"But this isn't just any harem."

The next frame showed photos of several well-known girls and women . . . well-known in that they had disappeared or been presumed dead over the past few years. The daughter of a New York billionaire hedge fund owner who'd gained notoriety over contributions to a militant Israeli organization, a minor English princess whose stepfather had presided over the trial of terrorists, a Greek starlet who was married to a Jewish politician, the ten-member class of a private Christian girls' school in Switzerland who had presumably drowned on a boating field trip, and the Arab novelist Selah ad Beham, who'd written a blistering attack on Muslim treatment of women.

A communal gasp passed over the room. Alive? They were all still alive. Oh my God! Nicole studied the background of the photographs. The girls and women were lined up against a bare concrete wall, wearing Arab gowns, but they were not in purdah. No veils covered their faces, which were bleak and terrified. Some of them were marked with bruises. One even had an eye blackened to the point of being swollen shut.

"We have credible intel that Najid is planning a multipronged terrorist attack for September 11 of this year. Thus the code name Octopus. On that date, these females will be given to a troop of his most hardened soldiers to rape and brutalize. On camera. To be simultaneously televised to the entire world."

"Isn't that a huge risk? The outcry around the globe would be enormous," JAM pointed out. "Seems to me the bastard would lose half his supporters. It certainly isn't the Muslim way."

"Just the Muslim terrorist way," someone called out.

"Najid will deny any involvement, of course, and will probably be dining in Paris at one of those fancy restaurants that serve five-hundred-dollar mushrooms," Slick explained, "or have his mug on a timed security tape showing him filling the gas tank of his bulletproof Mercedes, which, last I heard, is worth a cool five hundred K."

Good Lord! The things people waste money on!

"I still don't get it. Despite his not being there personally, the world will know he masterminded the event." JAM was shaking his head with confusion.

"And he wants them to know that. If he could shout his involvement to the moon, he would." Slick pondered a moment, trying to come up with a better explanation. "Think of Hitler. He was proud of his death camps and his plan to annihilate the entire Jewish race, but he didn't personally give a press conference announcing his vile acts."

"I still say he's gambling big-time," JAM insisted.

"He is, but keep in mind," the commander interjected, "there are a helluva lot of people around the world who hate Americans, and there are bigots everywhere who still carry a Nazi mentality about Jews."

And wasn't that the sad truth?

"But that's not all," Slick went on. "There are multiple attacks being planned at the same time, around the world. We have three weeks to prepare 24/7 before we put boots on the ground in any of these various locations. I know that sometimes in the past, the Navy higher-ups have chosen a mushroom management approach. Planting you in a dark place, and then just letting the shit fall down on you."

"Could you be referring to that incident with the exploding camels in Kabul?" Sly shouted out.

Everyone laughed and Slick just grinned. "In any case, I'm not a higher-up but I guarantee that won't be the case this time. Believe me, this will not be a blind date," Slick told them. "I'll let K4, Flash, and Cody tell you what they've discovered."

K4, a darkly handsome Italian who'd joined SEALs more than five years ago after his wife died of cancer, said, "There are plans to simultaneously set off bombs in Arlington National Cemetery and Calvary, the spot in Jerusalem where Christ was crucified. Both of these are intended to be symbolic middle finger salutes more than attempts at mass human destruction. Consider those the second and third tentacles of the octopus."

Flash spoke then. "Cody and I just returned from Manhattan, where Najid spoke to a gathering of Muslim students . . . at a podium with bulletproof glass. Although the message was hidden in the sickeningly sweet talk he gave about Allah and Mohammed and world acceptance of his religion, he is, unbelievably, prodding them to riot on September 11 at-are you ready for this?-the World Trade Center memorial site."

A muttering of outrage rippled around the room.

Cody raised a hand for attention. "In addition, smaller incidents are planned for at least a dozen, possibly two dozen cities across the world. Everything from fires to riots to suicide bombings. The ultimate goal being chaos. Mass fear and hysteria."

JAM raised his hand. "Permission to speak, Commander, sir?"

The commander nodded.

"This seems bigger than any one SEAL team can handle," JAM observed. "I mean, we SEALs tend to consider ourselves bulletproof, but even we aren't supermen."

"I doan know, JAM. I have a Mardi Gras cape that happens to be red," Cage drawled out in his lazy Southern accent.

"That is so gay," someone else said.

And Nicole cringed, glad that Trond wasn't here to hear that. Not that she was convinced he was gay. Still . . .

Everyone laughed, including the commander, who replied, "You're right, JAM. Everyone in this room is deemed mission essential, but we'll be working under the Joint Chiefs and the Central Special Forces Command in the Pentagon, the Agency, the Fibbies, all the special forces around the world, and that includes the U.S.'s own Delta Force, Rangers, and Night Stalkers, Israel's Mossad and Shayetet 13, and Britain's SAS and MI6, to mention a few."

Slick interjected, "Here's the deal. Overall, this will be Octopus. Our squad going into Afghanistan will be OctoCat. Others will be OctoDog. OctoWolf. OctoBear. And so on."

