Robby, where the hell are you? Jack looked over to Sissy, who was thinking the same thing. She nodded imperceptibly, and there was still hope in her eyes. The short one noticed.
   "Don't worry," Shorty said. "You'll get paid." He set his weapon on the dinner table and moved forward while Blondie and Blackie backed off to cover them all. Dennis Cooley took the rope to the Prince first, yanking his hands down behind his back.

   There! Robby looked up. Jack had set his shotgun on the top shelf of the walk-in closet, along with a box of shells. He had to reach to get them, and when he did so, a holstered pistol dropped to the floor. Jackson winced at the sound it made, but grabbed it from the holster and tucked it into his belt. Next he checked the shotgun, pulling back the bolt – there was a round in the chamber and the gun was on safe. Okay. He filled his pockets with additional rounds and went back into the bedroom.
   Now what? This wasn't like flying his F-14, with radar to track targets a hundred miles away and a wingman to keep the bandits off his tail.
   The picture . . . You had to kneel on the bed to see out of it – Why the hell did Jack arrange his furniture like this! the pilot raged. He set the shotgun down and used both hands to slide the picture aside. He moved it only a few inches, barely enough to see out. How many . . . one, two . . . three. Are there any others . . .? What if I leave one alive . . .?
   As he watched, Jack was being tied up. The Prince – the Captain, Robby thought – already was tied, and was sitting with his back to the pilot. The short one finished Jack next and pushed him back onto the couch. Jackson next watched the man put hands on his wife.
   "What are you going to do with us?" Sissy asked.
   "Shut up, nigger!" Shorty replied.
   Even Robby knew that this was a trivial thing to get angry about; the problem at hand was far worse than some white asshole's racist remark, but his blood turned to fire as he watched the woman he loved being handled by that . . . little white shit!
   Use your head, boy, something in the back of his brain said. Take your time. You have to get it right on the first try. Cool down.

   Longley was beginning to hope. There were friendlies in the trees to his left. Perhaps they'd come from the house, he thought. At least one of them had an automatic weapon, and he counted three of the terrorists dead, or at least not moving on the grass. He had fired five rounds and missed with every one – the range was just too great for a pistol in the dark – but they'd stopped the terrorists cold. And help was coming. It had to be. The radio van was empty, but the FBI agent to his right had been there. All they had to do was wait, hold on for a few more minutes . . .

   "I got flashes on the ground ahead," the pilot said. "I –"
   Lightning revealed the house for a brief moment in time. They couldn't see people on the ground, but that was the right house, and there were flashes that had to be gunfire, half a mile off as the helicopter buffeted through the wind and rain. It was about all the pilot could see. His instrument lights were turned up full-white, and the lightning had decorated his vision with a stunning collection of blue and green spots.
   "Jesus," Gus Werner said over the intercom. "What are we getting into?"
   "In Vietnam," the pilot replied coolly, "we called it a hot LZ." And I was scared then, too.
   "Get Washington." The copilot switched frequencies on the radio and waved to the agent in the back while both men orbited the helicopter. "This is Werner."
   "Gus, this is Bill Shaw. Where are you?"
   "We have the house in sight, and there's a goddamned battle going on down there. Do you have contact with our people?"
   "Negative, they're off the air. The D.C. team is still thirty minutes away. The state and county people are close but not there yet. The storm's knocking trees down all over the place and traffic is tied up something fierce. You're the man on the scene, Gus, you'll have to call it."
   The mission of the Hostage Rescue Team was to take charge of an existing situation, stabilize it, and rescue the hostages – peacefully if possible, by force if not. They were not assault troops; they were special agents of the FBI. But there were brother agents down there.
   "We're going in now. Tell the police that federal officers are on the scene. We'll try to keep you informed."
   "Right. Be careful, Gus."
   "Take us in," Werner told the pilot.
   "Okay. I'll skirt the house first, then come around in and land you to windward. I can't put you close to the house. The wind's too bad, I might lose it down there."
   "Go." Werner turned. Somehow his men had all their gear on. Each carried an automatic pistol. Four had MP-5 machine guns, as did he. The long-rifleman and his spotter would be the first men out the door. "We're going in." One of the men gave a thumbs-up that looked a lot jauntier than anyone felt.
   The helicopter lurched toward the ground when a sudden downdraft hammered at it. The pilot wrenched upward on his collective and bottomed the aircraft out a scant hundred feet from the trees. The house was only a few hundred yards away now. They skimmed over the southern edge of the clearing, allowing everyone a close look at the situation.
   "Hey, the spot between the house and the cliff might be big enough after all," the pilot said. He increased power as the chopper swept to windward.

   "Helicopter!" someone screamed to O'Donnell's right. The chief looked up, and there it was, a spectral shape and a fluttering sound. That was a hazard he'd prepared for.
   Back near the road, one of his men pulled the cover off a Redeye missile launcher purchased along with the rest of their weapons.

   "I have to use landing lights – my night vision is wasted," the pilot said over the intercom. He turned the aircraft half a mile west of the Ryan house. He planned to head straight past the house; then he'd drop and turn into the wind and slide up behind what he hoped was a wind shadow in its lee. God, he thought, this is like Vietnam. From the pattern of the flashes on the ground, it seemed that the house was in friendly hands. The pilot reached down and flipped on his landing lights. It was a risk, but one he had to accept.
   Thank God I can see again, he told himself. The ground was visible through a shimmering curtain of rain. He realized that the storm was still worsening. He had to approach from windward. Flying into the rain would reduce his visibility to a few feet. At least this way he could see a couple of hundred or so – what the hell!

   He saw a man standing all alone in the center of the field, aiming something. The pilot pushed down on the collective just as a streak of red light rocketed toward the helicopter, his eyes locked on what could only be a surface-to-air missile. The two seconds it took seemed to stretch into an hour as the missile passed through his rotor blades and disappeared overhead – he immediately pulled back on the control, but there was no time to recover from his evasion maneuver. The helicopter slammed into the middle of a plowed field, four hundred yards from the Ryan house. It wouldn't move again until a truck came to collect the wreckage.
   Miraculously, only two men were hurt. Werner was one of them. It felt as though he'd been shot in the back. The rifleman pulled the door open and ran out with his spotter behind. The others went next, one of them helping Werner while another hobbled on a sprained ankle.

   The Princess was next. She was taller than Cooley, and managed a look that contained more than mere contempt. The little man spun her around roughly to tie her hands.
   "We have big plans for you," he promised when he finished.
   "You little scum, I bet you don't even know how," Sissy said. It earned her a vicious slap. Robby watched, waiting for the blond-haired one to get in the clear. Finally he did, moving back toward the others . . .

