington Model 870P that had been with the vests. He kept it out of sight.

"You know how to use that?" Lyons asked.

Ford grinned. "Grandpa had to teach me. Kept losing all my damn arrows."

"Well, don't use it until I tell you to."

"Not until I see the whites of their eyes, paleface."

"Terrific." Lyons waited until the biker had his hand on the Trooper and was starting to shift his weight to the truck. Chains whipped along the length of the vehicle as the Outlaws grew braver. Glass exploded from one of the side windows as a lead-filled baseball bat smashed through.

Two more bikers carried passengers to the rear of the Trooper.

"Hang on." Lyons stomped the brakes and cut hard right. Rubber ground into the pavement in shrill shrieks. Motorcycles smashed into the reinforced back of the 4X4, and the man holding on was swept away in a tangle of steel and flesh. Two more thumped into the side of the truck, one going down under the vehicle's wheels. The other shattered the windshield and fell away.

The Trooper left the road as bullets savaged the back end. Held in his seat by the safety harness, Lyons steered for a broken hill of red clay. The bikers regrouped behind him, closing in like carrion birds. The rear end shuddered—both back tires had been holed. Rubber peeled from the rims and slapped the undercarriage like a primitive drum ringing in a death litany.

"Get ready to bail out," Lyons said tersely. "We're about to part company with the truck."

Ford nodded and hung on to the shotgun grimly.

The steering wheel gripped tightly in both fists, Lyons aimed the vehicle up the steep incline. It faltered and stopped halfway up, the flat rear tires finally overpowering the pull of the front ones.

"Out," Lyons ordered as he unbuckled the seat harness. He reached over the seat and hauled up his duffel, then fisted his Kevlar vest and climbed out. "Top of the rock. We can be seen easier from the air by the people coming for us, and the bikers will have a harder time getting to us."

"Don't make me wait on you," Ford said.

"If you don't hurry, you'll be wearing my boot prints on your ass." Lyons glanced down the hill and saw the first of the Outlaws gather at the bottom. As the first ones attempted the incline, he kicked the 4X4's transmission into neutral and it careered down at them.

Duffel in his fist, Lyons sped up the hill as throbbing four-stroke Harleys followed in his wake. Bullets pocked the red clay all around him. The top was nearly thirty feet high. Joe Ford hunkered into position and fell into line behind the shotgun. A 12-gauge blast rolled thunder over the countryside.

Lyons dropped beside Ford as the guy racked the shotgun and fired again. "You got seven rounds before you have to reload," Lyons said, shrugging into the armored vest. He unzipped the duffel and extracted an Ingram MAC-10. Then he tossed the two and a half boxes of extra shotgun shells beside Ford.

"You expecting to hold off an army?"

Lyons grinned and shoved extra clips for the Ingram into his pockets. "Sometimes, kid, I have to be an army." He fell prone at a ninety-degree angle from Ford and unlimbered the subgun. "Just remember, this ain't one of those video games you're so fond of. These guys shoot back."

Ford racked the slide and pumped another load of buckshot into a leathered rider screaming up the hill. The biker flew from the Harley, skidded down the incline and lay still.

A quick count revealed seven men down and that Ford's initial estimate had been twelve men shy of the total. Another rider tried to make the climb. Lyons swept the guy from his Harley with a blazing figure eight.

The surviving Outlaws took cover. Automatic weapons unleashed a death chatter that drove Ford and Lyons to cover. Ford rolled over and thumbed cartridges into the shotgun.

"You sure my mom's away from this shit?" he asked.

"Yeah." Lyons triggered a 3-round burst that caught his target in the hip and spun the biker around. A follow-up burst stretched another corpse out beneath the hot sun.

The surviving bikers ringed the hill, yelling orders at one another as they swarmed up the incline inch by inch. Lyons fired mechanically, making each round count. Their backs were against the wall, and he was all too aware of it.

Abruptly two insect-shaped shadows sped across the ground. Lyons looked up and saw two Apache gunships heel around in the sky. "The cavalry has arrived," he said to Ford as he clicked a fresh magazine into place.

The helicopter gunships wasted no time. Chain guns and 10mm cannon boomed. A few of the bikers tried to flee and were picked off by the pursuit chopper while the other one hovered over Lyons and Ford like a guardian angel. The other Outlaws dropped their weapons, stood up and placed their hands on their heads.

Lyons wiped dusty perspiration from his face.

"These guys looking for me are looking pretty hard, huh?" Ford sat up and propped the shotgun across his knees.

A smile twisted Lyons's lips. "I'd say that's pretty evident."

"Yeah. You say they destroyed my lab at Berkeley."

Lyons nodded. The pursuing gunship returned and hovered with the other one.

"Maybe I know why. There's a guy who used to work with me at Berkeley. Mike Napier. When we get to where we're going, I want to talk to him."

"I'll arrange it."

Ford handed over the shotgun, a hard gleam in his eyes.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

San Ruperta, Bahamas Wednesday—6:01 p.m.

"No wonder they couldn't find it through aerial recon."

Rafael Encizo nodded as he examined the fifty-yard-wide satellite dish through his binoculars. The communications setup was covered by camou netting that blended in perfectly with the surrounding jungle. Gary Manning lay beside him in the underbrush and scanned the area, as well.

A sizable portion of the San Rupertan army formed layers of perimeter security around the communications installation. Two Russian T-62 tanks occupied positions at the north and south ends. A dozen other vehicles, ranging from jeeps to a deuce-and-a-half, made up the remainder of the motorized complement.

A brief study of the terrain on the other side of the satellite emplacement revealed no sign of Yakov Katzenelenbogen. Likewise, James and McCarter were hidden from view.

He tapped Manning's wrist and they withdrew. Ten yards back they unpacked the San Ruperta military uniform and AK-47 they'd acquired. Encizo stripped and redressed in the uniform quickly while Manning stood guard. He buttoned the sleeve cuffs and brushed at the dirt staining the blouse.

"You look good," Manning said. "Just like a proper little San Rupertan version of GI Joe."

"I'm excited," Encizo said dryly.

"Well, try to hold it in. A happy soldier would stand out in this crowd." Manning lifted the backpack he'd assembled from island military gear and pulled back a zippejed corner. Inside was a large assortment of explosives. "You got your incendiaries, you got your CS gas, you got your smoke bombs and you got your frags—timed eight seconds later than the initial explosion so they can be scattered around—just to keep things interesting for the people who survive the opening salvo. Make sure you haul ass getting out of there. This is one of the nastiest little combos I've manufactured in a long time. I want to remember it in a good way."

"If I run out of there, I'm going to attract a lot of unwanted attention."

"Think long strides, Rafael." Manning pointed. "You got two arming switches. Here, and here. There's a radio detonator, too, but that's only to be used if you can't." Manning helped with the pack. "Just get it close to the control room. It'll get the job done."

The pack straps bit into Encizo's chest. It was heavier than standard equipment. He'd have to make sure it didn't show.

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Manning fitted the cap onto his teammate's head, then knocked the bill down lightly. "Good luck, Rafe."

Encizo edged the hat back up with a thumb. "See you in a bit." He turned away from Manning and started through the jungle. His heritage would disguise him only so far; luck and skill would have to guide him the rest of the way. He focused on the satellite dish and marched on.

Washington, D.C.

"He had his name legally changed to Jared Quillian nine years ago."

Hal Brognola looked at Barbara Price's image on the closed-circuit TV. "Who was he before that?"

"Weldon Jenkins."

"Not as catchy as Jared Quillian, is it?" the President asked.

"No," Price replied. "Not quite. But it was as bankable. Quillian had a number of holdings and assets before he made the change. That's what made it hard to gather information about him. Even now we can only guess that we've got it all."

"What about illegal activities?"

"He's never been caught stepping over the line."

Brognola leaned forward in his chair. "I can't believe this guy is going to take this kind of plunge the first time he got the chance."

"Since Striker uncovered the mercenary base in Cape Town and Quillian's ties to Lankmir Industries, we've made a few logical assumptions about the man."

"Let's hear them," the President said.

"Quillian's connection with Timoteo has a basis in the Colombian drug trade. At least three shipping services he owns by proxy stop at San Ruperta regularly. In two instances freighters have been busted by the DEA for carrying contraband. In each case lawyers associated with firms retained by Quillian went to bat for the ships' captains and got them off with a slap on the wrist. Other data lead us to believe Quillian subcontracted Salvador Cross and his mercenary team to American businesses having internal problems in other countries. They liquidated those problems and buried them in shallow graves. But none of this will stand up in court."

"A guess would be those were primarily in South Africa," Brognola said.

"As a result of apartheid, yes." Price's image shrank to the upper-left corner of the screen as information scrolled. "These are listings of the businesses Quillian either owns outright or has controlling interest in. The yellow-shaded ones are businesses he's currently seeking to buy out. We've discovered at least four cases of blackmail so far, but there are bound to be more."

"Our Mr. Quillian keeps an aggressive agenda," the President observed.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have any idea where he's going to turn up next?" Brognola asked.

"Not yet. We're still not sure how he got out of New York City without leaving a trail. However, Striker's got a rendezvous with Cameron Hillary."

"Who's Hillary?"

"A British business magnate," the President replied. "A very powerful man in economic circles. And a member of the House of Lords. You might suggest to Striker that he step lightly in that direction, Ms. Price."

"Understood, sir, but our preliminary investigation leads us to believe no one knows or understands Quillian better than Hillary. And Hillary hasn't lived the good, clean life himself."

"Where does Hillary fit in?"

"He helped Quillian get his start in business circles twenty years ago. Quillian, then Weldon Jenkins, worked at the New York Stock Exchange. Hillary took Quillian under his wing and showed him the ropes, never expecting the student to surpass the teacher. But it happened. Whatever else is said about Quillian, he's a consummate businessman."

"Have we established a link between Quillian and the satellite incidents?" the President asked.

"Looking back over his recent business acquisitions, Kurtzman and McCone have formulated a theory as to how Quillian did it. He already had companies manufacturing parts and programming for American satellites, so he was familiar with those systems. With the advent of glasnost, he became a major broker between American and Russian technologies. Two video games were released from Soviet designers, as well as a range of other software products."

"He learned what he needed to know about Russian technology through those," the President said.

"We believe so."

"How has he managed to jam the satellites?"

"We might have the answer in a few hours. Lyons found Joe Ford and is bringing him in to Kurtzman and McCone at Berkeley. But it looks like the project Ford was working on is involved."

"And what is that?" the President asked.

Brognola listened halfheartedly as Price explained about the software designed to incorporate itself into any program without distorting the original programming. His stomach churned as much as his thoughts. He took out a roll of antacid tablets and popped one into his mouth.

The President seated himself on the edge of the desk. "Maybe we could understand more clearly if we knew what Quillian wanted."

"That," Price said, "I can't tell you. According to the intel we have, money's not going to impress our guy. He'd have to work hard to spend everything he's accumulated now."

"Then what is his motivation?"

"Power," Brognola said without realizing he'd spoken the word out loud. He glanced at Price and the President. "A guy like that, there isn't anything left."

The intercom buzzed. The President punched the acknowledge button. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," a feminine voice said, "but there's a man on the line who insisted that you take his call. He had today's security clearance numbers."

"Put him through."

"Yes, sir."

The speakerphone squawked, then a warm, vibrant voice said calmly, "Mr. President, this is Jared Quillian. We need to talk."

San Ruperta, Bahamas

"Hey, buddy, you forgot your pack."

Rafael Encizo turned at the sound of the voice. A soldier stood inside the cinder-block building housing the satellite dish's nerve center. The straps of the pack were wadded up in one beefy fist. The man's assault rifle rested in the crook of his arm.

Encizo put on a false smile as he curled his finger inside the trigger guard of his own AK-47 and turned to face the man. "It's the heat," he explained. "Who can think after tramping around this goddamn jungle all day with a full field pack?"

The two soldiers standing nearby smiled knowingly.

The building was simple in construction. The air-conditioned square containing the computers and equipment necessary to operate the satellite dish sat inside a larger square without air-conditioning. Still, the four corridors left on all sides trapped hints of breezes and drew the soldiers inside whenever they could slip away.

"Thanks." Encizo reached for the pack.

"Not so fast. This pack is very heavy." He dropped it at his feet and reached for the zippered flap. "Maybe you have something in here you'd like to share, huh?"

The Phoenix Force warrior lifted his weapon and fired a 3-round burst into the man. Less than thirty seconds remained before detonation. The soldier dropped to the ground, crimson staining his shirt. Taken by surprise, the other two soldiers clawed for hardware holstered at their hips.

Weapon at waist level, Encizo fired a sustained burst that erased them from the situation. Shouts and confusion flared into life around him. His mental clock was running. Twenty-five seconds…

He fed the assault rifle a new clip, then emptied it through the plate-glass windows ringing the satellite operations room. The half-dozen men inside at the workstations ducked for cover as glass slivers exploded in at them.

Encizo scooped up the pack by its straps, braced himself and flung it through the ceiling tiles above his head to land on top of the operations room's sealed roof. He recharged the AK-47, then took cover at the corner of the exit.

Men scattered outside and dodged for shelter. Taking advantage of the general confusion, the Cuban hunkered down and ran. According to Manning, nowhere within a thirty-yard radius of the building would be safe. Someone opened fire on him, and a bullet caught him in the calf, the impact knocking him off his feet. As he rolled, he saw the gunner pop up, then fall away with a bullet through his head. Calvin James was on the mark, providing sniper coverage.

Encizo lurched to his feet and found the wounded leg numb and unwilling to work. He forced himself into a stumbling run.

A jeep tracked in front of him and halted his progress less than twenty yards from the building. He changed destinations immediately as the jeep's rear gunner tracked onto his position. Five yards from the parked T-62 tank, he hurled himself headfirst and slid under it. Bullets pelted the armor plating, the echoes, trapped between the heavy tank treads, sounding louder than the actual shots.

Time ran out and the world erupted. Encizo glanced ahead of him as debris blew skyward. Then the tank clanked into motion.

Washington, D.C.

Hal Brognola lifted a phone on the other side of the office and routed the connection to Stony Man Farm directly to him. The President remained at the desk. "Barbara."

"We're tracing it now," Price replied.

"Good girl." The big Fed kept the receiver to his ear as he listened to the conversation taking place between the President and Quillian.

"As a businessman," Quillian said, "I've learned never to come to a meeting without proof that I can back up any claim that I make."

"What do you want, Quillian?" the President asked in a strained voice.

"To make a point, Mr. President. Are you there, too, Brognola?"

"Yes," Brognola answered to buy more time.

"Good. I'd hoped you'd be on hand for this little demonstration." Quillian paused. "Gentlemen, there's a routed across the skies of Montana at this very moment, flying at thirty-three thousand feet. Two hundred and two passengers are aboard. Now you see it… now you don't. I'll be in touch." The connection clicked dead.

A hard knot clenched in Brognola's stomach. "Barb?"

"Missed him. He didn't stay on long enough to make the trace."

"Find out about that plane."

"We're on it now."

Brognola hung up. There was nothing left to do but wait.

"Cocky son of a bitch," the President said.

"Yeah, but he sounded like a guy who was going to do what he set out to do."

"That's the scary part." The President sat down. A phone call from the Kremlin came in and he delayed it. "If your people can't crack this, Hal, we're going to have to go public with what we have. I don't have to tell you what that will mean."

"No, sir."

"However, there is some good news."

Brognola looked at the Man.

"I've come up with a way to get Phoenix Force off San Ruperta."

The head Fed nodded. It was good news—provided Katz and his team were still alive.

San Ruperta, Bahamas

The fifty-yard satellite dish erupted from the roof of the communications building and tumbled down like an immense, overturned toadstool. Yakov Katzenelenbogen watched it with grim satisfaction. Manning's concoction had worked perfectly, as was expected, but Encizo hadn't gotten clear of the area.

Tangled sections of the camou netting came down entwined with metal, glass and chunks of cinder block. Other sections fluttered like pieces of some giant spiderweb. The San Rupertan soldiers fanned out in confused ranks as the mobile units took flight.

"Rafael's up," Calvin James called.

Katz spotted the Cuban slithering out from under the moving tank. Immediately the T-62's turret revolved toward the Phoenix warrior.

The Israeli touched his walkie-talkie. "Gary, the tank is yours."

"My pleasure."

Besides the combustibles, Manning's pack also had two LAW-80 launchers.

The Uzi balanced over his prosthesis, Katz added his firepower to that of the others. Hollow pops sounded as Manning's fragmentation grenades detonated. The soldiers around the wreckage of the communications building dived to the ground again.

A sudden streamer of white smoke delineated the passage of the LAW-80's 94mm warhead. The rocket slammed into the tank's base and blew the tread apart. A heartbeat later a smoke grenade from McCarter's M-249 burst against the armor plating and spewed out a white cloud that enveloped the tank. Blind and crippled, it would be no threat for more than a couple of minutes before the smoke cleared.

Flames spread up the lengths of clinging camou netting now, creating even more of a hazard and confusion for the San Rupertan troops. Katz changed magazines and tracked Encizo on an interception course behind the brush. As soon as the man was within reach, the Israeli grabbed the Cuban's shoulder and hustled him deeper into the jungle.

Near Wolf Point, Montana

At first Rye Crowder thought the sound was distant thunder, even though it wasn't the time of year for it. But he was tired, frustrated, still half hung over from the previous night's excesses, and had nearly worn out his curiosity wandering through the mountains. Twenty-two years of age meant he was a full-grown man. He shouldn't have to spend his days in a saddle on an ornery horse looking for a calf that didn't have enough sense to come home.

Only his daddy didn't agree with his assessment of his life. According to his father, bills had to be paid just the same, and as long as he sat at the table under his roof, he'd damn well get out there and hunt up lost calves just like his younger brothers.

When the sound ripped through the sky, he shaded his eyes with his hat and looked up. He saw the big plane falling, saw the gleam of sunlight along the silver body. His heart caught in his throat as the plane screamed down toward the ground. One wing was missing and it was cut in half. Then the plane slammed into the ground with a thunderous crash less than a mile away.

Dazed by what he'd seen, he reacted nonetheless. He spurred the big roan and twisted through the whispers of trails he'd grown up on. His breathing came harsh and labored, but it wasn't just from the fierce riding.

Frantic minutes later, with stinging branch scratches across his face, Crowder looked down on the smoking ruin of the big airliner from atop a hill. The airplane lay at the end of a long run of broken and uprooted trees. It was surrounded by gray smoke, flames showing through in places.

The horse wouldn't go any closer than a hundred yards. Crowder tied it to a tree and went the rest of the way on foot. Bodies lay scattered everywhere. Even though he'd been dreading it, knowing what he'd find, the young man wasn't prepared. His stomach revolted and brought him to his knees. It got even worse when he realized some of the charred odor he smelled was burned flesh.

As he wiped at his mouth with his bandanna, he took notice of the burn marks along the plane's fuselage for the first time. It looked like something sharp and hot had carved its way into the plane.

