Captain has the conn, Ensign Walters said. She was disappointed. Here she was in the middle of a goddamned tropical storm and having the time of her young life. She wasnt even ill from it, though many of the crew were. So why couldnt the skipper let her keep the goddamned conn?

Left standard rudder, Wegener ordered. Come to new course three-three-five. All ahead two-thirds.

Left standard rudder, aye, coming to new course three-three-five. The helmsman turned the wheel, then reached for the throttle controls. Two thirds, sir.

Very well. How you feel, Obrecki? the skipper asked.

Hell of a coaster, but Im wondering when the ride is going to stop, sir. The youngster grinned, but didnt take his eyes off the compass.

Youre doing just fine. Let me know if you get tired, though.

Aye aye, sir.

Oreza and Riley appeared a minute later. What gives? the former asked.

We go to flight quarters in thirty minutes, the captain told them.

Oh, fuck! Riley observed. Excuse me, Red, but . . . shit!

Okay, Master Chief, now that weve gotten that behind us, Im depending on you to get it done, Wegener said sternly. Riley accepted the rebuke like the pro he was.

Beg pardon, Capn, youll get my best shot. Put the XO in the tower?

Wegener nodded. The executive officer was the best man to command the evolution from the flight-control station. Go get him. Riley left and Wegener turned to his quartermaster. Portagee, I want you on the wheel when we go Hotel Corpin. Ill have the conn.

Sir, there aint no Hotel Corpin.

Thats why youre on the wheel. Relieve Obrecki in half an hour and get a feel for her. We gotta give him the best target we can.

Jesus. Oreza looked out the windows. You got it, Red.

Johns held the aircraft down, staying a scant five hundred feet above ground level. He disengaged the automatic flight controls, trusting more to his skill and instinct now, leaving the throttle to Willis and concentrating on his instruments as much as he could. It started in an instant. One moment they were flying in clear air, the next there was rain pelting the aircraft.

This isnt so bad, Johns lied outrageously over the intercom.

They even pay us to do it, Willis agreed with no small irony.

PJ checked the navigation display. The winds were from the northwest at the moment, slowing the helicopter somewhat, but that would change. His eyes flickered from the airspeed indicator to another one that worked off a Doppler-radar aimed at the ground. Satellite and inertial navigation systems told a computer display where he was and where he wanted to go, a red dot. Another screen held the display of a radar system that interrogated the storm ahead, showing the worst sections in red. Hed try to avoid those, but the yellow areas he had to fly through were bad enough.

Shit! Willis shouted. Both pilots yanked up on the collective and twisted to maximum power. Theyd caught a downdraft. Both pairs of eyes locked onto the dial that gave them vertical velocity in feet per minute. For an instant they were headed down at over a thousand, less than thirty seconds of life for an aircraft at five hundred feet. But microbursts like that are localized phenomena. The helicopter bottomed out at two hundred and clawed its way back up. PJ decided that seven hundred feet was a safer cruise altitude at the moment. He said one word: Close.

Willis grunted by way of reply.

In back, men were strapped down to the floor. Ryan had already done that, and was holding onto his minigun mount as though it would make a difference. He could see out the open doorat nothing, really. Just a mass of gray darkness occasionally lit by lightning. The helicopter was jolting up and down, tossed like a childs kite by the moving masses of air, except that the helicopter weighed forty thousand pounds. But there was nothing he could do. His fate was in the hands of others, and nothing he knew or did mattered now. Even vomiting didnt make him feel any better, though he and others were doing that. He just wanted it to be over, and only intellect told him that he really did care how it endeddidnt he?

The buffeting continued, but the winds shifted as the helicopter penetrated the storm. They had started off from the northeast, but shifted with measurable speed counterclockwise, and were soon on the port quarter of the aircraft. That increased their ground speed. With an airspeed of one-fifty, they now had a ground speed of one-ninety and increasing.

This is doing wonders for our fuel economy, Johns noted.

Fifty miles, Willis replied.

CAESAR, this is CLAW, over.

