Chapter Seven
'What Goes Around, Comes Around'
 

His lined face strikingly saturnine... his deep blue eyes strangely expressionless... the burly white-haired man stared across his desk into the half-dozen oversized monitors which occupied one side of the room. The images he was seeing were ones which no one in the general public would ever see... which no one connected with the security measures surrounding the takeover of UEO headquarters would ever lay an eye on. The pictures were... in effect... for his eyes only. And for those of the two men seated to one side of him.

"These are unbelievable..." the man finally murmured, canting his head to one side as an indication that he was speaking to his companions, yet not for an instant removing his gaze from the multiple screens.

The quasi-terrorists positioned atop the flat roof of the UEO facility appeared on one monitor, their actions easily interpreted through the wonders of satellite communications. The watchers did just that, watched, as one of the black-clad figures lit a cigarette and raised it to his lips, the haze of the resulting smoke which he expelled clearly visible through the creeping light of early morning even from a distance of hundreds of miles beyond the earth's safe confines.

"The wonders of modern technology..." one of the men muttered. He leaned forward and stared at the second monitor, at the silhouetted images of four stealth helicopters parked close together at one end of the rooftop. Red and yellow streaks jumped from their shiny black surfaces and the darkly tinted safety glass of the windows as the slowly climbing sun shone its dull light upon them. "Few militaries in the world have equipment like that..." A tall, lanky fellow with greying red hair and vestiges of freckles across his nose, he merely shook his head and settled back in his chair.

"So..." his companion raised a curious eyebrow and ran his fingers through tightly shorn hair... still a shiny blue-black in color though he had to be somewhere in his seventies, "...where does this guy... who nobody's ever heard of... appropriate that kind of machinery?"

The semi-redhead shrugged.

"This day and age... just about anywhere he wants to."

The white haired man at the desk spared one last glance for the fifth monitor in the neatly arrayed bunch... this one vividly picturing a close-up of the outer facade of the sixth floor of UEO headquarters. Expressionless windows stared back at the satellite lens which was obviously trained on the walls inside which something... none of them were quite sure exactly what... was going on. What they did know was that the obvious outcome of whatever those proceedings were would quickly and without conscience put an end to their careers and their lives... both public and private. Spinning around, the leader of the group grimaced as he caught a glimpse of one individual he knew he'd be extremely happy to do without... that infernally nosey newswoman as he referred to her... Gabrielle Storm. As far as he was concerned, she and her equally infernal Earthnet News could... and would... go down the tubes with the rest of the poor slobs in that building. Steepling his fingers on the desk and pulling himself closer to the large oak surface... almost as though seeking protection behind it... he stared at the other two men.

"How are things coming?"

"Good," the black haired man informed him. "We'll be ready to go within six hours."

The steepled fingers clenched together almost nervously.

"Six hours... that's a hell of a long time in a situation like this. Anything could happen... anything could be said."

"If that's the case... six minutes is a long time," the red head acknowledged shrewdly. "But its the best we can do. This has to look like a blown assignment on the part of UEO security... we couldn't take the public outrage of a purposely botched raid any more than we could take what Bridger might be telling those people right now."

"What happens on the military side of things? Those people will realize something fishy's going on... I get the impression from some of what you've told me during the past few hours that the fellow who's heading it all... Humboldt..." the white haired gentleman raised a questioning eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, "...is already getting suspicious."

The black haired man shrugged.

"They'll be taken care of... along with everyone else."

The leader sighed regretfully.

"I don't like this. I realize it has to be done... but I don't like it at all..."

Jonathan Ford paused in his slowly... treacherously slowly... descending trek. Cocking his head to one side, the hand holding the shiny blue steel of a UEO regulation revolver falling to his hip, he listened.

"Did you hear something?"

"Huh?" Ortiz whispered near his ear.

"Something!" Ford hissed. "Did you hear it?"

"How do I--"

The rough shove of Ford's hand over his mouth brought any response Ortiz might have given to an abrupt halt. Since he couldn't say anything... he listened. And heard. His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened. He said something. Unfortunately, whatever it was the words were muffled against Ford's hand.

"What?" William Shan leaned over his shoulder. Ortiz removed Ford's hand from his mouth.

"I said... it sounds like some sort of alarm going off."

Shan's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"We've been made."

Ford raised an eyebrow.

"What was that? We've been... made?" He ascended one step on what he'd obviously quite neglectfully thought to be an extremely safe flight of stairs which had been proffered to them at the point their broom closet elevator had come to a stop... for some reason mysteriously overshooting the uppermost floor of the top level of the UEO headquarters facility. The floor on which they knew their commanding officer... among others... was being held by as yet unknown and unnamed terrorists. The three had been stymied, to say the least, when taking into account the fact that supposedly there was nothing above that floor... except the roof. Ford's soft step upward brought him back to eye level with Shan. "Been overdosing on those detective movies again, Chief?"

Shan shrugged.

"Man's gotta have a hobby..."

Miguel Ortiz, meanwhile, was still listening. The initial whine of warning was becoming something else entirely. He shook his head and clutched Ford's arm.

"Commander..." his voice was a rough hiss in the eerie darkness of their hiding place, "...something's happening..."

The soft popping sounds of muted explosions and glass breaking were audible even within the tomblike passageway they occupied, the thick outer walls of the building notwithstanding. Shan, standing with his back to one of those walls, flinched at the proximity of the noise... then almost leaped into Ford's arms as some object struck the outer facade of the building directly behind him.

"What the--" Ford began.

"They're gassing the place," Ortiz guessed grimly. Although it wasn't that much of a guess... the acrid smell of the compound creeping inexorably into their quarters was potent proof of the truth of his words.

"Damn..." Ford breathed, roughly pushing the other two men down the short bank of steps ahead of him, "...move it! If that stuff overpowers us... we're sitting ducks..."

Kristin Westphalen stared somberly at the fourth individual presented as a witness by Patrick Smith. After Radcliff-White presented his narrative of what had taken place within the naval compound during the initial standoff between United Nations sea forces and La Marea Carmesi... the insurgent forces which occupied the island... and during the conflict which occured two days later upon the sudden reappearance of the Intrepid... of which he really knew very little of substantial importance... a third man had been called upon. He merely reiterated what the previous two witnesses had said. This fourth man, though... his description of what took place during the offensive put forth by the Intrepid upon its return... brought forth the darker side of what had taken place upon the island of Ponta Delgado. But whether or not it was the truth remained to be seen.

Her eyes flicked to Nathan. He was leaning back in his chair, seemingly very much at ease. Very relaxed. Kristin wondered, not for the first time since she'd known him, how he could maintain such an appearance during moments of great duress. She knew his mind had to be a jumble of thoughts and worries... but anyone who didn't know him might presume otherwise. As her gaze remained on him he shifted, lifted a hand to rub at his unshaven chin... bringing an almost unnoticable curve to her lips... and glanced away from the man in the witness chair. His gaze dropped to the top of the conference table and a slight frown creased his forehead. As though feeling her gaze on him he turned his head and she felt the full impact of his eyes. He didn't smile, just looked at her, as though searching for something. After a moment... a space of time during which he apparently didn't find what he was looking for... he took a deep breath and pulled his gaze away. Instead he stared blindly at the wall across from him.

Stupid... stupid... stupid. All you had to do was smile, Kristin thought, her gaze remaining on Nathan. All you had to do was let him know you were there for him. And you didn't... idiot that you are. She sighed almost inaudibly and finally looked away from him, only to find herself looking into the enigmatic grey eyes of Patrick Smith.

She saw something there that she didn't like. Something familiar to her. Something she'd seen before. Smith's eyes were dark with anger... and something akin to jealousy. She realized then that he'd been watching the brief interplay between herself and Nathan. Though he'd apparently been giving most of his attention to her... because if he'd noticed Nathan's response his expression would have undoubtedly been one of mocking scorn.

"Mr. Bustamante..." Smith's eyes remained locked with Kristin's as he continued his questioning of the current witness... the one who'd break the back of any defense Nathan Bridger might attempt to give for his actions and... unless he was sadly mistaken... would break the heart of the woman who held his gaze. A sudden sense of misgiving invaded Patrick Smith. For just a moment a feeling of indecision gripped him. He'd broken her heart once before... was it really in him to do it again? He could... after all... simply turn around and walk through the door... disappear forever. This time.

"Mr. Bustamante..." Smith tore his gaze from Kristin's, "...please tell us what happened following the first communique from the Intrepid upon the ship's reappearance... and its warning barrage upon the island." He spun on his heel, turning his back to Kristin as surely as he had fifteen years previously. The Latino man he was facing sighed, his hardened gaze touching on Nathan for a brief moment before he turned his attention back to the man questioning him.

"We... realized that the only true chance we had against a force such as that facing us... was to meet it with all the power we could muster," he murmured in a richly accented voice. "But the bunkers containing our weaponry were also the safest places for our people... the wives and children we'd brought with us upon our final exile to the place upon which we had determined to take whatever stand was offered to us by the fates. We had our ideals you understand. It was not within us to simply... give up." He stared at his hands. "As... I realized many years later... it was also not in... them... to do. Men fight for what is handed them to fight for... whether it be their lives . . . their countries... their very reputations. That is the way of war."

"Your people..." Smith prompted quietly.

"Yes... our people," Bustamante murmured, continuing after a few seconds of silence. "We moved them out of the bunkers..." his gaze, almost pleading, almost as though he were asking forgiveness for his actions, met Smith's, "...to the school and the clinic. They had basements you see. Not as safe as the bunkers by far... but the best we could do. We knew our weapons would be targeted... we could only hope to do as much damage with them as possible before they were destroyed."

"But?"

"But... we were wrong," he whispered.

"How were you wrong?"

"They didn't... attack the weapons bunkers."

"What did they do, Mr. Bustamante?"

"They... took out... the hospital..." The dark haired man flexed his shoulders as though trying to rid himself of his inner tension. "Then the clinic..." he swallowed hard, "...
the school... our homes..."

Patrick Smith smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. Bustamante..." he murmured, pivoting slowly to face Bridger, his own gaze as accusatory as the dozen or so pairs of eyes staring at Nathan, "...for your most enlightening testimony. I'm positive that it... along with the evidence supplied by the UEO's own records... are enough to convince even the most doubtful observer..." his eyes flickered briefly in Kristin's direction then away again, "...of Captain Bridger's role in this... atrocity."

He paused as though waiting for something. A reaction from someone. Anyone. Strangely enough, the only response he got came from an external source.

The broad window covering one end of the room shattered, the heavy drapes ballooning inward with the impact of flying glass, in-rushing air and the airborne object which had done the damage. Two more objects followed... cylinders which were expelling acrid gas even before they found their mark.

An attitude of general disarray ensued. Shouts rose above the startled exclamations of those seated as the jury.