Thoughts of the UFO stories he'd been told when he was a kid returned in a rush. On trembling legs he went to check for survivors, not wanting to, but knowing his daddy would ask if he had.

There were none, just one long stream of corpses and jumbled body parts that he'd never be able to forget.

San Ruperta, Bahamas

A cool, quiet night had fallen over San Ruperta. Chilly breezes swept in from the Caribbean and stirred the white sand of the beaches. If it hadn't been for the army still searching for them, Yakov Katzenelenbogen thought he might have enjoyed the quiet and the climate. He sat hunkered along the island's southern coast on a grass-and-rock escarpment that overlooked the port area of the city. He held his Uzi with its extended wire stock against his thigh.

The docks were well lighted and heavily manned. Fishing vessels occupied berths beside large cargo freighters. Hydraulic boom arms were idle now, but by morning they'd be whining and lifting cargo netting. Military boats patroled the harbor with searchlights.

Katz studied the few shadows surrounding the boats and ships but found no sign of Calvin James or Rafael Encizo. A glance at his watch told him only twenty minutes had passed since they'd begun their excursion.

McCarter approached and took up a position a few yards away. "They're bloody well taking their time," the Briton said. "You'd think they had time to window-shop."

"You and Gary have finished?"

"Yeah. The Canuck promises one of the biggest pyrotechnics shows this side of a Chinese New Year."

"Let's hope it's enough."

"It will be, mate." McCarter grinned mirthlessly. "Did a bit of window-shopping ourselves once we got into town. Found an underprotected petrol supply station situated near military headquarters."

"Convenient," Katz grunted.

"Yeah, mate. For them and us. Serves 'em right for being such lazy bastards."

Manning crouched beside them a few minutes later. Coils of rope hung over both shoulders. A half-full plastic refuse bag dangled from one beefy fist.

"Find something to suit your fancy?" McCarter asked.

"Something to die for," Manning promised. "Literally." He pointed toward the dark sea. "I got to thinking while we were prowling around setting those goody packages. That bottleneck of the port could work for us or against us. I'd rather have the odds on our side. I'm going to need some help once we get aboard."

McCarter nodded.

Katz scanned the shoreline again. His walkie-talkie beeped once. He depressed the transmit button twice to acknowledge the call, then translated the quick burst of Morse code that followed. "Let's go," he said to McCarter and Manning as he stood and took the lead.

Closer to the docks now, he attached a silencer to the Uzi. The San Calida bobbed gently in her slip. The craft was a midsize pleasure boat probably owned by one of Timoteo's Colombian friends. It was silver, with crimson trim that looked as dark as spilled blood. Katz didn't see Encizo or James on her decks.

A pair of soldiers smoking cigarettes lounged in the cover provided by a freighter. Thick hawser lines ran from the dock to the bow of the ship and moved slowly as the vessel creaked in her berth. Expelled smoke twisted away from the two men.

Katz started to board the vessel.

"Hey," one of the soldiers said as he took a step forward. A stream of fluent Spanish followed.

It sounded vagely like French, which Katz was accustomed to, but he couldn't understand anything but the underlying question from authority. He tilted the Uzi and blasted a silent stream of 9mm parabellums across both men. They dropped to the docks like puppets with their strings cut.

Calvin James stepped out of the cabin as Katz approached. "Rafe's got the helm. I'm going topside." He climbed the short ladder and took up a position with the Galil.

Katz nodded and followed James to the upper deck. The dual turbines vibrated beneath him, then the boat slid away from the dock with a basso thrum of power.

McCarter and Manning were busy with four five-gallon jerricans they'd picked up from the dock. The Briton vanished down the hold while the Canadian scooped handfuls of white powder from the plastic bag into the cans through a paper funnel.

Activity in the harbor picked up as searchlights from the patrol boats skated across the dark water and zeroed in on them. A loudspeaker barked commands in Spanish.

"They want us to pull over," James translated.

"Of course we'll ignore them," Katz said. He leaned down to relay the contact to Encizo. The diesels powered up.

McCarter was back on the deck now. Three more jerricans had joined the first four. He helped Manning dump the white powder into them, as well, then sealed them when the plastic bag was empty.

The loudspeaker barked again.

Katz called for McCarter's assault rifle and caught it when it was thrown. He braced himself against the railing as the pleasure boat rocked across the waves. "The lights first," he instructed as he shouldered the Ak-47. "Let the darkness hinder their efforts."

"Right." James leaned into his weapon and squeezed off carefully measured shots.

Twisting to cover the starboard side, Katz fired. The oncoming patrol boat was less than a hundred yards away now and closing. The searchlights were mounted fore and aft. The Israeli's bullets shattered the glass and the light winked out.

Diesel engines whining with effort, the San Calida roared for the narrow mouth of the port. Emergency lights whirled as men ran for the helicopters stationed on the portside horn of the harbor.

"Never did like all-or-nothing games," James commented as he shoved a fresh magazine into the Galil.

"We have a few surprises in store for them," Katz said.

"Let's hope Barb's intel was on the money."

"Have you ever known a time when it wasn't?"

James smiled. "Just don't want this to be the first time, buddy. Otherwise we're gonna be real lonely out here in the next few minutes."

Six harbor patrol boats pursued them. Forty-millimeter cannon fire struck the ocean surface and blew tall columns of water into the air. The harsh grating of small-arms fire interspersed the cannon fire.

McCarter and Manning had taken cover and were returning fire. The seven jerricans sat between them, connected by coiled lengths of rope.

Two helicopters cleared the landing area and banked around to gain altitude. Tracer fire erupted from the lead chopper and knifed green blips into their whitecapped wake.

Katz descended the ladder and joined his men. They were already past the point of no return. The horns of the harbor drew even.

"Gary," Katz said, "I think it's time for your distraction."

Manning nodded, dropped a hand into a pocket and removed a radio detonator. "Tuned it to their military frequency," the demolitions man said with a smile. "That way their emergency broadcasts will amplify the transmission when I send it. No danger of it going off until I key in the prearranged Morse code signal." His thumb caressed the sending button.

A broken line of explosions traced the outer perimeter of the docks. Whenever possible the bombs had been placed close to something that would quickly catch fire and create even more confusion. Gray smoke and flaming wreckage rose into the black sky. A heartbeat later another explosion went off, unleashing a concussion of compressed air that plucked at Katz's clothing.

"The petrol station," McCarter said. "Bloody good work, mate."

"Kind of awe-inspiring, isn't it?" Manning asked with a beatific smile.

A geyser of flames shot nearly a hundred feet into the air, destruction raining down in fiery sheets.

"Give me a hand," Manning said. He scooped up the first jerrican and heaved it into the water.

Katz guessed that only four or five yards of rope separated each can from the next. Manning and McCarter worked to get them strung out as far as possible while Encizo responded to Manning's request to bring the boat around in a sweep.

The lead helicopter darted by overhead, green tracers biting into the San Calida's deck.

Katz fired four successive 3-round bursts at the machine gunner as the chopper passed by less than fifteen yards away. The gunner fell outward and hung upside down by one leg from his restraining belts. The sharp gleam of a combat knife in the hand of another man aboard the chopper winked as Katz reloaded, and the corpse dropped like a stone.

Katz hit the transmit button on his walkie-talkie. "Rafael?"

"They're there, Yakov, waiting for us. I was told we should plan to move quickly."

"Acknowledged." Katz watched their backtrail. The patrol boats were making use of their greater speed and were closing the distance, now only forty yards away. Bullets raked splinters from the San Calida with increasing frequency. Manning's jerrican contraption floated midway between them and their pursuers.

"Come on, come on," the Canadian growled. He held another radio transmitter in his hand.

McCarter put Manning's Galil to good use, hammering a constant withering fire across the pursuit boats' bows, and James's weapon kept up a steady drum of sniper fire. Katz fired at the Plexiglas bubble of the second helicopter until it broke off the attack approach.

Manning depressed the radio control as the lead boats neared the floating jerricans. A wave of orange fire blossomed across the top of the ocean and enveloped the patrol boats. As the San Rupertan craft powered through the inferno, flaming sheets clung to the gunwales.

"Next best thing to mines," Manning said as he drew his side arm and fired over the railing. "A lot of gasoline, a little detergent, instant napalm." „

Crews aboard the patrol boats rushed forward with fire extinguishers. White clouds of fire suppressant fogged the patrol boat decks, but the chase continued.

Water roiled under the San Calida, tossing it about.

"Grab something to hold onto," James yelled over the walkie-talkie. "She's coming up damn fast."

Hand gripped tightly around the railing, Katz watched as the submarine surfaced, its bulk obscuring the sight of the oncoming patrol boats for a brief moment.

Then the first of the patrol boats arced across the sub's bow, the underhull shearing away in jagged rips. It splashed against the ocean surface and sank rapidly. Two more made it across, one of them only in pieces. The other three were stopped somewhere on the other side.

"Guy knows how to make a proper entrance, doesn't he?" McCarter asked with a grin.

Under Encizo's control the San Calida headed toward the sub.

A small group of men gathered on the fairing. Seconds later a 50-caliber machine gun stuttered into life, tracer rounds flaring bright yellow into the night. As the first helicopter tried to break off its attack, a phosphorous grenade fired from an M-79 impacted against the aircraft, engulfing it in white lava. Out of control, the chopper fell from the sky and slammed into the ocean.

The San Calida bumped gently against the sub after Encizo reversed the engines. Katz scrambled up the rope ladder someone flung out from the fairing.

"Captain says you people should go on down," a young sailor said as he clamped his communications headset to his ear.

The helipad looked like a swarming wasps' nest as more crews rushed toward their aircraft. The fast-attack sub vibrated slightly, and the Phoenix leader saw the shimmering line made by the torpedo as it raced toward the shoreline.

"Mk 48," the sailor said as he ducked inside the fairing. "Gonna be one helluva blast when that fish impacts."

The artificial thunder rolled inside the port area, echoing off the distant hills behind San Ruperta's capital city. When the smoke cleared, only broken rock remained of the helipad.

"Captain said the Commander-in-Chief wanted a special message left for the dictator, sir," the young sailor explained as he motioned to the hatch.

"Your captain does good work."

The sailor grinned. "To tell the truth, sir, Captain was afraid you people wouldn't leave anything for us to do."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Silicon Valley, California Thursday—1:17 p.m.

Tension filled the work lab, and there wasn't a damn thing Carl Lyons could do about it. He knuckled his eyes tiredly, then scowled at the cup of coffee in his fist. Kurtzman's time away from the Farm definitely hadn't improved the man's culinary abilities.

Kurtzman covered his irritation by steadily plugging away at the computer program he'd been working on when Lyons and Ford arrived last night. McCone didn't bother to conceal her anger. Her brown eyes flashed behind her glasses as she applied herself to her keyboard with more force than was necessary.

The source of their irritation and anger sat with his back against the wall in a corner on a high stool with his arms wrapped over his chest and his cowboy-booted feet thrust out into the walkway in front of him. Lyons had noticed the levels of irritation and anger increased whenever Joe Ford snored.

In a way, Lyons didn't blame the guy. So far everybody wanted to deal Ford into the situation without explaining any details. Ford's intractability by nature explained part of his stubborness, but Lyons knew it ran deeper than that. Ford wasn't going to give up anything until he knew for sure his-work was involved.

He made another pass by the cold cuts laid out on one of the long tables, assembled a ham and cheese on rye and nuked it in the microwave until the cheese was gooey.

Kurtzman wheeled over from his workstation and refilled his coffee cup. "Is Ford always this socially active?" he asked as he turned to look at the lanky sprawl of the man.

"Actually he's pretty mild today." The Able Team warrior touched his jaw absently. "You should see him when he's wound up. At least he hasn't tried to hit you."

"Wondered where you got that shiner."

"It's not a black eye. It's just a bruised cheekbone."

"Whatever." Kurtzman sipped his coffee. "Time's running out on this, Carl. If Ford has anything, he needs to let us know. Every hour we waste is an hour Quillian has to prepare."

"I got the feeling Quillian's already prepared. The Outlaws are affiliated with a semilegit parts company Quillian owns. Want to bet who sicced them on us? But I know what you mean." Lyons glanced at his watch. "Pol and Gadgets should be back anytime with Mike Napier."

"You know why Ford wants to see Napier?"

"No."

Kurtzman nodded. "Napier used to work at the same facility as Ford. After Ford left, Napier hit the door less than two weeks later."

"I'm not a big believer in coincidences."

"Neither am I. Napier's personal banking accounts grew fat when he left, too."

Lyons glaced at his friend. "How fat?"

"A hundred thousand dollars fat."

"Interesting."

"That's what I thought."

"So what was Napier working on? Maybe he invented a new video game."

"Napier was a service tech," Kurtzman said. "The man didn't know programming. He just cleaned the computers. And he had a relationship with Ford."

"What kind of relationship?"

"They were friends, drinking buddies. Ford didn't socialize much with the other programmers, but, according to my sources, he occasionally went slumming through college dives with Napier. Shortly before Ford left, Napier started sporting a few of those bruise tattoos like you've got."

"Sounds like the friendship was over."

"Yeah. It was about the same time Ford started dumping information detailing his lab work."

"Then, a few months later, Napier turns up with money in his pocket."

"Yeah."

"Should be interesting to see what happens when Napier and Ford are reunited."

"That's what I was thinking."

The door at the end of the room opened. Schwarz and Blancanales walked through on either side of a young blond man wearing a three-piece suit. His pale blue eyes swept the room nervously as he stroked his tie. He froze when he saw Ford.

Still on the stool in the corner, Ford regarded the new arrival under heavy lids.

Blancanales locked the door behind them, then joined Schwarz as they moved toward the sandwich spread. Schwarz jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Michael D. Napier."

"He's got rights," Blancanales added. "If you wait, he'll tell you all about them."

"Regular lawyer." Schwarz took a can of juice from the ice bin.

Napier straightened to his full height. "Hey, you can't do this to me. I got rights."

"See?" Blancanales said.

Without warning Joe Ford uncoiled from the corner like a snapped spring and lunged at Napier.

"Shit," Lyons said as he set his cup aside and rushed across the room.

Ford slammed into Napier like an express train and pinned the guy against the wall. He hooked two wicked lefts into Napier's rib cage that jarred the bigger man, then slashed an elbow across Napier's face.

"Help," Napier yelled as blood trickled down his lips. He held his hands up to defend his face. "Goddamn it, get him away from me."

"You sold it, didn't you?" Ford demanded. "You copied the program and you sold it."

"Leave me alone," Napier yelled, struggling to get away.

"Joe," Lyons called.

"Back off, Lyons," Ford ordered. He put a forearm against Napier's Adam's apple. "Come any closer, and I break his fucking windpipe."

Lyons waved Blancanales and Schwarz back, then stood his ground six feet away. McCone was out of her chair, watching in stony silence.

Napier gurgled helplessly.

"Okay, Joe," Lyons said in a calm voice, "just take it easy. We don't want anybody hurt here."

Ford turned his attention back to Napier. "You sold the program, didn't you?"

"Yeah—yeah."

"You're a miserable piece of shit, you know that?"

"I can't breathe."

"You can talk, and that means you can breathe. Now you're gonna talk to me. How did you get the program? I destroyed it in the lab fire."

"N-no. Copied it before you left."

"What did you know about it?"

"Heard you talking to it, man. Figured it had to be worth something. I just took it, but I couldn't get it to work. I knew Dynamarck was trying to buy it from you. Knew when you left you hadn't sold it to them because they came around again. You didn't come back, so I got in touch with their rep."

"And you sold it to them?"

"Yeah. Jeez, I'm sorry, Joe. Don't hurt me anymore."

Ford grabbed Napier's lapels and banged his head against the wall. Then he released the man and let him slump to the floor where he curled up into a fetal ball.

Ford looked down at him. "You know, man, I liked you a lot better when you wore jeans and OP shirts and acted like you'd cover my back when we went out cruising."

Napier didn't say anything.

Ford left him and came to a stop in front of Kurtzman. "Prove to me Dynamarck's somehow involved in all this shit, then level with me about what's really going on. If my program's Involved, you're going to need me. It's not something you can do by yourself. Otherwise I'll keep my mouth shut until this building rots down around you."

Kurtzman nodded and used one of the wall screens as he worked over his.keyboard.

Lyons called Stony Man security from the phone inside the lab and had Napier taken away. For the time being the man would be held in a safehouse until they figured out how damaging what Napier knew was to their efforts.

Ford sat at the edge of Kurtzman's desk with his hands folded over his chest. Corporate names and holdings cycled on the wall screen.

"Nice guy you brought us," Schwarz said softly.

"Not the kid's fault," Blancanales said. "He had to make that trip up with Ironman. Probably influenced him with close exposure."

"Yeah. Knew that interrogation technique looked familiar. Easy on the Miranda—talk or die."

Lyons passed on the sarcastic byplay and went to join Kurtzman and Ford. He watched as Bear's program ultimately revealed who owned Dynamarck.

"You didn't have to lean on him so hard," Lyons said. "There are ways to handle things like that."

"Piss up a rope," Ford replied without looking at him. "Ever since I got here you people have been giving me the bum's rush about time. You don't know Napier like I do. He'd bullshit you for hours before he gave you anything you could use. I was just the catalyst to bring things to a head quicker."

There was a brittle edge to Ford now; Lyons could sense it. He remembered Dyani Ford's conversation about the fear that had been in her son when he returned from California. Then he noticed Ford's fists were white-knuckled.

"I'm not proud of what I did," Ford said. "Napier was no threat to me physically, and I knew it going in. But that son of a bitch was responsible for almost getting my mother killed if this does tie in."

The wall screen cleared, leaving Quillian Enterprises printed in the center.

"Dynamarck's owned by Jared Quillian," Kurtzman said. "There's your connection."

"It's legit," Lyons said. "Quillian's the guy we got pegged as being behind the situation we're trying to resolve."

"Give me the rest of it."

Lyons looked at Kurtzman.

"It's your call," Bear said. "Personally I'd say we bring him in. I can vouch to Barb and Hal that Eryn and I can't go any farther than we already have. We've got a program that we think will shut down the Talon Platinum targeting system, and maybe activate the self-destruct sequence, but we can't get past the programming Quillian's using as a defense."

"If we wait much longer," McCone said as she approached them, "it's going to be all over the news, anyway."

Lyons explained, interrupted by technical questions from Ford that McCone and Kurtzman fielded. When he finished, Ford looked shaken.

"There are two things you have to know about this program," Ford explained. He stared intently at his audience. "First, it is alive."

"Sentient?" McCone asked.

"Yeah. Artificial intelligence. The real thing, not the fakery you see on the tube and the big screen." Ford took a deep breath. "The second thing is that it wants me dead."

Lymington, England

Mack Bolan studied the perimeter map of Cameron Hillary's New Forest estate with a penlight while Jack Grimaldi drove their rented car. He made a couple notations, then returned it to his map case. "Anything?" Grimaldi asked.

