"Stevens, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d," said the intelligence officer from Washington. "Ive been at this for d.a.m.n near six hours, and someday youd better explain to my wife-who for reasons Ill never understand happens to like you-that Ive been working for you and not out tripping the light fantastic with a nonexistent girlfriend."

"Anyone who uses the phrase tripping the light fantastic hasnt a thing to worry about. What have you got?"

"To begin with, everythings so buried, it would take an archaeologist to sort it out. That number in Miami is unlisted, naturally-"

"I hope that wasnt a problem for you," broke in Tyrell sarcastically.

Stevens ignored him. "Its billed to a popular restaurant on Collins Avenue called Wellingtons, only the owner doesnt know a thing about it because hes never gotten a bill. He offered up the accounting firm that does his bookkeeping and pays his bills for verification."

"The line can be traced; its called installation."

"Oh, it was traced all right. To a voice-activated machine on a yacht in Miami harbor. The owners a Brazilian, currently unreachable in Brazil."

"That lupo wasnt talking to a machine!" insisted Hawthorne. "There was someone at the other end."

"I dont doubt it. How often have you and I monitored a drop or a pay phone during an operational time span? That someone on the yacht was told to be there when your lupo called."

"So you didnt get anything."

"I didnt say that," Stevens corrected him. "We called in the electronic whiz kids with their voodoo equipment. Im told they tore that machine apart like Swiss watchmakers, factoring it with several hundred programs, and came up with what they call a satellite laser search."

"What does all that mean?"

"It means they came up with map coordinates based on probable satellite transmissions. Theyve narrowed down the reception areas to roughly a hundred-plus square miles between the Anegada Pa.s.sage and Nevis."

"Thats meaningless!"

"Not exactly. Number one, that yacht is now under constant surveillance. Whoever goes near it will be taken in and broken-chemically or otherwise."

"Whats number two?"

"Less effective, Im afraid," answered Stevens. "Weve got a smaller version of an AWAC at Patrick Air Force Base in Cocoa, Florida. It can pick up satellite transmissions, but the transmissions have to be active in order to pinpoint the reception dishes. Were sending it out."

"So theyll shut down on both sides, all transmissions!"

"Thats what were counting on. Somebodys going to check on that yacht, that machine. They have to. Weve short-circuited it, so someones got to come down and find out whats wrong and retrieve any messages received. Its foolproof, Tye. They dont know we found it, and the second anybody approaches that boat, weve got him."

"Somethings wrong," said Hawthorne. "Somethings wrong, but I dont know what it is."

The last light of the descending moon pa.s.sed over the Miami skyline as dawn broke over the eastern horizon. A telescopic video camera was trained on the yacht in the marina, every image projected on a screen in a warehouse two hundred yards away on the waterfront. Three agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation successively kept their eyes open, taking turns at a table where a red telephone with a single black b.u.t.ton would instantly connect them to both the CIA and naval intelligence in Washington.

"This is bulls.h.i.t," said the agent on watch as he got up from his chair to answer the door. "The pizzas here and Im not picking up the whole tab." His two companions opened their eyes in their chairs, yawning as the door was opened.

The gunfire from the single automatic weapon was absolute and lethal. In less than four seconds the three agents were slaughtered, sprawled across the floor, their blood-soaked bodies riddled. And on the television screen the yacht in the harbor exploded, the sharp, jagged flames drawn to the Miami skies.

6.

"Jesus Christ!" roared Stevens over the phone to Hawthorne on Saba. "Miami was a ma.s.sacre! They know everything! Everything we do!"

"Which means youve got a leak."

"I cant believe it!"

"Believe it, its real. Ill be back in Gorda in an hour or so-"

"To h.e.l.l with Gorda, were picking you up in Saba. Our mappers say its near the target area."

"Your plane cant land on this strip, Henry."

"The h.e.l.l it cant. Ive checked with our aircraft controls, youve got almost three thousand feet; with reverse thrust at max, they can make it. I want you to check out those coordinates-its all weve got left! If anything turns up, take whatever action you deem necessary. The planes under your command."