A thick haze filled the room.

Kristin felt a large hand grip her wrist, then saw one of the black-garbed guards stumble sideways and to the floor as she was pulled bodily through the suddenly open doorway. Tears streaming from her eyes, she was unable to see where she was being hurriedly led, or by whom. All she was really aware of was the pounding of running footsteps, the dim outline of objects as she was led past them, and the hand curved securely around her arm.

Bridger tossed a quick glance toward the other end of the room then quickly hit the floor. He passed McGath, who was crouched beneath the conference table, holding a handkerchief against his nose and mouth in a vain attempt to slow the effects of the gas. As he crawled out from beneath the heavy piece of furniture, rough hands grasped him by his shirt front and pulled him to his feet. One arm was twisted behind his back as he was spun around. A muscular forearm went around his neck as he was pushed through the thickening haze.

"Not again..." he muttered, thoroughly tired of being manhandled. His elbow shot backward and he had the satisfaction of hearing his captor expel a grunt of pain as his grip loosened. Unfortunately it didn't last long. The arm around his throat tightened further as he was shoved unceremoniously through the door and down a corridor. Shouts continued to rise above the din created by scrambling people. A scream rent the air, sending a chill down his spine. Then he was flung face down onto the floor of another room. That was the last he knew as a dull thud against the back of his head sent him falling into a black void of unconsciousness.

Kristin coughed. Curled on the floor, eyes streaming and painful, she hid her face against her arm and coughed harder.

"Sssshhhhhh... Doc... ya gotta be quiet..."

She sniffed and peered up into the darkness toward the source of the voice. The man's outline was blurry.

"Chief?" she rasped.

"Yeah."

"What--" Another cough interrupted her question.

"Sshhh!" Crocker hissed, falling to one knee beside her and clamping a hand over her mouth. She coughed into his palm.

A sound... a soft creak... sounded from a few feet away.

"Best do what he says..." a voice floated out of the darkness. The comforting familiarity of it was followed by a shadowy figure, then another and another. Jonathan Ford knelt abruptly next to them, while Shan and Ortiz kept a nervous watch over their shoulders.

"Are you two okay?" Ford whispered, "...and how the hell did you get in here?"

Miguel's penlight reappeared as the three of them huddled around Westphalen and Crocker. The former seaQuest security chief grinned.

"Inside information..." he whispered.

"What do you mean?" William Shan's voice was hushed.

"Who's company do you think the UEO went to for their new security system three months ago?"

Ford quirked a doubtful eyebrow.

"That highbrow outfit you're working for now?" He sounded disgusted. "I wouldn't be bragging about it if I were you."

Crocker sobered.

"Yeah... you know... it's really had me worried."

"What?" Ortiz asked.

"How easy it was for these guys to get in here... even with all that heavy duty equipment. No way that should've happened."

"Yeah... well..." Ford muttered, grasping Kristin's arm and pulling her to her feet. Partially recovered from the effects of the tear gas, she stumbled along beside him as Ford led them all back the way he and his cohorts had come. "We need to lay as low as we can for as long as we can... and try to come up with a plan." He glanced back at Crocker as though struck by a sudden thought. "What about the others?"

Crocker could do nothing but shrug.

"Don't know, Commander... everything happened so fast. I just did what the Cap wanted... and got the Doc out--"

"What do you mean..." Kristin interrupted, turning on him abruptly as they entered an open space seemingly located directly beneath the flat roof of the facility. Covered air conduits branched off in a number of different directions and the whirring and humming of the building's huge ventilation system made communication almost impossible. A dull light seeped into the liquid blackness from somewhere to one side... evidence of their proximity to the outside world... and to the terrorists who manned the rooftop. "You didn't talk to him... how could you even imagine you knew what he wanted?"

Crocker wiped at his forehead and shifted uncomfortably beneath her stormy gaze. He shrugged again.

"It's just... sometimes you don't have to talk to him to know what he wants. You just... know... you know? He sorta gives you these... looks..."

"Let me get this straight..." Kristin muttered darkly, folding her arms across her midsection and taking something akin to a threatening step toward him. "He looked at you... across a room milling with people... with who knows what going through his mind... and you came up with the idiotic notion that he was appointing you my protector?" She seemed totally oblivious to the three man audience standing a few feet away as she continued to advance on Crocker.

"Now look, Doc... don't stand there an' tell me he's never looked at you and you've known exactly what he was thinking without having to hear the words..." Kristin's former shipmate began before his voice trailed into silence. "Then again... if you had... he probably wouldn't have been in the state he was in the other night," he accused sarcastically. Or as sarcastically as he was capable.

Kristin came to an abrupt halt... which Crocker figured was good since she had him backed into a corner from which there was no escape.

"Just what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked with a frustrated snap.

Crocker looked to the others for help... but with a gesture from Jonathan which indicated he was washing his hands of the situation... Ford, Shan and Ortiz took a simultaneous step backwards... Ford almost laughing out loud at the incongruity of the whole thing.

"You coulda knocked me over with a feather when the Cap told me he hadn't seen you in over a month..." Crocker finally answered almost accusingly, "...and when he said you'd promised to call him and hadn't--"

"Ahhh... so that's what the little drinking party was all about. I should've known..." Kristin muttered, raising her eyebrows in disgust.

"Uh boy..." Ortiz exhaled, stepping further back into the shadows.

"Uh... look..." Ford tried to interrupt in a low voice.

Maybe the situation was getting just a... little... bit out of hand.

"Naaaa..." Crocker pshawed, waving away Kristin's accusation. "I didn't know anything about it until we'd been at Shelley's a while..." His eyes squinted thoughtfully as her words hit him. "Sooooo... he did stop by after all, huh?"

Kristin stared at him. "Your suggestion I take it?" she muttered.

Crocker shrugged.

"I... thought it sounded like a pretty good idea at the time," he admitted in a roundabout way, scratching his head. "You just shouldn't be doing this to him, Doc--"

"Me!" she interrupted hotly. "You make it sound like he's the only injured party... what do you think it's doing to me?"

"People!" Ford almost shouted, despite the circumstances, as he stepped between them. "This really isn't the time or place for this... if you get my drift." He watched as Crocker sidled out of the corner. "You feel the need to air your personal differences... save it for when we get ourselves out of this mess..." his eyes shifted to Kristin, following her hand as she wearily pushed her hair out of her face, "...okay?"

Kristin didn't answer, merely leaned against the wall, sliding down its firm coolness until she sat on the floor, arms around her drawn up knees. She gave him a brief glance before looking away.

"Okay..." Ford murmured in a calmer voice. His eyes sought Crocker. "So, Chief... why don't you fill us in on what's been happening."

After a hesitant glance at Kristin he did just that.

"You can't do this!"

Rex Humboldt neatly sidestepped Lucas Wolenczak's grab at his arm, his quick steps carrying him to the armored truck which was ust one of more than a dozen readying for the short trip to the UEO compound. They'd shore up the security forces already there before setting forth on the next phase of action.

"It's already done... nothing I can do about it." Humboldt sighed loudly as Wolenczak joined him in the back of the vehicle. "Look kid..."

"You're killing them... don't you see that?" Lucas continued. He held the security chief's eyes, causing the older man to finally glance away.

"I realize a lot of things... the main one being that we don't negotiate--"

"--with terrorists," Lucas finished sarcastically. "I've heard it all before... believe me."

"It's life, kid... however much you may dislike it..." he knocked on the window behind him, indicating to the driver to head out, "...that's just the way it is."

"He's making you do this... isn't he?" Lucas whispered.

"Who?"

"You know who... Bennett. It's him... isn't it?" His eyes wide and accusing, Lucas leaned closer. "President Bennett. He's behind this whole thing isn't he? Because... he was the one responsible for what happened at Ponta Delgada... not Captain Bridger."

Tim O'Neill grabbed the shoulder of the nearest man in black, his touch ineffectual as the bulky giant of an individual pushed him backwards to land with a painful thud against the wall. Before he could move two others had him in their grasp, pinned against the wall and powerless to prevent the blows to his stomach that had him doubled over as they released him. He dropped to his knees to the floor, the horrified screams of newswoman Gabrielle Storm ringing in his ears... then watched helplessly as an elderly man was roughly pushed through the stairwell door. Obviously one of the remaining hostages who had until now been under guard on the level below, he stumbled forward under impetus from the two terrorists who'd retrieved him from his sanctuary on the fifth floor. He almost fell through the door leading into the conference room they'd all been forced from only minutes before. .. and from which Storm had never emerged. O'Neill heard the sound of struggles... the further breaking of glass... a shout and a scream... then silence. His gaze remained riveted on the open doorway. The two terrorists rematerialized shortly... alone... and headed down a short hallway. The door remained open, the residual effects of the tear gas either dissolving in the tepid air or escaping back into the night through the holes left in the windows by the airborne canisters which had delivered it. Still on his knees, O'Neill crawled toward the doorway, finally grabbing the doorjamb and pulling himself up. The room was empty... the shattered glass of the supposedly bullet-proof windows covering the carpeted floor. A soft breeze pulled at the heavy drapes. Tim pulled himself closer to the window. Blood smeared the jagged edges of glass which remained on the sill. Shifting to the side, away from the watchful gaze of anyone who might be observing from the outside, he craned his neck and looked down. Way down... to the asphalt jungle below. He paled... and gagged... and slowly backed away. Right into someone standing behind him.

Aiden Montgomery grabbed Tim O'Neill by the back of his shirt... as one would a stray dog by the scruff of its neck... pulling him back toward the window as he himself looked downward and absorbed the sight that had met O'Neill's gaze. Two broken and bloodied bodies, almost infinitesimally small and difficult to make out at such a towering distance, lay on the concrete below. Montgomery swore, then pushed away from the window, dragging O'Neill along as he hurried from the room, securing the door behind them.

After dumping O'Neill in a chair, Montgomery's long strides carried him in the same direction the two perpetrators had taken. He found them just outside the office Patrick Smith had appropriated... and Smith himself standing beside the desk tightening the cinch of a shoulder holster that had suddenly materialized... the butt of the good-sized weapon it contained within easy reach of Smith's grasp.

"I... apologize..." Montgomery began, coming to halt in front of Smith before casting a brief hard glance over his shoulder at the two men standing outside the door. "It seems..." he turned back to Smith with an unconscious straightening of his narrow shoulders, "...my people became slightly... carried away by the circumstances--"

"They were doing what they were told."

Montgomery stopped cold.

"I beg your pardon..." he eventually responded in a hushed voice, not quite certain he'd heard right.

"Desperate situations call for desperate measures... surely you've realized that by now, Monty."

"They don't call for murder," Montgomery hissed, making a grab for Smith's arm as the other man made to pass. "You've always made a point of that... no unnecessary casualties."

Smith ignored him.

"Where are our guests?"

