Chapter Four
'With Malice Aforethought'
 

Manilow Crocker watched unobtrusively as Kristin Westphalen diligently examined each individual who remained within the confines of the fifth floor meeting room. A blustery wind still rustled through the tattered remains of the drapes hanging haphazardly along the shattered windows, winging Kristin's face with loose tangles of auburn. Teeth embracing her bottom lip, her thoughts seemed to be somewhere other than on the patients which had suddenly been thrust upon her. Other than the two insurgents who'd been wounded during the initial scuffle, her duties had turned out to be little more than pressing bandages onto minor cuts and abrasions and dispensing aspirin for headaches, which had apparently given her mind room to wander. She continued to inch nearer to Crocker, seemingly oblivious to his presence until she was almost upon him.

"Doc... did you see him?"

Kristin nodded almost imperceptibly at the big man's words, her eyes trained on the middle-aged woman she was tending.

"Is he okay?"

Another imperceptible nod.

Crocker breathed a silent sigh of relief, his blue gaze going to the two guards stationed at the door and two others who quietly and slowly roamed the perimeters of the room, automatic weapons in hand. After a moment his gaze returned to Kristin, resting on the smooth outline of her cheek and jaw as her profile was directed toward him. He briefly wondered whether Bridger had taken his advice of the night before... had it only been that long ago? ...and gone to see her. Knowing how stubborn his former commander tended to be at times it wouldn't have surprised him one iota to find out he'd changed his mind at the last moment, deciding instead to wait for Westphalen's promised call. Shifting in the hard chair he'd been forced to sit in for seeming endless hours, Crocker released another sigh, then threw a quick glance at the guards before leaning slightly toward Kristin.

"You have any idea what this is all about?" he whispered, ignoring the almost hostile glance her patient tossed him.

Smoothing a bandage over a small cut on the woman's arm, Kristin started to shake her head, then abruptly stopped. After a moment she raised her eyes to meet Crocker's gaze. He couldn't quite fathom the expression they held... something midway between apprehension and doubt.

"Something about..." her voice was an almost inaudible whisper. "...a place called Ponta Delgada."

There was a mild flicker of what appeared to be recognition in Manilow Crocker's blue gaze, but it disappeared so quickly that Kristin couldn't be certain whether she had actually seen it or had imagined it. Crocker turned his face away from her, his eyes restlessly moving about the room. Finally he muttered a few crude words beneath his breath and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.

"You know what happened there," Kristin stated softly. She got no reaction. "Patr-- ...the man who's doing this... said that Nathan..." She swallowed. "He said..."

"Whatever he said..." Crocker stabbed her with a gaze, "... whoever he is... he doesn't know crap," he growled.

Kristin moved to his side, ostensibly to examine a non-existent abrasion. Her voice dipped to a low whisper as she knelt by his side.

"You were there... weren't you?" her eyes flicked to his momentarily, then to the nearest guard. "Tell me what happened."

"That's not for me to say, Doc. You wanna know what happened there... you ask the Cap. He's the only one that can tell ya."

Her eyes snapped back to his.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means... I can't tell ya."

"Can't... or won't?"

"Same thing," Crocker muttered, avoiding her gaze. "Like I said... ask the Captain."

Kristin sighed with something akin to exasperation.

"That may be a bit difficult considering the position he's in."

"What do you mean?" Crocker frowned.

He received nothing more than a silent stare for a few moments as Kristin seemed to debate something within herself. Finally she gave up the pretense of tending to an injury and sat down on the floor next to his chair. Sighing, she leaned wearily against the hard wall at her back and began to relate what she'd learned. By the time she finished her narration Crocker's face was tinged an angry red. He muttered another oath before meeting Kristin's gaze.

"Who else is still in there with him?"

"Just... Noyce and McGath. And Scott Keller..." A frown touched her brow as for the first time she wondered at the astronaut's presence. "And Ben Krieg... I have no idea how he ended up here."

Crocker snorted.

"Probably marketing his wares. Damn..." He exhaled thoughtfully, his breath wafting upwards and displacing a few loose hairs across his forehead. "There's gotta be something we can do..."

"Chief..." Kristin placed her hand on his forearm as she gazed up at him. "Tell me. Please..."

Crocker shook his head regretfully as he moved his arm and grasped her hand in his.

"Doc..." he sighed, "...Kristin... I can't. It hurts like hell to have to sit here and tell you that. But it's just not my place. You just gotta believe me when I tell ya that half of what those people say is pure crap... and the other half is only partly the truth."

A semblance of a smile twisted Kristin's lips.

"At the moment that's not exactly comforting."

Manilow Crocker sighed deeply for the umpteenth time, obviously debating with himself over his next choice of words.

"You know, Doc..." he murmured, "...life is made up of choices. Some you gotta make... some you wish you didn't have to. Either way it's not easy. Especially when you're put in a position where the choices you make end up affecting people other than yourself. That's the position the Cap's been in for a lotta years. He's had to make some decisions I'd never be man enough to make. I know of very few people who would be. And he's had to face the consequences of those decisions." A grim smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "But he's always been able to take care of himself. Just like he will this time. I promise."

"That's something I seem to be telling myself a lot lately," Kristin whispered, drawing her knees up and encircling them with her arms.

Crocker waited for her to continue. When she didn't he debated what to say next, then finally spoke.

"There's not a whole lotta things to hold onto in this ol' world, Doc," he murmured quietly. "When you find one of 'em... you gotta grab and hold tight... and not let go. If you don't..." he raked her with a sideways glance, "...you're liable to lose it. And when you get right down to it... life's just too damn short to make that kinda mistake. Believe me... I know. I've been there."

Kristin tiredly rested her head against the wall behind her and closed her eyes.

"So have I, Chief..." she whispered. Her eyes slid open a crack and she stared absently at the far wall. "Too many times to count..."

"We've gotta do something."

Jonathan Ford looked up from the vid-screen, his chocolate brown gaze resting on Lucas Wolenczak as the young man paced the room, shoulders hunched, arms folded across his chest. As Jonathan watched Lucas slid the fingers of one hand through his unkempt hair in nervous habit.

"Like what?" Ford asked sharply, drawing surprised glances from Miguel Ortiz and William Shan. He ignored them. "Tell me, Lucas. Do we storm the place... just the four of us... and make what appears to be an army surrender to us? Just like that?"

"No!"

"Sneak in the back door? Climb up the fire escape?"

"No... yes... maybe!" Lucas dropped into a chair and rested his elbows on his knees, wearily rubbing his tired eyes with the palms of his hands. "There's gotta be something..." he reemphasized. "We can't just sit here..." he sighed, then snapped at glance at Jonathan. "Still no answer at Westphalen's place?"

His answer was a grim shake of the head.

"She's gotta be there too. Admit it, Commander."

"It's a possibility," Ford admitted. "It's also possible that she might just not be answering the phone... or she might be at the Noyce's."

"Or she might be half way around the world for all we know," Ortiz added, copying Lucas' posture as he ruminated on the situation.

"No..." Lucas shook his head and jumped to his feet to resume pacing. "I talked to her yesterday. She wasn't planning on going anywhere today... except to work."

"Don't dwell on it, Lucas," Jonathan murmured.

"I agree with Lucas," Shan suddenly chimed in. "We have to do something."

Ford raised a dubious eyebrow.

"Look..." Shan continued. " ...I know the chief of security out at the base... used to be my boss. Maybe he can help us out..."

The hollow sound of Ben Krieg's hand slapping the top of the conference table reverberated around the room. The two guards stationed at the door threw curious glances at the small group assembled at the other end of the room, then looked at each other with raised eyebrows. One man quietly opened the door and slipped out, while the other repositioned his rifle and struck an attitude of ambivalent wariness.

"You've got to help me out a little here, Captain," Krieg almost snapped, impatience and disgust at the situation creeping into his voice. The man to whom he'd addressed his words did nothing more than stare blandly back at him, the dark blue of his eyes totally expressionless. How the hell does he do that, Krieg wondered tiredly, running the fingers of one hand through rumpled black hair as he returned Nathan Bridger's gaze. He has to be feeling something... but damned if he'll show it. Ben shook his head wearily, then glanced to the side as he heard Scott Keller stir beside him.

"Take it from me, Krieg... you're fighting a losing battle," Keller murmured. He sat slumped almost sideways in his chair, elbow resting on the table, chin in hand, a droll expression darkening his own eyes. A day's growth of dark stubble was beginning to make its presence known on his weathered jaw and the collar of his white shirt was damp with perspiration. "I've known this guy a lot of years and believe me..." he peered across the table at Bridger, "...if he's made up his mind not to answer your questions then there's absolutely nothing you can do about it."

"I didn't ask you to stay, Krieg."

Both men glanced up in surprise at Bridger's words... the first he'd uttered in at least an hour. The oddity of actually hearing his voice had even Bill Noyce and Tom McGath coming to attention.

"I know that, sir..." Ben muttered, "...and for the life of me I'm wondering why I did. It certainly isn't as if you can't get along without me."

A humorless smile slanted Nathan's lips.

"And pray tell why did you?" he muttered sardonically.

"Sir?"

"Stay? Why'd you stay, Krieg? You were as good as gone... but you came back. Why?"

"I..." Ben opened his mouth, about to relay to Bridger the sight that had met his eyes upon arriving at the small office being used by the mysterious Mr. Smith, then snapped it shut. No, he decided. That would be cruel. At this point anyway. Maybe at any point. "I..." he repeated with a shrug, "...I couldn't just leave you people here to fend for yourselves. You know?"

"Uh huh."

Krieg sighed and reverted back to his questioning.

"So look... why don't you just tell me what happened that day. It's all in the record anyway," he continued, sifting through some papers. "Everything's in the statement you supplied following the incident. I'd just like to hear it from you... personally."

Bridger didn't answer. Krieg sighed again.

"Why is it so damn hard for you to give me some help in this thing?" he bit out, obviously exasperated. Bridger merely raised one eyebrow and stared cooly back at him. After a moment Krieg decided he'd better change tactics.

"Do you know this Mr. Smith?"

"No."

Krieg's eyes widened. Progress at last. Well... of a sort anyway.

"So you don't know why he's doing this?"

"What do I look like... a mindreader?"

"I mean..." Ben fought an inner battle with indecision as he considered his options. Maybe the cruelty wouldn't be in knowing... but in not being told. "I wondered if his reasons might be... well... personal."