"A hundred square miles between the Anegada and Nevis? Are you out of your G.o.dd.a.m.ned mind?"

"Have you got a better suggestion? Were dealing with a psychopathic female who could blow governments apart. Frankly, with what Ive learned about her, Im scared, Tye, really scared!"

"I dont have a better suggestion," Hawthorne conceded quietly. "Ill cancel Gorda and wait here. I hope Patricks got an outstanding pilot."

The AWAC II appeared in the western sky, a fat, snub-nosed, unattractive aircraft with its huge disk protruding above the fuselage. The super-secret plane descended, but instead of landing, swept up toward the end of the runway, circled, and repeated the procedure a second time. Watching, Tyrell had come to the conclusion that the pilot was radioing Patrick Air Force Base and telling them they were out of their minds, when, on the third approach, the bulky aircraft seemed to float down precariously close to the edge of the strip like a feathered pillow, its jet engines instantly roaring in reverse thrust.

"Hey, mon!" cried the tower controller, his eyes wide, his breathing momentarily suspended as the plane came to a stop several hundred feet from the end of the runway, then turned and taxied back. "That pilot, he good! I never seen nothin like that here on Saba. He flyin a pregnant cow!"

"Im off, Calvin," said Hawthorne, heading for the door. "Youll hear from me or my a.s.sociates. Take the money."

"Like I said last night, mon, that would be attractive."

Tyrell raced out onto the field as the side door of the AWAC II opened and an officer, followed by a master sergeant, descended the extended metal steps and stretched their bodies. "d.a.m.n fine flying, Lieutenant," said Hawthorne, approaching and spotting the silver bar on the officers collar.

"We try to deliver the electronic mail, friend." He was hatless, with light brown hair, and a p.r.o.nounced southern accent. "You the mech-man here?" he asked, eyeing Tyrells grease-laden coveralls.

"No, Im the package youre picking up."

"No kiddin?"

"Ask for an ID," said the older master sergeant, his right hand ominously inside his flight jacket.

"Im Hawthorne!"

"Prove it, buddy," continued the sergeant quietly. "You dont look like any commander to me."

"Im not a commander-well, I was once, but not now. Christ, didnt Washington explain? Whatever identification I had is at the bottom of the harbor here."

"Now, isnt that convenient?" said the enlisted man, slowly withdrawing a general issue Colt .45 from his jacket. "My colleague, the lieutenant here, operates all that fancy equipment, but Im on board to look after other interests. Like, shall we say, security?"

"Put it away, Charlie," a female voice said as a slender figure in uniform emerged from the hatch door and descended the steps to the ground. The woman approached Hawthorne and extended her hand. "Major Catherine Neilsen, Commander. Sorry for the two pa.s.ses over the field, but the doubts you expressed to Captain Stevens were on the mark. That was a chancy touchdown.... Its okay, Charlie, Washington faxed down his photograph. This is the man."

"Youre the pilot?"

"Does that shock the commander?"

"Im not a commander-"

"The navy says you are. Sergeant, perhaps you should keep your sidearm out in the open."

"With pleasure, Major."

"Will you people cut the ... the ... nonsense!"

"You mean cut the s.h.i.t?" asked the pilot.

"Thats just what I mean."

"And maybe thats just what we object to. We accept the premise that the services cooperate with one another, but we find it difficult to be told that a former naval officer with absolutely no knowledge of our operations is in command of our aircraft."

"Look, lady ... miss ... Major, I didnt ask for anything! I got roped into this mess like you did."

"We dont know what the 'mess is, Mr. Hawthorne. We only know that were to traverse the given parameters of an area, scanning for satellite transmissions, intercept whatever we find, and deliver the data to you. Then you, and only you, tell us what to do."

"Thats ... thats c.r.a.p."

"Thats pure s.h.i.t, Commander."

"Exactly."

"Im glad we understand each other." The major took off her visored officers cap, removed several barrettes, and shook her blond hair loose. "Now, I dont care to breach security, but Id like an overall view of what you expect of us, Commander."