Montgomery stepped back, his uncertain gaze riveted on the man who'd employed him for so many years. A man who suddenly seemed a stranger to him.

"They're being moved downstairs with the others," he admitted tightly.

"Bridger?"

"He's still out."

"Make sure he stays that way," Smith muttered, shouldering past his hireling and heading for the foyer. Montgomery watched the other man's back until he disappeared through the stairwell door. His unfocused gaze remained on the door for several moments after it closed behind Smith... then with a weary shake of his head he allowed his feet to carry him into the next room for a quick check on the still unconscious form of Nathan Bridger.

"Where the hell is she!"

Patrick Smith's fist crashed into the chest of the bulky individual standing closest to him. The man could do no more than shrug helplessly and wince at his employer's harsh words.

"I don't know... she just disappeared--"

"Disappeared!" Smith stepped closer, nose to nose with the other man. "How the hell could someone just disappear... it's impossible! I want her found..." he ground out in a threatening tone, "...and I want her found now..."

Another individual appeared next to him, a submachine gun strapped around his shoulder, a semi-automatic pistol in one hand.

"That security guy we found snooping around's gone too."

Smith's eyes narrowed.

"Did we ever find out who he is?"

"No..." Aiden Montgomery murmured, appearing suddenly behind Smith. "We figured he was just one of the UEO's--"

"No..." Smith interrupted, his gaze drilling into Montgomery. "He's more than that. I want to know exactly who is... and I want to know now. I have a feeling we may have slipped up there." His eyes darted back to the other two. "And I want you two to find the woman... before I have to go looking for her myself." His voice followed them as they headed out the door. "She's not to be harmed... remember that."

Rex Humboldt stared through the links of the security fence, his fingers gripping the thin metal strands of wire that stood between him and the UEO compound. The terrified screams of the two individuals who'd plummetted from the windows some two hundred and fifty feet up echoed through his brain... what remained of their lifeless bodies lay broken on the asphalt a few hundred yards away... a grim reminder, if one was necessary, of what was going on within the innocent facade of the facility. For once in his life Humboldt was unsure of his next step. Part of him wanted to send men into the compound to recover the bodies... and any evidence they might have carried with them to their demise. He chuckled dryly... eliciting an anxious glance from the young man standing in the shadow of the armored truck which had brought them this far... and wondered if Patrick Smith had some ulterior motive in tossing the bodies other than as proof and warning of his purpose. The terrible notion that he'd used them as a kid might use a rock... rubber-banding a note to it and launching it through a window... crossed his mind briefly and just as quickly fled. No written warning was necessary. The act spoke for itself.

With a sign Humboldt pushed away from the fence and walked slowly back toward his vehicle. He'd done what he was instructed to do... and so far that action had done nothing more than backfire. As he'd feared it would... as he'd argued it would. Unfortunately his position in the whole circumstance left him between a rock and a hard place. The rock... Smith and his band of merry men had him by the throat... another wrong move and there was no doubt in his mind the same consequences would result. The hard place... direct orders from Jerome Bennett and his inner circle... "all the President's men" they were sarcastically referred to by press and public alike... to end the situation by whatever means necessary.

"Now what?"

Humboldt's absent glance landed on Lucas Wolenczak as the young man asked a question he didn't have an answer for. He stood there, chewing on his lip just as absently, and was about to finally try to give some sort of answer when the flap which hung across the back of the truck was pushed aside and a head appeared.

"Chief... it's him."

Humboldt didn't have to ask who... he merely nodded and pulled himself into the truck, a wry smile touching his lips as he felt Lucas close behind him. The vid-screen, which was just a small portion of the high-tech equipment crowded into the back of the vehicle, was on. Patrick Smith's rugged countenance appeared against an obscure background. It was apparent that he was in the building across the courtyard... but that was all Humboldt could tell. Exactly where in the facility he currently was remained an uncertainty.

"That was an extremely stupid move, Mr. Humboldt," Smith announced as the security chief dropped to the small upholstered stool that served as a seat.

"There was no need to kill those two people."

"You didn't believe I'd do it... did you?"

Humboldt slowly shook his head.

"To be perfectly honest... no. I didn't."

"Something which I'm sure will make a difference in the way you continue to view this situation."

Humboldt licked dry lips, coming to an abrupt decision. He leaned forward earnestly.

"Look, Smith... there's something you need to know--"

"I... know... all that's necessary, Mr. Humboldt," Smith interrupted rather pleasantly. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that Captain Bridger's trial has concluded. The jury is in the process even now of deliberating his fate... the results of which you'll be the first to know."

"You're making a mistake, Smith."

"I don't make mistakes, Mr. Humboldt."

Jonathan Ford paced back and forth, hands linked at the small of his back, his unfocused gaze on the cold concrete floor. He was unworried that his echoing footfalls would be overheard... the monotonous sound of the filtration system continued to dominate. Whenever speaking was necessary the small group huddled together just to be able to understand each other. Finally he stopped and swung around to face the others. A frown knit his brow.

"So... what do we do?"

His eyes darted over the group and came to rest on Crocker. The man in question just shrugged.

"Damned if I know, Commander." He ran sweaty fingers through his hair. "The worst part of it... from where I see it... is after what happened we don't know where everybody is. Whether they moved to another part of the floor we were all on... or moved down a level to where the rest of the hostages were."

Jonathan sighed heavily.

"Your friend Humboldt was having a tough job getting a handle on this guy. The last time I talked to him he hadn't been able to get one iota of information on him... through UEO Intelligence, Interpol... you name it. It's almost like the man doesn't even exist."

"That's not possible. Everybody exists," William Shan inserted. "In one form or another."

"What do you mean?"

Shan shrugged.

"Sorta like the people in the Asian underground."

Ford raised a dubious eyebrow.

"The Mafia you mean."

"That's one word for it I guess. They exist... it's just that nobody knows who they are. By day they're straight-laced businessmen... by night they're black marketeers. There're no overt signs... the only way you know one of 'em... is if you're one of 'em. And then . . . from what I hear..." Shan grinned slightly, "...it's still impossible to tell sometimes."

"Let me get this straight," Crocker muttered. "You think this guy is a member of some sort of... underground?"

Another shrug was his only answer.

Jonathan Ford sighed, his head dipping as his gaze dropped to the floor again in frowning concentration. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a movement which brought it right back up. He stared curiously at Kristin Westphalen, still seated on the floor across the room, very obviously staying out of any discussions taking place. Something that wasn't exactly like her, he decided. Especially considering those discussions and the decisions evoked concerned someone she was quite... intimately... involved with. No matter that the man in question was also her friend and colleague. Ford's frown deepened as he took the few steps that brought him closer to her... then knelt down beside her.

"Doctor?"

She didn't answer, merely stared with unfocused attention on her hands where they lay casually laced on her upraised knees. He waited a few seconds and tried again, leaning forward to touch his fingers to her shoulder.

"Kristin?" he murmured just loud enough to be heard, enunciating the word clearly as though speaking to a child. Her eyes flashed to his.

"Hmmmm..."

"Is there... anything... you'd care to add to this conversation?" His words were gentle... yet commanding.

Kristin's gaze shifted from Ford's chiseled features to the others... Shan, Ortiz and Crocker... lingering for the longest time on Crocker... before returning to the man beside her.

"No... why?"

Ford shook his head and shrugged, momentarily nonplused at the odd pitch in her soft British accent.

"I just..." he shook his head again, "...you've been awfully quiet. I know you've been through a lot... but... if there's anything you know that can help us... if you overheard anything... saw anything..."

It was Kristin's turn to shake her head... though it seemed a rather hesitant attempt.

"Crocker said you spoke to the Captain. Did he say... anything... that might do us some good? Anything at all?"

Kristin's brow puckered as she considered the young man's question. What could she tell him? It was personal... her conversation with Nathan? He said he loved me... for once in his life he opened up to me... and I couldn't answer him back with words that really meant anything?

"I... no. It was just..." she shrugged.

Jonathan nodded, understanding yet not understanding. He tried another tack... a stab in the dark really. Something from which he figured to get no results but had to try anyway.

"Do you know anything about this... Smith... person? Did he say anything... did any of the others say anything... that might give us some clue as to what we're up against?"

"I..."

Kristin's eyes met his momentarily before sliding away. Ford watched as she chewed nervously at her bottom lip and dragged the fingers of one hand through tousled auburn hair.

"Doctor?" He leaned closer and waited patiently for Kristin to look at him again. She finally did.

"I..."

"You... what?" he prompted patiently.

"I..."

No matter what she did... no matter that she had to make the decision that meant most to her both personally and morally... it hurt. It hurt deep down inside... and probably would never stop hurting.

"I... knew him... a long time ago," she finally breathed. Ford had to strain to hear.

"What do you mean... Smith? You know the guy?"

Kristin nodded, the knuckles of her clasped hands going to her mouth as she tamped down on her emotions.

"How?"

"Does that... really matter?"

Ford's eyes searched hers.

"Yeah... in this case... I think maybe it does."

Kristin sighed, her head dropping back to rest on the cold wall behind her as she considered Jonathan's words. She noticed rather absently that the others were silently watching and listening.

"We were..." she paused and drew a breath, "...involved... at one time."

"Involved..." Ford echoed. "As in... romantically?"

Kristin nodded.

"How... involved... exactly?"

"He... asked me to marry him."

"I see," Jonathan murmured noncommittally.

A wry quirk of Kristin's eyebrow told him she read the question implicit in his seemingly unconcerned response.

"And yes..." she murmured, "...I accepted. Very... gladly. I..." she shrugged helplessly, "...loved him..." she whispered.

Swallowing a groan, Nathan Bridger cautiously opened his eyes. He listened and heard nothing. Nothing but an eerie silence... which was totally out of place considering the circumstances. His gaze slowly focusing, he took note of the fact that he was in one of the smaller meeting rooms which lined the west side of the level they were on. At least... if one could tell that from the dusky grey carpeting which cushioned his cheek and the sleek oaken legs of the chairs scattered around the room. Nathan swallowed and for the second time in as many days tasted the bitter after-effects of his meeting... again for the second time... with the floor. His split lip had reopened... a splotch of dried blood on the carpet attested to the fact. He sighed, his fingers digging reflexively into the floor covering as he gingerly turned his head to look toward the door. It was closed. That much he could tell by looking past the pair of rough black boots that blocked his view of anything else. Pushing himself up on his elbows he raised his eyes... expecting to see Smith... a bit surprised when his gaze lit on the man's sidekick.

"Captain."

Bridger scowled.

Aiden Montgomery extended his hand and pointed a gun toward the man on the floor.

Bridger, pushing himself to a sitting position, didn't blink.

Montgomery flipped the weapon in his hand until his fingers closed around the shiny metal barrel of what turned out to be an automatic pistol. He took a stop nearer and offered it to Nathan.

