Full Book

Randy, fighting his way out of his cocoon, made his way over to the control panel, pressed a button on the panel, and the tone ended. For several long moments the near silence returned to the cabin. Then, one-by-one, the other crew members emerged and started their morning duties.

"Good morning Atlantis," came a distant voice through the cabin speakers. "Local time at mission control is zero-five-thirty. You are due to cross the terminator into day in fifteen minutes."

"Those damned people on the ground are entirely too cheery at this time of day," growled Randy.

"The agenda for the day includes Miss Hoffman's biological experiments, and placing the communications satellite into orbit," mission control's voice continued, in a sardonic tone.

Jim made his way over to the pilot's seat and placed his headset on. He reached down and threw a couple of switches. Then as he gave a yawn, pressed a button on the panel.

"Mission control, this is Atlantis," Jim replied.

"Go ahead Atlantis."

"Tom, you're getting to my first officer with your morning antics."

"Well Rain, at least I get him out of the sack."

"That's an affirm. While I got you on line, can we get the daily telemetry and self-check reports?"

"One step ahead of you on that- it's already in your computers. One note on the self-check. We're getting a 'No information available' on the emergency reentry circuit."

"What's the suggestion from the computer folks?"

"Probably a disabled circuit. For now, just check the board connections during morning maintenance time, and advise us of what you find."

"Copy. Atlantis out."

Jim Donaldson was a veteran pilot, unfazed by little things. Eleven years of flying F-14's for the Navy had seasoned him to a cool-headed and calculating sort, in many cases. There was, as is the norm in Navy fighter pilots, a bit of the rebel. He was good. Many of his superiors thought he flew a little more aggressively than was necessary. But, with his successful combat record and high scores at the schools and competitions, no one was that critical of his flying. There was little doubt, however, that he was one of the best pilots to ever wear a Navy uniform, or that he gave a hundred and ten percent to his job. He was the type meant for the military- the way he walked, talked, dressed, even his look, fit the text book definition of a Naval pilot. His tall, lean frame, green eyes, reddish brown hair, the fit of his flight suit were perfect. Some of the other officers sometimes accused him of being the "poster boy" for the uniform manual. The only thing that one might not expect was the slight, southern drawl.

When you talked to him, and looked into his eyes, you might detect there was something deep inside trying to make it to the surface, a ghost of a secret that he held inside nearly visible, at least as long as he didn't change the subject and smile. If you were observant, you might see that whatever it was he was burying deep was painful. His few friends sometimes worried that he was a bit too much of a loner, especially since his divorce. But again, all those things made him the pilot, and officer, that he was.

Jim had a good, solid education in aviation. He had an uncle who had encouraged him and gotten him into flying when he was just fourteen. He had his license soon after his sixteenth birthday, had been in the air since, and had studied at North Carolina State University as an aviation major with a minor in engineering. He studied languages in graduate school at the College of William and Mary. Jim had done "the usual," gotten his degree, gone into the Navy, then served his first four years active. He then went into the reserves so he could go back to school and finish his masters degree. When Jim completed his masters degree, he went back to active duty; flying was in his blood, and he could not stay away. He often joked that he was hooked on the rush from flying high speed jet fighters.

Randy Browne, also a veteran Navy pilot, was far less the image than was Jim. Not as tall, a little round in the middle and always in need of a haircut, his blue eyes and sandy hair better suited a sunny beach than the cockpit of a fighter. Although he never really said where he called home, most of his friends figured on a California beach. The thing that did not seem to fit was that he felt that only military personnel should be in the shuttle crews. He did not like having civilians around, although he often looked as if he was more civilian than Navy. He was not quite the same caliber of pilot as Jim, but still good. He was far less aggressive in the air, but a little more so on the ground. His reputation for getting into trouble and an occasional fight was well earned and well known. It had been many years since the last time he had been in an altercation, but he had the look that could scare some people off.

Randy had a degree in electrical engineering and design from San Jose State University. He was not even one who had considered entering the military until his last semester of college. In fact, he was one of those who had made fun of ROTC guys as they walked around campus. He had always liked the idea of flying, but had never taken the chance. When he walked into a Navy recruiting booth on campus, he took the aviation test as a joke and did very well. Three weeks after graduation he was at, OCS, officer candidate's school. Next, it was on to flight school, and then seven years of active duty flying. He had met Jim while in flight school, when Jim was on temporary duty, and later became one of his closest friends. They had been stationed together on the Nimitz during the Lebanon crises, and had flown numerous sorties together. When he was in the air, Randy liked the idea of having Jim "up" with him. Most anyone would; Jim loved a fight and was relentless, often saying that he would follow Jim right into the gates of hell and take on the devil himself.

"Breakfast is served," boomed Dan Ferguson as he entered the main cabin with five foil packets. Another tall southerner, with a pronounced Tennessee accent, Dan's red hair and green impish eyes seemed to emanate his love for adventure. Like Jim, he seemed the perfect example of the "Naval pilot." The only flaws were his crooked nose and a scar that ran down his neck into his flight suit. He had looked forward to being part of the crew with Jim, having heard so much about him that he had felt as if he had known him for years.

Dan was a nine-year veteran pilot with a degree in classical music and aviation from Alabama State. His broken nose was a reminder of his four years as a wide receiver for the crimson tide; his scar running down his neck, was a memory of a lost battle in the skies over the Mediterranean. It was a day when everything had gone wrong, yet he never lost the faith. Dan's wingman went off to engage another Libyan fighter when a missile struck the side of his aircraft and sent his plane into the water. A large piece of debris lodged in his throat, but was removed by the rescue man, the only result the scar. Dan never hesitated about getting back in the air; it was as much a part of his life as it was for Jim.

Dan had been stationed on the Kennedy and the Kitty Hawk, and like most of the other pilots, had heard of many of Jim's antics, antics that many commanders were quick to point out resulted in being grounded. Sometimes he envied Jim, other times he pitied him. There was nothing lower than a grounded pilot, and no one wanted to hear of a fellow pilot being grounded. When he heard that he was going to crew the shuttle with Jim, it was almost too much for Dan to comprehend.

"You damned southerners are too easy to wake up in the morning," grumbled Randy. "How about some coffee?"

"I knew you'd be wanting a packet, so I brought you one," announced the soft Georgian accent of Phyllis Moore. Phyllis had shoulder-length dark red hair, hazel eyes, and a voice that made men weak in the knees and wives jealous. She was one of the elite, a Naval pilot who flew C-2 mail planes out to the carriers. She was a beautiful woman by any standards, one who could have been a model, but who chose to fly instead. When she was asked what she wanted to do in the Navy, she answered simply that she wanted to fly. It was a response so unexpected. Yet, she proved that she had the skills as well as the abilities. It was not long before she had earned the respect of her peers.

A graduate of Georgia State's aviation program, Phyllis graduated at the top of her class. She flew better than most of her male peers, which seemed to cause a little animosity. Still, she no longer let that get to her, following a period of adjustment that was now behind her. In many cases she held her own with her male counter-parts, both in the air and on the ground. One of her strongest qualities was that she was always professional. Always.

As Cheryl looked around at her comrades, she felt out of place- not because she was surrounded by Navy pilots; as a Navy "brat," whose father had made admiral, she was accustomed to their company. It was more because she was the youngest of the crew as well as the only civilian. Her masters thesis in biology dealt with space ecology, and her admiral father had pulled strings to get her, as well as her experiment, on the shuttle. Her thesis was based on gene transferring in a weightless atmosphere resulting in regular mutations. Some of the insects that had been on previous shuttle flights had some odd mutations. She had narrowed down the genes that were mutating; the only other variable was the weightless atmosphere.

Cheryl had long, light brown hair, blue eyes and a slender build. She had hidden, she hoped, the fact that she was attracted to Jim almost from the first moment she had seen him several years ago. With all the moving around that goes with being a military family, she had a lot of different colleges in her transcripts. She had started at Tidewater Junior College in Norfolk, Virginia, then finished junior college at Tacoma City college in Washington. Cheryl then continued studying at the University of California, San Diego, and after another move, she finally finished her bachelor's at the University of Hawaii. She had been there since to complete her masters.

Cheryl had known Jim for many years, almost as long as Jim had been assigned to a command under Cheryl's father. They had first met when Jim and her father were stationed at San Diego on the Kitty Hawk, during an on-board air power display. She had never said much to Jim, primarily because he had been married when she first met him. That had changed since then, but she never knew what to say to him. He attracted her, to a degree, because of his rebel attitude. It also made him difficult to approach, the unattainable goal. Another reason for her silence was that Jim managed to be on her father's bad side most of the time. Her father wanted Jim to be the shuttle commander when Cheryl went up because he believed Jim was the best. He had known Jim for a long time and had made him promise to watch out for his daughter. He had no idea how his daughter felt about Jim.

"Well, Cheryl," Dan started between sips of the breakfast soup, "your experiment has top billing today. And, as always, we are at your beck and call." There was a recognizable tone of irritation in his voice.

"Thank you, Commander," she replied, not really sure how to take Dan. "I'll try not to get underfoot, or be too big of a burden."

"Don't pay any attention to Dan," Phyllis piped. "His wife never did teach him respect. The only thing he can sweet talk before noon is an airplane." Jim had asked Phyllis to help mediate for Cheryl. She had a lot of experience in dealing with attitudes and egos of male pilots.

"Hey, I resemble that remark," replied Dan.

"Red Sonja's hot this morning, "Jim added.

"No shit," Randy chuckled. "I think I'll go look at that automated reentry circuit, just to stay out of the crossfire."

"Phyllis," Cheryl asked, "how did you get your nickname?"

"What nickname?"

"Red Sonja."

"Oh shit. I better go help J.B., I can see trouble brewing," Jim moaned.

"Sit down and do your telemetries, Rain," she said sternly as she shoot a look at Jim, then she turned back to Cheryl. "Red Sonja isn't my nickname, it's my call sign. Pilots don't use their names on the radio, that would be far too confusing. So we each get our own call sign, some are easier to explain then others."

Randy stopped and turned toward the two women. He was tuned into the conversation.

"So, how did you get yours?"

"Oh God," Jim groaned.

"Well, I didn't start with this one. I was on a mail run to a carrier.... the ...."

"The Lincoln," Jim answered the question without being acknowledged. It was obvious to Cheryl that this story not only included Jim but also embarrassed him. She was now a little sorry that she had asked, afraid of finding out that maybe something existed between Jim and Phyllis.

"Right, the Lincoln. Anyhow. While I was doin' this mail run I met this rather handsome lieutenant, more like he ran me over. I was still learnin' to cope with this man's Navy, so after he knocked us both down, I jumped back up pulled him to his feet, then...."

"Broke his nose with a right cross," Jim interjected. "And, I might add, was responsible for said pilot being grounded for a week."

"Yes, I know. Well, a couple of months later in the Norfolk officer's club we bumped into each other again. It took about an hour before we recognized each other. The lieutenant asked me if I had to defeat all the men I had dinner with, just like Red Sonja. Somehow his comment got around, and I started getting called Red Sonja."

"And I ended up with a second broken nose," Jim muttered.

"I didn't know you two....." Cheryl started her heart sinking slightly.

"We're not," Phyllis responded with a smile. "Oh, I guess there have been some opportunities, but not Rain and me."

"Why Rain?" Cheryl asked feeling better now that she knew that Jim was not involved with Phyllis.

"Because," Randy jumped in. "Every single time he was supposed to fly in school, it would rain. The gunny asked him if he was a natural born troublemaker or a rainmaker. Thus, the Rainmaker."

"What do they call you, Randy?"

"J.B. Because, after our first liberty at Pensacola, I got caught with a bottle of J.B in my locker. The shit of it was, I was too drunk to remember the gunny's lecture. Dan is the only one I know who has an unglorified call sign. He's just Ferg." It was the first time since the mission started that Randy seemed to be friendly.

"Two minutes to the terminator," Jim was obviously attempting to change the subject. "Let's try to get Cheryl's project started as soon after that as possible."

Randy looked over to Jim and thought to himself that it was time to get to work. As he made his way down to the lower deck and started up the computer, he wished that he had not majored in electrical designing in college. As he started looking at the computer terminal, he keyed in the self-check results. He read the "No information available" on the line for the auto reentry circuit, moved the cursor down to the fault, and keyed in the command for the computer to tell him where the faulty board was. After a couple of minutes the computer responded with a "Circuit fault not locatable."

Randy growled to himself, "Now I've got to find this the hard way." Randy turned around and faced the bank of access panels, shook his head, and started the long and tedious operation of locating the faulty board. He had to open each panel, pull out the carriages, and examine each board one at a time. He remembered hearing that it took the ground crews nearly six hours to inspect all of the boards. It was only the second panel set that he was checking when he found a panel that had several burned capacitors and IC chips. He was feeling lucky as he quickly read the board number and looked up the use of that panel in the maintenance manual. Auto pilot control and landing were the program functions that appeared nearly completely burned.

"Rain," Randy's voice was uneasy, "We might have a problem on the reentry system. Can I see you down here?"

"On my way. Red... Phyllis, you have the con." Jim's voice had a tone of serious military. As he climbed out of his seat he unhooked his headset from the control panel and slid it down around his neck.

"Aye, aye, sir." The formality of Phyllis's response was due to Jim's concern, something that she had detected.

"Ferg, finish eating and get Cheryl set up. Then catch up with J.B. and me." Jim was now all military, all professional. Without saying a word he was letting his officers know that the civilian, Cheryl, was to be kept busy and oblivious to any possible problem. Until he had all of the information and decided to tell her.

"Okay, Rain."

As Jim entered the lower deck, Randy was floating above an open access panel. Jim pulled himself quickly along the room to Randy's side. Randy was hooking a probe to the circuit boards in the panel and was shaking his head. There was obviously a great deal of frustration involved.

"What's up?"

"Christ! This board is completely gone. I can't even start to trace it with the probe. See this chip here?"

"Yeah."

"That's the one that's supposed to land this tub if we have to go auto."

"I'm no computer geek, but that looks burned all to hell to me." Jim didn't know a lot about electronics, but after so many years of having his closest friend being a computer genius, he had learned enough to realize that what he was seeing wasn't good.

"You got that right boss. Want me to try running a bypass or try fixing the damn thing?"

"What can it affect as it is?"

"I have no idea. I can't tell where the problem originated. I have no idea where to even trace the problems to. Everything on the circuit is giving odd readings. So there's no way of saying what else is screwed."

"Red, set me up with a PL with mission control."

"Yes, sir."

PL is the private line; only the commander and the single person at mission control would be party to the conversation. It only took Phyllis a couple of minutes to do the hookup, minutes that seemed to drag for Jim. He watched as Randy futilely attempted to trace the origin of the fault. The longer Randy worked on the problem, the more frustrated he became. He liked being able to fix things quickly and look like a hero.

"Skipper, I have Tom Marshal on button seven," Phyllis, finally, casually reported.

Jim readjusted his headset, plugged into the communications panel and pressed button seven.

"Tom, this is Rain."

"What's up with this PL stuff? You're making some of the people down here nervous."

"I'll apologize later. I think we have a real problem on this reentry circuit. It's completely cooked, and we can't seem to start a probe trace to locate the origin."

"Well, let me see..... I have my computers running a trace now."

"Shit, Shit, Shit!" Randy yelped. "Whatever he's doing shut it down!"

"Wha...." as Jim turned to see Randy, he saw sparks flying out of the box and some smoke . "Shut it down, Tom! Shut it down now! Were starting to flame."

Tom was canceling the computer run as quickly as possible.

"It's down. What's your status Atlantis?"

"Stand by while I have J.B. check it out."

"Copy, mission control standing by."

"What happened J.B.?"

"Well, aside from getting the shit scared out of me, I'm not completely sure." Randy was checking the rest of the boards. As he pulled out a rack of several boards, the still smoking board that had gone was clear to both men.

"Mission control, this is Atlantis." Jim was shaking his head.

"Go ahead Atlantis."

"We lost another auto pilot board. What the hell did you do down there, Tom?"

"Just ran a self-check on your systems. Rain... this may pose a problem. If the computer is not working properly, your telemetries might not be correct. Can you run a manual set?"

"I'll have to get back up to the con, but I can.

"Do that, and let's maintain this PL. I'm showing that all manual systems are operational. Do you confirm that?"

"All manual circuits are functional."

"I'll be here. Mission control standing by."

"Roger, out. J.B.?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do whatever you think is going to be the safest."

"No problem." Randy quickly began running by-passes so that the circuits would be non functional. He was going from the computer terminal back to the circuit racks. The computer was guiding him through the bypass procedures.

After Jim had made his way back to the control deck, he knew that everyone must know that something was wrong. Pungent odors from the burned circuit boards still filled the air. Jim knew his people could take it, they had all worked the different safety drills a hundred times. Cheryl was a civilian, and Jim didn't know how she would react. Jim also knew that there was no easy or better time- he had to tell them now.

"Everybody listen up. We had a couple of automation circuits short out. That means that everything from here on has to be done manually. I have to get back on the horn with the ground, and I'm going to request that we stick a fork in this trip and call it done. We've all done this drill, so let's look sharp and show this beast that she can't beat Navy pilots."

Jim was slightly surprised as he returned the gazes of his crew- not one showed fear or reservations. The looks were all confidant, even Cheryl's. There was a sense that even with this problem, the crew appeared to want to continue on with the mission. Jim thought to himself that this had to be the best crew ever to fly in a shuttle. He was proud that they were, essentially, his closest friends.

"J.B. is down below and attempting to salvage what's left of the automation system. Ferg, I need all the telemetries redone manually."

"Aye, aye!"

"Red, I'll take the con. Help Cheryl secure her gear, and keep me in touch with the ground."

"Aye, aye!"

"Cheryl, once your gear is secured, I want you to go down below and help J.B.. If he needs more help let me know."

"Yes sir."

"That's all. Lets get this pig down on the ground." Jim watched as his crew started to perform their assigned duties quickly and precisely. He settled back into the pilot's seat, strapped himself in, plunged into the communications panel and pushed the PL button.

"Tom, you still on?" Jim asked softly.

"Sure am, Rain. What's the status?"

"Hell if I know, yet. I told these guys what was happening, gave and them all jobs to do. I'm getting a bad feeling. Promise me something will you, Tom?"

"Sure, Rain what is it?"

"No matter what happens, who makes it and who doesn't..."

"Can that shit mister. I'm not letting anything happen to you guys."

"Thanks." Jim took a deep breath and tried shaking off the negative feelings he was getting. "I should have the manual reports in a few minutes. Don't go away."

"Who, me leave? Christ, I paid for these season tickets. I'm not walking out during overtime."

"Thanks. Atlantis out." Jim had never had this negative kind of a feeling before, and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps his luck might be running out. His mind started to wander back to a year ago, when all he was worried about was one single aircraft and his RIO (Radar Intercept Officer). He wondered what Jinx, his RIO, would say to him at this time.

"Telemetries are redone and in the computer, Skipper," reported Dan. "I'm going to start another run in a couple minutes."

"Good. Now we'll get back up with the ground and see how bad this really is. Ground control, this is Atlantis." Jim listened to the static for an answer. "Ground control, this is Atlantis, do you copy Tom?"

"Atlantis this is ground......." Tom's voice faded into the static, ".... terminator. Next contact fifteen min......."

"Well guys, we're on our own for a while." Jim sat back and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Skipper," Dan's voice was uneasy.

"What's up?"

"We're on a reentry profile."

"That can't be!" Jim exploded.

"I just compared this set of telemetries with the ones in the computer, and it appears we're on reentry."

"J.B., What's the automation system status?"

"It should be off, I don't see an indicator to the contrary. All the controls have been by-passed into manual. But I'll check all fuses and let you know."

"Don't take too..." Jim was caught off guard when the retro thrusters fired and started to turn the ship. "Well, I'll take that as a yes. J.B., I thought you said that the auto circuits were all by-passed! Turn the damned thing off!"

"Skipper, it isn't on!"

Jim was throwing switches as fast as he could, knowing he had to power up and retake control or they would start a reentry any minute. "J.B., turn that over to Ferg and get your ass up here."

"Aye, aye."

Jim was just about ready to start to refire the retro when Randy got in and all set up. "Anytime you're ready, Skipper."

"Initiate a one-eighty roll, on my mark. Three... two..... one... Mark!"

Randy pushed the switch which activated the retro thrusters. Nothing happened. An empty feeling entered his stomach as his gaze met the "you've got to be kidding me" gaze of Jim.

"Negative function. Switching to backup."

In unison Jim and Randy threw their back-up circuits and pressed the button to fire the thrusters. Again nothing happened.

"Negative function on backup." Randy looked up at Jim, who returned his gaze. "I think we're screwed."

"I hate Mondays. Okay, we got a ride to make. Everyone get to your seats and strap in."

As Cheryl strapped herself into her seat, she wished they were on the ground, and that she had told Jim how she felt about him. She was just starting to become frightened; she wasn't sure why she hadn't before, but she felt fear rising within her. Tears moistened the corners of her eyes.

The shuttle made another standard smooth maneuver. Jim had never felt as helpless as he did right now, yet he was still too angry to be frightened. What had gone wrong? Could he have done something different? All of this was academic; his ship was on an uncontrolled reentry and whatever happened now was all that he could handle. He adjusted his focus, and started checking all of the switches making sure that they were set properly.

It was only a few hours since night had fallen on the Nimitz as she cruised the waters of South central Pacific. The door leading to the viewing area known as Vultures Row opened and out into the warm, partly cloudy night stepped a tall black officer. Vultures Row was the nickname of the observation area, because all of the operations on the flight deck can be seen from there. Some who watch from the area are waiting for something to happen, like vultures - thus the name Vultures Row. Erick Johnson, a RIO for many years, relied on instinct. As the "back seat" in the F-14 fighters he had no physical control over the aircraft; his job was to track other aircraft, maintain the communication for the plane, and target the contacts with the weapon systems. He had a master's degree in electrical engineering from MIT, and was never known to be anything short of proficient. Suddenly, it hit him that something was wrong, not near by, but not far away either. He looked up at the star-filled sky, almost as if the answer were there.

"Jinx, I've been looking all over for ya," Brian Benson began as he stepped out onto Vultures Row.

"What's up, Bee?"

"Just hunting you to see if that liberty went through." Although Brian was new to the squadron and had just been assigned Jinx, he had gotten to know him well enough to sense that something was amiss. "Something the matter, sir?"

"I don't know. It's kinda like.... Hell, I don't know how to say it." Erick starred up at the sky, "Rain......." he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, sorry. I'll go check on that liberty flight."

Brian was a well-educated, ghetto-born New Yorker. He tried to fit in with Erick, principally because there weren't that many blacks in Naval aviation, but also because he was considered one of the best RIO's anyone could get.

Jinx walked up to the admiral's door, knocked, and listened.

"Enter," a faceless voice sounded from the other side of the door. As Erick entered the room, the very distinguished, slightly graying gentleman behind the desk removed his glasses. "Well Jinx, to what do I owe this honor?" he asked, as he rocked back in his chair.

"Well Sir, I was going down to check on the liberty hop for Bee and me... shit sir, I have a very bad feeling."

"What the hell are you saying son? A bad feeling about what?"

"Have you heard any reports on Atlantis? Sir, I just got a bad feeling, just like the one I got over Lebanon riding with Rain. I just can...."

Erick was interrupted by a ringing phone. "Yes," the admiral listened. "I see." A look of concern came over his face and he motioned Erick to a chair. "Keep me posted, and monitor all frequencies." He hung up the phone then turned around to face the wall.

"Sir," Erick started.

"I'm sorry Jinx. It would seem that whatever you and the Rainmaker have as a form of ESP is infallible. The shuttle is having some automation circuit problems, and is currently in a communications blackout."

"What sort of problems, Sir?"

"They didn't say. I'm denying your liberty. I want you to use this gift of yours. Once everything is over, then....."

Again the phone rang. "Yes." Several long moments passed, with a silence as deadly as any weapon. " Very well, launch a Hawkeye into that sector. Bee and Jinx will escort."

"On my way, Sir!" Erick was heading for the door.

"Jinx."

"Sir?"

"We both," the admiral paused looking at his desk, "We... my daughter and Rain." He made his way over to a porthole and opened it. The smell of the sea flooded into the room. So did something else, it struck both men who looked at each other.

"Don't fret sir. You always said that Rain would land on his feet. We'll find 'em." Erick started for the door and paused. "Oh, by the way, sir."

"Yes?"

"Congratulations on making the star, sir. You'll make a good admiral."

"Thank you Jinx."

"Ferg what's our current position?"

"Skipper, this damned computer shows us on approach to Sioux City, currently heading Southeast over Cuba."

"Well, that's certainly reassuring." Jim's irritation level was rising. He had been trying anything he could think of to regain control, but nothing was working. Without the computer the navigation systems weren't functioning correctly. Bottom line: He had no idea where they were, what direction they were heading, or where they might land.

"Skipper," Dan hesitated.

"If it's bad news mister, go ahead. I don't see how it can get any worse."

"We might as well just ride it out and see where this ride stops, Sir. We are on complete auto override and no way to shut down, I've rechecked all the by-passes and all the fuses. There appears to be no way to shut this thing off. Also, all the radio circuits appear out. I can't fix them until we stabilize."

"Okay. Then lets strap in and do it."

The cabin was quiet. As Cheryl looked around the cabin, she noticed Jim was looking at her. He smiled and winked.

"Don't worry Miss Hoffman, your daddy says I have an uncanny knack for getting out of bad situations. Besides, he'd kill me if anything happened to you. Besides I'm not ready to die just yet." As Jim turned and looked out the window, he was wondering two things. One, why do crazy things always seem to happen to him, and, two, why hadn't he told her that he cared for her?

"We're going to make it," Jim was suddenly hit with something.

"Sir?" Randy was puzzled by the sudden assuredness on Jim's part.

"Jinx is up here with us!"