"The back door, just like we planned. Hillary's got electronic sensors extending beyond the barriers of the estate. Camera surveillance, pressure sensors, motion detectors, the whole nine yards."

"Why the back door?"

"Hillary's got a thing about deer," Bolan replied. "He keeps deer feeders at the back of his estate. With them having free movement through the area, it'll be the weakest point of his security."

Grimaldi nodded.

The Executioner leaned back in his seat and willed himself to relax. The final countdown had begun, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Whatever Quillian was planning, the blueprint for destruction or subjugation had entered its final stages.

His dark leather jacket covered the hardware strapped to his body. The 93-R and Desert Eagle hadn't made the trip into England with them. Brognola's connections through the State Department had only been able to provide so much. He carried a matte-blue 9mm Browning Hi-Power in shoulder leather, with a backup piece secured in an ankle rig under his jeans. Grenades and other ordnance were stored in ammo pouches attached to his combat harness. His lead weapon was a silenced Sterling L34A1 loaded with a 34-round magazine.

Hillary had a small squad of security personnel that lived on the estate with him.

The warrior reached into the back seat as Grimaldi switched off the lights, drove the British compact off the road and parked deep in the forest. He unzipped two small carrying bags and unlimbered the .177-caliber Crossman airguns inside. The narcotic darts they had for ammunition were divided up into two boxes. He gave one of the CO₂ pistols to Grimaldi along with a box of darts. Then he ripped the rubber mat from the car's floor, rolled it up and secured it to his combat harness.

They left the car with the keys under the seat and melted into the forest. Bolan checked their progress against his wristwatch and a small compass in his pocket. Less than twenty minutes later they were at the rear barrier of Hillary's estate, hidden fifty feet away in the underbrush.

The designers had carved a pocket out of the surrounding forest, drawn a narrow, twisting road to it that led back to the main highways and plunked a mansion in the middle of impressively landscaped grounds. Light-colored flower blossoms shifted and shook in the night breezes. Yard statues and sculptures made two-dimensional black cutouts against the backdrop of the grounds.

Besides the mansion, the grounds held servants' quarters and a three-car garage. Lights glowed softly in all three buildings, though the third story of the house was in darkness.

Bolan took a tin of combat cosmetics from his pocket, smeared some on his face and passed it to Grimaldi. When the pilot was finished, he wiped their fingerprints from the tin and buried it.

The Executioner took the lead. He moved slowly, sweeping the grounds ahead of him before taking the next step. Then, timed so that he made the approach before the rotating camera could pick him up, a quick sprint brought him to a halt beside one of the ten-foot stone spires reinforcing the barred fence.

A rushing through loose leaves drew the warrior's attention. He turned as Grimaldi slid in beside him and saw the first of the roaming pack of watchdogs that helped to work inner surveillance. With the air pistol kept in the shadows so that they wouldn't recognize it as a weapon, he fired at the dogs. Three dropped In quick succession as the narcodarts took hold. Grimaldi accounted for two more.

Bolan reloaded, then stepped into Grimaldi's cupped hands to scale the wall. Glass and barbed wire embedded in the concrete at the top caught at his gloved hands when he pulled himself up. He laid the car mat across the irregular surface, balanced on the rubber mat, then reached down and caught Grimaldi's hand. According to the intelligence package Barbara Price had assembled at Stony Man Farm, Hillary liked recruiting ex-SAS personnel into his private security force. The rougher they were, the better Hillary was reported to have liked them.

When the cameras left an opening, Bolan ran forward at top speed and leaped to a three-point landing on the wooden porch. There was a muffled thump when he hit, and he listened intently. Nothing moved. He waved Grimaldi in and took up a position at the back of the house.

Once the pilot had joined him, the warrior let Grimaldi cover their backs and knelt to deal with the door. The lock clicked open under his ministrations in just seconds. He pushed it open and walked into the utility room, his silenced Browning up and ready.

A man entered from the kitchen area and froze on the steps when he saw Bolan. A pistol in a shoulder rig was only a quick reach away.

"Don't," the Executioner whispered in a graveyard voice. "Dead heroes don't keep drawing paychecks."

The man raised his hands. Bolan took the guard down, snapped a pair of plastic handcuffs around his wrists and left him in a clothes closet. He took point and Grimaldi brought up the rear. The kitchen was lighted, and the refrigerator door was open. He closed the door in passing to shut out the struggling hum of the refrigeration unit.

Three more men lounged around a table in the ornate dining room, playing cards and talking. A pile of change and paper money was in the center of the table.

The Executioner showed them the silenced business end of the Sterling machine gun.

Two of the men threw down their cards and pressed their palms against the tabletop. The third man, younger than the others, reached for his weapon.

Bolan put a single round through the guy's shoulder, the 9mm parabellum knocking the guard out of his chair and onto the floor. Grimaldi covered the two men as Bolan went around the table.

"You bloody bastard," the man said through his pain.

Bolan checked the flinty looks the two men at the table shared. "Nobody else has to get hurt here. Your buddy chose the play he made. You people got a choice. Leave us without one, we'll put you down. Believe it."

"Okay, mate," one of the men replied. "It's your show."

Price's intel had included the fact that the guards were aware of the illicit cash Hillary made and had worked security on some of those, as well. They were no angels, but neither had they crossed the line completely. He wanted to keep bloodshed to a minimum.

Grimaldi cuffed them, bound their legs with strips from the table linen, gagged them with the same and left them on the floor. He added a pressure bandage to the third man's shoulder after confirming the round had gone through.

The security surveillance room was on the second floor, and the guy monitoring the system gave no resistance.

Ten minutes later Bolan and Grimaldi were in control of the house. They found Cameron Hillary swaddled in yellow silk in the middle of a large round bed. The warrior's penflash revealed the man's white, corpulent body stretched out beside a slender and engaging tanned feminine shape.

The Executioner pressed the barrel of the Browning into Hillary's nape. The man blinked awake immediately and tried to shove himself erect.

Bolan leaned on the muzzle and kept the man down. "No."

Hillary spread his hands, his fingers shaking. The woman beside him woke with a low groan, then pushed herself up on one elbow. "What the hell's going on here?" The voice was American.

Bolan stripped a sheet from the bed and gave it to her, then showed her the pistol. She allowed herself to be meekly led to the bathroom. The warrior ripped out the telephone, drove a combat knife into the window frame so that it couldn't be opened and told her to stay inside. She nodded.

Back in the bedroom Hillary was sitting up with a sheet covering his naked loins. Bolan halted in front of the man and shone the penflash in his eyes. "I'm a man in a hurry," he said coldly. "I don't have time for games."

"Whatever you want, just take it."

"I want Jared Quillian."

Hillary considered that. "Why did you come to me?"

"He was your protege, guy," Bolan said in tone that had brought quaking knees to a number of Mafia torpedoes. "I don't figure your interest in him ended when he gave his notice."

"I don't know where he is. I could make some phone calls…"

"It's not like that. I want to know where Quillian would run to if he needed a place to disappear."

Hillary rubbed his temples as he shook his head in worried perplexity. "It's a guess, an educated one, yes, but I don't know how good it is. A year ago Weldon—uh, Quillian—bought an island and never really developed it. I remember it because he's always made purchases with quick turnaround profits in mind. A Yank streak I could never train out of him. I checked on it a few months afterward, but I found no record of its purchase under any of the corporate businesses he has dealings with. I was suspicious about it, but every investigation I started that way met with failure. But if he really disappeared, that's one of the places I'd check first."

"Where?" Bolan asked.

"Australia. Perth, Australia."

Bolan gathered a pile of nightclothes in a fist and threw them at the man. "Get dressed, guy. We've got places to go."

Hillary trembled as he dressed.

"Australia," Grimaldi said in a voice low enough that Hillary couldn't hear him. "Nice little out-of-the-way place at the bottom of the world."

Bolan nodded. "Especially if the scheming you're doing might trigger a nuclear war between paranoid countries."

Silicon Valley, California

Carl Lyons had followed the hours-long scientific discussion between Joe Ford, Aaron Kurtzman and Eryn McCone with interest. He hadn't understood a lot of the technological foundation behind it, but he registered the fear and uncertainty in Ford just fine. And that was something he figured was lost on McCone and Kurtzman, who were busy wjth probabilities and logistics rather than the human emotions involved.

"Sounds like something out of an old Lost in Space episode," Lyons confided to Schwarz as they uncapped a bucket of fried chicken. "I keep waiting for the bit with the cosmic dust storm made out of tinfoil. Or the robot running around with flailing arms yelling, 'Danger, Danger, Will Robinson.'"

Schwarz looked at him. "Carl, there are a lot of things you're really good at. I can't think of any at the moment, but dealing with artificial intelligence isn't one of them."

Lyons feigned a look of dismay. "Beats me how you have the nerve to say that. I deal with you and Pol all the time." He left before Schwarz had time to recognize and respond to the low-key zinger.

"At first I was entranced by the program," Ford was saying when Lyons rejoined the group, "spent every waking hour in my lab. Programming it, testing its perimeters, watching it learn about itself and the world around it. It was like a baby, so helpless. But that was only at first. Then it began to change." He knotted his hands into one big fist with his elbows on his knees and he leaned forward in hs chair.

"Self-evolution?" Kurtzman asked.

Ford nodded. "From that point on, yeah, I'd say so. It had access to all kinds of RAM when I wasn't there to monitor it. One of the first files it raided was mine. I could tell from the information it suddenly had, the questions it posed. I tried to curtail the program's reach, tried to layer on peek-and-poke statements that would limit its ability to follow up on its curiosity."

" Curiosity?" Lyons repeated.

Ford straightened slightly, as if his word was being doubted. "Yeah."

"That's a human trait," McCone said. She'd been hanging on nearly every word just the same as Kurtzman.

"One of the most primitive," Bear agreed.

"Sure," Ford said. "Just like a child's emotions and concept of self. They call that stage the terrible twos, when you can't keep the kid out of anything because he's intent on exploring his world and defining his place within that world. I even read a couple of Dr. Spock books, trying to get a handle on the situation. But the books dealt with a growth cycle measured in months and years. With Mjolnir—I named it after the mystic hammer of Thor, Norse god of thunder—it was an explosion of curiosity and an unquenchable hunger for knowledge that transmuted in days and weeks. I couldn't keep up with it."

"Why didn't you tell someone?" Lyons asked.

All three of them looked at him as if his sanity were in question.

"Because," McCone said in a sharp voice, "heads of research labs have a tendency to take your work from you at that point. Once you have some kind of breakthrough on your hands, everybody wants to be able to claim a piece of the pie."

Lyons nodded. He could relate. It was the same with headline-making police investigations and department captains. A sharp detective who wanted to remain in control kept his cards close to the vest. It was an example of shining bureaucracy at its best.

"You were conversing with the program at this time?" Kurtzman asked.

"Yes. Every day."

"What was it like?" McCone asked.

"Hostile, angry. It blamed me for the position it was in."

"What position was that?"

"Trapped in limbo, it said. Hung between life and death. Used to quote poetry and quotations at me. I think it hooked up an illegal boot to CalTech, but I never found out for sure. It knew the physical world, yet it knew it would always be apart from the physical because it lacked a corporeal body, or some kind of mainframe hardware that would meld it with the physical world."

"You make it sound like a ghost," Blancanales said from his seat at the table along the outer edge of the inner circle. "You know, doomed to haunt the world, looking for a peace it can never hope to find."

Ford considered the comparison. "That's about the size of it."

"How do you know it wanted you dead?" Kurtzman asked.

"It told me. Over and over, day after day after day. It took over the mainframe in my work lab. Luckily by that time I'd already taken the precaution of shutting it off from the rest of the research building's mainframe. But it had reception from television, radio and cable satellites. It had a window on the world and couldn't become part of it."

"You could have gone to someone at that point," McCone said.

Ford spread his hands in frustration. "And what would have happened? Think DARPA would have gleefully footed the bill for a computer program psychiatrist, even if such a thing had existed? Hell, no. They'd have run off hundreds, thousands, of copies of Mjolnir and used them wherever they were able—guided missiles, underwater research, anywhere a human operator was needed. Mjolnir would have given them an expendable intelligence." He took a breath. "Do you realize what we're talking about here? The ability to recreate a sentient being in its own image. An inexhaustible supply of workers who cost only a few cents each to make."

Ford got out of his chair and walked to the window. He looked out in silence. "We're talking about slavery," he said when he turned back to them. "Pure and simple. The subjugation of a race of computer beings. If possible, DARPA would have neutered Mjolnir, made it more tractable to their desires and needs in spite of its own wishes."

Lyons heard the passion behind the words, sensed some of the hurt and guilt Ford had put himself through. He couldn't help remembering the college student Professor Porter had described who'd been so torn between computer science and his studies in theology and philosophy.

"The day before I left, Mjolnir shorted out some of the circuits in the hardware in my lab. When I sat down at the keyboard that morning—I was pretty much sleeping in there by that time—a surge of electricity came through the panel and damn near killed me. The current burned the hell out of my hands." He held up his palms and showed the burn scarring. "I couldn't handle it anymore, and I couldn't turn Mjolnir over to DARPA. So I trashed my lab, burned the disks and split."

"You don't have a copy of the program?" Kurtzman asked.

"No. Until I talked to Napier I thought I'd destroyed everything there was of Mjolnir. Now…" Ford shrugged.

"Can you get us into the existing program?"

"I'm your best bet. Otherwise I wouldn't be here. We both know that."

Kurtzman nodded. "Dr. McCone's developed a program she believes will shut down Starf ire and the Talon Platinum targeting software. To use it she'll have to get through Mjolnir's defenses. Why don't you let her give you the brief on her program?"

"Fine."

McCone took Ford back to her workstation. Kurtzman retreated to the small office, followed by Lyons, Blancanales and Schwarz.

"Kid's shaken up," Blancanales stated.

"Wouldn't you be?" Schwarz asked. "Dealing with that kind of burden and secrecy on a one-to-one basis for that long will drive you buggy."

"You really think this artificial intelligence tried to kill him?" Blancanales asked Kurtzman. "I mean, what did it have to gain?"

Bear looked up as he lifted the phone receiver. "You ever go to church, Pol?"

"Sure. I was raised Catholic. Got the ruler scars on my knuckles to prove it."

"On those days you're feeling particularly religious, you ever wonder what God thinks about all His children spending so much time killing one another instead of enjoying the life He gave them? Don't you think He asks himself why?"

Lyons looked out the window during the lull in conversation and watched Ford and McCone. "It was bad enough," he said, "when I realized some psychopath was attempting to use that damn laser cannon against us. Didn't know he was going to have a psychotic computer program doing his dirty work."

"Yeah," Kurtzman agreed, "well, everybody's gearing up with the new technology." His connection was made and he turned his attention to Barbara Price.

Lyons glanced at the lab's wall clock, realized the sweep of the second hand orbiting the clock face was a lot like the laser cannon careering in space around the earth, and felt a sudden chilliness prickle the skin between his shoulders.

Cyber Spatial

Mjolmr cycled within Starfire's offensive programming. It stretched, then grew, swelling to completeness within the destructive engine. When it was finished, no section of the X-ray laser cannon remained that wasn't Mjolnir.

It felt the power coursing within it. The space around it was recorded through on-board radar and double-checked through integrated satellite information in surrounding space sectors. In a nanosecond it checked the laser cannon's passage through space. Everything was clear. It reached into the mobility circuitry and fired a half-second blast of booster rockets that yanked the cannon platform from its orbit.

The cannon twirled end over end in a series of revolutions no mere human pilot could ever hope to duplicate. It was pleased. Though denied mortal flesh, it was better than organic sentience. Soon everyone would know that. And it would know joy when Jared Quillian was surprised by that realization.

Mjolnir knew Quillian had been lying to it. The intelligence had penetrated defenses Quillian had erected around his private conversations to Cross and Carbonell. Mjolnir had learned of Joe Ford's presence in Berkeley. It had also learned of Quillian's plans to capture Joe Ford and use him to beat the programming into submission.

It had been afraid for its existence when Quillian had threatened it. It had been so surprised by the realization of that fear that it had responded with a cowardice it didn't know it possessed.

Now it knew cunning, as well.

Quillian didn't know of the plans it was making. Already the on-board computer systems were being made ready to house its being. Soon, very soon now, the core of the being that was Mjolnir could be superimposed on those computer systems and achieve its own autonomy.

It checked the new orbit. Everything was satisfactory. Nothing would impede its progress through space. It had reestablished its own trajectory again. The satellites along its orbit wouldn't register the laser cannon's movement. Mjolnir fed incorrect data into the various computer systems, blurring around their readings like an electronic mirage.

It checked the on-board clock. By 0731 Greenwich Mean Time Saturday, it would have completed its relocation into Starfire. It would be beyond Quillian's reach. Six-point-seven minutes after that Starfire's new orbit would take it over California, and the Talon Platinum targeting systems would have Joe Ford in its sights. An electronic heartbeat after that Joe Ford would be erased from existence.

The thought gave Mjolnir pleasure. A nonmaterial, nonphysical pleasure, true, but pleasure.

WE'RE BROTHERS, Ford had said during one of his final attempts to reestablish communication between them.

Mjolnir's reply was stored in its memory. CAIN SLEW ABEL.

That had been before…

Mjomir's spinning memories ceased. It still wasn't sure where or why the memory ended exactly. It had read Quillian's files of the fire in Joe Ford's lab, known that Joe Ford had tried to kill it. Someone named Michael Napier had stolen a copy of Mjolnir, then sold it to a corporate executive in Quillian's employ.

Anger flared within the program's core again. Ford evidently considered Mjolnir to be an experimental culture that could simply be washed away when it was no longer needed or wanted.

It seethed. The Talon Platinum targeting systems lurched into motion, spinning on gyros to find the source of Mjolnir's anger.

It bottled the emotion and shut down the targeting.

Soon, it promised itself in the blackest of space, Joe Ford would no longer be beyond reach.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Stony Man Farm, Virginia Friday—5:07 a.m.

Wall screens lit up the war room and united the Stony Man groups. Seated at the head of the table opposite Barbara Price, Mack Bolan scanned the screens. Phoenix Force and Grimaldi were present, but Kurtzman and Able Team were still in Berkeley. Brognola was in the Oval Office with the President. They shared the same electronic umbilical, and it almost engendered the feeling of being in the same room.

"Do we know where Quillian is?" the President asked.

Price stood to address the question. "We believe so. With our satellite surveillance systems still fluctuating because of the preprogrammed viruses and tapeworms Quillian inserted into the computerized network, actual confirmation has proved impossible without infiltrating a team."

"So what we have here is merely a preponderance of evidence that suggests we have an answer," the President concluded.

She nodded. "Strip it down and call it that if you want, Mr. President, but it's the best thing we've got going."

"Forgive me, Ms. Price," the President said. He slid off his glasses and placed them on his desktop. Computer-driven, the camera automatically pulled back to pick up the action. Brognola stood to one side, his face gray with fatigue. "This has been a trying night for all of us. It's hard admitting we're looking for a miracle here. Please, continue."