"You might need this."

Bridger eyed it as though it were a serpent straight from hell.

"Come again?"

"He's out of control," Montgomery solemnly offered. "That's never happened before."

Nathan cautiously accepted the weapon as he pushed to his feet.

"Where is he?" he asked, wondering whether this wasn't just another part of Patrick Smith's scheme.

"Downstairs..." the other man answered, eyeing Nathan critically... and curiously, "...looking for her..." he added, almost as an afterthought.

Bridger paused in the action of running long fingers through his hair, staring askance at the man opposite him instead.

"Looking for...?" he prompted softly.

"Your... lady friend," Montgomery affirmed. "I think that's what really set him off. Not that she disappeared..." he quickly affirmed, "...but that she was here to begin with." He frowned. "Which is strange... because he knew she would be."

"They... know each other."

"Uh huh..." Montgomery responded, inching the door open and peering down the corridor. It was empty... and quiet.

"From where?" Nathan asked, looming over his shoulder.

"Don't know... didn't ask."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Like I said... he's out of control." Montgomery looked back at Bridger as he eased into the hallway. "He had two of the hostages killed."

Nathan, following a step behind, paused in the act of checking the ammunition cartridge of the pistol he'd been handed. His gaze rested on the back of Montgomery's head. The other man apparently noticed his hesitancy, undoubtedly through some form of learned sixth sense, and glanced back at him as he paused near the intersection of the short corridor and the main foyer.

"Some old man..." he murmured, "...and that gabby woman reporter." Montgomery eyed Bridger curiously for a moment. "One of the men we caught sneaking into the building yesterday... the one who was sitting near the windows... disappeared along with the lady. Friend of yours?"

He received a level stare from Nathan.

"You could say that," he returned, cautiously moving to stand next to Montgomery.

"You know where they went... don't you? Where they are?"

Nathan acted as though he didn't hear him.

"Where're the rest of your men?"

"The other room..." Montgomery motioned toward the opposite end of the corridor, "...some downstairs... some on the roof... a few scattered throughout the building."

"Who do they take their orders from?"

"Me," Montgomery answered, following an almost unnoticable hesitation.

"Now... why don't I find that comforting?"

The other man sighed.

"There are a few of 'em... if they smell a bigger paycheck... who might jump the fence. A couple already have."

"The ones who did the dirty work for Smith?"

Montgomery nodded.

"Well..." Nathan murmured, elbowing past Montgomery as he automatically took on the leadership role... though still with niggling doubts in the back of his mind, "...I guess we'll find out soon enough exactly where we stand."

Jerome Bennett, the ex-Navy Admiral and United Nations representative who currently resided at Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, stared unsmilingly into the vid-screen facing him across his desk. He waited patiently for Rex Humboldt to avert his somber gaze but he never did. Instead the man's eyes appeared to have taken on a curiously calculating expression. Humboldt had provided him with few answers concerning the ill-fated strike against the terrorists who'd taken over the UEO facility... other than the fact that it had garnered a few dead bodies... along with the ill-will of the public. The opposition party was having a hey-day scourging Bennett for his faux pas... something he'd been trying to avoid but had apparently walked right into. At the moment he didn't appear to have many options left... other than a full-scale assault on the facility. He'd inferred as much to Humboldt.

"If you can't do the job..." he hissed softly between clenched teeth, "...I'll find someone who can."

"Oh... I can do the job, Mr. President. But I won't... and neither will anyone else. Your past is starting to come back to haunt you... and before very long it'll be all over the front pages of every newspaper in the known world."

Bennett leaned forward.

"Just what the hell do you think you're talking about... and how dare you speak to me in that tone of voice!"

"I'm talking about your involvement in that little episode at Ponta Delgada... and how you managed to lay the blame on everyone but yourself."

"You don't know what you're talking about--"

"Oh, I do... and I'm not the only one who knows," Humboldt warned. "Hell... it's all there for anyone who has smarts enough to look a little deeper than the printed word."

Nathan could almost feel the hot breath of Aiden Montgomery on the back of his neck as they crept through the corridor. Directly across the foyer, seated within an inconspicuous alcove, were the stairwell doors. One quick flight down and they'd be within earshot and eyeshot of Patrick Smith. It was so easy. No one was there to stop them. No one at all...

Bridger stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor, slowly lowering to his side the gun he carried until the barrel pointed at the floor. He took a deep breath and released it, chewed thoughtfully on his lip for a few seconds, then began to laugh. Finally he turned to face Montgomery, an almost amused smile curving his lips.

"You know... I can be a real idiot sometimes."

He abruptly tossed the pistol to Montgomery, who caught it with one hand, an unfathomable expression in his eyes. His curious gazed dropped briefly to the weapon before coming to rest on Nathan once again. The door behind Bridger gave an agonizing squeak as it opened quite slowly. He didn't turn around to find out who was there... that was something he figured he already knew. He just kept staring at Montgomery.

"You want me dead... fine... go ahead and pull the trigger," he quietly informed Montgomery, though he was speaking more to the man in the doorway behind him. "But if you think I'm gonna let you take the coward's way out... make it look like I was resisting and you had to shoot me... you can forget it."

The door groaned as it fell slowly shut. Quiet footsteps approached.

"How shrewd of you, Captain... apparently it still takes some display of intelligence to remain part of today's military."

Bridger gave Aiden Montgomery a level stare then slowly turned to face the man who'd spoken. Patrick Smith looked none the worse for wear, though his dark garb was a bit rumpled and his graying hair looked as if his fingers had been working through it on a regular basis. Otherwise he seemed very casual... almost bored.

"Since it appears you won't make it easy on us..." Smith paused briefly, letting his words sink in, "...or yourself for that matter... I suppose we'll just have to let nature take its course. It's a shame really. I so dislike... public... judgments."

"Don't you mean... executions?" Nathan murmured sardonically, eyes expressionless as they stared into the other man's.

Smith grimaced.

"I'm afraid I don't particularly care for that word..." he stepped to the side and motioned toward the door, "If you'd care to join us, Captain... we'll get on with things."

Jonathan Ford rubbed his forehead wearily, hoping to erase the lines that had appeared there almost overnight. It had been a long day... and looked to be getting even longer... no thanks to the woman next to him. He stretched his legs wearily, then crossed them and leaned against the wall. It was cold on his back. Turning his head he carefully studied Kristin Westphalen. He never figured he knew her very well... outside of their professional working relationship and the few odd times he'd been in her company on what one might conceivably consider a personal basis when she'd accompanied the Captain to some function or another or the crew had gotten together for one reason or another. He certainly had no desire to delve into her personal life... or to dig up secrets she'd rather no one know. But he really didn't have much of a choice. Did he? He tried to figure out if possibly he did have a choice... but couldn't come up with one. Soooo...

"Ummmm..." Ford coughed, almost as if he was choking, then started over, "...and... uh... did you?"

Kristin looked at him blankly. It seemed so long since he'd actually said something that she was almost startled.

"Did I what?"

"Did you... uh... marry him?"

"The smartest thing you can do now... is come clean."

Jerome Bennett glared at Rex Humboldt.

"Is that right?" he clipped.

Humboldt nodded.

"Yeah... that's right. And if you're as smart as you seem to think you are... you'll realize it before you make another dumb move." Humboldt paused meaningfully. "Covering one's tracks doesn't come so easy the second time around. Or the third."

"And just what would you suggest I do, Mr. Humboldt?"

"Use the media that you're so astute at manipulating... tell the world exactly what happened fifteen years ago at Ponta Delgada." Humboldt leaned forward and stared grim-faced into the monitor. "Try telling the truth for once."

"And the truth will set me free? Is that what you're inferring, Mr. Humboldt?" the President asked politely.

"It's not your freedom I'm concerned about."

"How... chivalrous... of you," Bennett sniped. "And just why do believe I should do such a thing... Mr. Humboldt?"

Humboldt sighed, tired of the man's overuse of his name, but he didn't react.

"Because... I think it would be better coming from you?"

A lengthy silence followed.

"That sounds..." Bennett finally broke it, "...almost like a threat."

"It is."

"Please... continue..."

A sheaf of papers appeared in Humboldt's hand.

"It's all here... every last bit of information... more than enough to bring you to your knees."

Bennett laughed. It sounded hollow to Humboldt's ears.

"You're bluffing."

Rex glanced at the young man who sat just out of range of the monitor. Exchanging a quick smile with Lucas, his eyes again found those of Bennett.

"I don't bluff... Mr. President..."

Chapter Eight
'Through the Eye of the Needle'
 

Twelve sets of eyes darted around the room. It was a different room than they'd been in before. Smaller. More intimate. Making it almost impossible for Patrick Smith's jurors to avoid each others eyes... or avoid glancing at the men seated around the table or standing near it. One man in particular.

Nathan Bridger leaned back in his chair, hands clasped loosely around its leather-covered arms, his thoughts a million miles away. Well, maybe not a million. But a few thousand anyway. Ben Krieg sat next to him. He'd looked searchingly at Bridger once the group had been brought back together, had attempted a few questions, before finally falling silent. His thoughts were closer to home. He figured that Smith hadn't gone through the trouble he had to set this thing in motion to make any stupid mistakes. The man had said at the beginning that a fair trial was in the offing... and Krieg was hell-bent on making sure it happened. The glassy-eyed expression that always took over when he had a plan brewing was very much in evidence... though neither Bridger nor the other three big-wigs sitting around the table seemed to notice.

"Now then..." Patrick Smith began, one hand stuck casually in his pants pocket as he nodded at the guards and closed the door. He turned to the jurors. "I know you'd all like to get this thing over with and get out of here... I know I would..." he murmured, "...and although all the evidence collected regarding Captain Bridger's involvement in the described incident hasn't been offered... I'm sure the last few... eventful... hours have given you more than enough time to make up your..." Smith's voice trailed off as Ben Krieg rose to his feet. He raised an eyebrow.

"You wanted something, Mister... Krieg?"

"Yeah."

Smith waited, growing impatient when Ben didn't continue.

"Well... what?"

"My turn at bat."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ben returned Smith's stare with a smarmy smile.

"In case it slipped your mind... after the way we were so rudely interrupted..." Ben murmured politely, "...the defense has yet to present it's case."

Smith appeared genuinely surprised.

"It's... case... Mr. Krieg? Surely you jest?"

"No, sir... I don't jest."

Krieg heard Bridger mutter something under his breath which caused Noyce, McGath and Keller to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm sure your conscience would bother you to no end should you decline to give Captain Bridger a chance to present evidence in his own behalf..."

"Mr. Krieg..." Smith returned Ben's smile, "...all the evidence that exists has been presented... and it points to only one conclusion... that of Captain Bridger's guilt. Anything you might want to add at this point would be a simple waste of time."

