Chapter Ten
'You've Gotta Know When to Hold 'Em... Gotta Know When to Fold 'Em."
 

Ben Krieg didn't feel too good. He didn't feel sick exactly. He just had this feeling in the pit of his stomach. The kind of feeling you get while you're waiting to go into the dentist's office... when you're there for something other than getting your teeth cleaned or your fillings checked. When you know that little drill is sitting in the place where all good little drills sit... waiting for another victim. And that victim's you. Only the victim wasn't him this time. It was the man sitting across the table from him. But his stomach still felt the same way.

He wondered exactly what Bridger was up to... and what his conversation with Aiden Montgomery had been about. Krieg glanced at Bill Noyce. He had a feeling Noyce knew what was going on. He had the same sick look on his face that Ben felt in his stomach. His gaze wandered to Tom McGath. McGath didn't have a clue. And for some strange reason... Ben had gotten the feeling over the past few days that the man had slowly and surreptitiously been attempting to distance himself from the whole situation... and the people involved in it. Some great Secretary General he's gonna make. Ben sighed inwardly, his eyes snapping to Scott Keller as that man shifted in his chair. He watched the ensuing by-play between Keller and Bridger as it began to form.

"So what's the plan, Nathan?"

Bridger's cerulean gaze homed in on Keller.

"I was sort of hoping you'd come up with one," he responded, half jokingly.

Keller eyed his old friend carefully. No words had passed between anyone around the table since Bridger had returned from his short chat with Montgomery. But Keller didn't need the words to help him make sense of what Bridger was doing. He knew what he was doing and he understood why. That didn't mean he had to like it. And it certainly didn't mean that he still wasn't of the opinion that it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. But that was Nathan Bridger for you. No dilly-dallying around. Cut to the quick of the situation and make the decision that appears to be the most sound. And along the way hope that the old adage... about things always seeming darkest before the dawn... pans out. This situation certainly seemed at its darkest point at the moment.

"You kinda poked all the air out of anything I might have come up with," Scott finally responded, a grimly humorous half-smile curling his lips. He watched as Bridger seemed to pull himself out of some kind of reverie and start to say something. Whatever it might have been was never uttered, as the door across the room was pushed open. Aiden Montgomery appeared for a brief moment and spoke to the two guards standing there. Then he disappeared. The guards, meanwhile, motioned to the members of the so-called jury, who all slowly stood and filed silently from the room.

"Well... I guess that answers that question," Nathan murmured after a few moments of silence.

Ben Krieg looked at him curiously.

"What question?"

Bridger sighed and leaned back in his chair, his gaze on the now closed door. He didn't answer.

Manilow Crocker crept silently toward the corner leading to the elevators and stairwell entrance. Flattening himself against the wall, he moved forward and gave a quick peek in their direction. He drew his head back sharply as the lone guard who was stationed there, and who was pacing back and forth, turned in his direction. He listened to the man's footsteps as they came closer, then stopped and turned and headed back in the opposite direction again. Crocker leaned forward and looked around the corner again, judging his chances. A few quick steps and his arm would be around the other man's throat. Quick and quiet. On the verge of putting his thoughts into action, Crocker paused and listened. He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairwell. Lots of them. As he watched, the stairwell door opened and a black-clad guard stepped into the corridor, followed by a group of civilians which Crocker recognized, then another guard. With a short expletive he quickly backed away and scampered back to Ford and the others.

Katherine Hitchcock watched as a sleek black helicopter touched down on the appropriately marked helipad of the Clinton. The gusts stirred up by the rotors blew her shoulder-length black hair in all directions, some of it whipping into her eyes and causing her to bring up an impatient hand to adjust her cap. Once the air had settled a dozen camouflage-clad figures piled from the chopper and headed in her direction. Katie's glance ticked off those of her own crew who were atop, stopping briefly on Commander Marco Mendoza, who had emerged from the conning tower pilot-house and approached the helicopter from the backside. She saw him make a quick inventory of the craft before rounding it to the left, just past the pilot's compartment. He shook his head slightly as he met her eyes. Katie could just make out the grim amusement in his clear blue glance... as well as the anticipation of what was to come. Mendoza had trained as a Navy Seal and as such thrived on situations just like this one.

Hitchcock had to admit she was impressed with the group which had disembarked the chopper. It appeared to be quite an elite bunch. She was therefore relieved, and somewhat surprised, when she realized that none of the individuals had bothered to board her ship carrying a weapon. They were making things just too easy... to begin with anyway. As the apparent leader of the pack stepped toward her, Katie motioned to the Clinton crewmen stationed behind her and behind Commander Mendoza. They... on the other hand... had been taught well. Each man and woman who stepped forward carried a weapon... and each weapon was trained on what Hitchcock had been led to believe --by the obvious politico who'd contacted her through who knows what channels -- was a counter-terrorist detail. According to Rex Humboldt and Lucas Wolenczak, on the other hand, they were the minions of President Jerome Bennett.

She certainly hoped the latter was correct... being court-martialed for insubordination and other high crimes wasn't really tops on her list at the moment.

Giving an inward sigh she stepped forward.

"I'm Captain Hitchcock..." she stated. "...Welcome aboard... gentlemen."

"What's going on up there?" Rex Humboldt ran worried fingers through his hair as he stared at the image of Jonathan Ford which appeared on the vid-screen. Ford glanced away from him and spoke with someone briefly. Then he turned his attention back to Humboldt.

"I'm not certain..." Ford rubbed a hand across his forehead, back over his head and down the back of his neck, which he massaged briefly. He looked tired. "We got the hostages on this floor out... and we're sending another group now. Crocker--"

Manilow Crocker appeared on the screen next to Ford and gave a quick thumbs up to Humboldt.

"I recognized these people we're sending down now..." Crocker puffed, "...they were in the room where the Captain and the others were being held. This Smith guy picked 'em out to act as his jury." His blue eyes, which normally twinkled with something between amusement and irreverence, were as serious as Rex Humboldt had ever seen them. Serious... and worried. "You know what that means..." he continued, "...it means he's finished with whatever he set out to do."

Humboldt nodded. He knew all right. He glanced at Ford.

"How close are you?"

Jonathan looked away from the vid-screen as though checking with someone, then looked at the security man again.

"We have a few loose ends to tie up here..." his lips quirked briefly at his own joke as he watched William Shan and Miguel Ortiz finish trussing up the two black-clad guards who'd led the former jury into the room. Both men were unconscious. They were quickly reunited with their fellow terrorist who already resided, also unconscious, in the utility closet.

"We'll be heading up in..." he glanced at his watch, glanced at Crocker and the others who'd gathered round... Shan, Ortiz and the three UEO guards they'd released... and then back to Humboldt, "...five minutes exactly." Jonathan drew a deep breath. "Are your people ready?"

Humboldt nodded.

"They're ready."

"All right..." Ford murmured, looking at his people again, "...let's get this show on the road..."

It didn't taken Aiden Montgomery very long to reappear once Smith's so-called 'jury of one's peers' had been escorted from the room. Within moments he returned, his shadow looming over the conference table as he stopped across from Nathan Bridger. As one of the remaining three guards nudged Scott Keller and Ben Krieg out of the way with the muzzle of his rifle, Montgomery removed a sheet of paper from a portfolio he now carried. He looked it over carefully before placing it on the table. Then he quickly spun it around and slid it forward until it rested in front of Nathan. He then pulled a pen from his pocket and placed it on the table next to the sheet of paper.

Montgomery watched as Bridger leaned forward and with his index finger pulled the sheet of paper closer. He read what was written there. It didn't take long. It was short and sweet. Nothing quite like having your own confession written out for you... leaving you to do nothing more strenuous than sign on the dotted line. Which was exactly what this document did. I did it... I'm guilty... I accept the consequences for my actions.

When he was done reading the three short... very short... paragraphs which the page bore, Bridger glanced at Montgomery.

"Did he agree to his part?"

As an initial response to Bridger's question Montgomery merely looked at him, scrutinizing him from across the table. His gaze took in his bloodied shirt front, the stains now browned but nevertheless obvious for what they were, the still conspicuous split lip, the black eye and discolored cheekbone. And he wondered what made this man do what he was doing. And why, considering the consequences to him personally, he showed any concern at all for the other hostages. Finally Montgomery nodded in answer to Bridger's question.

"He gives his word."

"And how good is his word?" Bridger inquired softly.

"I've never had a problem with it."

Montgomery got an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach as the other man continued to stare at him, almost through him. Finally Bridger nodded and picked up the pen.

"I guess that's good enough for me."

Nathan placed the nib of the pen on the line which waited for his signature. He paused for a moment as he thoughtfully stared at the point at which pen and paper connected, then quickly and without hesitation scrawled his signature in the space allotted it. Dropping the pen back to the tabletop, he spun the sheet around and slid it back over to Montgomery.