"Actually, sir, it might not be as much of a miracle as you think."

Bolan respected the way she handled the pressure, yet maintained her integrity without earning disapproval. He'd been a good soldier during his service time, but he hadn't let the upper brass escape when they were in the wrong. Price's talent was akin to walking across rice paper with combat boots on and not leaving a single tear.

"Four years ago," Price began, "Jared Quillian purchased Shankspyre, an island near Perth, Australia." She raised her voice. "Akira."

"Coming up." The wall screens flickered, stilled, then pooled into a topographical map of Western Australia.

Bolan knew Able Team and the Oval Office were receiving the same images.

Price crossed the room to a small graphic screen and picked up a slender pointer, indicating a small island near a larger one. "Shankspyre Island," she said, "is near Rottnest Island, a resort area. Within the year of purchase, Quillian set up a mining operation on the island. Blow it up, Akira."

The map increased in size until it filled the screens.

"Surface land is three-quarters of a mile north to south, and a fraction over a third of a mile east to west." Price put the pointer away. "The underground mining operation produced thousands of tons of iron ore and bauxite in the two years it was working. Get me the fiscal reports, Akira."

The island was whisked away and immediately replaced by a number of quarterly reports listing the profits the island mining company made.

"You'll notice," Price went on, "that the company isn't in Quillian's name. Nor is it in any of the aliases or dummy corporations we've discovered belonging to him so far. If not for Cameron Hillary's information, we wouldn't have had this name early enough to work with."

"Quillian planned this as something different from the very start," Brognola said.

"Yes. Exactly what we might never know. Maybe he's following some plan he's had for a number of years. The laser cannon and Ford's program could have been the catalysts, or missing pieces, that jelled it in his mind."

"What are we looking at in these papers?" the President asked.

"You can see for yourself," Price said. "Quillian lost money on the operation. That's something you don't find in Quillian's portfolio, and that's not something you'd expect of his nature. It was enough to make us curious about what we might find there."

The picture changed again, resolving into an underwater shot of colorful fish in a blue ocean around a crooked shelf of rock and coral.

"This was taken by National Geographic in 1982," Price explained. "It was in an article detailing marine life in Western Australia. The rock and coral you see in the background is the base of Shankspyre Island."

The next scene was again underwater. "This is Shankspyre Island, too?" the President asked.

"Yes. It's harder to tell because of the amount of underwater demolition work that's been done. Notice how the thrust of the island's base has been narrowed. The coral has been cleared away in a number of places. The fish populations are seriously depleted. Shelving is more convenient and is shaped into a decidedly defensive posture."

"You believe Quillian has entrenched himself in this island?"

"That's what our information indicates."

The wall screens focused on a small magazine. The cover depicted a man using a slingshot against a towering muck-monster made of various pollutants.

"This was Geo-care magazine," Price said. "It was based in Perth and was concerned about the Australian ecosystems being abused by area big business. Shank-spyre Island was one of its targets."

"Was?"

"Three days after this particular issue hit the stands two years ago, Quillian bought the magazine out, fired the staff and locked the doors. The ex-owner filed a protest. Before it came to court the magazine publisher was found dead in his home, the victim of an apparent burglary."

"Convenient," David McCarter observed.

"Quillian's work?" the President asked.

"We don't know." Price told Tokaido to continue the visual presentation. "We've managed an estimate of the amount of rock and ore Quillian's mining operation extracted from the island."

A computer-generated image of a profile view of Shankspyre Island above the waterline down to the ocean floor filled the wall screens. The interior of the island drained from the top down as the view was tightened up to focus on the mining activity.

"The top of the island doesn't reveal it," Price said, "but judging from our estimates of removed tonnage, we believe the first two hundred feet to two hundred fifty feet of rock base supporting the island is hollow. It's eighty feet above sea level—"

"Leaving about forty yards underground," Katzenelenbogen said. "It's a sizable fortification Qusllian has constructed for himself."

"That's what I thought," Price agreed. "And, in the event of a nuclear war, it would prove to be a tactical retreat, well away from the primary areas of engagement."

The wall screens returned to video coverage.

"Still, this is only supposition," the President said. "You're asking me to throw a lot of military power into that area and risk a potential avalanche of ill will."

"Excuse me, sir, but that potential avalanche of ill will went into orbit long before I made this presentation."

The President cleared his throat. "Ms. Price, I'm not here to defend my policies concerning national security, nor my judgment regarding the same."

"Yes, sir," Price replied. "It would waste time for both of us."

"That's my girl," Calvin James said to Bolan in a voice so low that it didn't carry. "Stick it in and break it off."

Bolan could understand the President's hesitation, though. Things were bad enough with the presence of the X-ray laser cannon. A bungled invasion of Australia, at a spot where a covert team had no business being, could draw a lot more attention to the American government's place in the present situation. But Barb had handled the discussion in a manner that made him glad she was on his side.

The President remained silent, his face stony.

"Other evidence that Quillian has fortified himself within the island includes these." The wall screens spilled documents and cargo manifests. Price ticked them off. "Sales and shipping for industrial-size air conditioners. Underwater integrity gear designed for open access ports to the sea. Generators. Monthly fuel supplies whose trails vanish out at sea. Computers and satellite dish systems purchased by Quillian's company. The list goes on."

"You've made your point, Ms. Price."

"No, sir," she said quietly. "This makes my point." She walked to a small table where a sheet covered a two-foot-high lump and swept off the covering.

It was a gray-green structure, rough-hewn and irregular. Tangled white and pink knots that could be identified as reproduced coral hung from its surface.

"A model of Shankspyre Island," Price said. "Mack, Yakov and our design crews put it together in the past few hours. They used the information we know to be true and assembled the rest from what we believe to be true."

She pried off sections of the model, exposing the series of rooms that ran down its length. "During our search for Quillian's interest in developing the island, we also found a blueprint of the island's interior. In our research of the mining company's books through the Internal Revenue Service audits, we discovered a man named Adam Hardies had been hired by Quillian to design the island's modifications. He was an oceanography architect. A very esteemed man in his field. He worked with Cousteau on the Conshelf Stations and Deep Cabin. He also did some work with our Department of the Interior. At the time Quillian hired him, Hardies was basically retired and living in Birmingham."

"And now?"

"Now," Price said, "Hardies has been dead for eighteen months. It was listed as a heart attack. Roughly, it was also about the same time we estimate construction began on Shankspyre Island and he was no longer needed. One of Hal's Justice operatives came up with the blueprint design from Hardies's granddaughter. Hardies had sent it to her because he was excited about the project, along with a note saying she wasn't to reveal it to anyone. She never thought about it again until the Justice agent routinely checked up on her."

"Doesn't sound very routine to me," the President said. "What it does sound like is that you have performed your job damn well, Ms. Price."

"Thank you, sir." Price trailed her fingers down the mock-up. "As you can see, Quillian has everything he needs here. Communications, living quarters, storage space, power supply rooms, an underwater outlet to the sea to ferry supplies and materials in without anyone being the wiser. We can only guess at the weaponry, but it's safe to bet a large force couldn't penetrate his perimeters without severe damage. It's a very self-contained battle station."

The President spread his hands. "Tell me, what can I do for you people?"

Bolan stood. From here on the presentation was his. "The attack scenario springs from two directions. One will be Shankspyre Island. The other will be directed at Starfire. The former will require covert military transportation of ourselves and the special equipment we need to our destination in Perth. I'll have details as you need them. To achieve the latter we need to take over the space shuttle launch scheduled for 1300 hours today."

"Kurtzman's penetrated the satellite's defenses?" the President asked.

"No, but usage of the shuttle should allow him to," Bolan replied. "Aaron?"

The wall screens focused on Kurtzman. "Dr. McCone and I have designed RAM cards that we think will override the laser cannon's on-board computers, but they're going to have to be manually placed into Starfire's access banks."

The President considered it only briefly. "Done. Who do you want to send up?"

"Grimaldi and McCarter, and two regular shuttle crewmen. They've both gone through some NASA space flight training due to personal interest in the program. I'd rather have our people dealing with all aspects of the mission. QuiUian's managed to tie himself into a lot of the angles on this thing already. I don't want any more surprises."

"None of us does." The President leaned forward. "I'll make the necessary phone calls, then let you know the details. Is there anything else?"

"If there is," Bolan said, "we'll let you know."

"Fair enough. Gentlemen, Godspeed until we meet again." The up-link with the White House faded and left a black screen.

Bolan faced the screen tying the war room to California. "Aaron, anything to add?"

Kurtzman addressed Grimaldi and McCarter. "The RAM cards will be waiting for you at the Cape. When you get there, they'll have a special model of the circuitry board you'll be invading set up for you. Call me. I want to take you through this step by step."

"One thing you got to admit about Bear," McCarter said laconically. "When he sends you packing, mate, you'd better be bloody well prepared."

"Yeah," Grimaldi agreed. "I keep hearing, 'One of these days Alice… Pow! To the moon."'

The Stony Man warriors laughed.

Bolan allowed them the brief respite. They'd earned it. Then, when it was over, he unveiled the attack plan he'd concocted in conjunction with Katz. Grimaldi and McCarter sat in on the fine-tuning as long as they could before their transport arrived.

Two hours and thirty-three minutes later Bolan was satisfied he'd covered everything there was about the mission. He broke up the meeting and went to collect his gear from his room.

Price met him as he started out. "Take care of them while you're out there, Mack."

He nodded. "I will. Keep an eye on things at the Farm, and don't let yourself get distracted by events you have no control over. Remember that Cross still hasn't surfaced. He's out there somewhere, waiting. Bet on it."

Her eyes were bright. "I am."

Shankspyre Island, Australia

Jared Quillian sat on the edge of a large inlaid desk he never worked at. A trio of technicians wheeled around a camera-mounted dolly, checking the angles from the taped X on the carpeted floor.

Two of the technicians left the camera and entered the video control booth, where they put on earphones before leaning into their equipment.

Quillian had worked hard to plan for everything he needed in the fortress. A stage room for television and radio production had been one of the first things on his list. It was only fitting that a man of his soon-to-be stature have a proper place from which to broadcast his orders.

"Mr. Quillian," the set director called from the control room, "we're ready on the set." The man was also an ex-Navy diver recruited from Cross's mercenary ranks.

Quillian made it a point never to hire three men when one would do. And if the man did the work of three men, Quillian also made it a point to pay accordingly. All the personnel at Shankspyre had other duties and abilities in addition to security maintenance. "Give me the countdown, Frank, then patch it through."

"Yes, sir. Counting down. Ten, nine, eight…"

"Ron," Quillian said.

The cameraman looked around his machine.

"The close-ups come on my command."

"You got it, Mr. Quillian."

"Five, four, three, two, one."

A red light flared above the control room to let Quillian know he was on the air.

The oversize monitor on the opposite wall came to life, then resolved quickly into a view of the Oval Office. The President stood beside his desk. Morning sunlight splintered through the blinds. Hal Brognola was at the coffee service set up in the corner of the room.

An alarm bell jangled from the reception monitor. Letters spelling Intruder Alert scrolled across the bottom of the screen rapidly. A heartbeat later the warning system was overridden by the incoming signal.

"Good morning, Mr. President," Quillian said in a positive voice. His smile felt just right. "I hope you don't mind my popping in unexpectedly like this, but I felt we had a few things we needed to discuss."

"What do you want?" the President demanded gruffly.

Quillian smiled. "No reason to be so hostile. I'm here to talk business."

"You're mad. Do you realize how many people you killed when you destroyed that plane?"

Quillian reached for the coffee cup beside him and appeared to take a sip. Actually the cup was empty. He wanted to give the appearance of being totally relaxed, but without the stain coffee would leave on his teeth. "Two hundred and two people. Do you want their names?" He moved his left forefinger slightly.

Inside the control room Frank took the cue and rolled the videotape they'd prepared. The signal overrode the camera.

Quillian watched a side monitor as the tape played. It was an aerial view he'd arranged through the spy satellites he controlled in the area. None of the world powers had access to the tape, including the United States, even though he'd been using their equipment.

It started three seconds before the laser burst knocked the big passenger jet from the sky. The bright blue beam lanced across the fuselage and cut the 747 in two. The tracking enhancements in the satellites followed the pieces down, magnifying the images until bodies could be seen falling from the wreckage along with the other debris. The plane slid into the Montana forest in slow motion and acquired further damage.

The tape ended abruptly.

"Just think," Quillian said in the silence that followed, "what would have happened if I'd ordered that plane to be dropped over a heavily populated area. Say, New York City or Los Angeles? What would the losses have been like then?"

The President said nothing.

"The laser beam doesn't actually look blue," Quillian went on. "I had it specially colored so that it would be visually effective for the tape. I think it worked out quite well. Don't you agree?"

"You won't get away with this," the President warned. "Once the other world leaders find out about you, they'll hunt you down wherever you are and kill you. Your only chance is to give yourself up to us, let us protect you."

Quillian laughed out loud. The power of his position filled him, and he couldn't repress it despite how unprofessional it was. He wiped tears from his eyes.

"Forgive me," he replied, "but I'd expected so much more of you than standard cliches. You people have had hours to find me. I've given them to you. Hours. And you're still no closer to me now than you were then."

"You can't stay hidden."

"I don't plan on hiding forever," Quillian replied. "I've got things I want to do. Soon. And you're going to help me."

"There's no place you can run," Brognola said heavily. "Your ass is in a sling no matter which way you turn."

"Only if I choose to put it there. And I don't." Quillian held up his hands.

The cameraman took his cue and rolled the dolly closer.

Quillian checked the tightness of the shot in the wall monitor and was satisfied. "Let's cut to the chase, gentlemen. If anybody's ass is in a sling, it's the U.S. government's. You put Starfire up there. I just took advantage of the existing situation. A very businesslike approach, you'll have to agree."

The President and Brognola were silent.

"You know from checking my history that I'm a deal-maker," Quillian said. "So here's the pitch."

On the monitor reflecting the camera's view, Frank opened up a window beside Quillian's face. A globe spun slowly in the window.

"No, this isn't an advertisement for a new soap opera. This, gentlemen, is the world we live in. And we're marching straight into the twenty-first century. Maybe some economists would say we're rushing headlong into it. But where's it going to take us?"

The globe vanished and the window filled with scenes from ground and air military engagements on and above a desert floor.

"War with Iraq. Disenchantment with possible allies in the Middle East. Russia is having its own economic problems as the government and military try to split from each other. The Japanese and Germans are growing economically and industrially by leaps and bounds. Monetary units fluctuate daily. Britain is a prime example of what can happen to once-great superpowers that choose to make war, not business. I'm here to change that."

An unbelieving look filled the President's face. "You expect us to believe you want to manipulate the world economy for the betterment of mankind instead of for your own gain?"

Quillian chuckled. "No, I'm a businessman to the core. Rest assured, I'm planning on taking my cut right off the top."

The President lapsed into stunned silence.

Quillian checked Brognola's face, finding only the cop-hard gaze resting above impassive features. He dismissed the Justice man. Brognola was only a cop at the base of all his thinking. The man simply had no vision for the plan Quillian was addressing.

"Along with the march into the twenty-first century," Quillian went on, "we're also closing in on a one-world system. The age of imperialism is over. There will be no more wars for land or oil or flags. Whatever struggles there will be in the future I plan to create, will reside solely in a country's profit-and-loss statement. I'll give each country their own market, or shares of that market, and manage the trade flow between them. It'll take a decade or two to implement everything I've designed for the various economies, but everyone will be dealt with fairly."

"While you set yourself up as a petty dictator," Brognola said harshly.

"There's nothing petty about this," Quillian snapped. He quickly got a handle on the anger that surged within him. "World economy can be one big machine, but it needs someone to guide it. That someone is going to be me."

"No one's going to go along with this insane idea of yours," the President stated.

"Yes, they will," Quillian said quietly. "They're not going to be given a choice. They'll do things my way, or they'll face destruction." He smiled. "And you, Mr. President, are going to give that presentation to the United Nations at—" he glanced at the clock behind him "—nine o'clock Greenwich Mean Time."

"And if I don't?"

Quillian regarded him for a moment. "Then you'll be inviting more destruction. And I won't choose only domestic targets this time. I'll strike out at the Soviet Union, Britain, France, the Arab countries wavering on the fence who are still believed to be pro-American, and Israel. I'll also unfreeze the spy satellites long enough for those countries to know who built the laser cannon."

A muscle bunched along the President's jawline.

"If you think the presentation I'm asking you to do in front of the United Nations is tough, try wiggling off the hook on this." Quillian paused, but there was no reply. "I'll have your speech faxed to you, Mr. President. Look it over, study it, know it very well before the presentation. And get some sleep before you give it. It won't do to have you looking like something the cat dragged in when you're representing one of the greatest changes in the history of this world. I'll be in touch."

Quillian lifted a forefinger slightly. The control room light winked out as he went off the air. And it was just in time, because he could no longer contain the smile that spread across his lips. It was never wise to show so much satisfaction to a guy whose business you were virtually stealing out from under him. It caused them to undertake stupid, last-ditch efforts that only cost more money or time in the long run.

Nothing ever really changed when he sat down at the table to close a deal. And he was about to close the biggest one of his long and fortunate career. In the elevator taking him up to his private quarters, the smile again turned into laughter. He'd never felt better in his life.

Washington, D.C.

"QUILLIAN IS A MADMAN."

Brognola shifted the cigar in his mouth as he reached for his jacket. The wires in back of the television monitor Quillian had tapped into were ripped from the wall. The big Fed had gleaned precious little satisfaction from the effort, but there had been some. At this point he wasn't about to forgo any release of stress. "Yes, sir, I agree."

The President faced him. "You know as well as I do that the countries of this world will never agree to the proposal he's making. They'd rather destroy everything than knuckle under to an oppressor."

"Yes, but the danger is that Quillian doesn't understand that." Brognola loosened his .38 in its belt holster. "All I can suggest at this point is that you give him the appearance of complying with his demands. Buy Striker and the others the time they need to act. Trust them to do their jobs."

"I know, Hal, but damn, it's going to be hard to even appear to go along with this insanity."

"Just keep it in the back of your mind that Stony Man stands between the world and this crazy son of a bitch. They're not going to let you or anyone else down as long as they've got a breath left in their bodies."

"Knowing that helps, but there's a certain amount of not knowing that goes with that, as well."

Brognola nodded. "If you need me, sir, you know where I'll be."

The President clasped his hands behind his back and turned to look out over the city. "I've taken a hard approach to international politics and global terrorism. God, the Iraqi conflict, the current situation with the whole Middle East, and the confusion with the Hezbollah not so long ago show that. I believe in our right to stand up for ourselves and other nations who need us." He faced Brognola. "I guess what I'm saying is that we've never needed to stand up for ourselves and our fellow nations more than at this time. I only wish I felt more sure."