"What's your point, Krieg?"

Ben released a weary sigh and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Then he looked at Bridger again.

"Dr. Westphalen... knows this joker," he finally muttered.

Bridger didn't bat an eyelash.

Bill Noyce leaned forward on his elbows and stabbed Krieg with an icy blue glance.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he hissed.

"Did you hear what I just said, Captain?" Krieg's voice was laced with impatience and uneasiness as he continued to gaze at his former commander. Impatience at Bridger's lack of response... unease at the thought of what might be going on behind those dark eyes.

"Mr. Krieg..." Nathan began softly, "...not only am I not a mind reader... I'm not deaf."

"You also don't appear surprised."

"How can you tell?" Scott Keller murmured.

"Very little surprises me anymore, Krieg," Bridger replied, ignoring Keller.

"She called him... Patrick," Ben continued.

Bridger's only reply was to raise one eyebrow.

"Does that ring any bells?"

"Should it?"

Krieg sighed in exasperation.

"Has she ever mentioned a Patrick?"

Bridger released a sharp breath, seemed about to snap a reply, then abruptly changed his mind. Instead he leaned toward Krieg, his arms resting on the table and his fingers interlaced, and spoke as one talking to an obtuse child.

"Mr. Krieg... difficult as it may be for you to believe... I'm completely unacquainted with upwards of ninety-five percent of the people Kristin knows or has ever known. That includes men. Past, present or otherwise. So to answer your question... no, the name doesn't ring a bell. I don't believe she's ever mentioned anyone named Patrick..." Nathan's gaze remained steady and unblinking, "...and if she did... it apparently didn't make an impact because I certainly don't remember her doing so. Now..." he leaned back, "...anything else?"

"Uh... no sir. I guess not."

"Good..." Bridger replied, standing, "...because I have to take a walk."

"Sir?"

Krieg appeared confused. Stepping around the table, Nathan paused to rest his hands palm down on the shiny top and lean toward the young man. "The little boy's room, Mr. Krieg," he murmured. "If it's all right with you..." he glanced toward the guard who'd remained stationed just inside the doorway, "...and our uninvited friend over there, of course." Pushing away from the table Bridger began to walk slowly across the room, his hands buried in his pockets, an affable expression on his face. As he homed in on the doorway the guard brought his rifle in closer to his body and stepped forward, effectively blocking the exit. The others watched as Bridger paused in front of him and said something to him in a low voice. Seemingly undecided for a moment, the man finally nodded and pushed the door open, motioning to someone on the outside as Bridger stepped through, then pulling the door halfway shut as he resumed his former position. Noyce, Keller and McGath exchanged glances. Krieg looked from one to the other in silent puzzlement.

"What do you mean... you haven't heard from him?"

"Just what I'm telling you..." Rex Humboldt snapped, rising from his chair and pacing agitatedly to the window of the temporary headquarters Naval security had set up just beyond the perimeter of the UEO compound. "He and my two best men went in over six hours ago. Crocker was supposed to check in every twenty minutes... which he did for the first couple hours. After that..." he shook his head and stared through the security fence at the main building, brightly lit in the darkness of early morning, "...nothing. Absolutely nothing. That's when Smith contacted me again... telling me that he had all three of them in his custody."

"Damn... I don't believe this," Jonathan Ford muttered, glancing from an attentive William Shan back to Humboldt. Dropping into a chair, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor, quickly and silently going over his options. "So we know Crocker and your two men are in there," he murmured, looking up. "Who else?

"Smith requested an interpreter. We sent him in with that damn reporter," Humboldt huffed, staring at Ford from beneath bushy eyebrows. "One of your people actually."

"Our..." Ford appeared briefly disconcerted before comprehension set in. "O'Neill?" he blurted. Receiving an affirmative answer he frowned, then slowly nodded as a grim smile began to curve his chiseled lips. "Okay... that'll work. Anyone else?"

"There are thirty-three people unaccounted for who we've confirmed were present in the complex at the time of the takeover. Two UEO security guards... various clerical employees known to be working on the fifth and sixth floors of the top level. No one there who stands out particularly for any reason. Half a dozen individuals from the research facil--"

"Dr. Westphalen."

Humboldt paused and followed the gazes of Ford, Shan and Ortiz to Lucas Wolenczak, whose flat statement had interrupted him. Picking up a clipboard he glanced at a list of names and slowly nodded.

"Yeah... she's on the list."

"I told you," Lucas muttered, sending an accusatory glance toward Ford. Jonathan said nothing. He just stared down at the floor again for a lengthy period... then his smile returned, a hint of amusement creeping into its grimness this time.

"Sounds like the odds are getting a little better," he murmured. Humboldt raised an eyebrow.

"Odds? There are approximately fifty heavily armed terrorists in control of that building. Four choppers are sitting on the roof... and you wouldn't believe the weapons they're carrying. They could take this base out in the time it would take me to walk from here to that door," he intoned, jerking his head toward the exit. "In a case like this there's no such thing as odds... just luck. And we haven't had a great deal of that either."

"I wouldn't quite say that," Ford intoned. "This Smith person... you know anything about him... have any idea at all who he might be and what exactly it is he's trying to prove?"

Humboldt shook his head.

"I have people going over the video made during his contacts with me... running his image through every security measure known. We've got feelers out with UEO intelligence, Interpol... you name it. So far nothing. But you know... its funny. There's something about this whole mess that seems vaguely familiar... but I haven't quite hit on why."

"You have no idea how comforting that is," Ford returned, a sarcastic edge to his voice. Coming to an abrupt decision, he stood and towered over Humboldt's desk. "We'll need blueprints of the building, access codes, any information you've managed to pick up regarding exactly where our people are being held--"

Humboldt rose from his chair, leaning his hands palm downward on the top of his desk as he eyed Ford and the others who'd gathered in a semi-circle around him.

"Look, Commander... I appreciate both your concern and your willingness to help but around here we go through channels and procedures. Those aren't just your people in there... we're also talking about the Secretary General of the UEO and the Secretary Elect. At the moment they're my primary consideration."

Jonathan Ford copied the other man's stance, chin jutting out stubbornly as he met his gaze across the top of the desk.

"I understand that, Chief..." His voice was soft yet firm. "But the way I see it... you don't really have much of a choice in the matter. You're sitting on the outside looking in. You've admitted that your two best men are in those people's custody. You make one wrong move... and they'll be all over you like warts on a frog. But they don't know about us..." He straightened but his gaze never left Humboldt's. "And if they somehow believe that Captain Bridger's going to sit back and let 'em run roughshod all over him... then I'd say they're a little bit out of touch with reality."

Humboldt stared at the top of his desk for a long moment, then pushed himself upright, indecision clearly evident in his eyes and motions. William Shan stepped forward so that he was shoulder to shoulder with Jonathan Ford.

"Chief... I can guarantee you the people we already have in there aren't sitting around on their hands doing nothing. They're waiting for somebody to make a move."

"And we're not talking about raw recruits," Miguel Ortiz interjected, lining up on Ford's other side. "Chief Crocker's probably got a dozen different scenarios running around in his head already. He's got your two men... and there had to be security officers on those two levels. Add to that Bridger and Noyce... and Keller. Those people aren't idiots."

"They just need a little help..." It was Lucas Wolenczak's turn to put in his two cents worth. He stood at one end of the desk with his hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of baggy jeans, his hair unkempt and in need of a cut, the expression in his blue eyes one of urgency nevertheless. "For some reason those people want Captain Bridger... and they didn't fly those war machines of theirs in here just to slap his wrists. If we do this your way... he's not walking out of there alive."

"And that's just not good enough," Ford murmured... and waited. Finally Rex Humboldt heaved a sigh and nodded his head.

"All right... I'll get you the access codes." He ran weary fingers through his peppered hair and punched a button on his desk panel. A drawer slid smoothly open and he lifted out a key, which he handed to Jonathan. "You'll find hard copies of the blueprints in that room..." he motioned to a closed door off to one side, "...all the other information we've come up with is on our stand-alone system." At their raised eyebrows he indicated the computer terminal on his desk, standing aside to give Lucas access to it. "When this all started Smith... shall we say... requested..." he stressed the word, "...access to all of NORPAC's military files from the period prior to the collapse of the United Nations... circa 2001 to 2011. We had to open up the system to him... he threatened to start tossing people from the windows. If he or one of his people are smart enough... which they seem to be... they can find out a hell of a lot more information than just what they're after, even though we can filter out anything of a more sensitive nature."

"In other words..." Lucas looked up from the keyboard with a half smile, "...he won't learn any deep dark military secrets."

"Other than the one he's after... no."

Jonathan frowned and opened his mouth to say something, then closed it without making a sound. Instead he glanced at the others, reading the questions in their eyes. Questions which mirrored his own but which he wasn't certain could be answered by the man in front of him... that is, answered correctly and without prejudice. After a moment of thoughtful consideration he decided it was worth a shot anyway.

"Just what exactly is Captain Bridger's connection with Ponta Delgada?"

Humboldt speared him with an intense gaze before reaching into the same drawer from which he'd removed the key a few moments before and lifting out a notebook of some sort. He looked at it for a moment... then handed it to Ford.

"This was delivered a few hours ago. Smith intimated in our last conversation that if we had any... oh, witnesses I guess you'd say... who could dispute any of the facts of the case that he'd be more than willing to listen."

"And?" Ford asked, accepting the portfolio.

Humboldt shook his head.

"None of the major players... those in the know at the time... are available any longer."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jonathan frowned, flipping open the notebook and glancing through the first couple of pages.

"It means, Commander..." Humboldt quietly replied, "...that they're all dead."

Noyce, Keller and McGath watched silently as Nathan Bridger was escorted back into the room, saying nothing as he returned to his seat at the table and the two guards resumed their positions just inside the closed door. Ben Krieg's gaze, on the other had, was agog with curiosity. He leaned forward to say something, but at a grim glance from Bridger thought better of it and kept his mouth closed. Instead he waited for one of the others to say something, which Bill Noyce finally did.

"Well?" Noyce murmured softly out of the corner of his mouth, barely looking at Bridger. Nathan merely shook his head, eliciting discouraged sighs from Keller and McGath. Krieg frowned and leaned forward, eyes intent on Bridger.

"Would you please tell me what's going on?"

Nathan looked at him with a half smile.

"Just checking out the opposition, Lieutenant."

Krieg shuddered.