Chapter 26
The Sound of Freedom

   Pellets fired from a shotgun disperse radially at a rate of one inch per yard of linear travel. A lightning flash blazed through the windows, and Ryan cringed on hearing the thunder immediately after – then realized it had followed too quickly to be thunder. The shot pattern had missed his head by three feet, and before he understood what had passed by him, Blondie's head snapped back, exploding into a cloud of red as his body fell backward to crash against a table leg. Blackie was looking out the window in the corner and turned to see his comrade go down without knowing how or why. His eyes searched frantically for a second, then a red circle the size of a 45-rpm record appeared in his chest and he was flung against the wall. Shorty was tying up Cathy's hands and concentrating a little too much. He hadn't recognized the first shot for what it was. He did with the second – too late.
   The Prince sprang at him, knocking him down with a lowered shoulder before himself falling on the floor. Jack leaped over the coffee table and kicked wildly at Shorty's head. He connected, but lost his balance doing so and fell backward. Shorty was stunned for a moment, then shook it off and moved toward the dinner table, where his gun was. Ryan lurched to his feet too, and threw himself on the terrorist's legs. The Prince was back up now. Shorty threw a wild punch at him and tried to kick Ryan off his legs – then stopped when the warm muzzle of a shotgun pressed against his nose.
   "You hold it right there, sucker, or I'll blow your head off."
   Cathy already had the ropes shucked off her hands, and untied Jack first. He went over to Blondie. The body was still twitching. Blood was still pumping from the surreal nightmare that had been a human face thirty seconds before. Jack took the Uzi from his hands, and a spare magazine. The Prince did the same with Blackie, whose body was quite still.
   "Robby," Jack said as he examined the safety-selector switch on the gun. "Let's get the hell away from here."
   "Second the motion. Jack, but where to?" Jackson pushed Shorty's head against the floor. The terrorist's eyes crossed almost comically on the business end of the Remington shotgun. "I expect he might know something useful. How'd you plan to get away, boy?"
   "No." It was all Cooley could muster at the moment. He realized that he was, after all, the wrong man for this kind of job.
   "That the way it is?" Jackson asked, his voice a low, angry rasp. "You listen to me, boy. That lady over there, the one you called niggah – that's my wife, boy, that's my lady. I saw you hit her. So, I already got one good reason to kill you, y'dig?" Robby smiled wickedly, and let the shotgun trace a line down to Shorty's crotch. "But I ain't gonna kill ya. I'll do somethin' lots worse –"
   "I'll make a girl outa you, punk." Robby pushed the muzzle against the man's zipper. "Think fast, boy."
   Jack listened to his friend in amazement. Robby never talked like this. But it was convincing. Jack believed that he'd do it.
   So did Cooley: "Boats . . . boats at the base of the cliff."
   "That's not even clever. Say goodbye to 'em, boy." The angle of the shotgun changed fractionally.
   "Boats! Two boats at the base of the cliff. There are two ladders –"
   "How many watching them?" Jack demanded.
   "One, that's all."
   Robby looked up. "Jack?"
   "People, I suggest we go steal some boats. That firefight outside is getting closer." Jack ran to his closet and got coats for everyone. For Robby he picked up his old Marine field jacket that Cathy hated so much. "Put this on, that white shirt is too damned visible."
   "Here." Robby handed over Jack's automatic. "I got a box of rounds for the shotgun." He started transferring them from his pants to the jacket pockets and then hefted the last Uzi over his shoulder. "We're leaving friendlies behind. Jack," he added quietly.
   Ryan didn't like it either. "I know, but if they get him, they win – and this ain't no place for women and kids, man."
   "Okay, you're the Marine." Robby nodded. That was that.
   "Let's get outa here. I have the point. I'm going to take a quick look-see. Rob, you take Shorty for now. Prince, you take the women." Jack reached down and grabbed Dennis Cooley by the throat. "You screw up, you're dead. No fartin' around with him, Robby, just waste him."
   "That's a rog." Jackson backed away from the terrorist. "Up slow, punk."
   Jack led them through the shattered doors. The .two dead agents lay crumpled on the wood deck, and he hated himself for not doing something about it, but Ryan was proceeding on some sort of automatic control that the Marine Corps had programmed into him ten years before. It was a combat situation, and all the lectures and field exercises were flooding back into his consciousness. In a moment he was drenched by the falling sheets of rain. He trotted down the stairs and looked around the house.

   Longley and his men were too busy dealing with the threat to their front to notice what was approaching from behind. The British security officer fired four rounds at an advancing black figure and had the satisfaction of seeing him react from at least one hit when a hammering impact buried him against a tree. He rebounded off the rough bark and half turned to see yet another black-clad shape holding a gun ten feet away. The gun flashed again. Within seconds the woodline was quiet.

   "Dear God," the rifleman muttered. Running in a crouch, he passed the bodies of five agents, but there wasn't time for that. He and his spotter went down next to a bush. The rifleman activated his night scope and tracked on the woodline a few hundred yards ahead. The green picture he got on the imaging tube showed men dressed in dark clothes heading into the woodline.
   "I count eleven," the spotter said.
   "Yeah," the rifleman agreed. His bolt-action sniper rifle was loaded with .308 caliber match rounds. He could hit a moving three-inch target the first time, every time, at over two hundred yards, but his mission for the moment was reconnaissance, to gather information and forward it to the team leader. Before the team could act, they had to know what the hell was going on, and all they had now was chaos.
   "Werner, this is Paulson. I count what looks like eleven bad guys moving into the trees between us and the house. They appear to be armed with light automatic weapons." He pivoted the rifle around. "Looks like six of them down in the yard. Lots of good guys down – Jesus, I hope there's ambulances on the way."
   "Do you see any friendlies around?"
   "Negative. Recommend that you move in from the other side. Can you give me a backup here?"
   "Sending one now. When he gets there, move in carefully. Take your time, Paulson."
   "Right."
   To the south, Werner and two other men advanced along the treeline. Their night-camouflage clothing was a hatchwork of light green, designed by computer, and even in the lightning they were nearly invisible.