"What is he talking about, Phyllis?" Cheryl asked..

"Jim's RIO, Jinx. Somehow those two just know... things."

"Things?" Cheryl asked.

"Like when the telephone is going to ring, or a MiG is going to sneak up... from behind," Dan explained. " This should prove interesting."

There was a glow that illuminated the cabin and a ghoulish howl echoed in everyone's ears.

"We're entering the atmosphere!" Jim exclaimed.

"Then the altimeter works." Randy commented.

"Ferg any idea where we are yet?"

"Sorry sir, none that are realistic."

The F-14 was cruising high and fast, the only indication of the fact that it was moving the dull roar of the engines and the vibrations that shook the plane gently. Erick's attention was shifting back and forth between the radar screens and the sky. He had three monitors in front of him, and each had its own use. He had to divide his attention between those three screens, the radio, and scanning the skies visually. Just as he was going to look down to the radar something told him to look up. He did and saw a glowing streak in the sky. He quickly shifted his attention to the long-range targeting screen.

"Bee. Come right to one-nine-two, climb, and kick this thing in the ass! Spearhead two-one-zero. We have a possible visual. Contact bearing one-nine-two, two-five-zero miles, estimated altitude six-zero thousand feet. Over."

"Two-one-zero, copy all. The Hawkeye has confirmed your sighting. Eagle one signals check the contact and good hunting. Over."

"Yes Sir!" Brian was a little jealous. Erick was still more concerned with his former driver than he was with him. But on the other hand, he expected that type of loyalty from Erick, knowing that Jim and Erick had nearly ten long years together, with three combat tours and four kills. He also knew that some day Jim would return and Erick would transfer over. That was a given. In the meantime he was giving a hundred percent to Erick, and vice versa.

The cabin was silent except for the sound of the wind and the vibrating equipment, and the heat was nearly unbearable. The glow from the heat panels entered the cabin, reminding Jim of a misty East coast summer sunrise. He watched as the altimeter counted down, hating their complete helplessness. The possibility of their doom made time slow. He was wishing it would just come, either the end that he had cheated so may times or the exhilaration of survival. He began to wonder if this was what those MiG pilots felt like as the end he sent them to approached? A rhetorical thought, yet he still knew that Erick was on his way.

"Skipper," Randy waited until Jim looked over to him. "Twenty thousand feet," he spoke in a near whisper. "We should hit bottom in about a minute, at our present decent rate."

"Rain," Phyllis spoke with a false sense of assurance, "didn't I hear that God owed you a favor?"

"This may be a little inopportune, but ..." Cheryl took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I'm afraid I've fallen in love with you."

Jim nearly gave himself whiplash as he turned his head around. That was absolutely the last thing in the world he was expecting to hear right then. As he looked around the cabin he saw a very embarrassed Cheryl, Randy and Dan trying to contain their grins, and Phyllis looking at Cheryl in total disbelief.

"That's all right. Very typical, but all right." Jim knew that in a couple of seconds they would all be dead, or he would have to explain to his admiral why the admiral's daughter was in love with him. As he turned and faced forward and looked out the window, part of him was hoping for death rather than face the admiral.

Jim, for a second, saw the moon's reflection of the water. "Brace!" An instant later the impact rocked through the shuttle.

Erick watched in horror as the image on the screen headed toward the ocean. Their airplane was heading as fast as possible trying to intercept the shuttle, and yet he knew that even if they did catch it there was little if anything they could do to help those inside. He moved his head close to the canopy side so that he could see out the front. Brian's seat headrest blocked most of the forward visibility, yet he did the best he possibly could.

Brian was willing the plane to a speed that was starting to make its handling difficult. Finally the strange glow from the titanium leading edges of the wings caught his attention. He watched as the streak headed down and vectored his aircraft to a point down and in front of the target. But the distance was too great, and, as he looked at his altimeter, he realized that their current course and rate of descent would soon put them into the water.

"I was just starting to notice that. Let's try to get over them as quick as possible."

Brian pulled back gently on the control stick and the nose rose slightly. The airspeed dropped a little, and he changed the vector of the plane so that he would intercept the path of the shuttle from behind and above. This was a classic combat maneuver called the trail. It gave the trail pilot the advantage over the, usually, unexpecting leading aircraft. In this case there were no combatants, just those that were trying to help their friends. The leading edges of the wings lost their glow and the handling of the plane returned to normal. Brian swallowed hard as the heat trail ended suddenly. He looked at the altimeter. Five hundred feet.

"Yeah. It was straight ahead about ten miles. I'm going to slow down so we can get a better look. But, there's not a lot of moon, it is night and that water looks pretty dark. Visual I D may be a long shot."

The wings of the fighter swung forward and the speed dropped considerably. Brian switched on the landing lights, which were really very little help, but at this point he was willing to try anything. Both men looked out of the canopy searching for anything on the surface.

Soon Brian felt certain he was over the point where he had lost visual contact. Still there was no sign. He climbed and started slow and widening circles, in a standard search pattern. Before long, several more aircraft joined them. The Hawkeye was keeping all of the aircraft spaced, making sure that all areas were covered.

The admiral sat in his chair on the bridge, motionless gazing out of the windows of the con and into the darkness. His thoughts were on his daughter and her fellow crew members in the shuttle. He felt comfortable with Jim commanding the flight, and knew that no matter what happened, Jim would give a hundred and ten percent. Lost in thought of all the possibilities, the admiral was not ready to give them up for dead. With the intercom system monitoring radios of the search teams, all of the crew on the bridge listened with him as the radio chatter between the ships, the Hawkeye, and the other aircraft continued seemingly non-stop.

It was about two thirty when the air boss, the person responsible for all the air operations of the ship, walked onto the bridge with two cups of steaming hot coffee. He offered one of the cups to the admiral.

"I guess I have," he answered dryly as he swallowed more coffee. "I just can't come up with any ideas. What do we need to do?"

The air boss swallowed and looked out the window. "The exact thing we are doing. Just being here for them."

The admiral looked at the air boss and found a comforting assuredness in his eyes, a twinkle giving something away.

"I do. He showed us all something that day. I never figured out how he got that guy off his tail, and got on his. Shit, he'll get them out of this. He's one of the best combat pilots I've ever known, this should be a cake walk for him. All we have to do is be in the area. He'll find us, just like he always has."

The two men then both faced the window, the silence broken only by the radio traffic of the search teams. Both needed to sleep, but neither could. The next many hours would be critical if the crew was going to be recovered alive. With that type of weight in the balance, sleep became a difficult option.

Erick and Brian, having spent all night in the search pattern, saw the sun starting to glow in the sky. They had refueled twice, and Brian was now as frustrated as the rest of the searchers. His feet were tingling with the pain of hundreds of needles as they started to fall asleep from the lack of movement for such a long time.

"Jinx, I'm sorry. But if I don't get back on the deck I'm going to fall asleep up here."

"I guess you're right. I'm not doing any good either." Erick twisted the knot that had settled into his neck and grimaced. "Turn around; I'll call in. Spearhead two-one-zero, request a ready deck. We can't take much more this round. Over."

"I'm sorry sir," Brian started as he moved the controls and maneuvered the aircraft back to the ship. "I know that you and Rainmaker were, I mean are, close. We didn't find any debris; maybe the ship is intact and we'll find it."

"I hope so." Erick was feeling sick. As they headed back, his eyes swept the search area. "Hang in there, Rain, I'll be back."

He felt as if he were abandoning Jim. Yet, he knew that if Brian and he didn't get some rest soon, they might be the next victims. Yet, there was the feeling deep inside him that Jim was alive and would be found. As he reached up to turn the radars over to approach for landing, the numbness in his left hand became apparent to him. His body was starting to go to sleep without him.

Jim jolted back to consciousness, his head hurting, feeling as if he had been clobbered by a train. His vision was blurry, but he did notice that all the electrical systems seemed to be working. After shaking the cobwebs loose and rubbing his eyes, he glanced at the altimeter and saw the reading of 125 feet and knew that it wasn't working. He shook his head, mostly out of frustration and was afraid to ask what else could happen.

"I think so. Check on the rest of them. And on the way back bring me some aspirin please."

"Yes sir," Randy climbed slowly out of his seat and had to wait for a couple moments for his legs to stabilize before he headed aft.

"Ask me when my vision focuses. How about I run a full system check.... omitting the automation circuits naturally."

"Sounds good to me. Run a telemetry if you can, too. I'd really like to know were in God's name we landed. Also, I want to know what systems aren't working."

Phyllis staggered up next to Jim. There was a large red welt on her forehead where something had hit her. "Should I take a seat and start an egress check?"

"Good thinking." Jim knew that she was right to do the check, which would let them be ready to leave the shuttle at a moment's notice. He was glad that someone in the crew was thinking of such things. Then again, the systems for the egress were all Phyllis'.

"Which one scared you the most, Rain?" Phyllis asked without looking up from her checklist. "The crash or the girl?" She didn't really expect an answer; the sarcastic look she saw out of the corner of her eye was answer enough. She started to chuckle.

Randy walked back to Jim's side and held out his hand. In turn, Jim held out his open hand to take the aspirin. Five tablets fell into Jim's hand, followed by the space packet of water.

"The crew is fine," Randy reported. "Hoffman is out, but as best I can tell, looking at her vitals, it doesn't appear any more serious than a bump on the back of the head. I've laid an ice pack beside her, for when she comes to. The rest have some bruises. All in all, we fared it pretty well."

"In that case, Dan wanted a stable ship to repair the radio. This sure feels pretty stable."

Jim had no sooner spoken when it hit him. Stable? Hell they were too stable. Were they on the water? He couldn't feel the pitch and roll of the waves. With the down angle they had, a collision with solid land would have been fatal. He knew that he had seen the moon's reflection in the instants before impact. But, what was the light reflecting off of? He leaned foreword toward the window and peered through. No stars, no light, nothing. He leaned back thinking, shifting his gaze to the altimeter again.

"Red, what happens if," Jim turned to look at Cheryl to make sure that she was still out. "If this type of altimeter goes below sea level?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe it would just start reading......." Phyllis stopped and looked at Jim in disbelief. "You don't think that we're under water do you?"

Jim didn't answer, he just glowered at the panel. He looked up at Phyllis, gave an impish grin. "The girl. Try to find out about the possibility of the altimeter when you complete the checklist."

Phyllis knew that that was Jim's way of not letting a bad situation get worse, of trying to find a silver lining to this black cloud. She had to think about why she thought that these antics were so cute, why she liked him and found a lot of respect for his abilities. He had become one of her best friends, and it was this type of thing that made him that. She knew that if he could keep everyone busy and their minds off the situation, they all could survive.

"Oh, by the way, Red." Jim was climbing out of his seat to go check on Cheryl. "You were right. It would appear that God did owe me a favor."

Phyllis turned and went on with her checklist. She smiled as she thought about the irony of her comment, or was it really true? As she turned to look back at Jim kneeling in front of Cheryl, she wondered if he didn't really have some sort of pact with a divine influence. Nearly every one in fleet knew of his remarkable battle with a Russian made MiG fighter that snuck up behind him. Before the MiG could get started on a lock, Jim had turned the tables on the MiG and was sending his first combat kill into the ocean off the coast of Lebanon.

Cheryl's head was throbbing; everything was blurry. There was someone right in front of her, but she couldn't focus. She was beginning to wonder if she were dead and about to see God. All she could recall was Jim's last command to brace.

"How does that bump on your head feel?" Jim's voice was soft and concerned, Cheryl almost didn't recognize it. "Here's an ice pack, let's see if this helps."

Her vision clearing, she remembered what she had said, and looking away, she blushed slightly in embarrassment.

"Shhh" Jim's voice was still soft. "Let's say it was unexpected. But, at least you were brave enough to say how you felt."

"I wasn't being brave, I was being scared. I didn't want to die without your knowing how I felt."

Jim looked her in the eyes, smiled slightly. "I fell for you a couple of years ago. But I never found a time where your dad wasn't mad at me long enough to tell him."

Cheryl was caught completely off guard. "The hell with him, why didn't you tell me? Are you that scared of my dad?"

"Too long. Maybe three, four years. I just nev......." Jim was cut short by the shuttle moving. He was quickly on his feet and making his way back to his seat.

"Everybody strap in." Jim was back to the game. "Red, I'm thinking I was right about that altimeter."

Phyllis looked at him a little startled by the grinding sounds from the bottom of the shuttle. "So it might seem."

Jim looked over to Phyllis, the concern showing on his face. "I have no idea how I'm gonna get us out of this one. Shall we see what it looks like out there?"

"Might as well. I just wish we'd stop moving." Phyllis looked out into the darkness.

As the landing lights came on, there was no longer any question. The lights cut into the darkness to show that they were on a sloped, underwater shelf. Several small fish' startled, swam back into the safety of the darkness beyond the beams; loose rocks and silt the shuttle had come to rest on shifted, falling over the ledge. As they shifted they brought with them the shuttle.

Phyllis sat back in her seat, looking over at Jim, who was shaking his head in disbelief.

"I find it really amazing what extremes you'll go to to keep from getting involved in a relationship," she told him.

"Well gang," Jim started as he shook his head. "Here's the situation. We're apparently about a hundred and twenty five feet under water, sliding slowly toward a ravine. Ferg, I need a radio or transponder now!"

"I'm not totally sure we have that long. Red, what are the emergency egress procedures for this type of scenario?"

Jim leaned forward to see what was happening outside. The ravine edge was now only feet away. All the combat training, all the emergency training, and yet Jim was completely unprepared for this. He was starting to wish for the days of dogfights over Lebanon. At least then he had some idea of what was possible.

"Shit! Here we go again. All circuits to emergency standby." Jim and Phyllis were busy shutting down all the systems they could. As the crew sat helplessly within the craft, the nose pointed down and the craft headed into the dark abyss.

Admiral Hoffmann stood quietly on Vultures Row. As he watched the approaching Tomcat through binoculars, hoping for some kind of miracle, the heat of the morning sun warmed him. It was almost as if the sun were trying to strip away all of the events from last night with the start of the new day. Every ship in the search quadrant reported no sign of the shuttle. As the whistle of the Tomcat's engines grew louder, he lowered the binoculars and watched as the plane landed. It was obvious to anyone watching that the long hours in the sky had taken a toll on the young pilot. Yet the skill and determination also were evident as he brought the plane crashing to the deck in true Navy fashion.

"Bee's getting pretty good on the landing, wouldn't you say sir?" The officer standing beside the admiral was attempting to get his mind on anything but the demise of the shuttle.

In the minutes that passed, the admiral was trying to convince himself that there was hope. The whole thing seemed all too unreal to be happening. He wondered if this was an exercise being carefully scrutinized by the Pentagon. Then there was a knock on the door.

"Yes I do, Jinx." The admiral walked over to the wall map. There were red marks, circles, and boxes in various areas on the map. "These are all the search areas. You were the only one who actually had a visual on the thing." Admiral Hoffmann tapped a spot on the map with his finger. "This is where the computer says it should have hit." The way he left the sentence hanging, Erick wondered if he was supposed to have an answer.

Erick walked over and looked at the area the admiral had indicated. He rubbed his sore eyes and walked over to the map. He tried to make sense of it all, but his state of exhaustion made it next to impossible.

"That looks about right. So this is pretty much where the Hawkeye put its track?"

"Yes." The admiral crossed his arms with one hand rubbing his upper lip and studied the map. "Then why the hell can't anyone find anything?"

"I don't know, Sir. But, Bee and I don't think it broke up. If it had, we would've certainly found something by now."

"No sir. If it were we would have found it. Bee and I were thinking that maybe.... no. forget it."

He really hated it when the old man called him by his rank. It made him feel more military than he liked. And as tired as he was the amount of brain power required to explain their theory, might be more than he had left.

The admiral turned around, looking at the floor. After a few moments he walked over to the phone. The idea struck him as a little odd, but then this was not the usual set of circumstances.

"I want a structural stat sheet on the shuttle. Move all the destroyers into the search areas and have them go active sonar." He hung up the phone.

"Sir, that's a real long shot. You really think it's worth concentrating that much effort into?"

"Erick," he spoke in a soft tone, and Erick couldn't remember the last time the admiral had called him by his actual first name. "Yes this is a real long shot, but it's the best direction we've got to go. You think they're still alive?"

The admiral really looked at Erick for the first time since he entered the room. His eyes were not more than hollow openings, the whites looking like a road map of upstate New York.

"You look like hell. Go get some sleep. But, I want to see you before your next shift."

As Erick closed the door behind him, he wanted to go back out. But he knew that if he was right, there was nothing more they could do from the air. And besides, sleep sounded good. He thought to himself that the admiral should get some rest as well, but knew that he couldn't rest until some positive news was heard. On the way to his cabin he stuck his head in to check on Brian, who was sound asleep. In a few minutes Erick, like Brian, was in a deep and well deserved sleep.

The descent had been rapid and steady, still there was no control of the shuttle. Phyllis watched as the altimeter counted the increasing depth. She was unsure of what else she could do besides looking through the emergency manuals for the proper procedure for what was happening.

"Any idea how deep we can go before we crush like an egg carton?" Jim asked as he watched the altimeter go past 2000 feet. "God! Under water!"

"Well, Ferg, you did say you wanted to be around when I set a new record. I just hope that we'll all be around to tell about it."

"Thanks, Rain. I'm feeling better about this whole thing now," Dan commented with a discernible note of sarcasm.

"Go over to override and try the controls. I think I got you partial pitch control."

"Got it!" As Jim pulled back on the yolk, he could feel the boost from the power. "It ain't much but it beats what we didn't have."

The shuttle was too heavy and the water gave too much resistance to stop the descent, but Jim was able to bring the nose up enough to slow the descent. It was a small victory in the long run, but a victory none the less. As he pulled back on the yolk every muscle in his back hurt; he pulled harder and started to feel light headed from the pain.

"Well, we're right on schedule," Jim groaned. "Now all the good news starts comin' in. We got a chance now. So, what does it look like ahead?"

"Three thousand twenty and rising.... lowering. Whatever, you know what I mean."

"Five hundred. Rate of descent decreasing. Angle of attack now seventeen degrees down."

Jim was fighting the craft. He reached over to the panel on his left and threw a switch. Like sharp needles, the landing lights pierced the dark. It was only moments before Jim could see the sea floor; it was not much further ahead. He pulled harder on the controls, straining every muscle in his body and making him even more light-headed. He began to wonder how much more the yolk could take before it sheared off. There was no additional strength left in his body; he was now starting to will the nose up, feeling their speed slowing. It gave him a little more strength.

"Range to bottom fifty feet, descending very slowly, angle of attack now a five degrees positive. You've done it Rain! The nose is up," Phyllis' excitement was interrupted by the sound of the bottom rear of the shuttle hitting the sea floor.

The added friction slowed the shuttle's speed to a stop and the nose gently settled to the floor. When Phyllis looked at Jim he was draped over the controls, completely motionless.

Randy was there almost instantly. He pulled Jim back to the seat and checked for a pulse. Satisfied that Jim was still alive, he undid the harness that held Jim to the seat.

"Got him," Dan responded as he took Jim's shoulders and started to carry him below.

Through all this Cheryl watched, feeling helpless, beginning to cry. She looked up at Phyllis, and found an understanding, caring smile.

"Honey, he'll be fine. He just used every once of energy to get us down safely. That's the Rainmaker. You got yourself a handful girl, one hell of a handful."

"Thanks Phyllis. You really think so?" Cheryl asked as she wiped away her tears.

"That I do. I've seen him in a few relationships. I think this is one he'll really be happy in. you'll be good for him, provided you can settle that rebel down."

Cheryl smiled shyly and looked around the cabin. It was a mess, papers and equipment were scattered everywhere. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, I don't really know. Maybe you can scare up lunch. It has been a rather long morning."

"Okay." As Cheryl released her harness a thought crossed her mind. "Phyllis, I was wondering....."

"How long will the batteries last? I mean for things like heat and life support."

Phyllis pondered the question for a moment. Then reached for the emergency procedures manual. The answers were not clearly discernible. This was going to be a lengthy research project.

"I wish I could tell you. We had enough for five more days in orbit, and a two-to-three day emergency backup," Phyllis answered after several moments of flipping through the manual.

Incredibly, Phyllis was still looking through the manuals for a procedure that might be of help. Of course there were none even close to this. Of all the scenarios the experts could conceive, this was likely the one they never considered as a possibility. As she sat back to reflect on Cheryl's question, Phyllis could picture the room full of brains when they learned about the Atlantis. She smiled a little, realizing she was behaving like Jim now. She was finding humor in the face of certain disaster. She looked back to her manuals and shook her head in disgust.

Down below, Dan and Randy took great care to place Jim on a flat fold-out table. Dan went over to the wall and took down one of the sleeping cocoons and brought it over while Randy made a pillow out of a towel. Once Jim was covered, Dan started to start check him for vital signs. When he was sure that there was reason for further concern, he stood up and faced Randy.

"I don't have a clue." Dan leaned back against a bulkhead and crossed his arms. "We're under water, right?"

"I think we better check the hull for leaks. With all that's happened so far, that's about all that hasn't happened."

"I think you're right. I'll start doing the checks, you go up and check on the other two."

"Sounds like a plan." Randy turned and left Dan to do the integrity checks. As he walked back onto the bridge, Phyllis was still looking through her manuals and Cheryl was picking up clutter in the cabin. Phyllis turned to see who was coming up, a look of deep frustration on her face.

"There's no clue in the manual that's helpful. I recommend cutting all unneeded circuits, to save battery power. We probably should do a structural integrity check. Other than that, I'm not sure."

"Do the shut downs, Ferg and I have already discussed the integrity checks." He looked back at Cheryl who was going below. "By the way, Rain'll be fine, he's completely worn out. The mental and physical strain of fighting this pig drained him. You want to let Cheryl know?" he backed up then smiled a little and winked.

"Sure," Phyllis smiled back. If anything good was to come out of this whole thing, maybe Cheryl and Jim ending up together was it.

"Only Rain could fall in love with the old man's daughter," Randy said as he shook his head.

"Yeah, maybe. But maybe this time he won't get out of it. She seems pretty hooked."

"Who knows? I guess in a big way we're too good of friends to screw up things with a relationship. In another, he's still gun shy after that divorce."

"It's more of an excuse than anything. He uses that and work to keep any possible relationships on the rocks. I think it comes down to his being afraid of gettin' hurt again. Besides, I'm sort of hooked on someone."

"That's right," Randy started with a joking tone in his voice. "I've heard that you sort of fell for some desk jockey. An intelligence officer and red neck, or so I hear. I'm gonna get back to the radio."

"Okay." Phyllis went back to shutting down all the circuits that weren't necessary, then undid her harness and slid out of her seat. She smiled as she thought of her new steady boyfriend. Then she started missing him, wondering if she would ever see him again. As she made her way to the hatch that led below, she was overcome with the feeling that she was being watched. She turned around and slowly looked through the cabin. Nothing. She shook her head and wrote it off to nerves, then joined the others below.

The morning sun was now well over the horizon. The Soviet task force had been trying to monitor the American fleet. There was still some question as to the strange track that had blazed across their radar screens the night before. They had tracked the fighter making what had appeared to be an attempt to intercept it. It was all still very confusing to captain Morat Yakamerirov.

Yakamerirov's tall, thin frame did not reflect his strength. His coffee-colored eyes and dark hair were typical of the people from the Kazakhstan area. Coming from a family that had strong roots in the Soviet Communist Party, he had received all of the extras that his status could grant. Even the prestigious Naval school at Murmansk. His uniform fit perfectly, even his hat was never worn out of regulation. Accustomed to playing these simulated combats with the American fleets, he still found this situation totally unlike anything he had seen before. Holding his hands behind his back, the captain headed for the door. Captain second rank Kamorov, the ships political officer, followed him as he walked outside.

"What is it, Captain?" Kamorov asked. Being the political officer was an assignment that few KGB or GRU officers truly enjoyed. Most were either mistrusted or disliked by the crew. Their job was to make sure that all of the actions of the crew were to the standards of the Soviet policies. Any discontent or disobedience was reported, and in some cases resulted in execution at sea. Thus, when a political officer was in the area, an odd silence usually fell over the room. Kamorov, from Sovremonich, the first of his family to go to sea, had a father and grandfather who had worked for the KGB in the Kremlin. When he asked to be assigned to the Naval directorate as a political officer, it shocked his family. His green eyes showed his taste for adventure, as did his wind blown brown hair. Although he was professional, he was considered by some of his fellow GRU officers as somewhat of a maverick. Often he would do things that were not considered politically correct; yet, many of them paid off. It was one of the reasons that he had made rank so quickly, and made him one of the few who could actually pick which assignment he wanted.

"These are not normal battle-type maneuvers. I have no idea what the Americans are up to. Damn, these are not even regular search operations."

"No, captain." Kamorov paused. "They are in international waters. So maybe a low level flight could be informative."

"I'll make the request of the air directorate," Yakameirov stated, and turned to reenter the radio room of the Frunze.

The Frunze, the newest of the Kirov class guided missile ship, carried a tremendous amount of firepower, and, typical of the soviet engineering conservation and redundancy, the ship had both nuclear power as well as an auxiliary oil-fired boiler.

As Kamorov looked off to the side, there were two of the six other ships in this battle group. The rest of the group was comprised of two Sovremennyy class destroyers, one Slava cruiser, and three Petya class fast frigates. This was a battle group based out of Vladivostok in the Sea of Japan; when the American fleet was detected heading South, it was dispatched to tag along. Somehow the spy trawler that was supposed to pick them up when they left the Hawaiian islands missed them. The probability was that the Americans had used their jamming abilities to hide the fleet when it left port. It was not unusual for them to do that.

As Kamorov pondered the possibilities, Yakameirov came back out to join him. He carried his mug of tea, the result of the influence of his Khazakstanian heritage. He often wondered how the Americans, and even some Russians, could drink that American coffee. He watched as Yakameirov took a long drink.

