"That's about all we can do."

"She's fueled and waiting at the airport in old Saigon," Gannon said. "The mechanic should be finished bolting the winch in place in the next hour. I'm faxing a picture."

"We'll be seeing you soon," Hanley said. "Everything okay in the meantime?"

"Smooth as a baby's bottom," Gannon said easily.

300.

301.

ON THE ZAPATA Petroleum rig off Vietnam, Delbert Chiglack took the sheet that had just printed out of the fax machine, then called once more to the incoming helicopter. When finished, he returned to the lunchroom on the rig and handed the sheet to Gunderson.

"This just came for you."

"Thanks," Gunderson said quickly, staring at the picture of the biplane the Oregon had sent, then folding it and placing it in his flight-suit pocket.

Just then, a siren on the rig sounded twice.

"Your ride's here," Chiglack said.

Walking the trio out to just below the helicopter pad, Chiglack waited until the helicopter touched down, then shouted over the noise.

"Up the ladder, heads down, the door should be open," he said.

"Thanks for the hospitality," Michaels shouted.

"Watch your hair, ladies," Chiglack called as they started up the stairs.

Four minutes later the helicopter was airborne again, heading back toward land. Chiglack shook his head as the helicopter retreated in the distance. Then he walked back to his office to report his guests had left the rig.

like the remains of a bombed-out tank from the war some thirty years before.

Pilston tapped on Gunderson's arm as the helicopter approached the airport and located the Antonov from the air. Slowing his speed, the pilot neared the large biplane, then hovered in the air above the tarmac.

After touching down smoothly some fifty feet away, the copilot unbuckled his belt, then slipped back and unlatched the door to the Bell.

"Later, alligators," he shouted.

Gunderson, Pilston and Michaels bowed their heads and sprinted away from the helicopter.

Once they were clear, the pilot throttled up, pulled up on the collective and moved the cyclic so the Bell rose in the air and made a sweeping turn. The helicopter disappeared into the haze as it flew off to the south.

The trio was ten feet from the biplane when Michaels spoke.

"What are we going to do with this beast?" she asked.

"The plan is," Gunderson said as he approached the open door and stared inside, "to fly out to the Oregon."

"What on earth for?" Pilston asked.

"Our chairman has a meeting to attend."

GUNDERSON HANDED THE photo of the biplane to the copilot.

"She's on the north side of the airport," he said as the copilot clipped the photo to a strap around his knee. "If you can land nearby, we'd sure appreciate it."

The copilot replaced his headset over his ears, then relayed the information to the pilot, who made an okay sign with his fingers. The copilot smiled at Gunderson, nodded yes, then motioned for him to sit back in his seat.

Twenty minutes later, the coast of southern Vietnam came into view.

As they pa.s.sed over shallow water, he caught sight of a wrecked ship below the surface of the water. In the bushes nearby was what looked 303.

INSIDE THE OREGON'S Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was loosening the top off a long wooden crate with a pry bar. The crate was stamped U.S. Air Force, Special Operations. The second line read: (1) ea. Fulton Aerial Recovery System, checked 02-11-90, and then the initials of the airman who had rendered the verdict that the system was operational.

Setting the top aside, Nixon peered inside. Then he began to remove the contents.

First was a harness made out of nylon webbing similar to that on a parachute. On the front of the harness was a swivel hook. Next was a length of high-tension strength line. Last, a deflated balloon and the fittings to hook the system together. Nixon checked each piece carefully as he removed them from the box. Everything looked fine.

Just then, the door to the Magic Shop opened.

"How's it look?" Hanley inquired.

"Good," Nixon answered.

Hanley pointed to a strange forged-metal three-p.r.o.nged hook on the ground. "What's that?"

Nixon nodded at the bottom of the crate's lid, where a set of directions had been stenciled on the surface. "That's the hook that grabs the line at the end of the balloon."

"Doesn't it have to be aboard the pickup plane?"

"Ideally," Nixon admitted.

"So?" Hanley asked.

Nixon pointed across the room. "Good thing we have rules around here," he said.

"Always have a backup," Hanley said, smiling, reading the sign.

"But of course," Nixon said.

"I'll notify the plane," Hanley said. "We have a few hours yet."

"Mr. Hanley," Nixon said, "you just tell me when."

THE SINGLE ENGINE on the Antonov Colt droned with a monotonous sound as Gunderson, Michaels and Pilston headed out into the South China Sea. The skies were clear, the wall of the south-moving storm still hundreds of miles ahead. Gunderson just hoped that the Oregon, which was cruising at full speed, made it out of the leading edge of the storm before he reached the ship. He was a great pilot, but even in clear skies what they were about to attempt was akin to trying to hit a bull's-eye on a dartboard at ten paces while blindfolded.