   Something had just happened. Jack saw a sudden flurry of fire, then nothing. Despite what he'd told Robby, he didn't like running away from the scene. But what else could he do? There was an unknown number of terrorists out there. He had only three armed men to protect three women and a child, with their backs to a cliff. Ryan swore and returned to the others.
   "Okay, Shorty, show me the way down," Ryan said, pressing the muzzle of his Uzi against the man's chest.
   "Right there." The man pointed, and Ryan swore again.
   In all the time they'd lived here. Jack's only concern with the cliff was to keep away from it, lest it crumble under him or his daughter. The view from his house was magnificent enough, but the cliffs height meant that from the house there was an unseen dead zone a thousand yards wide which the terrorists had used to approach. And they'd used ladders to climb up – of course, that's what ladders are for! Their placements were marked the way it said in every field manual in the world, with wooden stakes wrapped with white gauze bandaging, to be seen easily in the dark.
   "Okay, people," Ryan began, looking around. "Shorty and I go first. Your Highness, you come next with the women. Robby, stay ten yards back and cover the rear."
   "I am adept with light weapons," the Prince said.
   Jack shook his head emphatically. "No, if they get you, they win. If something goes wrong. I'm depending on you to take care of my wife and kid, sir. If something happens, go south. About half a mile down you'll find a gully. Take that inland and don't stop till you find a hard-surface road. It's real thick cover, you should be okay. Robby, if anything gets close, blast it."
   "But what if –"
   "But, hell! Anything that moves is the enemy." Jack looked around one last time. Give me five trained men, maybe Breckenridge and four others, and I could set up one pisser of an ambush . . . and if pigs had wings . . . "Okay, Shorty, you go down first. If you fuck us up, the first thing happens, I'll cut you in half. Do you believe me?"
   "Yes."
   "Then move."
   Cooley moved to the ladder and proceeded down backward, with Ryan several feet above him. The aluminum rungs were slippery with the rain, but at least the wind was blocked by the body of the cliff. The extension ladder – how the hell did they get that here? – wobbled under him. Ryan tried to keep an eye on Shorty and slipped once halfway down. Above him, the second group was beginning its descent. The Princess had taken charge of Sally, and was coming down with Ryan's daughter between her body and the ladder to keep her from falling. He could hear his little girl whimpering anyway. Jack had to ignore it. There wasn't room in his consciousness for anger or pity now. He had to do this one right the first time. There would be no second. A flash of lightning revealed the two boats a hundred yards to the north. Ryan couldn't tell if anyone was there or not. Finally they reached the bottom. Cooley moved a few feet to the north and Ryan jumped down the next few feet, gun at the ready.
   "Let's just stay put for a minute."
   The Prince arrived next, then the women. Finally Robby started down, his Marine parka making him invisible against the black sky. He came down quickly, also jumping the last five feet.
   "They got to the house just as I started down. Maybe this'll slow them some." He held the white-wrapped stakes. It might make the ladders harder to find.
   "Good one, Rob." Jack turned. The boats were out there, invisible again in the rain and shadows. Shorty had said that only one man was guarding them. What if he's lying? Ryan asked himself. Is this guy willing to die for his cause? Will he sacrifice himself to shout a warning and get us killed? Does it make a difference – do we have a choice? No!
   "Move out, Shorty." Ryan gestured with his gun. "Just remember who dies first."
   It was high tide, and the water came to within a few feet of the base of the cliff. The sand was wet and hard under his feet as Ryan stayed three feet behind the terrorist. How far were they – a hundred yards? How far can one hundred yards be? Ryan asked himself. He was discovering that now. The people behind him kept close to the kudzu-covered cliff. That made them extremely hard to see, though if there was someone in the boat, he'd know that people were coming toward him.
   Krak!
   Everyone's heart stopped for a moment. A lightning stroke had shattered a tree on the cliff's edge not two hundred yards behind them. For a brief instant he saw the boats again – and there was a man in each.
   "Just one, eh?" Jack muttered. Shorty hesitated, then proceeded, hands at his side. With the return of darkness, he again lost sight of the boats, and Jack reasoned that everyone's night vision was equally ruined by the lightning. His mind returned to the image he'd just seen. The man in the near boat was standing at the near side, amidships, and appeared to be holding a weapon – one that needed two hands. Ryan was enraged that Shorty had lied to him. It seemed absurd as he watched the emotion flare and fade in his consciousness.
   "What's the password?"
   "There isn't one," Dennis Cooley replied, his voice unsteady as he contemplated the situation from rather a different perspective. He was between the loaded guns of two sides, each of which was likely to shoot. Cooley's mind was racing, too, looking for something he could do to turn the tables.
   Was he telling the truth now? Ryan wondered, but there wasn't time to puzzle that one out. "Keep moving."
   The boat reappeared now. At first it was just something different from the darkness and the beach. In five more yards it was a shape. The rain was pouring down hard enough to distort everything he saw, but there was a white, almost rectangular shape ahead. Ryan guessed the range at fifty yards. He prayed for the lightning to hold off now. If they were lighted, the men in the boats might be able to recognize a face, and if they saw that Shorty was in front . . .
   How do I do this . . .?

   You can be a policeman or a soldier, but not both. Joe Evans' words at the Tower came back, and told him what he had to do.
   Forty yards to go. There were rocks on the beach, too, and Jack had to be careful not to trip over one. He reached forward with his left hand and unscrewed the bulky silencer. He stuck it in his belt. He didn't like what it did to the gun's balance.
   Thirty yards. He searched for and found the stock release switch on the Uzi. Jack extended the stock, planting the metal buttplate in his armpit and snugging the weapon in tight. Just a few more seconds . . .
   Twenty-five yards. He could see the boat clearly now, twenty feet or so, with a blunt bow, and another just like it perhaps twenty yards beyond. There was definitely a man in the near boat, standing amidships on its port side, looking straight at the people approaching him. Jack's right thumb pushed the Uzi's selector switch all the way forward, to full automatic fire, and he tightened his fist on the pistol grip. He hadn't fired an Uzi since a brief familiarization at Quantico. It was small but nicely balanced. The black metal sights were nearly useless in the dark, though, and what he had to do . . .
   Twenty yards. The first burst has to be right on, Jack, right the hell on . . .
   Ryan took half a step to his right and dropped to one knee. He brought the weapon up, placing the front sight low and left of his target before he held the trigger down for a four-round burst. The gun jerked up and to the right as the bullets left, tracing a diagonal line across the target's outline. The man dropped instantly from sight, and Ryan was again dazzled, this time by his own muzzle flashes. Shorty had dived to the ground at the sound.
   "Come on!" Ryan yanked Cooley up and threw him forward, but Jack stumbled in the sand and recovered to see that the terrorist was indeed running for the boat – where there was a gun to turn against them all! He was yelling something Ryan couldn't understand.
   Jack had nearly caught up when Shorty got there first –
   And died. The man in the other boat fired a long, wild burst in their direction just as Cooley was leaping aboard. Ryan saw his head snap over and Shorty fell into the boat like a sack of groceries. Jack knelt at the gunnel and fired his own burst, and the other man went down. Hit or not, Ryan couldn't tell. It was just like the exercises at Quantico, he told himself, total chaos, and the side that makes the fewest mistakes wins.
   "Get aboard!" He stayed up, holding his gun on the other boat. He didn't turn his head, but felt the others board. Lightning flashed, and Ryan saw the man he'd shot, three red spots on his chest, his eyes and mouth agape in surprise. Shorty was beside him, the side of his head horribly opened. Between the two it seemed a gallon of blood had been poured onto the fiberglass deck. Robby finally arrived and jumped aboard. A head appeared in the other boat, and Ryan fired again, then clambered aboard.
   "Robby, get us the hell outa here!" Jack moved on hands and knees to the other side, making sure that everyone's head was down.
   Jackson moved into the driver's seat and searched for the ignition. It was set up just like a car, and the keys were in. He turned them, and the engine coughed to life as yet another burst of fire came from the other boat. Ryan heard the sound of bullets hitting the fiberglass. Robby cringed but didn't move as his hand found the shift lever. Jack brought the gun up and fired again.
   "Men on the cliff!" the Prince shouted.

