She glanced at Josh Currey. "Anything else from Intel, Josh?"

"Yes," he answered, again referring to his notes. "We have information that several transport ships headed toward San 213.

213.

Francisco turned and headed back to Vancouver Island after the Scouts destroyed the docks there."

G.o.ddard nodded slowly, a smile on his face. "Now there was a good piece of work. We may've dodged a large bullet by preventing those ships from landing."

"Count on it," Ben said. "My Intel was in contact with Canada, and they said those ships were loaded with heavy equipment and thousands of troops."

"Also," Currey added, "Ben informed me of a development near Boise, Idaho."

Claire looked at Ben. "Go on."

"My Scouts that took control of the airport there sent me word they had information several planes are due to land that are somehow connected to the terrorists."

"What kind of planes?" G.o.ddard asked.

"C-130 transport planes," Ben answered. "It is their theory that these planes are also supposed to unload heavy equipment and troop reinforcements."

"Couldn't our Air Force shoot them down?" Claire asked the general.

He shrugged. "We could if we knew where they were coming from or when they were due to arrive. As it is, they could cross down from Canadian airs.p.a.ce and be on the ground before we could scramble a squadron to intercept them."

She turned back to Ben. "So what's going on?" she asked, frowning.Ben smiled. "So far, my team is using a scrambling device to keep the terrorists from contacting the planes and warning them we have control of the airport. If we're lucky, the planes will come on in thinking the terrorists are still in control and we'll have them in our crosshairs."

"So," Claire said, stroking her chin thoughtfully, "you plan to let the planes land and then take the troops prisoner?"

Ben laughed. "Not hardly, Claire. Remember, I only have 214.

a few people there. They couldn't possibly take a large number of troops prisoner and contain them safely."

"But what do you plan to do?" she asked.

"Have a surprise party for the planes when they try to land," he said quickly, a nasty grin on his face.

"You don't mean you'd deliberately crash them, do you?" Ainsworth asked incredulously. "Why, you'd kill all those poor men on the planes."

Ben looked at him as if he had a screw loose. "All those innocent men you're so worried about are on the way to your country to bury you, bub," he said sarcastically. "What do you want my people to do? Invite them in for tea?"

Claire held up her hands, trying to hide a smile. She too thought her Minister of Propaganda was a bit of a wimp, and was glad Ben had put him in his place.

"I'm sure Ben's Scouts will not do any unnecessary killing, will they, Ben?" she asked.

He shook his head, his face hard. "No, they won't kill a soul that doesn't deserve it," he said, leaving no mistake about what he meant.

215.

Harley Reno had the air traffic controllers help Jim Short, the captured FFA man, haul the mangled bodies of the dead guards down the stairs from the control tower and lay them on the ground.

Once that was done, he asked Anna and Beth and Corrie to a.s.sist the controllers in checking out the tower's equipment and making sure it was still in working order. Some of the machines had bullet holes in them, while others were dark, with none of their lights coming on.

"You think you can get it up and running?" Harley asked the lead controller, a man named Butch Gottlieb.

Butch scratched his balding head and gave a half grin. "d.a.m.ned if I know, partner, but I'll see what we can do."

Harley smiled back. "That's all we can ask, Butch," he said as he prodded Jim Short in the back with his Beretta side arm.

"Come on, traitor, let's go on over to the main terminal and see how things are going," he said to the FFA man.As they drove over to the terminal in Harley's HumVee, they could see flames inside the building and shattered gla.s.s where most of the windows used to be.

"Looks like they had a h.e.l.luva party over here," Harley observed, more to himself than to Short.

When he and Short entered through the front doorway, 216.

Harley felt a funny feeling in his stomach when he saw his best friend, Hammer Hammerlick, lying on the floor in a large pool of blood, with Jersey and Coop working over him.

Harley gestured with his pistol to a nearby chair. "Sit down over there and don't even think about moving," he said to his captive.

Short nodded and sat in the chair, glancing around at all the dead FFA men he'd planned and worked with over the years, now thinking what fools they'd been.

Harley rushed to squat next to Hammer, who gave him a lopsided grin.

"Howdy, podna," Hammer said, his voice croaking through a dry throat.

Harley shook his head, trying to look severe. "Hammer, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, how many times have I told you, when they shoot at you, duck!"

Hammer squinted his eyes against the pain as Jersey increased the pressure on his combat field dressing. "I must've slept through that lecture," he said through clenched, gritted teeth.

Harley glanced at Coop. "He gonna be all right?" he asked, his face neutral.

Coop nodded. "Yeah. He lost some muscle and lots of blood, but Jersey got to him pretty fast and got the leaking stopped, so it should do okay."

"Any other casualties?"

Coop shook his head. "Nope. We were pretty lucky. Guess they weren't expecting any trouble or they would've been ready for us."

