"I dont know whats out there, and I put limits on my authority."

"Cut the bulls.h.i.t, Tye," demanded Cathy. "Where do we go from here?"

"I know these islands. Theyre like a short volcanic atoll not worth pulling into because theres nothing there, just rocks and beaches that can slice through your Dock-sides. Theyre garbage."

"One of em isnt," countered Poole. "Take my equipments word for it."

"I do," agreed Hawthorne. "So weve got to get close up. The French are giving us a seaplane-m.u.f.fled dual engines-and well coordinate tonight five miles south of the southernmost island with a two-man minisub hauled by a British P.T. hovercraft out of Gorda."

"Two-man?" cried Neilsen. "What about me?"

"Youre staying with the plane and the hover."

"The h.e.l.l I will. You tell the Brits to send along a pilot without any explanations; its done all the time.... Forget rank, Charlie was like my older brother, if I had one. I go where you and Jackson go. Anyway, you need me."

"May I ask why?"

"Certainly. While you two men are on your scouting patrol, what do you intend to do with the sub? Let it sink into the mud?"

"No, well beach it under camouflage, which I happen to know something about."

"Considering an obvious alternative, thats a poor decision where survival tactics are concerned, which I happen to know something about. Should you find the island you hope is there-"

"Its there," said Poole, interrupting. "My machines dont lie."

"Then say you do," Cathy conceded. "I submit that such a place would be extremely well protected both in manpower and technology, especially the latter. It would be a relatively simple matter to ring a small coastline with electronic detectors. Do you agree, Jackson?"

"h.e.l.l, yes, Cath."

"I further submit that it would be a lot smarter to surface offsh.o.r.e, eject you, and let you swim to your point of entry, which we can determine on-scene."

"Try slipping over the side, no ejections, no bodies flying in the air, and I still dont like it. Youre exaggerating a primitive, minimally inhabited small islands technical resources."

"I dont know about that, Tye," the lieutenant countered. "I could set up a computerized scanner system like Cathy described with a P.C., a three-hundred-dollar generator, and a couple of dozen sensor disks, and Im not exaggeratin."

"Are you serious?" Tyrell looked hard at Poole.

"Im not sure how I can explain this to you," Poole continued, "but ten or twelve years ago, when I was a teenager, my daddy bought a VCR with a remote control. It was the worst d.a.m.n thing he could have done to us short of buyin a desktop computer. He never got it right, especially when he tried to tape a Saints game or a program he couldnt see at the time but wanted to watch later. I mean, he got real angry, screamin and hollerin and finally throwin that nemesis of his out with the trash. And my daddys smart, one h.e.l.l of a lawyer, but the numbers and the symbols and all those b.u.t.tons you gotta press to get what you want became his personal enemies."

"Is there a point to this?" Hawthorne asked.

"There surely is," Poole answered. "He hated what he wasnt brought up with because he couldnt get used to it, not in mech-tech terms-"

"In what ...?"

"Hes a generous man in human terms, like when the blacks ran for government positions; he thought that was just fine, and it was about time. But he couldnt adjust to the high-tech advances because they came too fast and they werent human. He was afraid of them."

"Lieutenant, what the h.e.l.l are you trying to tell me?"

"That its really all so simple once you get used to it. My little sister and I were brought up on P.C.s, school computers, and video games-Daddy never objected, he just refused to watch us-and we got used to all those b.u.t.tons and the symbols, even chip production."

"Whats your G.o.dd.a.m.ned point?"

"My kid sisters a programmer in Silicon Valley and already makin more money than I ever will, but Im using equipment she would kill for."

"So?"

"So Cathys right and Im right. Her projections and my expertise coincide. Shes theorized what could be on that island and my provable concept of a simple P.C., a three-hundred-dollar generator, and a couple of dozen disks confirms it. No big deal technically, but it could be big trouble for us."

"What youre really saying after all this horses.h.i.t is that I should go along with her, right?"

"Listen, Tye, this lady is very important to me, and I dont like what shes doing any more than you do, but I know her. When shes right, shes d.a.m.ned right, especially where tactics and procedures are concerned; shes read all the books."

"How about skippering a minisubmarine?"

"Anything that goes forward or backward in the sky, on the ground, or in the water, I can handle," said the major, answering for herself. "Give me an hour with the controls and a set of diagrams, and Ill get you from A to Z with twenty-five stops in between."