Aiden Montgomery stared at the piece of paper. Without touching it he looked back across the table at Nathan Bridger. There was a curious... and briefly confused... look in his eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked in a low voice.

Bridger returned his gaze without comment. Montgomery picked up the sheet of paper and looked at it... looked at the signature scribbled across the bottom... looked back at Nathan.

"You're not responsible for what happened at Ponta Delgada..." Montgomery finally admitted, not only to Bridger but possibly for the first time to himself, "...so why are you doing this?"

Bridger seemed to consider his answer.

"Sometimes responsibility doesn't lie in what you do..." he finally said, his voice soft, his gaze not really on Montgomery, but on something in the past, "...but in what you don't do."

Lieutenant (jg) Timothy O'Neill opened the door of the men's room. Just a crack. Not that he needed to go to the men's room. Actually, he was quite surprised that no one seemed to be interested in the men's room. No one ever went there... or rather came in there. Because that's where he was... and if anyone had come in he would have seen him. And anyone coming in would certainly have seen Tim O'Neill. But no one ever came in. Maybe that's what happened in situations like this... when the adrenaline started flowing. Suddenly certain bodily functions came to a standstill. If only he could be so lucky. The first thing he'd had to do... once Dr. Westphalen left him alone there... was use the facilities.

But at the moment, O'Neill wasn't interested in all that. He was just interested in getting out of there. He'd considered trying what Westphalen had done... just open the door and walk out. Unfortunately, while he had a feeling she'd be able to get away with it, and quite obviously had, things wouldn't quite work that way for him. Things never worked that way for him.

Tim bit his lip as he peered through the partially open door. Then he thoughtfully pushed his glasses back. His fingers remained where they were for a few seconds, then his hand dropped to his belt and the automatic pistol which he'd stuck there. Jonathan Ford had given it to him ù Tim glanced at his watch ù gee, seemed like hours ago, yet it was actually less than an hour since he and the doctor had led the hostages down to safety. Ford had instructed him to use it if necessary, but not to do anything rash. Hah! That would be the day. Of course, maybe today was that day. Drawing a deep breath, O'Neill settled his hand around the butt of the weapon and pulled it from his belt. Then he pushed the door open a little wider. Seeing no one in the vicinity, he stepped into the corridor, allowing the door to snap quietly shut behind him. Then he picked a direction and headed that way, keeping close to the wall... and keeping very quiet.

Patrick Smith stared meditatively at the woman sitting across from him. For all intents and purposes he appeared totally relaxed, leaning back in the big chair behind the desk, hands loosely clasping its leathered arms. He even rocked gently back and forward a bit as he considered Kristin Westphalen with his thoughtful grey gaze. She occupied one of the overstuffed chairs which faced the desk. From the way she sat there, from the expression on her face, her thoughts were anywhere but with him. She didn't even seem to be aware of his presence, though he knew that couldn't actually be the case. He wondered what she was thinking.

"Why'd you come back?"

Kristin glanced up, startled out of her reverie, her dark gaze slowly focusing on Smith's face. She searched his eyes. He wondered what she found there.

"To make you change your mind."

Smith's eyebrows went up.

"And just why do you think I'd be interested in doing that?"

"Because..." Kristin met his eyes again. Eyes she'd once known so well... or thought she had. In the end, all those years ago, she'd been wrong. Because those eyes had lied to her. Those eyes had made promises that weren't meant to be kept. Those eyes had hidden a part of this man from her. And in the end those eyes had hurt her.

"Because?" Smith prompted.

"Because... you're making a mistake..."

Smith frowned, wondering exactly how many times he'd heard that phrase in the past few days. He was growing rather tired of it. And of this situation. Maybe Monty was right. Maybe it was time to go home. Get the whole damn thing over with and go home.

"What you're doing to Nathan is wrong."

Smith rocked back in his chair.

"No..." he responded in a low voice, "...what I'm doing is righting a wrong."

Kristin ran weary fingers through her hair, then cupped her chin in her hand as her elbow rested on the arm of the chair. She looked at Smith, then down at the textured weave of the light gray material her arm rested against. Her gaze remained there when she finally spoke.

"You don't know him the way I do."

Smith considered her words.

"No... I don't suppose I do," he admitted.

"He would never do anything like that..." Kristin glanced at him from beneath her lashes, "...he couldn't. He's just not made that way. It would-- ...it would kill him if he even thought he was responsible for what you're accusing him of. "

"Often..." Smith countered softly, "...what we see in a person is colored by other things. By our feelings. You see him in one light... because of your..." he lifted one shoulder in an offhand shrug, "...your emotional and physical attachment. I don't have that handicap. I see things for what they are."

Kristin's lips trembled. When she lifted her head to look at him Smith could see the glitter of tears in her eyes. But she didn't cry.

"You can't -- ...you can't do this, Patrick," she whispered. "You can't just come in here and take him away from me."

Smith leaned forward suddenly, his chair squeaking in protest.

"Dammit, Kristin!" he snapped. "What do I have to do to make you understand? I'm not doing this to hurt you--"

"I guess that's just an added bonus," she interrupted in a low voice.

Smith ran irritable fingers through his hair.

"Just how the hell can I prove to you--"

He stopped and glanced away from her as Aiden Montgomery appeared in the doorway. Montgomery's own gaze moved between the two of them, taking in the obvious frustration and anger of Patrick Smith and the tenseness of the woman sitting across from him. He didn't say anything, merely moved further into the room and placed a sheet of paper on the desk in front of his boss. Smith looked at the sheet of paper... then looked across at Kristin. Abruptly standing, he picked the sheet up and all but threw it across the expanse of desk to land in her lap. Then he placed his hands flat against the top of the desk and leaned forward, watching as she read what was on the paper.

"Does that tell you anything?" Smith ground in a rough voice. "Does that say anything at all to you about your precious Nathan Bridger? Can you actually sit there and read that... and continue to tell me that what I'm doing is wrong?"

Kristin had begun shaking her head before she'd even finished reading the one page document. She pulled herself to her feet, her fingers unconsciously crumpling the paper as she stared at the words written upon it and at the signature scrawled across the bottom. "Why are you doing this..." This time, when Kristin looked at Patrick Smith, the tears were evident, their glistening trails streaking her face. She swallowed, something she appeared to have great difficulty doing, her ebony gaze going to Montgomery. "You know why he's doing this..." she entreated in a husky whisper, this time not referring to Smith, and not looking at him, speaking instead to Montgomery, "...not because he's guilty of... of..." she further crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it to the desktop, "...of anything. He doesn't want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt..." Kristin's gaze returned to Smith. "Can't you see that?"

Smith had remained motionless, his hands still resting against the desktop as he leaned forward and stared at Kristin. His expression remained impassive.

"Or maybe he's just taking the coward's way out."

You could have heard a pin drop following Patrick Smith's comment. You could have heard a pin drop against the two-inch thick, double lined, plush pile carpeting that covered the floor.

The resounding slap that Kristin Westphalen administered to Patrick Smith's left cheek, on the other hand, echoed through the room like a pistol shot.

"You bastard..."

Jonathan Ford, Manilow Crocker, William Shan, Miguel Ortiz and the three UEO security guards made their very careful, and extremely quiet, way from the room in which they'd held themselves sequestered. They crept along the corridor, backs to the wall, weapons at the ready. They had no idea what, or who, they'd find as they attempted to make their way up one level to the floor on which the major activity was taking place. Ford had been mildly surprised at the lack of manpower which the terrorists had left behind on the floor they currently occupied. Three crumpled guards in a utility closet wasn't very extreme resistance.

Manilow Crocker's theory was that the intruders didn't want themselves spread too thinly. There were only about fifty of them... only being relative of course. For some purposes fifty would be a lot. For this one it was enough to cover all the bases and no more. A big enough group to get in with... and a small enough one that they'd all be assured of getting out in the end. So the majority of the firepower was right where it was needed... one floor up where the center of the action was. There were probably a number of men on the roof as well, standing by to man the choppers at a moment's notice. Of course, eventually, the three guards who they'd been able to overpower would be missed and someone would come looking for them. Especially if they couldn't get through via the communications devices worn on their belts. And more especially if... as it appeared... this whole miserable incident was on the verge of being over. Something which the appearance of those relegated to the jury implied.