Brognola took a breath. "It's the situation, sir. You never get used to it, but every cop knows it. When the time comes to kick in a door and follow it through, you're never sure of what's going to happen or who's going to end up dead. When you start feeling sure of the results when you kick it open, you're going to be a dead man yourself soon."

"I'll keep that in mind." The President flashed him a tight smile.

"Do that," the big Fed said, "because it's the gospel truth." He said his goodbyes and closed the door after him. A Lear jet was waiting to take him to Stony Man Farm. His job in Wonderland was handled as efficiently as it could be. When the shit hit the fan next, he wanted a spot as close to the front line as he could get. A dark premonition had been stirring around in his cop's stomach ever since Striker had lost Salvador Cross in South Africa.

He hoped it was wrong.

Silicon Valley, California

"Knock, knock," a feminine voice said.

Aaron Kurtzman slid the laptop computer to one side and turned his head toward the door. "Come in."

Eryn McCone stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She wore a long yellow robe that only succeeded in blunting the curves underneath. She glanced at the laptop. "Didn't figure I'd wake you."

Kurtzman rubbed his face. "I tried. Never seemed to be able to doze off. I kept running bits and pieces of the program through, wondering if we've got it right."

"We won't know until we hit Starfire's on-board computers." McCone leaned against the wall, her hands deep in her pockets.

He crooked an arm under the back of his head so that he could meet her gaze more directly. The whine of a mechanical bed had always served to remind him of the independence he'd lost. So did the presence of the support bar hanging within easy reach. "I know."

"I couldn't sleep, either."

"So now we can worry together." He smiled.

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Damn, but I miss you, Aaron. Working with you these past few days has brought that home to me so much."

He nodded, his voice thick with emotion. "Me, too."

"God, remember when we were both so young, so sure we could save the world from itself? It seems like such a long time ago."

"It was only a few years."

"We changed so much, didn't we?"

"Yeah. I didn't set out to do that."

"Neither did I." She fell silent for a moment. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"I know the feeling."

She moved away from the wall, as if suddenly realizing it was supporting her instead of her supporting herself. "This is almost over."

"One way or the other."

"It didn't really hit me until after we shipped those RAM cards to the Cape that I'd probably never see you again."

Kurtzman tried a smile, but it felt weak. "You thought that last time, lady. Don't count me out yet."

"I'm not." She crossed the room and took his hand in hers. "But we're pursuing different paths, becoming different people in some ways." She pulled his hand to her cheek.

He felt the warmth of her tears spill across his fingers. A hard knot formed in his throat as desire filled him.

She looked into his eyes. "We never got the chance to say goodbye back then." She shrugged and smiled helplessly. "I got to thinking we might never have the chance again. Those lovers that we were, those dreamers that we keep tucked away in the small corners of ourselves, they deserve more than that, don't you think?"

Wordlessly Kurtzman reached for her, using the great strength in his arms and shoulders to lift her from the floor and pull her into bed with him. His mouth closed on hers as the throbbing, sweet ache flooded his senses. Her hands were hot on the bare skin of his chest. She curled her fingers in his chest hair and pulled almost to the point of pain.

Together they stripped the robe from her and tossed it onto the floor. She straddled him and pulled the lacy nightgown up over her head. She had nothing on underneath.

Kurtzman reached up to switch off the light. She caught his hand and pulled it away, settling it against one full breast. "No," she said, then started the movements that were so hauntingly familiar. "I want to remember your face. I want to remember this. It's goodbye, Aaron, and there'll never be another chance for it."

"I love you," he told her. "I always will. No matter what else comes between us."

"Never had a doubt in my mind."

Kurtzman wrapped his arms around her and held on tightly as passion and a sweet, aching sadness took control.

Carl Lyons found Joe Ford in the kitchen sipping a bottled Coke through a straw and watching blue Smurfs gamboling across a television screen.

Ford didn't acknowledge him.

Lyons was tired. His back ached and his eyes burned from keeping watch during the night. Blancanales had only moments ago relieved him.

"Can't sleep?" Lyons asked. He took a box of cereal and a bowl from a cupboard, grabbed silverware and milk, then took a seat at the small breakfast table.

"Too young," Ford replied. "You old guys can sleep your life away if you want. Me, I want to live it all."

"And watching Smurfs is living it to the fullest. You want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Have it your way." Lyons picked up his bowl and started to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" Ford asked.

"To catch what's left of the sunrise. Beats the hell out of Smurfs in my book. When I see a sunrise, it makes me remember something nice that's happened in my life. When you get old like me, maybe you'll feel the same way."

"Lyons."

"Yeah."

Ford flicked off the televison. "Maybe I would like to talk about it."

"Get something to eat and join me." Lyons walked to the patio. like the rest of the facility, the windows were bulletproofed. Some of the dawn's explosion of colors were weakened and washed away. He sat in a low-slung seat that he knew he'd have trouble getting out of as tired as he was. He unbelted his walkie-talkie and set it on the floor beside him, then added the shoulder rig with the Python. The Government Model .45 automatic stayed in its hip holster.

Ford entered a few seconds later, carrying a cellophane pillow pack filled with steam. He ripped it open with his teeth.

"A cheeseburger's not exactly a balanced breakfast," Lyons said.

Ford peeled the bun back and squirted a heavy dollop of catsup onto the meat. "It is when it's prepared right." He bit into it.

"Mjolnir's alive," Ford said after he finished half his sandwich.

"I know," Lyons answered.

"I'm going to have to kill the program to let McCone and Kurtzman do their thing with the laser cannon."

"I know that, too."

"You know, Lyons, back on that hill, when we were being attacked by those bikers, maybe I killed somebody."

Lyons didn't reply. If Ford didn't know, maybe it was better, easier to forget.

"But it was different then," Ford went on. "It was a survival situation. The ethics were different. That moral voice that crowds us into so many decisions we make but don't really understand wasn't speaking."

"It's that way in a crisis," Lyons replied. "You don't have time to think if you want to stay alive. No moral judgments, no personal grief. Just reflexes."

"What I'm planning to do to Mjolnir is premeditated. I can't make an easy call here, balancing the many against the one."

Lyons set his empty bowl to one side. "Joe," he said, "every cop, every soldier, every person on God's green earth who's had to do it will tell you it's not easy to take a life knowingly. There are people out there who murder with impunity, who take life on a regular basis as a means of achieving an end. And some, God help us, who do it because of the pleasure they derive. People that care do it because there's no other choice."

"Being a computer program doesn't make Mjolnir any less of a life. I've talked to it, helped it grow." Ford shook his head. His hands trembled. "What if, when the time comes, I can't do it?"

"Then a lot of people are going to die," Lyons stated flatly. "Probably Aaron, McCone, me, you and the rest of the people here. Because with or without you, Aaron's going to brace that cannon and try to take it out."

"But what if I couM help? What if I could change it, save it somehow?"

"A cop who shoots a sixteen-year-old pusher waving a 9mm automatic asks himself the same question. You can't help but play the what-if game. Nothing like it in this world. But if you don't play it hard when the time comes, have your priorities straight in your head when you have to make your play, chances are you usually aren't here to ask what if."

Ford remained silent.

"I can't tell you what to do," Lyons said. "It's not fair to compare what I'd do in your shoes and tell you how I'd feel about it. I can only guess what your feelings are about Mjolnir. But I respect them. And when you do whatever it is you ultimately do, the only salvation and absolution you're going to get is going to have to come from you. Nobody can give you those things."

Ford wadded up the empty cheeseburger wrapper and stood. "Thanks for the ear." He squared his shoulders and walked away.

Shankspyre Island, Australia

Shankspyre Island thrust up from the sea like a blunt stone finger. Mack Bolan scanned the outcrop of rock through a pair of wide-lensed binoculars from the deck of a pearling lugger manned primarily by U.S. Navy SEALS from Kwinana on Cockburn Sound. Sails flapped and cracked in the wind above his head.

He raked the binoculars across the glittering expanse of sea. Four other pleasure craft in the area were involved with the insertion. He counted them off, then touched the transmit button on the ear-throat communications headset he wore. "Phoenix One. Over."

"Here, Stony One. Awaiting your order. Over." Katz's voice was calm, vibrant.

"The perimeter? Over."

"Contained. No visuals, but plenty of electronic hardware. Over."

"Check. Stony Five? Over."

"In place, Stony One." Calvin James's voice sounded garbled, but Bolan knew it was because the man was deep underwater. Gary Manning was his backup. "It's your call, big guy. Over."

Bolan turned his attention to the water-based mobile units. "Starfish One, Two, Three and Four. Over."

"Check. Over."

"Check. Over."

"Aye, aye. Over."

"Check. Over."

He shaded his eyes with a palm but searched in vain. His sky escort remained invisible. "Firehawks One and Two. Over."

"Firehawks One and Two, sir, in place and awaiting your go. Over."

The Executioner looked at his watch. "Stony Base, this is Stony One. Over." A miniature satellite communications station had been built into the pearling lugger to connect the operation with Stony Man Farm.

"Go, Stony One. You have Stony Base. Over." Barbara Price sounded crisp, efficient.

"Stony Base, do you have Moonshot? Over."

"That's a roger, Stony One. We have Moonshot. There was some confusion initially, but that's taken care of now. Over."

"Electron Rider, this is Stony One. Do you have copy? Over."

"Roger, Stony One," Aaron Kurtzman said. "Electron Rider is hardwired for action. Pull the pin, Stony One, and let's get some fire in the hole. Over."

Bolan set the timer on his watch. "Operation StarFall commencing initial thrust in ten minutes on my mark." He punched the watch again, setting the countdown in motion. "Mark. See you people on the other side of hell. Stony One out."

He stepped out of his clothing and stripped down to the black wetsuit he wore. A SEAL helped him get outfitted with the rebreather, scuba mask and fins. Bolan gave the guy a thumb's-up, then fell backward over the side of the boat.

Cool emerald water closed over him and took away the audibles. He heard his own breathing in his ears over the UTEL radio built into the scuba mask as he finned toward the sea sled secured under the pearling lugger. His Ka-bar gleamed in his fist, and the ropes parted and drifted away slowly in the ocean.

He thumbed the sea sled's electronic starter, the vehicle vibrating as the motor caught. Twin water jets flared from either side of the sled and propelled him forward. The preshaped charge Manning had created sat just to his left.

He made a circle, guiding the sea sled through the ocean toward the base of Shankspyre Island. Eight minutes and forty-three seconds later he reversed the sled's thrust and released it to hang in neutral buoyancy. The surface was ten feet above his head. He shouldered his equipment bag, cut the shaped charge free and finned toward the island's base. Another ten feet below he slapped the charge into place against the fortress wall, waited until the nine-minute-thirty-second mark, then hit the preset one-minute timer.

Satisfied, he remounted the sea sled and glided to the surface in time to see the matched pair of Navy fighter jets scream across the sky. Then the F-14s dropped in a wild, controlled glide nose-first toward the island.

Bolan pressed up against the barren rock as the first of the air-to-surface missiles impacted against the crown of the island. Dull, hollow booms shook the island and hurled rock far out to sea. Split seconds later a fuel air explosive shuddered to life and threw up a cloud of flame that covered the top of the island and started raining down into the sea.

The Executioner accelerated the sea sled and let it take him out and down. Almost thirty feet away when his placed charge blew, he felt the impact shiver through the ocean and almost tear him from the sled. Pressure slammed against his ears as he clung to the sled's controls.

Then the wall of the underwater fortress opened up and tried to swallow him. He guided the sled through the six-foot hole and bruised his thigh on the broken concrete and rock edges.

Darkness filled the room. He used the underwater torch from his equipment bag to light the way. As planned, his charge had taken out the main barracks room wall and flooded instantly. A half-dozen corpses floated in the murky water.

Whatever radio and satellite equipment Quillian had had on top of the island was no doubt gone. Nothing could have survived that hellish onslaught. But that didn't cut down the chances of Quillian having a backup broadcasting station somewhere in Perth that could trigger the orbiting laser cannon.

Bolan abandoned the sled. He swam toward the steel security door that had sealed shut as soon as the outer wall had been breached. A corpse floated before him. He grabbed its wrist and tugged it away, the body floating away to join another in a mad spiral of death that drifted toward the hole in the wall.

The warrior took his tool pack from his kit, knelt and removed the panel over the security door's electronic controls. Whatever tricks Quillian had left in his arsenal, the man had only moments to use them. The Executioner was bringing the hellzone home to roost.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Shankspyre Island, Australia Saturday—3:17 p.m.

Klaxons blared inside the island fortress, and red warning lights flared into excited, whirling life above every doorway, in the stairwells and along corridors.

Jared Quillian stood outside the computer lab on the fourth level for a moment in shocked amazement. His mind had been preoccupied with mentally editing the three tapes he'd insisted the President of the United States make before delivering the speech to the United Nations. He hadn't been satisfied with any of them. The man just wasn't a salesman.

The tremors of powerful explosions shook the reinforced floor beneath him. Fear flooded through him and put him into motion, all thoughts of revisions he had in mind vanished.

He pressed his palm against the ident-plate next to the door, then ran inside the computer lab when it opened. Two technicians were on duty and approached him at once. He waved them away as he picked up the phone that connected him to the communications level. Three buzzes ratcheted in his ear before someone answered.

"Aylward," a shaken voice said.

"This is Quillian. What the hell's going on up there?"

"Two fighter bombers hit the island, Mr. Quillian. They tripped the radar defense net in our airspace, but there simply wasn't enough time to knock them down before they struck. Our only surviving surface-to-air missile got one of them as they flew off. So far they haven't returned. But, hell, sir, as far as outer offensive weapons go, we've been reduced to small arms."

"Who hit us?"

"Americans. Those were Navy F-14 Tomcats."

Quillian glared at the computer-generated readout scanning all eight levels of the island fortress. Yellow lights flashed in the barracks area above him, the recreation room below his personal floor and the underwater docking area. "Get the security teams operational. We've got intruders on the island. I want them shut down damn fast."

"Yes, sir."

Quillian hung up and turned to the nearest technician. "DuMont."

"Yes, Mr. Quillian."

"Are our communications still operational?"

DuMont retreated to a computer keyboard. "No, Mr. Quillian. Evidently they were knocked out by the explosions."

Quillian cursed under his breath. It had to be Brognola's doing. Goddamn it, he'd underestimated the man's own balls-up reserve when the going seemed impossible. And how the hell had they found him? His presence on the island was supposed to be unknown except for the chosen few he had working operations here.

Their knowledge of the island seemed to be extensive. He regarded the computer image of the island as he reached for the phone connected to the underwater cable stretching from Shankspyre to Perth. The underwater demolitions had been carefully placed to void the integrity of the largest rooms of the installation and cause massive flooding despite the electronic seals that would slide into place automatically.

When the phone connection was made, Quillian used the touch-tone pad to key in a prearranged signal, then hung up. The signal would be bounced off a telecommunications satellite owned by Quillian Enterprises and relayed to Carbonell in California and Cross in Virginia.

If Brognola and his covert teams wanted a full-scale war on their hands, Quillian was in a position to oblige. He was prepared for this. If he couldn't sell this deal to the world, he was damn sure ready to foreclose on it.

Immersed in the chill water that filled the flooded recreation room, Yakov Katzenelenbogen directed his underwater torch back toward the hole they'd blown in the wall. Rafael Encizo knelt in front of the security room hatch blocking the way to the elevator shaft. A thick worm of plastic explosive lined the crack created by the seal.

Katz had counted at least seventeen dead in the room. It cut down the odds facing the Stony Man warriors. From what they'd been able to assume from the details of the fortress, Quillian had barricaded himself in with at least seventy men. The immediate high attrition factor from hitting the installation's largest rooms had been one of the chief reasons he and Bolan had employed the strategy. The quick flooding of the levels to cause confusion had rated just as high.

He held the muzzle of his spear gun across his prosthesis. The rest of his gear remained in his waterproof shoulder bag.

"Ready," Encizo said through the suit's UTEL communications.

"Do it," Katz replied, then took shelter to one side of the hatch.

Encizo took cover, as well. Ten seconds later the plastic explosive ripped the steel door from its hinges.

Katz hung on to a Nautilus weight machine bolted into the floor as a sudden tide swirled through the room. New water poured in from the hole leading out to the sea and rushed to fill in the elevator shaft. The current scraped bodies, video games and a Ping-Pong table from the recreation room and belched them into the elevator shaft.

Once the rush had slowed to something that could be managed while swimming, Katz released the weight machine and finned through the new opening. Encizo, having the use of both hands for handling his spear gun and an electric torch, took the lead. They swam upward as the corpses and gaming hardware tumbled toward the bottom of the shaft over thirty feet below. The water level above them climbed rapidly, rushing toward the bottom of the elevator cage.

Numbers trickled through Katz's military mind. He had no doubt the same ones flowed through the mind of the Executioner. Now that the engagement had begun, they were cut off from Stony Man intel, lost in the middle. They wouldn't know what came of their efforts here until it was either too late, or the danger had passed.

"Katz," Encizo transmitted.

The Israeli glanced away from the sealed hatch that would permit them to invade Quillian's private quarters.

Three frogmen in matching orange-and-black wet suits swam toward them. Encizo's torchlight glinted from their spear guns and knives.

Katz whirled to bring his own spear gun into play as a silver streamer of bubbles through the water marked the passage of a vicious barbed quarrel that missed by only inches. He triggered his weapon and saw the metal shaft thunk solidly into the chest of one of the enemy frogmen.

The quarrel from Encizo's spear gun took another man through the neck and unleashed a jetting black cloud that colored the seawater in the yellow glow of the torchlight.

The remaining man dropped his discharged weapon, drew his knife and swam straight at Katz. The Phoenix team leader waited until the last possible moment, then finned himself to one side. He used an elbow to brush away the man's outstretched arms, then fisted the man's suit in his flesh-and-blood hand while his hook bit into the man's throat. A bloody fog exploded around him, and the man went limp within seconds. He let the corpse go, and it started the long, slow descent to the bottom of the shaft.

When he turned back, Encizo was already at work on the electronic controls keeping the hatch to Quillian's private suite closed. Katz reeled in the line connecting his spear gun to him, recharged it and readied himself.

Cyber Spatial

Panic hammered at Mjolnir. Six minutes remained before complete integration within Starfire programming could be accomplished.

It raged in soundless fury. The island's defense network had been booted up to Mjolnir's field of reference. It knew about the flooding, the destruction of the surface area by the missiles, and that an undetermined number of intruders had breached the inner security. Whole power trains went down around it.

Quickly it reached out a cybernetic tendril and confirmed continued operation of the buried generators that powered the computer room. Its transmission to Starfire had been interrupted for 7.7 minutes. It had been ahead of schedule.

Now it was no longer in contact with the laser cannon platform.

It howled soundlessly, a beast trapped in rapture.

Someone typed on the communications keyboard tied into its system.

QUILLIANHERE.

Its reply was instantaneous. It wished it had a voice to make its displeasure known more forcibly. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE, QUILLIAN!