"I like your modesty. I also dont trust it."

"I also know that underwater demolition teams can be taught to drive them in twenty minutes."

"It took me a half hour," said Hawthorne futilely.

"Youre slow, as I expected. Look, Tye, Im not an idiot. If anyone suggested that I go on a scout-and-search with you, Id have to refuse. Not because Im a coward, but because Im neither physically suited nor mentally trained for such work and I could be a detriment to you. But in a machine that I can handle, I can be an a.s.set. Well be in radio contact, and Ill be wherever you want me at any given time. Im your backup if you get into trouble."

"Is she always so logical, Jackson?"

Before a grinning Poole could reply, the telephone rang, and as he was nearest, he walked to the bedside table and picked it up. "Yes?" he answered cautiously, then, after listening, turned to Hawthorne, his hand over the phone. "Someone named Cooke is calling you."

"Its about time!" Tyrell took the receiver from the lieutenant. "Where the h.e.l.l have you been?" he demanded.

"I might ask the same of you," said the voice from Virgin Gorda. "We just got back here, found absolutely no messages from you, and discovered that weve been raped!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I had to call that a.s.s Stevens to learn where you were."

"Didnt you check with Marty?"

"Martys gone, as well as his friend Mickey. Theyve simply vanished, old boy."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" roared Hawthorne. "Whats the rape?"

"The envelope I left for you in the vault is also gone. Everything-our whole agenda to date."

"Jesus Christ!"

"In the wrong hands, that material-"

"I dont give a d.a.m.n about wrong hands or right hands, I want to know where Marty is, and Mickey! They wouldnt take off like birds, thats not like them. Theyd leave a note, a reason!... Doesnt anybody know anything?"

"Apparently not. They say a fellow they call Old Ridgeley went down to the shop where the boys were supposed to be working on his engines, and he found both the b.l.o.o.d.y motors apart and no one there."

"It smells!" yelled Hawthorne. "Theyre friends of mine-what the h.e.l.l have I done?"

"If that bothers you, perhaps you should know the worst," Cooke said. "The clerk who gave the envelope away claims he correctly delivered it to a 'gentleman of great reputation in London named Grimshaw, who identified all of us, and made it clear that it was his rightful property, as he had paid us for the information."

"What information?"

"Inspection of a yacht his club in San Diego was buying, cost specifications of equipment that had to be replaced, and general seaworthy evaluation. I must say it was a convincing story. Unfortunately the young man bought it."

"Have the son of a b.i.t.c.h shot or at least fired."

"Hes already left, old boy, terminated his employment when he was first soundly criticized. He said he was a.s.sured of a position at the Savoy in London, and was altogether sick of this backwater bog island. He took the last flight out of here for Puerto Rico, arrogantly stating that he rather hoped hed be on the same plane to London as this Grimshaw. He actually told the manager here that the poor fellow might not have his job in a day or so."

"Check the P.R. pa.s.senger manifests for all flights to-" Tyrell stopped, audibly sighing. "h.e.l.l, youve already done it."

"Naturally."

"No Grimshaw," said Hawthorne.

"No Grimshaw," confirmed Cooke.

"And he sure as h.e.l.l isnt there at the club."

"His room is spotless, the telephone wiped clean, both doork.n.o.bs as well."

"A professional.... G.o.dd.a.m.n it!"

"Its done; we cant dwell on it, Tye."

"I can dwell on Marty and Mickey, and you can bet your a.s.s on that!"

"Weve sent out the British Navy P.T.s, and the authorities are searching the island.... Wait a minute, Tyrell, Jacques just came in; he has something to tell me. Stay on the line."

"Will do," said Hawthorne, capping the mouthpiece and turning to Catherine Neilsen and Jackson Poole. "Weve been deep-sixed in Gorda," he explained. "A good friend of mine who was acting as my conduit, and his sidekick, also a friend, have disappeared. Also, all the material we had on that b.i.t.c.h."

Neilsen and Poole looked at each other. The lieutenant shrugged, conveying the fact that he did not understand Tyrells words. The major agreed by way of arched eyebrows and a shrug, followed instantly by a shake of her head, telegraphing the order not to inquire.