   O'Donnell gathered his men quickly and gave out new orders. All the security men were dead, he was sure, but that helicopter had probably landed to the west. He didn't think the missile had hit, though it was impossible to be sure.
   "Thanks for the help, Sean, they were better than I expected. You have them in the house?"
   "I left Dennis and two others. I think we should leave."
   "You got that right!" Alex said. He pointed west. "I think we have some more company."
   "Very well. Sean, you collect them and bring them to the cliff."
   Miller got his two men and ran back to the house. Alex and his man tagged along. The front door was open, and all five raced inside, turned around the fireplace, and stopped cold.

   Paulson, his spotter, and another agent were running too. He led them along the woodline to where the driveway turned, and dropped again, setting his rifle up on the bipod. There were sirens in the distance now, and he wondered what had taken so goddamned long as he tracked his night-sight in a search for targets. He caught a glimpse of men running around the northern side of the house.
   "Something feels wrong about this," the sniper said.
   "Yeah," his spotter agreed. "They sure as hell didn't plan to leave by the road – but what else is there?"
   "Somebody better find out," Paulson thought aloud, and got on his radio.
   Werner struggled forward on the south side of the yard, trying his best to ignore his throbbing back as he led his group forward. The radio squawked again, and he ordered his other team to advance with extreme caution.

   "Well, where are they, man?" Alex asked.
   Miller looked around in stunned amazement. Two of his men were dead on the floor, their guns were gone – and so were . . .
   "Where the hell are they!" Alex repeated.
   "Search the house!" Miller screamed. He and Alex stayed in the room. The black man looked at him with an unforgiving stare.
   "Did I go through all this to watch you fuck up again?"
   The three men returned a few seconds later and reported the house empty. Miller had already determined that his men's guns were gone. Something had gone wrong. He took his people outside.

   Paulson had a new spot and finally could see his targets again. He counted twelve, then more joined from the house. They seemed to be confused as he watched the images on his night-sight gesture at one another. Some men were talking while others just milled around waiting for orders. Several appeared to be hurt, but he couldn't tell for sure.

   "They're gone." Alex said it before Miller had a chance.
   O'Donnell couldn't believe it. Sean explained in a rapid, halting voice while Dobbens looked on.
   "Your boy fucked up," Dobbens said.
   It was just too much. Miller slipped his own Uzi behind his back and retrieved the one he'd taken from the Secret Service agent. He brought it up in one smooth motion and fired into Alex's chest from a distance of three feet. Louis looked at his fallen boss for a second, then tried to bring his pistol up, but Miller cut him down, too.

   "What the hell!" the spotter said.
   Paulson flipped the rifle's safety off and centered his sight on the man who had just fired, killing two men – but whom had he killed? He could shoot only to save the lives of friendlies, and the dead men had almost certainly been bad guys. There weren't any hostages to be saved, as far as he could tell. Where the hell are they? One of the men near the cliff's edge appeared to shout something, and the others ran to join him. The marksman had his choice of targets, but without positive identification, he couldn't dare to fire a shot.
   "Come on, baby," Jackson said to the engine. The motor was still cold and ran unevenly as he shifted to reverse. The boat moved slowly backward, away from the beach. Ryan had his Uzi trained on the other boat. The man there appeared again, and Ryan fired three rounds before the gun stopped. He cursed and switched magazines before firing a number of short bursts again to keep his head down.
   "Men on the cliff," the Prince repeated. He'd taken the shotgun and had it aimed, but didn't fire. He didn't know who it was up there, and the range was too great in any case. Then flashes appeared. Whoever it was, they were firing at the boat. Ryan turned when he heard bullets hitting the water, and two thudded into the boat itself. Sissy Jackson screamed and grabbed at herself, while the Prince fired three rounds back.
   Robby had the boat thirty yards from the beach now, and savagely brought the wheel around as he shifted the selector back into drive. When he rammed the throttle forward, the engine coughed again for one long, terrible moment, but then it caught and the boat surged forward.
   "All right!" the aviator booted. "Jack – where to? How about Annapolis?"
   "Do it!" Ryan agreed. He looked aft. There were men coming down the ladder. Some were still shooting at them but missing wildly. Next he saw that Sissy was holding her foot.

   "Cathy, see if you can find a first-aid kit," His highness said. He'd already inspected the wound, but was now in the stem, facing aft with the shotgun at the ready. Jack saw a white plastic box under the driver's seat and slid it toward his wife.
   "Rob, Sissy took a round in the foot," Jack said.
   "I'm okay, Rob," his wife said at once. She didn't sound okay.
   "How is it, Sis?" Cathy asked, moving to take a look.
   "It hurts, but it's no big deal," she said through her teeth, trying to smile.
   "You sure you're okay, honey?" Robby asked.
   "Just go, Robby!" she gasped. Jack moved aft and looked. The bullet had gone straight through the top of her foot, and her light-colored shoe was bathed in dark blood. He looked around to see if anyone else was hurt, but aside from the mere terror that each felt, everyone else seemed all right.
   "Commander, do you want me to take the wheel for you?" the Prince asked.
   "Okay, Cap'n, come on forward." Robby slid away from the controls as His Highness joined him. "Your course is zero-three-six magnetic. Watch it, it's going to get rough when we're out of the cliff's lee, and there's lots of merchant traffic out there." They could already see four feet of chop building a hundred yards ahead, driven by the gusting winds.
   "Right. How do I know when we've arrived at Annapolis?" The Prince settled behind the wheel and started checking out the controls.
   "When you see the lights on the Bay Bridges, call me. I know the harbor, I'll take her in."
   The Prince nodded agreement. He throttled back to half power as they entered the heavy chop, and kept moving his eyes from the compass to the water. Jackson moved to check his wife.
   Sissy waved him away. "You worry about them!"
   In another moment they were roller-coastering over four– and five-foot waves. The boat was a nineteen-foot cathedral-hull lake boat of a type favored by local fishermen for her good calm-seas speed and shallow draft. Her blunt nose didn't handle the chop very well. They were taking water over the bow, but the forward snap-on cover was in place, and the windshield deflected most of the water over the side. That water which did get into the back emptied down a self-bailing hole next to the engine box. Ryan had never been in a boat like this, but knew what it was. Its hundred-fifty-horse engine drove an inboard-outdrive transmission whose movable propeller eliminated the need for a rudder. The bottom and sides of the boat were filled with foam for positive flotation. You could fill it with water and it wouldn't sink – but more to the point, the fiberglass and the foam would probably stop the bullets from a submachine gun. Jack checked his fellow passengers again. His wife was ministering to Sissy. The Princess held his daughter. Except for himself, Robby, and the Prince at the wheel, everyone's head was down. He started to relax slightly. They were away, and their fate was back in their own hands. Jack promised himself that this would never change again.
   "They're coming after us," Robby said as he fed two rounds into the bottom of the shotgun. " 'Bout three hundred yards back. I saw them in the lightning, but they'll lose us in this rain if we're lucky."
   "What would you call the visibility?"
   "Except for the lightning" – Robby shrugged – "maybe a hot hundred yards, tops. We're not leaving a wake for them to follow, and they don't know where we're going." He paused. "God, I wish we had a radio! We could get the Coast Guard in on this, or maybe somebody else, and set up a nice little trap for them." Jack sat all the way down, facing aft on the opposite side of the engine box from his friend. He saw that his daughter was asleep in the arms of the Princess. It must be nice to be a kid, he reflected.
   "Count your blessings, Commander."
   "Bet your ass, boy! I guess I picked a good time to take a leak."
   Ryan grunted agreement. "I didn't know you could handle a shotgun."
   "Back when I was a kid, the Klan had this little hobby. They'd get boozed up every Tuesday night and burn down a nigger church – just to keep us in line, y'know? Well, one night, the sheetheads decided to burn my pappy's church. We got word – a liquor-store owner called; not all rednecks are assholes. Anyway, Pappy and me were waiting for them. Didn't kill any, but we must have scared them as white as their sheets. I blew the radiator right out of one car." Robby chuckled at the memory. "They never did come back for it. The cops didn't arrest anybody, but that's the last time anybody tried to burn a church in our town, so I guess they learned their lesson." He paused again. When he went on, his voice was more sober. "That's the first time I ever killed a man. Jack. Funny, it doesn't feel like anything, not anything at all."
   "It will tomorrow."
   Robby looked over at his friend. "Yeah."
   Ryan looked aft, his hands tight on the Uzi. There was nothing to be seen. The sky and water merged into an amorphous gray mass, and the wind-driven rain stung at his face. The boat surged up and down on the breaking swells, and for a moment Jack wondered why he wasn't seasick. Lightning flashed again, and still he saw nothing, as though they were under a gray dome on a sparkling, uneven floor.