With that Smith turned on his heel dismissively, his stormy gaze returning to his chosen group.

"I dare say you've reached a verdict?" he inquired politely.

The group of jurors seemed to shift as one.

Smith smiled sardonically.

"We'll make this easy..." he offered in a low voice. "All I need is a simple show of hands..."

Jonathan Ford stared at the blueprints he'd once again pulled from his pocket. They obviously hadn't gone through some strange metamorphosis while they'd been there... they still presented him with the line drawings of a building that was constructed, suppos-edly, to withstand any type of outside assault... and which had been considered as safe as a tomb on the inside. Which was just about right. Because if they didn't find a way to quietly and with great surprise overpower the terrorists within the facility... their small group and possibly a number of the hostages would end up dead. And that wasn't even taking into consideration the individuals who were in the room where Bridger and the others were being held. Whichever room that was. Since the episode with the tear gas they... and Humboldt's security force... weren't entirely certain exactly where that group was at any given time. This entire mess could end up a virtual bloodbath before anyone had a chance to react... so their best bet was to go on the offensive. Whatever that might be.

"Maybe... I could talk him out of what he's doing."

Ford looked up sharply, startled to find Kristin Westphalen standing next to him, gazing at the same plans he was studying. His chocolate gaze narrowed as he considered her words.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

"I mean..." she stepped closer, her sable gaze meeting his, "...I could go back in there--"

"Forget it!" Ford disallowed brusquely, turning away and motioning for Crocker to come over.

"Jonathan..." he was pulled roughly around as Kristin grabbed his arm, surprisingly strong fingers gripping his forearm as her eyes blazed up into his, "...no matter what Patrick said... or how hard he insisted it wasn't the case... he knew I was here when this began. Probably from the very inception of this plan of his. I don't know what his reasons were... I stopped trying to see into his mind long before he disappeared from my life... but he wanted me here... wanted me to be a part of this."

"Why?" Ford asked, very obviously doubtful. "Revenge... because when all was said and done you didn't marry him after all? Excuse me... but I find that just a little far-fetched."

"Maybe..." Kristin shrugged, "...I don't know." Wrapping her arms around herself, she backed up a few steps, her eyes on the others as they slowly approached. "Maybe he just wants to prove something."

"What... that he has power over people's lives?"

"Perhaps. He always was a bit... eccentric."

"How do you mean?" Miguel Ortiz asked, one eyebrow crooked in interest.

Kristin shrugged again and began pacing. Not that there was a lot of room to do that in the confined space they were occupying.

"He just..." she released a helpless sigh, "...he always liked to go for effect... to make an impact. Whether it was in business... in his personal life... whatever. But..." she paused and frowned at the floor, " ...at the same time... he never wanted to be noticed. He never wanted to take credit..." Kristin shook her head ruefully as she turned to face the group, "I know its difficult to understand... my god... it's difficult enough to explain..."

"I wonder how many times he's done this."

William Shan's words fell into the silence.

"What do you mean?" Kristin asked.

He shrugged, allowing Crocker to answer for him.

"This wasn't a one time thing... what these guys did takes practice... and lots of it. It takes discipline... it takes knowing the people you work with inside and out. They've been working this game like a well oiled machine."

"That's ridiculous..." Kristin whispered, yet the expression in her eyes spoke otherwise.

"Is it?" Ford asked directly. "You don't train an army like this one in a few days... you don't acquire the information necessary from a few computer searches. You don't get that equipment... the choppers and the weapons... out of a box of Cracker Jacks. This thing had to take months to mastermind. Just look at how easily they crashed this place."

Crocker ran a hand over his beard.

"They had to have inside help."

"You bet," Ford muttered, raising an eyebrow. "Your friend?"

Crocker appeared taken aback.

"Humboldt--? ...naw... forget it. He's as straight up as they come."

"What--" Ford paused as the small comm-link attached to his belt gave a muted beep. He'd almost forgotten it was there... Rex Humboldt had shoved it at him only moments before they'd begun their strange journey... making it clear it would only be used in case of an emergency of some sort. Jonathan pulled his jacket back and stared at it, almost afraid to make a move. Finally Manilow Crocker grabbed it and activated it. The diminutive image of Lucas Wolenczak stared back at him.

"What the--"

"Don't worry..." Lucas murmured through the tiny speaker, "... we're on a secure link."

"There's no such thing," Crocker growled.

Wolenczak grinned.

"Sure there is... trust me."

With a sigh Jonathan snatched the device out of Crocker's hand.

"This better be good, Lucas."

"It is..." the boy said, his grin widening, "...believe me... it's so good it'll knock your socks off..."

"This is nothing less than blackmail."

"I couldn't agree more."

Rex Humboldt stared into the small vid-screen. It had been four and a half hours since he'd last spoken with President Jerome Bennett. During that time every horror conceivable to his mind... which on the worst of days was still an extremely fertile ground... ran like a bad movie before his eyes. Images of government agents leaping through the closed flap which covered the back of the truck... their faces expressionless masks as they quickly and silently put him out of his misery... constituted his more lucid thoughts. The others he just tried to push from his mind.

"I want the copies of those files... all of them."

"I'll think about it..." Humboldt murmured, "...after... the broadcast."

Jerome Bennett leaned forward in his chair, his expression menacing.

"You damn well better do more than think about it--"

"From where I stand... you don't really have much say in the matter... Mr. President." Humboldt had to struggle to keep from smiling. As it was, his words dripped with sarcasm. "You should have known it would all catch up with you someday. Anything you try so hard to hide usually does."

"I'll only go so far... I told you that."

"You'll go... as far as it takes," the security man ground out. "I trust you've made the arrangements."

"Of course..." Bennett inclined his head, the grim semblance of a smile twisting his lips. "When the President of the United States wants to talk... the networks listen."

"When?"

Bennett jerked his cuff back and glanced at his watch.

"Three hours and fifteen minutes... seven o'clock on the dot." He folded his hands on the desk top. "Nothing better than prime time..."

Humboldt nodded.

"You just make damn sure it happens..."

Bennett watched as the screen went to black. His thoughtful gaze rested on it for a few moments... then he glanced off to one side, his eyes homing in on his two aides.

"I want those papers... and I want everybody... everybody... who has even an inkling of what's going on... dead. If that man thinks I'm baring my soul to the masses... then he's got another think coming..."

The two men looked at each other, inclined their heads in some form of acknowledgment, and silently left the room.

"Uh..." Ben Krieg smiled an oily smile as he continued to stand and stare at Patrick Smith, "...excuse me... but I seem to remember you saying... when this whole thing began... that this would be a fair hearing. That we'd be allowed to present evidence in defense of Captain Bridger." He raised a finger, pointing it toward the ceiling and trying to make a point at the same time. "Are you telling me, sir... that you were lying?" His voice and expression were incredulous... as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I don't lie."

"Well..." Krieg hurrumphed, "...it certainly sounds that way to me. I at least expected you to be a man of your word... if nothing else."

A muscle in Smith's jaw clenched... then he was smiling benignly.

"Fine..." he murmured amiably, strolling to the edge of the table, his gray gaze falling from Krieg to Bridger. "If that's what the good Captain wants... I suppose we have the time."

Bridger, hands steepled beneath his chin as his elbows rested on the table, met Smith's gaze as he seemed to consider the matter. His dark eyes were thoughtful. Krieg waited tensely. Considering the Captain's reticence over the past forty-eight hours in participating in a matter which could... and possibly would... make a life and death difference to him... he was prepared for a quick refusal. It didn't come. His eyes shifted to the side and down as he curiously eyed his former boss... almost jumping out of his shoes as Bridger abruptly dropped backwards to rest more comfortably in his chair... an unreadable expression in his eyes as he stared at Smith.

"Fine with me."

Smith took a deep breath and slowly let it out as he continued to exchange stares with Bridger.

"Very well then..." he snapped a glance at Krieg, then paused as two of his men, well armed, entered the room. When he raised a questioning eyebrow one of them shook his head. Smith dug his fingers through his hair in an angry gesture, seemed to get control of himself as he motioned the two men back out with a terse "...keep working on it...", then turned his attention back to Krieg, "...proceed..."

Smith's gaze strayed to Bridger as he moved unobtrusively to one side in order to keep a close eye on the action.

Nathan met his gaze... and smiled.

Krieg felt a chill go through him.

Scott Keller nodded to himself.

Bill Noyce scratched his chin thoughtfully.

Thomas McGath ran a nervous hand over his face.

The members of the jury shifted uneasily.

Aiden Montgomery frowned... and felt for the gun nestled against the small of his back.

"...report with deep sadness the death of fellow newsperson Gabrielle Storm..." The dark-haired anchorman droned on and on with his condolences, almost making Tim O'Neill sick to his stomach. Of course that didn't take much at the moment... not after the tableau he'd witnessed from the window. He pulled his gaze from the vid-screen, allowing it instead to wander the room into which he'd been sequestered with the remaining hostages. Obviously Smith and his people didn't need him anymore. He didn't know whether to be relieved or scared... his thoughts straying for what had to be the millionth time to the action taking place one floor above. He sighed... and tried to think of something else... which wasn't easy. Resting his elbows on the knees of his rumpled jeans, he cupped his chin in his palms and stared at the floor. There had to be something he could do--

O'Neill frowned. There it was again. That strange scratching noise he'd been hearing on and off the last half hour. It was beginning to drive him nuts. Pulling off his glasses, he carefully rubbed them with the edge of his sweatshirt as he stared at the guards grouped in the doorway... nothing more than black blobs to his nearsighted gaze. He replaced his glasses and continued to watch them. They appeared oblivious to anything happening in the room. And why shouldn't they be? What were he... and a few rag-tag civilians... going to do? Jump them from behind... grab their weapons... and storm the joint? Huh! Sure thing. Standing up, he rather unobtrusively turned toward the wall behind him and slowly paced its length, his eyes trained first on the plane where the wall met the ceiling... then on the floorboard as he turned around and paced back in the other direction. He stretched his shoulder muscles and rotated his head from side to side, ostensibly reviving cramped muscles should the goons in the doorway glance his way. Every minute or so he heard a soft scrabbling sound... something that seemed to come from behind the wall...

A piece of paper fluttered to his feet.

An extremely small piece of paper... but a piece of paper nonetheless.

O'Neill stared at it... then glanced toward the other hostages... then toward the guards. No one appeared to be paying him the slightest attention. Eyes still on the guards, he reached down and pilfered the small note. At least that's what it looked like at first glance. He stuffed it into his pocket, meandered back to his chair, and sat down. He didn't waste time wondering where it had come from... with what had gone on during the past two days he wasn't surprised by anything. Not even small bits of paper floating down to him from the heavens.