The small group moved quickly across the foyer which held the elevators and slipped into the stairwell. As the heavy door swung slowly shut behind them, Jonathan Ford pulled the comm-link from his belt and contacted Rex Humboldt again. Were his men ready to go? Were there any last second details he should know about? Ford received yes and no answers respectively. He also received a new bit of information. The tactical team sent in by President Bennett and his minions was confined aboard the H. R. Clinton... and the Clinton was stationed some twenty miles off the coast, in position for its role in what was about to take place. Jonathan found some small relief in knowing that, whatever the outcome of their looming confrontation, Patrick Smith's helicopters would never make it beyond the coastline visible from the windows of the building they were now in.

Bill Noyce rested his elbows on the shiny top of the conference table and ran a weary hand over his unshaven face. His palm came to rest over his eyes and he allowed it to remain there for a few moments. He wondered where Janet was. What she was doing. What was going through her mind. The girls would be with her... if not in person then in spirit. Elaine and Melanie... married and with families of their own now, living on the mainland. Becka... living on the Big Island... splitting time between her real job and her avocation as 'professional student' as she called it. They'd all be worried... but most especially Janet. Being a Navy wife had never been easy. Thirty years of trying to keep track of a husband whose assignments had always meant he'd be right in the middle of every incident that required even the remotest threat of sea power would have been more than most women could handle. His appointment as Secretary General of the UEO should have been a step down from that life of continuous worry. Unfortunately, it had become just the opposite due to the hazards of having to deal with the ambiguities of the ever-increasing number of rival confederations. And now this... here... at home. Where they were all supposed to be safe. Noyce's hand dropped back to the tabletop and his gaze went back to the calendar he'd been staring at earlier... days ago now. Two more months. And much as he dreaded those two months... his fervent prayer on this day was that he'd be alive to see them. Along with everyone else in the room.

Giving himself a mental shake, Noyce dropped back in his chair, his head coming to rest against its high back. His gaze shifted to the man sitting to his right. He wondered what was going through Nathan's head. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know. Then he glanced at Scott Keller. Keller was sitting half turned away from them in his chair, frowning at the floor. Maybe he'd come up with something. They had to come up with something. Time was fast running out.

Patrick Smith's grey gaze dropped to the desktop and remained there for several long minutes. The red imprint left by Kristin's hand was starkly visible across the left side of his face. The blow she'd applied had to have hurt. And it did. Which was why he continued staring at the desk... loath to raise his eyes for fear the physical pain of her slap was visible there. Outwardly he remained impassive, allowing himself no overt response to her action. Inwardly he felt the painful sting of her hand... and of her rather succinct observation concerning his lineage... and of the condemnation in her eyes. Following a lengthy silence he finally straightened, his fingers briefly going to his cheek, as he aimed his gaze at the woman who remained standing directly across the oaken expanse of the desk. There was a certain defiance in her smoky eyes that was at odds with her damp cheeks and trembling lips.

A fifteen year old memory suddenly intruded on Smith's consciousness. Of a confrontation much like this one. Not for the same reasons of course. His office in Brisbane. He on one side of the desk... Kristin on the other. Her hand raised to strike him much like she'd just done. But on that occasion it had paused, just a hair's breadth from his face, the fingers curling instead into a fist which had slowly dropped to her side. There'd been tears on that day too. But... as he thought back on it... the emotions that had gone along with them had been different. There'd been no defiance in her eyes all those years ago... no contempt. No... hatred. Just... anger. Righteous anger. And bitterness. And humiliation. He'd seen that much... before he'd gathered his briefcase and walked out the door, leaving her standing there. He'd often wondered just how long she'd stood there after he left. What she'd done afterwards. Where she'd gone. He hadn't bothered to find out of course... knowing whatever they'd had was over. She'd never be able trust him again, that much had been obvious. Then this... case... had happened along. And there was her name... right next to that of the man who had become his next target.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick Smith pulled his thoughts back to the present. He glanced at Aiden Montgomery, passing along a silent message, before his gaze once again swept over Kristin. Moving from behind the desk he motioned Montgomery to proceed him through the door.

"If you'll excuse me... Mr. Montgomery and I have some..." he seemed to hesitate a moment, both in his words and in his progress to the doorway, "...business... to attend to."

Kristin watched the two men head into the corridor. Taking a painful breath, she advanced one step toward the door.

"Patrick."

He paused with his back toward her.

"Tell me... what I have to do." Her voice was a watery whisper, almost inaudible.

Smith half turned toward her, slanting a sideways glance in her direction. She stood next to the desk, arms wrapped about herself, the defiance gone, replaced instead by a look of entreaty... mixed with desperation.

"Do?" He almost appeared confused.

"So you won't hurt him," Kristin whispered. "What do I have to do? Beg? If you want me to beg... that's what I'll do."

Smith slowly shook his head, a brief hint of compassion actually darkening his eyes. It was gone in an instant.

"There's nothing you can do, Kristin."

She searched his eyes then dropped her gaze to the floor.

"If..." Kristin swallowed hard, "...if you want... if you want me..." she raised her eyes, not meeting Smith's gaze but landing on Aiden Montgomery's instead, "...I'll go with you."

There was a moment of silence during which Patrick Smith seemed to digest this information... this offer. His gaze moved over her as he seemed to consider her words. Then he shook his head again, almost resignedly, as she looked at him.

"It's a very... tempting... proposition," he murmured, "... but I'm afraid I can't accept." He turned back toward the hallway.

"Patrick."

Again he paused, the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head expressing his exasperation in no uncertain terms.

Reasoning with him hadn't worked. Begging hadn't worked. Bargaining hadn't worked. So Kristin tried the only thing she had left. And prayed that there remained, somewhere deep inside him,    the compassion... the kindness... the humanity... she knew had once been part of him. And... perhaps... just a small part of the love he'd once professed to feel for her.

"I'm..."

Smith waited, his head turned slightly toward her as he waited for her to continue.

"I'm... pregnant," Kristin finally whispered.

The expression on Patrick Smith's face didn't change. The profile he presented to her remained unaffected by her pronouncement. If he believed her he gave no indication. He pursed his lips slightly, thoughtfully, then turned his head just a fraction further as he cast her one last glance.

"Well then... I guess he has the last laugh after all."

Aiden Montgomery watched as Patrick Smith pivoted into the corridor and motioned to one of the half dozen guards who occupied the area to take up a position inside the office they'd just left. The door closed and the two of them headed toward the meeting room where Bridger and the others remained confined. Before they'd taken more than half a dozen steps, Smith turned back to the nearest guard. He motioned with his head toward the office.

"Wait a few minutes..." he tersely instructed, "...then take her upstairs."

Receiving a nod from the black-garbed figure, Smith continued on his way. Montgomery momentarily stood and watched him walk away before following, a thoughtful expression in his dark gaze.

Nathan Bridger stared at the wall across the room. The same wall he'd been staring at on and off for the last couple of days and nights. He knew every flaw and every blemish in the shell white surface by heart. At the moment, though, his thoughts weren't on those imperfections... and he really didn't see the wall at all.

There was no way he was going to get himself out of this one. Those nine lives Crocker always accused him of having had finally run their course. And how. If he could have envisioned the way he'd go out... this wouldn't have even made the top ten list.

He didn't want it to end this way. Not with so much left undone... and unsaid.

Part of it was the regrets. We all lived with them. We all died with them. He just wished he didn't have so many.

He regretted all the time he'd spent apart from Carol. Time spent on a battleship or a submarine, somewhere halfway around the world, instead of with her. Not being there for the anniversaries, for the birthdays, for the little things you didn't even think about until you missed them. During all the years they'd been married he'd spent more time with the members of his various crews than he had with her. How the hell she'd put up with it he'd never know.

He regretted not knowing his son as well as he could have... as well as he should have... for the same reasons. He regretted ever allowing him to join the military. Not that it would have made any difference it he'd tried to change his mind. In Robert Bridger's eyes his father had epitomized the Navy. It had made him what he was. A hero to a lot of people... a hero to him. So he'd joined the Navy. And he'd died. Something else Nathan regretted.

He regretted ever allowing Bill Noyce to barge back into his life and entice him into visiting seaQuest. Most of the time. Sometimes. Mostly on bad days. Not as often as he used to. He had to admit that some good things had come of that visit. Like Kristin. And Lucas. They far outweighed the bad. Like Stark. And Zellar. And Tezlof.