"Don't call me that," he muttered, then continued in the same breath, "...so what did you see?"

"Not a hell of a lot that'll do us any good."

"Now tell us the good news," Scott Keller prodded, eliciting a sharp glance from Bridger.

"Who said anything about good news?"

Keller shook his head with a smile.

"I know you, Nathan... you always manage to come up with a bright side to everything. Now spill it... before I have to get physical," he threatened.

Bridger shook his head.

"There're a few things I need to figure out first."

"Yeah... well... don't take too long," Keller urged as he sat back, "...unfortunately we don't have all the time in the world..."

The man known as Smith watched from behind a half closed door as Nathan Bridger was led to the men's room flanked by two guards, then a few minutes later was escorted back to the conference room. Eyes thoughtful, he rested his chin on steepled fingers as he considered his next move. He'd had the whole thing planned out, down to the most detailed minutia, but somewhere along the line those plans had altered. Not in their projected outcome. Bridger would still pay for his actions. But the method would be somewhat different than originally planned. He'd suffer before he paid... he'd be forced to endure the knowledge that the person closest to him in the world... a person who trusted him implicitly... a woman who'd apparently think nothing of putting her very life in his hands... knew exactly what kind of man he was. And she'd hear the words from his own lips as he acknowledged his past sins.

Smith rubbed his forehead wearily and rested his head against the back of his chair... then allowed his mind to drift as he stared absently at the opposite wall.

"Damn it, Kristin..." he muttered to himself, his jumbled thoughts settling on the last time he'd seen her. So many years ago now... the day he'd walked of her life forever. It had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do... and he'd carried her beseeching look of hurt with him since that day. Yet even with the knowledge that what he was about to do would hurt her just as badly... or worse... he couldn't find it within himself to deviate from the plans he'd laid. For to Patrick Smith... commitment to the cause was the most important thing in life... and always would be...

Chapter Five
'And the Truth Will Set You Free'
 

Nathan Bridger watched, as did those seated at the table with him, as the thirteen individuals Smith had elected as 'jurors' filed into the room. Nervous stares were sent in his direction by some of them. Others conspicuously avoided his eyes. Still others seemed to have decided that pretending he wasn't there was their best defense against the situation. The men and women involved were seated with a modicum of commotion, the faint rustling noises created by their movements muffling the sounds of the footsteps of the other dozen or so people who followed behind them. Guards ushered in half a dozen men in business suits, seating them against the wall opposite the doorway while they themselves took up positions on either side of the group. Tim O'Neill was escorted in next, followed by a dark haired woman familiar to everyone in the room... newswoman Gabrielle Storm. No surprise to Bridger, as he'd spied both of them on his earlier 'bathroom break'. The sight of the person who stepped into the room next caused his eyes to widen almost imperceptibly... Manilow Crocker. Their gazes touched for the briefest of seconds before Crocker was urged into a seat near the windows. Then the man who was obviously Smith's right hand strolled in, followed by the man himself, his arm draped loosely around Kristin Westphalen's waist as he led her to a chair. Her gaze avoided Nathan's. Smith's didn't. His grey eyes held a mixture of contempt, triumph and lazy amusement as they clashed with Bridger's blue eyed stare. They shifted slightly, but only momentarily, as Nathan refused to look away. They returned to meet Nathan's gaze again with some moderate degree of wariness as Smith carefully seated Westphalen in the corner nearest the door. Nathan followed Smith with his eyes as the other man conversed briefly with Aiden Montgomery, then allowed his gaze to stray back to Kristin. Still she didn't look at him, staring intently at the floor instead.

"Captain Bridger."

Nathan's chair groaned as he settled back, pulling his gaze from Kristin at last and turning his attention instead to Patrick Smith. Slowly pacing an invisible line in front of the jurors, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, Smith glanced at Bridger from beneath slightly elevated eyebrows. At the Captain's lack of response his lips twisted faintly. Coming to a halt in his pacing, he briefly stood staring toward the thick windows now hidden by heavy drapes. Bridger leaned his head against the back of his chair, hooded lids covering the curious gaze he leveled in the other man's direction, one thumb tapping against the other as his laced fingers rested in his lap. And he waited. No sense giving Smith more of an upper hand than he already held.

As the silence lengthened between the two, other sounds seemed to intrude. Bill Noyce's chair emitted much the same noise as Nathan's had earlier as he shifted to ease the rather uncomfortable position he seemed to have been sitting in for hours. He exchanged a quick look with Scott Keller, who merely shrugged, his elbow resting on the table as he cupped his chin in the palm of his hand. Noyce then turned a glance toward Westphalen, noting the way she seemed to be avoiding looking in their direction. In any direction actually. She leaned against one arm of her chair, absently gnawing on her bottom lip as she stared at the wall opposite her. Noyce wondered what she was thinking. Whatever it was... it apparently wasn't good. He followed the path of his index finger with his eyes as he traced fine lines on the wood in front of him before glancing again at Nathan's averted profile. Then with a sigh he settled back in his chair. And he waited. "You know why we're here?" Smith murmured conversationally, one eyebrow arcing upward as he looked at Bridger. Nathan returned the stare with one equally as difficult to decipher before briefly inclining his head in an almost indiscernible nod.

"Well then... is there anything you'd like to say before we get started?" Smith glanced at his watch. "The sooner we get this situation taken care of the better. I do have other... engagements... so to speak."

Nathan's mind was filled with any number of possible rejoinders to the man's lofty remark, the majority of them bordering on the sarcastic, but with some great degree of will he restrained himself from replying in kind. He merely smiled personably... and said nothing. Ben Krieg on the other hand let out a sharp breath as Smith turned somewhat abruptly away and began pacing in the other direction. Daring to boldly go where no man in his right mind would, he leaned close to Nathan's shoulder and spoke close to his ear.

"And I was stupid enough to wonder how you could put up with her," he muttered, referring to the woman sitting on the other side of the room. "I'm beginning to think its the other way around. If her stubborn streak's a mile wide... yours must circumnavigate the globe."

Bridger didn't look at him... he didn't have to.

"Mr. Krieg... you're definitely cruising," he murmured, his tone vaguely threatening.

"Hey... you're not my boss anymore. Remember?"

"There are ways to rectify that situation."

Ben's eyes widened and he appeared taken aback.

"Wha..." He laughed nervously. "Uh... Captain... I was just kidding... you know? Trying to lighten the atmosphere?"

"Well that makes one of us," Bridger replied, finally sparing a glance for his so-called counsel. "The Navy can always use a few good men... remember that."

Ben raised one eyebrow, a humorous expression entering his blue eyes as he tried to keep both Bridger and Smith in his line of vision.

"Sooooo..." he drawled unctuously, "...you think I'm good. You really like me after all don't you?"

Nathan's mouth turned up at one corner.

"Ask me that again once we get out of this mess... I'd hate to sabotage my own defense."

"I suggest we begin," Patrick Smith's voice interrupted their peculiar form of banter. There was a distant look in his grey eyes as he stopped in front of the two men, almost as though he were put out by their whispered conversation. His gaze flickered between the two of them, wrapping Noyce, McGath and Keller in its aftermath as he turned away and motioned to his adjutant. "I believe we'll begin with the background of this case... if you'll activate the monitor, Mr. Montgomery."

The lights dimmed as the main vid-screen came on, illuminating everyone in the overcast grey which was always the norm before any images appeared on the screen. Smith and his entourage were apparently unconcerned that anyone might try to make a break for it in the semi-darkness. With a half dozen guards lining the end of the room where the exit lay, the only other avenue of escape were the drape-covered windows which lined the other end of the room. Unless you were Superman, going through plate glass at two hundred and fifty feet was strictly for the birds. A collective rustle seemed to vibrate through the room as everyone concerned breathed a quick sigh of temporary relief, making themselves as comfortable as possible as all eyes turned toward the vid-screen. The picture turned to black for just a few seconds before the image of a relief map of the Atlantic Ocean appeared.

Nathan settled back in his chair, staring intently at the monitor as Patrick Smith began to speak in a crisp, clear voice.

"Sao Miguel... the Azores... presently part of the North Atlantic Confederation..." The expansive image on the map dissolved to present a smaller picture, outlining the island nation of the Azores, no longer a territory of Portugal but a country in its own right. "Approximately nine hundred miles to the west of the Portuguese mainland and extending over a distance of no more than four hundred miles... the islands form three distinctive groups... the most important of which being that which I just mentioned." Smith's hands remained clasped loosely behind his back as he took the few short paces which brought him once again to a position in front of Bridger. He paused, studying Nathan for a few seconds, his head canting sideways slightly. "Throughout modern history the islands have always been somewhat of a... focal point? ...during times of war. For example..." Smith turned away, sauntering casually toward the vid-screen, "...in the early seventeenth century they became a theater of sea warfare between Spain and England when Portugal was under Spanish rule. During the second world war the Azores became an allied base... and were for some years a base of operations for what was then known as the North Atlantic Treaty Organization... later to become the North Atlantic Confederation.

"Sometime between the beginning of this century... when the islands were just emerging from beneath the shadows of hundreds of years of colonial imperialism... and the fall of the United Nations in 2011... the Azores... and most notably the island of Sao Miguel... once again became the center of attention spawned by international crisis."

Smith leaned negligently against the wall as a quick moving melange of scenes flitted across the monitor... beginning with images of a beautiful volcanic island nation... leading into scrolling clips of vicious battle scenes.

"In 2001 an inevitable confrontation occured between United Nations forces... led by then Admiral Jerome Bennett..." A smile crossed Smith's face at the sudden shift of attention his words caused. "Yes..." he murmured, "...the same Jerome Bennett who is currently second term President of the United States."

Nathan leaned slightly to one side, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair while rubbing his fingers wearily across his unshaven chin. His gaze was riveted on the screen... Smith's words simply a buzz in the background as his thoughts drifted into the past...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Dive... dive... dive! Bogies dead astern!" The young sonar chief, fuzzy-cheeked and looking as if he'd just stepped from his high school prom onto the shadowed deck of the submarine shouted above the sudden din.

"Take her down!"

Loud and succinct, the voice of Captain Terry McClure vibrated above the resounding echo of the warning klaxons. In his mid-fifties, straight as an arrow in both physical posture and mental attitude, his face streaked with sweat and dirt that came from who knows where, the commanding officer of the 'Intrepid' clung to the back of his command chair and attempted to keep his footing as the huge cigar-shaped ship began a slanting roll. He ducked a quick look at his first officer as the bridge lighting briefly flickered and dimmed. Nathan Bridger gazed back at him... almost through him... as the ship bucked under the impact of a second torpedo hit.