"They didn't say anything. We don't have any alert traffic on any missing aircraft. I don't understand why they have come to a complete stop. It just doesn't make sense." He paused a minute while he took another drink of tea. "Don't they have a shuttle up?"

"Yes. But that wouldn't land anywhere near where they are. In fact, I don't think that there is a runway long enough anywhere in this area."

Both men fell silent as they pondered the possibilities of the American commander's strange actions. Both were seasoned veterans of the Soviet Navy, and they were very familiar with all the battle techniques. What they were experiencing was very unusual. They had slowed to nearly a crawl, and were far enough away that they could hardly detect the American ships with their radar. They would make a slow wide circle around the American fleet, keeping them just on the fringe of the radar screen.

It was sometime later when a crewman came to the door and told the two officers that they had picked up the in-bound aircraft. When they went into the radio room and made their way over to the radar, the situation was none the clearer. On the left fringe of the scope were the images of the American fleet, on the right was a single fast moving image. The image was heading toward the American fleet, certainly the Soviet aircraft on its way from its base in Vietnam. It would be only minutes before the aircraft would pass over the Frunze, then a few minutes later it would be over the Americans. Everyone on the Soviet side knew that by the time the Badger-class bomber got within fifty miles of the Americans, there would be interceptors all over it. True to their nature, the Americans had already sent four fighters to pick up the bomber.

Uri piloted his Tu-16 Badger bomber toward the American fleet. He adjusted his oxygen mask; it felt uncomfortable. After the last nine years of flying this type of mission, he was starting to get a little complacent. The black leather cap that partly covered his blonde hair seemed not to fit right today. His hazel eyes, framed by both the mask and the cap, gave the impression of some sort of Hollywood space creature. Most of his crew had been together since their flight training first started, and three of them he knew from his childhood in Leningrad. Then there was the political officer, usually a new one every few months. He looked out at the ocean below, and saw the Soviet battle group. As he checked off at the Frunze, he vectored toward the American fleet, and almost an instant later, the interceptors from the fleet were headed toward him. This was a common drill; he would approach the American ships, open his Bomb bay doors, and let the interceptors see his anti-ship missiles. While the fighters were coaxing him to leave the area, he would have the opportunity to get a close look at what the ships were up to.

"Keep your guns in the stored position. Bombardier, open the bay doors," Uri instructed.

Uri looked out to the left. An F-14 was slowing down to fly escort for the bomber. The arrogance of American fighter pilots was beyond Uri's comprehension. Their aircraft had gloss black vertical stabilizers with chrome leading edges, the top of the tails were bright yellow, and in the middle was a gloss white Jolly Roger. He could see the bright yellow helmets of the two crewman in the plane. He wondered if the symbols on the aircraft tails were a testimony of their true intentions.

"Captain," the bombardier's voice came over the intercom. "They have parked an aircraft under the bay."

Roy was the newest pilot in the squadron, and, being an ensign, the responsibility of "parking" under the Soviet bomber's open bay doors was his. It was a safety precaution, an expensive one, but one none-the-less. The bomber carried an anti-ship missile, and to ensure that if it was launched it could not be used against the carrier, a fighter was "parked" under the bomb bay. If the weapon were to be dropped, it would fall on top of the waiting fighter. The fall would damage the missile, and because it would essentially take out the fighter, that would constitute an act of aggression, allowing the other fighters to shoot down the bomber.

As Roy looked up through the canopy at the Soviet missile hanging in the bomb bay, the thought came to him that this was total insanity. It was not overly comforting that his demise would be well revenged. Never had he dreamed that he would be in a thirty million dollar jet, looking at a million dollar missile that could come crashing down on him at any instant. In college back in Oklahoma, he studied physics and this was making him wish that he was back in the classroom. He had only arrived to fleet two months ago, and he was wondering if he would see his twenty-fourth birthday in three more months. He had gone through tough training at both Jacksonville and Beesville, but this was really spooky. His palms started sweating, and suddenly his breathing was irregular.

"Ghost," Roy's RIO, Keith, came on the intercom. "You okay up there?" He waited for a response. The plane started to bounce, and he knew something was wrong. The two had been together now for nearly nine months. They were assigned to each other in flight school, and Roy had found it interesting learning to work with this Oakie. Keith had come from South Miami, and studied electrical design. In the process, he had left most of his black neighborhood far behind. "Cowboy, this is High-ball in two-zero-nine. I think we have a problem."

"Ghost isn't responding to voice and...." His voice broke off as the fighter made a violent move. Keith was slammed into his seat when Roy lit off the afterburners. The explosion from the acceleration thundered in his ears as they just barely cleared the nose of the bomber.

"What the hell are you doing?" Larry yelled over the radio. A second later he saw the anti-ship missile launch. "Shit!" he muttered into his mask. Then he quickly pressed the microphone button on the stick. "Spearhead this is Tomcat two-zero-two. We have a missile launch. May have been accidental. I'm in pursuit of the weapon." He pushed the throttles wide open and pressed the button for the afterburners. As the thrust shoved him back against his seat, he moved the stick to the right and forward to follow the missile. This was not completely unlike some of the air combat engagements he had had, except this target didn't shoot back.

"Jackal," Larry started talking to his RIO. "I want to overload that piece of junk's tracking ability. How many missiles can we dedicate on a single target?"

"Not sure, Ghost. Three, maybe four on a single; I'm working on it now." As the weapons officer, he was working at a blazing speed getting the weapons systems to lock up on the target. "Too bad Rain isn't up here. This is the kind of thing he's good at."

"Isn't that the truth." Larry paused for a moment as he formed a plan. "I want to coordinate the fire with the surface so give me a count."

The admiral stood on the bridge in his life vest and helmet. The battle stations alert was going, yet he seemed almost deaf to it. To most of the crew this was a common drill. Whenever the Soviets would come too close, this drill was done as a show of muscle. The admiral peered through his binoculars, looking in the direction of the incoming rocket.

The XO looked over at one of the petty officers on the bridge and nodded. A moment later the ship came quiet.

"Cowboy won't miss. I'd feel better if Rain were the one chasing that damned thing." The admiral knew that the chances of the ECM (Electronic Counter Measures) jamming the signal of an anti-ship missile was slim. The CIWS (Close-In Weapon Systems), or Phalanx is the last ditch missile defense. It consists of a 20 mm electrically-operated Gatling gun that fires 3000 rounds per minute, and a computer controlled radar. The radar tracks both the incoming target and the outgoing stream of projectiles, and causes the two to merge.

There was also the Aegis air defense system on the Ticonderoga class cruisers. Named for the mythological shield of Zeus and Athena, the system is the most advanced shipboard air defense system in the world. It uses four phased-array radars that are capable of maintaining continuous 360 degree surveillance of the airspace. The system is so automated that it can track, and engage multiple targets simultaneously.

Suddenly, a missile from the cruiser was launched from its below deck storage area. An instant later a second launched. The rockets rose quickly, then headed toward the incoming missile.

"Captain, the Tomcat reports four sidewinders launched and are tracking..." The XO was listening intently to a receiver. "The Tomcat is breaking off. Five seconds to target."

The admiral finally lowered his binoculars and looked around the bridge. He recalled when he was an ensign on board the Enterprise and how he looked for comfort and strength to his skipper when they pulled into Pearl Harbor late in the morning on December 7th, 1941. He recalled how admiral Halsey kept calm and was making plans to put back out before daybreak of the following day. He reached deep inside and brought a slight smile.

"Well, we are finally going to see if that new software for the Phalanx really works. Right George?" he addressed the XO.

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion in the sky. The admiral quickly raised his binoculars and searched the sky for signs of the incoming missile. Nothing.

The XO was on the intercom before the command had been finished. "Radar, con. Status on inbound?" He listened for a moment. "Sir, Radar is calling it a kill. No further track on the target."

"Aye, captain." The XO picked up a microphone. "This is the XO. Secure from battle stations."

Uri listened to the tones that indicated that the American fighters had missile lock on his bomber. Three of his windscreens had been blown out when the fighter raced past him and he had to shake his head to clear his vision. One of his missiles had accidentally launched when he went through the jet wash of the fighter and resulted in some electrical circuit damage. He was a little shaken, but was starting to regain full composure as he rubbed his eyes over the top of his oxygen mask and his vision cleared. He did realize that once the weapon was launched the best thing to do was to fly straight and level. Any other action might be misinterpreted as an intentional launch. It was a show down, and the slightest twitch could mean getting blasted from existence. The worst part of the whole thing was that he had come to a gun fight with only a knife; he had no way of even beginning to bother those F-14's. He was lost for a solution of any kind.

"Badger Five-one-three, this is USS Nimitz. Over." A voice came over the radio in text book Russian. It took Uri a moment to fully regroup, then he keyed the microphone key.

"Turn to heading one-one-six, maintain current altitude, and stand by on this frequency."

"Copy," Uri turned slowly and noticed that most of the fighters were still with him.

"I'm not really sure, sir. I heard from two-zero-nine that something was wrong. The next thing I know, he was bugging out."

"Yes, sir. Could have been a little too much for him. Do you have location on him right now?"

Larry turned his aircraft to intercept his junior officer. An Annapolis graduate who was sometimes considered far too serious, he had just made full commander and sometimes resented the officers who were not from "the academy." Once, Jim had made a joke in the ready room about "row boat U," and it nearly resulted in an altercation between the two. The result was that any time the two were compared, it didn't set well with Larry. When the two of them went to Miramar, Jim beat him out. His brown eyes and rusty hair were symbols of his Irish decent.

As soon as he picked up the fighter on his radar, Larry throttled back and began a cautious approach. After all, he wasn't sure what to expect after the scene at the bomber.

"He's flying straight and level ... a little bouncy ... no AB's ... flying at four hundred knots, boss."

"Well, let's see what we're up against." He pushed the microphone button on his stick. "Ghost this is Cowboy, how you doing guys?"

After a short pause the radio crackled. "Man am I glad you're here. I think Ghost has settled down, but I can't get him to talk to me."

"That's what I wanted to hear. You keep on trying to talk to Ghost, let him know that its me coming up on him."

Larry knew that it could take hours to get Roy to snap out of it. He also knew that he didn't have hours; at best he had maybe an hour before the F-14 was out of fuel. As a last resort he could always instruct the crew to eject, but the loss of the plane was not what he wanted. He had to work at getting Roy to relax and get his head back together for a landing. Not like it took common sense to land on a carrier, he thought to himself.

"I guess I sort of lost it back there. This isn't going to look too good on my record, is it?"

"I'm not too worried about that, but, the old man is going to want to talk to you about the cost of a few missiles."

Kamorov had the radio headset on since they had detected a missile launch, intent on watching the radar and trying to discern what had transpired. He had watched as the American fighter had fired at least one missile at the Soviet missile. A moment, later he watched as one of the American ships launched two rockets. It appeared that the Soviet anti-ship missile had been destroyed in what had to have been a tremendous explosion. Then several of the smaller ships, certainly cruisers and destroyers, had started to head toward the Soviet group. He looked at Yakameirov.

"Have all ships stay at non-battle status. Let's not give the Americans any more reason to shoot."

Kamorov turned his attention back to the radar screen, not fully comfortable with Putchtick's decision. He noticed that the carrier was at full speed, then watched as several aircraft launched and turned toward them. He noted that they were on a direct heading for the Soviet group, and that they were at low altitude.

"Captain, four aircraft heading this way. Low level approach. Probably F-18's. We have no defensive systems operational."

Yakameirov figured that the approaching aircraft were indeed the F-18 Hornets. That would be what he would send if he were commanding the American fleet. The Hornets are the US Navy's air-to-surface attack plane and carried Harpoon anti-ship missiles, which he realized would be extremely hard to defend against. Especially since they did not have their own systems up.

"Captain," Kamorov shouted, "the American planes are going to computer lock!" He knew that meant the weapon systems on the aircraft were armed, and that they were the targets. "Surely we must go to battle stations!"

"No. Activate the AK-630 systems," he answered in a calm voice. The AK-630 was the Soviet version of the CIWS, and was referred to as "Darth Vader helmets" by most of the intelligence people. It has a six barreled, 30mm Gatling cannon, with the radar separated from the unit. Often the radar is mounted high up with the other radar systems.

"Nothing else, Kamorov," Putchtick's voice was very stern. "And do not activate the tracking radar. I don't want them to think we're ready to fight... Yet."

This was a high dollar, high risk, game of chicken with some very serious possible repercussions. It was one that could result in a no-win situation. He knew that the most important thing to do was to remain as calm as possible. Hopefully they all would survive.

"Captain," the communications officer called out, "the American fleet commander is hailing us."

"I guess I should see what he wants." He walked over and took up the microphone. He pushed the button and in his best English he spoke. "This is captain Yakameirov, commander of the Soviet ship Frunze."

"This is Admiral Hoffman, commander of the USS Nimitz. What are the intentions of your battle group?"

"We are on normal naval maneuvers. We have no intentions, hostile or otherwise."

"We have no knowledge of a missile launch on your ships. What are the intentions of your aircraft approaching this group?"

As Kamorov watched, the aircraft broke off their approach, and went into a normal patrol style pattern. Then he watched as the surface ships slowed and took stations between the two fleets.

"Captain," Hoffman's voice came over the radio. It sounded controlled and commanding. "My apologies for the delay in my answer. Our intentions were strictly defensive."

"Understood. With your permission, admiral, we will depart on a heading of two- nine-three."

"That is fine. We will offer to escort your Badger aircraft back to your airspaces. Due to his damage, he might have some navigational problems."

Yakameirov looked over at Kamorov who gave him a look of "Hell if I know what to do." Finally Kamorov nodded approval to Yakameirov.

Admiral Hoffman replaced the radio phone in the cradle. The sigh that followed allowed the crew to see the weight fall from his shoulders. He looked over to the XO, who was also showing great signs of relief.

He had gone through a great many battles, but now that it was all so high tech, it was really scary. The last time he had to bluff an opposing commander in a real life scenario was years ago and he wasn't the commanding officer on whose shoulders everything rested.

"Those fighters and that Badger are going to need to refuel if they're going to make the coast and get back."

As the admiral hung up the intercom, he turned back to look out the window. He wanted to get back to finding the shuttle. This type of distraction only hampered their efforts and lowered the chances of finding the crew alive. Suddenly the weight returned that had been on his shoulders before the mess with the Soviets. It felt as if it were enough to nearly break his back.

The sound of the KA-6 tanker winding up to launch caught his attention. Seconds later the converted bomber, heavily laden with fuel, raced down the deck and flew off to refuel the aircraft. He hoped that all of the crew of the Badger were truly all right. He, as well as the rest of the crew, still wondered what had gone wrong. What had caused the pilot to bolt out from under the bomber? The intercom buzzed, and he reached for it.

"Once we get all of our planes back on board, I want the group to go back to where we were. "

Roy and Larry walked through the passageways in silence. When they got to the admiral's door they stood for a moment. Larry raised his hand and knocked firmly twice on the door.

The two pilots entered the room and Larry closed the door behind them. Crossing the room they stood in front of the admiral's desk; both men came to attention and saluted. The admiral raised his eyes from the files he had been studying.

"Would one of you gentlemen like to kindly tell me just what the hell happened up there?"

"Sir," Roy started, "I don't know just what happened. I parked under the Badger, looked up at the missile, and ... I guess I got scared."

"Cowboy, why'd you put a green rookie in that position? Didn't you think that a couple of runs would have been in order before you assign someone in that position?"

"Ghost, you caused an anti-ship missile to be launched at us. And both of you very nearly caused World War Three!" He paused for a minute to gather his thoughts. "I can't avoid reporting this, and as some action will need to be taken, I'm grounding both of you for a week. That should pacify fleet. You're dismissed."

The two pilots turned about and left the cabin, both feeling fortunate that they still had their wings. They looked at each other then headed for the ready room.

Uri felt more comfortable. He had been refueled by the American tanker, and had the two remaining F-14's guiding him back to the mainland. His radio communications with both his fleet and the Americans had been comforting. Once everything had gotten straightened out, everyone was working together. The help of the American fighters was much needed, as his electrical difficulties had caused problems in the navigational systems. He flew with his escorts for nearly twenty minutes, then noticed several aircraft approaching from the ten o'clock position. It wasn't too long before he could make out that the approaching aircraft were from his airbase. They would replace the American fighters and guide him home. He knew there would be a thousand questions to be answered after he landed, but he looked forward to getting back. Today had been more than he had bargained for.

The strange craft lay still on the sea floor. The shadowy images of the returning patrol were barely visible. Nolwak watched the small lighted spots on the side. He was asking himself if this was yet another trick of the Shoals. This thing came down from their area. What else could it be?

"Sir," the leader of the patrol reported. "I'm not sure what form of creatures occupy that thing."

"No Sir. This may sound strange, but they resemble the Terrans I recall reading about in our history."

"That's impossible. No one has encountered one in some time, and certainly they don't posses the technology to reach this depth."

"Not completely true, son." Nolwak turned to observe the approach of the senior Mer. "They are primitive, and since the war with the Shoals has limited our contact with their region, we have not encountered one for some time. True, they were not known to posses the knowledge to achieve this depth. But it has been a long time."

"Now you are sounding like those Shoals! We can learn from anything and anyone."

"But even you have said they are primitive. It's also said that they destroy things, and each other, for no apparent reason!"

"Yes all that is true. But, we are sworn to help those in need when we can. Our heritage is one of intellect and peace; I will not permit any deviance from those ways."

"But they could be allies of the Shoals, could they not?" asked Arsonal. He was one of the high advisors, and his voice was second only to Shalk.

"I think not. The Shoals have never required any aid in the perpetuation of war. I think that this is as simple and innocent as it appears. Send your patrol back out and determine if these creatures are in need of help."

"As you wish, Father. But I shall accompany them this time, to make sure this is no Shoal trickery."

King Shalk nodded. Then he and the other Mers watched as his eldest son and five others made their way out to the strange craft.

Nolwak made note of the odd shape and texture of the craft. Noticing the light coming from the lower windows, he motioned to the larger windows above. Two of the Mers made their way up as Nolwak carefully looked into the craft. He saw two strange creatures attending to a third who was lying down. Another entered the area of view. It had beautiful red hair and appeared, as best as he could determine, to be a female. But it was hard to tell. These strangers moved in an odd manner, on two equally sized thin tails. He could see no signs of gills, scales or of fins. Whatever these were, they were not Shoals.

Suddenly Nolwak found himself gazing at the red-haired one. Is this a Terran female? Is their society so primitive that it allowed its females to be placed in dangerous situations? Or were these creatures exiled from the surface, as the Shoals had been so long ago? The questions raced through his mind faster and faster. He was still entranced so with the female, that he had nearly been detected. She had stopped and suddenly started moving toward the window. Nolwak flattened himself against the side of the craft.

Phyllis was sure of it now, certain there was something out there and that it was watching them. She had felt the eyes, recognizing the feeling from all those times of being the only woman in the officer's club. She looked through the glass, not really sure if she wanted to see anything. She shook her head and thought to herself that it must have been a fish. She turned and walked back over to where Randy and Dan were caring for Jim.

"I think he's going be all right, but I'm no doctor. His pulse and respiration seem okay, he's just like out cold," Dan reported.

"Thanks Miss Hoffman," Randy said with civility and without the nearly constant sarcasm Cheryl had endured so far.

"Okay, no problem," Randy smiled. "I guess I've been a little hard on you. I'll try to go easier."

"My God!" Phyllis exclaimed. "My ears don't believe what they're hearing. Mark this day in history! Randy Browne apologized!"

It was the first sign of tension, and Dan didn't like it. Everyone had to keep cool if they were all to survive.

"Sorry ......." Phyllis' voice trailed off and she turned back to the window. "Am I going nuts or does anybody else feel like we're being watched?" She was truly interested, but at the same time she was trying to change the subject.

Randy looked around at the other three and shook his head. "Frankly I think all of you are nuts. There's nothin' but fish moving around this deep. Finish eating, then let's secure and get some sleep. No one can be that sharp after the day we've had." Randy wasn't really sure if he had felt someone watching or not, but he wasn't about to admit to the possibility.

"I've been wondering, "Cheryl said in an attempt to change the subject. "Why didn't the shuttle come apart when we hit the water?"

"Luck more than anything," Randy answered. "We must have had just the right angle of entry. Sort of like a swimmer, the right angle gets you in and the wrong angle is a belly flop."

"Makes sense." Cheryl went back to her meal and looked over at Jim, praying that he was going to be all right. She was also wishing that she could see all the different creatures that lived at this depth. As a biologist, she had only seen pictures. What an opportunity she was being offered; yet, due to the circumstances she was unable to take advantage of it. Her mind reeled at the accounts of the monster Manta ray that had been reported over the Japanese trench several years ago. The report had claimed that the wing span had been nearly three hundred yards! But, as her professor had pointed out, it was an unconfirmed sighting and had to be considered as such. He had then added that the existence of such a monster was completely possible. No one really knew what existed in the depths.

Shalk's measure of responsibility, and long history of leadership, were sketched in the lines of his face; his concern for his people reflected in the intensity of brilliant aquamarine eyes. He saw the patrol making its return, recalling that he was much younger the last time a Terran was found.

"Shalk," one of the elders began. "It has been so long. If they are Terrans what do we do?"

"I'm quite aware of why we moved the city! We will make room! We can never turn our backs on them- or anyone else!"

Shalk's attention shifted back to the patrol. The lights from the craft suddenly ended, and the patrol hastened their return.

"We'll secure the area. It's time for the elders to meet on this subject." Shalk and the other elders left the younger Mers to care for the craft.

Erick hadn't said a word all through the late afternoon, and Brian had decided to leave him to his solitude. In the pre-flight brief, Erick seemed as if he were in another world. When they got out to the F-14, he climbed into the cockpit and sat motionless.

Jim's words exactly, Erick thought. Just keep the faith. "Pilots," he said aloud.

"I guess at times it's all we have to keep us from going outright loony. I'm going to finish the pre-flight checks and we'll get out of here."

Erick was beginning to have a little more confidence in Brian. He wasn't Jim, but then no one else could ever be. Erick pulled out his pre-launch cards and started his panel checks. This was all part of the military and Erick knew it. Even if Jim hadn't been on the shuttle, there was always the possibility that he could be assigned to another ship. The difference was that right now, he didn't know where Jim was. That bothered him.

As Erick and Brian watched, the ordinance men started loading missiles on the aircraft. They were called BB stackers by most of the other departments. Most of them didn't mind the nickname and usually performed their jobs to perfection. Soon there was a short-range sidewinder missile in each of the "A" locations, the outer sides of the wing stations. The "B" locations, the lower of the two wing mounted weapons, held the medium-range sparrow missiles. Then the belly locations, four of them, were loaded with the long-range and very accurate Phoenix missiles.

Brian had finished his walk around and was climbing into the front seat. As soon as both men had their helmets on and the battery power was on, Erick switched on the intercom.

"Bee, what did Jaws decide the mission altitude was going to be after the briefing?"

"Thirty to eighty feet. Jaws gets to call it because he's driving the TARPS bird. We're just along for the ride as his escort."

Thirty feet. Erick hated low-level operations. They made his teeth hurt. He remembered how Jim would sneak down and scare him with how low he could fly the plane, like in Lebanon, forty feet above the ground looking for SU-22's that were hunting the A-6's. The SU-22's were twin engine air-to-air fighters the Russians had sold the Syrians. They had nearly shot down several A-6 Intruders, Navy low-level bombers, before the fighters were sent in. Erick and Jim had shot down two in a week. Shortly after that, the Syrians just quit going up. In flight operations such as the one they were about to embark on, the flight levels were the decision of the flight leader, in this case Jaws, who was also the squadron executive officer.

While they were going through the engine start-up operations, an E-2 Hawkeye roared off the deck. The E-2's are a strange looking twin engine turboprop aircraft with a large saucer-like dish mounted to the spine. The large disk is actually a very effective long-range radar system. Anytime any flight operations are in progress, even at times when there are no other aircraft in the air, the Hawkeyes are aloft keeping a watchful eye on what is going on outside of the ship's radar range. They have the ability to track other planes and ships, monitor radio and radar emissions, with the added ability to "jam" radar from "opposing" sources. The jamming ability is so complete that an entire task force could be hidden under its net.

Erick looked over at the modified F-14 on the catapult next to them. The TARPS pod is a very sophisticated and complex imagery system, carried by a sluggish fighter and protected by a fully armed escort plane. The pod is mounted in position five, on the right rear belly of the aircraft, and, due to its contents, is extremely heavy-- Which accounts for the resulting sluggish handling of the fighter. Erick thought to himself that using an F-14 for recon was like putting missiles on a Cessna - it just didn't make sense. Most of the other flight crews agreed and flew the TARPS bird only when they lost the draw in the ready room.

The glow of the engines as they ran up to full power added to the blazing orange of the setting sun. Suddenly there was the resounding explosion of the afterburners, the twin cones of flames evidence of the truth in what most pilots believe: "We aren't flying, we're riding manually controlled rockets."

Several minutes later, the catapults hurled the pair of F-14's down the deck, only seconds apart, and they turned South into the search area. Erick, becoming accustomed to night operations, watched as the sun slipped steadily into the ocean. Jim not only liked low-level operations, but was a night person and actually preferred landing at night to landing in the day light. "Fewer distractions at night..."

"Just recalling why Rain liked night operations. He always said that there were fewer distractions on the approach at night."

"I wouldn't argue that point for one second; but, he's still one hell of a pilot. No one knew what Rain was going to do next. Not even me."

"Jinx, I've wanted to ask this since I've heard the story. Is it true he did an A B turn over Iran, during an engagement, to bag his fourth?"

The question was one that came up often, and Jim usually laughed it off. It was a maneuver that was not approved by any flight commands due to the extreme danger it posed. The turn was actually accomplished by having one of the afterburners on and one off while the aircraft was in a vertical climb. The thrust imbalance would throw the aircraft into a semi-controlled flat spin. In theory.