By far his biggest regret was not telling Kristin he loved her. Not telling her often enough anyway. He'd told her yesterday... was it only yesterday? ...but beyond that he couldn't remember when he'd last said those words to her. He knew it meant a lot to her to hear the words. He knew how it made him feel when she spoke those words to him. If it meant anywhere near as much to her... then he deserved to be shot for not saying them... if for no other reason. And he had no excuse. She gave him every opportunity imaginable. His thoughts went back to the last weekend they'd spent together... well over a month ago now... at the secluded bungalow he'd borrowed from Malcolm. They'd spent half their time making love... the last time they'd done that too... and every time, just before she'd drifted into sleep, Kristin had told him she loved him. And he hadn't said anything. He'd responded by kissing her... by wrapping his arms more tightly around her and holding her closer. But he hadn't responded in the way she needed him to. He hadn't said those words back to her. Even worse... he hadn't said them first. Resting his elbows on the top of the conference table, Nathan ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, leaving them there as he stared down at the shiny oak surface. Maybe she was right. Maybe he had been taking her for granted. Maybe be had been spending more time than was necessary working on the new boat. Time he should have been spending with her. Just like the time he should have spent with Carol. And it had been pushing her away. He had been pushing her away...

"Nathan."

Bridger straightened in his chair, startled at the sound of Bill Noyce's voice. Bill was staring at him, a funny expression in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Nathan dropped back in his chair, a non-committal look returning to his own gaze as he raised an eyebrow at his friend.

"Are you... "

Whatever question it was that Noyce was about to ask died on his lips as the door opened once again. Patrick Smith stepped into the room, followed by Aiden Montgomery and four guards. Wordlessly the guards strode across the room and around the conference table, ushering Noyce, Keller, McGath and Krieg to their feet with prods from the barrels of their automatic rifles. Keller, sitting to Bridger's right at the head of the table, was the last to get up. He did so very slowly, his eyes taking in every action the guards made.

"Scott."

Halfway to his feet, he glanced at Nathan, and watched as his friend pulled the Naval Academy ring from his finger. Bridger looked at it for a moment, then passed it along to Keller, who automatically opened his hand to receive it. He too stared at it, almost with a sense of clairvoyance knowing what Bridger was about to say.

"If things don't work out here..." Nathan softly told him, his implication obvious, "...do me a favor and make sure Kristin gets that."

"Nathan... we'll come up with something," Scott returned, his eyes darting from Bridger to the others in the room. "There's still time."

Bridger sighed and nodded.

"Fine, Scott... but just humor me, okay?"

Keller exchanged a final glance with him and nodded. He appeared about to say something else when the barrel of a rifle poked him in the ribs, none too gently. With a covert thumbs up to Bridger, he allowed himself to be escorted from the room. As the guard ushered him out the door closed behind them. Smith, Montgomery and one of the guards remained behind. Suddenly Nathan Bridger felt very alone.

Chapter Eleven
'Then Along Came the Cavalry'
 

Lucas Wolenczak stood behind a tree, leaning lightly against it as he stared at the building in the distance. It seemed almost nothing more than a very large shadow against the warm night sky. The floors of the lower level of the facility were darkened, not a crack of light visible. Even the security lights which ringed the grounds had been extinguished. And all this had been done from the inside... by this mysterious Patrick Smith and his people. Of course, they'd had a little help from their mole in Humboldt's security personnel. That was something Lucas couldn't understand. How a man could betray the people he worked for... the people he worked with. Not to mention how his betrayal had affected the people inside that building just beyond the security fence and parking area. Of course the whys and hows didn't matter much at the moment. What was important was what was going on just across the way.

Blue eyes drifted upwards. Lucas stared at the top level of the UEO facility. There were a few lights visible here and there on the top couple of floors. The roof was darkened. It hadn't been before, just a few hours earlier, when evening had first settled. At that time the area had been made very visible by the roof security lighting and the helipad floodlights. So visible, in fact, that the figures of armed men could be identified in various strategic locations, as well as some small armament. Small... but undoubtedly quite powerful. As he thought about it, there'd been more action in the last three or four hours than there seemed to have been in the previous two days. That worried him. Lucas glanced toward the small building off to his right. Rex Humboldt was still inside, silhouetted against the vid-screens in front of him. Two of them now. With one he was keeping in contact with his men, who'd just slipped through the safety fencing which surrounded the UEO grounds. They'd be entering the building shortly, using the same venue Ford and the others had. Only they wouldn't be taking the same route once inside. Once they hit the first floor they'd be going nowhere but up, storming each floor until they reached their objective. They would be timing their moves to coincide with whatever maneuvers Ford's group were able to manage. With the second vid-screen Humboldt was keeping track of the news conference to be held by President Jerome Bennett in less than five minutes.

Lucas returned his gaze and his thoughts to the facility. His family was in there. The people he'd come to regard as his family anyway. Captain Bridger, who'd agreed to become his guardian following the World Power Day fiasco. Or maybe it had been his father who'd agreed to let him go. He wasn't sure which it was, and wasn't certain it mattered all that much either. Whichever it was, he'd had more of a home life in the last three and a half months than he figured he'd had during his previous seventeen years. Add to that the thirteen months aboard seaQuest... and it hadn't been a bad year and a half. Almost year and a half. Not bad at all. Add Dr. Westphalen to the mix... Kristin, he reminded himself. She'd said he should call her that. Not that he'd seen a whole lot of her lately... something the Captain had been pretty closemouthed about. Add Kristin to the mix.. . and things had been just about as good as they could get. Until now. He'd tried not to think about it before. But now, with the end apparently in sight, he couldn't help himself.

Wrapping his arms about himself, Lucas shivered, almost as if he were cold. Goose walking across my grave, he thought, then shivered again at the words that'd popped into his brain. Leaning his head against the tree, he scrunched up his eyes, and prayed. At least that's what he figured it was. The words were just some thoughts that came into his mind as he stood there, not real words. The Captain, had he been there with him, would have been able to put words to the images and bring some sense to them. Make a real prayer out of them. Bridger knew a little bit about praying... he'd admitted to having done a bit of it himself during some pretty desperate situations. Maybe he was doing it right now. Westphalen, on the other hand, would have a more scientific approach to his wordless images. She'd probably mutter something about them being a psychological reaction to the emotional intensity of the situation. But Lucas figured he had her pegged when it came to the so-called spiritual stuff that she professed not to believe in. It was all just a big bluff. He remembered like it was yesterday that day on the beach... when the last launch had surfaced after seaQuest had gone down. The Captain hadn't been aboard. As he'd hugged his father, as his father had actually hugged him back, he'd gazed across the sand at Westphalen. She'd been staring out over the waves, arms wrapped about herself, still waiting. As he'd watched he'd seen her lips move. He knew she'd been praying. She would probably never admit it, but she had been.

With a sigh, Lucas pulled himself together. He gave the UEO facility a final glance then headed back to rejoin Humboldt. He sat down just as Earthnet News Network switched to coverage of the President's address.

Nathan watched as Patrick Smith motioned with his head to the lone remaining guard, who moved across the room to take up a position behind and just to the right of Bridger. Nathan slanted a gaze at the black-garbed figure, taking in the camouflage grease that still adorned his face. He wore an overloaded ammo belt around his waist. His snub-nosed automatic rifle hung from a strap draped over his shoulder. It was pointed at Bridger's back.

"Thank you, Captain."

Bridger's gaze slid back to Smith.

"Excuse me?"

"You've made things much easier on everyone concerned by admitting to your..." Smith pursed his lips and seemed to consider his words, "...your indiscretions."

Nathan's hands rested on the worn leather arms of his chair, which groaned a bit as he leaned all the way back in it. He stared at Smith. The man seemed inordinately relaxed considering the circumstances. Yet at the same time there were obvious signs that the stress of the situation hadn't been lost on him. You could see it around his eyes and around his mouth. There was a certain tenseness there. Bridger could certainly empathize with him. He felt a bit stressed out himself at the moment. For an altogether different reason of course. He wondered if it was obvious to the other man. Make that men. Nathan's eyes slipped past Smith to land on the man standing just behind him. Aiden Montgomery was staring at the floor, his face unreadable. His arms were crossed, his feet spread slightly apart. Bridger had decided that Montgomery, in the long run, seemed a decent sort. He wondered briefly just what had brought him together with Smith. He figured it was the money. Funny what the stuff could make a person do. In Montgomery's case it had to be the only reason... it certainly wasn't anything personal on his part.

Bridger returned his gaze to Smith and met his eyes once again, this time with a hint of curiosity. For the first time since this whole episode had begun he let himself wonder at Kristin's relationship with the other man. To overtly wonder anyway. It had always been there, at the back of his mind. He just hadn't let himself think about it. Besides... he'd had other things on his mind at the same time. Of course, maybe he hadn't wanted to think about their relationship. Past relationship, he reminded himself. Smith must have seen the expression in Nathan's eyes and interpreted it for what it was.

"I suppose you're wondering what she ever saw in me?"

Nathan said nothing. He watched as a faint smile touched Patrick Smith's lips.

"Not a whole lot... in the end," Smith answered himself. "And a hell of a lot less now." His eyes got a faraway look in them as his thoughts seemed to turn inward. A few moments passed in total silence before it was broken by Bridger.