   They were gone. After the sniper team reported that all the terrorists had disappeared over the cliff, Werner's men searched the house and found nothing but dead men. The second HRT group was now on the scene, plus over twenty police, and another crowd of firemen and paramedics. Three of the Secret Service agents were still alive, plus a terrorist who'd been left behind. All were being transported to hospitals. That made for seventeen security people dead, and a total of four terrorists, two of them apparently killed by their own side.
   "They all crowded into the boat and took off that way," Paulson said. "I could have taken a few out, but there just wasn't any way to figure who was who." He'd done the right thing. The sniper knew it, and so did Werner. You don't shoot without knowing what your target is.
   "So now what the hell do we do?" This question came from a captain of the State Police. It was a rhetorical question insofar as there was no immediate answer.
   "Do you suppose the good guys got away?" Paulson asked. "I didn't see anything that looked like a friendly, and the way the bad guys were acting . . . something went wrong," he said. "Something went wrong for everybody."
   Something went wrong, all right, Werner thought. A goddamned battle was fought here. Twenty-some people dead and nobody in sight.
   "Let's assume that the friendlies escaped somehow – no, let's just assume that the bad guys got away in a boat. Okay. Where would they go?" Werner asked.
   "Do you know how many boatyards there are around here?" the State Police Captain asked. "Jesus, how many houses with private slip's? Hundreds – we can't check them all out!"
   "Well, we have to do something!" Werner snapped back, his anger amplified by his sprained back. A black dog came up to them. He looked as confused as everyone else.

   "I think they lost us."
   "Could be," Jackson replied. The last lightning flash had revealed nothing. "The bay's right big, and visibility isn't worth a damn – but the way the rain's blowing, they can see better than we can. Twenty yards, maybe, just enough to matter."
   "How about we go farther east?" Jack asked.
   "Into the main ship channel? It's a Friday night. There'll be a bunch of ships coming out of Baltimore, knocking down ten-twelve knots, and as blind as we are." Robby shook his head. "Uh-uh, we didn't make it this far to get run down by some Greek rustbucket. This is hairy enough."
   "Lights ahead," the Prince reported.
   "We're home, Jack!" Robby went forward. The lights of the twin Chesapeake Bay Bridges winked at them unmistakably in the distance. Jackson took the wheel, and the Prince took up his spot in the stem. All were long since soaked through by the rain, and they shivered in the wind. Jackson brought the boat around to the west. The wind was on the bow now, coming straight down the Severn River valley, as it usually did here. The waves moderated somewhat as he steered past the Annapolis town harbor. The rain was still falling in sheets, and Robby navigated the boat mostly by memory

  The lights along the Naval Academy's Sims Drive were a muted, linear glow through the rain and Robby steered for them, barely missing a large can buoy as he fought the boat through the wind. In another minute they could see the line of gray YPs – Yard Patrol boats – still moored to the concrete seawall while their customary slips were being renovated across the river. Robby stood to see better, and brought the boat in between a pair of the wood-hulled training craft. He actually wanted to enter the Academy yacht basin, but it was too full at the moment. Finally he nosed the boat to the seawall, holding her to the concrete with engine power.
   "Y'all stop that!" A Marine came into view. His white cap had a plastic cover over it, and he wore a raincoat. "Y'all can't tie up here."
   "This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson, son," Robby replied. "I work here. Stand by Jack, you get the bowline."
   Ryan ducked under the windshield and unsnapped the bow cover. A white nylon line was neatly coiled in the right place, and Ryan stood as Robby used engine power to bring the boat's port side fully against the seawall. Jack jumped up and tied the line off. The Prince did the same at the stern. Robby killed the engine and went up to face the Marine.
   "You recognize me, son?"
   The Marine saluted. "Beg pardon. Commander, but –" He flashed his light into the boat. "Holy Christ!"
   About the only good thing that could be said about the boat was that the rain had washed most of the blood down the self-bailing hole. The Marine's mouth dropped open as he saw two bodies, three women, one of them apparently shot, and a sleeping child. Next he saw a machine gun draped around Ryan's neck. A dull, wet evening of walking guard came to a screeching end.
   "You got a radio, Marine?" Robby asked. He held it up and Jackson snatched it away. It was a small Motorola CC unit like those used by police. "Guardroom, this is Commander Jackson."
   "Commander? This is Sergeant Major Breckenridge. I didn't know you had the duty tonight, sir. What can I do for you?"
   Jackson took a long breath. "I'm glad it's you, Gunny. Listen up: Alert the command duty officer. Next, I want some armed Marines on the seawall west of the yacht basin immediately! We got big trouble here, Gunny, so let's shag it!"
   "Aye aye, sir!" The radio squawked. Orders had been given. Questions could wait.
   "What's your name, son?" Robby asked the Marine next.
   "Lance Corporal Green, sir!"
   "Okay, Green, help me get the womenfolk out of the boat." Robby reached out his hand. "Let's go, ladies."
   Green leaped down and helped Sissy out first, then Cathy, then the Princess, who was still holding Sally. Robby got them all behind the wood hull of one of the YPs.
   "What about them, sir?" Green gestured at the bodies.
   "They'll keep. Get back up here, Corporal!"
   Green gave the bodies a last look. "Reckon so," he muttered. He already had his raincoat open and the flap loose on his holster.
   "What's going on here?" a woman's voice asked. "Oh, it's you. Commander."
   "What are you doing here, Chief?" Robby asked her.
   "I have the duty section out keeping an eye on the boats, sir. The wind could beat 'em to splinters on this seawall if we don't –" Chief Bosun's Mate Mary Znamirowski looked at everyone on the dock. "Sir, what the hell . . . "
   "Chief, I suggest you get your people together and put them under cover. No time for explanations."
   A pickup truck came next. It halted in the parking lot just behind them. The driver jumped out and sprinted toward them with three others trailing behind. It was Breckenridge. The Sergeant Major gave the women a quick look, then turned to Jackson and asked the night's favorite question –
   "What the hell is going on, sir?"
   Robby gestured to the boat. Breckenridge gave it a quick look that lingered into four or five seconds. "Christ!"
   "We were at Jack's place for dinner," Robby explained. "And some folks crashed the party. They were after him –" Jackson gestured to the Prince of Wales, who turned and smiled. Breckenridge's eyes went wide in recognition. His mouth flapped open for a moment, but he recovered and did what Marines always do when they don't know what else – he saluted, just as prescribed in the 'Guide Book'. Robby went on: "They killed a bunch of security troops. We got lucky. They planned to escape by boat. We stole one and came here, but there's another boat out there, full of the bastards. They might have followed us."
   "Armed with what?" the Sergeant Major asked.
   "Like this, Gunny." Ryan held up his Uzi.
   The Sergeant Major nodded and reached into his coat. His hand came out with a radio. "Guardroom, this is Breckenridge. We have a Class-One Alert: Wake up all the people. Call Captain Peters. I want a squad of riflemen on the seawall in five minutes. Move out!"
   "Roger," the radio answered. "Class-One Alert."
   "Let's get the women the hell outa here," Ryan urged.
   "Not yet, sir," Breckenridge replied. He looked around, his professional eye making a quick evaluation. "I want some more security here first. Your friends might have landed upriver and be coming overland – that's how I'd do it. In ten minutes I'll have a platoon of riflemen sweepin' the grounds, maybe a full squad here in five. If my people ain't too drunked out," he concluded quietly, reminding Ryan that it was indeed a Friday night – Saturday morning – and Annapolis had many bars. "Cummings and Foster, look after the ladies. Mendoza, get on one of these boats and keep a lockout. Y'all heard the man, so stay awake!"