"Yep. He had altered his afterburner switch so he had independent control of either side. The Iranian F-14 had us by the tail and was about to lock up. Rain was going straight up, killed one AB for only an instant, and we flat spun 180 degrees then fed the guy a Sidewinder. I have always wished that I could have seen that guy's face when he figured out what had happened." Erick shook his head and thought to himself that he really wished that he could have watched the whole thing from the sidelines. It had been a secret of Jim's and Erick's that Erick had actually vomited right after the maneuver.

"Well, the intelligence folks think the infrared might show something. I'm banking on a transponder or radio. Rain will get them on the air if there is any possible way."

"The normal emergency or one-one-zero-point-five, It's always been our back up."

"We have you in the pattern. Turn to course zero-nine-zero, and start your run."

As the two aircraft started their descending turns, Erick thought he saw something on the surface. Perhaps a large fish shadowed in the dusk. Whatever it was, it was dark and everything he wanted to see was white. He leaned back; for the next several hours they would be making low passes back and fourth thirty feet over the search area. Thirty feet!

Shalk entered the large room that resembled a swimming pool. Its silence was heavy with tension, its occupants already aware of rumors about the Terrans. Shalk took his place at the head of the table.

"Is it true, Shalk? Are there Terrans in our area?" an elder asked, his voice filled with displeasure.

Shalk raised his hand and silence returned to the hall. "Yes, there are several Terrans who seem to have some trouble. I wish to bring them here."

Gasps, whispers of disbelief and expressions of anger followed his quiet statement.

"Silence!" Shalk's voice, normally even and controlled, was now commanding. Once again the hall was silent. "We made a vow to our ancestors long ago. We will aid any creature that is in distress. We will not do harm to others unless it is in our own defense. We exiled the Shoals because of their actions of harm. Many would lure the early Terrans into doom with their songs. We must aid these."

"I feel that this is going to be an isolated incident. However should we find more Terrans in the future - I will likely act in a similar manner."

"It was long ago, before we moved the second time, that we were last threatened by hunters. As the king I need not ask approval for my decisions. I am doing this so we can prepare our city."

"And what of the other Terrans?" the elder closest to Shalk, who had been silent until now, asked in a soft but deliberate voice. "They have been separated from our people for so long, most of us had forgotten them, and many of the younger generation have never had contact with them."

Shaking his head with regret, Shalk said, "We have not treated them well since our last move. We shall bring them back from the outpost. Make ready the Terran Hall!" With that command Shalk rose and left the room. As he left the hall the memories of the past flooded over him. It was the hunting of the Mers by the Terrans that had resulted in the city being moved to an area just outside Gibraltar. They were there for a long time, Shalk had just come of age when the conflicts with the Shoals forced the relocation of the city. It was a painful memory for him; he had lost his father in the Shoal attack prior to the move. It left Shalk as the ruler of the Mers, an honor that he had committed himself to since. The city in the Bermudas was a beautiful one that had little contact with the Terrans; but, the Shoals conducted a massive offensive that nearly destroyed it. As a result, the city was moved to its current location.

The conflict between the Shoals and Mers was a bitter one that was based in their shared history. Some of the early Shoals once lured Terrans in primitive ships into doom on rocks, doing so them with strange and beautiful songs. Shalk's father put an end to the fatal music, but at an enormous cost to himself and his people, a cost paid time and time again over centuries of bloody feuding. The reason for the feud had long since disappeared; the Shoals' fury had not.

It had been only a few days since that Iranian fighter had slipped in behind him and Jim had turned the tables and bagged his fourth kill. He was now only one kill away from his ace; he wanted that recognition. Now, Slide and he were on the schedule for a sortie near the coast of Iran. When they got into the air, Jim grew quieter than usual, then aimed his aircraft across the cost and into Iranian airspace, then dropped down to thirty feet.

"Let's see if those dips can use some of their high tech toys and come up and play."

Jim's eyes opened quickly and he pulled himself to a sitting position, shaking the cobwebs and the dreams out of his head. He felt as if a freight train had run him over; every muscle in his body ached. But, his memory was starting to clear - the reentry, underwater, partial power, 2000 feet... Cheryl! "Oh my God!" He rose unsteadily to his feet, unable to recall ever having been so weak. As he looked around the lower cabin, the dim lights of the night operations setting gave an eerie red glow to his surroundings.

"Hi ... Cher ... Miss Hoff ... Christ, I don't know how to address you anymore."

"I'm not so sure about that. I'm still pretty weak. Has anyone checked the integrity of the ship?"

The two made their way up into the bridge area where Jim picked up a manual and sat in one of the seats. Opening the book he, began to review the shuttle's specifications.

"I want to see if the hull integrity strength rating is listed. I'm not finding it. By the way," he turned to Cheryl, "it would be easier for me if you called me Rain."

"Phyllis was looking for that sort of thing earlier. I heard her tell Randy that there wasn't anything listed. I don't think they wanted me to hear that."

"I suppose they're just not sure that you're ready to face the type of problems we were trained for." Jim pored over the manual.

Finally, frustrated and unable to find help in its pages, he slammed closed the useless manual. "There has to be an answer somewhere and I've got to figure it out."

"Dad has said you fly as if you're chasing a ghost, like you have something to prove to someone."

Jim leaned back in the chair. "I never thought of it in quite that way," he said. "Maybe I am trying to prove something to someone." He thought a moment before he spoke, "and that someone is probably my father."

"No! Wait! I know it's crazy, but take a minute, now, right now, talk to me. Jim," she pleaded, "we might never have another chance. A minute or two, now, please. Tell me about you. Please, Jim."

God, he thought, time was of the essence. Or was it? "Okay, you've got two minutes," he grinned.

"I really don't know a lot about him. He died before I was born. Mom has told me that he was a pilot, a member of Flight Nineteen out of Fort Lauderdale, in fact." He rubbed a hand across his forehead. He was reaching and he knew it. But with all of the recent events, he wasn't sure if he could answer a much simpler question.

"Yeah. Maybe I'm trying to impress him somehow, or to bring him back. My mom hardly ever talks about him and never remarried. She still lives in Fort Lauderdale."

With a pained expression on his face he responded. "A big mistake. She needed a home away from her family, I needed someone at home. I thought love was something that could be made. That lasted nearly a year, then I came home to a note. What about you? Any serious romances in your life?"

"No. Well, not exactly a romance. I've had a crush on you from that time I met you when dad was your wing commander, and you had a broken nose. I'm glad that I finally found out what happened."

"Yep, sure was. And I still have that picture you signed for me. Remember the one of you from the air show?"

"Well, I've slept with it for years. In fact I have it here in the pocket of my flight suit." She opened the left breast pocket of her flight suit, and pulled out the worn and fading photo.

Not really sure what to say, Jim paused for a moment as he looked at the photo. "Well, I'm flattered. But what happens in a couple years when Mr. Right comes along?"

"I think he already has." She smiled a little and looked Jim in the eyes. Silence once again retuned to the room.

The moment of silence was shattered by Cheryl's scream. Jim lurched from his seat.

"Jim! There's someone out there!" Cheryl's gaze was fixed on the front windshield.

"That's preposterous! No one ..." Incredibly, Jim's searching, searing look was being retuned! Someone was out there, and he was staring back at him. "This can't be!" he roared.

"What the hell is going on up there?" Randy boomed as Dan and he raced up to the bridge.

Randy switched on the outer lights and caught a glimpse of something ducking under the wing. He turned his head toward Jim. "Okay. There is something out there. Now what do we do?"

"First, peal me off the roof. Cheryl nearly sent me through with that scream. Second, whatever, or whoever, is out there is out there. At this point, it can't get in and we can't get out. Let's focus on staying alive and getting out of here. What's our status?"

"We are settled flat," Randy reported. "No leaks or seepage have been found. O2 tanks are at sixty percent. CO2 converters are operational and the air quality is normal. Batteries are at sixty three percent."

"Aye, sir! I'll get to it." Randy left the window and made his way back to the communications panels down below.

"Ferg, with the possibility of someone down here with us, someone who is hiding from us, I want you to set a watch schedule."

Phyllis, more calm than she had reason to be, joined the rest of them on the bridge. "What can I do, Rain?"

"Not trying to make you feel like a waitress, but I could really use some coffee. The high octane packet."

Cheryl walked over to stand beside Jim, reaching out and touching his hand. To her annoyance, she felt more like a teenager than a college graduate. Yet, just the feel of his hand made her less afraid. She wanted to say something - anything - but could not form the words.

"I know how you're feeling lady." Jim was looking into her eyes. "I'm a little scared, too." Cheryl saw something she hadn't seen there before.

"And of you. Of what your dad is going to say when I tell him..." What kind of crazy talk is this, he thought, speaking of "when". They faced the biggest "if" in history.

"Hey, you got it! I wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of tellin' him." Stop this talk, he told himself. It's not fair.

As he leaned against the bulkhead, he looked at Cheryl. She was beautiful, and he was feeling rather awkward. She leaned against him and her arms softly touched his sides. He didn't know what he should do, and slowly put his arms around her, holding her for several moments.

"Here's your coffee, Rain." Phyllis looked at the two of them, smiled at the slight blush on Jim's face. "Did I interrupt something?"

"One-one-zero-point-five on the alternate, and the normal emergency. Put them on simultaneous transmit."

"I know. But it's the one that Jinxy will have dialed in. I'll get in my seat. Put it on button two."

Jim closed his eyes and started praying for a miracle. He needed the radio to be functional, Erick had to be up, Erick had to be on the right freq, and most likely almost directly above them. Those were odds that no betting man would try. "Are we on yet?"

Erick was near the point of total frustration. All they were doing was flying straight for ten minutes, making a U turn and flying back. Added to the drone of the engines was the annoying hiss of the static on the radio. He had set up the radio to monitor several frequencies at the same time. Suddenly the hiss ended, a carrier signal was coming through! Erick thought his heart must have stopped. As he looked down at the radio panel, he saw that two of the frequency lights were lighting up. One of them was Jim's back up.

"C Q, C Q. This is Atlantis declaring an emergency. Crew is fine. Depth is ... " The voice ended abruptly and the hiss returned, but, Erick had recognized Jim's voice.

"On the radio!" Erick pressed the talk button on his stick that activated his radio. "Jaws, I had Rain on the radio!"

"Bee," Jaws directed Brian. "We're turning back on our course and try to reestablish radio contact with them."

"Jinx, give me the freq where you picked up the signal," Jaws' RIO, Merlin, asked.

"Jinxy, I'll give you the honors of phoning this in," there was a note of relief in Jaws' voice.

"Thank you, sir." Erick started listening for the carrier signal again. Nothing. "I've got try again Bee, tell me when we're back on the bubble."

Erick was exhilarated. Jim was alive! Not that he had had any doubts, but now there was confirmation.

"Roger." Erick set his radio to transmit on multiple frequencies. "Atlantis, Atlantis, this is Tomcat two-one-zero, over." Silence. "Atlantis do you copy?" Still nothing.

"Tomcat two-one-zero, this is Hawkeye one-one-seven. Do you have contact with Atlantis?"

"I caught a partial transmission on one-one-zero-point-five and the normal emergency. Notify Eagle-One that Atlantis signaled all crew fine. Over."

"Copy. I'll run the tape back and do an overlay for a location. Spearhead advises you to make refuel connection at one three thousand feet your earliest possible."

"As good of a time as any. Tally ho!" It was actually a combat term, but the spirit of the occasion deemed it proper.

Erick wanted to talk to Jim, but just knowing that he was alive, somewhere, was a monumental relief. Now all they had to do was to figure out where the transmission came from. "Depth" he thought, could he have been correct about his submarine idea?

Nolwak was hopeful that whatever the device had been, his father was right. The craft had produced an irritating and nearly incapacitating pulse, perhaps some sort of weapon. The pulse had ended as soon as he had fallen against the craft and knocked something off.

One of the patrol had already been seen. Then this. What else could he expect? Almost instantly he wished he hadn't asked, hearing the sound of a spear careening off the side of the craft.

As the messenger raced toward the city, one of the patrol Mers floated to the floor, a spear lodged deep in his chest, a small trail of blood flowing from the wound.

Quickly, the Mers started to return fire. Their weapons were far superior, and although outnumbered, they were holding their own. Nolwak wondered how the Shoals had found them. He did know that they must protect the Terrans, that now they all were in danger. A spear missed Nolwak by nearly its own thickness; he returned fire with his pulse gun, and the Shoal fell.

Jim and his crew watched in utter disbelief as the battle raged all around them. He wasn't sure what was going on, inside or out. Minutes ago he had a radio, now it was down with an indication that there was no longer an antenna. He could hear something bouncing off the sides of the ship.

"Damned if I know. Maybe they're fighting over who gets to eat us for breakfast." Dan was serious.

"I'm not sure. But if I didn't know better I'd say they're mermaids," Phyllis answered.

Dan gave her a very strange look. He thought perhaps Phyllis had broken under the strain. But as he looked out at the creatures around the shuttle, it was the most logical explanation.

Jim watched the battle rage. He saw one of the creatures near the ship fire his weapon. "Christ!"

As they watched, the Mer fired his weapon several times. Although the crew could not see the results of the shots, each was fatal for the attacking Shoal.

Suddenly, lights appeared ahead and some of the combatants fled into the dark. Dozens of the newly arrived group took chase. Jim's attention shifted to the approaching lights. It seemed like a large vessel, but the shape was completely unfamiliar to him.

"Well, " Jim said grimly, "whatever they've got planned, I'd say we're about to find out what it is."

As Shalk approached the craft with the other Mers, his heart sank. The ground was littered with the bodies of the dead and wounded. He had hoped that the Shoals would not have tried to follow them this time.

"Keep them for questioning." His voice was filled with anger. "It is time to take out the Terrans!"

Nolwak and several others went back to the craft. The helpless Terrans watched as the Mers raised their weapons and fired.

"One of the scouts reported that there is a lot of activity on the surface. It is unclear what it might be."

"Take a patrol to the surface. Try to see if this is a rescue attempt or not." The situation was getting out of hand. Shalk needed to return to the city and regain control.

Admiral Hoffman stood alone on Vultures Row looking out toward the endless ocean. Only the light of ghoulish green iridescence from the wake trailing the gigantic warship and the stars of the moonless night pierced the darkness. His thoughts were on his daughter, how he had arranged for her to be on this mission.

"Skipper! We have the F-14's on button four. I think you'll want to hear what they have to say, sir!"

The urgency in the officer's voice drew the admiral into the con. He pulled the receiver to his ear and pushed button four. "This is Eagle-One."

"Eagle-One, this is Tomcat two-one-zero. We have received a partial transmission from Atlantis."

"That's still unknown at this time, sir. But the transmission did signal crew is fine."

"That was pretty much the extent of the message. The transmission ended rather abruptly."

"Negative. Again the transmission was too short to get a lock on. But it sounded localized, very localized. It's possible that the TARPS might register the signal as an image, sir."

"Return to where you picked up the signal, and run a couple more passes. Then I want you guys back here so we can start working on the imagery."

"The minute the Hawkeye repositions that flight, I want the coordinates sent out to the battle group. Get the California, Texas, and those three frigates to that spot, and have them start a standard search pattern. Tell them to set up as if they were looking for a sub that was hiding on the bottom."

"Aye, aye, captain." The officer started to give the orders, then jerked to a stop. Then turned back toward the admiral. "The bottom, sir?"

The entire bridge crew was showing both excitement and relief. The admiral had been nearly intolerable since the first report of trouble. The situation was improving. Considerably.

"Give them the green. By the way, how long do you think before the F-14's are done?"

"I can have them on the deck within thirty minutes. I'll have the Hawkeye reposition them, get a location, then bring them in."

"Make it so," He was hanging up the receiver as he started giving orders. "Officer of the deck, turn the Nimitz into the wind! Make revolutions for thirty knots. We have company coming in."

Orders were shouted out and the confirmation shouted back. Accustomed to the precision with which his ship was run, the admiral expected no less. To a visitor, the efficiency would be mind-boggling. There was very little wasted movement, and everyone knew his job well. Probably most impressive was that the orders could be shouted so quickly and the confirmations repeated, without confusion as to whom the orders were directed.

It was only a few minutes later that the deck landing and approach lights were illuminated and preparation begun to receive the incoming cargo plane. As the air boss and his crew prepared the deck, the landing lights of the approaching aircraft could barely be seen in the distance.

"Stand clear, spot three!" The air boss's voice boomed over the flight deck's PA system. "Helo zero-two rotating."

The sound of the SH-3 helicopter, as the blades started spinning, drew the admiral back out to Vultures Row. In the darkness, the lights from the flight deck combined with the moisture in the air, creating a halo over the aircraft.

The SH-3 lifted up about twenty feet, then moved out about one hundred yards off the deck. It matched the course and speed of the Nimitz, and actually appeared to be hovering. Now the landing lights of the approaching aircraft were clearly visible. A minute later, the nerve-wrenching landing was complete and the C-2 was being taxied to a parking area.

Admiral Hoffman walked back into the con, and pulled down the receiver. "What is it, Charlie?"

"Good, good. As soon as they're down I want the intell guys to get busting on that imagery."

As he hung up the receiver, the admiral looked at the officer of the deck. The officer looked back at the admiral, and without a word from the admiral, knew what was next.

The admiral walked back out to Vultures Row and listened to the sounds of his crew and of the sea. Once again, the deck crews were busy preparing the deck for receiving incoming fighters. Several minutes later, he listened to the familiar sound of approaching Tomcats. He watched as the TARPS bird landed and Brian lined up in the distance for his turn to land. Again, the precision of the Navy pilots and crews showed in this routine operation. It would only be about thirty seconds between the landings of the two fighters, a commonplace drill to all those on board.

As Brian approached the Nimitz, he watched the TARPS bird stop on the flight deck. He banked his plane left and right and began to match the movements of the ship to start his landing. As he looked out to the left, he could see the lights of the SH-3 that was standing by in case there was a problem and they ended up in the water. It was nearly automatic now; he lowered the landing gear, pushed the wings forward, and lowered the flaps. As he lined up the lights on the left side of the deck, he matched the pitch and roll of the ship. He followed the directions of the LSO talking to him on the radio. As he crossed the end of the deck, the stall warning horn sounded, the plane headed for the deck, and Brian shoved the throttles full forward.

An instant later, the F-14 came noisily to a stop on the flight deck. The admiral watched as the plane throttled back, raised its tail hook, taxied to its spot on the deck and raised its canopy. Erick and he exchange a smile as Erick gave him a thumbs-up. The admiral returned the gesture, and felt some relief.

"No thank you, Lieutenant. Right now all I want is to find that crew. Healthy and intact." He thought for a moment, then turned back to the lieutenant. "As a matter of fact, you can. Have someone get a hold of lieutenant Lee, and get his tail end out here."

"Yes, sir. I guess things are looking better right now. With any luck we'll have 'em aboard soon. But..."

"Sir, the doc said we're supposed to get you something to eat. Then try to get you to rest."

"Is that so? He has never really been good at telling me these things to my face."

The lieutenant smiled a little. "He said your not very good at taking his orders."

The admiral looked at the lieutenant, then at the rest of the control crew, all of whom were stifling grins and laughter. After a tense moment, Hoffman smiled and the room was filled with laughter.

Cheryl opened her eyes to see only the sterile white of her surroundings. Her head pounded. There was a wetness on the floor which appeared to be from still-damp cloths. She sat up and looked around finding that she was alone. Feeling a the rising fear, she knew she was dead. The last thing she remembered was the pain raking her body from the weapon, fired by whatever had been outside the ship. Jim! Where was he? Where were the others? Where was she? In some sort of purgatory?

Cheryl spun around to find a man in an old Navy flight suit standing there. "Who are you?" she gasped. "Where did you come from?"

"I'm Lieutenant Greg Donaldson. I've been here for some time now. Who are you? And what sort of ship were you in?"

Still dazed she answered. "I'm Cheryl Hoffman, I'm a biologist. What we were in was ... Where are the others?"

"All of you are fine. You were hit with a paralyzing pulse. It makes it easier ... for the first time."

"What!" Cheryl looked around. Nothing looked familiar. She knew she was not in the shuttle anymore. She was more confused and frightened than ever. "Where?"

Cheryl was almost completely without a response. As she looked harder at Greg, there was something oddly familiar about him. "You said you were ..."

"Greg Donaldson. Greg is fine. I'm a lieutenant in the US Navy. Well, at least I was. I was commanding a training flight out of Fort Lauderdale, Florida when we crashed into the Atlantic ocean. We were rescued and taken to the outpost."

As Cheryl listened, his voice, his face, his manner were all that of Jim. Shocked, disbelieving, she asked, "Not flight nineteen?"

"That's an historical flight. At least in the recorded disappearances in the triangle. Why didn't you go back? Go home?"

"It's sort of a long story. But, in the simplest explanation, I can't leave. Without the healing powers of the Mers, I'll die."

She had to ask, "I'm sorry, and this is probably none of my business. But, have you ever been married?"

The question caught Greg off guard and it took him a second to reply. "Yes, I was. Why do you ask?"

How could she tell him? It was all so incredible! And Jim! How would he react? Finally she spoke.

"My friend ... he comes from Fort Lauderdale. His father went down in that flight. And ... he looks very much like you."

The lieutenant moved unsteadily. "You asked if I had seen him. Are you telling me he's here?"

The door opened and the others walked in. Their escorts were dressed in the same outdated military uniforms. Jim's voice resounded off the walls.

"I'm really getting tired of feeling as if I've been hit by a train!" Jim's complaining echoed in the room. "Nothing makes sense anymore," he said while gesturing at the men in the old flight suits.

"Jim!" Cheryl cried. "Thank God!" She ran to him; he caught her and held her close. She turned and pulled away. "There's someone here, someone ..."

Her voice caught. "Commander Jim Donaldson, this is Lieutenant Greg Donaldson. He was the leader of flight nineteen."

The two men stood transfixed, motionless in time, space, thought. As Jim studied the man standing in front of him, he recalled the faded black and white photos of his father that were displayed throughout his mother's home.

"We are all very much alive." A very stern and very southern voice echoed through the room. "And our hosts have the ability to maintain us for much longer than the normal life expectancy."

"Christ yes!" Greg burst out in a near laugh. "And to hear him talk, he sank more ships than the Union ever built!"

"Not at all. We once had a guest named Jules who - by what I understand - wrote about me. In a way he wrote about all of us."

"It's sittin' on the ocean floor. completely full of water now." Jim studied Nemo, registering his strong build, grey hair and beard and his light blue eyes. "That's a mighty strange ship you were in. What'd ya'all call that thing?"

"After you were stunned, my ship was brought in and the door was forced open. Then you were transferred to my ship and brought here."

Jim was trying hard to guess the age of the gruff sailor standing in front of him. "I'm sorry. Well ... it's a space shuttle. Her name is Atlantis." Almost instantly Jim realized the irony of the whole situation, and returned his gaze to Nemo.

Nemo shifted his weight, partially closed one eye and dug his fists into his waist. "What's the matter youngster?"

Nemo tossed his head back and laughed. "Age? ... Age and time don't matter much here."

"Well, the Mers live a long time. An incredibly long time. Somethin' about 'em, lets them keep us alive, too. I've aged, oh, maybe five years since I've been here."

"It's true... son," Greg added. "They've made medical advances that are unbelievable. By all rights I should be dead, because I was pretty badly hurt when my plane went down. They've kept me alive, and haven't asked for anything in return. We have taught some of them our language."

"No ... some of us sort of have to stay, most everyone else can leave whenever they want. You said that your ship is a space shuttle. Does that mean that you have traveled into space?"

"Yeah. Hell, we've been all the way to the moon and back. I haven't been there, but we did take the shuttle out into space. Who determines ... "

The door opened and Shalk entered. Jim's first impression was one of complete repulsion. He was reminded of the old movie classic, "Creature from the Black Lagoon." The face defied description. Jim could only see the hideousness of the greenish scaled being. Large, obviously strong, semi-webbed hands pulled it along. At the end was a massive dolphin-like tail covered in scales. Gills on either side of the thick neck were apparent, as was the fact that this creature could breath air. Jim was also struck with a sense that the being had both dignity and superior intelligence. Darwin would have had a ball with this guy, Jim thought to himself. Shalk pushed himself up into a kind of sitting position and looked quietly about the room.

"We have a problem," he began softly. "Whatever it was you did in that craft of yours led the Shoals to us. Some of their patrol escaped. It has caused some of my people to question whether you are their allies."

Shalk studied the reaction of the group. The bewilderment on their faces assured him that they were clueless, and therefore weren't associated with the Shoals.

"Outcasts. They did not wish to live by our codes, and were exiled. Ever since then they've done nothing but make war against us. Three times we've moved in attempts to get away from them, and you Terrans."

"Excellency, permit me," Nemo asked, and Shalk nodded. "About twenty five hundred years ago the Greeks started hunting them in the Mediterranean. They moved out beyond Gibraltar to an atoll. Then about a thousand years ago, right after Shalk became ruler, they moved to a place off the Bermuda coast..."

"Wait just one minute!" Randy blurted out. "I think I know where you're going with this. Are you trying to tell me he's more than a thousand years old, and responsible for the triangle? No way!"

"J.B., guys. Lets hear this out. Think about this, there already have been more unexplained things happening on this trip than I care to number. Most of what is going on here is a lot easier to accept than what was going on with that damned computer! Please captain, continue."

"It was the great Shoal attack about five hundred years ago when the city was heavily damaged. In fact it was nearly destroyed. That's when the city was moved here."

"What about the triangle? Its in the Bermuda area, and I thought we came down in the Pacific." Phyllis asked.