"You save any, or did you kill 'em all?" Harley asked, glancing over his shoulder at Short to make sure he hadn't moved anywhere.

"We got two still alive, but they're pretty badly shot up. Doubt if they'll make it unless they get to a hospital pretty soon."

"You doin' all right?" Harley said to Hammer, putting a hand on his uninjured shoulder.

217.

217.

Hammer nodded without opening his eyes. "Sure thing, Boss. You go on and take care of business."

Harley stood up, motioning Coop to follow him. They walked over to standin front of Short.

"Come on, Short," Harley said. Then to Coop: "Show us the wounded men."

Coop led them down a corridor to an office where two men were lying on couches, covered with bloodstained blankets.

"You know these two?" Harley asked Short.

The captive nodded. "Yeah. That one's Sammy Sousa and he's Billy Wesson."

"Either one of them the man in charge here tonight?" Harley asked.

Short's lips firmed up in a tight line. "Under the rules of the Geneva Convention, I only have to tell you my name and rank . .." he started to say.

"Hold on there, compadre," Harley said, stepping up until his face was inches from Short's.

"I'll bet you've never even read the Articles of the Geneva Convention, have you?"

"Uh . . . well, no, but. . ." Short said, an uncertain look on his face.

"First of all, when your country used germ and chemical warfare in the last war, they violated the articles and thus are no longer subject to their rules. Secondly, you're not a soldier in uniform. You're in civilian clothes, which technically makes you a spy."

"But. . ." Short stuttered.

"No buts, bub," Harley said, his voice hard as nails. "Under the Articles, I'm perfectly justified in shooting you on sight. Understand?"

Short dropped his eyes and stared at the floor, defeated. "Yes."

"Now, is either of these men your commanding officer?" Harley asked again.

218.

Short inclined his head toward one of the men on the couch. "That one.

Billy Wesson. He was in charge."

Harley nodded. "Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Now, all I see when I look around the airport here is white faces. I thought all you FFA guys were working in conjunction with Arab terrorist teams."

"We were," Short said. "The Arabs took the town while us FFAs were sent to take the airport."

Harley pursed his lips, thinking. "I see. So, are the Arabs supposed to come here later, or what?"

Short shrugged. "I don't know. You'll have to ask Billy what the plans were. The rest of us just followed orders. We weren't in on the details."

"Seems like I've heard that defense before," Harley said. "Do you know anything about some airplanes supposed to land here later?"Short stared at him for a moment, as if thinking about refusing to answer or lying, then evidently thought better of it. "Yeah. Three or four big planes, C-130's I think, are supposed to land here early in the morning, at first light."

"You know what they're gonna be carrying?" Harley asked.

Short shook his head. "No, the Arabs didn't share that with us. But Billy told me he figured it was more troops and equipment of some kind."

"He tell you any pa.s.swords or codes to use when talking with the planes?" Harley asked.

Short shook his head again. "No."

Harley jacked the loading slide back on the Beretta and stuck the barrel under Short's chin.

"Say again?" Harley snarled.

Short began to sweat, and Harley could see white around his eyes. "No, I promise you ... I don't know!" he cried in real fear for his life.

Harley eased the hammer down on the pistol. "I believe you, Short. You know why?"

219.

219.

"Uh-uh," Short mumbled, his eyes still on the pistol.

" 'Cause you have neither the b.a.l.l.s nor the conviction to lie to me."

Harley whirled around and walked over to the couch where Billy Wesson lay.

He pulled the blanket back and saw three bloodstained bullet holes in Wesson's abdomen. He knew the man would never live to see a doctor.

He slapped him lightly on the cheeks to bring him to consciousness.

"Billy, Billy Wesson," Harley said in a loud voice. "Wake up."

Wesson's eyes fluttered a few times, he smacked dry lips, coughed, and then his eyes came open. He stared up at Harley leaning over him.

"Who . . . who are you?" he croaked.

"My name is Harley Reno," Harley said in a neutral voice. "I have some questions for you, Mr. Wesson."

Wesson groaned and moved slightly on the couch. "I'm hurt... I need a doctor."

"We'll get you one, just as soon as you answer my questions," Harley said.

Wesson rolled his head back and forth, whining, "No, no answers until I get to see a doctor."

Harley stood up and shrugged. "Okay, pal, it's your choice. See ya later."Wesson grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute. Aren't you going to get me a doctor?5'

Harley shook his head. "No, and I really wouldn't want to be in your shoes, pal."

Wesson's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Harley grinned a nasty grin. "Yeah. You see, pal, you got three belly wounds. Now, since you're still alive, that means you probably aren't gonna bleed to death, which would be the easy way out."

Wesson frowned. "What. .. what do you mean?"