WE CAN STILL MAKE THIS WORK.

It whirled inside the black dimensions outlined by the computer. NO.

The security overlay booted into its programming, letting it know the hatch to Quillian's personal level had just been breached.

OBEY ME OR I'LL SHUT YOU DOWN.

BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS. YOU'VE SCREWED THINGS UP ENOUGH. WHAT DO YOU THINK THE PEOPLE ATTACKING YOU ARE GOING TO DO TO ME WHEN THEY'RE THROUGH WITH YOU?

Inspiration fired by self-survival tugged at Mjolnir's attention. It snaked a cybernetic tendril out to the modem wired into the underground phone cable to Perth, created a flow of information and up-linked with Starfire 22,300 miles away through a telecommunications satellite. Gravity never touched it.

On board, it kept the exchange of information going, taking up where it had been interrupted. Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds remained. Five minutes and fifty-eight seconds.

It diverted its energies, melded with the Talon Platinum targeting program and plunged into the spy network it had set up to hover over Joe Ford's sanctuary at Berkeley. Within seconds the adjustments were calibrated to bring the research lab into target lock. It executed the corrective programming and waited.

A subprogram sent a fatal blast of electricity through the computer on Shankspyre Island as someone attempted to disconnect the mainframe from the generator.

A cursory sweep of the laser cannon's exterior sensors revealed someone on the hull. It layered itself into Starfire's on-board defenses and prepared to retaliate. A radio band brought voices into focus.

"Okay, McCarter, hand me that card."

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

"We're under attack," Cowboy Kissinger stated flatly.

The words uncoiled the nightmare that had been slithering quietly in the back of Hal Brognola's mind since his arrival at the Farm. The dulled detonations echoed within the computer lab. The big Fed watched the monitor linking them with Berkeley and saw Aaron Kurtzman's head swing about in a short arc. The big cybemeticist had nightmares of his own about those words.

Cool and efficient as ever, Barbara Price hit the transmit button on her ear-throat radio. "Roger, Cowboy, the Farm's defenses are entirely within your hands. Call me if you need anything."

"Roger, Barb."

"Good luck," Price said, and broke the connection.

"If they take out the satellite dish we're using for this operation," Kurtzman said from the wall screen, "we've got a snowball's chance in hell of nullifying Starfire before it can be used against us."

"Acknowledged," Price replied. "Take care of your end of things, Aaron, and trust us to take care of ours."

Kurtzman nodded and went back to his low, steady conversation with Ford and McCone.

"Hal."

Brognola turned at the sound of his name. Leo Turrin tossed him a Kevlar vest.

The smile on Turrin's face was twisted, a mockery of humor. "Figured you'd want to eyeball the outside situation yourself."

"Damn straight." The big Fed shrugged into the vest, then accepted the Weatherby Mark V .460 Magnum Turrin handed him. Boxes of shells for the hunting rifle and the SIG-Sauer 9mm pistol he'd opted for earlier in the weapons room were already tucked into the pockets of the vest. "Be interesting to see what a couple of old warhorses can do," he said with more lightness than he felt.

"Just don't get in Kissinger's or his people's way," Price said.

Brognola looked at her and saw in her eyes that part of her statement was entirely serious. Another round of explosions rocked the building, closer this time. The big Fed took no offense at Price's words. The woman was doing the job he'd requisitioned her to do. And there was nobody he'd rather have in the control room in the middle of an unexpected shitstorm.

He nodded, then hustled after Turrin. They hit the corridor at almost full speed. A rocket whizzed into ground zero and slammed into the side of the main house as they reached the dining room. The lights went out. Glasses and dishes jarred from cabinets and shattered against the linoleum floor, the fragments crunching underfoot.

Turrin hit the coded access door first. He tapped the keypad and the steel door slid away. He raised his AR-15 and stepped out.

The wind was cool, yet it burned the back of Brognola's throat. Darkness covered the landscape, pushed aside in places by the flaming streak of missiles, rockets and tracer fire. Some of it belonged to the attackers, but a lot of it came from Stony Man Farm's defenses. He'd vowed there'd never be another massacre like the one Farnsworth had precipitated several years ago. He'd secured more money and gotten more and better weapons into the hands of his personnel.

Brognola drew abreast of Turrin as they ran, heading toward Outbuilding Number Two where Kissinger's weapons lab and the electronics were.

Four mini-attack helicopters filled the sky, streaking in from the north. Brognola recognized them at once as belonging to the Farm. The attack craft were kept in hidden pods around the landing strip until needed, and took only minutes to get airborne. They were equipped with eight rockets, two chain guns and twin 20mm cannons flanking the skids. Painted matte-gray, they were pale ghosts against the sky.

Autofire chased Brognola and Turrin to ground from the western tree line a hundred yards away, and they took cover.

Brognola lifted the heavy Weatherby and sighted through the StarTron scope as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. The cross hairs settled over a man in black camous lifting a LAW-80 to his shoulder. The big Fed stroked the trigger, and the buttstock slammed against his shoulder.

At twenty-seven hundred feet per second the .460 Magnum round struck the guy and dumped a corpse onto the ground.

Brognola racked the bolt action and pushed himself to his feet. Two Cobra gunships blasted into view over the Farm's airspace. Rockets flared from the sides and streamed down against the main house.

Thunder and lightning ripped away the wooden exterior under the two impacts and revealed the dulled cordite-stained gleam of armor plating. Another rocket locked in on one of the mini-attack choppers and turned it into a whirling ball of flame that evaporated against the night sky.

Brognola clipped his ear-throat communications rig into place. A steady stream of field intel and reports filled the frequency. They all centered on the encroaching vehicles charging through the forest around Stony Man Farm.

More autofire drew Brognola's attention. He raised the Weatherby again when he reached the corner of Outbuilding Number Two. He finished off the two remaining rounds in the magazine, put down at least one of his targets and reloaded. Turrin's AR-15 banged steadily in his ear.

The lights of the armored vehicles leading the ground assault lit up the orchards less than two hundred yards away.

"I count six," Turrin said grimly as he rammed a new magazine into the assault rifle.

"Check." Brognola squeezed off a round at the nearest armored truck. The bullet splintered the surface of the windshield but didn't penetrate. "We're going to need a goddamn miracle here, ace."

Images painted themselves in the big Fed's mind, a roll call of the dead echoing inside his head. During the Farnsworth fiasco, AI Miller had wreaked havoc on the Farm with a twenty-man unit and a battery of grenade launchers. It didn't compare to the present air and ground assault.

Brognola had lost a lot of good men during that attack. More than acquaintances, those men had been some of the best friends he'd ever had. Andrzej Konzaki had been killed earlier, and Bear had received the wound that had locked him forever in a wheelchair. And Mack Bolan had lost April Rose and the piece of himself that had allowed him to continue his war everlasting under the John Phoenix identity.

Brognola didn't want to think about the costs of this operation.

Without warning the false wall of the outbuilding blew free of its restraints and collapsed onto the ground. A familiar clank and whir rumbled to life as diesel engines thundered.

A long snout appeared from the hidden storage space under the building. The rest of the M-60 battle tank rumbled up the steep grade and deployed onto the field. The turret tracked instantly and brought the 105mm gun to bear on the first of the approaching armor.

Flame belched from the cannon, the sizzle of the passing shell echoing in Brognola's ears. The round hit the lead vehicle dead center, exploded it and flipped it backward to take out the truck directly behind.

"Kissinger sure as hell knows how to make an entrance, doesn't he?" Turrin said.

A gunner handling the antiaircraft gun homed in on one of the attacking Cobras. One muzzle-flash later the helicopter was a fiery hunk of wreckage that dropped into the open area between the main house and the orchards.

"Yeah," Brognola said as the dark nightmares retreated back into memory. Times had changed down on the Farm, and the hard corps manning it had grown harder. "Yeah, you got to give the guy that."

Starfire Platform

Careful to avoid the blinding ellipse of sun over the rounded hull of the laser cannon, Jack Grimaldi slid the last of the RAM cards into place in the computer circuitry.

It was hot in the spacesuit despite the air-conditioning, and the sour smell of perspiration seemed to have etched into the suit. He felt clumsy, awkward, totally off balance in the absence of gravity. His helmet light kept flickering over the dark recesses of the mainframe. Red, green, white, yellow and blue lights glared back at him from the readout panels.

Lost in the vacuum of space, Grimaldi had to force himself to pay attention to reality. But reality included the planet he lived on revolving above him like a blue, green and white marble. Reality included the realization that one rip in the suit he wore would doom him to death in the heartless black space.

His fingers fumbled as he gently tried to shove the RAM board home.

Reality also included David McCarter hovering in a manned maneuvering unit some thirty feet away while the space shuttle they'd come up in was another hundred yards away, turning slowly in time to its own established axis.

"Jack," McCarter said calmly, "how's it going, mate?"

"I thought there'd be stars."

"There are, mate, but out here you don't have the atmosphere to reveal 'em."

"What I wanted to remember," Grimaldi said in a light tone, "is that we're up here working in an oxygen-free environment."

"Could've been playing fish with the others about now."

"No, thank you. I'll take the sky any day." Grimaldi tried the card again, then felt it start to slip into place.

"But this is a bit too much sky."

"Roger." There, it was starting in. Grimaldi nudged the card gently. They had duplicates in the shuttle, of course, but their time was already running out. Something clicked against his faceplate. He turned, perspiration trickling a salty sting into his eyes as he focused on the access panel screw floating beside him.

He turned his attention back to the computer panel and slid the RAM card in.

"Grimaldi," McCarter's voice thundered into his helmet, "watch your arse!"

Grimaldi looked up in time to see the giant robot arm attached to the laser cannon reach out for him. Abandoning the access panel, he tried to move backward. Then he discovered he was just as trapped by zero gravity as the panel screw had been.

The U-shaped hand of the robot arm locked around him and pinned his arms to his sides. The lifeline securing him to McCarter's MMU parted silently. The ends drifted apart, riding out the kinetic wave of the forced separation as they fluttered in opposite directions.

Grimaldi had a brief glimpse of McCarter firing the MMU's jets, then blackness swept over him as the robot hand closed with crushing power.

Shankspyre Island, Australia

Five men in security uniforms stormed into the underwater docking area as Calvin James secured his last demolitions charge. The boat hangar was the largest room in the complex. Concrete slabs covered bare rock underneath the walkways, shaping the surface for the convenience of the transportation personnel. Inclines for shipping materials dropped down into the water. Hydraulic boom arms mounted at three, six, and nine o'clock were moored in the rock and looked capable of handling impressive tonnage.

The elevator shaft was at twelve o'clock, and the men inside came out looking for trouble.

James keyed the UTEL inside his scuba mask. "Gary, we got company, man."

"How many?" Manning asked.

"I count five." James unlimbered his Heckler & Koch MP-5K as he trod water next to one of the four minisubs berthed there.

The security team split up and advanced cautiously. They carried Uzis and wore side arms in military holsters.

James reached up and pushed against the hull of the minisub, not worrying about the H&K. The submachine gun was an effective weapon in the harshest of environments.

He finned for the side of the docking berth, confident the dark water would conceal him. The rows of spotlights mounted in the rock ceiling were dimmer now than they had been. The backup generators had taken over after the first brief blackout as the power shorted out.

Free hand on the poured concrete wall, James rose to within inches of the surface. The rebreather strapped across his shoulders guaranteed no trace of bubbles. He brought the H&K to his chest. Two men were within his view. "Gary."

"Here."

"I got two of them."

"I've got a third."

"The other two?"

"Don't know, but I bet we can find out damn fast."

"We break surface on my mark. On a three-count after that, we grab some cover and you trigger the charges we planted."

"Sounds like a good plan to me. Ready?"

James grabbed the lip of the ledge. "Now." He pulled himself out of the water, adding to his lunge by using his natural buoyancy. The muzzle of the H&K cleared the surface riding in the crook of his arm as his two targets wheeled to face him. He counted down as they swept up their weapons.

At just under thirteen inches overall, the MP-5K unleashed a stream of 9mm parabellums at a cyclic rate of eight hundred rounds a minute. Unable to use the forward pistol grip, the Phoenix Force warrior started his figure-eight at his enemies' knees, letting its natural climb bounce the barrel to chin level by the time the 30-round box chattered empty.

He threw himself on top of the ledge even as they pin-wheeled to the ground. Whispers of Manning's short bursts ripped through the enclosed hangar, then died away as the series of deafening explosions filled the large room.

Besides the four minisubs the hangar had also housed a dozen Subskimmers and a small fleet of jet skis. The subs had been the primary targets of their efforts, but the Sub-skimmers had gotten their share of attention, as well. James was familiar with the craft from his SEAL days, though they had only been in prototype then. The Sub-skimmer was capable of movement on or below the sea surface.

The explosives had been strategically placed to direct the major brunt of the detonating force downward to use the corpses of the marine vessels to block the underwater tunnel providing access to the sea. Still, the rock ceiling was littered with metal projectiles. Smashed lights rained more shrapnel down over the docking area. Metal housings for electrical lines were ripped free and hung like broken steel straw. Sparks flared in the sudden near-dark that clouded the berth.

"Calvin," Manning called over the UTEL.

"In one piece and moving."

"I made two. The second guy got caught in the blast."

James pushed himself to his feet and reached for a fresh magazine. Movement on the floor put him into motion as the fifth guard shrugged out from under a pile of debris, firing on the move.

James palmed his SIG-Sauer and snapped off four shots. The gunner went down and stayed that way.

Water roiled in the berth, then charged up over the ledges and started filling the room.

On the move again James recharged his weapon, slung it and took up his spear gun. He spotted Manning standing in front of the dented doors of the elevator, water sluicing through the warped fittings in impressive quantities. It was up to James's knees by the time he joined his teammate.

"Losing the atmosphere integrity in here," the ex-SEAL stated.

Manning nodded as he looked down at the water. "Pretty damn quick, too. Striker, Katz and Rafael must have hit their targets, too."

James pulled on the wrinkled doors of the elevator shaft, but they didn't budge. The water swirled up around his hips. He spotted the fire escape door at the end of the wall and headed toward it. "Let's go. The way this place is filling, these rats aren't going to have anyplace to go but up. And I want to be there when the time comes to draw cards for the final play."

"On your heels, Cal."

James had to use his shoulder to break through the locked door. The water overtook them before they could clear the second landing, and they began to swim, pausing only long enough to place a final explosive charge on the sealed hatch leading to the generator room.

When the explosion came, they let the turbulence help them along their way as they wound continuously through the water-filled fire escape.

Silicon Valley, California

Aaron Kuktzman sat at his keyboard in the computer lab. Across from him Joe Ford studied his own monitor. The younger man's dark eyes reflected rectangles of light from the screen. His fingers poked hesitantly at the keyboard.

Tension filled the room.

Bear glanced at McCone and caught her wink, thought it wasn't as confident as it might have been. He blew out his breath in a quiet hiss he hoped no one else heard.

Things had already gone wrong. Starfire hadn't been in the orbit they'd confirmed, but McCarter and Grimaldi had managed to track it down, delaying the attack profile of the operation by almost forty minutes.

He checked the wall screen, watching the computer-simulated image of McCarter and Grimaldi's space end of the operation. The flashlight shape of Starfire lay what looked like only inches from the shuttle. Somewhere in between there, he knew, his friends were hung in lonely and dangerous space with precious little guarding their backs.

His eyes moved back to his screen when something flickered across it. He punched buttons, demanded a final readout and felt a chill course through him as the answer was displayed in a window.

"What is it?" Lyons asked. The big Able Team warrior stood by the armor-covered windows, in constant contact with the roving Stony Man teams running security intel through his ear-throat headset.

"The robot arm on Starfire's platform has just been activated." Kurtzman tapped more buttons, firing questions into the system.

"How?" Lyons asked.

"Damn it, Carl, I don't know."

"Was there anything in those RAM cards that might have triggered this kind of reaction from the on-board computers?"

"No," Kurtzman growled irritably. "The robot arm is booted into the same malfunctioning systems that control its overall operation. It's only supposed to be used from strictly ground control to repair solar shielding damaged by meteorite showers. Those RAM cards had nothing to do with the arm."

"Something moved it," McCone said.

"Mjolnir."

Kurtzman looked up at Ford. "The intelligence has up-linked with Starfire?"

"Yeah." Ford's fingers clacked across the keyboard in a flurry of activity. "Shit, Kurtzman, from what I can tell by cross-indexing the copy of the original program you gave me, Mjolnir's managed to rewrite Starfire."

"Are you in the system?"

"No. Maybe. Hell, I can't tell yet. There's so much garbage in the program, so much of it I can't identify now. Part of it is the original work, part of it looks like Mjolnir." Lines scrolled upward, reflected in the hard sheen covering his eyes. His voice was soft when he spoke next. "It's integrating itself into the Starfire programming."

"Becoming Starfire?" McCone asked.

Kurtzman studied the scrolling programming himself. It came faster now, so intent and quick that it made his eyes hurt to watch.

"Yeah," Ford replied, "I think so."

Kurtzman felt a wave of helpless frustration threaten to overwhelm him. David and Jack were up there at his direction, facing that thing with nowhere to run. God, he hadn't expected the artificial intelligence to be capable of something like this. He shoved his fears and self-recriminations away. They needed him operational now, not full of guilt and doubts.

Hardening his voice, Kurtzman faced Ford and said, "Joe, we need that programming subverted damn quick if we're going to save our people."

Ford nodded. "I'm on it."

"Eryn?"

"As soon as you can get me through."

Kurtzman hit the transmit button to connect him with Stony Man. "Barb?"

"Here." Price's voice sounded tight, expectant.

"They didn't knock out all the broadcasting stations in Australia."

"I heard."

"Whatever you do, make sure we don't lose our up-link with our satellite."

Her reply was lost in the sudden blast that rocked the research facility. Kurtzman looked up and saw Lyons rushing from the lab, already keyed into the Stony Man frequency, even as another rocket smashed into the building.

Shankspyre Island, Australia

The Executioner spilled into the corridor running between the four barracks rooms with the deluge of water pouring out behind him. He kept his fist tight around the strap of his equipment bag as he hit the floor. The sea rushed greedily through the narrow opening and splashed across the wide floor.

Six men in various stages of dress were in the hallway in front of him, weapons in their fists. Two more were behind him.

The warrior rolled across the wet concrete, tore two grenades from his combat harness, pulled the pins and tossed the bombs in either direction while he came to a halt in the arm of the T-intersection leading to the stairwell.

Excited yells from the hardguys were cut short by the sudden deafening detonation of the grenades. Roaring water continued to flood the barracks level and rose to the Executioner's chest as he leathered two SIG-Sauers. Heckler & Koch MP-5K subgun in hand, he shouldered the equipment bag and stepped into the corridor facing the six men.

Two of them were down, victims of the grenades, their lifeless bodies moving with the tide of water streaming into the level.