"Well, dammit all, why can't we be big dogs or ferocious bears?" F.U. wanted to know. "They'll call us pussies."

"Uxley!" the commander reprimanded.

For once, F.U. had the grace to turn toward the women and mumble an apology.

"Besides, I prefer to think of us as tigers," the commander said. "In fact, I'll have our team's name changed to OctoTiger."

"Hoo-yah!" everyone yelled.

The commander rolled his eyes at the silliness of it all.

Someone in the crowd remarked, "Holy crap! With all those fingers in the pie, sounds like a snafu just waiting to happen." Snafu was the well-known acronym for "situation normal, all fucked up."

Slick shook his head. "Not if we can help it. We'll be following the KISS principle here as much as possible." Keep it simple, stupid! "Those of us here in this room, OctoTiger Squad, will be concentrating on the Afghan problem. Our primary goals will be divided along two lines. Keeping Najid in our cross-hairs, hopefully taking him down, now that we have the official go-ahead. And infiltrating the harem and rescuing those females before D-day. A snatch-and-grab operation."

"And all the ancillary events?"

"Other operatives will handle those . . . Wolf, Bear, Dog," Slick replied. "As for our entering the country covertly, I have no concerns about that, or about our ability to hide in plain sight. And, really, we have no choice. There's no time for force multiplication. We all know how to change our appearance so that we don't stand out, and we can use any friendlies who've helped us in the past."

It was true, Nicole thought. SEALs were masters of disguise. She'd been shocked on more than one occasion at how well they could alter their appearance to suit a mission.

"But there is one issue of concern to me," Slick continued. "Language. Omar is the only one of us who is really fluent in all the Arab dialects. There must be a frickin' fifty different variations. Oh, I know some of you have taken lessons, but you're only mildly proficient, with emphasis on mildly, and, yes, I'm looking at you, Cage. Arabs do not drawl. And they do not call an Arab woman darlin'."

Cage ducked his head sheepishly.

Slick continued, "Here's the solution. One of the Jaegers working here with us, Captain Trond Sigurdsson, is apparently a language genius. Omar assures me that he speaks the local lingo better than Omar does. Does anyone have a problem with me inviting him to join our team for this mission?"

Nicole was excited about the possibility of participating in such an important mission. It wasn't often that the teams let the WEALS join their operations as full-blown agents, instead of ancillary backup. That age-old military stigma against females in battle. Usually, they only allowed them into their elite ranks when there was a need for women on the scene, which was probably the case with the harem, or they had need for one of the WEALS' unique skills. She didn't care how she got in, she was excited to be included at all.

She suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew, she just knew, that somehow the jerk was going to be paired with her. Not that she should care since he was gay. Or allegedly gay. But her association with the mystery man would be wrong on so many levels, none of which was specific enough for her to raise an official protest.

"Since there are no objections, Max, you go out on the grinder and bring the grunt back here. In the meantime, let's talk about how our team will be divvied up." More charts were put up on the screen, this time with the various names grouped under certain categories.

And, yep, there she was. Harem Project: Nicole Tasso and Trond Sigurdsson. Oh, there were other people listed as well, like JAM, Omar, Slick, Sly, Kendra, Donita, and Marie, but she had a bad feeling about her and Trond being together on this project.

What I need is a guardian angel.

Where that idea came from, Nicole had no idea. Equally baffling was why the image of Trond Sigurdsson came immediately to mind.

Which was ridiculous, of course. If he ever sported wings, it would be as a bug, not an angel. Because he sure as hell bugged her.

It takes one to know one . . .

Trond Sigurdsson was royally pissed . . . or was that angelically pissed?

"Okay, I understand that I have a reputation for being a little bit lazy," he complained to Karl, who was huffing and puffing as much as he was as they twisted and turned to maneuver their way through the Weaver, one of many torture devices on the O-course, sometimes referred to as the oh-my-God! obstacle course. The trainees had to roll themselves over and under a series of metal poles arranged horizontally in an ascending, then descending pattern, without ever touching the ground.

Karl made a snorting sound and muttered something about "Little bit, my ass!" as he looked down at Trond from one of the higher rungs.

Trond ignored the snide remark and continued, "And I know the SEAL instructors are always spouting crap like 'The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed in war,' but give me a freakin' break." He girded himself to roll his two hundred pounds over yet another level without breaking his neck, which would require him not just to repeat this evolution but the entire training program. When he got his breath, he continued, "That is no reason to test my energy and endurance to this extent."

Normally, they had to complete the entire course in two minutes, or try to, but this morning the rules were relaxed. They were almost done for the day. Hopefully.

"I suppose you blame Mike," Karl said, lying on the top pole for a brief moment before rolling over for the downward evolution.

"Of course. Yes, there is a legitimate vangel reason for me to be here, but I suspect my heavenly mentor is having a good laugh up above. Ouch, ouch, ouch." He felt as if he'd just pulled a hamstring.