Solid steel splintered and the sound of rushing water could be heard as the accessway bulkheads gave. Seconds turned into hours as a vast shudder shook the bridge. A third torpedo hit midship within seconds, the rendering sound of a hole being torn through the ship's compact hull evident above even the chaos occuring in the command center.

McClure glanced toward weapons control and barked out an order, his gaze returning to Bridger as the last word left his mouth.

"Status!"

Bridger shook his head.

"Hull integrity's been compromised," he shouted, his own voice thundering above the din. "Tanks are at fifty percent... if we drop any further... we won't make it!"

"Level her off... and let's get the hell out--"

McClure's answering shout was abruptly cut off as another explosion rattled the sub. Thrown from their seats as the ship tilted alarmingly, the crew crawled back to stations, attempting to carry out their captain's orders as the listing of the vessel continued to increase. Bridger barked his own orders into the mouthpiece of the headset he'd pulled haphazardly over his head, the answering comments from engineering doing little to cheer him up. Throwing an accessing glance toward the helmsman, he quickly ordered balast to be increased to sixty percent, then looked back to McClure in hope of sudden inspiration. Only... McClure wasn't there.

Nathan's eyes searched the bridge in vain before he moved away from his station, palming sweat from his forehead and running weary fingers through his hair as he stepped toward the command chair. In the dim lighting he almost stumbled over a khaki-clad leg which blocked his path as he rounded the chair. He looked down... and immediately wished he hadn't. McClure lay on his back on the cold steel floor, almost in a posture of sleep. His eyes were open, staring upward unblinkingly. A metal rod erupted from the center of his chest... bright red blood matted his shirt so heavily that it appeared to be plastered to his body. Shock had Bridger standing numbly for a heartbeat, then he was on his knees beside the man, feeling for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. He was still in the same position moments later when the hatch flew open, releasing a steady but diminishing flow of seawater onto the bridge as well as further members of the crew.

"Comman--"

Bridger slowly raised his eyes as Manilow Crocker's voice stuttered to a halt. He opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut as Crocker stared with growing realiztion at the figure on the floor, the sudden silence from both within the ship and from the swirling waters beyond its hull bringing others of the bridge crew to investigate what was going on. Within seconds they'd formed a stunned ring around their dead captain and the man kneeling next to him. Bridger tore his gaze from Crocker's face at last, jerking his head toward McClure as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Get him out of here..." he croaked, "...and get the hell back to your stations!" he finished, his voice thundering into the silence as his heartbeat began to steady.

Nathan watched as McClure's body was removed from the bridge, not turning back to the rest of the crew until the hatch was secured. They were all staring at him... waiting. He nodded toward the helmsman.

"You heard the Captain..." he instructed, "...let's get the hell out of here. Pull her back out to twenty miles and let's see if we can find a place to hide for a while."

"Comm-- . . . Sir..."

Bridger glanced at the engineering chief who'd followed Crocker through the hatch.

"Sir... we have major structural damage below decks and in the missile access compartments. If we don't get her repaired fast..."

"...we'll either sink like a rock... or get blown to pieces by our own warheads," Nathan finished for him. "I realize that, Mr. Petry... believe me..." his eyes turned briefly to the ship's main monitor as his voice trailed into a whisper, "...I realize that..."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A gentle hand on his elbow broke Nathan from his reveree. He spared a brief glance for the concern in Bill Noyce's eyes before his gaze skimmed Kristin's shadowed profile. She was staring at the images flickering across the vid-screen as though mesmerized, her jaw tightly clenched but without any further emotion evident. Bridger continued to stare at her for a long moment, willing her to look in his direction while at the same time almost frightened that she would. Finally his gaze followed hers back to the monitor, the uncompromising tone of Patrick Smith's voice again penetrating his bemused thoughts.

"...small but elite group of insurrectionists known simply as La Marea Carmesi... the Crimson Tide. Their last stronghold was the island of Sao Miguel... where they actually held the upper hand because Ponta Delgada was in their possession. Outsiders... as the foreign forces who still headquartered on the island were referred to... had been rounded up and sequestered at the United States naval facility located adjacent to the port. A stalemate ensued. Admiral Bennett's fleet... stationed just beyond the twelve mile limit... cordoned off all traffic into and out of Ponta Delgada..." High resolution satellite photographs highlighted the information Smith carefully imparted. "Three subs were then sent in to establish a no-cross perimeter five miles off the coast... while the fleet was removed to a stationary position some two hundred miles out."

A split screen image of the three submarines appeared on the monitor. It was obvious from what they were looking at, even to those untrained in military armament and weaponry, that the ships were top of the line... heavily armed and well designed. Smith stepped closer to the monitor, the muted light enveloping him in its tinted glow as he indicated each vessel.

"The Hercules... the Lancer..." he turned to face those present, "...and the Intrepid."

Bridger's gaze rested on the image of the Intrepid... his eyes tracing the familiar lines of the ship. Unlike undersea vessels constructed before the turn of the century, the Intrepid was sleek in design. It had in fact been one of the first submarines to be built using the scientific and oceanographic knowledge which had years later played such a great part in the production of seaQuest itself. Nathan's eyes touched on the stern of the boat... his dark gaze tracing the stenciled letters that spelled out her name. Letters which... when she'd eventually been returned to port at the naval shipyards in Pearl Harbor... had been no longer visible... had been virtually obliterated, along with the steel hull upon which they'd been painted, by enemy torpedos.

"This... impasse... continued for nine days. The foreign... hostages..." Smith allowed with an offhand shrug of one shoulder, "...for want of a better word... remained isolated at the naval facility. Many of these hostages were Americans... some were Spanish... some Canadian and British." Smith started to pace again. "Things remained relatively calm. Then... on day ten... a run-and-gun air to sea battle began. The Hercules was sunk almost immediately... with no survivors. The Lancer... originally fitted as a reconnaissance vessel... was pulled out by the fleet commander. The Intrepid remained as what I suppose one would call... a buffer... between the island artillery and the United Nations sea forces led by Admiral Bennett."

Ben Krieg leaned close to Bridger's ear, but whatever he was about to say died on his lips as Nathan made an irritated motion with his hand and shook his head. Krieg sighed and turned his eyes back to the screen. The images shown upon it changed as Smith continued his narration.

"The on and off fighting continued for thirty-six hours... until the Intrepid pulled out... and disappeared. She could be located by neither the island forces belonging to the insurrectionists... or the fleet which remained stationed two hundred miles out. Two days later she suddenly reappeared... just as mysteriously..."

Smith stopped at the door, his back toward those in the room, then slowly turned. All eyes were upon him as the light from the vid-screen threw his face into shadowed relief. "...and proceeded to launch an all-out offensive against the island. In the process of this assault... in a premeditated move which exhibited neither moral conscience nor established ethical military practice... civilians... innocent women and children... were made the target of aggression."

Slowly shaking his head, Manilow Crocker listened with increasing anger as the man who'd apparently appointed himself as Nathan Bridger's personal tormenter continued his recitation. He exhaled a troubled breath and ran the fingers of one hand through his thinning hair, muttering something under his breath all the while. As he continued to listen... Crocker's thoughts unconsciously slipped back more than fifteen years...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Crocker stared at the man lying prone on the deck... the khaki uniform Captain Terry McClure had worn so proudly for so many years quickly soaking up the blood which seeped from the massive chest wound which had ended his life. Then his blue gaze... normally twinkling with humor... slid to the man kneeling beside the body. He noted the quick slew of emotions which passed across Nathan Bridger's face... ending with the seemingly lost look which was harbored in his gaze when he lifted his eyes to find Crocker standing over him. Long seconds passed as the two men stared at each other, then Bridger quickly rose, tossing orders back and forth across the bridge as he attempted to get things under control. At a pointed glance from the man who was no longer second in command... but who had been thrust suddenly into a position of ultimate authority... Crocker motioned to two young ensigns who'd trailed him onto the bridge. The body of their dead captain was quickly removed from sight.

"Commander..."

Bridger abruptly paused in his actions to toss a glance at Crocker as the other man laid a hesitant hand on his arm.

"What do we do now?"

A sigh was his first answer, followed by a few succinct words.

"We find a place to hide... we lay low for as long as we can while repairs are carried out. After that..." Nathan shrugged, "...heaven only knows. Now... get back to your station..." Bridger's tone softened, "...please."

Crocker gave him a hard, searching stare... then finally nodded.

"Aye, sir." With a sharp salute he disappeared into the accessway leading into the corridor. As he made his slow way back to his weapons station his mind dwelt on what had taken place during the previous few hours. Things were just about as bad as they could get. But somehow... somewhere deep inside... he had a feeling they were only going to get worse. A sudden shudder ran through the ship, bringing Crocker to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor and forcing him to maintain his balance with a modicum of difficulty as the submarine listed tightly to starboard. As the big vessel settled into this precarious position Crocker pulled his wits about himself and quickened his pace, sending a silent prayer to the God who watched over fools who figured they could survive just as well below the oceans as above...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Crocker blinked as the lights came on, rubbing a hand across his eyes as the sudden brightness bit into his sight. When he opened them again his gaze was momentarily unfocused, but sharpened as it came to rest on Patrick Smith, who was confidently pacing in front of the so-called jurors. When Smith remained silent, merely staring thoughtfully at the floor as he moved back and forth with all eyes upon him... and without a doubt enjoying the fact that he was the center of attention... Crocker shifted his gaze to Nathan Bridger. He was surprised to find his former captain... and longtime friend... staring right back at him. Crocker lifted one eyebrow almost imperceptibly, a veiled question in his eyes, then continued to watch as Bridger dropped his gaze to the top of the conference table, then allowed it to shift sideways to rest on Scott Keller. The two men exchanged a brief stare, then Bridger once again turned his attention to Crocker... who frowned, not quite sure if the look he was receiving was supposed to be some type of signal, or whether he was reading too much into the situation. He didn't have much time to think about it at that moment anyway... as Patrick Smith suddenly decided to break the silence.