"I thought we had an agreement."

Smith's grey gaze snapped back into focus. Head canted sideways, he raised an eyebrow. He waited for Bridger to continue. He released a long-suffering sigh when Nathan failed to do so.

"Agreement?" Smith prompted.

"You guaranteed everyone else's safety."

"Everyone's..." Smith murmured, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. His thoughts seemed to have drifted again.

Nathan frowned.

"Maybe your word isn't as good as I was led to believe," he offered softly. That brought Smith's attention back to the present... and to him.

"You just don't give up, do you?" he returned, his voice equally as soft and containing just a hint of amusement. "Not to worry..." he continued. Turning slightly, his hand dropped to the pistol resting snug against Aiden Montgomery's side in a shoulder holster. Pulling it out, he unclipped the magazine and scrutinized it. Slipping it back into place, he allowed his gaze to rest on Bridger. "Just a necessary bit of insurance. They'll be released..." he unscrewed the weapon's silencer and slipped it into his pants pocket, "...unharmed, as soon as we've cleared UEO air space."

Smith brought his gaze up to meet Bridger's again. He didn't look away, or even blink, as he handed the pistol back to Aiden Montgomery.

"Time for you to do your job, Monty." A half-smile touched his lips without quite reaching his eyes as he finally looked at the man standing next to him. "It is your turn... if I'm not mistaken."

Montgomery returned his stare.

"Actually..." he returned in a low voice, retaining the pistol but balancing it in his open palm, which he kept extended between himself and Smith, "...it's yours". He held Smith's gaze until the other man dropped his own. A first for both men. The smile which tipped Montgomery's lips mirrored Smith's as he closed his fingers around the weapon and lowered it to his side. "Guess it is a little more personal than you'd like to admit." Smith momentarily met his eyes again before abruptly turning and pulling the door open. He paused briefly in the doorway and glanced back at Bridger. For a moment it seemed he might say something further. Then he shook his head and stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

President Jerome Bennett glanced to his right as he paused just outside the double doors which would momentarily be opened to usher him into his press conference. He was looking for two people. One a tall lanky man with greying red hair and a spray of freckles across his nose that made him appear boyish while already in his fifties. The other, in his seventies, shorter and sporting sleek blue-black, slicked down hair. Neither had appeared in the short hallway which connected to the foyer Bennett now stood in. Already perspiring, he began to sweat profusely. He'd last seen the tall lanky man no more than a half hour earlier... when he'd been informed that the unit which had been sent in to respond to the threat he faced from the terrorists — who gave a damn about anyone else? — had been detained aboard the Clinton. Detained. Stupid word. They'd been caught with their pants down. He'd been caught with his pants down. And now everyone would find out. Now everyone would know. He'd be ruined. Unless... unless he could somehow talk his way out of it. He could do that. He always did that. He just had a way about him... could say almost anything and be believed. That was it. He'd admit it. Say how sorry he was. How he'd been almost unable to live with himself all these years. They'd believe him. Hell... they'd probably even be sorry for him. Might even score a few points in the polls. Maybe Humboldt had been right... maybe telling the truth would set him free. Besides all that, he still had his retirement to think about. Life after the Presidency. Maybe... maybe he could write a book about it...

Stealthily creeping into the corridor, Jonathan Ford looked both ways, a little surprised to find nary a sole around. He motioned to the rest of his group. They crept out behind him, weapons at the ready. Ford looked in both directions then frowned. Now that they were where they needed to be he had absolutely no idea which way to head. He'd only been on this floor on a couple of occasions, and then only very briefly, so he was unacquainted with the layout even though he'd scanned the blueprints earlier. He did know that two sides of the floor were lined with offices and that various conference rooms were positioned in locations strategic to all of them. There was also a large lobby area. Glancing down the short corridor, he noted another hallway angling to the left just past a cluster of elevators. Checking behind him he saw double doors set into the right side of the hallway and marked 'Service Entrance'. Ford frowned and beckoned Manilow Crocker to his side. He pointed out the set of double doors and raised an eyebrow.

Crocker pondered the unspoken question.

"Probably leads to the roof," he whispered.

Ford nodded his agreement. Now all he had to do was make a decision. Opt for the open hallway just a few yards away, figuring it led to the offices and conference rooms, where they'd undoubtedly run into just who they were looking for right off the bat, or head in the other direction and just possibly manage to take the offensive before anyone knew what was happening. He knew there were more than a few men posted on the roof along with some small armament. Not something he especially looked forward to rushing into. But he also knew that eventually those still inside the facility... on this very floor to be exact... would have to head in that direction. One way or another. And to be perfectly honest, he'd rather meet them coming than going. His mind thus made up, Ford motioned everyone toward the service entrance doors. They were almost upon them when all hell finally started to break loose.

It began with the sound of shuffling feet and hurrying bodies. Lots of bodies. And loud voices. All this noise was coming directly from the hallway beyond the cluster of elevators... the route Ford had chosen not to take. Within seconds the bodies — half a dozen of them, clad in black, some still sporting the camouflage paint they'd been wearing when the building was stormed two days previously — burst around the corner. They stopped abruptly, seemingly as surprised to see Ford's small group as the men of seaQuest were to be suddenly faced with them. It didn't taken either group long to come back to life. Within seconds shots were being exchanged between the oncoming terrorists and Ford's group of seven, some of whom had flattened themselves against the walls on both sides of the hallway as others dove through the service entrance doorway.

His back against the wall, Tim O'Neill sidled around a corner. Almost. Halfway around he heard voices and footsteps. Well... one voice and what sounded like two sets of footsteps. He knew that voice. Quickly slipping back into his previous position, Tim settled for just peeking around the corner. Yep... he knew that voice alright. Dr. Westphalen. And the words she was saying weren't pretty. They weren't pretty at all. He'd been in the Navy a while, and figured he'd heard just about everything, but a few of the words she was using made even him blush. And those were just the ones he knew the meaning of. Some he'd never heard before. He figured they must be some sore of British obscenities. He could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks as the woman in question finally came into view... along with her escort. One of the guards. A big man. A very big man. He was glad the man's back was to him. He sure didn't want to be noticed by this guy. Westphalen didn't seem to have the same problem. She was being totally uncooperative. Which was about par for the course. The big galoot had his right arm clamped around her waist and was all but carrying her along the corridor. O'Neill wouldn't have been surprised to see him fling her over his shoulder. As he continued to watch them move further up the hallway, Westphalen twisted a little in the man's grasp so that she was sort of facing in his direction. He felt the sudden impact of her eyes as she noticed him staring furtively from his hiding place. The string of obscenities halted momentarily as her eyes widened. Tim raised his hand in a weak wave, then grimaced as Westphalen and the guard rounded a corner and the haranguing started back up. Even worse than before... it that were possible...

Aiden Montgomery went through the same measured examination of his pistol that his boss had made, closely inspecting the cartridge and barrel. When finished he continued to just stand there and look at it as it rested against his palm, every once in a while turning it over in his hands. He was still staring at it when he finally spoke.

"You know..." he lifted his eyes and glanced in Nathan Bridger's direction, "...I really hate to do this." Giving Bridger no time to react to his words, he abruptly raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.

The sound of a gunshot brought Patrick Smith to a precipitate halt as he strode toward the stairwell leading to the roof. But... not just one gunshot. Not just the one gunshot he'd been expecting. There were others, more muffled. They seemed to come from the area to which moments before he'd dispatched a half dozen of his men... the elevator and stairwell area on the other side of the floor, beyond some of the smaller offices and secondary conference rooms. The men had been sent down to the next level to check on the remaining hostages as well as three of their cohorts who they'd been unable to make contact with. Smith frowned as he stood there. Acting on sudden impulse, he pulled a small device, much like a cell phone, from his pocket. He attempted twice to make contact with the guards who'd been stationed in the tramway area just outside the first level of the facility. He met with no success, which made his frown even fiercer. Smith headed up the stairs, his pace quickening as he neared the roof level.

Scott Keller's alert blue gaze absorbed every bit of the action going on around him. He winced as the security lights which had been dimmed earlier came back on, highlighting the two sleek black helicopters parked on the helipad, one just yards away from the position near the far end of the roof to which their captors had led them. The whining sound of the big engines sparking to life hurt his ears and the swish of air from the rotors seemed to want to blow him off his feet. Steadying himself, he threw a glance in Bill Noyce's direction before giving Ben Krieg a quick look. Noyce had a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the lights, so he didn't notice Scott's glance. Krieg, on the other hand, met his eyes dead on. Their deep blue depths held a hint of grim mischief.

"It's now or never," Keller mouthed. Krieg nodded.