"You did. In an effort to give the Shoals enough distance, Shalk decided to move here in the central Pacific. What was undamaged of the old city, is now maintained as an outpost. That's how I came to be among them. In 1865 we, my crew and I, were sent out to scuttle my ship. It was apparent that the North would soon win the war, and General Lee didn't want the Yankee's to get their grimy paws on the Nautilus. We went down to the Carolina shores, I sent my crew ashore, then headed South and sent her to the bottom. I was going to find a deep hole and flood her. That's when I came across the outpost and was given refuge."

"That's the ship that rescued you. She's still here and functional, though I don't understand that new power plant the Mers put in her."

"I still don't buy into this," Randy growled. "I don't know if this is Candid Camera or a nightmare!"

"Mister Browne ... you are a guest here, and I would suggest that for the good of all your friends, you show King Shalk his due respect!"

"It is exactly this self-serving attitude that makes us hide ourselves from you Terrans," Shalk spoke in a quiet but firm tone. "It seems that if reality is not exactly what you wish it to be, you destroy or alter it. Your kind has not only started the destruction of your realm of the world, but has now jeopardized ours!"

"When you used your sonic weapon, it not only hurt our patrol, but alerted the Shoals to our location."

"Sonic device?" Jim exchanged puzzled looks with the rest of his crew members. "I'm not completely sure what you're talking about. The only thing we were using prior to all hell breaking loose was ... "

"The radio!" Cheryl burst out. "Radio carrier signals would have a disabling affect on most primitive marine ... " Cheryl ended suddenly as she looked at Shalk. It was obvious that she was - intellectually lower than he, yet she was doing exactly what he had said. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm a research biologist, and I sometimes forget my place."

"It is not necessary for you to apologize. However it is refreshing to see a Terran - I'm sorry - a Human, actually understand their lack of insight."

"He means, he needs to be sure you're not going to pose a threat to the city," Nemo responded.

As they headed out of the door under the watchful eye of Shalk, Cheryl took Jim's hand.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Erick walked out onto Vultures Row. Sipping on his coffee, he walked over to Admiral Hoffman, who was staring out at a group of ships about six miles away.

Shaking his head slightly he turned back towards the distant ships. "Not a whole lot. A few thermo clines, a school of fish - they think - and a lot of water."

"None that have panned out. So far we've tried everything that they've come up with. They have a brain trust trying to write out a section in the manual, in case this happens again. Typical."

Erick looked out at the distant ships, took a long swill of his coffee. "I wasn't dreaming, sir."

"I know, Jinx. I just can't figure it. The Rainmaker wouldn't make contact, say everyone's fine, then just go off the air. He's not that much of a maverick. He's got to know that we're out here looking."

As they finished their coffee, the two men watched the search vessels. Erick knew that they were close; Jim was nearby. He never thought he'd be standing there watching ships searching for Jim. He always figured they'd be together, whenever, wherever.

"When Rain gets back, don't let him off this ship without me. I'm like a mother hen whose chick is out of sight."

"When he gets back, I may not let him out of my sight. I've never worried about a pilot like I do that kid. Sometimes I wish I were his father, so I could ground him."

Erick and the admiral looked at each other and started to laugh. "I know the feeling, sir. Oh God, do I know it!"

A signal flare went up from one of the search ships. The admiral and Erick stopped their laughing, looked at each other, then headed for the con.

"Stand by California, the admiral's on the bridge. Sir, the California has a sonar contact!"

No one on the bridge breathed. All eyes were on the admiral as he took the receiver from the duty officer and raised it to his ear.

"Sir, we have a sonar contact at three-five-one-five feet. There are no prior reported contacts in this area. Signal officer reports size is consistent with that of Atlantis."

"Have a confirmation pass made. Then get a hydrophone as close as possible, and listen for life. Eagle-One, out."

The admiral turned to face Erick. "Well Jinx, now we know what he meant by depth."

"Get a signal to Pearl - possible location of Atlantis three-five-one-five feet, and give the California's location. Then get those NASA people the information."

It took several minutes for the huge ship to slow to a stop. By the time it did, the conference room was the scene of several different projects, the most important the group of NASA scientists looking through stacks of manuals and computer printouts. There was a sense of total frustration among them.

"I don't see any data as to the pressure or depth the shuttle's design can withstand," snapped Pierre, the senior researcher. The whole thing was getting him so worked up that his thinly covered scalp turned bright red. What little bit of hair that was left on his head was grey with a touch of black and he certainly didn't show his age, although one would never guess that he'd been working for the Navy or NASA since the mid fifties.

Richard, a younger researcher, was scanning another set of printouts. He had been with NASA since he graduated college three years ago. Reddish brown hair set off his sky blue eyes, which now looked like a Texas road map. He felt the most pressure, heightened by Pierre's and the Admiral's staring at him waiting for an answer. Richard was beginning to think that maybe no one ever did a test of the design to determine how deep it could go. All of the data were for how high it could go. Finally he sat back in his chair and looked at Pierre.

"It looks like the only way to get the data is to take all of the separate components, figure them into some type of stress factor program, and run it through the computer."

"No. This was not something we ever anticipated. Frankly the thing should have been destroyed when it hit the water. The entry angle must have been so perfect that it is simply incomprehensible."

"The pilot in command of the shuttle is the kind of guy who has the sky fall on him and still manages to come out unscathed."

"Yes." The admiral gave the pair of civilians an awkward look. "We did get the transmission..."

"A transmission that was unverified, and supposedly received by a friend of the pilot." Pierre's voice was filled with doubt. "It would be very convenient to say that the crew was able to bring the ship down and that the demise of that crew was the designer's fault."

"Hold on!" The admiral's face showed that his fuse was about to blow. "I would bet the lives of the entire crew of this ship on what my flight officers tell me. As far as I'm concerned, their reputations are far above make believe. If there was a design fault that your hiding from us, you better come clean... Now!"

"Let me make this real simple. If you don't come clean, the duration of your stay on my ship will be in the brig!"

The civilians looked at Pierre. There was obviously something that they wanted to say. No one wants to stay in the small, poorly lit and barely ventilated cells that comprise the brig, an unwelcome place run by the Marine security force on board the ship.

The admiral turned and nodded to one of the officers in the room. The officer went to the intercom phone and pressed a button.

"This is Commander Clarke, security officer. Get the brig Marines up to conference room seven on the double!"

"Think again. At sea the commanding officer of a ship has supreme authority." The admiral leaned forward and placed both of his hands on the table and looked directly into Pierre's eyes. "And I never bluff."

The door opened and three armed Marines entered the room. The admiral looked up at the Marines then back to Pierre. He stood up-right again.

"There will be no second chances here. Just like the second chance the shuttle crew didn't get."

"We think there may be an integrity problem if the cargo bay should flood..." Richard spoke up. "...the problems lie in that checking for the fault was passed over due to...." he looked over at Pierre. "A report saying such research was a ridiculous waste of time and manpower, that the possibility of such a series of events testing the theory could never happen."

"So," admiral Hoffman stated with a great deal of restraint in his voice. "Rather than accept the responsibility for your oversight, you actually want to find the shuttle, destroyed, and write the whole thing off as pilot error?" The admiral asked looking directly into Pierre's eyes.

"Do you realize the damage to the reputation of the space program should there be any hint of a fault? Look at how long it took us to recover from the Challenger disaster. We need to control the information going out in this case."

The admiral was left speechless, mouth open slightly, eyes burning into Pierre. After a moment he collapsed into his chair.

"I cannot believe what I'm hearing! You nuts are looking to hang the crew out as scape goats, just so that your reputation goes undamaged?"

"To hell with NASA. I'm talking about you. It was your report that delayed the testing of this possible fault, wasn't it?"

"I do. I will not allow a pompous ass like you to tarnish the reputation of one of my pilots. And, as of right now we are going to run this show my way! I'm going to find that crew, alive, then parade them in front of the media and crucify you!"

"I simply will not allow you to take over this operation. This is my show, and it will be run my way."

"I want this man held in the brig. The rest of these civilians are under house arrest, and are restricted to their quarters!"

One Marine lifted a startled Pierre out of his chair and escorted him to the brig, and the other civilians were escorted to their rooms by the rest of the Marines. It was now painfully obvious to the NASA group that they should have never taken on the admiral. They had hoped for someone whom they could buffalo or one they could out-maneuver. This commanding officer was neither. They knew that they would not be allowed to use the radio or the phones, that leaving their rooms was out of the question, and that their lead scientist was incarcerated and would be literally unreachable until the admiral decided differently.

As the iron door to the cell slammed behind him, Pierre realized just how wrong he was. He was so sure that like most military people, the admiral would be too frightened of jeopardizing his career to challenge him. It was too late; he had bet a loosing hand. He began to wonder if that maniac would really be able to find the crew alive, and fulfill his threat.

The admiral was sitting in the silence of the conference room with several of his officers. He was standing on his rights as the ship's commander. He hated this type of confrontation; he left such battles to the politicians.

"I hope you're right. Now lets get a plan together to fulfill my threat. I want that crew found, and found alive."

It was early morning on the East cost of Virginia. Alan Lee was still asleep in the pre-dawn. Suddenly the phone rang, bringing him to life, as well as scaring his large black cat off of the bed. He grabbed the receiver as he opened his eyes, looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand.

"It's three-twenty in the morning," he began with a definite tone of irritation in his voice. "This better be damned good."

Alan sat up and put his feet on the floor. He knew that this was going to be important, so he was getting a pad of paper and pen from his nightstand drawer. His large cat jumped back up on the bed, walked up to him, and rubbed his head against Alan's arm. Alan cradled the phone on his left shoulder and petted the animal.

"Good morning, Max," He spoke to the cat. "You don't like these early morning calls either, do you?" He continued waiting for a voice on the phone while he petted the cat and reached over and switched on the light on the nightstand. By the static he was hearing, he was sure the this call was from a ship.

"Admiral Hoffman. What the hell are you calling me for at this time of day, sir?" Alan said with levity in his voice.

"We have a pretty bad situation going on here right now. I don't want to go into it all right now, but suffice it to say that I need your expertise."

"That's right. I'll call Norfolk and get some TDY orders cut for you." The tone of the admiral's voice that disturbed Alan. A pause, then, "And, Alan."

As Alan hung up the phone he returned the pen and paper to the nightstand. He crossed the room and opened his closet and pulled out a suitcase and uniforms for his trip. He was bothered by the tone of the admiral's voice. They had worked together many times over the years; in fact, Alan had received his commission because of the admiral's help. The end result was a very good personal relationship between the two.

Alan had a colorful military background. Right after high school he had joined the Army military police corps. After five years of being all that he could be, he re-enlisted in the Navy as an ordinance men. It was while he was stationed on the Kitty Hawk that he first met then-commander Hoffman. Alan's diligent work earned considerable admiration, it was then that he was asked if he ever considered a commission. He gave it a lot of serious thought, and when he indicated that he wanted to be an officer, commander Hoffman made arrangements for Alan to attend ship-board college classes. When he had completed sixty seven units, he was given a board, which he passed with high recommendations, and soon found himself in Officer Candidates School. He was then given an assignment in a reserve unit allowing him to finish his degree and get his commission. After he had received his commission, Hoffman managed to get Alan into the flight program. He finished the program and proudly wore his gold wings, even after the unfortunate accident that injured his arm to such a degree that resulted in being taken off flight status. Now, he worked in intelligence gathering and photo interpretation, and his background gave him a real knowledge of airborne weapon systems.

After packing his clothes, Alan walked into the bathroom to shower and start his day. He washed his face and looked in the mirror, his hazel eyes still hurting from the lack of sleep. But, such is the life in the military, he thought. He ran his hands over his short reddish brown hair, and then over his red stubble morning beard. His nose bore the evidence of having been broken several times in fights. His lean, six-foot-two frame showed evidence that he seldom found sunshine. As he pulled his T-shirt off over his head, scars from his police career could be seen. There was the scar over his breast bone where he had taken a twelve gauge round at point-blank range. Had he not been wearing a cavilar vest, it would have resulted in death. If you asked him about it, he would smile and say that for about a week after the shooting he wished he hadn't been wearing it. The resulting six broken ribs, still brought him slight discomfort from time to time.

There was the scar that ran down his right inside biceps, a result of a knife-wielding drug dealer who thought he was going to escape by scaring the cop. His mistake was choosing Alan. When the knife cut into Alan's arm, it made him angry, not frightened. The dealer suffered several contusions and a broken jaw. Many people who knew Alan well, knew that he was not to be taken lightly. He was one of the true sons of the confederacy, and took that part of his background seriously. He often pointed out that it was not coincidental that he shared his great grandfather's name.

Alan found, however, that military police work was not what he wanted, that it was a job that couldn't be left at the office. When he changed to the Navy, he was able to relax, in a manner of speaking, living without the stress he had become accustomed to in the Army. He found the college classes enjoyable. As he started studying the different classes, he found biology the most interesting. Soon he had declared his major as marine biology, with an emphasis on sharks. He finished his college degree at the College of William and Mary's extension campus, the Virginia Institute of Marine Science.

As he emerged from the bathroom, the transition was complete. Form a half-dead life form who entered, to a proper and clean-cut Naval officer who exited. His working whites were perfect, and the four full and one partial rows of ribbons topped with his gold wings were testimony to his accomplishments. He often enjoyed meeting a new senior officer. And, often with much less background, the senior would have a hard time taking his gaze off the ribbons and would remain distracted. In some cases it caused some hard feelings toward Alan, but he always felt that it was their problem, not his.

Max was sitting on the arm of the couch, and Alan stroked him as he made his way into the kitchen to start the coffee. He pushed the button and the coffee maker started gurgling. He turned and opened the glass door leading to the deck. Humid morning air filled the room, and the sky started to lighten up. The phone rang, and he picked it up.

"This is petty officer Nelson, sir. There'll be a car to pick you up in twenty minutes."

"Thank you." Alan hung up the phone, picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup. While he took a drink, he reached for the phone and dialed.

"Sorry to call so early," he began softly. "I have to leave on business, and I'll need you to come by and take care of Max."

"Dad?" Lucy answered. Alan wasn't her real father, but she had sort of adopted him when he had been dating her mother. Even after the two had broken up, Lucy had maintained the father-daughter relationship.

"I really don't know. I don't even know for sure for how long. As usual you can stay here if you want."

"Good-bye." He hung up the phone, and went out on the porch to enjoy the quiet of the morning. After finishing his first cup of coffee, he came back inside refilled his cup, said good-bye to Max, turned off the coffee, and headed out the door of his condo with his suitcase.

The car and driver were waiting in the basement parking area. The driver opened the trunk and saluted Alan, who returned the salute and tossed his suitcase in the trunk.

"Good morning, Sir," Petty Officer Burke said. He was assigned to Alan's division and usually got all of the driving duties for the unit.

"Well, it's morning." Alan responded sarcastically. "I'm not sure how good it is."

The look on his face let Burke know that Alan didn't know. He had worked for the same command as Alan had for a year, and had gotten to know Alan well. He had heard the rumors that Alan and Phyllis had been dating for some time.

"Well," Burke began as he started the car. "No one's real sure. It made an uncontrolled reentry and has basically vanished. Then yesterday, we had a whole bunch of problems. Not the least of which was a missile launch against the Nimitz by a Russian Badger."

"Jesus," Alan half muttered. "No wonder Hoffman sounded like shit on the phone this morning."

Alan sat quietly reading the papers and drinking his coffee all the way to Norfolk airport. If he hadn't been reading official reports he would have thought it was all fiction. He was really confused as to why the admiral requested him now. Obviously it wasn't for moral support, but his expertise was aircraft weapons and sharks. As he pondered it the pieces came together. The shuttle was missing, and the admiral asked a marine scientist to come out to the scene.

"What are the possibilities of the shuttle surviving a medium angle entry into water?"

"No idea,." The petty officer responded with a shrug. "Wait a minute, sir. You don't mean the shuttle went under water?"

"That's the only conclusion I can come up with. Why else bring a marine scientist out to the scene?"

"Sounds a little out there to me, but then again just about anything is possible."

As the car stopped in front of the terminal, a skycap hurried over to get the bag out of the trunk for the petty officer. Alan turned to the petty officer and returned the salute of his subordinate.

"Thanks. Get any of the information you can find on that question out to me as soon as you can."

Alan turned, went into the terminal, and looked at his ticket that had been in the packet to see his flight number, 704 departing at six-fifteen. He looked up at the monitor to check his gate number. As he watched, the departure time changed form six-fifteen to nine-thirty. He took a deep breath and headed for the ticket counter.

"We have a problem getting the plane to the gate, so we have to bring a replacement plane from Dulles. It will only be a three-hour delay."

"First, I don't have three hours to wait and what about the missed connection in Chicago? Second, why can't the plane here get to the gate?"

"The connections in Chicago are easy sir. We can route you through Minneapolis... and have you in San Francisco about one PM tomorrow. The plane ..."

"Wait just one damn minute. I don't have to be in San Francisco tomorrow, I have to be there today!"

"Put me on another airline. I don't care what you have to do, get me to California."

The ticket agent was busy punching keys trying to get Alan rerouted. He looked up at the angry Naval officer who was glaring at him in silence.

"To answer your question about the plane, we can't locate it to get it to the gate."

"And I'm supposed to trust you to get me to California? Just book me through on another airline."

"Everything else is full. I found an open seat on a flight out of Chicago that arrives in San Jose at one forty."

"Look, I can't go into all of the things that 're happening in the world that your little mind can't comprehend. Let me say this just one more time. I need to be in San Francisco, California today." The look in Alan's eyes struck fear in the ticket agent. He quickly started punching keys on the computer. Alan felt his fuse getting short. "Look. I'm going to walk over to the phone and make a call. Have everything straightened out when I get back."

"I think I have it now, Sir." The agent's computer showed the open seats. "I found a combination that puts you in San Francisco at five twenty tonight."

"You'll need to board right away at gate twenty-three. You're booked through on first class because of the inconvenience." He handed Alan the new tickets.

"Thank you." Alan hurried off to board his plane. It was not a good beginning for his trip. As he settled in to his seat and the pre-takeoff instructions were recited for the passengers, Alan reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of Phyllis and him taken on the porch of his condo. God, he hoped that she was all right! All of a sudden he started to feel much closer to her than he had before. At the same time, he began feeling guilty for not giving enough of himself to her, and vowed to change that as soon as he saw her again.

Shalk sat contemplating all of the events that had been happening. He had watched as Nemo and several of the Mers had removed the Terrans from their craft. It was always difficult to overcome the barriers in initial meetings with the primitive culture. Removing the crew from their ship had been more difficult than before. It was obviously not designed to be entered while in the water.

When the Mers had tried to enter the ship, the door would not budge, they eventually had to blast it open with their pulse rifles. Then, one at a time the occupants were removed from their ship and transported to Nemo's ship. Each one was in an opaque wrap that permitted their transport in the water without endangering their lives. Shalk recalled that Nemo had once observed that the wraps reminded him of some kind of insect larva.

When the patrol had examined the interior of the Terran ship, it had become clear that there was truly no connection with the Shoals, a relief because Shalk tried to isolate his people from both Terrans and Shoals. He was weary of the fighting with the Shoals and wished only to exist in peace. After the great Shoal attack so long ago, he had sent patrols out to find a site for a new city that would be sufficiently removed from the Shoals to preclude further contact.

Memories started to take him back to the time when his father had been killed in an attack. They had been very close, one of the reasons that he had not gotten as close to Nolwak as some thought he should. Shalk had been so angry when his father was killed, he nearly launched a major offensive against the Shoals. That would not be what his father would have wanted, not the way the Mers lived. He had raised Nolwak to be a leader with the beliefs and laws of the Mers as his guidelines. After the attack today, he wondered how much longer this feud would last. The Mers had moved half-way around the globe to give the Shoals their way without conflict, but the Shoals seemed not to find that enough. He was going to have the Shoal prisoners questioned, then released with a plea for an end to the feud.

As Shalk sat in the silence of the throne room, several Mers entered the room, lead by Nolwak. As they approached their leader, they were unsure what his thoughts were. They stopped in front of Shalk's throne, and he looked up at them.

"All of the patrols are back from the surface." Nolwak reported. "There is a large number of ships that seem to be looking for the Terrans."

Shalk sat looking at the floor. Nolwak was uncertain that the report had been heard. He looked to his father for some signs.

"I heard you," Shalk responded softly. "It is a touchy and unusual set of circumstances. Thank you for the report my friends, you may leave."

As the group left the room, Shalk thought of the Terrans. They showed a much more sophiscated technical expertise than those previously encountered. These Terrans impressed him, especially the female. She had shown him that there was a possibility, if only a possibility that the Terrans could handle a working relationship with the Mers. He decided that the Terrans would be allowed to return to the surface. He hoped that this group might someday return; he thought he could enjoy them.

Shalk motioned to a messenger who waited inconspicuously to one side of the room.

Alan looked out the window of the airplane as it approached Chicago. After flying for the Navy, he often hated the feeling of not being in control of a plane. It was only a couple of minutes later that the wheels touched the ground. He looked at his ticket; the near three-hour layover was not going to be enjoyable. There was the American Airlines Admirals Club, a place where he could sit quietly and review the information in the packet. He thought about calling Burke to see if the information he asked for had been located. By then the plane came to the stop at the gate, and he left the plane and headed for the Admiral's Club.

Once he made his way into the relaxing atmosphere of the club, and had a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, he reviewed the reports in the packet. He reached over and picked up one of the phones, then dialed the number for his office at Norfolk.

"Area Seven intelligence office. Petty Officer Burke speaking, may I help you, Sir?"

"Yes, sir. Well at least some it. It seems that NASA never considered this a possible scenario. So they never tested the models for such a set."

"NASA's not being real cooperative. I'm not sure that they'll give me the base data. I may have to create the entire thing from scratch."

"Hours maybe, Sir. Call me from California. I'll stay here at the office and work on the program and the simulation until I get it."

As Alan hung up the phone, he thought how good it was to have someone as dependable as Burke working for him. Then he switched his mental track to Phyllis. He thought about her red hair, about how his former room mate had introduced them. Jim was a friend of both Alan's and Phyllis's, and seemed happy that the two had started dating. Alan had been very much a loner ever since his last serious girlfriend had left him. He had never really gotten Marcia out of his mind and blamed himself for the break up. In fact, he was still in love with her in many ways.

After a few moments of reflection on his two loves, Marcia to whom no one ever measured up, and Phyllis, with whom he found himself enchanted, he cleared his mind. He picked up his papers and hat, then made his way toward the door. He wondered if relationships were this hard for everyone, or just for him.

Nemo entered the throne room and approached Shalk. An obvious air of troubled thought surrounded Shalk. Nemo stood in silence in front of the ruler.

"Mister Nemo. I would like you to take your ship to the surface and see what's going on. You are an officer in their military, and would be more likely to understand the events that are going on up there."

"Yes, sir." Nemo stood for a moment waiting to see if there were any other instructions. After listening to the silence, Nemo turned and quietly exited the room. He made his way down the corridor, and soon disappeared around a corner.

Alan sat patiently at the gate waiting for the announcement to board. A strange feeling suddenly came over him and he knew something was about to go wrong. It was his sixth-sense; he just knew it. The voice announced that the first class passengers could now board, and he rose and made his way to the gate. As he reached the seat he was assigned, it was already occupied. He checked his boarding pass to make certain he had looked at it correctly. He had. He got the attention of an attendant.

She looked at his ticket. "I'm sorry but that man is a pilot going to California. He has a priority."

"Look. I don't have time to argue with you, so find me a seat on this flight. I don't care if you get off and I ride in your jump seat, I will be on this aircraft when it leaves."

"No, I will not get off. I have to get to California to make a connection out of Alameda Naval Air Station at seven-thirty this evening. So you make the necessary arrangements."

The attendant looked at Alan in complete disbelief. She had never had a passenger back her down before. She looked at the manifest to locate the seat that would solve the matter. It took several minutes and several chats with the ticket agents, but she finally did so. Her smile was as she escorted down the aisle.

Alan, who wanted to look over his papers, found himself seated between two giggling young girls.

As the plane started backing out of the gate, the girls settled down and Alan pulled the papers from his case and started going over them. Next he produced out a note pad and began writing as he reviewed the information. He hoped the flight would go quickly; he hated flying civilian airlines, there were always far too many distractions. Questions started flooding his mind. Why had the crew not been able to retake control of the shuttle? Jim was a good pilot and should have been able to maintain control of the craft easily. Why could the search teams not find the shuttle, or at least some debris from the ship if it broke up? These questions would not be answered from a distance.

It began to make sense to Alan why he had been asked to come out to help. He knew the majority of the crew, and their capabilities. If the shuttle had gone under the surface, then he would be the best one to handle it. His knowledge of marine biology and oceanography would be helpful in the rescue. He kept making notes, but was still unclear as to the launching of the anti-ship missile. When Admiral Hoffman had said that things were bad, he had really understated the situation. What else could possibly go wrong out there? But then, again, he really didn't want to know.

Alan had been so engrossed in reading the reports and outlining the rescue scenarios that he had hardly noticed how long into the flight they were. It was the backing off of power and the nose angle dropping that brought him out of his trance. He looked at his watch and was surprised. They must have caught a tail wind because they had made such good time. He estimated that they were twenty minutes out of San Francisco.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We made very good time out here and should be on the ground in about thirty minutes. On behalf of the crew I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for flying Northwest."

"Right." Alan muttered. He finished his lukewarm coffee and put his papers and notes away, then glanced out the window at the large urban sprawl that is the San Francisco bay area. At the southern-most end of the bay were the large blimp hangers, the heart of Moffett Field Naval Air Station. Alan had flown in there many times before his injury had cost him his flight status. He had even been there for a Fourth of July air show one year, with his Tomcat on display.

As the wheels of the L-1011 touched the ground, Alan felt the hard part of his journey had ended. He was wrong. The aircraft left the runway and came to a complete stop on the taxi way. Alan shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his left hand.

"This is the captain again. It seems that the gate where we are supposed to park has a plane in it that won't start. So we have to sit out here until they can get it started and backed out. Please stay seated until we arrive at the gate."