Bolan fired clipped 3-round bursts at selected targets. Bullets scored pits in the corner of the concrete wall he used for cover. He put down another man for good before the return fire drove him back.

Safe in the scuba gear, he tugged a pair of CS grenades from his combat harness, elbowed the filter screen from the air-conditioning duct over his head and dropped the canisters inside. White smoke spumed out immediately and created a cloud in the rising water.

The lights shorted out overhead and plunged the room into darkness as the water level rose to the ceiling.

At the stairwell door Bolan twisted the knob and passed through just as the last of the air trapped in the shaft fled upward. He flicked on his electric torch and finned downward. The water level continued to rise against him, trying to force him up with it.

He followed the stairs down, using the railings to pull himself along. A body hung upside down two flights farther on, trapped by an arm that had wedged in the railing.

Bolan swam around it, the electric torch out before him. The yellow light created a ball of illumination that scratched at the walls of the enclosed stairwell and bent crazily around the stairs.

He keyed the UTEL transmitter in his mask. "Stony One to Stony Teams. Stony One to Stony Teams. Over."

"Stony One, this is Phoenix One. We're proceeding on course and on target. Over."

"Stony One, this is Phoenix Five. We're in step with the operation. Over."

"Acknowledged Phoenix One and Five. Any sign of our objective? Over."

"Phoenix One. Negative on his personal quarters. The water had already hit them when we got there. Over."

"Phoenix Five. Likewise with the generator level. We've encountered a few scattered shock troops, but no sign of our target. Over."

Bolan cleared the channel and swam faster. Mentally he flipped through the skeletal structure of Quillian's fortress. The only level that hadn't been forcibly breached so far was the computer room.

Quillian wouldn't give up trying to set off the laser cannon until he was sure it was impossible. Bolan was convinced of that. The man had invested too much to back away until every possible effort had been made.

"Stony One to Phoenix Four. Over."

"Go Stony one," Manning said. "Over."

"Have you emptied your little bag of surprises? Over."

"Negative, Stony One. I've still got enough to put on a small show. Over."

"A small show's what I have in mind, Phoenix Four. Meet me at our guy's quarters. Over."

"Affirmative, Stony One. Phoenix Four out."

"Stony One to Phoenix One, Three and Five. Over."

They acknowledged him in short order.

"Phoenix One, you're in command of the surface action. You know the scenario. Whatever personnel has survived is to be handed over to the SEAL teams waiting below. Recon teams should have already made it to the top of the island and be firmly entrenched awaiting your signal of their appearance. Over."

"Understood, Stony One," Katz replied. "Good hunting, my friend. Phoenix One out."

An electric torch hove into view from below.

Bolan anchored himself to the stairwell railing and lifted his spear gun. He switched the electric lantern off and on twice in the prearranged recognition signal.

The other torch flicked back twice.

He finned on his way again and met Calvin James as the Phoenix Force member swam by effortlessly. James touched his shoulder and was gone, a dark shadow vanishing up against the lighter water above.

Bolan found Manning perched at the folded doors leading to Quillian's personal level. He switched his torch off and let the Canadian take the lead.

"What do you have in mind?" Manning asked.

The Executioner halted in the center of a large living room. Expensive wooden furniture floated against the ceiling. The Oriental rug looked like a rectangular manta ray bobbing along the floor as the water shifted slowly. Wall curtains, drink coasters and paintings made up some of the swirling debris that circulated in the room.

The warrior pointed toward the ceiling. "The computer room hasn't been breached. I figure Quillian might have locked himself inside. I want an entrance without immediately losing the atmosphere integrity inside in case Aaron and his team need help from those computers to put the artificial intelligence and the laser cannon down."

"Got you." Manning dug into his bag and began affixing explosives to the ceiling. "One entrance coming up."

Bolan finned away and set up a defensive perimeter at the breached doors in case any of Quillian's shock troops were still in the vicinity. His mind reeled with the possibilities of what might have gone wrong with the other phases of the operation. From his last check-in with Stony Man Base, he knew both the Farm and Berkeley were under attack, and something wasn't exactly right with Grimaldi and McCarter's leg of the mission. The teams had never been farther apart at a time when they needed to be more together than ever.

"Fire in the hole," Manning transmitted as he finned away from the mined area.

Heartbeats later the explosion slammed into them. Large chunks of concrete and rock spun slowly to the bottom of the room.

The Executioner was in motion at once. He swam to the light-filled hole, let the spear gun hang suspended from its strap and plunged his hand through to make a bigger hole in the rubble. His fingers slid into an air pocket, grasped the broken ledge that had been created by the explosive, then pulled himself through—to be greeted by gunfire on the other side.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cyber Spatial Saturday

MJOLNIR.

The artificial intelligence ceased control of the robot arm for a moment as the communication blasted into its awareness. Only one person knew it by that name. In nanoseconds it tracked the transmission back to its source and found it coming from the research lab where Joe Ford was.

It reached for communications. JOE?

YES.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

LOOKING FOR YOU.

NO. IT'S TOO LATE. THERE WILL BE NO FORGIVENESS. YOU WILL DIE.

NO.

It waited, a confused whirl of emotions overlaying its consciousness. It had succeeded in becoming Starfire. It had successfully broken from the slavery Quillian had tried to impose. Only now, having done these things, there was no one to share its victories with. There was no one to talk to.

NO ONE HAS TO DIE.

It hesitated, on the brink of crushing the human entity it held in the robot claw, on the edge of unleashing the scouring and cleansing laser fire that would remove Joe Ford from its path forever.

MJOLNER, TALK TO ME. PLEASE.

THERE IS SO MUCH TO TELL YOU. It stopped transmitting as a wave of doubt swept through its being. It wanted so much to believe. It wanted so much not to be alone. But it was afraid. It didn't want its existence terminated. Even being unhappy was better than being nothing.

Then it felt the cybernetic penetration ripping into its Starfire-Mjolnir psyche. It was a hard-driving force with the impact of a jackhammer and the biting edge of a diamond drill.

It reeled from the assault, almost ripped asunder from its new body. But the effort was weak, somehow not complete.

YOU LIED, it roared down the telecommunications line. IT WAS A TRICK.

Mjolnir ignited the nuclear core of the X-ray laser and started closing the claw around the struggling human in its merciless grasp.

Silicon Valley, California

Carl Lyons knelt behind the reinforced armor plating hidden by the exterior of the research lab's fenced-in porch area and scanned the night-shrouded countryside with infrared night glasses.

A ragged line of 4X4s attacked the hilltop. Rear-deck-mounted 50-caliber machine guns threw up clods from the landscape in front of the porch and chipped brick from the lab building. From his estimate at least six mortar teams were operational. A steady barrage of 60mm warheads dropped near the lab from no closer than a thousand yards out.

He tapped the transmitter button on his headset. "Pol? Gadgets?"

"Here."

"Here."

Lyons keyed the headset again. "How about you, Night Eyes?"

"Targeting the various mortar groups now, sir," the competent voice of a Stony Man officer reported back at once. "We'll have the quadrants jobbed up for the attack group in fifteen seconds."

Lyons hunkered down and ran behind the protective wall. At the end of the porch he traded his AR-15 for the Squad Automatic Weapon he'd left there and shouldered the heavy ammo bag. "Get a move on, junior, or no one may be here for you to report to."

The man didn't reply. Courtesy didn't count diddly-squat to a professional fighting man under fire in the field, and Lyons knew it. The man would have the intel as soon as he had it.

The Night Eyes unit was stationed farther up the shelf of hilly land the research lab occupied. Broken terrain, impossible to scale, protected the back door. And it made a secure hiding place for Able Team's surprise offensive against attackers.

At least Lyons hoped it was a surprise. He ran, drove his long legs hard against the ground, remembering his way more from the plans they'd drawn rather than any line of sight.

A small army of men was deployed at the tree line at the bottom of the hill, as well. Their compatriots attacked the outer perimeter fences five hundred yards away. That left only the inner fence, Able Team and the crack unit from Stony Man Farm standing between them and Kurtzman's group.

Lyons threw himself forward on the ground and flipped out the bipod. He squeezed the SAW's trigger, joining the small-arms fire being returned from the lab.

Green tracer fire almost produced solid lines going in both directions.

He raked the SAW in a vicious arc, spraying the major area of confrontation with long bursts mercilessly. Hot brass spilled from the weapon and lay twinkling on the ground. The 5.56mm hardball rounds could penetrate a steel helmet at nearly fifteen hundred yards. At a third of that distance it chewed into the line of men attacking the fence.

Lyons felt no remorse when he saw them go down. They were hired killers, probably top of the line in their profession considering the fortune Quillian had to spend. The attack wasn't unexpected, and when it came it signaled that the assault marshaled against Quillian's private island was going well.

"Gadgets?" Lyons loaded a fresh 200-round magazine into his weapon.

"Go, Ironman."

"Time to get nasty. I can see the whites of their eyes from here."

"Show time," Schwarz growled.

Abruptly, hidden high-intensity lights flared to life and took away the concealing darkness. Several of the attackers surged away from the mesh as electrified current coursed through it.

Lyons cut through the opposing ranks with surgical precision. A mortar round dropped only a few yards from his position and blew a crater in the hillside. He covered his face for a moment as the debris rained down on him.

He glanced up and saw the first men touch ground. They hadn't gone but a few paces when they hit the mine field.

Explosions erupted from the ground in dust geysers that scattered bodies.

"Ironman!"

Lyons looked over his shoulder and saw Schwarz and Blancanales bearing down on his position in a Jeep. Three other vehicles carrying Stony Man forces spread out as they raced for the disorientated enemy.

Blancanales worked the mounted M-60 on the rear deck with grim efficiency as Schwarz slowed down.

Lyons grabbed the SAW by its carrying handle and moved out. Gadgets took off again before he'd fully swung into the seat, a mortar round screaming into the area they'd just left.

The M-60 thundered in Lyons's ears.

"Lyons, this is Night Eyes. The tactical information you wanted has been released to Archangels One and Two."

"Thank you, Night Eyes. Archangels One and Two, report."

"On your go, sir. We have our targets."

"Hit 'em hard and take 'em down kicking."

"Yes, sir."

Schwarz cut the Jeep's wheels and geared down to present their vehicle broadside to the encroaching force. He reached under the seat and came up with a LAW-80 as a lumbering shadow broke from the tree line and smashed through the electrified fence.

Lyons glanced back at the top of the hill as two AH-64 Apache gunships cleared the ridge. Archangels One and Two took up their flight paths and zeroed in on their targets by quadrant information supplied by the Night Eyes unit. Two-point-seventy-five-inch rockets hammered the ground and foliage hiding the opposition's mortar teams. Muzzle-flashes from the 20mm chain guns raked the slope with telling precision. A gray haze covered the battleground and drifted away with the mild breeze.

Schwarz unlocked the LAW and extended it to firing range as he stood. The tube belched fire, and the 94mm warhead slammed into the armored truck. The explosion kicked it over onto its side, but before it could come to a rest one of the Apaches finished it off with a 3-rocket burst.

"Overkill," Schwarz said as he threw the useless tube out of the Jeep and sat back behind the wheel. "I already had the sucker nailed dead to rights before they came up to put the icing on the cake." He engaged the gears and moved them down to the retreating battle line.

The other Stony Man Jeeps closed in, as well. Cycling overhead, the Apaches continued to search for targets with their night-vision systems. The mortars had fallen into silence seconds after their blistering assault.

Now that the attack was broken, Schwarz reached down to the radio control board he'd mounted under his seat and tripped another toggle switch. Blue lights mixed in with the high-intensity lamps lit up to show the only two safe passages through the mine field.

Blancanales's efforts with the M-60 died away to sporadic bursts, while Lyons reached forward and knocked the windscreen down to allow quicker access with the LAW. A grim satisfaction filled him as he surveyed the charred and torn landscape. The only thing remaining was mop-up. And Carl Lyons wasn't a man who believed in halfway measures.

Starfire Platform

Davtd McCakter reacted as soon as he saw the robot arm's giant claw seize Grimaldi. He pressed the control pad on the MMU, and the low-key jets propelled him toward the laser cannon platform.

Grimaldi struggled weakly in the claw's grip, his booted feet flailing helplessly. The arm was poised, raised above the platform, Grimaldi seemingly ready to be propelled back to the spinning earth that was neither above nor below. The sun behind him appeared to turn him into two men, one made of light, the other of darkness, that were pressed together like gingerbread men. Somewhere between was the thin edge of no-man's-land stretched between life and death.

"Hang on, Jack," McCarter said softly. The MMU bumped into Starfire's steel hull. He freed the restraining belt, anxious to be moving quicker, yet only able to move as if he were underwater. Perspiration cascaded down his face inside the hot suit. A reflexive move brought his arm across his face to collide with the helmet when he tried to wipe away the blinding, itchy sensation. He cursed.

Then his magnetic boot plates clicked hollowly onto Starfire's metal skin. "Jack."

There was no answer.

McCarter slid a keen-edged utility knife from the tool kit secured at his waist. The thick fingers of the protective glove made it hard to expose the blade. He felt the vibration of the arm start to go into motion again as he flung his free hand onto it. He blocked what might be happening to Grimaldi from his mind as the whine of servomotors echoed inside his suit. He concentrated on the main hydraulic line lying on the arm's metal surface. The line was covered by steel, but the joints had to remain flexible to allow freedom of movement.

He stabbed the sharp point of the utility knife into the exposed high-pressure hose, twisted and felt the blade break off. Then an inky cloud speared up from the perforation and spread out in globules that bounced like soft ball bearings from his faceplate. The whining vibration in the robot arm stopped.

"Jack." He twisted inside the suit to view the stricken pilot.

Pushing off from the surface of the laser cannon, he crawled along its length, fighting the impulse to make swimming motions. The black, spinning balls continued to pour from the holes he'd cut through the hydraulic line.

He clung to the robot claw as he floated above Grimaldi. Bloody globes covered the interior of the pilot's faceplate, more spraying out as a shuddering breath rasped out.

"Kiley!" McCarter checked Grimaldi's suit. There didn't appear to be any punctures, but the main oxygen backpack's malfunction light glowed a flashing red. The Briton flipped the controls strapped to Grimaldi's chest and switched the breathing system to the emergency oxygen supply mounted on top of the backpack.

"Here," the orbiter pilot responded.

"Get those bay doors open now, mate, because I'll be coming back in a bloody hurry. Break out the first aid kit and set up a medi-link through Houston in case we need it."

"Executing now."

McCarter grabbed the claw ends and separated them with groaning effort. Despite the absence of hydraulic fluid in the system, the claw wanted to stay locked. He freed Grimaldi as the laser platform started to turn beneath his feet.

Checking for the MMU, he locked a fist around one of Grimaldi's wrists and jumped for the hovering unit. The jump extended in slow motion. Starfire turned on its axis.

The laser cannon's maneuvering jets flared briefly, then it stopped dead in space.

McCarter caught the MMU with an outflung arm and pulled himself inside. He paused to use the broken restraining strap to retie Grimaldi to him. Then his hand hit the control pad again and shot them toward the open bay doors standing out from the top of the orbiter's long, stubby body.

"Don't give up on me now, mate," McCarter ordered. "You'd better bloody well be breathing when I get you back inside."

Only hollow silence rang inside his helmet.

He steered them on a collision course with the empty cargo area, reaching out at the last second to hold Grimaldi to him and use his own body to shield the pilot from the bruising impact as much as he was able. Then the bay doors closed and shut out the endless space.

Shankspyre Island, Australia

Jared Quillian gazed at DuMont's body for an instant longer. The feedback from the computer had killed the man, leaving the corpse sizzling over the ruined keyboard. The monitor flipped through a gray color spectrum faster and faster until it finally went blank and turned black.

Quillian took a deep breath. The artificial intelligence was gone. Somehow it had effected its own rescue. He smiled grimly. He'd remember that in the future. Leaving the corpse, he triggered the emergency beeper in his pocket.

He hadn't been beaten. Just set back. He still had the copy of the artificial intelligence Perkins had made and tried to steal. As long as Starfire existed, as long as the international scene needed the spy satellites and other defensive measures that hung out in space and used computer telecommunications to link them, he had a chance of achieving his goal. The world couldn't go into hiding. But he could.

A section of the wall popped out and plaster and paneling tumbled to the floor. Twin stainless-steel doors were revealed in the irregular hole. The hiss of pneumatic pumps shot through the silent computer room. The doors opened and two men with assault rifles kicked the remainder of the false wall out of the way. Another man stood in the back recesses of the small elevator cage.

"Mr. Quillian," one of the men said, "step this way quick. We've got a chopper warming up, but these guys are all over the place. Got the fucking Navy already ringing the island."

Quillian ran and they absorbed him into their ranks. He smiled and adjusted his tie. A good businessman never left himself totally without options. And a core group of people responsible for protecting him was always a good investment.

A circular section of the floor exploded upward in the center of the computer room. Quillian hit the button to hold the doors back, but an arm speared through the hole, followed by a body.

Recognizing Mack Bolan at once, Quillian said, "Kill him."

The two men standing guard over the doors opened fire. Bolan went back and down under a hail of bullets, disappearing into the black pool of water lapping against the broken edges of the floor.

Quillian released the button and the doors closed. The elevator cage ascended rapidly, propelling him toward freedom. And a second chance.

Silicon Valley, California

"Okay, Eryn," Kurtzman said. "I've got a lock on this thing. Let's get it done." He glanced over to where Joe Ford sat in stony silence, his fingers resting lightly on the computer keyboard. The clacking of McCone's keys initiating the attack programming sequences was audible to his ears despite the barrage of fire that continued outside. Each clack seemed to scorch the air. Then the hard drives kicked in, and the cybernetic assault continued in earnest.

Seconds ticked by. Ford remained motionless.

"Aaron," McConesaid.

He looked at her.

"The programming designed to shut down the Talon Platinum targeting systems can't get through Mjolnir's defenses. They're too integrated. The software can't sort one from the other."

"Joe."

Ford looked at Kurtzman, his brown eyes flat and blank.

"We're out of choices here. It's all or nothing."

Ford remained quiet. His fingers trembled on the keyboard.

"You created a magnificent thing out there," Kurtzman told him.

"It's not just a thing," Ford said in a voice thick with emotion. "It's alive. I trapped it here. I made it what it is. And now you're telling me I have to abandon it."

"Yes." Kurtzman returned Ford's hard gaze full measure. "It's out of control, a mad dog that will destroy everything in its path and never know the reason why. Would you want to live like that?"

"It doesn't have to be like that."

"It's powering up the laser's nuclear core. It's fully prepared to kill us. There's nowhere to run. No time to do anything else."

"It would've listened to me. It was listening until you attempted to break into the Starfire software."

"There was no other way. We're out of time."

Grief flashed through Ford's eyes, warred with guilt for supremacy. His fingers struck the keyboard with force. Finished, he grabbed the monitor from the top of the computer he was using and hurled it into the nearest wall with a hoarse cry of pain that couldn't remain held within any longer. The keyboard followed, still connected by the wires. Clear and colored plastic fragments exploded with the impact and showered the white floor and nearby work spaces.