Scott Keller flung his elbow backwards, giving the guard standing behind him a vicious uppercut to his unprotected throat area. The man gasped and grabbed his neck, his automatic rifle falling to the ground. Ben Krieg simultaneously spun around and gave a second guard a swift kick to the groin area. His man seemed to recover much more quickly than Keller's man. He grunted and bent almost double, but took the opportunity to swing the butt of his machine gun in Ben's direction, managing a glancing blow off Krieg's forehead. Bill Noyce grabbed him around the neck from behind as he straightened, giving Keller the opportunity to use the weapon he'd picked up from his fallen man in the same manner, giving the second fellow a ringing blow to the head. As the guard fell heavily to the concrete flooring of the roof, Keller, Noyce, Krieg and McGath, who'd been merely standing and staring, dove behind what appeared to be the facility's ventilation units. Whatever they were, they were tall enough and wide enough to allow the men to evade the bullets which were suddenly flying in their direction... and to provide cover for the small group of men who erupted from a doorway somewhere behind them. Ben Krieg, his hand touching upon the blood trailing from the wound to his temple, looked with relief into the intent dark eyes of Jonathan Ford. His lips curved into a patented Ben Krieg smirk.

"So what the hell took you people so long?"

Ford sighed.

"Its a long story, Ben..." He ducked as bullets continued to whiz past. "If we somehow manage to live through this I'll--" Ford quit speaking as some new players to the game appeared through a doorway at the far end of the roof. He grimaced and rubbed his eyes. Oh, great... He looked again. A really big guy, dressed like all the others they'd run into, his beefy right arm clamped around... who else? ...Kristin Westphalen. The man didn't appear to be having a very good time of it. That almost made Ford smile. And right behind the two of them another man. Even from this distance, past helicopters and terrorists and flying bullets, Jonathan recognized him from the vid-screen in Rex Humboldt's office. It was leader of the pack — Patrick Smith. As Smith made the rooftop, he extricated Westphalen from the black-clad commando and motioned him to the second helicopter, which was already loaded with bodies and ready to take off. The man boarded and the chopper began its ascent from the rooftop. Ford grabbed the comm-link strapped to his belt and quickly contacted Rex Humboldt.

"Take out that chopper!" he yelled above the din.

"What about--"

"Don't worry — just take it out!"

He and the others watched as the craft lifted away and veered to the left... toward the open blue waters of the Pacific.

Lucas Wolenczak wouldn't have been at all surprised to know that Nathan Bridger was doing exactly what he'd wondered about earlier. Praying. In his own way of course. He watched as Aiden Montgomery's arm abruptly lifted, the hand holding the pistol raising almost to shoulder height as it pointed unerringly in his direction. A myriad of thoughts raced through Bridger's mind in that split second before Montgomery pulled the trigger. There was no coordination to the thoughts — they were just a ragtag of fleeting images and emotions and ideas.

He could dive out of the way... out of Montgomery's line of fire. If he had time that is. Which he very obviously didn't have. Wouldn't do any good anyway. It would just delay the inevitable. The guard standing behind him would undoubtedly take extremely great pleasure in finishing Montgomery's job for him. He was probably better off just letting the man standing in the doorway do what he was being paid for and get it over with. It would certainly be quicker and much less painful... and a lot less messy. He really didn't want to leave behind a body riddled with bullet holes. Though it would probably give the UEO medical examiners some much needed practice, it definitely wasn't the way he'd want people to remember him.

A melange of faces tripped over one another as they scurried past his inner vision. Carol. Robert. Lucas. His crew. Members of past crews. Family members. Scott Keller. Bill and Janet. Friends he hadn't thought about in years. Kristin. Foremost was Kristin. Her dusky gaze staring into his... capturing his soul... as they made love. Her breath warm against his face. Her body curled into his as she slept. Russet hair whipped into tangles by a sea breeze. Her hand in his as they wandered along the beach...

All this... and more... as he watched Aiden Montgomery's finger pull back on the firing mechanism almost in slow motion. Bridger couldn't help but flinch as flame ignited from the barrel of the pistol and the weapon bucked in Montgomery's hand. Couldn't help the gut reaction that had him screwing his eyes tightly shut as the gunshot echoed through the room. A split second that seemed like hours. An eternity. A passage of time too short to actually know or see anything... a passage of time long enough to realize exactly what was happening. Knowing you were about to die... and wondering what was out there waiting for you...

Pushing himself forward, past various doorways and through a myriad of hallways... or so it seemed to him... Tim O'Neill followed as stealthily as he could in the direction Kristin Westphalen had been hauled by her pal in black. At one point he was forced to duck quickly back behind a corner as a group of perhaps a half dozen of the invaders, followed by Patrick Smith himself, hurried past. Since everyone he'd seen thus far seemed to be headed in the same direction, he headed that way himself, staying far enough back and trying to keep to what shadowed corners there were in order to remain unnoticed. Not that anyone appeared to be paying any attention to what lay behind them. They were all focused on moving forward. Toward the roof. He'd figured out that much of it anyway. Of course, once the group ahead of him began scurrying through the doorway which indicated that beyond it lay the stairway to the roof, figuring it out wasn't really that difficult. And he followed along right behind, again keeping to the shadows, until he reached his destination. Suddenly he was in the open air, dark though it was, standing on the hard concrete floor of the roof of the building, a whirring helicopter just yards away. A few security lights were on, apparently to give just enough illumination for Smith's men to board the choppers and make their getaway. Feeling suddenly naked... not because he wasn't wearing any clothes but because he felt like every eye of every person involved in this fiasco was on him — though that was just his imagination working overtime again — Tim ducked quicky to one side behind a tier of electrical transformers and disappeared from view. Not that anyone had actually been paying any attention to him in the first place.

Kristin's hands tore ineffectually at the arm which had snaked around her neck as she was pulled from the guard's grasp. Though she wasn't being hurt, the way she was being held forced her into an uncomfortable position, with her head pressed back against her captor's shoulder and her own shoulders twisted at an odd angle. Her breath came in gasps as she angled her gaze to the side and realized just who held her captive. A couple more obscenities — the few she'd somehow managed to forget to impugn the guard with earlier — rose to her lips as she verbally assaulted Patrick Smith. A muscle in the leathered cheek nearest her clenched as he pulled both of them into the relative safety of the shadow of the second helicopter and out of the way of the few bullets which continued to fly from the weapons of the remaining men who were boarding it.

"You never used to be so mouthy!" Smith remarked above the noise of humming rotors, his gray eyes keeping a close watch on the situation evolving around them. "Something you learned from your sailor boy?" He winced and released a mild oath of his own as Kristin's elbow made a solid connection with his lower ribs. The arm laced around her neck tightened involuntarily. Smith's right arm, hand clenched around a pistol, wrapped around her waist as he began to move both of them toward the helicopter.

"He'll kill you," Kristin ground out, struggling against the man's iron grip.

"Don't think so!" Smith shouted above the noise. Kristin's hair was whipped back into his face by the wind churned up by the rotors. His voice was softer when he continued, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel his breath, beneath the gusts that buffeted them, as he spoke. "I'm afraid its a little too late for your dear Captain to come running to anyone's aid..." he murmured, "...much less yours."

As his words sank into her weary brain, Kristin sagged back against Smith's body, a sob pushing at her throat. He continued toward the helicopter, the stranglehold he'd maintained on her body relaxing slightly.

Rex Humboldt shook his head slowly, disgustedly. He stared at the simpering figure on the vid-screen and felt like throwing up. Jerome Bennett at his best. Finally he pushed away from the open doorway of the hut and paced back out into the night, leaving Lucas behind, staring at the screen, taking in the words the President was saying. Words that exonerated Nathan Bridger of any wrongdoing in the affair at Ponta Delgada. Not that Lucas needed the words... and not that they'd do any good now. It was too late for that.

Then the boy and the man were both shaken from their silent reveries... suddenly and without warning. The whir of a giant machine... a man-made bird... whisked briefly overhead, a mere shadow against the stars, its rotors pulling and pushing at the trees and the dust and the grass as it passed them quickly by until it hovered above the unseen waves crashing against the shore... and then finally over the ocean itself. And then it was gone. With a muted explosion and a burst of orange and red and blue flames. It simply ceased to exist. It... and whatever poor souls inhabited it.

Nathan heard the shot... but he didn't feel anything. He did hear something though. The sound of a heavy body hitting the wall behind him with a forceful thump before dropping solidly to the floor. Bridger opened his eyes. Aiden Montgomery remained standing in the doorway, pistol still raised shoulder high and still pointing in his direction. There was very little expression on the man's face. He slowly lowered his weapon to his side until it pointed barrel-downward at the floor.

"As I said..." he observed in a low voice, "...I really hated to do that."