"Great. At this rate I could have walked out here faster than flying with these guys." Alan was making the comment to himself, but it was said loud enough that the girls heard it and laughed. He gave them an embarrassed smile.

Twenty-five minutes later, the plane made it to the gate, where Alan was greeted by a petty officer, who led him to a waiting car. The ride took him through the heart of San Francisco then across the Bay bridge and Treasure Island, and finally to the gates of Alameda Naval Air Station. The ride ended next to a waiting Tomcat with markings of a refitted plane from the reframe center at San Diego. Sitting on the yellow tow truck called an NC-8, was an old friend of his, his former RIO, Jack Raines.

"You really think that I'm going to let you fly this plane in that type of dress, Dancer?" It had been a long time since he had heard that name. A slight smile crossed his lips as a ground crewman took his suitcase and stored it in the baggage hold of the airplane. It was small and barely held the suitcase; after all this was not a passenger liner.

"I was expecting a C-2, J. W." Alan walked over and held out his hand to his friend. "You still teaching down in Beesville?"

"Nope, I'm at Miramar. When I heard that Hoffman lost a 'cat, and that you were going out, I offered to fly back seat for you."

"Yep. But, as I said, I can't be seen in the company of someone dressed that way." Jack reached behind him and picked up a folded flight suit and threw it to Alan. "Here, you can get dressed in the hanger. Flight shoes and helmet are waiting for ya there."

As Alan walked over to the hanger, he looked at the flight suit. It was one of his; it had all of the old insignias that he used to wear. When he entered the locker room in the hanger there was a G suit, a pair of flight boots, gloves, a parachute, and a helmet. The helmet caught Alan's attention; it was the bright yellow and gloss black of the squadron VF-84, to which he had been assigned on the Nimitz. He picked up the helmet and saw his call sign stenciled on it. A tear formed in the corner of his eye.

"That SOB.," he muttered, then quickly suited up and rejoined Jack out at the flight line.

"You look better now," Jack observed with a smile. "You remember how I ended up with all that junk?"

"Yeah, I do. You were going to hang on to it for me while I was on medical hold."

"Good." Jack slid off the NC-8 and headed for the plane. "You remember how to preflight one of these things, or do I have to do that for you, too?"

"I remember," Alan said giving Jack a dirty look. "Get your ass in gear and let's get started."

"Well I figured that a couple of years of flying a desk and you'd have lost your edge."

"I've been doing about ten hours a week in the simulator. I'm not going to let myself get out of practice. Let's get on with it, I really want to get in the air."

It was only a short time later that the pair were lifting off the ground and heading for the South Pacific in their aircraft. The sun was now slipping down into the depths of the ocean. For Alan it was like returning home, to be at the command of the fighter with Jack seated behind him. As they got to an operational altitude, Alan throttled back and watched as the sun slipped beyond view, and left only its fading afterglow.

"You're sounding natural up there, Dancer. Come left to one-nine-three, and put on cruise."

Alan started the gentle turn that would bring him to the course. As they settled into the flight, the drone of the engines was hypnotic, yet so very comforting. It was this kind of feeling that made the pilots of the Navy the strange breed they were. In several hours they would be landing on the deck of the Nimitz and their trip, for the time being would be over.

"Dancer, we're supposed to be flying at point eight. Should marry up with the tanker in about six hours."

"Admiral," the duty officer reported. "Alameda called in. The Tomcat with Lieutenant Lee is on it's way."

"Isn't he the one that snagged all of the flags out of the locker when he left the ship?"

"That was never confirmed," the admiral said with a grin. "Besides, that was under the command of a skipper who was a yankee without a sense of humor."

"Not really. He's just not one to cross. In any event, I want him here. He knows Jim better than most anyone else, except Jinx, and his problem solving will be most useful for this situation."

He hoped he did know what he was doing, too. He was stacking the deck in his favor, getting the best personnel around him. By bringing Alan out he was getting an expert in weapons as well as the ocean. He already had the best pilots, those in VF-84, and the best crew that any commander could ask for. He felt that he had all of the pieces of the puzzle; now, all he had to do was put them together.

Alex had been the commander of the Soviet Union's Kursograff spy trawler for several years. Over the years he had seen the Americans do some very strange maneuvers, but nothing as strange as what they were doing now. An entire task force literally parked in the middle of the ocean. He stood in the electronics room in the below-deck area looking at the radar screen, rubbed his tanned forehead and shook his head. His green eyes and sandy windblown hair were showing the wear of tracking the American Navy. He came from a family of fisherman, from the port city of Odessa in the Republic of the Ukraine. The sea was in his blood, and he loved all that went with his duty.

The trawler came to a stop. The Americans were nearly a hundred miles away, and now even the largest ship, which he was sure was a carrier, had come to a complete stop. There was the group of smaller ships sitting almost completely stationary about five miles away from the main group and using their active sonar heavily. Alex needed to think about this for a few minutes. What were they doing? It would not take the American pilots long before their aircraft would be buzzing all around his ship.

As he left the dark lower section of the ship where the sonar and radio equipment were hidden and headed toward the pilothouse, he could hear the whistling sounds of approaching jets. He shook his head as he thought to himself that the American pilots would certainly not make this a particularly pleasing day. That thought had hardly been completed when his small trawler was shaken roughly by the thundering roar of the pair of Tomcats. He hunched down as the ship vibrated under him. "Damn Americans," he muttered to himself. Entering the pilothouse, and found his political officer kneeling on the floor wide-eyed and shaking with fear.

"That was a fly-by," Alex answered. "They're attempting to tell us that they don't want us this close to their aircraft carrier."

"We call in and see. But, normally we just sit out here and take on what they give us." Alex was annoyed with political officers. They were assigned to all ships and few had any real seamanship. Even more ironic was that these officers were part of the decision-making process. He wondered where this particular one had come from. He didn't even know the basics, or at least so it would seem.

"Most certainly. In the meantime," Alex continued. "Since we're suppose to be a fishing trawler, let's put some nets in the water."

"That makes sense," Demitri nodded. "Go ahead with that." He turned away from Alex and watched the smoke trails of the American planes. He did not want to reveal his fear, his hatred of the sea, or that he had only been assigned to the KGB's Naval directorate because his father was a retired admiral. He wanted to be assigned to the Air directorate. Flying was something he could handle. Demitri barely knew his father because he would spend so much time at sea, and he hated that. When he was growing up, his father was never around like those of the other children, and as a result, he sometimes felt as if his father had abandoned him. Now, his wife and children were much like he had been. He was spending long periods of time away at sea, and was missing out of the important times of his children's lives. This cruise had begun three months ago, and was scheduled to last no less than one more. At least being assigned to a reconnaissance trawler had one positive aspect-- shorter tours. Soon, he saw light reflections from the fighters, which let him know that they were turning around.

Ken aimed his fighter at the small trawler. He loved doing this to those damned soviet spy trawlers, Ken, a Kentucky born mountain boy with a very large mischievous streak. Like so many other pilots in the Navy, he pushed his games to the limits, always seeing just how much better he could back himself. He had even been grounded once with Jim when they got caught playing tic-tac-toe in Crete. It was a game that only the most confidant of pilots would ever try, using their fighters to play the simple game on abandoned bomber runways. The game started with one plane using its tires to leave a pair of marks on the runway, then the second plane would cross that pair of marks. Then using the a single tire, would attempt to get their "three in a row." It was an activity that was strictly forbidden, and pilots caught abusing their aircraft in such a manner were subjected to disciplinary action. Yet a handful still participated in the game, in order to keep themselves honed to the edge of perfection and press themselves to the absolute limits.

Ken's build was very similar to Jim's; someone even once thought that they were brothers. The two were about the same build, but Ken's bright red hair and his light blue eyes were different. Ken's entire college career was at Kentucky State as a mechanical engineer. He entered the Navy as a reservist and continued his studies. Like Alan, he had come up through the enlisted ranks before being granted a commission, sharing the nickname for officers who had done so -- "Mustangs." Most enlisted men could relate to mustangs more comfortably because they had common beginnings, and because they were a little less "business" than other officers.

"I'm going give that SOB. a real headache this time, Slide," Ken said to the pilot who was flying on his wing.

"Hey, Gar... " Ken's RIO came over the intercom, "be careful will you? This guy might just take a shot at us."

"That isn't much of a great concern. Most of these trawler skippers are used to us trying to bust their eardrums."

"Not unless we do something real stupid, like shoot first. They are under the same orders we are. Don't shoot unless fired on."

A moment later the pair of Tomcats thundered over the trawler, then climbed straight up into the sky. As they climbed, Daniel looked out the back of their airplane and could see the activity on the deck. The crew was trying to lay their nets.

"After what we did? Then that's as good as a confession. Fishermen would be running, not laying nets." Ken had frightened off several trawlers, and knew that if it had been a real fishing trawler, a single fly-by would have had them on the run.

Back seat was slang for the "RIO's," most of whom considered the term an insult. Daniel had been with the squadron for only a couple of weeks, and found that most everyone talked about him in the third person. He often felt as if he were not even in the room. Some of the ground crew referred to him as "the rookie," or "insect." The term "insect" came from the slang for ensign, the bottom of the ladder in the Naval officer core. In addition, Daniel found himself really alone, as he was one of the few "yankees" on the ship. Daniel came from Berea and had graduated from Ohio State with a major in liberal arts. All of this seemed to lead to more problems than he had anticipated, but he also knew that if he could endure the harassment and do his job, he would be accepted. Daniel had been surprised by the overwhelming number of pilots and RIOs from the Southern states, the assumption being that Southerners loved the fight and were therefore excellent choices to fly in fighters.

"Roger. Standard Mayak class trawler. He's got his deck hands laying the nets after two fly bys."

Alex walked back into the pilothouse. There was glass all over the floor, a result of sonic compression from the fighters. Standing nearly paralyzed in the corner was Demitri. It was obvious that he was frightened and had not expected this. Alex took a deep breath and walked over to him.

"You're not the usual KGB officer we've had on board before. Have you ever come this close to the Americans?"

"No. This is the first assignment. I really didn't want a ship assignment. I wanted to be home at night."

"Well, you're stuck out here with us. Try to set a better example in front of the crew. If they see you scared they'll have no respect for you."

"Thank you captain." He knew political officers were not looked upon favorably. He also knew that it was clear Alex was trying to make his job as smooth as possible. If the men lost respect for him, it would make Alex's job, and the jobs of other officers, harder.

Alex walked over to the controls of the ship and started the vessel moving in a slow, wide circle. This was in order to set the nets, Alex often wished that he didn't have to pretend to be a fisherman, wished that he could do this sort of thing for a real living. When he laid his nets now, his catch was often released or left to spoil in the holds. It was a terrible waste, he thought to himself; all those fish could feed so many people back at home. Normally, the compass would not have caught his eye during such a simple operation. But the fact that it was spinning at a rapid speed and in the wrong direction summoned his attention.

Demitri came over and looked at the instrument panel. As he studied it, he saw even more of the instruments start to give erratic or improper readings.

Suddenly one of the radar operators entered the bridge and announced that, "All of the radars are starting to fade on and off. None of the radios are working, I can't explain it!"

"I'll go down and take a look," Demitri told Alex, wanting to keep his mind off of those damnable jets. He knew quite a bit about computers and radars, and felt that if there were something wrong, he could fix it. As he entered the radio and radar room, Demitri saw the radars fading on and off. The static coming from the speakers was different, it had a rhythmic pattern and an odd tone. He went over to a print-out of something that was being tracked.

"We're not sure yet, Sir," the radar man responded. "It came up from the deep, started to go shallow, then stopped. Then..... here" he indicated a point on the track. "It started to reduce the range slowly. It was then we started to get these power surges, and now I can't tell where it is."

"What about a DSRV?" Demitri knew the Americans had many of these deep sea rescue vehicles (DSRV). They were often small and moved erratically.

"I don't think so. There has been no large cargo aircraft in the area. Only the C-2's, and they can't carry one."

Demitri went back to the pilothouse, shaking his head. He looked at Alex, who was peering through the binoculars.

Alex lowered his glasses, peered out of the broken windows, and looked at his instruments, none of which worked. Suddenly, the engines went quiet. Alex and Demitri exchanged looks, and Alex went over to the intercom to call the engine room. There was nothing; it was completely dead. Alex then looked out at the periscope through his binoculars.

"I was asking him who he is. Not that I expect an answer, but his jamming equipment is incredible. I've never been subjected to such a form of jamming."

"This is like... sort of, the stories from the Americans' so called Devil's Triangle."

"Captain, I not implying that we are experiencing such a phenomenon. I'm just making an observation."

"Captain!" One of the engine room men burst onto the bridge. "Sir, the engines..."

Alex went back to studying the periscope watching them. It seemed to be holding station about a hundred meters off the port side and almost dead amidships. If he were in a combat situation, he would be expecting a torpedo. He pondered the whole thing for a moment, then calmly reached for the flare gun as he lowered the glasses.

"Well, let's see if the Americans are as good at rescue as they say they are." He walked out on the deck and fired a flare.

Ken turned his head to the area Daniel had indicated. Still in its arc was the red signal flare. Ken thought about it for a second, then pressed the microphone key.

"Slide, the trawler is sending up a signal flare. Let's go down and play like friends."

As the pair of Tomcats slowed and started their descending turns toward the trawler, Ken again activated his microphone.

"Roger. I don't think we damaged him that badly. We're going down low and slow to check it out."

"Real strange magnetic signals to the north of your target. Also, about three minutes ago all radio and radar emissions ended. It's almost as if they're being jammed."

Ken was thinking about all of that when he saw a second flare go up. As he looked at his instruments, he leveled out at sixty feet. The speed was now two hundred sixty knots. He and his wingman were flying in formation.

As the Tomcats approached the trawler, he could see a man standing in front of the pilothouse pointing out to the left of the ship. As they got closer, the compass started spinning rapidly, and several other gauges began going crazy. Ken shoved the stick to the left and jammed the throttles forward. The Tomcat lurched into high gear.

Daniel was looking back at the other Tomcat. It continued straight, then seemed to loose power, and started to head for the water right after clearing the trawler. He watched as the canopy flew off and the crew ejected from the dying aircraft.

"They punched out!" Daniel yelped. As he continued to watch the pair, the seats fell away form the men and their parachutes opened. The Tomcat made its watery crash in a spectacular splash.

"Spearhead, this is two-zero-seven. We lost two-one-one! They ejected. Crew in the water."

"Not too sure. It must have been that magnetic field. We started to feel some of the effects and bugged out. Maybe he didn't notice them in time."

"I'm in a circle over the target. Flight six-thousand. Request to cover the rescue."

Ken watched as the crew from the other plane swam toward the trawler. The crew of the trawler was getting a life boat over the side. They were going to help; that made him feel better. What could have caused such an intense field that it could impact on the systems?

Then he saw it, the wake of something just below the surface of the water. The water looked as if it were coming alive, and it was heading at the trawler.

Alex watched the swell of water head right at the center of his ship. It was like watching a king-sized torpedo, and he had no power to maneuver. He watched as the small life boat he had sent out to rescue the Americans was tossed aside. Then, the swell got smaller and a second later Alex prepared for the impact. The wake of the projectile as it went under his ship shook the trawler. A moment later, the engines refired. Alex was completely shaken now. He called over to the small boat to make sure his people were still all right, then ordered them to continue with their rescue.

Demitri walked out beside him, wanting to ask a hundred questions. None surfaced. He knew that what they had just experienced was not normal. He also knew there was no clue as to what actually had happened. As he watched, the Soviet crew pulled the two American flyers out of the water.

"Should we see what they want?" Alex asked Demitri, then went into the pilothouse and picked up the radio microphone.

"This is US aircraft Hawkeye one-six," the voice over the radio was in Russian but had a strange accent. "Did you wish to declare an emergency?"

"We had experienced some kind of effect that impacted on all of our systems. I believe it was related to the submarine that made a run at us."

There was a long pause. Alex looked out at the ocean wondering if the Americans were doubting his story, especially after losing one of their fighters after he sent up the flares. He would certainly think it a trick if he were the commander of the task force.

Alex quickly looked to the port side of the ship. The life boat was only a few meters away.

"Your ship wishes to know if you are well," he shouted in rough and slow English.

As both of the American flyers nodded and held their thumbs up, Alex glanced at Demitri, who seemed astounded that he spoke English.

"This many years out here listening to them, some of it sinks in. It is almost a necessity." He raised the microphone to his mouth. "Hawkeye one-six, they signaled that they are fine. I will let them speak with you as soon as they are on board."

"Thank you Kursograff. We are sending a rescue helicopter to pick them up. Do you require any assistance?"

Alex hung up the microphone and looked at Demitri. It was obvious that he had completely impressed, and shocked, the young political officer.

"You never show your entire hand too early. There is still a possibility that they might think we lured their fighters in to shoot one down. If they found a ship's captain spoke English... Well, let's say that it would raise questions in my mind, if I were in their place."

It was a requirement of the Soviet Navy that all of its officers be educated in the ranks of the American services. Alex looked at the pair of dripping flyers. Both were full lieutenants, the pilot's name patch showed his name and call sign. Jeffrey Wirsching, Slide. Where did these men get such strange nicknames? Alex thought to himself as he looked at the six-foot-tall, blue-eyed, brown haired American. The other one stood slightly behind Jeff. His name was Clint McCray, call sign Jester. He had brown eyes and hair and was just slightly shorter than the pilot.

Alex straightened. He was not accustomed to such formalities and this impressed him. As he looked at Demitri and quickly translated the request, both men saluted the flyers.

Alex held the microphone out to the Americans. "Hawkeye one-six wishes to speak with you gentlemen."

"We're okay. Something happened as we got near the trawler. All power shut down, and all controls went south."

As Ken handed Alex the microphone, an uneasiness filled the air. The men looked at each other like rival school children. Demitri was the first to find the whole thing humorous, and he started to chuckle. Alex looked at Demitri, and smiled. Then all of the men were laughing.

"No," Jeff answered, regaining his composure. "Did your sonar get an ID on whatever that was in the water?"

"No," Alex had stopped laughing. "In fact, we started to lose power just about the time it was close enough to start an ID run."

"They asked if we knew what attacked us, and I said no," Alex answered in back in Russian.

Alex turned toward the Americans. "My political officer wants to know if the jamming that caused all of our systems to shut down, was from one of your ships?"

Jeff looked at Demitri. "No," he stated clearly as he shook his head. "In fact we thought it might have been yours."

Alex translated the response to Demitri who suddenly realized that Alex had been right to show such cooperation and help to the Americans. If the task force commander thought that they had caused the fighter to crash, that could be construed as a hostile act, and could result in a short sea battle. The bottom line was that the two twin 14.5 millimeter deck guns would be no challenge to the Americans. He needed to relay to the Americans that this was not a trap, but a coincidence. He directed Alex to show the pilot the printouts indicating the power losses. Alex nodded in agreement.

"My political officer has directed me to show the pilot the computer printouts. They will show that the vessel we were tracking impacted on all of our systems as it got closer. Excuse me for a minute." Alex left the room and returned after only a short time. "Here, sir."

Jeff walked over to the chart table and studied the printout. He didn't really know how to read it but, tried to follow what Alex was saying.

"This is where we first picked him up. He was coming shallow from a deep ravine, at this time he was about four thousand meters off the port bow. As he got to this point, he was two hundred feet deep and had closed to fifteen-hundred meters. He was staying off my port bow."

"Nothing solid. It was too small to be a standard sub, and its movements too smooth to be a DSRV."

"Yes. Just prior to firing the flare, I had been watching a periscope. Then here, when the target got to a distance of just under one thousand meters, the compass started to spin rapidly, and backwards. Once he got to about six-hundred meters everything, even the engines, quit."

"Captain, I'm not really sure what all this means. Would you mind if Clint looks this over?"

Alex paused a moment then turned to Demitri and translated the request. Demitri was unsure if it was wise to let both of the Americans look at the track.

"It would go far to help settle any apprehensions that may still be in play, Demitri," Alex pointed out.

As Jeff and Clint looked at the track, they could see the on and off cycles from the jamming. Jeff had not been able to get a good look at his instruments before he had lost power and had to eject. But what Alex had described was fairly consistent with what he had experienced. Then the radio speaker crackled with a voice that was familiar to him.

"We're on approach. We'll pick you up off the mid-ship deck. Ask your friends if they can swing that boom to the starboard, that will give us a clear approach from the port side."

Alex walked over to the intercom and began giving orders. Moments later the deck hands were swinging the boom over the right side of the ship as the SH-3 helicopter slowly approached from the left side. As it centered itself over the deck, the cable lowered from the cargo door. Jeff sent Clint up first and waited as the hoist raised up the RIO then lowered for him. As he started to get into the collar, he looked over to Alex.

"You're welcome. Maybe between us we can figure out what the hell that thing was."

"Maybe, sir. Good hunting." Jeff saluted Alex then looked up and gave a thumbs up signal, and the hoist pulled him upward. It was only a couple of minutes later that he was in the helicopter and they were heading back to the Nimitz. By the time they had arrived, the Nimitz had once again come to a stop and Ken was on board.

As the helicopter sat down, Ken, the admiral, and the squadron commander waited to greet the rescued crew. The medical team rushed past them and hustled Jeff and Clint off to the dispensary, the trio of officers following them and waiting outside the doors until the doctor came out.

"I'm not completely sure. I saw Garfield break left, then my radio went static. Then a second or so later, the power went. Then I ejected," Jeff reported.

"No, sir," Clint responded. "All my systems went down about the time Garfield broke off. I tried to talk to Slide, but nothing worked. Then I saw him reach for the ejection handles, so I followed his lead."

"Slide," the admiral was very slow, deliberate, and solemn. "Was this a shoot down?"

"Not from the trawler, sir. They showed us their computer tracks on the... well they're calling it a sub, that seemed to be the cause."

"That must be what I saw making the run at the thing," Jeff added. "It was going for the mid-ship on the port side. There for a second I thought it was going to ram her."

"Christ you should have seen it from where we were," Jeff boomed. "It was like some sea monster, spiny back and all!"

"That's the best way to describe it. A large fish, large eyes on the side, and large curved spins on its back."

The admiral looked at a puzzled CAG, and motioned to the door with his head. The two escaped to the solitude of the hallway.

"It sounds like it's right out of the pages of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea."

"I'm not sure what to think." The admiral rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at the floor. "I want them to give full descriptions to the intelligence people, then put them on the schedule for a three day liberty."

The admiral started down the passageway on his way back up to the bridge, then stopped as he heard the dispensary door open when the CAG started to go back in to talk to Jeff and Clint.

"Notify fleet that we lost a Tomcat... mechanical failure this time. Have Slide and Jester report to San Diego after liberty, and pick up another replacement. I'm going to have the Bennington stand down, since the plane went down I've had them ready to launch a Harpoon."

"Yes, sir." The CAG stood in the door and watched as the admiral walked down the passageway, and then up a ladder. He did not envy the burden that had fallen squarely on that man's shoulders. Only a week earlier, an F-14 had been damaged beyond repair during a typhoon when the binding chains broke loose. Now he had lost an F-14 during this normal operation. Too, he had the guided missile cruiser ready to fire one of its Harpoon anti-ship missiles at the trawler if it had shot down the Tomcat. These actions could have precipitated a war. At the moment, it seemed the cards were stacked against him. And Jim was involved, a circumstance to give anyone an ulcer. Anyone!

Alex kept his distance from the American fleet. He had moved the Kursograff nearly a hundred twenty miles away, and had talked Demitri into stowing the deck guns. This was the best way to show a non-hostile profile. He watched as several of the crew busied themselves with replacing the window glass on the bridge. They had informed their fleet of the strange occurrences, and were waiting for further directions when the radioman entered the bridge with a message in his hand.

The radioman looked at the transmission. "US reports loss of space shuttle Atlantis. Task force may be the search party. Take no offensive posture. Offer any assistance in the search that can be rendered. Signed admiral Rammov, Intelligence fleet directorate."

"We have been directed to aid you in any way we can. Request permission to close to thirty miles. We will turn off all monitors, if you so request." Alex knew that they would be an unexpected offer, and one that Demitri would be opposed to. If he offered it and the Americans accepted, he could tell Demitri that the Americans would not let the Russians come closer unless they turned off their monitors. If this was a rescue, then any ship was an asset and could be the difference between life and death.

Commander Clarke was nearly in shock as he heard the message relayed from the trawler.

As he pondered the offer, one of the petty officers cleared his throat. Commander Clarke looked at him.

"Sir, the sonar capabilities of the Soviet AGI's are pretty good. If they have made the offer to help, well, I say let's take it. Besides, it gives us an opportunity to get some close ups of them for a change."

He looked at the radio operator. "Give them permission to join the search. Without their monitors."

As the signal was sent back to the trawler, Commander Clarke thought about the irony. This ship the Soviets had sent out here to monitor and watch them was now going to be under the close scrutiny of his intelligence specialists while it helped them. The AGI's, the classification of ships used for intelligence gathering, usually did not make their presence this obvious. The giveaway was coming to a dead stop at the same time as the fleet did. A real fishing trawler would not stop in the open seas.

The hall was like a large indoor pool with an island in the center, with walls, smooth and gently curving, looking as if they were constructed of a huge sea shell. Lighting was worked into the supporting beams arching from one side of the room to the other, and was not clearly recognizable. The light reflected off of the water and made ripples on the ceiling over the heads of the Mers, both around the outer edge of the island and on the island. The crew of the shuttle was escorted to an area off to one side of the outer rim and motioned to sit. Several of the Mers nearby moved away; others watched every move the crew made. Jim felt as if he were on display in a zoo. Shalk entered and made his way to the vacant spot on the island.

As he looked around the pool, he saw an image out of the pages of Jules Vern's novel. It was the Nautilus! This was reality, he thought as he looked over at Randy and saw his face turning pale.