Roger, CLAW, we are five-zero miles from Alternate One, and its a little bumpy A little bumpy, my ass, Captain Montaigne thought, roller-coastering through lighter weather a hundred miles away otherwise okay, Johns reported. If we cannot make the landing, I think we can try to slingshot out the other side and make for the Panamanian coast. Johns frowned as more water struck the windshield. Some was ingested into the engines at the same time.

Flameout! Weve lost Number Two.

Restart it, Johns said, still trying to be cool. He lowered the nose and traded altitude for speed to get out of the heavy rain. That, too, was supposed to be a local phenomenon. Supposed to be.

Working on it, Willis rasped.

Losing power in Number One, Johns said. He twisted the throttle all the way and managed to get some of it back. His two-engine aircraft was now operating on one of its engines at 80 percent power. Lets get Two back, Captain. We have a hundred foot per minute of down right now.

Working, Willis repeated. The rain eased a little, and Number Two started turning and burning again, but delivered only 40 percent. I think the P3 loss just got worse. We got a shit sandwich here, Colonel. Forty miles. Were committed to Alternate One now.

At least we have an option. I never could swim worth a damn. PJs hands were sweaty now. He could feel them loose inside the handmade gloves. Intercom time: AC to crew, were about fifteen minutes out, he told them. One-five minutes out.

Riley had assembled a group of ten, all experienced crewmen. Each had a safety line around his waist, and Riley checked every knot and buckle personally. Though all had life preservers on, finding a man overboard in these conditions would require a miracle from an especially loving God who had lots of things to keep Him busy tonight, Riley thought. Tie-down chains and more two-inch line was assembled and set in place, already secured to the deck wherever possible. He took the deck crew forward, standing them against the aft-facing wall of the superstructure. All ready here, he said over the phone to the XO in flight control. To his people: If any of you fuck up and go over the side, Ill fucking jump overboard an strangle you myself!

They were in a whirlpool of wind. According to the navigational display, they were now north of their target, traveling at nearly two hundred fifty knots. The buffet now was the worst it had been. One downburst hurled them down at the black waves until Johns stopped at a bare hundred feet. It was now to the point that the pilot wanted to throw up. Hed never flown in conditions like this, and it was worse than the manuals said it was. How far?

We should be there right now, sir! Willis said. Dead south.

Okay. Johns pushed the stick to the left. The sudden change of direction relative to the wind threatened to snap the helicopter over, but he held it and crabbed onto the new course. Two minutes later, they were in the clear.

Panache, this is CAESAR, where the hell are you?

Lights on, everything, now! Wegener shouted when he heard the call. In a moment Panache was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Goddamn if you dont look pretty down there! the voice said a few seconds later.

Adele was a small, weak, disorganized hurricane, now turning back into a tropical storm due to confused local weather conditions. That made her winds weaker than everyone had feared, but the eye was also small and disorganized, and the eye was what they needed now.

It is a common misconception that the eye of a hurricane is calm. It is not, though after experiencing the powerful winds in the innermost wall of clouds, the fifteen knots of breeze there seem like less than nothing to an observer. But the wind is unsteady and shifting, and the seas in the eye, though not as tall as those in the storm proper, are confused. Wegener had stationed his ship within a mile of the northwest edge of the eye, which was barely four miles across. The storm was moving at about fifteen knots. They had fifteen minutes to recover the helicopter. About the only good news was that the air was clear. No rain was falling, and the crew in the pilothouse could see the waves and allow for them.

Aft at flight control, the executive officer donned his headset and started talking.

CAESAR, this is Panache. I am the flight-operations officer, and I will guide your approach. We have fifteen knots of wind, and the direction is variable. The ship is pitching and rolling in what looks like about fifteen-foot seas. We have about ten or fifteen minutes to do this, so theres not that much of a rush. That last sentence was merely aimed at making the helicopters crew feel better. He wondered if anyone could bring this off.

Skipper, a few more knots and I can hold her a little steadier, Portagee reported at the wheel.

We cant run out of the eye.

I know that, sir, but I need a little more way on.

Wegener went outside to look. The helicopter was visible now, its strobes blinking in the darkness as it circled the ship to allow the pilot to size things up. If anything screws this up, its going to be the roll, Wegener realized. Portagee was right about the speed. Two-thirds, he called back inside.