"And lucky me that I get to suffer for your sins . . . as well as mine." Karl, who was done and bent over panting for breath, referred to his being assigned with Trond to Navy SEAL duty.

Trond felt a little guilty then for all his griping. Just a little. This was the most exercise he'd ever had in all his misbegotten life.

They were alternately freezing cold from the icy Pacific water, then hot from the blistering Pacific sun. And all the time, they were covered, head to toe, and inside every body orifice, with sand. They spit sand, they ate sand, and, some even claimed, they pissed sand. Add to that mix, bone-deep pain and exhaustion.

They'd started this particular day at dawn with a favorite SEAL torture known as Surf Appreciation. The Marquis de Sade, whom Trond had met one time with much displeasure, would be impressed at this assignment where several dozen trainees sat in water up to their shoulders, arms linked, as waves crashed over them. Then they were ordered to make "sugar cookies" . . . in other words, roll their wet bodies in the sand. And all that was preliminary to a short five-mile run in heavy boondockers along the beach. Followed by Volcanoes. Another idiotic rotation that called for a bunch of grown men to stand together in a tight cluster and toss sand in the air so that it would land on their sweat-sticky bodies.

All the time, the instructors were shouting out various inanities. Instructors always hollered, they never spoke in a normal tone of voice.

"The only easy day was yesterday!"

"There is no I in team!"

"You look like a gaggle of monkeys trying to fuck a hairy football!"

"Mind over matter, boys! We don't mind! You don't matter!"

"Haul ass! Bust ass! Get a move on it, assholes!"

"Work it out, maggots!"

"Embrace the suck!"

He had a few Old Norse sayings he would like to deliver to some of these instructors involving swords and dark places to sheathe them, but not wanting to do another bout of Gig Squad on a Saturday, decided to save the wisdom for later.

Now, it was almost noon-heaven be praised!-and their class was working out on the grinder, one last run through the O-course. They'd already finished the Skyscraper, the Slide for Life, the Wall, the Cargo Net, the Spider Wall, Parallel Bars, the Tower, and the Dirty Name.

"Stand easy, boys," called out the instructor, who was several years younger than Trond and would have had his tongue lopped off for such an insult back in Viking times. "That's it for today." He could have complimented them for a job well done, but no, pain was expected of them all, nothing to garner praise or commiseration. If he heard one more instructor say, "Pain is your friend," he might just hurl the contents of his belly, or hurt someone.

Just then, Trond noticed a man leaning against the fence watching him. His muscular body was covered with cargo shorts, a plain black T-shirt, white socks rolled over to the tops of his boondockers, and a brimmed San Diego Chargers cap over shoulder-length blond hair.

"I'm going to the chow hall," Karl remarked from his side. "You coming?"

"Later," Trond said, waving Karl on, still concentrating on the stranger who began to walk-no, swagger-toward him. An odd, mystical connection seemed to shimmer between them, the closer the man got. Two things became apparent to Trond then. The man was a SEAL, and he was a Viking. But something more, something not normal, in the same way that Trond was not normal. Or different.

"Who the fuck are you?" Trond inquired in Old Norse. And, yes, Vikings had known that ancient Anglo-Saxon expletive. The whole ancient world had, for that matter.

The man grinned and responded, in Old Norse, of course. "Better question. Who the fuck are you?"

The man was not a threat to him, Trond sensed immediately. He did not have a Lucie aura about him, either.

He grinned back at the man, extending a hand in greeting. "Trond Sigurdsson, but everyone here calls me Easy."

"Torolf Magnusson, but everyone here calls me Max." The man appeared to be a few years older than Trond's twenty-nine years. "Where you from, Easy?"

"The Norselands."

"Ah. Me too." Max eyed him suspiciously.

This has to be the first time I've mentioned the Norselands to anyone and not had them say, "Huh?" He eyed Max back just as suspiciously.

"This might sound like a dumb question, or might not," Max said. "What year were you born?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Actually, I would."

Uh-oh!

"I sense . . . I have a feeling . . . oh hell! I'm taking a gamble here by telling you this, but a number of the guys here already know . . ." Max hesitated, then revealed, "I was born in the year 984 and left the Norselands with my father and eight brothers and sisters in the year 1000 when I was sixteen years old, leaving a brother Ragnor and sister Madrene behind at Norstead."

"Norstead! I know where that is."

"Really? You'll have to tell me more. Later. Back to how my family got here. We arrived in America in the year 2003. Ragnor and Madrene followed us here later."

Trond's jaw dropped as he tried to assimilate all that Max had told him. There were so many questions. At one time, he would have said there was no such thing as time travel, but he'd learned the hard way that anything was possible. "Are you vangels?"

"Huh?"

That answers that question. "Are you human?"

"Uh, what else would we be?"

If you only knew! "You age like a human?"

"I am a human. Aren't you?"

Trond waved a hand dismissively. "You were picked up in one time period and landed in another? You've been here eight years? And you're a Navy SEAL?"

Max nodded, hesitantly.

"Why?"

"Why what?"