"So..." Smith murmured, stopping in the center of the room and allowing his gaze to rest first on the twelve individuals who'd been rounded up to act in judgment. He looked each of them in the eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what resembled a grim smile, gauging their expressions as he did so. Then, as if reaching some world-shattering conclusion, he slowly nodded. "I believe we all have a pretty good idea of the circumstances of the situation. But..." he pivoted on his heel, his gaze resting unerringly on Bridger, "...we'll all learn... much... much..." he stressed the last word, "...more as things progress."

Manilow Crocker leaned forward in his chair, wanting to do nothing more than grab Smith by the throat as he walked by. His teeth ground together as he gave serious thought to the idea... then his eyes were unconsciously drawn back to the blue-eyed gaze of Nathan Bridger... who was again staring at him, an odd look in his eyes. Their gazes met and held for an interminable length of time... then Crocker slowly settled back in his chair, never removing his gaze from Bridger's until Nathan shifted his...

Kristin Westphalen shifted slightly in her seat, gingerly moving to a more comfortable position and unobtrusively stretching her leg. The tingling sensation she'd been trying to ignore for over an hour had finally gotten the better of her, leaving her wishing desperately that she could stand up and stomp around the room to somehow revive the offending limb which had gone to sleep on her. Her brown gaze landed on Patrick... Smith? ...as he slowly paced the room. Briefly she wondered where he'd picked up that monicker... as it certainly wasn't his true given name. As she well knew. With an almost soundless sigh she shifted again, feeling dingy and tired in the jeans and t-shirt she'd donned earlier that morning. With a frown she cast a suble glance at her watch... it was well past three in the morning... almost twenty-four hours had slipped by as the present saga had unfolded.

As she carefully changed her position again so that she could survey the entire room without it being too noticable, Kristin's fingers unconsciously groped for the fine gold-linked chain which hung around her neck, the medalion attached to it hidden beneath the thin cotton of her shirt... an ancient Saint Christopher medal. She remembered like it was yesterday the moment Nathan had found it, rummaging through possessions long stored away which he'd finally admitted to himself needed to go. He'd lifted it from an old box... somewhat tarnished... and dangled it between them for a moment as he stared at it. Then, even as he was turning back to his task, he'd casually looped the chain around her neck... a different and somewhat longer one than that which now held the medalion... and muttered that he figured that was one thing he'd hang on to. Kristin recalled that she'd inspected the small item curiously at the time, turning it over to find Nathan's initials engraved upon it, before finally questioning him about it. Following some initial hemming and hawing he'd admitted that it had been given to him by his grandfather immediately following his appointment to the Academy...his grandfather being himself an old Navy man and an individual who'd held superstition in high esteem. The old man had told him the medalion would ensure his safety in the future... in times of trouble and tribulation. Nathan had admitted he wasn't certain that's what had kept him in one piece through some pretty tough times... but he'd kept the thing with him until he'd resigned his commission following his son's death. Not being a particularly spiritual sort, Kristin's interest had nevertheless been caught and she'd questioned him further. She frowned now as she tried to recall the exact wording of Nathan's answer to one of her questions.

"According to legend Saint Christopher carried Christian pilgrims across a river to safety..." he'd murmured absently, "...I suppose he's carried me across a few..."

Kristin had wondered at the time what those few had been, but had ceased questioning him when he'd seemed disinclined to continue. It always felt strange, always raised some odd emotions within her, when she took time to consider that the small piece of metal she wore around her neck had been carried close to Nathan's heart through battles... both personal and professional... that she could only wonder at. As she wondered now... whether what she was about to hear and see was a memory burned within the dull gold of the medalion now worn close to her heart.

Her gaze drifted sideways to rest on Nathan's profile. She watched covertly as he idly followed Patrick Smith with his eyes as the other man continued to pace the small room, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Then her gaze also snapped back to Smith as he began to speak.

"What you have just witnessed... are the results of one of the most brutal... incidents..." Smith paused to stare at the jury as he allowed his words to sink in, "...of warfare... perpetrated within the last fifty years," he continued, resuming his marathon. "It is my intention to prove to you... beyond a reasonable double... that the man in whose hands the responsibility for such acts of barbarism lies..." Smith came to a stop directly in front of Nathan. Placing his hands palm down on the top of the table he leaned slightly forward, his gaze holding Bridger's as he continued in a confident tone, "...is none other than Captain Nathan Hale Bridger. And upon presentation of evidence which will clearly indict the estimable Captain..." his eyes continued to lock with Nathan's, "...I will ask that you find him guilty of all charges brought against him... and pass such judgment as is obligatory in such a case."

The two men continued to stare at one another as a pall of silence encompassed the room. Smith waited patiently for Bridger to break eye contact so that he could claim some sort of small victory before going for the all-out kill. Finally, when he refused to look away, Smith straightened. A humorless smile tipped one corner of his mouth and one eyebrow raised slightly in acknowledgment.

"Very impressive, Captain..." he murmured, "...especially for one on the verge of making the... ultimate sacrifice."

Kristin frowned as she followed the one-sided conversation, her gaze moving between Bridger and Smith as she listened. Finally, suddenly feeling as if she'd been left out of something more significant than she realized, she glanced at Ben Krieg. His face had a sick pasty appearance. His eyes were wide and glassy as he stared at Patrick Smith. Something which Smith seemed to take great glee in, as he finally shifted his gaze from Nathan and let it rest on Krieg's stunned expression. He actually chuckled.

"Well, Mr. Krieg..." Smith intoned, "...I'm glad to see that someone other than myself appears to percieve the gravity of this situation. But then again..." he turned away and headed slowly toward the exit, "...finding one's self suddenly faced with the task of trying to save a man from the gallows... per se... might tend to do that to a person." His words floated back to the others as he stepped through the doorway and disappeared.

Aiden Montgomery, seemingly with some reluctance, pushed himself away from the wall against which he slouched and motioned to the jurors.

"We'll break for an hour."

He watched them slowly file out, with gentle nudging from two guards who followed along behind them. Gabrielle Storm, her discerning reporter's nose sensing the makings of what could concievably be considered the story of the century, followed quickly on their heels. No one tried to stop her.

"Well..." Scott Keller finally muttered into the silence which fell over the room following the almost mass exodus, "...that certainly puts a damper on things."

Everyone looked at him.

Except Nathan. He was looking at Kristin. Who wasn't looking at anything in particular. With a sigh he heaved himself out of his chair and headed in her direction, a glare from frosty blue eyes putting Aiden Montgomery quickly in his place as the other man made a move to step between Bridger and his ultimate target.

"I'm not sure I like this," Miguel Ortiz complained. He looked into the tight, dark little space he was supposed to crawl into.

Jonathan Ford sighed.

"It's only a short distance... then we'll be in the clear," he murmured, referring to the proverbial light at the end of their literal tunnel... the main service complex for the compound's underground tram system.

"Great..." Ortiz continued. "And what if they're waiting for us on the other end?"

"If Humboldt was right about this... and the blueprints do tend to bear him out... those people in there aren't even aware this tunnel exists. For all we know... there might not be two or three people in the world who know about it."

"Why doesn't that make me the least bit more confident?" Ortiz muttered good-naturedly. William Shan patted him on the shoulder.

"Take it easy, Miguel... it'll be a piece of cake."

"Yeah... for you maybe," the other man returned, getting down on his knees to follow behind Ford. "I hate places like this..." his voice echoed back to Shan, who quickly followed after him, "...they give me claustrophobia..."

Meanwhile...

Lucas Wolenczak's nimble fingers moved like lightening over the keyboard of Humboldt's computer, bringing to the fore masses of information which might... or might not... help them in their cause. Rex Humboldt stared over the young man's shoulder, obviously impressed by what he was seeing. Lucas finally shook his head.

"I don't understand this," he muttered. "Nowhere... and I mean absolutely nowhere... is the blame for what happened at Ponta Delgada put on Captain Bridger. As a matter of fact..." he punched a few keys and frowned at what he read, "...no one was blamed for it. The official record calls it..." he read further, "...an unfortunate and unforeseen accident of war."
He looked up at Humboldt. "What exactly does that mean?"

Humboldt shrugged.

"Could mean anything. Could mean that's exactly what it was... an accident. That sort of thing happens when people are lobbing missiles at each other. It could also mean that they don't actually know what happened. Or... they might know... and just decided to keep a lid on it."

"Why?"

Humboldt shrugged again.

"To save face?" he offered, looking into the bright young eyes turned toward him.

Lucas was obviously confused.

"But Captain Bridger was just a Commander at the time. If he was guilty of negligence or anything remotely like that... he'd have been court-martialed without a second thought. The Navy didn't have anything to lose in doing that... it was their duty."

"Unless... doing just that would have... say... opened a whole other can of worms," Humboldt mused.

Lucas returned his gaze to the monitor, not really seeing what was on it, but considering Chief Humboldt's words.

"You mean..." he murmured, his bright blue eyes returning to Humboldt's brown gaze, "...that maybe... they were protecting someone?"

"Your words... not mine," Humboldt allowed.

Long moments passed as the two stared at one another. Then Lucas turned back to the computer, his long fingers stroking the keys as he dredged through the covering facade of information for anything that might point him in the right direction.

Lieutenant (jg) Tim O'Neill shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like what was going on. No, not one little bit. But there was precious little he could do about it, except wait and do what was requested of him. Which he still didn't have a handle on. He'd made note of the foreigners, if one could call them that, who had been huddled in one corner of the foyer during his required wait in that room upon his arrival. They hadn't been ushered into this room with the others, but he had no doubt they were the reason he had been called on as an interpretor. After all, what else could little old Tim O'Neill be wanted for in such a situation?

Pushing at his glasses, he glanced around at the others in the room. Bridger had slipped from his position behind the big table to approach Kristin. He'd pulled a chair away from the wall and was seated in front of her, quietly talking. Noyce, McGath and Keller... the big shots... remained at the conference table. Along with Ben Krieg, who seemed to be off somewhere in a world of his own. Manilow Crocker sat directly across the room from O'Neill himself, nervously chewing his thumbnail to the quick. That left the man who was Smith's aide, and about half a dozen guards, to round out the lot.

His gaze drifted back to Bridger and Westphalen. He inspected Bridger's profile, his thoughts going back over the past year and a half. First the thirteen months aboard seaQuest... then the past few months which had been spent learning the ins and outs of shipbuilding. It almost made him laugh. But he was proud of the job they were all doing. He didn't do it... O'Neill thought. Whatever they say... whatever proof they say they have... it's not true. He couldn't have. Kristin Westphalen glanced up suddenly and her eyes met his unerringly across the room. Tim glanced quickly away...