William Shan stared through a narrow crack in the wall, just where it met the ceiling of the room containing the hostages, as he moved stealthily through the crawlspace. His eyes followed the note as it fluttered downward... to land at the feet of Tim O'Neill. He watched until he was certain O'Neill had confiscated it... unobserved... then as quickly as possible returned to the rest of his group.

Miguel Ortiz ruffled Shan's dark hair as the young Vietnamese reappeared.

"How'd it go..."

"He got it. I don't know what he'll do with it... but he got it."

"Tim's a smart guy," Jonathan Ford murmured, "...he'll know what to do."

"What time's the broadcast set for?" Manilow Crocker inquired, taking a quick look at his watch.

"Seven... according to Lucas."

"Doesn't give us much time."

Ford shrugged.

"What I have in mind won't take much time," he half joked. "As long as your friend Humboldt manages to do his thing and diverts our friend's attention for a few minutes... we should have a smooth ride."

Ford turned toward the spot Kristin Westphalen had stood a split second previously...

"Doctor, I--"

...but she was no longer in sight.

"Where the hell did she go?" Ford hissed, pushing past Crocker and heading quickly along the narrow companionway between the walls as he instinctively and silently answered his own question. Crocker hurried along behind him, leaving a befuddled Miguel Ortiz and William Shan in his wake. They caught up with Kristin a few steps away from the hidden panel which had allowed her and Crocker entrance into their current realm from the bathroom on the other side of the wall. Jonathan halted her progress with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?" he whispered, turning her around.

Kristin sighed in frustration.

"You said you needed a diversion," she muttered back at him, "... and somehow I figure I might be a bit more diverting than Mr. O'Neill."

"That's quite possible..." Ford allowed, "...but it's not gonna happen."

Kristin pulled away with surprising strength.

"Look--"

"No, you look--"

"I don't have to stand here and take this--" she continued, starting meaningfully back in the direction she'd been headed, her back stiff.

"No... I guess you don't..." Jonathan drawled, giving Manilow Crocker a pointed glance.

Crocker shrugged helplessly, knowing what he had to do but getting very little joy from the thought. With a sigh he went after Westphalen, catching up to her with a couple of long strides and snaking one arm around her waist from behind.

"What--"

Ignoring Kristin's protests, he lifted her off her feet and against his chest as he toted her away from temptation.

"Stop manhandling me... you... you..."

Her voice fell to a muted grumble as Crocker covered her mouth with his free hand. She tore at his forearm and kicked back at him with her heels, which dangled a good six inches above the floor.

"Doc... I really hate doing this... but it's for your own good. Now..." he paused as they rejoined the others, setting Kristin's feet back on the ground but keeping his arm around her waist and his hand over her mouth, "...if you'll be real good... I'll let ya breathe again."

Kristin muttered something unspeakable into his hand, but at the same time stopped squirming and trying to dig her elbows into his ribs. After a few moments of relative calm Crocker removed his hand from her mouth.

"I'll kill you for this," she muttered.

"Naaaahhhh... you'll get over it real quick once we're out of here."

"Fine... I won't kill you," Kristin enunciated. "I'll have Nathan do it for me."

"Well... at least that'll look better on the coroner's report. Make me look like a wimp for a woman to kill me." She could hear the smile in his voice but refused to react. "Besides... if I have to be killed by anybody... I'd be honored for it to be the Cap."

"Let me go."

"Don't think so, Doc."

Kristin blew her bangs out of her eyes and considered her next move. The circumstances weren't made any easier by Ortiz and Shan, who seemed to be having trouble holding back smiles, even considering the circumstances. They received a venomous glare for their trouble.

Sensing the situation was close to getting out of hand, Jonathan Ford insinuated himself between Crocker... and his reluctant prisoner... and Shan and Ortiz.

"Look, Chief... you'll have all the time in the world to hash out any death wishes you might have later..." he advised, his personal opinion being that on occasion just getting a bit too close to Westphalen was death wish enough, though he wouldn't say so out loud, "...unfortunately at the moment we're running a little low on time. So I'd suggest we get on with things..." he gave Kristin a pointed glance, "...and I'd suggest we all cooperate... if we intend to get out of here alive."

"Mr. Bustamante..."

All eyes in the room were on Ben Krieg as he stepped out from behind the 'defense' table, his eyes thoughtful, his hands moving in alternate up and down motions as he rolled a pencil between his palms.

"Tell me..."

Nathan Bridger rubbed his forehead wearily... or was it patiently. Then again it might have been an indication of impatience. Elbow resting on the table, he leaned his chin on his palm, staring at nothing in particular as Krieg's voice droned on. Time. That's all they needed. Time for Crocker to work a little magic... to pull that proverbial rabbit from the hat. But more importantly from his own personal perspective... time to get Kristin out of the building, by whatever means necessary. Time... for whoever was out there working on ending this thing... he almost laughed... to also work a little magic. Somehow he didn't think that was going to happen... not in this lifetime anyway. So he had to rely on Crocker... and whatever stalling technique his eminent counsel might come up with.

"...what evidence do you have to indicate that it was weapons fire from the Intrepid that... as you put it... took out the medical facilities and the school?"

Bridger gave an inaudible sigh and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and gazing at the man Krieg was questioning... one of the witnesses Patrick Smith had earlier called on to testify as to what had happened that fateful day so many years before...

The man shrugged expansively.

"It was the only ship there... why do you think?"

"But..." Krieg turned his back to the man and paced away. He came to a standstill, then after a seemingly thoughtful moment turned around, "...that's not quite true. Is it?"

Bustamante frowned.

"Actually..." Krieg motioned toward the paperwork strewn about on the conference table, indicating the computer monitor at the same time, "...as I'm sure the information we've been so helpfully provided with by Mr. Smith... and further data we can retrieve from UEO files... will testify... there was more than one ship in the vicinity at the time of the attack..."

"The two vessels which accompanied the Intrepid were no longer battle ready... one of them we know was sunk almost immediately..." the other man objected. "The United Nations fleet had pulled back... it was no longer in the vicinity... as our radar attested--"

"Ah, yes..." Ben murmured, pacing slowly toward Bustamante.

"The Intrepid was... the only ship there," Bustamante insisted once more.

Krieg ignored him, turning instead to pick up the glossy photograph which lay nearest to him on the table. He studied it silently for a few moments before speaking again, never taking his eyes from the picture.

"In other words... it's entirely impossible that you could be mistaken. Is that what you're telling me, Mr. Bustamante?" He finally raised his gaze to the older man.

"Yes."

"You couldn't be wrong?"

"No."

"You know..." Ben turned his back toward the witness, stepping toward the table and carefully putting the photograph back down, then staring at it again. His attention seemed rapt. " ...funny thing about radar..."

"I don't trust him."

Lucas Wolenczak looked up in surprise.

"How do you mean?"

Rex Humboldt shrugged.

"He's too smooth. I've always thought that..."

"He's the President of the United States..."

"Yeah... well... that too."

Lucas stared at the older man, curiosity and fatigue mixing in his blue gaze.

"You think he's gonna back out... don't you?"

"No..." Humboldt shook his head, "...no I don't. I think he's gonna take things one step further."

Pulling the top slice of bread of his sandwich up at one corner, Lucas grimaced at the dry roast beef and oily mustard that met his gaze, before slapping it back together and raising it to his mouth. He took a bite, grimaced again, and glanced at Humboldt.

"I don't get it," he mumbled between chews.

"He's not stupid..."

"He wouldn't have gotten where he is if he was."

"But he's also not the smartest guy in the world... as this little fiasco attests. This one..." Humboldt stared at his own sandwich, "...and that one eighteen years ago."

Lucas dropped his tasteless meal into the paper bag it had arrived in and tossed it to the side. His eyes scanned the walls of the small building they now occupied, lighting on the equipment and weapons being readied by the small security attachment. He shuddered as he watched the subdued action of the men.

"But he got away with it. All these years... he's managed to cover himself."

"With a little help from his friends."

"But..." Lucas shook his head slowly, "...Captain Bridger wouldn't have kept quiet about something like that... he's not that kind of a person."

"I doubt that even he knows the entire story of what happened..."

"Even though he was there? Right in the middle of it all?"

"Sometimes it's difficult to see things that are right in front of your nose, kid. Especially when you're not looking for 'em."

"I still don't understand why he did it..."

"Well..." Humboldt rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, "...let me tell you a little story..."

Nathan Bridger's mind was wandering. Not that he wasn't paying attention to what Ben Krieg was doing... or was trying to do. He had to give the guy some credit this time around... he actually seemed to be taking his work seriously. And it seemed to suit him... and him it. Krieg... an attorney. The two seemed almost synonymous... the man and the profession. If there every was an oily barrister, Krieg was it.

He wondered where Kristin was. Damn! And Crocker. If the big lug didn't manage the get her out he'd... he didn't know what he'd do. Something drastic though. And Crocker knew it. Leaning back, his chair creaking slightly at the motion, Nathan tried to relax and watch the proceedings. He really wasn't very good at this passive stuff. He needed to be doing something. But what... and how...

Bridger's gaze went to the doorway as the same two guards who'd appeared earlier materialized yet again. Patrick Smith's own grey gaze slanted in the same direction and then he slowly meandered over to the men. Something exchanged hands. Nathan's eyes narrowed as he peered at the item. A folded square of thick paper... somewhat like a map. Something that seemed very familiar. Then a small, almost imperceptible frown pinched his forehead as he recognized the item for what it was. Blueprints...

Chapter Nine
'And the Children Shall Lead'
 

Katherine Hitchcock, rookie captain of the supertanker H. R. Clinton, paced the deck nervously, her thoughts on the brief yet to the point communique she'd received from Lucas Wolenczak a few hours previously. She still found what he'd told her during that short conversation difficult to believe. Unfortunately... she had to believe. She also had to believe... hope and pray... that the individuals concerned would come out of the situation in one piece. Her friends...

Try as she might, Katie's thoughts continually returned to those days aboard seaQuest... during that initial tour... and the learning process she'd endured as she'd held her first commandership. Then the ultimate destruction of the ship... and her decision to accept the position she currently held. There were times... though she tried hard not to admit it to anyone, even herself... that she regretted that decision. Wished instead that she'd taken more time to think things out. Wished she'd taken the opportunity to accept the olive branch that Ben had tried to extend during those first few short days as they'd all tried to settle into their new lives. She often wondered if he felt the same way. She didn't talk to him often... was indeed surprised that he'd actually been making an attempt to keep in contact with her . . . but had subvertly kept tabs on him through her frequent vid-phone visits with Kristin.

And now Ben... and the others she'd come to regard as family... were in trouble. And the H. R. Clinton... unbeknownst even to the brass who were currently the source of Hitchcock's livelihood... was steaming at full tilt toward the islands. Would in fact arrive at the point designated by Lucas, and this Humboldt fellow he'd introduced her to, in less than an hour. What happened after that was up in the air... but she'd be there... for better or for worse.