Nathan slanted a sideways glance at Montgomery's victim. The black-garbed terrorist lay face down on the floor, his rifle buried beneath him. His head was turned toward Nathan. A very small and very neat bullet hole was visible in the very center of his forehead. Bridger was surprised at the almost total lack of blood.

"He was a good man."

The softly spoken words brought Nathan's gaze back to Montgomery. He watched as Patrick Smith's sidekick moved forward a few steps, repositioning the pistol in his hand before extending it butt-first and placing it on the table. Then he backed those same few steps toward the door, reaching behind him and grasping the handle. Gripping the small automatic rifle which was slung over his left shoulder, he turned and opened the door a crack and looked out. He swung the door wider, then looked back at Nathan.

"You'll have to be careful..." he said, stepping into the corridor. He gave Nathan one last long and considering stare. "He has your lady friend with him." Montgomery watched as his words sank in... then he quickly disappeared.

Chapter Twelve
'The Beginning of the End'
 

Nathan Bridger wasted no time in following Aiden Montgomery out of the room. Snatching the pistol from the table, he was checking the weapon's clip even as he stepped over the prone figure of the downed guard. He paused for a split second, considering whether or not to appropriate the dead man's rifle, before deciding against it. No use loading himself down with more than he needed... the pistol he held in his hand contained enough ammunition to fell more than a dozen men with optimum use. Upon reaching the doorway, Bridger came to an abrupt halt, his mind playing over certain events of the previous few days. Montgomery had attempted to delude him once before, when the room they'd previously occupied had been gassed. He'd led him to believe that he'd turned against his boss... going as far as placing a weapon in his hand on that occasion also. That had been a hoax. A cruel trick. Was the present situation something in the same vein? Was it just one last deception? One last pretense? He wondered briefly at Montgomery's present motives... and whether the man had been truthful in divulging Kristin's whereabouts. Were Smith and Montgomery just trying to play him for a fool one last time?

Bridger shook his head in irritation at himself. That would be of no benefit to anyone. He stepped through the doorway and hurried up the hallway. As he approached the stairwell leading to roof and pulled the door open he began to feel a soft vibration and hear a muted hum. He knew that feeling and that sound. The choppers were preparing to take off. Hugging the wall, Nathan tried to make his feet move a little faster. Halfway up the stairs he heard a muted pop from somewhere in the distance. A pop with a peculiar and distinctive echo. He knew with intimate familiarity the sound of an aircraft being downed.

Pushing himself forward and upward, he braced his forearm against the door at the top of the stairs and forced it open. Halfway through, he was buffeted by the downdraft of the helicopter poised just yards away and was flung partially backwards before regaining his balance. Suddenly an errant gust shifted and pulled and Bridger was catapulted onto the roof as the door flung wide and remained open. Once again hugging the wall, the hand holding the pistol tucked against his chest, he took in the scenario from relative safety.

Almost directly in front of him, approximately fifteen yards away, a sleek black helicopter swayed on its landing gear. He watched as two straggling commandos quickly boarded the rear of the craft and the door was slid partially shut. A few yards away stood Patrick Smith, his back half turned toward Bridger. A muscle in Nathan's jaw worked as he inched forward, remaining within the flimsy protection afforded by the walls which jutted out slightly from the stairwell doorway. Montgomery hadn't been lying. Smith did have Kristin. He had one arm around her neck, pressing her backwards against him as he made his slow way toward the chopper. His other arm was wrapped around her waist. That hand gripped a pistol. The weapon wasn't exactly pointed at her but was held in an extremely threatening manner. Bridger wondered why. Taking another half step forward, and nearing the edge of the wall, he carefully glanced around. A motion from the other side of the roof caught his attention. Kneeling on the ground and peering out from behind some sort of mechanical unit was Scott Keller. Directly behind him, only his head and shoulders visible, was Manilow Crocker. As Nathan watched another form appeared, creeping along until it crouched next to Crocker. Jonathan Ford. Bridger frowned, briefly wondering how his second in command had ended up here... now. There really was no telling... and he certainly didn't have time to stand around thinking about it. He stood still for a moment, willing one of the men to notice him. It seemed an eternity passed before Manilow Crocker's blue-eyed gaze homed in on him. He watched as his former security chief nudged Scott Keller and motioned with his head. The astronaut shot a surprised, yet unsurprised, glance in Bridger's direction before following Crocker's lead and nudging Ford, then flashing Nathan the same thumbs-up sign he'd given him earlier. Bridger glanced from his people to Smith, who was still pressuring Kristin toward the helicopter, then back to the group across the way. Raising his left hand he gave a sideways waving motion, jerking his head toward the helicopter at the same time. Crocker immediately picked up on his meaning and within seconds he and the others disappeared behind the machinery.

Captain Katherine Hitchcock chewed on her lip — it was raw from all the chewing it'd received over the past few hours — and stared out over the ocean. One down... one to go. She wondered who had been aboard the chopper her crew had downed. She hoped none of the occupants had been anyone she knew. She didn't think she could live with that. According to Rex Humboldt none of the hostages had been aboard. But mistakes could be made... were made on an everyday basis... were made by the best people. He could have been wrong. Jonathan Ford, who'd relayed the information to Humboldt, could have been wrong. Katie hoped not.

Even at twenty miles distance she could make out the lights of Oahu. She wondered what was happening over there, across the choppy waves. She glanced over her shoulder, startled, as her second-in-command appeared behind her. Marco Mendoza gave her arm a comforting squeeze as he positioned himself next to her and leaned against the rail. He wore cordless headphones, one earpiece of which was pulled up to rest against his temple.

"The recruiters always told me adventure was just an enlistment away," he smiled. "Take away my days as a Seal... and this has been as close as I've been in a long time."

Hitchcock absently returned his smile.

"How's it going down there?" she asked, referring to the brig where Jerome Bennett's hit squad had been stashed.

"Quiet..." Mendoza answered her, "...very quiet."

"Good."

Hitchcock's gaze returned to the ocean and points beyond. The two of them stood there in companionable silence... and waited.

Pulling himself along the cold cement floor, Tim O'Neill used his elbows and knees to crawl toward a slightly open area between two groups of machinery and ductwork. He clambered through the gap and made his slow way forward. He could feel the breeze churned up by the helicopter rotors and knew he was nearing the transport vehicle. He also felt himself being dragged — not physically but by simple external forces — down an incline and into a shallow grooved area. It sort of reminded him of a loading dock, where trucks backed down an incline so they'd be at level with the loading area. It was much the same thing, because he was brought up short by what passed as a wall, just about two feet high. He didn't know what type of place he was in, but it was one of relative safety, and if he pulled himself to his knees... and very carefully peered over the edge of the wall... he could see absolutely everything that was going on. Well... sort of. He could see all of the action that was taking place — from the participants' knees down. The rest of his view was somewhat obstructed by the helicopter, the nose of which was almost within touching distance, and a short railing of some sort. He watched as a group of about nine or ten pairs of legs, clad in various forms and colors of pants and apparently crouching and keeping as low as possible to the ground, quickly wound its way around the back of the helicopter. He watched some of those legs came to a standstill just behind the sliding door of the vehicle... a sliding door which had remained open while the one on the other side of the chopper had been partially closed. He watched as the rest of those pairs of legs, still bent at the knee, continued forward and stopped next to the pilot's compartment. He watched as, after a few long and agonizing seconds, various pieces of armament began to slowly cascade from the chopper doors to land at the feet of those nine or ten pairs of legs. He watched as a pair of legs belonging to a man, and a pair of jean-clad legs which he recognized as belonging to Dr. Westphalen, and which were pulled extremely close to the pair of man's legs, crept inch by inch toward the helicopter... before stopping suddenly on a dime and twisting around. He also saw one other pair of legs... also belonging to a man... out of the corner of his eye. But when he looked... they were gone.

"Let her go!"

Patrick Smith stopped in his tracks. The pistol in his hand, which had up until that moment been aimed in no particular direction, abruptly rose until the barrel was pointed directly at the underside of Kristin's chin. She heard an almost silent click as the firing pin was armed. Then he spun around, taking her with him. Suddenly she was looking into Nathan's eyes. He stood fifteen or twenty yards away, his body turned slightly sideways, his right arm raised, the pistol in his hand trained on Patrick Smith... who shielded his own body with Kristin's. Smith uttered a succinct curse. Kristin merely stared, another sob caught in her throat, her face damp with tears, as Nathan took a slow step forward.

"Guess I was wrong..." Smith's voice was low, his words audible only to himself and Kristin, as he seemed to speak to himself. Then he raised his voice as he continued to back toward the helicopter. "One more step... and she'd dead!"