"Look, Major, Im just a charter man in the islands. I gave up the military Sturm und Drang four, nearly five years ago, and I suddenly got recruited by three governments, three different countries, who mistakenly think I can help in what they call a crisis. Now, if you think otherwise, take this pregnant cow of a plane out of here and leave me alone!"

"I cant do that."

"Why not?"

"Orders."

"Youre one tough lady, Major."

"Youre one outspoken former naval officer, mister."

"So what do we do now? Stand here and insult each other?"

"I suggest we get on with the operation. Climb on board."

"Is that an order?"

"You know I cant do that," said the pilot, brushing her hair back with her left hand. "Were on the ground, where youre my superior officer; upstairs were more equal.... Still, youre in command of the aircraft."

"Good. Get your a.s.ses back inside and lets get airborne."

The m.u.f.fled roar of the jet engines became a constant irritant as the AWAC II crisscrossed the skies, forever banking to reenter the surveillance pattern from yet another point of the compa.s.s. The first lieutenant in charge of the complex electronic equipment kept pressing esoteric b.u.t.tons and twirling mysterious dials while erratic beeps were heard in greater and lesser degrees of volume. With each burst of activity he touched a brief sequence of letters on a computer that produced a printout of his efforts into a wire basket attached to his processor.

"For G.o.ds sake, whats happening?" said Hawthorne, who was sitting across from the young officer in a strapped swivel seat.

"Dont let the hogs rattle ya, Commander," replied the lieutenant. "They git a mite loud at lunchtime."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"It means please shut up, sir, cause I gotta concentrate-if the navy will let me-sir."

Tyrell unbuckled his strap, got to his feet, and walked forward into the open flight deck, where Major Catherine Neilsen was at the controls. "May I sit down?" he asked, gesturing at the vacant seat beside hers.

"You dont have to ask, Commander. Youre in charge of this bird except where airborne safety and regulations are involved."

"Can we get by the military horses.h.i.t, Major?" said Hawthorne, sitting down and strapping himself in, relieved that the numbing rush of the jets was reduced. "I told you, Im not navy anymore, and I need your help, not your hostility."

"Okay, how can I help-hold it!" The pilot adjusted her earphone. "What, Jackson?... Reenter the last trajectory from the SP?... Will do, genius." Neilsen again banked the plane in a semicircle. "Im sorry, Commander, where were we?... Oh, yes, how can I help?"

"You can start by explaining: What is the last trajectory and why are you reentering it, and what the h.e.l.l is the 'genius doing back there?"

The major laughed; it was a nice laugh, devoid of ridicule or pretentious authority; it was a grown-up girl laughing because the situation was funny. "To begin with, Jackson is a genius, sir-"

"Cut the 'sir, please. Im not a lieutenant commander anymore, and even if I were, thats not superior to a major."

"Okay, Mr. Hawthorne-"

"Try Tye. Short for Tyrell. Thats my name."

"Tyrell? What a dreadful name! He killed the two young princes in the Tower of London; its right there in Shakespeares Richard III."

"My father had a warped sense of humor. If my brother had been a girl, he swore hed have called her Medea. As it happened, he was a boy, so Dad settled for Marcus Antonius Hawthorne; our mother switched it to Marc Anthony."

"I think Id like your father. Mine, who barely made the farm work in Minnesota, was an education-starved son of Swedish immigrants. It was either studying like h.e.l.l to get into West Point and a free college education or slopping cows.h.i.t for the rest of my life. He was very clear about that."

"I think Id like your father too."

"Back to your questions, please," said Neilsen, suddenly distancing herself. "Jackson Poole-of the Louisiana Pooles, mind you," she allowed, permitting a slight smile to crease her lips, "is a genius with that equipment, as well as a d.a.m.n fine pilot; hes my relief, but if I touch his machinery, I get yelled at."

"Thats two tough talents. Sounds like hes an interesting guy."

"He really is. He went into the army because thats where all the real money was going for computer science, but without too many qualified takers. Hes pretty much been able to write his own ticket. Merit counts in the services; they cant afford to overlook ability.... Incidentally, he just told me to reenter this trajectory from SP. In simple language, that means we sweep back and retrace our current path across the target area from the parameter starting point."

"And that means?"