   Breckenridge walked up and down the seawall for a minute, checking fields of view and fields of fire. The .45 Colt automatic looked small in his hands. They could see in his face that he didn't like the situation, and wouldn't until he had more people here and the civilians tucked safely away. Next he checked the women out.
   "You ladies all right – oh, sorry, Mrs. Jackson. We'll get you to the sick bay real quick, ma'am."
   "Any way to turn the lights off?" Ryan asked.
   "Not that I know of – I don't like being under 'em either. Settle down. Lieutenant, we got all this open ground behind us, so nobody's going to sneak up this way. Soon as I get things organized, we'll get the ladies off to the dispensary and put a guard on 'em. You ain't as safe as I'd like, but we're gettin' there. How did you get away?"
   "Like Robby said, we got lucky. He did two of them with the shotgun. I got one in the boat. The other one got popped by his own man." Ryan shivered, this time not from wind or rain. "It was kinda hairy there for a while."
   "I believe it. These guys any good?"
   "The terrorists? You tell me. They had surprise going for them before, and that counts for a lot."
   "We'll see about that." Breckenridge nodded.
   "There's a boat out there!" It was Mendoza, up on one of the YPs.
   "Okay, boys," the Sergeant Major breathed, holding his .45 up alongside his head. "Just wait another couple of minutes, till we get some real weapons here."
   "They're coming in slow," the Marine called.
   Breckenridge's first look was to make sure the women were safely behind cover. Then he ordered everyone to spread out and pick an open spot between the moored boats. "And for Christ's sake keep your damned heads down!"
   Ryan picked a spot for himself. The others did the same, at intervals of from ten to over a hundred feet apart. He felt the reinforced-concrete seawall with his hand. He was sure it would stop a bullet. The four sailors from the YP duty section stayed with the women, with a Marine on either side. Breckenridge was the only one moving, crouching behind the seawall, following the white shape of the moving boat. He got to Ryan.
   "There, about eighty yards out, going left to right. They're trying to figure things out, too. Just give me a couple more minutes, people," he whispered.
   "Yeah." Ryan thumbed off the safety, one eye above the lip of the concrete. It was just a white outline, but he could hear the muted sputter of the engine. The boat turned in toward where Robby had tied up the one they'd stolen. It was their first real mistake. Jack thought.
   "Great." The Sergeant Major leveled his automatic, shielded by the stern of a boat. "Okay, gentlemen. Come on if you're coming . . . "
   Another pickup truck approached on Sims Drive. It came up without lights and stopped right by the women. Eight men jumped off the back. Two Marines ran along the seawall, and were illuminated by a light between two of the moored YPs. Out on the water, the small boat lit up with muzzle flashes, and both Marines went down. Bullets started hitting the moored boats around them. Breckenridge turned and yelled.
   "Fire!" The area exploded with noise. Ryan spotted on the flashes and depressed his trigger with care. The submachine gun fired four rounds before locking open on an empty magazine. He cursed and stared stupidly at the weapon before he realized that he had a loaded pistol in his belt. He got the Browning up and fired a single shot before he realized that the target wasn't there anymore. The noise from the boat's motor increased dramatically.
   "Cease fire! Cease fire! They're buggin' out," Breckenridge called. "Anybody hit?"
   "Over here!" someone called to the right, where the women were.
   Ryan followed the Sergeant Major over. Two Marines were down, one with a flesh wound in the arm, but the other had taken a round right through the hip and was screaming like a banshee. Cathy was already looking at him.
   "Mendoza, what's happening?" Breckenridge called.
   "They're heading out – wait – yeah, they're moving east!"
   "Move your hands, soldier," Cathy was saying. The Private First-Class had taken a painful hit just below the belt on his left side. "Okay, okay, you're going to be all right. It hurts, but we can fix it." Breckenridge reached down to take the man's rifle. He tossed it to Sergeant Cummings.
   "Who's in command here?" demanded Captain Mike Peters.
   "I guess I am," Robby said.
   "Christ, Robby, what's going on?"
   "What the hell does it look like!"
   Another truck arrived, carrying another six Marines. They took one collective look at the wounded men and yanked at the charging handles on their rifles.
   "Goddammit, Robby – sir!" Captain Peters yelled.
   "Terrorists. They tried to get us at Jack's place. They were trying to get – well, look!"
   "Good evening, Captain," the Prince said after checking his wife. "Did we get any? I didn't have a clear shot." His voice showed real disappointment at that.
   "I don't know, sir," Breckenridge answered. "I saw some rounds go short, and pistol stuff won't penetrate a boat like that." Another series of lightning flashes illuminated the area.
   "I see 'em, they're going out to the bay!" Mendoza called.
   "Damn!" Breckenridge growled. "You four, get the ladies over to the dispensary." He bent down to help the Princess to her feet as Robby lifted his wife. "You want to give the little girl to the Private, ma'am? They're going to take you to the hospital and get you all dried off."
   Ryan saw that his wife was still trying to help one of the wounded Marines, then looked at the patrol boat in front of him. "Robby?"
   "Yeah, Jack?"
   "Does this boat have radar?"
   Chief Znamirowski answered. "They all do, sir."
   A Marine lowered the tailgate on the one pickup and helped Jackson load his wife aboard. "What are you thinking, Jack?"
   "How fast are they?"
   "About thirteen – I don't think they're fast enough."
   Chief Bosun's Mate Znamirowski looked over the seawall at the boat Robby had steered in. "In the seas we got now, you bet I can catch one of those little things! But I need someone to work the radar. I don't have an operator in my section right now."
   "I can do that," the Prince offered. He was tired of being a target, and no one would keep him out of this. "It would be a pleasure in fact."
   "Robby, you're senior here," Jack said.
   "Is it legal?" Captain Peters asked, fingering his automatic.
   "Look," Ryan said quickly, "we just had an armed attack by foreign nationals on a U.S. government reservation – that's an act of war and posse commitatus doesn't apply." At least I don't think it does, he thought. "Can you think of a good reason not to go after them?"
   He couldn't. "Chief Z, you have a boat ready?" Jackson asked.
   "Hell, yes, we can take the seventy-six boat."
   "Crank her up! Captain Peters, we need some Marines."
   "Sar-Major Breckenridge, secure the area, and bring along ten men."
   The Sergeant Major had left the officers to their arguments while getting the civilians loaded onto the truck. He grabbed Cummings.
   "Sergeant, take charge of the civilians, get 'em to sick bay, and put a guard on 'em. Beef up the guard force, but your primary mission is to take care of these people here. Their safety is your responsibility – and you ain't relieved till I relieve you! Got it?"
   "Aye, Gunny."