"Geoff, where are you?" Hawthorne shouted into the phone, the prolonged silence over the line not only irritating but ominous. Finally, the voice was there.

"Im so terribly sorry, Tyrell," Cooke began quietly. "I wish I didnt have to tell you this. A patrol boat picked up the body of Michael Simms about nine hundred meters offsh.o.r.e. Hed been shot in the head."

"Oh, my G.o.d," said Hawthorne quietly. "How did he get out there?"

"Based on preliminary evaluation, essentially flakes of paint on his clothing, the authorities believe he was shot, placed in a small motorized boat, and sent on automatic speed into open water. They think he was probably hanging over the side and the chop sent him overboard."

"Which means well never find Marty, or if someone does, h.e.l.l be deep dead in a skiff with an empty gas tank."

"Im afraid the British Navy agrees with that a.s.sessment. The orders from London and Washington are to keep everything quiet."

"d.a.m.n it! I put both those guys into this bulls.h.i.t. They were heroes in war, and they were killed for bulls.h.i.t!"

"Forgive me, Tye, but I truly believe its not bulls.h.i.t. If anything, this coupled with the ma.s.sacre in Miami, your own experience on Saba, and that plane in St. Martin proves were dealing with a problem of enormous severity. This woman-these people-have resources beyond any previous estimates."

"I know," said Hawthorne, barely audible. "I also know how a couple of new a.s.sociates of mine feel about Charlie."

"Who?"

"Nothing, never mind, Geoff. Did Stevens fill you in on our plans over here?"

"Yes, he did, and frankly, Tyrell, I must ask you, do you honestly think youre up to it? I mean, youve been away from this sort of thing for a few years-"

"What the h.e.l.l did you and Stevens have, an old maids sewing circle?" Hawthorne interrupted angrily. "Let me explain something to you, Cooke, Im forty years of age-"

"Forty-two," whispered Catherine Neilsen from across the room. "The dossier-"

"Shut up!... No, not you, Geoff. The answer to your question is yes. Were leaving in an hour and weve got a lot to do. Ill contact you later. Name your conduit."

"The manager?" offered the man from MI-6 over the line.

"No, not him. Hes too busy running the place.... Use Roger, the chickee bartender, hes perfect."

"Oh, yes, the black fellow with the gun. Good choice."

"Be in touch," said Tyrell, hanging up and turning to Major Neilsen. "My age being an inconsequential oversight, I was accurate when I said well be in a two-man submarine, because thats what it is. Not three or four, but two. I hope you and your 'darling are pretty d.a.m.ned familiar, because since you insist on being on board, youll either be on top of him or below him!"

"Theres a minor amendment to the minisubs nomenclature, Commander Hawthorne," the major interjected. "In back of-or perhaps I should say aft of-the rear seat is a lateral storage compartment equal to if not larger in size than the personnel stations. It holds an inflatable PVC life raft, basic provisions for five days, as well as weapons and flares. I suggest we dispense with the provisions, you store whatever equipment you need, and therell be no problem with s.p.a.ce for me."

"How do you know so much about minisubs?"

"She used to go out with a navy sky jock from Pensacola who was heavy into the underwater world," replied the lieutenant. "Sal and Charlie and I were happy as hogs in a mud hole when she told him to go fly to Saturn; he was one miserable arrogant stiff."

"Please, Jackson, some things are not for discussion."

"You mean like dossiers?" asked Hawthorne.

"That was military protocol."

"Dug up from the War of 1812.... All right, forget it." Hawthorne walked to the table and the papers. "We can take the P.T. to within, say, a mile or so south of the first island, all lights out, of course, going only by Loran. Now, over here." Tyrell pointed his ruler to the data faxed down from Washington that spelled out everything that was known about the atoll. Fortunately included were charts prepared by such men as Hawthorne going back sixty years. Reefs that had to be marked, unseen volcanic rocks noted so that sailors would not be smashed into them or drowned in the angry waters. "Theres a break in the outer reef here," he said, touching a spot on a sailing chart.

"Wont our sonar pick it up?" asked Poole.

"If were submersed, it probably will," answered Tye. "But if we surface, it wont, and we could land up on a pile of coral below the beams."

"Then we stay submerged," said Catherine.

"Then we reach the inner reef for which theres no definition and were sailing blind," replied Hawthorne. "And this is only the first island. s.h.i.t!"