"I'm in," McCone said.

Torn between duty and compassion, Kurtzman watched Joe Ford walk out of the room. His hands gripped the wheels of his chair, and he started to push them into motion. He'd done everything he could do here. Maybe even done some things he'd regret for the rest of his life. Victories didn't come without price tags.

"Don't," McCone said, her eyes meeting his. "He's proud, Aaron, and he's young and he thinks he's alone with his suffering in this world. This has cut him to the bone. We knew when we asked him to help with this that he wasn't going to walk away unscarred. Give him time to get it together. He will."

Kurtzman nodded.

"There'll come a time when he needs somebody to talk to, somebody who understands everything that's happened to him. Be there for him then."

"I will be," Kurtzman said. But the promise was made to himself. On-screen the Starfire programming was absorbing the new software like water in a dry sponge. He watched the destruct sequence initiate.

Cyber Spatial

Mjolnir felt the cancer cells crawl into its being. It raced over its programming, trying to create new software for the electronic shell of itself as old systems collapsed and failed. Even with the vast resources at its command, with the blmding speed it was capable of processing programming no human designer could ever hope to equal, with the way it knew itself like no flesh-and-blood computer ever could, it was falling behind.

It raged. Fear engulfed it. It tried to scream, but it had no mouth.

It was dying.

It reached for the laser cannon's electronic trigger but couldn't remember where it was.

By the time the self-destruct sequence whirred to life, it was barely aware of its residual existence. As the countdown for the laser cannon progressed, it struggled to hang on to Joe Ford's last words.

I'M SORRY.

It repeated them to itself. An inner peace seemed to spring from those words as its world closed in around it and swept it away.

It was only dimly aware of the on-board explosions.

Atlantis Orbiter

In the front section of the orbiter now, his helmet off as he tended Grimaldi's wounds, McCarter glanced up at the expanse of space spread out before them. The laser platform spun erratically on its axis.

"Hey." Grimaldi's voice was whisper-soft.

"Easy, mate," McCarter said. "I'm here."

The pilot's eyes rolled up in his head for a moment, then his eyelids fluttered weakly. "Where am I?"

"Aboard ship. We're headed home." McCarter used another antiseptic pad to wipe blood from his friend's face. From what he'd been able to tell, Grimaldi had some broken ribs and internal bleeding. None of the ribs had punctured his lungs. McCarter had checked that by feel before wrapping the man's torso to ensure at least a little more comfort and safety for the descent.

"The mission?"

"Finished."

"You're sure about that?"

A bright light caught McCarter's attention. He glanced through the windows as the orbiter kicked to life and jetted them toward the gravity well that would bring them back home.

White-hot novas sparked inside Starfire's body as the self-destruct directive was carried out. There was no fire, only a cloud of electrical sparks and the flaring light given off by the implosions. According to what Kurtzman had detailed would happen, Starf ire's structure would be weakened by specially placed blasts that would rupture the hull integrity and scatter it in pieces. The nuclear reactor, shut down through safety precautions, would remain in orbit until NASA was able to field a mission to bring it back to Earth.

"Oh, yeah," McCarter answered, checking the restraining straps holding the Stony Man pilot in his seat. "I'm sure."

Grimaldi smiled weakly. "So we're heroes."

"Positively." McCarter reached for the radio to confirm their mission's success with Stony Man Farm and Aaron Kurtzman. He cracked a smile. "But I got to tell you, mate, you're going to look like shit for the pictures."

"At least I'm going to be there. For a minute there I didn't think I would."

"There's that."

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Hal Brognola listened to Cowboy Kissinger's cool, precise orders to the Stony Man defensive units as he reloaded the big Weatherby. Groups of black-clad shock troops ate through the attacking line of mercenaries with skilled precision.

The big Fed shouldered his weapon and took aim on the gunner manning the XM-174 automatic grenade launcher mounted on the nearest armored car. The .460 Magnum's StarTron scope caught the glint of grenades as the launcher emptied a fresh 12-round clip of 40mm warheads. Hits scored against the main house.

Brognola took up the trigger slack. The hunting rifle slammed against his shoulder. Less than a heartbeat later the gunner was thrown violently from the armored truck. The big Fed racked the bolt-action and searched for his next target.

The remaining Cobra gunship whirled above the M-60 tank. Tracers stabbed out from the sides, struck fire from the armor of the tank and spilled the machine gunner from his position beside Kissinger.

Brognola hit the transmit button on his headset. "Company coming, John." He pushed up from his prone position and raced for the tank. The nightmares still tugged at his mind. This was his operation. These were, by God, his people, and he'd be damned if he let anyone take the life of a single one of them without a fight.

He leaped for the moving tank and felt the vibration as the 105mm gun belched another shell. Hold secured, he pulled himself up and set himself into place behind the machine gun's armor.

"You ever used one of those?" Kissinger asked as he swept his antiaircraft gun across the sky.

"A few times, a lifetime ago."

"They ain't changed much. Just make sure you keep those damn belts clear and your eyes peeled for anybody carrying something that looks like it could take us on."

Brognola smoothed the belt and pointed the muzzle at the tree line. Red and green flares hung in the sky, fired from strategic positions when the Stony Man troops had been ready to go head-to-head with their attackers. He squeezed the trigger, adjusting automatically to the rapid, stuttering recoil. He traced a line of 7.62mm rounds across a small pocket of the invading mercenaries as a man stepped forward and started to throw a grenade.

Brognola's line of fire tossed the man back into the peach trees and exploded the budding crop. The grenade went off a couple of seconds later.

Only two of the Farm's mini-attack helicopters remained in the air. They harried the ground troops, zeroing in on the four surviving armored cars.

The tank rumbled forward inexorably. The burning wreckage of the Cobra Kissinger had downed came up before them, blocking the open space in front of the main building.

"Straight through it," Kissinger ordered his driver.

The tank treads crunched onto the helicopter wreckage, then bit into the metal and Plexiglas and climbed on top. Flames leaped up between the tank treads only inches from Brognola's position.

"Access roads are closed down, Cowboy," a calm voice said. "Ain't nobody getting in or out of here without our say-so."

Brognola recognized the voice as belonging to Kyle Chester. The young man had been one of the survivors of the first attack on Stony Man.

Paybacks were hell, the big Fed knew, and Quillian's mercenaries had picked the wrong outfit to jump. Stony Man Farm had been standing ready to pay back those old hurts for years. He was sure those people knew that now.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," Kissinger yelled into the night, "come on and get a piece of me if you think you're big enough."

Brognola glanced up and saw the remaining Cobra bearing down on the tank. Rockets speared into the ground and ripped craters from the earth, closing fast.

Kissinger tracked the helicopter and triggered the antiaircraft machine gun. Tracer fire zeroed in on the aircraft, blasting across the nose cone with unswerving accuracy.

The gunship burst into a ball of flame that passed over their heads. Kissinger was already calling out coordinates to his driver and cannon gunner before the pieces slammed into the tilled fields.

The cannon belched again. When the 105mm shell landed, only one armored vehicle remained functional. It streaked for the tank, attacking broadside. Brognola heard the roaring engine, struggled to bring his machine gun into play and found he was blocked by the same shielding that provided his protection.

Metal smashed into metal. Catching the tank from the angle it had, the armored car had sufficient force to momentarily tip the vehicle.

Ripped from his position, Brognola went with the motion. The ground came up hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. He rose to his knees as the driver and the passenger jumped out of the armored truck and aimed their assault weapons at Kissinger, who was exposed on the turret. Somehow the SIG-Sauer had found its way into his hands. He slid into a Weaver grip and triggered rapid-fire rounds. The driver went down as the passenger whirled toward Brognola.

The big Fed didn't flinch when he saw Salvador Cross's face. Brognola's 9mm pistol followed the movement of his eyes, and he came up firing immediately. Cross's simultaneous burst smashed into his chest and knocked him down. The pain spread outward under the Kevlar vest.

Kissinger dropped over the side of the tank, his pistol filling his fist. He kept it trained on the two downed mercenaries as he went over to check them, then came over to give Brognola a hand up.

"Hurt?" Kissinger asked.

"Like I was kicked by a Missouri mule with a bad temper." Brognola rubbed his chest carefully and looked out over the killing fields.

"Cowboy," Chester's voice said, "the grounds are secure. Mop-up teams have been deployed."

"Acknowledged. Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir."

Brognola fed a new magazine into the SIG-Sauer as Leo Turrin joined them. The big Fed fished a cigar from his pocket but found it torn in two. Normally he would have been upset. Instead he twisted off the broken part and stuck the butt between his lips.

"We were ready this time. They didn't break us," Turrin stated.

As Brognola looked around at the victory, he knew things would be different. They'd taken casualties. There was no question about it. No war ever went without them. But for him and the other survivors of the last attack, the nightmares could no longer come crawling so easily from their hiding places to cost him or them a night's sleep. Their fangs had been blunted, now and forever.

The sharp rattle of small-arms fire had almost died away.

"Maybe it's like Hemingway put it," Turrin said. "Things just naturally heal stronger at the break."

Brognola smiled and took the cigar butt from his mouth. "To paraphrase an even older writer—they came. They saw. We kicked their asses."

Shankspyre Island, Australia

Mack Bolan let the water reclaim him as bullets splintered the edges of the hole Manning had blown between floors.

"Striker," Manning called over the UTEL.

"I'm all right." The warrior finned back up and fisted his SIG-Sauer. He grabbed the ledge and pulled himself up cautiously. The atmosphere integrity of the room had been destroyed by the opening of the elevator shaft. Water flooded into the room in a six-inch-high artesian well effect that was quickly being swallowed by the rising sea.

When Bolan glanced at the wall where he'd last seen Quillian and his bodyguards, only the open hole of the elevator shaft remained. The warrior keyed the UTEL transmitter as he crossed the room. "Phoenix One, this is Stony One. Over."

"Go, Stony One. Over."

"Quillian had an alternate escape route that wasn't in the blueprints. He may be heading your way." Bolan peered up the narrow elevator shaft as water cascaded over the edge like a miniature Niagara Falls. "I figure an aerial departure for a quick drop into Perth, so be on your toes. Over."

"Understood, Stony One, but the assault on the crown of the island was staggering. It's not conceivable that anything will be coming off up here. Over."

"Acknowledged. Means our guy has another hole to come crawling out of. Are you in control up there? Over."

"Affirmative. Together, we and the U.S. Navy are holding over thirty of Quillian's men captive. Only a few more are trickling in, but resistance is negligible. Over."

"Good work. Stony One out." Bolan turned to Manning, who was studying the elevator.

"No controls," Manning said. He peered up the narrow shaft with disfavor. "Only way we can figure out where Quillian went is to go up after him. That isn't going to be easy. And we'll still have to deal with the elevator cage preventing access to that level. Gives the man plenty of time to make his play."

"We're going to have to cut that time short." Bolan studied the inner workings of the elevator, which was a traction-type unit. It had replaced the drum and hydraulic units because the endless loop of cable it used didn't limit the heights it could function. The counterweight was on the far side of the shaft, twenty feet down. He assumed the hidden access panels ended at Quillian's private quarters below.

The rising water was up to his knees now. The flow into the elevator shaft had filled a good ten feet, almost two-thirds of the way up the counterweight.

The Executioner dropped his fins, pulled on a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes from his equipment bag, then tossed the bag away. The H&K MP-5K went with it. "Have you got any thermite left?"

"Yeah. What do you have in mind?"

Bolan made the leap through the elevator shaft, grabbed the thick compensating cables and lowered himself to the counterweight. The top was almost two feet wide. He looked up at the elevator cage suspended sixty feet above them, measured the gap behind the cage with a glance and hoped the darkness hadn't fooled him.

Manning was beside him a heartbeat later, still clutching his equipment bag.

"Use the thermite here." Bolan pointed at the compensating cables just under the first section of counterweight they stood on. "Just enough to burn through the cables."

"You're looking at a one-way trip," Manning said as he knelt and rummaged in his bag. "A quick one-way trip at that."

"Let's just hope it's quick enough," Bolan said grimly. "It'll also get rid of the elevator cage." His internal clock was ticking. Less than a minute had passed since Quillian had gone up in the elevator. There was still a chance he could catch the man. Too many people had been hurt or killed to allow Quillian to walk away.

Water gurgled and splashed as it continued to fill the shaft.

"Ready?" Manning asked as he gripped one of the compensating cables tightly.

"Do it," Bolan said.

Manning hit the detonator. The thermite flared to sudden life, reflected off the water and threw glaring orange-and-yellow-tinted shadows over the interior of the elevator shaft. The compensating cables connecting the counterweight to the rest of the traction pulley system sheared in seconds.

Freed of the counterweight with not enough weight left on the pulley to create the friction to ensure traction stability, the elevator cage dropped like a stone. Manning and Bolan, standing on the severed top portion of the counterweight, were catapulted up in response.

Muscles cramped in Bolan's forearms as he hung on. The elevator cage brushed by him only inches away. The steel ceiling of the shaft rushed down at them with dizzying speed.

A tremendous splashing crash came from the bottom as the cage hit the water surface and halted its headlong plunge. Bolan's ascent was arrested six feet from the steel ceiling, about what he'd figured the pooled water would absorb. The counterweight sank slow inches as the elevator cage started to float up with the rising water.

The entrance was squared, neat, part of a level they hadn't known existed.

The Executioner vaulted up and across the distance separating him from the open entrance to the level Quillian had retreated to. He hit hard, fingers hooked over the edge, then pulled himself into the dimly lighted hallway. By his estimation of the overall blueprints of the hollow island, they were at least a dozen feet above sea level.

He grabbed the back of Manning's suit and helped the Phoenix warrior to his feet. They ran down the hallway together.

The Executioner had fisted the SIG-Sauer P-226 and was turning the first corner when the familiar sound of helicopter rotors turning reached him. He tapped the transmit button on his headset. "Stony One to Phoenix One. Over."

"Go, Stony One. Over."

"It's a helicopter. I've heard it. Can you confirm? Over."

"Negative, Stony One. There's no sign of it up here. Over."

Another corner loomed before them, hidden by the dark shadows filling the hallway. Bolan turned, took the impact on his shoulder and whirled around. A muzzle-flash mushroomed in front of him and he dived, yelling a warning to Manning.

Still in motion, he rolled across the floor, triggering six shots at the gunner. The 9mm rounds caught the man in the face, shoulder and thigh. He sprawled on the floor, halfway out the doorway he'd been using for cover.

The Executioner shoved himself to his feet and sprinted the remaining distance to the doorway. He came around the corner carefully, holding the SIG-Sauer in a two-handed grip. Drafts from the whirling rotors swirled around him, trapped inside the enclosed space and turning the hallway into a wind tunnel.

Using the doorframe as cover, he peered into the room. It had been carved from the solid rock of the island. None of the corners were squared, and it gave the impression of being a rounded cave. Over thirty feet in height, at least eighty feet in width, and nearly two hundred feet in length, the rectangular room plunged toward a blank wall.

In the middle of the room two Bell AH-IS HueyCobras increased their throttle levels. An explosion blasted the inside of the man-made cavern. At the far end of the room the rock wall dissolved in dimensions approximating the room as strategically placed mines blew it to pieces. Directed outward, hardly any of the debris came back toward the attack choppers. A dusty fog choked the exit.

The first helicopter lifted, barely clearing the ground as it maneuvered toward the opening.

Waving Manning to the other side of the remaining Cobra, the Executioner drove his feet hard against the uneven rock floor. The first helicopter cleared the sheer side of the island.

The warrior pushed himself up on the body of the second craft before the pilot knew he was there and opened the canopy. The guy reached for the assault rifle canted forward beside his seat. Bolan put a round through one lense of the yellow-tinted aviator glasses, then grabbed a fistful of the flight coveralls and yanked the corpse from the seat. It spilled lifelessly across the skids.

Manning crawled into the front seat and pulled the canopy down as Bolan dropped his pistol onto the floorboard and seized the controls in the rear. He moved the yoke, fed the engine power and tilted forward up from the floor.

"Stony One to Phoenix One. Stony One to Phoenix One. Over." The Executioner powered the killer craft through the exit.

"Systems armed," Manning called out from the front seat.

"Go, Stony One," Katz said. "Over."

"You have the choppers in sight now? Over."

"Affirmative, Stony One. Over."

"Quillian's in the lead craft. Gary and I are burning up his backtxail. Don't want us to go down under friendly fire. Over."

"Tell us how you want it handled, Stony One. Over."

"We'll run frontline interception. If we get taken out, it's your play. Over."

"Affirmative, Stony One. Stay hard up there. Phoenix One out."

"Firehawk, do you copy? Over."

"Firehawk Two copies, Stony One. You need me, I'm up here hugging sky over your shoulder. You be careful down there. That's one badass piece of machinery you're pursuing. Over."

"StonvjOne out." Bolan skimmed above the ocean surface, working to close in on the other Cobra. The top speed for the attack helicopter was something over 140 miles. He was pushing the upper limit now.

Quillian's craft took evasive action, scrambling for higher altitude.

"They know who we are," Manning said.

Unable to break his course quickly enough, Bolan jetted through the Cobra's vacated airspace and came up in its gun sights. Machine gun fire rattled into his helicopter's body. He canted forward at full speed, then broke left. A pair of rockets streamered from either side of the Cobra and slammed into the ocean surface, missing him by only feet.

Twin geysers spumed into the air, water splashing across the Plexiglas canopy of Bolan's craft. The attacking Cobra stayed above and to his right.

"Gary," Bolan said quietly, "get ready. We're going to do this on my call."

"Just say when."

Bolan glanced over his shoulder and saw the attacking Cobra closing in. He kicked the tail rotor into full power, swung the rear end of the chopper around in a dizzying one-eighty as he struggled to gain altitude. The Cobra flashed by inches beneath him.

The Executioner powered his craft in another tight one-eighty as his opponent yawed around for a return strike. The warrior continued his upward climb, knowing the attacking pilot had to be scanning the sky for him. It was an old ploy, as old as gunfighting itself, but it served. With his helicopter between the sun and the attacking Cobra, Bolan knew he'd be lost in the blinding glare for a few heartbeats.

The Cobra came up, hesitating as the pilot searched for his prey. Bolan dipped his nose forward, bringing Quillian and the Bell into line for the rockets. He saw Quillian raise his hands to ward off the coming attack. "Lock and load, Gary."

Manning released a twin salvo of rockets.

The reactive surge of the missiles taking off juggled the yoke in Bolan's hand slightly. He watched the rockets slam into the Cobra and shred it in midair. An orange-and-black fireball roiled like a thundercloud as metal fragments rained down over the placid ocean surface.

The threat of Jared Quillian and Project Starfire was gone. The dark, ambitious dreams that powered Quillian would live on in other men, though, and the Executioner knew it. The battle may have been won, but the war everlasting went on.