   Ryan helped his wife to the truck. "We're going after them."
   "I know. Be careful. Jack. Please."
   "I will, but we're going to get 'em this time, babe." He kissed his wife. There was a funny sort of look on her face, something more than concern. "Are you okay?"
   "I'll be fine. You worry about you. Be careful!"
   "Sure, babe. I'll be back." But they won't! Jack turned away to jump aboard the boat. He went inside the deckhouse and found the ladder to the bridge.
   "I am Chief Znamirowski, and I have the conn," she announced. Mary Znamirowski didn't look like a chief bosun's mate, but the young seaman – was seawoman the proper term for her? Jack wondered – on the wheel jumped as though she were. "Starboard back two thirds, port back one third, left full rudder."
   "Stem line is in," a seaman – this one was a man – reported.
   "Very well," she acknowledged, and continued her terse commands to get the YP away from the dock. Within seconds they were clear of the seawall and the other boats.
   "Right full rudder, all ahead full! Come to new course one-three-five." She turned. "How's the radar look?"
   The Prince was looking over the controls on the unfamiliar set. He found the clutter-suppression switch and bent down to the viewing hood. "Ah! Target bearing one-one-eight, range thirteen hundred, target course northeasterly, speed . . . about eight knots."
   "That's about right, it can get choppy by the point," Chief Z thought. "What's our mission. Commander?"
   "Can we stay with them?"
   "They shot up my boats! I'll ram the turkeys if you want, sir," the chief replied. "I can give you thirteen knots as long as you want. I doubt they can do more than ten in the seas we got."
   "Okay. I want us to follow as close as we can without being spotted." The chief opened one of the pilothouse doors and looked at the water. "We'll close to three hundred. Anything else?"
   "Go ahead and close up. For the rest of it, I am open to ideas," Robby replied.
   "How about we see where they're going?" Jack suggested. "Then we can call in the cavalry."
   "That makes sense. If they try to run for shore . . . Christ, I'm a fighter pilot, not a cop." Robby lifted the radio microphone. The set showed the boat's call sign: NAEF. "Naval Station Annapolis, this is November Alfa Echo Foxtrot. Do you read, over." He had to repeat the call twice more before getting an acknowledgment.
   "Annapolis, give me a phone patch to the Superintendent."
   "He just called us, sir. Stand by." A few clicks followed, plus the usual static.
   "This is Admiral Reynolds, who is this?"
   "Lieutenant Commander Jackson, sir, aboard the seventy-six boat. We are one mile southeast of the Academy in pursuit of the boat that just shot up our waterfront."
   "Is that what happened? All right, who do you have aboard?"
   "Chief Znamirowski and the duty boat section, Captain Peters and some Marines, Doctor Ryan, and, uh. Captain Wales, sir, of the Royal Navy," Robby answered.
   "Is that where he is? I have the FBI on the other phone – Christ, Robby! Okay, the civilians corner under guard at the hospital, and the FBI and police corner on the way here. Repeat your situation and then state your intentions."
   "Sir, we are tracking the boat that attacked the dock. Our intentions are to close and track by radar to determine its destination, then call in the proper law-enforcement agencies, sir." Robby smiled into the mike at his choice of words. "My next call is to Coast Guard Baltimore, sir. Looks like they're heading in that direction at the moment."
   "Roger that. Very well, you may continue the mission, but the safety of your guests is your responsibility. Do not, repeat do not take any unnecessary chances. Acknowledge."
   "Yes, sir, we will not take any unnecessary chances."
   "Use your head, Commander, and report as necessary. Out."
   "Now there's a vote of confidence," Jackson thought aloud. "Carry on."
   "Left fifteen degrees rudder," Chief Z ordered, rounding Greenbury Point. "Come to new course zero-two-zero."
   "Target bearing zero-one-four, range fourteen hundred, speed still eight knots," His Highness told the quartermaster on the chart table. "They took a shorter route around this point."
   "No problem," the chief noted, looking at the radar plot. "We have deep water all the way up from here."
   "Chief Z, do we have any coffee aboard?"
   "I got a pot in the galley, sir, but I don't have anybody to work it."
   "I'll take care of that," Jack said. He went below, then to starboard and below again. The galley was a small one, but the coffee machine was predictably of the proper size. Ryan got it started and went back topside. Breckenridge was passing out life jackets to everyone aboard, which seemed a sensible enough precaution. The Marines were deployed on the bridgewalk outside the pilothouse.
   "Coffee in ten minutes," he announced.
   "Say again, Coast Guard," Robby said into the microphone.
   "Navy Echo Foxtrot, this is Coast Guard Baltimore, do you read, over."
   "That's better."
   "Can you tell us what's going on?"
   "We are tracking a small boat, about a twenty-footer – with ten or more armed terrorists aboard." He gave position, course, and speed. "Acknowledge that."
   "Roger, you say a boat full of bad guys and machine guns. Is this for real? Over."
   "That's affirmative, son. Now let's cut the crap and get down to it."
   The response was slightly miffed. "Roger that, we have a forty-one boat about to leave the dock and a thirty-two-footer'll be about ten minutes behind it. These are small harbor-patrol boats. They are not equipped to fight a surface gun action, mister."
   "We have ten Marines aboard," Jackson replied. "Do you request assistance?"
   "Hell, yes – that's affirmative. Echo Foxtrot. I have the police and the FBI on the phone, and they are heading to this area."
   "Okay, have your forty-one boat call us when they clear the dock. Let's have your boat track from in front and we'll track from behind. If we can figure where the target is heading, I want you to call in the cops."
   "We can do that easy enough. Let me get some things rolling here, Navy. Stand by."
   "A ship," the Prince said.
   "It's gotta be," Ryan agreed. "The same way they did it when they rescued that Miller bastard . . . Robby, can you get the Coast Guard to give us a list of the ships in the harbor?"