Nathan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he peered into Kristin's face. His impression was that she appeared to be having trouble looking at him. With a sigh he reached out and took one of her hands in his, gently rubbing her fingers with his thumb.

"You okay?"

She finally looked up... and slowly nodded.

"Yes... fine."

Bridger looked doubtful.

"I guess..." he took a deep breath, his eyes on their linked fingers, "...I guess... this is pretty hard for you."

Kristin looked momentarily confused.

"I mean... not knowing what to believe."

"I believe in you," she whispered, not too convincingly even to Nathan's ears. Something he chose to ignore.

"That might not be so good," he said instead, a trace of humor threading through his voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Nathan merely shook his head, his hand restless in hers.

"Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Just... don't think too badly of me."

Kristin shook her head in confusion.

"You sound like..." she whispered, "...you make it sound like whatever's going to happen... is inevitable."

"Some things are."

"Nathan.. . I don't believe him. Whatever he says."

Bridger stared at her for a moment before nodding.

"Okay."

"You don't believe me."

Nathan's fingers tightened around hers.

"I don't think..." he murmured, leaning closer, "...that you believe you."

"Nathan--"

He shook his head abruptly to silence her.

"Kris--" He paused, pursing his lips as he steeled himself for what he was about to say. "I love you..." he finally whispered. He lowered his gaze to their linked fingers and tightened his grasp further. "I know I'm not very good at telling you how I feel... but I do. I want you to remember that."

Kristin's fingers tightened in response to his.

"I know you do."

A ghost of a smile curved Nathan's lips as he continued to stare at their hands.

"You told me last night that you'd always love me... no matter what." He finally met her eyes. "I want you to know... that you don't have to do that."

"I meant it," she whispered.

Nathan sighed almost inaudibly.

"Thank you." He gave her hand another squeeze. "I... ummm..." his gaze slid away from her and landed on Ben Krieg, who was busily thumbing through the portfolio Patrick Smith had handed him earlier, his complexion still green, "...I'd better go rescue my counsel. He looks like he's about to throw up."

He stood, gently disengaging Kristin's hand from his. Her fingers caught at his sleeve as he began to turn away.

"Nathan..."

She stared at him, words trembling on her lips. Finally she looked away without saying anything further. Bridger reached out a hand and ran his finger along the smooth curve of her cheek before once again turning away and making his weary way back to his seat.

Ben Krieg stared at the pages in front of him, not sure what he was looking for, and entirely uncertain about what he was going to do. Of course, to be able to do anything, he had to have Nathan Bridger's cooperation... and the man was being irrationally contentious. He shook his head and sighed as he began to regain some semblance of control over his senses, then began to flip once more through the pages of the portfolio. The same pictures stared him in the face... the same words described what had happened on Ponta Delgada... the same accusations jumped out at him. About to close the folder, wearily rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand, something suddenly caught his attention. He flipped the folder back open, the back cover falling away from the main body of the work. Krieg stared at the inside of the cover.

ASK HIM WHO HE'S COVERING FOR.

The words, penciled in inch tall block letters, jumped out at him. Almost guiltily he pulled the folder closer. They hadn't been there before. Not the first time he'd gone through the portfolio. He would have noticed. How then had they gotten there? And who'd written them? And when... ? His eyes darted up, snapping from Noyce to McGath to Keller. Not one of them seemed to be paying him the slightest attention. Krieg frowned. He'd only left the room once... had allowed the portfolio out of his possession on only one occassion. That had been some hours ago now... when Bridger had caustically recommended that he walk away from the situation.

He glanced up as the man in question reappeared beside him. He stared.

"What's the matter, Krieg..." Bridger quirked an eyebrow as he slowly sat down, "...cat got your tongue?"

"Uhhh..."

Nathan nodded sagely, almost to himself.

"That would be a first, I know... but a man should always have some hope to cling to."

Ben sighed and ran a distracted hand through his neatly shorn black hair.

"This isn't funny, Captain..."

"No, Lieutenant... it isn't. But what is it they say... laugh and the world laughs with you? Cry... and you cry alone?" A wry smile curved Bridger's lips. "At the moment... I rather like the first part. Besides... I'm not a crybaby."

"I know that, sir," Krieg murmured, a healthier color returning to his face as he offered a weak grin in return. "I'd dare anyone to refer to you in that manner."

"And make side bets on it at the same time."

Ben acknowledged the hit with cocky acceptance, his eyes following Bridger as the Captain rested his forearms on the table and stared at his laced fingers. His expression became almost instantly preoccupied.

"Captain?" Krieg's voice was loud enough for Bridger to hear and no one else.

"Hmmmm?" Nathan didn't look up.

"Sir?" Ben tried again.

Bridger glanced up at the same instant Krieg flipped the portfolio open. The message on the inside back cover was plainly visible. It's meaning obvious. Bridger's gaze rested on it. He read it. Once. Twice. His expression never changed.

"Well?"

Nathan's bland blue gaze met Ben's.

"You want to tell me about this?"

Bridger raised an eyebrow and returned his gaze to the folder.

Pulling his reading glasses from his pocket, he propped them on his nose and studied the message intently.

"Extremely neat handwriting..." Nathan murmured. He cast a brief glance at Ben over the top of his glasses. "Soft lead pencil... probably a number two," he continued, frowning slightly as he stared at the lettering. "I'd say..." he pulled the folder a bit closer, "...from the angle... it was probably written by a right-handed person. Should narrow it down," he concluded, shoving the folder toward Ben and removing his glasses.

For a long instant the gazes of the two men locked. Then Ben Krieg laughed. Out loud. Bill Noyce looked at him askance. Tom McGath frowned and glanced quickly around the room in the hope that no one else had noticed. Unfortunately for him every eye in the room was now trained on the small group. Scott Keller merely rocked back in his chair, his amused gaze resting on Bridger.

"You never give up do you?" Krieg remarked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Lieutenant," Bridger responded prosaicly.

"Uh huh." Krieg slapped the portfolio shut and tossed it aside. "Well... since we haven't the faintest clue who wrote those words... much less what they mean... maybe we should discuss this little problem you seem to have keeping submarines in one piece..."

Chapter Six
'The Gospel According to Smith'
 

Jonathan Ford frowned severely as he paused in the dark passageway they'd been following since departing the tight confines of what, according to the blueprints, was supposed to be the emergency exit from the UEO facility's underground tram system. The frown remained in place as he stared through the dim lighting at his shoes. They squeaked. He'd tried keeping the soles absolutely flat while walking, had tried shuffling along the dank concrete of the companionway, had even attempted to walk on the sides of his feet... something which wasn't very comfortable and a lot harder to do than when he was a kid... but nothing seemed to work. Finally, after motioning for Ortiz and Shan to check out the area where the passageway intersected with the main service complex, Ford knelt down and removed his shoes, tossing them out of sight into a small crevice. He shivered as the cold of the floor crept through his heavy socks, then softly crept up behind Ortiz.

"How's it look?"

Miguel jumped and almost dropped the automatic pistol he held in his right hand. The rifle strapped over his left shoulder slipped from its position and scraped the floor, eliciting furtive glances from the three men as the sound seemed to echo through the cavernous structure they'd found themselves in. Shan moved closer and started to say something, only to have his words cut off as Jonathan slapped a rough hand over his mouth. They listened intently as from somewhere within the complex booted footfalls could be heard. Ford eased his head around the corner, cocking his ear first in one direction then the other, entirely unable to discern where the sound was coming from. The only comfort he found in the situation was that after pausing briefly the footsteps began to recede and finally faded away entirely. Holding a finger to his lips to silence Shan, Jonathan slowlyeased his hand from the other man's mouth.

"Which way?" he mouthed silently.

Shan jerked a thumb to the right. Moving single file and staying close to the wall they moved in the direction of the tram service entrance. Upon locating it Ford led the way into the now immobile conveyance system. The tram itself would have been useless to them even in the event the system was online. As it was, they'd simply follow the rails to their ultimate destination... the underground terminal located in the UEO's main compound. The journey would be a short one, even on foot, and the enclosed tunnel through which the tram was conveyed would hide them from prying eyes. Hopefully, believing the underground transport had been disabled, only a few guards would be on patrol in the terminal. A situation the three of them might well be able to handle. Jonathan shook his head as they crept along the dark tunnel. Don't think might... think will.

Ford's forward progress was halted abruptly as Ortiz, now in the lead, suddenly stopped. While he'd been daydreaming they'd arrived at the terminal exit. Holding up a cautionary hand, Miguel peered through the slightly tinted glass pane of the automatic door... which wasn't too automatic considering power was down... his deep brown eyes squinting in every direction as he searched for any trace of guards. He smiled slightly as his sharp gaze picked out two men slouched against a building support approximately forty feet away. One's rifle was slung unattended over his shoulder. The other had laid his weapon at his feet. Both stood with their backs to the tram exit. Both had cigarettes between their lips and were quietly talking. They obviously didn't expect any action on their end.

"Wishful thinking, boys..." Ortiz, murmured, quietly sliding the door open, "...wishful thinking."

Two minutes later Ford, Ortiz and Shan stood over the unconscious and tightly bound bodies of their two victims. The first of many to be sure. Jonathan quickly checked the ammunition clip of his pistol, snapping it back into place with a forceful click, then motioned toward the darkened stairwell leading to the ground floor.

"First floor..." he whispered, his sudden grin white in the darkness surrounding them as they crept into the building, "...electronics and automotive. Second floor..." Ford glanced across the wide brightly lit foyer of the building as they reached the top of the steps, eyeing first the elevator, then the idle escalator, "..women's fur coats, lingerie... jewelry..."

It didn't make sense. No matter how many times he read and reread the information he'd downloaded from the UEO files... it still didn't make any sense. Yet at the same time it did. Lucas released a sigh laced with both disgust and weariness. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. But where else was there to do? It was a complete conundrum. A question without an answer. A puzzle with no clues. Leaning back, he stretched cramped shoulders, then ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He sighed again, louder.

"How's it coming, son?"

Lucas shook his head as he glanced over at Chief Humboldt.

"I don't know. I don't understand any of this."