His voice carried to Bridger over the noise of the helicopter's engine and rotors. Nathan paused. He stepped sideways and attempted to get a better aim at the other man as Smith took yet another backwards tread. As Smith noticed Bridger's movement, the barrel of his pistol moved closer to the underside of Kristin's chin. She could feel the cold steel against her skin at the same time the arm around her neck tightened. Nathan paused again and waited, but he didn't back off. As he held Smith's eyes, he absently noted the way the gusts from the rotors played with Kristin's hair, whipping it against Smith's face. The white UEO t-shirt he'd watched her pull on two mornings ago... or was it three... whipped against her body.

Smith wouldn't kill her. It was just a bluff...

No one had left the helicopter to come to Smith's defense. No black-garbed commandos had erupted from its doors. That danger had apparently been snuffed. Nathan wondered briefly if Smith was aware of that fact. He had to be. He had to be wondering why he wasn't getting any backup. He had to have come to the realization that he'd lost control of the present situation. That was something that he wasn't used to... something that might either play into Nathan's hands... or cause Smith to act in a totally irrational manner and do something he wouldn't normally do. Something totally out of character. There'd been a couple of occasions already when he'd acted in just such a way. Who was to say it wouldn't happen again?

Smith wouldn't kill her. He loved her...

Or would he?

As a final act of revenge for an operation gone sour? As a personal assault for something which had begun as an impersonal retribution?

As Nathan took another measured step forward his eye was caught by a movement beyond Patrick Smith's shoulder... beyond the tail of the helicopter. His gaze shifted slightly. That was a mistake. A mistake which he knew he'd made at the precise moment it happened. An indiscretion that the other man quickly observed. Smith's arm... and the hand holding the pistol... swung outward with a swift and abrupt movement. Bridger had absolutely no opportunity to react. In the space of a split second he felt the impact of the bullet strike somewhere below his left collarbone. A searing pain shot through his side as he made a feeble attempt to dive out of the way even as the bullet hit. As he fell to the hard concrete he heard a second shot, a sharp report from somewhere behind Smith, followed by a muffled scream and the sound of bodies hitting the pavement of the helipad.

Kristin felt herself falling... almost being thrown... in one direction, while seemingly being pulled in another. The arm around her waist tightened momentarily, convulsively, almost unbearably, pulling her back against Patrick Smith's body and pushing her forward at the same time, before falling laxly away. His body fell heavily forward, propelling her downward onto the unyielding concrete floor. Her head made solid contact with the pavement and the breath was knocked forcefully from her body as she landed on her side. She lay motionless for a few long seconds, not fully realizing what had happened, before she felt herself being grasped from behind and pulled from beneath Smith's outflung arm.

Tim O'Neill vaulted from his prone position and dove beneath the underbelly of the helicopter, collapsing on top of Kristin and rolling them both to relative safety back beneath the big bird. Suddenly people were running from all directions and in all directions. Perhaps twenty men burst through the stairwell doorway on the opposite end of the roof, all attired in body protection and wearing the security uniforms of the UEO, as well as toting every weapon imaginable. They quickly surrounded the helicopter, relieving Ford and Keller et al of the remaining terrorists.

Westphalen pushed up on her elbows, gaze arrowing in on the spot where Nathan had been standing. She couldn't see anything. There were too many people in the way, hurrying to and fro. She tried to pull herself into a sitting position but was forced to remain where she was by Tim's body, which remained draped haphazardly over her.

"Stay down until everything's clear," O'Neill whispered before seeming to notice his position and self-consciously rolling off of her.

Kristin gave an exasperated sigh and sat up. She expelled a grunt of pain as she was overcome by dizziness and her hand went to her forehead. She gingerly touched the knot that was forming there before bringing her hand down. Her fingers were sticky with blood. She just stared at them for a moment, her eyes wide, before glancing sluggishly toward the body which lay just a few yards away. Patrick Smith lay on his back, gray eyes open and staring at the dark night sky. His iron-grey hair was whipped about by the dying strokes of the helicopter rotors. A stream of blood seeped from a ragged wound in his right temple... already a bright red puddle had formed on the concrete. He lay there alone, with no one to mourn his passing. Kristin pulled her eyes away from the body of the man she'd once known so intimately... a sob tearing at her throat. But not for him...

"Nathan..."

Pulling herself to her feet, disregarding the pounding in her temple and the melee which proceeded around her, she scrambled through milling bodies in the direction she'd last seen Bridger.

Aiden Montgomery slowly lowered his arm, the hand holding the pistol dropping to his side. Hearing the pounding of booted feet behind him, he allowed the weapon to fall to the ground. He had both arms raised, hands linked together behind his head, before anyone even touched him. He was given a thorough patting down by two UEO security personnel before being handcuffed. His gaze remained on his friend, on the body of Patrick Smith, the entire time. He didn't blink. He said nothing when spoken to. He seemed almost to be in a trance. His eyes finally focused as he was pushed forward, escorted between the security men toward the stairwell exit. He slowed down, forcing those with him to do the same, as they passed the body of the man whose life he'd just taken...

"Nathan..."

Bridger opened one eye... the eye that wasn't buried against cement... at the sound of Bill Noyce's voice and the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Only it wasn't Noyce he saw. It was Crocker, on his knees beside him, bent over as he tried to assess his injuries. He shifted slightly, or tried to anyway. He lay on his stomach, his left arm flung out to the side, bent at the elbow, his fingers gripping the pavement. His right arm was beneath him, in a protective gesture, his hand clutching at his side. He could feel the stickiness of blood on his fingers. A stabbing pain radiated through his chest with every breath he took. He grimaced, then rolled his head to the side so that he could focus with both eyes. He saw Noyce from the corner of his vision, sitting to Crocker's left, just above his own left shoulder.

"Kristin?" His voice was almost a whisper.

Crocker straightened from his far from professional examination and laid a reassuring hand on Bridger's back.

"She's okay, Cap... don't worry." He glanced behind him and located Ben Krieg. "Where's that MedEvac?" he shouted.

Krieg hurried over, pulling off his shirt as he did so.

"Almost here," he panted. Folding the shirt into a thick square, he motioned Crocker to ease Bridger over a bit, then he gently inserted the cloth between Nathan's chest and the pavement. Ben grimaced at the amount of blood that already stained the concrete, then let out a relieved sigh as the pressure applied by the makeshift padding appeared to stem the flow a bit. He glanced out into the dark night as the soft whir of helicopter rotors became apparent from somewhere in the distance, then located the multicolored lights of the MedEvac heading in their direction. In the next instant there was a hand on his arm and he felt himself being pulled gently to one side. Ben's startled blue eyes flashed to Crocker before following the other man's gaze to Kristin, who had suddenly taken his place beside Bridger and was kneeling over him, concern and fear evident in her dusky gaze.

"Nathan?"

Bridger opened his eyes.

"How do you feel?" Kristin whispered, her face close to his, and knowing it was a stupid question but not really caring. She placed a soothing hand on his back. She could feel his breath, quick and shallow, against her cheek. Nathan moved his head so that his forehead rested against the cool concrete and he was staring at the floor.

"Like I need to throw up," he muttered.

Kristin nodded.

"I know," she whispered, her forehead resting against the back of his head. The hand that had been at his back came up to move gently over his hair. She heard the beat of the MedEvac's rotors as the ambulance perched just beyond the other helicopter, which now rested as a silent monument to what had transpired in this place. "I know... "

"I really do love you..." Nathan whispered for her ears only as he rolled his head back to the side. He blinked as dust picked up by the gusts raised by the MedEvac's rotors blew into his eyes. "I'm just really stupid sometimes..."

The arrival of two paramedics with a stretcher had Noyce, Crocker and Krieg quickly moving off to one side. Kristin watched as they carefully moved Nathan onto his back, her breath catching as she caught site of the front of his uniform. It was soaked with blood and sticking to his chest. An IV was started even as he was being moved onto the stretcher. A blanket was quickly tucked securely around him even as one of the paramedics continued to apply pressure to his injury.

"I'm sorry..."

Kristin tore her gaze from the activities of the paramedics, standing as they pulled the stretcher into its highest position and began to wheel Nathan slowly toward the MedEvac. She held tightly to his hand, fingers curled around his, as she walked along beside him.

"For what?"

"For not telling you..." His eyes were closed. "I should have..."

"Shhhh..." she climbed into the helicopter, not bothering to ask permission, remaining next to him as the stretcher was situated and the door slid shut. "Don't talk like that..."

As the MedEvac lifted from the roof she held onto his hand. Leaning forward she placed a soft kiss on his cheek, indifferent to the presence of the young paramedic seated across from her.

"Everything will be alright..." she murmured. "You'll be alright..." Her lips trembled as she tried to hold back her tears, her throat tightening so that she could barely breathe. "You have to be alright..."