Christ, thats a little boat, Johns heard Willis breathe.

Just so the oars aint in the way. PJ took the helicopter down, circling one last time and coming to a straight course dead aft of the cutter. He leveled out at one hundred feet and found that he couldnt hover very well. He lacked the power, and the aircraft wavered left and right when he tried.

Hold that damned boat steady! he said over the radio circuit.

We are trying, sir, the XO replied. We have the wind off the port bow at the moment. I recommend you come in from the portside and stay at an angle to the deck all the way in.

Roger, I can see why. Johns adjusted power one more time and moved in.

Okay, lets move! Riley told his men. They divided into three teams, one for each of the helicopters wheel assemblies.

The deck, Johns saw, was not quite large enough for a fore-and-aft landing, but by angling his approach he could plant all six wheels on the black surface. He came in slowly, fifteen knots faster than the ship to start, and sloughing that off as he closed, but the wind shifted and turned the helicopter. Johns swore and turned fully away to try again.

Sorry about that, he said. I have some power problems here.

Roger, take your time, sir, the XO replied.

PJ started again, a thousand yards out. The approach this time went well. He flared the aircraft a hundred yards aft to drop off excess speed, then flattened out and eased forward. His main gear touched just where he wanted, but the ship rolled hard and threw the aircraft to starboard. Instinctively PJ hit power and collective to lift free of the deck. He shouldnt have, and knew it even as he did so.

This is hard, he said over the radio, managing not to curse as he brought the chopper back around.

Shame we dont have more time to practice, the Coast Guard officer agreed. That was a good, smooth approach. The ship just took a bad roll on us. Do that one more time, youll be just fine.

Okay, one more time. PJ came in again.

The ship was rolling twenty degrees left and right despite her stabilizers and bilge keels, but Johns fixed his eyes on the center of the target area, which wasnt rolling at all, just a fixed point in space. That had to be the trick, he told himself, pick the spot that isnt moving. Again he flared out to kill off speed and inched forward. Just as he approached the deck, his eyes shifted to where the nosewheels had to hit, and slammed the collective down. It felt almost as bad as a crash, but the collective held the chopper in place.

Riley was first up and rolled under the aircraft at the nosewheels. Another boatswains mate followed with the tie-down chains. The master chief found a likely spot and hooked them in place, then shot his arm out and made a fist. Two men on the other end of the chains pulled them taut, and the chief rolled free and went down the portside to get to work on the main gear. It took several minutes. The Pave Low shifted twice before they had it secured, but soon they had two-inch line to back up the chains. By the time Riley was finished, it would have taken explosives to lift it from the deck. The deck crew entered the helicopter at the stern ramp and guided the passengers out. Riley counted fifteen people. Hed been told to expect more than that. Then he saw the bodies, and the men who were struggling with them.

Forward, Johns and Willis shut down their engines.

CLAW, CAESAR is down. Return to base. Johns took off his helmet too soon to catch the reply, though Willis caught it.

Roger. Out.

Johns looked around. He didnt feel like a pilot now. His aircraft was down. He was safe. It was time to get out and do something else. He couldnt get out his door without risking a fall overboard and . . . hed allowed himself to forget Buck Zimmer. That door in his mind opened itself now. Well, he told himself, Buck would understand. The colonel stepped over the flight-engineer console. Ryan was still there, his flight suit speckled from his nausea. Johns knelt by the side of his sergeant. Theyd served together on and off for over twenty years.

He told me he has seven kids, Ryan said.

Johns voice was too tired for any overt emotions. He spoke like a man a thousand years old, tired of life, tired of flying, tired of everything. Yeah, cute ones. His wife is from Laos. Carol, her name is. Oh, God, Buckwhy now?

Let me help, Jack said. Johns took the arms. Ryan got the legs. They had to wait in line. There were other bodies to be carried out, some dead, some only wounded, and they got the understandable priority. The soldiers, Jack saw, carried their own, helped by Sergeant Bean. The Coasties offered help, but it was declinednot unkindly, and the sailors understood the reason. Ryan and Johns also declined the assistance, the colonel because of the years with his friend, and the CIA officer because of a duty self-imposed. Riley and his men stayed behind briefly to collect packs and weapons. Then they, too, went below.