"These are the Terrans who were brought here," Shalk said motioning toward the shuttle crew. "I have spoken with them and believe they pose no harm to us."

As sounds of rage, discontent, and fear rose in the hall, Shalk looked over to Jim, then raised his powerful hand slowly and the room quieted.

"The leader of this group has shown me he means well. His only knowledge of the Shoals is what he has learned from us."

"I believe their only concern is to rejoin their own. I feel that this is best for all of us. It is also reported by our patrol that there is extensive surface activity, most likely a search party."

"I fail to see how they can be of any use to us!" another angry elder announced.

Nolwak burst into the room. The shaft of a Shoal spear that was lodged in his shoulder did not seem to encumber him much as he made his way to the island.

The room emptied quickly. Phyllis was trying to examine the wound from a distance. "We should get that out of you!"

Nolwak turned to see the Terran that had intrigued him so. He made his way over to where they were.

"I must return to the battle. The Shoals are much more in number than ever before!"

"In this condition you're not going to do anyone any good. Randy! Get over here! Now, let's take care of this."

Nolwak was about to offer stronger resistance before sensing his father beside him.

"Let them help you. They are correct in their assessment, you can do little good out there in this condition."

"We are not aggressors," Shalk explained. "We are not well versed in fighting. It is only through Mister Nemo and your fellow Navy personal that we have learned what little we know. And when we exiled the Shoals, it was only logical not to give them the technology we had. That could have truly been our undoing!"

"Yes, at least biologically. They are just more aggressive and have completely different values."

Jim pondered the situation for a moment. "Ferg, Cheryl, come with me!" He headed for the Nautilus, followed by the other two. Nemo was standing near the island of his vintage submarine as the trio approached.

"Granted!" A dazzled Nemo returned the salute as he watched the group board the Nautilus, then followed them through the hatch and into the control room of his ship.

After everyone was inside the Nautilus, Jim turned to Nemo. "Captain, I don't have time to explain this to you right now, but we've got to get to my ship ...Now!"

Nemo turned, pulled the heavy hatch closed, and latched it tight. He then made his way over to the fancy gold-lined control panel. Jim thought to himself how simplistic it all seemed compared to what he was used to; still, in an odd way, it was very confusing. Nemo moved several levers and the engines began coming to life, several needles started moving, and the panel lights began glowing. It was like watching a giant sea monster coming out of a deep sleep. Nemo moved a lever that was near the helm wheel and the ship started to submerge, and move forward, slowly at first, then speeding up.

As the Nautilus slipped out of Atlantis, the battle could be seen in the soft light of the city. Jim could only hope that his idea was going to work, and that he'd have enough time to implement it.

"I suppose so. But why would ... you ... want ... The sonic device!" Dan snapped his fingers.

"Would someone care to tell me what's goin' on?" Nemo queried with a confused look on his face.

"I need to get into the bridge of my ship. You said it was filled with water. How full?"

"Great! Ferg, you and I will suit up. We'll get the satellite and secure it to the foredeck. Then you can recalibrate it."

"I see that this little excursion is in your control, but would you kindly tell me what in God's name you've got in mind!"

"Captain, the carrier signal for the radio signal we were using has some sort of paralyzing affect on the Mers. Seeing how the Mers and Shoals are the same ... things, it is logical to assume that they will also be affected the same way."

"Yes, but the effect seems to be only temporary. As far being temporarily paralyzed versus being dead, I think that paralyzed is better."

Jim raised his hand to start an explanation, but realized that Nemo would not really understand it.

"It'll take too long to explain. Let's just suppose that it works. We could rig it so that it could be activated from inside the city. But we've got to hurry!"

Nemo moved a lever foreword to increase the speed and the Nautilus moved through the darkness. After a few minutes, everyone on the bridge could see the marker lights of Atlantis, that had been left on when the crew had been taken off.

The sonar man on the California sat in front of the wall of electronics and was wondering how many times he was going to have to reconfirm the location and size of the contact. He knew that it was the shuttle, and he didn't find any reason for this particular exercise.

He shook his head and fired up all his equipment. The various lights and television-like monitors came on line. He quickly ran a check and calibration program. The strange patterns appearing on the monitors would have most people reaching for the phone to call the repairman, but he studied them carefully and was satisfied that all of the equipment was operating properly. He knew that because of depth and narrowness of the focus, all of the equipment had to be at one hundred percent.

He then exited the maintenance program and started the sonar up with its resounding "ping," then waited for the pulse to return. The computer would then take the pulses, wash out the background noise, allow for the thermo clines, and finally register an image on the screen.

"I wish the hydrophone would've gone down deep enough, Chief," he addressed the chief standing behind him.

"I hear that! Maybe all this 'confirm the target' garbage could have been avoided."

"A second target, sir. Bearing zero-eight-two, range to Sierra One-Seven two-hundred meters and closing."

"Don't think so, its course and speed are too steady. Stand by con... Second target is slowing, range to Sierra One-Seven now about twenty meters."

The tapes were computer tape recordings of all the different contacts a ship encounters. Copies of the recordings are made and sent out to all the other ships. If, in the future, the same object is encountered, its prior record aids in speedy identification of the target. The tapes are also helpful in differentiating between submarines and biologics. Biologics could be any living thing large enough to send back a confusing signal. The most common are whales; but sharks, dolphins, and even schools of smaller fish could send back some remarkably strange images.

"Aye, aye Sir ... Sir, Sierra One-Eight has come to a stop ten meters beside Sierra One-Seven. Computer says One Eight is a new track. I should have a profile on it in a couple minutes."

The sonar has the ability to not only give the location of an object under the water, but can give an outline of the target. This outline, or profile, is literally a silhouette of the target. Like the tapes, the profile helps the intelligence people identify a contact by shape.

"I don't have a clue." As he stood there, he noticed that the computer was finishing printing images of the two targets. "I'll get this over to the radio room for transmission."

"I suppose that's a search-rescue group looking for us. We're on a tight schedule. Ferg, let's get wet!" The two men entered the chamber that would gain them access to the outside.

Admiral Hoffman looked at the image of the two ships. The confusion he felt was easily discernible on his face. The shape of one was undeniable; it was the shuttle. The second was a completely different subject. Its shape was erratic, not at all the sleek, conventional design of known submarines.

"This looks like some of those nineteenth-century designs," an intelligence officer offered.

"Not by what the sonar man said; its movements were all very deliberate. I would have to conclude that it's being piloted. What exactly it is and by whom ... I don't know."

"Can you offer any suggestions?" The admiral looked at one of the NASA personal, with obvious little faith in whatever he was about to say.

"Send what we've got up to Pearl. Let them make the next call." He turned to the duty officer. "Tell the California to secure the sonar run for now. I want them to run a track every ten minutes. If there's any movement or change, follow it and let me know!"

The admiral was wondering what else was going to happen. This had been the strangest cruise he could remember. As he looked out at the sea he could feel his years. By the time he got back to port, he knew he would have aged about ten years.

"Skipper," the officer of the deck said softly. "The air boss is on the box for you."

"I have Dancer inbound three hundred fifty miles out. He'll be ready for a trap in about twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Charlie." He hung up the receiver and looked over at the officer of the deck. "Prepare the Nimitz to receive aircraft. We have an inbound fighter."

The irritating pinging stopped. Nemo showed signs of relief as he looked up, cherishing the silence. He was glad the Union didn't use that device when he was fighting them. Hell, he would have given up after a couple minutes of that type of barrage.

Cheryl looked out of the large porthole at the two men. She thought to herself how strange the suits looked, and remembering the descriptions of Jules Vern, how oddly familiar. The tanks appeared to be nothing more than large conch shells with hoses going into the old brass divers' helmets. The thin black rubber suits and lead bottom shoes were to the letter as Vern had described.

"I hope they get back and we get outta here before that damned noise starts over again."

"Hell yes! If it were me, I would. 'Bout every ten minutes, just to keep an eye on us - so to speak."

"Captain," Cheryl started with a little hesitation, "how much of what Jules Vern wrote about you is true?"

"I rightly don't know," Nemo responded with a slight smile. "I've never had the chance to read his book."

"I mean like ramming the ships and sinking them, then leaving the crew to drown."

There was a heavy sigh from the aged warrior. His upper lip protruded slightly as he formulated his answer. Then he faced Cheryl and took a ragged breath.

"Missy," he began off in a soft and controlled voice. "Wars are not pleasant things to endure. Hell, I'd like it if there were never another one. But that's simply not realistic, anywhere. Yes, I used the Nautilus to ram warships and sink 'em, but if I had commanded a sailin' ship I would've sunk 'em with cannons. The difference is that bein' a submarine, I never knew for certain the fates of the crews. Some of the Union folks considered me barbaric. Yet, if they had been successful in buildin' somethin' like my Nautilus, they probably would've thought differently."

"The victor in any war is always right. The end justifies the means, I do believe the saying goes."

Nemo rocked his head back in his booming Southern laugh. Cheryl had not expected that response from him; quite to the contrary, she thought that he might be angered. As Nemo regained his composure, he looked at Cheryl, a twinkle in his eye.

"And if I'd been a Union skipper, I'dve been decorated as a hero. It's all dependin' on which side wins, as I said before."

Cheryl smiled as she thought about the irony of what Nemo was saying, and how true it was. A really scary thought but one to consider; when the US bomber crew dropped the "bomb" on Japan to end that World War II, they were considered heros. Had the US lost the war, those same men would have surely been considered war criminals. The irony of war was something her dad used to talk about, but she only now clearly understood it.

Jim and Dan made their way to the side hatch on Atlantis. They could see where something had scorched it as it burned through the outer skin. The hatch was still open, but the batteries appeared undamaged by the exposure. Marker lights on the shuttle and in the cabin were still functional.

Jim entered first and waited for Dan. As they headed for the bridge, Jim motioned for Dan to go to the cargo bay access. At the cargo bay controls, everything appeared operational to Jim. He threw a switch; an instant later, the bay was filled with light. He could see Dan beside the satellite, already starting to free the binding straps. As he got ready to throw the switch to open the bay doors, the hole in one of the two doors caught his eye. It looked as if a large bullet had gone through the metal. Curious, but knowing that time did not permit him the luxury of exploring this mystery, he threw the switch and watched as the doors opened at a slow and steady rate. Once he was certain the door would open, he headed down to the bay access.

Dan was almost finished unhooking the satellite when Jim moved up beside him. Flashing sparks caught Dan's eye, and he looked over to the bulkhead dividing the bay and the control area. Lodged in the wall was a large piece of metal. He gestured to Jim, who made his way to it quickly and dislodged the metal object. The area that had been struck was the main logic circuits for the shuttle. It was only accessible from the bay area, so there was no way for the crew to trouble-shoot that part of the systems without donning an environment suit. Jim looked at it, and shook his head, then handed the object to Dan.

The large letters A P O L were clear, indicating spacecraft residue from one of the Apollo missions. The circuits were fried, but it was obvious to Jim that his own ship had been shot down by a twenty- year- old piece of floating space trash. Shalk was right, he thought to himself, we are not careful enough. He motioned to the satellite and they began preparing it for removal.

As they reached the open bay doors with the satellite, Nemo maneuvered the Nautilus close enough to load from the wide open bay doors. It was apparent that Nemo wanted to hasten their departure. They positioned the satellite on the foredeck of the Nautilus, quickly tying it down as Dan signaled that he was going to start the recalibration. Jim indicated that the frequency needed to be set at one-one-zero-point-five.

Nemo hurriedly began moving his ship the moment the strange device was on his deck. He knew that if it were he up on the surface, in a minute or so the sonar would restart. He hoped to be far enough away that they wouldn't find him. But he had to move slowly enough to not lose the two men who were on his foredeck.

Jim walked on the bridge, still in the strange wet suit and shivering from the cold water.

Cheryl, her heart skipping a beat, turned and looked at Jim. The look he returned was filled with affection.

"I like the sound of that," she said with a smile as she made her way to get his coffee, her heart filled with happiness.

A minute later Dan, dripping, arrived on the bridge as Nemo throttled the Nautilus back up to flank speed, making his best speed to the city.

"That damn thing is banging away on the emergency frequency, Rain," Dan turned toward Nemo as he pulled off parts of the wet suit. "Captain, you need just a little more air storage in those tanks. I almost didn't make it back in!"

"Butcha' did. You youngsters are workin' too hard." Nemo, initially appearing angry, quickly relaxed and gave Dan a friendly wink. "We'll get back soon. I just hope it's not too late!"

"Me, too Captain." Jim answered as he sipped the coffee Cheryl brought him. The resounding "ping" of the sonar echoed through the water as Jim looked toward the surface.

The sonar man on the California looked at his watch. Ten minutes had gone by since he had shut off the track. He went through the same routine as before. When he was again satisfied that all of the equipment was operating properly, he reached over to his panel and adjusted some dials, then looked up at his screen.

"If I do that I'll lose the depth. I can't go any wider on the band. Searching in this depth is the classic needle in the haystack story. The only reason we were able to find the first one was that those flyboys found that radio carrier signal. It gave us the area where we could concentrate. If it moved even only a couple hundred meters out of range, it could take hours to locate it."

"What!" boomed Admiral Hoffman as several of the bridge crew cowered. "How could they loose a target?"

"Apparently, it moved when the sonar was off. We can't do a wider band and maintain the depth. Do you want us to break off of the first contact and attempt to locate the second?" Asked the intelligence officer.

The admiral stared out the window for a moment. "No ... Let's concentrate on what we have." He knew this was going to end up in a monumental stomach disorder. He felt his middle with his hand; it was starting. "I'll be in sick bay. If anything else happens, call me there!"

"Dancer's on final and should be on the deck in a couple of minutes. Any messages for him?"

The admiral stopped at the door, his mind clouded with all of the events of the last hours. He nodded his head and looked at the XO.

"Yes. Get him all of the information we have compiled in the last few days, and tell him I'll see him in an hour in my in port cabin."

As the admiral made his way down to dispensary, he was starting to feel the strain. He knew that he needed to sleep, have a decent meal, and relax. He was not about to do any of that until the crew had been rescued.

As the Nautilus maneuvered through the narrow canyon opening into the area of Atlantis city, the battle was still raging. Visible were flashes of the pulse rifles and flying spears. Almost the instant Nemo changed course and headed toward the city, all signs of the battle ended. In the lights of both the city and the ship, Mers and Shoals alike could be seen in obvious pain. Buckling and falling to the floor, they forgot their reasons for war.

"It would appear that my guess is right. The carrier signal is paralyzing them. With any luck this will end the conflict." Jim watched through the large porthole. He hated seeing the creatures suffer, but realized that his solution was much more viable than the alternative. "That group there ... The ones leaving, take a bearing on them!"

"You got it!" As Nemo steered his ship toward the fleeing Shoals, they became instant victims of the carrier signal. And, as the Nautilus passed by Atlantis, other Mers came out and began taking Shoal prisoners.

"No ... I think they've had enough. Ferg, go out there and shut that thing off."

Alan sat at the conference table looking through the stacks of papers. He had made so many notes he had to stop to review them. As he did so, he leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the table. Several minutes went by and he reached over to the coffee cup and took a drink. It was cold, and the pained expression on his face was testimony that it tasted bad. All of the information that had been compiled in the short time was overwhelming, and still nothing was clear. The reports from the downed flight crew spoke about, for lack of a better term, a sea monster.

"I would like to talk to the air crew whose plane went down," Alan said to one of the Marine MPs standing next to the door.

"Lee," Commander Clarke's voice told of his exhaustion. "What good will that do? You have their written reports; what else can you get from them?"

"Maybe if I can get a drawing of what they saw. It might make a little more sense."

Alan started reading the reports from the Soviets. The descriptions they rendered didn't vary much from what the air crew had given. Alan thought that either the descriptions were accurate or that all of them were drinking the same bad vodka. Either way, the written descriptions were of little help.

It wasn't long before the door opened and Jeff and Clint entered with the Marine, who took his post at the door. The two stood at attention in front of the table waiting to be recognized. Alan finally looked up at the pair and leaned back in his chair.

"At ease," Alan said, and the pair relaxed as he leaned foreword on his elbows. "You two had quite a ride today. Any injuries?"

"No, Sir," Jeff responded. Although they were the same rank as Alan, they addressed him as a senior because he was the investigator. It was more out of respect, and formality, than anything else.

"Simply put, your description of ... whatever it was that made a run on the trawler, is unclear. I'd like a little better description, and drawings if possible."

"Yes, Sir," Jeff answered as the pair looked at each other and realized that if it were them on the other side of the table, their story would be difficult to believe.

The two flyers sat down at the table and Alan put a tablet of lined paper in front of each of them, Alan and Commander Clarke watched as they picked up their pens. It was silent in the room, the only sound that of pens against paper. The phone on the wall rang.

"Yes," Clarke answered. The pause was short. "Mister Lee, it's for you. Norfolk's on the line."

"Thanks," Alan said as he got up and took the phone from the commander. "This is Lieutenant Lee."

"I was able to use some old spec data and set up a computer simulation. The results were actually quite remarkable."

"Well, Sir, it seems that there is a fairly large angle that the shuttle could enter the water and not sustain crippling damages."

"Yep. The best is that it would appear, at least through the computer simulations, as if it could take nearly six hundred fathoms of pressure."

"Yes, sir. I've down-loaded the program into the satellite system, so you should have access to the information in just a few minutes."

As Alan hung up the phone, he turned toward the table and picked up his note pad, made some quick notes concerning Burke's findings, then sifted through the paper scattered across the table. When he found the chart with soundings for the area, he quickly located coordinates for where the shuttle had come to rest. He looked up as Richard entered the room with a couple of his associates. Alan stood up and smiled.

"A program that can run test angles of entry and pressure depths is being loaded into our computers."

"I had one of my petty officers complete the program," Alan paused for a second to look at his watch. "He did it in less than twenty-four hours. It would seem that the shuttle can take the stress for that depth. Not bad for a bunch of sailors, wouldn't you say?"

Richard sat there quietly, the eyes of the Naval personal fixed on him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was disturbing to Alan and the admiral that Richard sat there unable, or unwilling , to meet their eyes.

Again, complete silence. Richard felt so intimidated that he was unsure how to answer. Finally, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He knew that what he had to say was not going to sit well with them, but the consequences for not answering seemed the worse.

"It would appear that some of the materials used may not have been to the proper specifications."

"Not all of the materials meet the requirements that were originally set, so..."

"So the simulations may not be accurate," Alan interjected. "I don't believe this. How in God's name can you guys live with yourselves?"

"Lee this is not getting us anywhere," the admiral said calmly. "We'll worry about the particulars later. For now, let's work on getting the crew back."

"Yes, Sir," Alan backed off. It was not what he wanted; when he had an opponent on the run he was usually relentless, but the lives in the balance outweighed his want for battle. "In that case, we need to alter the program with the correct values, and rerun the simulations."

"I'm not sure if all of the current values are in these sheets, but I can give you the ones we do have."

"It's better than nothing. Let's get going. We'll have to start in the computer center now, I'll need a terminal installed here as soon as possible."

"Sounds good, Mister Lee," the admiral said. He hoped Alan wouldn't try taking Richard on in the computer room. That would be an unpleasant scene.

As Nemo's Nautilus surfaced in the pool area, there were cheers. Nolwak was on the side with Randy and Phyllis, his wound now fully dressed. When the Nautilus had come to a complete stop, the hatch at the rear of the island opened. Jim, Cheryl and Dan came out of the belly of the ship and walked off the ship, heading over to their friends. Nemo started to follow them but turned and approached the strange thing strapped to the foredeck of his ship. He pushed his cap back, shook and scratched his head. Damnedest thing he'd ever seen, he thought to himself.

Shalk swam to where the group was gathering and waited for Jim to arrive. As he looked up at Jim, the look in his eyes told Jim that he was deeply moved. There was also a sense of respect palpable all through the room.

"I guess I hate to see the good guys in a fix. It seemed like the right thing ... hell, the only thing to do. Besides, I could never resist a good fight."

"No, sir! I'm in yours. First you saved my father, than my crew. I'll always owe you that, Shalk."

"If any of you wish to leave, we will make it so and arrange for your departure. We owe you that." There was a resounding cheer from the other Mers.

"We do ... But not until we've mounted the radar and the transmitter on the Nautilus. This way, Atlantis will be safe from the Shoals."

"Nolwak, if you'll give us some of your men, we can tell them what to remove from my ship. It'll be easier for you than it would be for us in Nemo's suits."

"Gladly." Nolwak motioned to several of his men who quickly made their way over to the group. "Follow the directions of these men."

The group nodded their acknowledgement, and looked attentively toward Jim. Jim turned toward his crew and motioned to Randy and Dan.

"J. B., Ferg, brief them on what needs to come off the shuttle, then have Nemo take you to the ship and make sure that we get it all."

"Sir!" Randy responded, turned to the group of Mers and signaled them to follow him to the Nautilus. He was hopeful Nemo had the tools they would need to remove all the equipment.

Greg turned to Jim, still unsure of the situation, and hugged him. "I'm proud of you ... son."

"No, I'm afraid not." Greg lowered his eyes to the floor and a look of enormous sorrow on his face.

"I can't." Greg's sad eyes met Jim's and he took a deep and ragged breath. "When my plane crashed, I had some pretty massive internal damage. I nearly died. The Mers removed some of my organs. I don't really know how they do it, but here I can live - I'm healthy. If I were to go back with you, at best I'd be hospitalized for the rest of a certainly short life."

Jim was crushed. He could see in Greg's eyes that he, too, was not happy with the decision.

"I know, and I would love to see her, too. But, when you tell her about me, and this, she'll tell you that knowing I'm alive and well is far better for her."

"That's really up to Shalk, but he's got a very large generous streak. And you've done a lot in the good relations department today."

Jim looked at Greg, the two of them locked eyes and both immediately felt uncomfortable. It was a situation that neither had ever thought could happen. Jim wanted to change the subject, and was uncertain what to say.

"Well, it wasn't really planned, and with my long streak of bad relationships... Let's just say that this is sort of a new experience. The only bad part is that her dad is my admiral."

"Really? That could be quite an uncomfortable combination. How long have you two been together."

"It sort of is," Jim responded. "We've know each other for about ten years. I was married when we first met; it's been only the last few years that we have been attracted to each other. But we were to intimidated to say a thing."

"Well, why don't the three of us take a long walk through the city. I've got some catching up to do. And, maybe, some fatherly advice on long marriages." He looked at Cheryl and winked, as the trio left the pool area. "This way we'll have some memories to hang onto for the rest of our lives."

As they walked down the corridor leading toward the center of the city, Jim was struck with its magnitude. It was far larger than he had expected. He noticed that the air was fresh, and a hundred new questions started flooding his mind.

Greg looked at his son and studied him for a long moment, then looked back at Cheryl.

"My dad has been on the verge of grounding Jim for years. Mostly due to his aggressiveness in the air."

"You're dating your admiral's daughter?" Greg was still a little shocked. "And, he let you two go on the mission together? That sounds a little strange."

"Well, Mister Donaldson," Cheryl came to Jim's defense, "my dad doesn't know, and Jim never really knew that I was in love with him. I told him when we started to crash ... I was scared of dying."

Greg glanced at the two as Cheryl held Jim's hand, then took his arm and held it tightly. They made a good looking couple, he thought to himself. In many ways Cheryl reminded him of his wife. He had intentionally not asked about her, and wasn't sure he would handle it. He had to change the subject.

"Actually, things have changed a whole lot since then. Now we have jet fighters that fly more than twice the speed of sound. Missiles have replaced aerial gun fights."

"Sure is. Not quite the same as flying the shuttle. God! Not to just reach the envelope, but to actually reach space.... it's indescribable. To fly up and look down on the planet, is just so peaceful, serene."

The terminology was very different. Greg thought about the words for a couple moments. Studying Jim, he could see the enthusiasm that is the heart Naval pilot's drive. In the behavior of his son, he saw the one factor that is a must for a pilot- never getting past eighteen years old. After all, no one of sound mind would attempt to land an airplane on the moving postage stamp called the flight deck.

"It's where the atmosphere ends and space begins. Reaching it has been the goal of most pilots. It's sort of a rush to get near it with our jets."

"Sure. I got a pair of Russian-built bombers over Lebanon, a Russian fighter over Libya, and an American-built fighter over Iran."

"One of our give-away programs gave some of our fighters to Iran so as to 'civilize' the country. A few years later, we were shooting down the planes we gave them, flown by pilots we had trained."

Greg found the whole thing almost inconceivable. Flying rocket planes around the skies, at unbelievable speeds. Shooting down aircraft that were made in the same factory as yours. Going into space. It was all overwhelming.

"It really wasn't all that glamorous. I got out of flight school about nine months before the Japanese surrendered. By the time I made fleet, I saw only about six months of action. By that time, most of the Japanese pilots who were left ran rather than fought. I was flying a Corsair, and got two Zeros. Then the war ended and I was transferred to a training squadron."

The pair of pilots met each other's eyes, then continued down the corridor. No one spoke while they walked. There were so many questions, Jim was unsure what to ask first.

As they turned a corner, a door opened as they approached. Jim gasped in complete amazement. He entered the room and was certain the massive device they were viewing at was a reactor.

"This is the power source. I'm not really sure how it works, I just know that it works. And this part over here is were the air is generated."

"This is incredible!" Cheryl gasped. "This appears to be a fusion-style reactor. The air is actually generated in the cooling process. There is no waste material and nothing is wasted."

"I wouldn't go that far; I understand the principles. But, it does appear to resemble some of the models I've seen at conventions. I've never had time to read up on all of the particulars, but I do remember that many people feel that this will be the heart of an underwater city. The major difference is that this is a number of times larger than anyone had purposed, and this one is obviously operational."

"Thank you." She paused momentarily embarrassed, then continued. "One of the real advantages of this type of reactor is the lack of detectable radiation."