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Yeah," Lucas agreed somberly. "It does... doesn't it." His words were more statement than question. Long fingers tapped almost nervously against the keyboard as he stared at the screen, his mind going over what he'd managed to research. "Almost too straightforward. I mean... nothing's left to the imagination. Every fact and figure is right there... in black and white. Yet..." he frowned and shook his head, his fingers again raking through his straight blond hair, "...there are things left unsaid. It's like... the information's there... but bits and pieces that you don't consciously look for have been left out. And if you're not looking for those bits and pieces... you don't miss 'em." Lucas shifted his blue gaze to Humboldt again. "Does that make any sense at all?"

Surprisingly, Humboldt nodded.

"Sure... sort of like playing poker without a full deck. You shuffle the cards... figuring they're all there... but don't realize one's missing until you're halfway through the game."

"Exactly," Lucas agreed in a low voice. "It's all just too neat and tidy."

Humboldt poured himself a styrofoam cup of strong smelling coffee, pulled a chair up next to Lucas, and stared at the data on the monitor.

"You think it was deliberate?"

"What do you mean?" Lucas mumbled through a pencil he'd stuck between his teeth.

"I mean..." Humboldt took a sip of scalding coffee, "...do you think those little bits and pieces as you call them were left out intentionally?"

"Well..." Lucas scratched his head before quickly tapping the keyboard, "...assuming that we're on the right track and they were attempting to protect someone... whoever they might be... covering their trail would be the obvious thing to do. In a case like that you'd think the rational thing to do would be to add on to the story... insert events that didn't happen to cover for those that did... change things around. In this case..." the boy frowned thoughtfully, "...it would appear that just the opposite was done. Things... events... were simply left out." Lucas heaved a sigh. "That is... as I say... if we're on the right track. Which we very well might not be."

The security chief sighed and was silent. Finally feeling the tenseness the man's body seemed to radiate, Lucas glanced up from his work.

"You're not sure we are... are you?"

"What?"

"On the right track," Lucas repeated.

Another sigh.

"No... I mean yes. I think it's a fair possibility."

"Then... what's the problem?"

Setting his empty cup on the desk, Humbolt got to his feet and walked to the window to stand staring out at the dark night. He was silent for so long that Lucas left his position at the computer and stepped up behind him.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Humboldt half turned his head to gaze at the boy. Finally, after a seemingly interminable length of time, he spoke.

"I know your friends are doing what they think is best..." he said in a low voice, referring to Ford, Ortiz and Shan, "...and I'm sure they believe they'll be successful. But unfortunate as it may seem... and as pessimistic as it may sound... I don't for a second believe they have a snowball's chance in hell."

The strained silence which ensued served only to highlight the suddenly loud ticking of the clock on the far wall.

"And?" Lucas encouraged, his voice almost a whisper.

"And eventually... my people will have to make some type of move."

"Eventually?" Lucas muttered carefully.

The other man heaved a sigh.

"Soon actually."

"You're talking... a raid?" Lucas shook his head in disbelief. "You can't do that..."

"It's not a question of what I can or can't do," Humbolt replied. "It's a question of what has to be done. The UEO has a policy... written in stone--"

"--not to negotiate with terrorists," Lucas finished for him. "I know... I've heard it all before. But that doesn't make it right."

"Perhaps not." The older man's gaze returned to the darkness outside the window. "But that... along with certain... pressures... I've been receiving... make it the only course possible."

"Pressures... I don't understand."

"There are certain... individuals... who want the situation terminated," Humboldt expounded judiciously. "As soon as possible... by whatever means necessary."

"What people?"

"I'm sorry... I can't tell you that."

"That's not fair--" Lucas grabbed Humboldt's arm and spun him around. "We've come this far... you can't shut me out now!"

Humboldt heaved another sigh.

"Look... I said I can't tell you," he exhaled. "But you're a smart kid... you should be able to find the answer. After al... it's staring you right in the face..."

"Mr. Zavalas..." Patrick Smith turned away from the vacant end of the conference table... vacant of people that is. Lying upon it was his copy of the portfolio he and Aiden Montgomery had so industriously put together, along with a sheaf of personal notes and other related information. A flat desktop computer monitor, inset into the hard wood of the table, stared up at him. He pinned his grey gaze on the dark skinned man sitting in what he'd designated the 'witness chair'... one of the group of half a dozen foreigners who'd been allowed into the compound at Smith's behest. "Some eighteen years ago you were a member of La Marea Carmesa... the Crimson Tide... an insurgent group which headquartered on the island of Sao Miguel during the final days of an international conflict involving your group, the fledgling North Atlantic Confederation and sea forces of the United Nations."

The man in the chair, Zavalas by name, answered slowly and deliberately in the affirmative. Tim O'Neill translated somewhat nervously. The questioning went on for some some time. Inquiries as to the man's responsibilities while with the ill-fated Crimson Tide. His remembrances of the weeks, days and hours leading to the final conflict upon the island of Sao Miguel. Each answer was long and drawn out, as though the man were relating an epic and grandiose tale. The translations by O'Neill were much the same as he stepped and stuttered over wording and slang phrases. Seeming to go on forever, this three-sided conversation lulled some almost to sleep, while the thoughts of others turned inward, tuning out the monotony of the men's voices.

Suddenly Smith paused. Rather lengthily. He waited until he was sure he'd regained the straying attention of everyone in the room before continuing. He stared at Zavalas. Again rather lengthily. Then he turned his back to the man, sauntering the few steps which brought him to stand directly across the conference table from Nathan. He stared at Bridger, grey eyes calculating. Nathan stared back, blue eyes expressionless. Or so they appeared. Actually, if one looked close enough, somewhere deep within the bottomless black irises lay almost a goading expression. And to give him credit, Patrick Smith looked. Close enough. A muscle in his jaw twitched as Nathan held his eyes. Smith seemed almost to hesitate for a moment, though his brief second of indecision was apparent to few people in the room. Nathan Bridger noticed. Manilow Crocker, seated near the heavily draped windows, noticed. As did the woman on the other side of the room. Kristin Westphalen peered curiously at the mini-scenario. Her gaze shifted between Bridger and Smith. A dark shadow passed her eyes as she watched Smith turn ever so slightly, his body leaning as though he was attempting to step away from the table, his feet seemingly unwillingly to follow suit. She continued to watch as Smith took a deep breath, along with half a step back, and spoke over his shoulder.

"Mr. Zavalas..."

"Yes..." Translation by O'Neill... as though it were necessary.

"Mr. Zavalas..." Smith's voice did not exude the certainty it had previously and he knew it. Fortunately for him, he was an expert at hiding his feelings, so no one else noticed. No one in his hand picked jury at any rate. "Mr. Zavalas... tell us about your last day on Sao Miguel. Explain to us exactly what happened at Ponta Delgada... and what fateful events led to the incident we're here to seek atonement for..."

Miguel Ortiz glanced at the darkened landing at which he, Ford and Shan had arrived. He'd stopped counting at half a dozen the number of short flights of stairs they'd mounted only to discretely scamper thither and yon looking for the most practical route to take them to the next level. So far it had been easy pickings. They'd encountered seven quasi-guards, all who had been easily overwhelmed by the three of them. At the moment, as a matter of fact, Ortiz felt pretty good about the situation. Until his mind paused to dwell on the information they'd gleaned from Rex Humboldt before they'd set out on this little adventure. They probably had another... he frowned and tried to count... twelve floors to conquer before they reached the top level of the headquarters facility. That was when they'd run into the really risky part of the escapade... the real trouble they knew would be waiting. Humbolt had stated that there were approximately fifty armed men in the group that had taken over the building. Nine had been disposed of in one way or another. That meant more than forty remained... and they'd be running into them in greater numbers as they worked their way upward.

Slipping back into the relative safety of the small foyer leading from the stairway, Ortiz flashed a glance at Jonathan Ford and William Shan. Ford had pulled the blueprints of the building from his back pocket and had them unfolded and spread out against the wall. He and Shan were studying them intently by the light of a small flashlight. Miguel glanced over Ford's shoulder as the young commander trailed a finger along a portion of the drawings, his brow crinkled in thought.

"I think..." he murmured softly, tapping the blueprints with his forefinger, "...we may just have caught a break." He flashed a white grin at his two companions. "And it's high time."

"What have you got?" Ortiz whispered, peering behind him into the darkness before turning his full attention to Ford. Jonathan allowed his finger to trace the same path it had before.

"This is a high security building... and a high risk building. When it was built... it was built with the knowledge that something like this could happen... however remote the circumstances might have seemed at the time. And because of that..." Ford stared at the plans and nodded almost to himself, "... a certain amount of failsafe technology was implemented."

"Makes sense," William Shan commented dubiously, frowning at the portion of the blueprints indicated by Ford. Ford apparently saw something he didn't. He himself couldn't make heads or tails of the lines criss-crossing the paper. "Uh... what exactly are we looking at, Commander?"

"This is the outer wall of the facility..."

"I think we pretty much figured that part out..." Ortiz commented in a low voice, his gaze following the path Ford indicated. Jonathan shook his head impatiently.

"This..." he pointed to a more delicate line, "...is the inner wall. Notice that along the south side of the building... and only the south side... there's a noticeable space between the outer and inner walls. According to the legend..." Ford motioned for Shan to tilt the penlight toward the miniscule printing along the edge of the plans, "...that space is exactly forty-two inches wide along the entire breadth and height of the building." His dark eyes darted between Shan and Ortiz. "Basement to rooftop."

"And you think..." Shan murmured, his gaze intent on Ford's face as he grasped the direction the other man's thoughts were taking him, "...it's a crawlspace of some kind?"

"Yeah... that's exactly what I think," Ford acknowledged. "Okay... fine," Miguel concurred, his voice almost as impatient as Jonathan's had been. "Say you're right... that's not doing us a hell of a lot of good at the moment. Unless..." he quirked one dark eyebrow upwards in a silent question as in unison three pairs of dark eyes slid back to the drawings.

"Unless..." Jonathan murmured, his brown eyes searching the document, "...we can find a way in--"

"--and up--" Shan supplied.

"--and back out again once we get there."

"Which also entails knowing for damn certain exactly where we need to end up in the first place," Ortiz muttered. "And that's assuming you're right about this..." he tapped on the portion of the plans Ford had been studying, "...being what you think it is... and if it is..."

"...there being a way up," Ford acknowledged. "I know. And I know it's a long shot... but I think it's a long shot we need to take... because if we go busting in on those people up there in a way they'll be expecting... in a way they're undoubtedly more than prepared for... we'll be doing nothing more than committing suicide." He sighed. "And probably taking everybody else with us in the process."