"Captain!"

It took a moment for the hail from further along the deck to sink into her befuddled brain. Took in fact a second call. Her second in command was suddenly beside her next to the rail. He handed her a slip of paper and inclined his head toward the command room, informing her at the same time that she had a call waiting. Fearing the worst... Hitchcock made her way to her office...

"Uhhhhhhh..."

Lieutenant (jg) Timothy Patrick O'Neill bent double... and sideways... and backwards... all at the same time... and clutched at his stomach. Quite a feat considering his situation. He opened one eyelid and glanced around. No one was paying him the slightest attention. No one of any importance anyway. He was on the receiving end of an awfully funny look from an old lady sitting a few feet away... and an odd sideways stare from a youngish man visible just beyond her shoulder. But that was it. So he tried again. Scrunching his eyes tightly closed he lurched sideways against the wall.

"Uuuuhhhhhhhh..." O'Neill wailed as only O'Neill could wail. And he waited.

Footsteps... heavy footsteps... tired footsteps... approached. He could feel the black-garbed henchman staring down at him. Could visualize the rifle resting against the man's shoulder. Belay that... how about the rifle nudging him in the ribs? O'Neill flinched but kept his head down.

"Cut the hysterics."

Tim looked up.

And wished he hadn't.

Sylvester Stallone. Had to be Stallone. A scene right out of 'Rambo'. Even had the obligatory headband wrapped around his forehead, the knotted tail dangling behind one ear. The man looked back at him with narrowed eyes.

"You got a problem?"

Tim started to shake his head... glad his arms were still clenched around his abdomen so no one could see his hands shaking. Then he thought better of it. After all, he had a job to do. Whatever it was.

"Wh... --"

"I think the poor boy's ill."

O'Neill's right eyebrow took a positive slant upward and he turned his head a hair's breadth to eye the old lady who'd given him the odd look earlier. She was staring at him thoughtfully. He stared back... a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He tried quickly to conceal it... in one way hoping she didn't notice... and in another praying she had. He watched as a glimmer of something traversed her gaze as her eyes held his.

"Sick, huh?" Rambo nudged Tim with the tip of his rifle. "That right... you sick?"

"Uhh... I uh--"

The old lady carefully rose from her chair and approached.

"Of course he is... tell me young man... are you blind?" The woman scowled at the guard as she placed her palm across Tim's forehead. She frowned. "He's burning up..."

O'Neill's eyes widened slightly... then he pulled his glasses off and wiped his arm across his face. Sweat was suddenly dripping down his back beneath the thin shirt he wore. To be perfectly honest... at the moment he really didn't feel so great. Of course, it was merely the butterflies in his stomach, but that was no matter. He sighed and looked from the woman to the guard.

"I do feel a little... odd..." he murmured.

"Uh huh." Rambo stared at him for a second before motioning another black clad henchman over. "Tell Montgomery we have a problem..." his gaze narrowed on O'Neill, "...tell him the guy who does the interpreting is under the weather."

O'Neill observed the suspicion in both men's eyes... then allowed his own gaze to rest on the second man's back as he turned and made his way from the room. He met the old woman's eyes... surprised to see an expression almost of amusement filter through her dark blue gaze... then shifted his attention back to Rambo. He dropped his eyes guiltily as he found the man still staring at him.

"Are you sure this is gonna work?"

Jonathan Ford cast a worried glance over Manilow Crocker's shoulder as seaQuest's stocky former security chief ran critical hands over the wall he faced. A wall which was very wide and very flat. A wall which, according to the blueprints Kristin Westphalen was holding beneath William Shan's penlight, contained a sliding panel which opened into the next room. The same room in which Tim O'Neill... pseudo-ill Tim O'Neill... remained hunkered over in simulated pain. Actually, if Ford didn't know better, he would almost believe O'Neill really was hurting. Theater work as a second career was a definite possibility for that young man. The important thing was that... for the moment... only one guard remained in the room with O'Neill and the other hostages. So they had to take the offensive now... while they still had what passed as a chance.

"It'll work, Commander..." Crocker huffed... as much as one could huff in a whisper. "If I can ever find the damn sliding mechanism."

"Are you sure we're reading these blueprints right, Chief?" Miguel Ortiz asked, not for the first time. He rested his hands on his thighs as he leaned forward and brought his gaze closer to the spot on the blueprints highlighted by the narrow beam of Shan's penlight. He peered at it closely.

Crocker sighed without breaking from his task.

"Yes, we're reading the blueprints right, Ortiz," he whispered sarcastically back over his shoulder. "According to those drawings there should be a sliding panel right... about... here..." he murmured, his right hand running vertically along a seam that appeared to be what he was looking for, "...just like the one in the mens' room that me and the Doc came through. But heaven help me if I can figure out just how--"

Suddenly... and as is usually the case, without warning... the panel he was searching for made its appearance... but not by sliding. That would have been way to easy. Instead it fell forward, abruptly, into the next room. Fortuitously it landed directly on top of Rambo, who had remained standing next to Tim O'Neill as his partner headed up to the next level to round up Aiden Montgomery.

The panel was heavy... extremely heavy. After all... this was the headquarters of the UEO and as such the building was quite heavily fortified, both inside and out. Not that you'd know it from what was currently taking place of course.

The guard never knew what hit him. He landed face first on the floor, the panel on top of him. His automatic rifle flew from his shoulder and landed at the feet of the old lady sitting next to O'Neill.

Manilow Crocker scratched his head.

"Guess I found that sliding mechanism," he muttered.

The old lady picked up the automatic rifle which had landed almost on her toes. She did a quick... and extremely professional... inspection of the weapon and its magazine before tossing it to Jonathan Ford as he stepped past Crocker, who was still scratching his head. Ford grabbed the rifle as it caught him in the middle of the chest, his eyes more interested in the old woman than the weapon. Not that it wouldn't come in handy. The woman looked right back at him.

"Always wanted to do that," she smiled.

"Ma'am?"

She gave him a smart salute.

"Helen Henderson... office manager."

"Uh... yes, ma'am..." Ford expelled, motioning Crocker, Shan and Ortiz to take up positions alongside the half-closed door leading out of the room as he simultaneously shot a glance at the assembled hostages. Not one of the two dozen or so individuals made a move. They appeared transfixed. Ford motioned them to remain that way, his index finger to his lips in a silencing gesture. He got no argument. He shot a questioning glance at Crocker, who was peering through the crack in the door into the lobby. Crocker looked back at him and shook his head.

"Nothing," he mouthed silently before turning his attention back to what lay beyond the room they'd ended up in. He held his weapon close to his chest, as Shan and Ortiz did theirs as they backed him up.

Ford turned to O'Neill.

"Good work, Lieutenant."

O'Neill still looked a bit woozy. Maybe he really wasn't feeling that well. Don't guess I can fault him for that, Ford decided.

"Thanks, Commander."

Momentarily satisfied with the situation, Ford knelt next to the fallen guard and checked his condition. He was certainly out cold, but that could be a temporary thing. He pulled the man's automatic pistol from a holster strapped to his belt, then motioned Ortiz over. Between the two of them they quickly had him trussed up hand and foot with a couple of belts and gagged with strips of material from a curtain. He was then heaved unceremoniously into the room's utility closet. Miguel Ortiz quickly returned to his position next to Crocker and Shan while Jonathan Ford beckoned to O'Neill and Westphalen.

"Look..." Ford glanced at the group assembled near the doorway, then to O'Neill again and finally to Westphalen. "We need to move fast here... but before we go any further we need to get these hostages out. I'm leaving that up to you two." He held up a hand as Kristin stepped forward and started to say something. "No arguments! You and O'Neill are in charge of getting these people out of this building and out of harm's way." He bent down to pick up the blueprints that Kristin had apparently dropped when the panel had fallen forward, startling them all. Now that they knew what the markings on the plans meant they were fairly easy to understand. Along with that, Shan had taken the initiative to mark the route he, Ford and Ortiz had taken on the way up. Getting the hostages out would appear to be a relatively simple task.

Within minutes the two dozen unwilling participants in the now almost three day old event... less three UEO guards who'd been handcuffed to their chairs by Smith's henchmen... had been herded in a quite orderly fashion into the space beyond the false wall. Kristin waited at the head of the group, watching curiously as Jonathan Ford conducted a last-second conversation with Tim O'Neill. Apparently finished with what he had to say, and satisfied that O'Neill understood his instructions, he motioned the young lieutenant in to join Kristin at the head of the line. Then he and Miguel Ortiz lifted the fallen panel back into place and secured it. William Shan, meanwhile, made quick work of releasing and arming the three guards as Crocker continued his vigil at the door.

Nathan Bridger watched covertly as Patrick Smith briefly unfolded the set of blueprints he'd been handed, glanced at them, then folded them back together again. All the while Ben Krieg's voice hummed in the background as he pussyfooted around about radar and submarines. Smith turned to his second-in-command, who was leaning against the wall behind him, and said something which caused him to straighten. Both men then glanced toward the doorway as another guard appeared and related some sort of news. Aiden Montgomery threw a questioning glance at Smith, who frowned briefly before shaking his head and waving the man away. Apparently he wasn't too interested in whatever information had been provided.

Smith turned back to the proceedings.

Bridger turned his gaze back to the wall directly across from him, eyes once more expressionless. Out of the corner of those eyes he saw Aiden Montgomery reach for the communications device clipped to his belt. He raised it to his ear and listened for a moment. Following a muted conversation he stepped to Smith's shoulder and said something. Smith raised an eyebrow. Then he raised his hand.

Ben Krieg, in mid-stride and mid-tirade, stopped and raised his own eyebrow.

"We'll break for ten minutes..."

With those words Smith and one of the guards quickly exited.

Something was happening. And Nathan Bridger didn't particularly like the suspicions that were entering his mind. He leaned forward, the fingers of his right hand drumming silently on the tabletop. He knew what he had to do. He just hoped it would be enough. Drawing a deep breath... and ignoring the curious gazes of Bill Noyce, Scott Keller, Tom McGath and his eminent council... he pushed back his chair, rounded the table and approached Aiden Montgomery.

"And just what exactly do you think that's supposed to mean to me?"

Patrick Smith gazed at the man whose image appeared on the vid-screen. Rex Humboldt was up to something. He could feel it in his bones.

"All I'm asking is that you take the time to watch--"

"I'm not interested in anything Jerome Bennett has to say... President of the United States notwithstanding. He's a non-player in this situation... " Smith smiled grimly as the man on the screen leaned forward and opened his mouth to reply. "You can cut out all the histrionics, Humboldt... Bridger's getting his day in court even as we speak. So far the jury's heard nothing to dissuade them from the evidence that's already been presented. I expect we'll be finished here..." he checked his wristwatch, noting that it was past six o'clock already, "...before the estimable President Bennett is halfway into his patented "Good evening my fellow Americans and my brothers and sisters throughout the world" double-talk," he ended sardonically.