Gunderson had the windows in the c.o.c.kpit and the cargo area cracked open to vent the gasoline fumes as they cruised along. The Antonov normally carried 312 gallons of fuel, but since this plane was used for remote logging operations, two more tanks of 300 gallons each had been fitted along the center of the cargo bay. That was a good thing.

Without the additional fuel capacity, there was no way they could make it out to the Oregon and back to Vietnam, a distance far beyond that of a helicopter. The problem was, the inside of the plane smelled like 304 305.

an Exxon station after a big spill. Gunderson stared at his portable GPS receiver.

"How's it look, Tiny?" Michaels asked.

"So far so good," Gunderson answered, "but this unit burns through batteries like a kid with a video game. Did they by chance load any spare batteries on board?"

Pilston, who was crouched between the pilot's and copilot's seat, rooted around in a pair of paper bags but came up empty. "Sorry, Chuck," she said, "no luck."

"What did we get?" he asked.

Pilston did a quick inventory. "Some MREs, two thermoses of what I a.s.sume is coffee, some Hershey bars and M&M's, bottled water, maps, and some mouthwash."

"What about towels and soap?"

Pilston dug around in the bottom of one of the bags. "Yep."

"Gannon's pretty good about that," Gunderson said, yawning.

Michaels stared at the speed indicator. "We have five more hours until we reach the Oregon," she said. "Tracy and I got some sleep last night. Why don't you clean up a little and try to get some rest. We'll wake you when we get close."

"Think you can fill the copilot's duties?" he asked Pilston.

"I received my private pilot's certificate last year," Pilston told him.

"I don't have many hours, but I think I'm qualified to watch the needles quiver."

Gunderson nodded wearily. "Off the controls," he said.

As soon as he was sure Michaels had the plane, he stood up, slid out of his seat, and slid past Pilston, who quickly climbed into the pilot's station. The Antonov could be flown from either the left or right seat, so there was no reason for Michaels to move across the c.o.c.kpit. Once Pilston was situated, she turned around to Gunderson.

"There's a cot that folds out of the wall," she said, "and a toilet that basically dumps out the side of the plane. You want anything to ; eat first?"

"No, ladies," Gunderson said. "Just wake me if you need me."

Then he walked back to the cot, removed his shirt and crumpled it up as a pillow, stretched out and was asleep within minutes. The Antonov droned north for the rendezvous.

OVER THE YEARS of its existence the Corporation had invested in a variety of legitimate businesses. The company was either owner or part owner of mining concerns, a coconut plantation, a specialty firearms manufacturer, hotels, resorts, a machine tool company, even a charter jet service with divisions in North America, South America, Europe and Asia.

None of the employees of these concerns had any idea of the source of the parent company's funding and true purpose. They only knew they were highly paid and treated well and never subject to cutbacks or layoffs.

For the most part, the actual operations end of the Corporation--the specialized army and intelligence apparatus that formed the nucleus of the growing fortune--left these companies alone to operate on their own. Sometimes, however, they came in handy.

Right now was just such a time.

Max Hanley returned to the Oregon's control room and slid into his chair.

"Pull up the flight operations center of Pegasus Air," he asked Stone.

Stone punched commands into the computer, and a few seconds later a worldwide map filled one of the large monitors. "What's the fastest way to fly the chairman to his meeting?"

Stone punched in commands and the route filled the screen. "It's a long flight," he said, "and I a.s.sume you want it nonstop?"

"Absolutely," Hanley said.

"That pretty much ensures that we'll need to use the G550, then."

"Where are they now?" Hanley asked.

Stone punched in commands and flight records overlaid the map.

"The Asian G550 is in route to Hawaii, so that's out," Stone noted.

306.

307.

"Paris on one--no, hold on--the South American G550 just landed in Dubai. She's due to leave again tomorrow."

"How long for her to reach Da Nang?"

"It's thirty-six hundred miles, so roughly six and a half hours."

Hanley took a pad of paper and a pencil and began writing numbers.

"It'll be tight," he said finally. "We're bucking time zones, refueling and getting fast clearances to land, but it's doable."

"Want me to book the jet?" Stone asked.

Hanley handed him a sheet of paper. "This is the flight plan."

"What else?"

"Make sure our man in the Vietnamese air force is greased so we don't have any problems getting in and out of Da Nang for a quick refuel," Hanley said.

"What else?"

"Set up a secure link to Karamozov," Hanley said. "I need to confirm."

"Anything else?" Stone said as he made notes on a pad.

"When all that's done," Hanley said, "call Truitt to relieve you and go get some sleep."

"What about you, sir?" Stone asked.

"I'll catnap here," Hanley said, "right where I like to be."