Though Nathan Bridger's gaze was locked on the wall across the room... a blank off-white wall which as far as he could ascertain bore no flaws and was the beneficiary of an excellent paint job... he was very much aware of the fact that the eyes of every other person in the room rested on the man who was was quietly and purposefully relating his account of 'the desolation of Ponta Delgado'. That was how the previous speaker... the Spaniard Enrico Zavalas... had referred to it anyway. But his story, as macabre as was, had been chopped and mangled through the passing of years and the vagaries of translation. This new man who sat in Patrick Smith's witness chair was another matter. He was British... very formally British... and had been, through accident of the British military of which he'd been a part all those years before, one of those 'foreign' outsiders who'd been sequestered at the naval facility on the island during the insurgency. While the narrative given by Zavalas had at times had the jurors squirming in their seats as a result of impatience and fatigue... the version being given by Major Terry Radcliff-White, Retired, had the dozen men and women rivited in their chairs... along with everyone else in the room. And although he kept his gaze averted from the man, Bridger himself listened with intent concentration to the report being offered by the Major, a ruddy individual in his mid-sixties with a face that beckoned others to believe in him.

"...we were bombarded continuously... day and night... for a period of approximately thirty-six hours..." the Englishman was saying. "Then... for reasons which I don't pretend to know and which weren't completely understood by any of us being held at the facility... the fighting abruptly ended. It was with great relief that we crawled from our bunkers in the belief that it was all over... and that we'd soon be free men and women." He folded his hands sedately on his crossed knees, his frosty blue eyes following Smith as the other man paced in front of him, hands clasped loosely at the small of his back. Smith nodded sagely and motioned gently with hand and eyebrow.

"Please... continue."

With a pent-up sigh Radcliff-White leaned back in his chair and pondered his next words.

"I suppose one could say things got a bit back to normal," he murmured thoughtfully. "Although we remained at the naval facility... the island civilians and the group which now controlled the base acted almost as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The place was in a shambles of course... and we eventually heard through the grapevine that things weren't any better for the the allied naval forces." He sighed and ran his fingers through his thick graying hair. "We'd been made aware of the fact that a United Nations fleet was stationed some distance out... and were shortly informed... rather gleefully I might add... that one of the United States Navy submarines involved in the incident had been sunk..."

Radcliff-White's voice trailed off and he stared vacantly at Smith, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. He was silent for a long while. So long that some of those present began to stir restlessly in their seats, impatient for him to continue. Others merely sat quietly and waited. Bill Noyce aimed a sideways glance at Bridger, knowing a little about what was coming and therefore being one of the few in the room with some understanding of the Captain's rather remote attitude. As he swung his gaze back to the tableau a few yards away he noted that Scott Keller was leaning slightly sideways in his chair, his elbow resting on the table and his forehead cupped in his palm as he stared down at the shiny surface. Tom McGath... Secretary General-to-be of the UEO... was hunched over the conference table, absorbing every word and action with a faintly nausious expression on his broad face.

"Not that we needed to be told..." Radcliff-White finally continued in a strangely emotionless voice, "...as the... bodies... soon began to wash ashore. The ship must have broken into several pieces as it went down... the individuals aboard dying either from the force of the implosion... or from drowning. Some of the bodies..." he frowned almost as if he was in pain, "...some of them didn't have a mark on them." He lapsed into silence once again.

"Then what happened?" Patrick Smith eventually prodded.

The Englishman glanced up, focusing on Smith's face.

"Why... they burned them of course."

Smith came to an abrupt halt in his pacing, turning to stare at Radcliff-White in apparent surprise, though he covered it almost immediately.

"I... don't believe I quite understand," he murmured.

The older gentleman looked him in the eye.

"I said... they burned them. The bodies, you know. Almost as quickly as they hit the beach..." he muttered. "Burned them in the streets..." His almost inaudible sigh was loud in the sudden silence of the room... his eyes slightly glazed over as he let his gaze wander over those present before returning it to Smith. "I know and understand your reason for this..." he gestured expansively, "...this formality. But you should understand... you must understand... that the... barbarism... as you refered to it... was not one-sided. There were innocent victims... on both sides..."

"Mr. Radcl--"

"All those young men... and women..." the older man murmured almost to himself, his gaze unconsciously leaving his inquisitor to rest on Nathan Bridger... who'd pulled his own gaze from the blank wall across from him to stare at the Englishman. A wealth of emotion coursed through the older man's eyes... though with some amount of effort Bridger's expression remained cool.

"I coulda done without that list bit..." Ben Krieg mumbled. An impatient scowl crossed Patrick Smith's face as he noted the stare the two men exchanged. He deliberately stepped into the Englishman's line of vision, forcing Radcliff-White to notice him.

"I believe we can do without the sermons if you don't mind. Just... tell us what happened and leave it at that. You think you can manage that?" He quirked a sardonically inquiring eyebrow at the witness.

The old gentleman stared at him, his thoughts still off on a tangent, his eyes unfocused. Smith slapped at the conference table with the palm of his hand, jerking him back to the present.

"Please... proceed," he prodded, though his voice was somewhat gentler than before.

Radcliff-White took a deep breath... and proceeded...

Lucas shook his head doubtfully, glancing from the computer screen to Chief Humboldt.

"You have me confused."

Humboldt turned away, heading at a measured pace toward the door. As he reached it he stopped, turned slightly sideways and peered at Wolenczak over his shoulder.

"Think about it. Just... think about it," he encouraged. "I'll be back in about an hour... that's all the time I can give you. What happens after that..." he shook his head and pursed his lips, "...won't be our decision to make..."

"This is no good... no damn good!"

Jonathan Ford turned abruptly to his two companions and physically pushed them further along the back corridor they'd discovered... partly by accident and partly as a result of in-depth study of their blueprints... on the thirteenth floor of the facility.

Lucky number thirteen. Sure, Ford decided... lucky for devils and witches. And terrorists apparently. They'd searched every nook and cranny... pushed at knobs hoping for that magical secret panel to open up before them... discretely knocked on walls in search of hidden compartments. He felt like someone out of a Nancy Drew... or maybe that should be Hardy Boys... mystery. Ford groaned in disgust, pivoted and stared at the ceiling.

"I don't--"

"I... think I may have something, Commander."

"Oh great... I'll grasp at straws... anything..." Ford muttered, moving toward Miguel Ortiz in the darkness. "But this still better be good news."

"Well... it's a door. Is that good?" a deadpan Ortiz wondered whimsically.

"A-- . . ." Ford began.

"--door?" Shan concluded.

"Uh... yeah," Ortiz acknowledged as they huddled around. "Or at least that's what I presume it is... tall, wide block of wood with a knob on one side?"

"Very funny," Ford muttered. "Now all we need is a key."

"Well... actually... not only is it a door... it's also unlocked."

"Might be a trap," William Shan warned, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind them.

"Oh get real." Ford tested the knob and slowly pulled the door open. Beyond was more darkness. The trusty penlight reappeared. It didn't help much... other than to show them that there was, indeed, some type of chamber beyond. And not a very big one at that.

"Oh great, Miguel... you discovered the broom closet..." Shan whispered, then gave a startled jump at a shuffling sound from somewhere beyond the darkness behind them.

"Inside... quick!" Ford pushed Ortiz and Shan bodily inside the small quarters and pulled the door shut, his fingers finding the locking mechanism strictly by feel, then laid his ear against the solid surface and listened.

"Uh... Commander?"

"Shhhhh..." Ford held a finger to his lips and winced as Ortiz hit him smack in the eyes with the beam of the penlight.

"Uh... Commander..." Ortiz quite obviously wasn't listening, and for good reason it seemed. "I... think... we're... moving..." He raised his eyes to stair at the ceiling. Shan's gaze followed, and eventually Ford's. They were... indeed... moving. Or at least their closet was...

Bridger could feel Scott Keller's gaze on him. For a while he pretended he didn't notice his old friend's intent interest, before finally giving in. Pulling his gaze away from the the old man who Patrick Smith was prodding for more details of the circumstances at Ponta Delgada, and making certain he attracted the interest of no one else in the room, he flicked his eyes in Keller's direction. Scott lifted a curious eyebrow. Nathan gave an indiscernable shake of his head, looked toward the drape-covered windows with an equally indiscernable frown, glanced at Keller again, and returned his attention to Smith and Radcliff-White...

Tim O'Neill shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he waited for the old man to speak. I hate this... his lips actually moved as he thought the thought... absolutely hate this. He rubbed the back of his neck with a nervous hand, his gaze resting momentarilly on an impatient Patrick Smith before travelling among those people who'd become friends to him over the past year and a half. First Bridger, who didn't seem to be paying much attention at all to what was transpiring, although O'Neill was quite sure that wasn't really the case. Noyce and Keller... though in their case they'd have to be termed mere acquaintances. Finally Kristin. Surprisingly he found her looking at him. He gave her a tentative smile. She met his stare for a moment... then shifted her gaze to Smith...

Arms folded across his beefy chest, slumped in the straight wooden chair he'd been given, Manilow Crocker unobtrusively allowed his gaze to wander the room. He noted with interest the brief exchange between Bridger and Keller, smiling slightly as he realized neither one figured they had an audience. As Bridger's gaze returned to Smith it touched briefly on Crocker before shifting quickly away. The old security chief relaxed further into his seat.

Thomas McGath wearily rubbed the back of his neck, his palm coming back oily with sweat. He stared at it... and wondered how he'd ever ended up in such a mess. And did he really want to be Secretary General anyway. Maybe it wasn't worth it. He looked at Bill Noyce. Calm, cool and collected Bill. Bill the Bureaucrat he was being called... following his big switch from U.S. Navy Admiral to his role as civilian peacekeeper. He wondered briefly how Noyce felt about relinquishing his position. Returning his attention to Patrick Smith he decided it had to be with a feeling of infinite relief...

...and he couldn't have been more right. Noyce looked at the calendar that adorned a spot on the opposite wall. Two more months he told himself, repeating his earlier words to himself. Two more months and I'll be done with this crap. Terrorists... super secret organizations... revolutions. Two more months. If I somehow manage to live through this...

Running his fingers through ragged blond hair, Lucas Wolenczak stared at the evidence in front of him. Difficult as it was to believe... the evidence was indisputable. Under such circumstances... how could he expect they'd come out on top...