   Werner and both Hostage Rescue groups were already moving. He wondered what had gone wrong – and right – tonight, but that would be determined later. For the moment he had agents and police heading toward the Naval Academy to protect the people he was supposed to have rescued, and his men were split between an FBI Chevy Suburban and two State Police cars, all heading north on Ritchie Highway toward Baltimore. If only they could use helicopters, he thought, but the weather was too bad, and everyone had had enough of that for one night. They were back to being a SWAT team, a purpose for which they were well suited. Despite everything that had gone wrong tonight, they now had a large group of terrorists flushed and in the open . . .

   "Here's the list of the ships in port," the Coast Guard Lieutenant said over the radio. "We had a lot of them leave Friday night, so the list isn't too long. I'll start off at the Dundalk Marine Terminal. Nissan Courier, Japanese registry, she's a car carrier out of Yokohama delivering a bunch of cars and trucks. Wilhelm Schorner, West German registry, a container boat out of Bremen with general cargo. Costanza, Cypriot registry, out of Valetta, Malta –"
   "Bingo!" Ryan said.
   "– scheduled to sail in about five hours, looks like. George McReady, American, arrived with a cargo of lumber from Portland, Oregon. That's the last one there."
   "Tell me about the Costanza," Robby said, looking at Jack.
   "She arrived in ballast and loaded up a cargo mainly of farm equipment and some other stuff. Sails before dawn, supposed to be headed back for Valetta."
   "That's probably our boy," Jack said quietly.
   "Stand by, Coast Guard." Robby turned away from the radio. "How do you know. Jack?"
   "I don't know, but it's a solid guess. When these bastards pulled that rescue on Christmas Day, they were probably picked up in the Channel by a Cypriot-registered ship. We think their weapons get to them through a Maltese dealer who works with a South African, and a lot of terrorists move back and forth through Malta – the local government's tight with a certain country due south of there. The Maltese don't get their own hands dirty, but they're real good at looking the other way if the money's right." Robby nodded and keyed his mike.
   "Coast Guard, have you gotten things straightened out with the local cops?"
   "That's a rog, Navy."
   "Tell them that we believe the target's objective is the Costanza."
   "Roger that. We'll have our thirty-two boat stake her out and call in the cops."
   "Don't let them see you, Coast Guard!"
   "Understood, Navy. We can handle that part easy enough. Stand by . . . Navy, be advised that our forty-one boat reports radar contact with you and the target, rounding Bodkin Point. Is this correct? Over."
   "Yes!" called the Quartermaster at the chart table. He was making a precise record of the course tracks from the radar plot.
   "That's affirm, Coast Guard. Tell your boat to take station five hundred yards forward of the target. Acknowledge."
   "Roger, five-zero-zero yards. Okay, let's see if we can get the cops moving. Stand by."
   "We got 'em," Ryan thought aloud.
   "Uh, Lieutenant, keep your hands still, sir." It was Breckenridge. He reached into Ryan's belt and extracted the Browning automatic. Jack was surprised to see that he'd stuck it in there with the hammer back and safety off. Breckenridge lowered the hammer and put the pistol back where it was. "Let's try to think 'safe,' sir, okay? Otherwise you might lose something important."
   Ryan nodded rather sheepishly. "Thanks, Gunny."
   "Somebody has to protect the lieutenants." Breckenridge turned. "Okay, Marines – let's stay awake out there!"
   "You got a man on the Prince?" Jack asked.
   "Even before the Admiral said so." The Sergeant Major gestured to where a corporal was standing, rifle in hand, three feet from His Highness, with orders to stay between him and the gunfire.

   Five minutes later a trio of State Police cars drove without lights to Berth Six of the Dundalk Marine Terminal. The cars were parked under one of the gantry cranes used for transferring cargo containers, and five officers walked quietly to the ship's accommodation ladder. A crewman stationed there stopped them – or tried to. A language barrier prevented proper communications. He found himself accompanying the troopers, with his hands cuffed behind his back. The senior police officer bounded up three more ladders and arrived at the bridge.
   "What is this!"
   "And who might you be?" the cop inquired from behind a shotgun.
   "I am the master of this ship!" Captain Nikolai Frenza proclaimed.
   "Well, Captain, I am Sergeant William Powers of the Maryland State Police, and I have some questions for you."
   "You have no authority on my ship!" Frenza answered. His accent was a mixture of Greek and some other tongue. "I will talk to the Coast Guard and no one else."
   "I want to make this real clear." Powers walked the fifteen feet to the Captain, his hands tight around the Ithaca 12-gauge shotgun. "That shore you're tied to is the State of Maryland, and this shotgun says I got all the authority I need. Now we have information that a boatload of terrorists is coming here, and the word is they've killed a bunch of people, including three state troopers." He planted the muzzle against Frenza's chest. "Captain, if they do come here, or if you fuck with me any more tonight, you are in a whole shitpot full of trouble – do you understand me!"
   The man wilted before his eyes. Powers saw. So the information is correct. Good.
   "You would be well advised to cooperate, 'cause pretty soon we're going to have more cops here 'n you ever saw. You just might need some friends, mister. If you have something to tell me, I want to hear it right now."
   Frenza hesitated, his eyes shifting toward the bow and back. He was in deep trouble, more than his advance payment would ever cover. "There are four of them aboard. They are forward, starboard side, near the bow. We didn't know –"
   "Shut up." Powers nodded to a corporal, who got on his portable radio. "What about your crew?"
   "The crew is below, preparing to take the ship to sea."
   "Sarge, the Coast Guard says they're three miles off and heading in."
   "All right." Powers pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt. He and his men took the four men standing bridge watch and secured them to the ship's wheel and two other fittings. "Captain, if you or your people make any noise at all, I'll come back here and splatter you all over this ship. I am not kidding."
   Powers took his men down to the main deck and forward on the port side. The Costanza's superstructure was all aft. Forward of it, the deck was a mass of cargo containers, each the size of a truck-trailer, piled three– and four-high. Between each pile was an artificial alleyway, perhaps three feet wide, which allowed them to approach the bow unobserved. The Sergeant had no SWAT experience, but all of his men had shotguns and he did know something of infantry tactics.
   It was like walking alongside a building, except that the street was made of rusty steel. The rain had abated, finally, but it still made noise, clattering on the metal container boxes. They passed the last of these to find that the ship's forward hold was open and a crane was hanging over the starboard side. Powers peeked around the corner and saw two men standing at the far side of the deck. They appeared to be looking southeast, toward the entrance to the harbor. There was no easy way to approach. He and his men crouched and went straight toward them. They'd gotten halfway when one turned.
   "Who are you?"