"You're making one hell of a big mistake, Smith."

"I don't make mistakes, Mr. Humboldt."

Humboldt stared the other man in the eyes, not flinching away from his holier than thou attitude. He also knew the time... and hoped that this small distraction had given Ford and his men ample opportunity to make their move. Whatever that might be. He hesitated to even think about it. And it wasn't as if he actually expected this strange Smith character to actually pay heed to his words concerning President Bennett's quasi press conference. He'd merely managed to pull him away from the scene of the action for a few minutes to help draw things out a bit... and perhaps put a niggling doubt in the back of his mind at the same time. Maybe enough of a doubt to distract him... even momentarily.

Humboldt held up a sheaf of papers.

"The proof is here, Smith..." he repeated. "If you really want everyone to know the truth about what happened at Ponta Delgada... its right here... in my hand."

"Don't try to play me for a fool, Humboldt... I'm also not stupid."

Smith punched a button on the vid-screen and it went to black.

Tim O'Neill pushed at his glasses and took a few seconds to glance back at his charges. They'd been a good group. He was impressed. And they'd made good time. They'd almost reached the bottom level where Ford's small group had entered the building. He'd been informed about the guards who'd been left bound and gagged in various shadowy out of the way places. Hopefully they remained that way. Of course, if one had somehow managed to escape his bonds the place would've been jumping immediately. So maybe they were in the clear. He certainly hoped so.

Returning his gaze to once again peer in front of him, O'Neill suddenly stopped as he noted a door some distance ahead. Holding out a hand for the blueprints Kristin Westphalen carried, he snapped his penlight on and took a close look at the drawings. Then he looked around the small space they were in. Then he looked once more at the door. This was it. Their exit to the outside world. He slipped forward and pulled at the door. Surprisingly it opened for him. He hoped that wasn't a bad omen. Tim peeked through the crack between the door and doorjamb. All he saw was a lot of darkness. He slipped his body halfway through the opening and tried to acclimatize himself with his surroundings. The area was familiar to him. Cocking his head, he listened. It was eerily silent.

"Well..." he whispered to himself, "...there's no time like the present."

With that, he pulled the door to and turned to the group behind him.

"Okay, people... we go out single file... and we try very hard not to make any noise." He knew that part of it should be relatively simple, as he'd had everyone shed their shoes at the beginning of their descent to mute the sounds of their steps. Otherwise they would have been as obvious as a herd of elephants. "No talking... not even a whisper..." he stressed. "We won't be going far..." he glanced again at the blueprints,"... there's a security shelter about forty yards to the left once we enter the tramway area. Commander Ford was given key codes by UEO security so we'll have no problem getting in." He raised his eyes. "The main thing is... it'll be safe... and we'll have outside communications. It'll just be a matter of waiting things out."

O'Neill felt Westphalen's eyes on him as he uttered those last few words, but refrained from glancing at her. Instead he once again opened the door a crack, moved halfway through, looked around, then motioned for the beefy guy at the head of the line to move out. He didn't get any arguments. Tim watched as the ragged line moved slowly in the direction he indicated until the last person filed out. He held the door and waited for Kristin to follow. When she didn't budge he gave her a closer look.

"Doctor Westphalen?"

Kristin fixed him with a level gaze.

"I believe your charges are waiting on you, Mr. O'Neill." She knelt down and proceeded to put on her sneakers, which O'Neill noticed for the first time she still carried in her hand. He began to have an extremely uneasy feeling... made especially so due to some of Jonathan Ford's final words to him before they started their trek.

"My... Uh uh... no you don't..." he stuttered, " ...glancing back through the doorway to keep an eye on his group. "Look..." he grasped Westphalen's elbow as she straightened, "...Commander Ford told me you might do something like this... he'll have my behind."

Westphalen disengaged O'Neill's hand.

"He'll have your behind as you put it, Lieutenant, if you don't get those people to safety."

"What about your safety?"

"I don't believe that's your concern," Kristin returned gently, then turned in the direction they'd just come. O'Neill watched her move away, not quite certain what to do, his eyes darting between her retreating back and the group outside. Coming to a sudden decision, he slipped out and quickly led the former hostages to the security shelter. After entering the key codes which gave them entrance he ushered them inside, admonishing them with instructions and quickly pointing out the communications equipment. He then exited the building and pushed the door shut, making extremely certain it was well secured. Within minutes he'd caught up with Westphalen.

Aiden Montgomery leaned backwards against the wall almost casually, his automatic rifle pointed toward the floor, and looked curiously at the man who stood in front of him. Nathan Bridger stared right back at him. Hands thrust deeply into his pockets, his appearance, at least from the short distance across the room, seemed as easy-going as the other man's. From their stances the two men could have been exchanging theories on which team would win the next World Series. That obviously wasn't the case though.

Scott Keller exchanged a knowing glance with Bill Noyce.

"Why do I get the feeling he's in the process of doing something incredibly stupid?"

Noyce released an uneasy sigh as his gaze rested on the man across the room. He figured he knew exactly what Bridger was up to,

"Probably because he is."

Keller's eyes narrowed on Noyce before homing in on Bridger again.

Katie Hitchcock stared at Rex Humboldt. She could see Lucas Wolenczak moving restlessly in the background.

"Things are moving a bit more quickly than we'd figured--"

"What do you mean?" Hitchcock's shapely black eyebrows drew together in a small frown as she interrupted him.

Humboldt grimaced.

"We found out who their man on the inside was." He sounded almost sick. "I'd hoped from the very beginning of this thing, no... maybe prayed is the better word, that none of my people were involved. I thought I knew them all too well. Apparently..." Humboldt rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly and rested his gaze on the table in front of him, "...apparently I was wrong."

Hitchcock didn't interrupt Humboldt's reverie, figuring his preoccupation would pass and he'd continue. Which he did.

"Fortunately it didn't take much to get him to talk. Funny thing about it is... the man's been working both sides of the fence. Not only did he manage to clear the way for Smith and his men to get into the UEO facility virtually unnoticed and untouched... he's been hand-feeding Bennett and his people information about the situation almost faster than we've received it. " Humboldt almost laughed. "Looks like I'll have to start doing a better job of hiring people. Anyway... the gist of what we got from him is... the good President's not planning on taking this lying down. He's ordered his own people to take care of the situation... if you get my drift."

Hitchcock figured she did. She became thoughtful as she continued to stare at Rex Humboldt's face on the vid-screen. Gradually a small grin began to tip the corners of her lips.

"He'll need firepower for that sort of thing," she finally said.

"Yeah."

Humboldt eyed her curiously. Lucas stopped his pacing and moved up behind the other man, staring over his shoulder at Katie.

"You know..." Katie drawled, "...I don't think there's a ship in the area right now that has that type of firepower..." her grin became an open smile, "...other than the Clinton. I'd lay a bet we have more than enough to cover whatever Bennett might be planning."

Humboldt quirked an eyebrow. Now he began to smile as he caught her drift.

"You know, Captain..." he murmured, leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction, "...I sure do like the way your mind works. I believe I'll have myself a little chat with that stool-pigeon of a security guard I hired. He's in deep enough shit as it is... he should be more than willing to feed his pals whatever information we want passed along."

"You do that, Mr. Humboldt. Make sure President Bennett and his people know we're out here..." Katie murmured thoughtfully. "Make sure they know we're out here... and that we'll welcome them with open arms."

Aiden Montgomery stood just inside the doorway as Patrick Smith ended the vid-phone conversation that Rex Humboldt had initiated. A small frown had settled between his eyes as he'd watched his boss's reaction... or perhaps that should be non-reaction... to the evidence Humboldt proclaimed to have which would clear Nathan Bridger of any involvement in the situation in which Smith had implicated him. Montgomery remained silent as he digested this information... as he covertly stared at his employer. He'd had a bad feeling about this whole affair almost from the beginning. From the moment he'd found out about the woman... and Smith's past relationship with her. Perhaps... just perhaps... this thing had started out as all the others that had gone before had... as a way to rectify a wrong. Or at least a perceived wrong. But it hadn't continued that way. It had become personal for Patrick Smith... no matter what he said. No matter what he did. Perhaps... and again just perhaps... Smith hadn't meant that to happen. But it had. And that was that.

Montgomery sighed. Not that it mattered a whole lot one way or the other any more.

Smith must have heard the soft exhalation. He turned his head to stare at Montgomery. Not too quickly. He hadn't been startled. He didn't seem surprised to see his second in command standing there. Smith glanced at his watch... then picked up the set of blueprints which he'd laid on the desk next to the vid-phone. He stood up as he began to unfold them.

"Monty, I want--"

"No, you don't," the other man interrupted. Montgomery stepped further into the room. "It's over," he said softly, taking the blueprints from Smith and tossing them to the desk. "It's over... and it's time for us to go home."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Smith's voice was low and controlled.

Montgomery stared at him, his gaze flickering somewhat dispassionately over Smith's face, taking in the tiredness around his eyes, the few added wrinkles of worry which sketched his forehead, the granite-hard grey stare which he continued to exhibit and which told the world and its minions to stand clear. Suddenly he wasn't very sure he liked this man. Maybe he'd never liked him. Sometimes money had a way of taking precedence over things like that. Suddenly he didn't like himself very much either.

"Bridger wants to do a deal." He watched Smith's face, waiting for a crack in the facade. He didn't find one.

"You don't say..." Smith murmured, his eyes thoughtful... and just a little bit suspicious. He turned away, wandering toward the window and leaning against the wall next to it, away from any prying eyes that might be out there. He pulled the curtain back just an inch or so and let his gaze rest on the blackness of late evening. "What kind of deal?"

"He said he'll admit responsibility for what happened--"

Smith brought his head around to stare at Montgomery.

"If?" He knew there was an if. There was always an if.

"--if you'll guarantee the safety of the hostages..." Montgomery paused a moment, "...and everybody else."

"Everybody else?"

Montgomery shrugged in an offhand manner. Sometimes playing dumb was the better part of valor.

"I suppose he means Noyce and McGath... and the others."

"Oh, you suppose that do you?" Smith let the curtain fall back into place and turned toward the desk. He fingered the half-open set of blueprints which lay there. "Well... I suppose differently," he murmured, picking the packet up and pulling it open, map-wise. He stared at the blue and white specs as though willing them to talk. "The good Captain knows something we don't"

Smith lifted his gaze to Montgomery, who stood just inside the doorway, his rifle resting casually along his forearm. His eyes stopped there only briefly though... before moving on to stare at something beyond the other man's shoulder. Curious, Montgomery turned in the direction of the stare. For some strange reason he wasn't at all surprised to find Kristin Westphalen standing there.