The bodies were set in a passageway for the time being. The wounded went to the crews mess. Ryan and the Air Force officers were guided to the wardroom. There they found the man whod started it all, months before, though none of them would ever understand how it had all happened. There was one more face, one which Jack recognized.

Hi, Dan.

Bad? the FBI agent asked.

Jack didnt respond to that. We got Cortez. I think he was wounded. Hes probably in sick bay with a couple of soldiers keeping an eye on him.

What got you? Murray asked. He pointed to Jacks helmet.

Ryan took it off and saw a gouge where a 7.62 bullet had scraped away a quarter inch or so of fiberglass. Jack knew that he should have reacted to it, but that part of his life was four hundred miles behind him. Instead he sat down and stared at the deck and didnt say anything for a while. Two minutes later, Murray moved him onto a cot and covered him with a blanket.

Captain Montaigne had to fight the last two miles through high winds, but she was a particularly fine pilot and the Lockheed Hercules was a particularly fine aircraft. She touched down a little hard, but not too badly, and followed the guide jeep to her hangar. A man in civilian clothes was waiting there, along with some officers. As soon as shed shut down, she walked out to meet them. She made them wait while she headed for the rest room, smiling through her fatigue that there was not a man in America whod deny a lady a trip to the john. Her flight suit smelled horrible and her hair was a wreck, she saw in the mirror before she returned. They were waiting for her right outside the door.

Captain, I want to know what you did tonight, the civilian askedbut he wasnt a civilian, she realized after a moment, though the prick certainly didnt deserve to be anything else. Montaigne didnt know everything that was behind all this, but she did know that much.

I just flew a very long mission, sir. My crew and I are beat to hell.

I want to talk to all of you about what you did.

Sir, that is my crew. If theres any talking to be done, youll talk to me! she snapped back.

What did you do? Cutter demanded. He tried pretending it wasnt a girl. He didnt know that she was not pretending that he wasnt a man.

Colonel Johns went in to rescue some special-ops troopers. She rubbed both hands across the back of her neck. We gotemhe got em, most of em, I suppose.

Then where is he?

Montaigne looked him right in the eye. Sir, he had engine trouble. He couldnt climb out to uscouldnt get over the mountains. He flew right into the storm. He didnt fly out of it, sir. Anything else you want to know? I want to get showered, get some coffee down, and start thinking about search and rescue.

The fields closed, the base commander said. Nobody gets out for another ten hours. I think you need some rest, Captain.

I think youre right, sir. Excuse me, I have to see to my crew. Ill have you the SAR coordinates in a few minutes. Somebodys gotta try, she added.

Look, General, I want Cutter started to say.

Mister, you leave that crew alone, said an Air Force onestar who was retiring soon anyway.

Larson landed at Medellns city airport about the same time the MC-130 approached Panama. It had been a profane flight, Clark in the back with Escobedo, the latters hands tied behind his back and a gun in his ribs. There had been many promises of death in the flight. Death to Clark, death to Larson and his girlfriend who worked for Avianca, death to many people. Clark just smiled through it all.

So what do you do with me, eh? You kill me now? he asked as the wheels locked in the down position. Finally, Clark responded.

I suggested that we could give you a flying lesson out the back of the helicopter, but they wouldnt let me. So looks like were going to have to let you go.

Escobedo didnt know how to answer. His bluster wasnt able to cope with the fact that they might not want to kill him. They just didnt have the courage to, Clark decided.

I had Larson call ahead, he said.

Larson, you motherless traitor, you think you will survive?

Clark dug the pistol in Escobedos ribs. You dont bother the guy whos flying the goddamned airplane. If I were you, seor, Id be very pleased to be coming home. Were even having you met at the airport.

Met by whom?

By some of your friends, Clark said as the wheel squeaked down on the tarmac. Larson reversed his props to brake the aircraft. Some of your fellow board members.

Thats when he saw the real danger coming. What did you tell them?