"Very doubtful. The radiation output is so little, it's hardly detectable at close ranges. From the surface, it would have to be next to impossible."

"Come on, you two. Enough science lessons," Greg smiled. "There's a whole lot more to show you."

As they left the power plant room and the door closed behind them, Greg was no longer able to fight the temptation. He had to know what had happened to his wife, Carla.

"As I said earlier, she never remarried. She lived in the house that you two had moved into until about three years ago. I got her a townhouse in a new complex then." Jim smiled a little as he recalled moving his mother. "She refused to leave the area of the base. I used to think that she was waiting for you to walk in the door. The only way I could get her to move was to find a place that let her see the airfield. It wasn't so bad, 'till they closed the base."

"Yea, and it was heart-breaking for Mom. It was like some kind of barrier went up. She didn't speak for weeks."

"Oh God," Greg sighed. "I haven't thought about that in years. I was a ensign and was on leave at home. A couple of friends of mine thought that I spent too much time alone and decided that I needed to date."

"No... the blind date scared me, so I left the party early, and met your mother-at the gas station on the way back to the base." His eyes twinkled as he recalled their meeting. "She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She and her two friends couldn't get the gas nozzle in their tank, or so they wanted me think. I helped her and she introduced herself. We started dating the next night and dated every night until I left for fleet. She wrote me while I was with fleet; sometimes I'd get three or four letters a week. It was great. We became so close through those letters! When I got sent back to Fort Lauderdale as an instructor, she had graduated from college in Miami and moved back. Soon after, we got married..." Greg's eyes began to water. "God, it was only a few months later that we crashed ..."

Jim felt his stomach turn over. His mother had been so completely devoted to Greg, she never even thought about dating. When he had tried to get her to go out she had refused, saying that she felt as if Greg were still alive. There was nothing that he could even think of saying right now to ease his father's pain. It was clear to Jim that not only had his mother remained faithful to Greg, but Greg was still very much in love with Carla. As they walked down the corridor, there was a rush of closeness sweeping over father and son.

For the next several hours Jim and Cheryl were escorted through the city, and around every corner was a wonder even more impressive than the last.

Alan rubbed the bridge of his nose, remembering the times he was studying for his thesis defense at William and Mary. The long haul without sleep, gallons of coffee, cold pizza and stacks of papers brought home old school memories. The major difference was that where the defense of a thesis resulted in only passing or failing a school project, in this case there were lives at stake. Not just lives, but the lives of his friends.

All of the printouts, books, logs, and notes still did not give him a clear picture of what was happening. The most confusing things he had in front of him were the descriptions and sketches of the ship that had attacked the Soviet trawler. Even after interviewing the flight crew, he found that what they described was inconceivable. He felt as if the whole thing was like having pieces of three puzzles mixed together; nothing seemed to fit. He looked around the room to make sure that he was alone, and reached into his satchel to retrieve his glasses case. It was vanity that made him not want to admit that he needed them. Once the glasses were in place, he leaned over the desk and resumed his studying.

The door opened and the air boss entered, looked at Alan, and smiled. He crossed the room and poured himself a cup of coffee from a plastic pitcher on the bar. Just as he was about to replace it when, he noticed that Alan was holding his nearly empty cup up in his direction. He filled it.

"Good afternoon, Boss," Alan answered as he leaned back in his chair, pulled his glasses off and looked at his watch. "What are you doing down here?"

"I'm supposed to meet with the admiral and some of the NASA guys. We're having dinner, I think. How you doing these days? I haven't heard anything about you since the flags came up missing."

Alan recalled the chain of events to which Charlie referred. He was being sent to shore duty at Alameda Naval air station in California after his elbow injury. The ship's skipper was Captain Grant, great grandson of the general who accepted the surrender of Alan's great grandfather. There was some animosity between the two, and Alan had decided that he would get the bottom line. He went to the locker where all of the flags for the ship was stored, and emptied them into a sea bag. Later he stashed them in the storage pod in the fighter, and took them to Alameda. When Captain Grant returned to the ship the next morning, the only flag left was a Confederate flag. According to the reports of everyone on the deck, the moment Grant saw the Confederate flag flying over the Nimitz, he screamed at the airboss, "Where's Lee?" It must have been great to see; Alan often regretted missing the show. He had passed the bag of flags to a chief on the California with instructions not to open the bag for a week. No one ever knew, officially, where those flags went, and Alan wasn't about to spill the beans.

"I hope this dinner thing won't take too much time," Alan sighed in an attempt to change the subject. "I've got a lot of ground to cover. By the way," Alan handed the descriptions of the strange ship to Charlie. "What do you make of these?"

As he looked over the paperwork, Charlie slowly sat down in the chair next to Alan. As he read, his expression of complete confusion became more prominent. Finally, he looked up at Alan.

"So far, I have considered them real. They're from one of your flight crews, Slide and Jester. But I've never seen anything that matches these descriptions. How about you?"

"This is something right out of Jules Vern! These have to be either a joke, or a nightmare." As Charlie studied the reports again, the door opened and the NASA people and the admiral entered, seating themselves in chairs around the table. The last to sit down was the admiral, moving slowly and showing evidence of long days and sleepless nights.

"Richard," the admiral shifted his gaze to the civilian who had somehow been delegated to be in charge of his group, "has the computer rerun the simulation with new information?"

"I'm requesting the DSRV for tomorrow. It may be some time before we hear the actual timetable for that. Alan, you know Jim pretty well. Is there something he could have done wrong?"

"Looking at the reports, I can't think of a single thing that should've, or could've, been done differently, Sir."

"Not hardly! After reading this -- here." Alan handed the admiral a repot. "This is a transcript of messages sent between ground and Atlantis early in the morning the day of the crash. Mission Control knew, in fact they told Atlantis, that there was a computer malfunction."

"Would you like me to read the transcript to you? A transcript provided by NASA?" Alan looked at Richard with fight in his eyes. When there was no answer, he placed his glasses on and pulled up the copy.

"Mission control: Good morning Atlantis. Local time at mission control is zero five thirty. You are due to cross the terminator in fifteen minutes. The agenda for the day ..."

"Lieutenant," Richard interrupted, "I've had a chance to read those. I'm not sure that it's an indication that it is all computer related. There is still a chance there could be some type of pilot error."

"No way." Alan was loosing his composure. Sleepless days were making his fuse all the shorter, making him a little more defensive. "One of the most cool-headed fighter jocks you'll ever meet is in charge of that ship. If it has wings, and is flyable, Rain can make it turn itself inside out."

"No, I don't think he is, I know he is! I flew his wing in Lebanon and, brother, I don't care if we were at twenty or twenty thousand feet, he flew rings around any other pilot. Have you ever met a pilot who has won both the Flying Cross and nomination for a Medal of Honor?"

Alan rocked back in his chair, pulled his glasses off by their right arm and pointed them at Richard.

"Then you can't make any judgment about his abilities. You civilians think that what we do is easy. I'd like to get you up there and see how long you can last."

"Lee," the admiral calmly took over the conversation, "I think you've made your point. Now, what is the next step?"

"I don't know, sir. Just sit tight and wait for the DSRV," Alan answered. "I would like to go over to the Soviet AGI and interview their crew. Maybe with their views, the entire picture will come into focus."

"Then that's what we'll do. Alan, keep on with your project. Richard, I would like it if you and my other combat pilot here can get along. Can you assist him with his work?"

"Yeah," the admiral responded. "Alan got five kills in a relatively short six and a half years. He was lucky on the last two, but he shows such imagination that he's a little scary."

The admiral watched as Richard studied Alan and detected a sudden flush of admiration on Richard's part.

"Alan, you and Richard can go over to the trawler. I agree that their input is necessary."

"I want to have a helo ready for a rescue at all times, and have the ready five on the deck."

"Aye, Sir." Charlie had to get the ready five, another name for the alert fighters, up and on deck. Alert fighters were placed on catapults, fully armed, fueled, locked into blocks, and crews seated in the plane. In the event that an emergency were to arise, a pair of fighters could be launched within minutes. More like ninety seconds.

"Okay, gentlemen," the admiral stood, followed by the rest of the people rising. "I'll be on the bridge. I'm expecting some results." He left the room and the uneasy silence that filled it. He needed them to pull together and work as a team.

After the admiral left the room, Alan started gathering his notes so he could go over to the trawler. He wanted to have some of the information that he got from the air crew with him. He noticed Richard standing there watching him.

"It's only a title," Alan handed Richard a stack of notes. "Let's head over to the trawler."

Alex was a little surprised when the Nimitz had radioed him to let him know that a launch was going to be coming alongside and that one Naval officer and a NASA representative would be boarding. It was not clear just what the Americans wanted aboard his ship, but the last order he had received from fleet was to cooperate.

"I don't like this," Demitri said as he watched the launch approach their ship. "Do you think we should be this cooperative?"

"That's a moot point at this time," Alex answered. "They'll be aboard in a few minutes." He looked at the launch through his binoculars. The Naval officer looked very professional and proud. "We should go down and greet them."

Alex and Demitri left the bridge and made their way down to the area where the launch would be stopping. As the launch slowed and the pair of Americans jumped over to his ship, Alex noticed the gold wings on the officer. Another American pilot, he thought to himself. Then he noticed a very unique ribbon on the chest of the officer, he was an ace. Now he was impressed.

"Permission to come aboard, " Alan said in perfect Russian as he saluted the two Soviets.

"Granted," Alex responded with apparent surprise to the perfectly spoken language, as he returned Alan's salute. "You speak Russian?"

"Yes," Alan answered. Richard looked at Alan in complete disbelief as he listened to the conversation all of which he did not understand. Another surprise for the young NASA scientist.

"At Navy language school. To quote one of your great writers, the best defense from a foe is to understand him. I'm Lieutenant Lee. I want to talk to you about the attack on your ship. Do you mind?"

"No," Alex said with a smile. "Not at all. Come to my cabin, we can sit down there and talk." Alex then led the way with Demitri bringing up the rear.

Jim had time to get to know a man he had thought had been lost forever, and Cheryl felt closer to Jim as she heard the two men talked so intently. Eventually, they found their way back to the pool area. The Nautilus had returned, and it was evident that most of the work was complete. Jim made his way over to the ship.

"They were banging away the whole time the ship was being stripped. Cap'n Nemo moved his ship around so they couldn't get a fix on him."

"Sounds like fun," Jim smiled. "How much longer before everything is up and ready to go?"

"Then we'll have to start making preparations to get your crew back to your ships," Shalk said as he approached the group. "Your group will be taken to the surface by Mister Nemo."

"Thank you, Shalk," Jim said. "It has been wonderful for you to help us. This city is unbelievable, I'm not sure what to think about everything I've seen here."

"We appreciate all you and your crew have done for us. For all of my people, thank you."

There were several minutes of uncertainty for everyone, no one really knowing what to do next. With the fleet up above and all of their activity, they wondered how safe was it to attempt to return the crew to the surface. Night would soon start to fall; that would most likely be the safest time to surface.

Slowly, the Mers began to unload the Nautilus, and Jim's crew were mounting the radar on it. There was little talk during the work, mostly because of a shared sense of loss of newly made friends. Also, because of the concentration required to finish the tasks at hand. As the work neared completion, Jim and his crew felt anxious for their return to the surface.

Jim glanced at Cheryl, the warm feeling sweeping over him telling him he was truly in love. This trip was well worth the cost! He had fallen in love with Cheryl and had met his father, whom he thought had been lost since before he was born. It was a miracle.

Once work was completed, the crew stood on deck of the Nautilus looking at the new addition to the ship, then slowly readied for departure. A few minutes later, the Nautilus slipped into the water, with the Mers following. The pool area was now completely empty and silent.

The task force sonar people had been going nuts all day. Flashes of metal moving at good speed, always away from the shuttle, resulted in enormous frustration. Then no movement, no nothing.

"Admiral, the D S R V will be here and ready at first light tomorrow," the executive officer reported.

"Any ideas on what all those blips were that the sonar was picking up all afternoon?"

"No, Sir. Intell seems to think they were maybe just a school of fish. It would be a logical explanation."

"Logic. Intell," he said shaking his head as he picked up his binoculars. "Now, there's a scary thought. Has anyone run all that by Lieutenant Lee?"

"That there was no way in hell he could know. That no fish, schooling or not, would act like that."

"At least he knows enough to give me a straight answer. Tell him I want him in the DSRV when it goes down in the morning."

The admiral had not even lowered the binoculars while he gave orders. He started a final scan of the area as the sun slipped into the waves. Something caught his eye.

"Sir, I for one will be glad to put this area behind us. There are way too many strange things happing here for me!"

"I know the feeling." He stared out at the spot where he thought he had seen the periscope. "Get CAG on the line and have sonar on the ships not over the shuttle. Keep a lookout for any submarine activity."

After several moments, the executive officer handed over the handset. "CAG, I want a Hawkeye, a couple F-14's and a helo up. I think something's about to happen." He listened to the commander air group (CAG) confirm his orders, then handed the handset back to the executive officer. "XO, prepare the Nimitz to launch aircraft!"

"Aye, aye!" The XO was glad to be doing something; just sitting around as they had been doing was driving everyone stir crazy. "Helm, steer one-eight-seven!"

It was not long after that Brian and Erick went hurtling off the deck in their F-14. Erick looked over his left shoulder to see Jaws and Merlin flying up beside them.

"Are you kidding? Riding back seat to Rain and Bee, seems like that's all I ever do!"

"He had his RIO convinced for nearly four years that he was landing with his eyes closed!"

"That sounds like Dancer," Jaws added, laughing. "I heard Rain ask him if he was using 'the force' once." He had spent time with Alan and had been on the ground when Alan engaged the Air Force's fighter at the competition. He was never surprised by Alan; shocked sometimes, but never surprised.

"I'm showing you at your outer patrol area. Start your normal patrol pattern, assigning you at one-six-hundred feet. You want it clockwise or counter clock?"

Alan was reading the reports of Alex and Demitri about the attack when there was a knock on the door. Alex walked over to the door and opened it. A crewman spoke softly and quickly about a sonar contact. Alan could not make out all that was said. Alex turned around and faced Alan and Richard.

"Lieutenant," Alex began. "It might be possible to give you a first-hand look at the target."

"It would appear that the track has started again. Demitri, I think we should take our guest down to the electronics room."

"If this is an attack, we need to cooperate," Alex raised his hands in the direction of the Americans. "And their help will be imperative."

Demitri conceded and the group went down to the electronics room. As soon as Alan entered the room he started making mental notes about the surroundings. This was the first time an American, an intelligence officer nonetheless, was able to see the inside of one of these rooms. Suddenly the power started surging. Alan's eyes widened

"Here it comes again," Alex said calmly. "Come here quickly. Watch the sonar track."

Alan walked over to the sonar panel and watched the track while Alex pointed out his suspicion; and with the track closing on the trawler, the impact on the ship's electrical systems became more severe. This was almost to the letter, exactly what all of the descriptions had been. If he were not experiencing them, they still would be hard to believe.

"I don't know what it is exactly but it seems to be related to this sonar track," Alex answered in English.

"Doubtful," Alex responded calmly. "But they should figure out that something is amiss when there are no lights. It is getting dark now."

"Even if they do, the way this thing is hitting us I doubt that anyone could help us," Alan said. "This is really weird."

Then all of the lights went out, and the electronics faded into silence. After a few moments, most everyone's eyes adjusted to the dark. The shadowy images of the occupants in the room were barely discernible.

"It would appear that there is no longer a reason for us to remain here," Alex finally spoke. "Why don't we go up to the deck?"

"I guess I'm in agreement," Alan answered. The room emptied as the occupants made their way carefully through the room, and to the deck. The darkness of night had fallen and the lights of the American ships could be seen in the distance.

"So," Alex broke the silence after several minutes. "I see that you're an ace. I never met one of you before."

"I guess in reality we're nothing special," Alan started. "Just a little luckier than the other poor bastard."

"I don't fly much anymore. I hurt my elbow and for the last two years I've been assigned to an intelligence command."

"No, I'm an airborne weapons analyst. I was requested to come out here because the commander of the shuttle and I used to fly together."

"Oh," Alex was somewhat relieved. Having let a member of the American intelligence community into his electronics room could have been a terrible mistake. But then, under the circumstances nothing was normal. The four men stood on the deck in the silence as night continued to fall.

Nemo raised the periscope. It was now dark, and he could see the lights of the cruisers and frigates sitting motionless over the shuttle. He spun around slowly. Just coming into view was the largest ship he'd ever seen. The lights that illuminated it made it easy to see-- not that it would be easy to miss. "Holy mother!... What in God's name is that?"

Jim walked over and looked through the eyepiece. "That's what we call home. It's an aircraft carrier. It's too dark and far away to tell, but I got a feeling it's the Nimitz."

"In that case it's time to bid y'all farewell." Nemo made certain that the running lights were off, lowered the periscope, and started to surface the ship.

"With their radar, the minute you get on the surface, they'll know where you are."

"Well then, you'll just have to hurry." Nemo smiled just a little. He was going to miss this bunch. He had moved closer to one of the small ships, and all its lights were off. Ever since the Mers had put the new power plant in his ship, this was a normal occurrence --- beyond his understanding, but not his acceptance.

As the Nautilus broke the surface, Jim and his crew scurried out of the hatch, loaded into an old life boat, and pushed off.

"You are most certainly welcome. Perhaps someday your people will become better caretakers of their part of this world, and we could live together in harmony."

"I wish I could be going with you, Son." Greg was standing on the deck of the Nautilus. "But, my life is here."

"I know. Maybe someday I'll come back and we can spend more time getting aquatinted."

"Someday?" Nolwak asked. "Anytime you want. Thank you for your help." He grasped Jim's hand.

"Good-bye, Commander! Take a north course, about three hundred yards out is some type of small ship." He stood upright and saluted the group as they started off.

Jim turned to see Shalk and Nolwak waving as the gurgling behind them told them the Nautilus was slipping back into her sanctuary. They started paddling toward the rescue ships.

"Jim," Cheryl asked, "how can we return? They didn't tell us how to get in touch with them."

The radar operator in the Hawkeye had been looking at his scope for so many hours in the last several days that when he first saw the blip, he hesitated before dispatching the helicopter to investigate. He sat looking at the images on the scope, nearly hypnotized by the combination of the sound of the turbo-prop engines mixed with the spinning green arm of the radar. He recalled the strange magnetic readings that had been around just when the Tomcat went down. They had been in the air for nearly six and a half hours; he wished now that he could take off his helmet and move more than the few feet in the plane. Suddenly, two blips appeared on the scope, close together.

"Helo one-six. I'm showing two targets on the surface. Continue on present course about five miles ahead. Just on the far side of the Soviet trawler."

"Approach with caution, I'm getting the same type of local disturbances that were present when the 'Cat went down."

As he watched the screen, the larger of the two targets disappeared. This time he reacted quickly.

"Helo one-six. One of the targets is going down. One left on the surface. It's taking a bearing on the trawler."

The admiral stood out on Vultures Row, feeling as if he had not left it for days. But, by now, just about everything he did seemed as if it took hours, if not days. He was finally realizing that if he did not get some rest soon, his health would surly suffer. He was exhausted and the sea breeze was so relaxing that he felt as if he were dreaming. He felt numb, almost to the point of sleeping standing up. Yet, intuition told him something was about to happen.

The SH-3 hovered over the life raft as the crew made their way to the Kursograff. One by one, the crew was lifted from the

life boat to the trawler. Jim made sure Cheryl went up first, then Phyllis, then himself. Once he was on board he looked around and saw his former wingman. It was at that moment that he knew the ordeal was over.

Phyllis spun around and saw Alan. Military protocol aside, she threw herself at him, a sob caught in her throat.

"I missed you, too. We need to have a long talk about these long unauthorized deviations from your flight plan."

Suddenly all of the power came on line and the trawler came returned to life. Alan turned toward Alex.

"I think we should use your radio and call all of this in, then get these visitors off your ship and back to ours."

"Admiral, the AGI is on button six. They want to talk to you," the communications officer reported.

A sigh escaped the admiral's lips, a small tear of joy in the corner of his eye. "Thank you, Rain."

"No problem, sir. We'll be heading back in a couple of minutes. Still have two more to get up into the helo, and then we'll be on our way."

"Thank you, sir." Alan then departed the bridge and went down to cable up to the SH-3. The launch had departed with Alan and Richard making their way back to the Nimitz.

The recall order had come quickly. Erick was still a little bewildered that they would not have been left up longer. He watched as the Hawkeye started its final approach, all its marker and landing lights giving it a strange look as it approached the Nimitz and finally made its stop on the deck. It was near miraculous that on the flight deck that particular aircraft would be out of the way and another would be sitting in nearly the same spot in less than forty seconds. The drill was on a thirty-five second cycle. In simpler terms, from the time an aircraft stopped on the deck, the next one would land and be stopped in thirty-five seconds. Flat. It is something to be seen and experienced in order to appreciate the precision with which all of the men on the deck performed their duties. It is also why the Navy pilots and air crews are as good as they are. After all, a fighter on the deck was not a threat; an operational fighter in the air is.

Thirty-five seconds later the KA-6 tanker, a converted A-6 bomber with several large fuel pods replacing the bombs and bomb racks, stopped on the deck. And thirty-five seconds later, Jaws made his landing. Another thirty-five seconds later, Brian lined up on the lights running down the middle of the flight deck, and was bringing their fighter crashing to a stop.

As their Tomcat taxied to a halt, Erick was still uncertain why they had been abruptly recalled. Suddenly he had a strange feeling that Jim was very close, like in the same room. Then, he noticed the admiral standing beside the plane, a broad grin spreading across his face.

Erick pulled off his helmet and looked down at the admiral. Before he could speak, the admiral started.

The only response from the admiral was the broad smile. Elated, Erick hurried out of the plane and ran over to the edge of the flight line. Brian and several other flight crew members joined them.

"Secure fixed wing recovery operations!" The air boss's voice boomed over the PA system. "Prepare for helo recovery."

The deck crews scurried about following orders. Soon, all of the fixed wing aircraft were either on the elevators going down to the hanger deck, or were already there. The SH-3's marker lights could be seen clearly in the night sky as it came around to start its approach. Then, the landing lights came on and the deck became illuminated by their brightness.

"Stand clear, spot three! Helo one-four landing!" the air boss's voice boomed across the flight deck.

The ground crew readied to receive the incoming SH-3. Silent, everyone watched as the craft hovered over the deck, then settled down and came to rest. A cheer broke out as the door opened and the shuttle crew emerged, one at a time. Jim jumped from the door, turned, and helped Cheryl down. Together, the crew approached the admiral.

With a crisp salute, Jim said, "Request permission for the crew of the shuttle Atlantis to come aboard, Sir."

There was a great deal of cheering and shouting that followed for several minutes. Then, Jim noticed the four men in civilian clothes standing like statues, with their armed Marine escorts on either side, next to the jubilant crowd.

"Commander," Richard spoke in a flat monotone voice. "We will need to do a full debriefing, now."

"I'm not completely sure that I want you to debrief them. In fact, I'm going to insist that NIS, under the supervision of Lieutenant Lee, conduct the debrief."

Richard knew that if the Naval Investigative Services (NIS) conducted the debrief, NASA would not have unrestricted access to the information revealed. He also knew the obviously hostile attitude from the admiral stemmed from the situation with Pierre. He wanted to allay the fear that the crew was going to be faulted for the loss of the shuttle, and to try to get back on an even keel with the admiral. The rest of the NASA team did not wish to join Pierre in the brig, nor did they wish to face the fallout from the problems that were already near a boiling point.

"Admiral, I have no problem with the NIS being present, but I must ask that the debrief be conducted by us. We need to have complete access to the information..."

Jim could see that something had to give. He walked up to the two men, and put one arm over a shoulder of each of them.

"Okay, Okay. Come on, guys, lets get this over with." Jim turned to the admiral. "Sir, any problem with a leave when we get home?"

The admiral smiled as he realized that Jim was playing the part of mediator. He was changing the subject to lower tempers.

"I was scared, too. Scared that I may have lost my little girl, and what your mother would do. That would have crushed her."

Cheryl watched as Jim walked over to the edge of the flight deck by himself. He was gazing out at the ocean, tears in his eyes. He was looking off in the direction of Alex's ship as it powered off toward its next assignment. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to see Greg again.

As the group walked toward the island on the flight deck, the admiral looked at his daughter. He saw "that look" in his daughter's eyes and was not certain what was coming next. He stopped cold. " Cheryl, what is it?"

"As I said, Daddy, we'll talk to you after the debrief." Cheryl turned and followed the rest of the shuttle crew to the debrief.

Cheryl looked back at her father and smiled, who only shook his head; he did not like this game his daughter was playing. On the other hand, at least all of the crew was alive and well. Perhaps it was good news. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? Cheryl could fall in love with Jim ... No, he thought, Jim wouldn't commit himself to a long term relationship -- unless the commitment was made with something with wings.

"Hey, anyone who steals all of the flags off a ship as a joke ... What else could you call him?"

"Imaginative," Alan spoke from behind a smile showing that he had not lost his sense of humor.

Phyllis turned to smile at Alan. He returned her smile and winked. She knew the conversation they would be having would be to her liking.

"Whatever you say." Dan shook his head and laughed. He always had found Alan a little different. But, it was also well known through the aviation community that Jim and Alan made a formidable team. The two had once gone up against the Air Force's best fighter school graduates, known as William Tell, in mock battle. It was like leading lambs to the slaughter. In the first round, the F-14's took only three minutes to turn the tables and another minute or so to close for the kills. The second round was keyed on the speed of the ground crews. The Tomcats had refueled, been rearmed, and were in the air long before the F-16 Falcons got ready. The first Falcon got into the air and was being engaged by Jim only a minute off the ground; the second was not nearly that lucky. Alan and Jack had come down to barely ten feet and had started to engage their target the moment his wheels left the ground. Alan, chewed out for the dangerous maneuver, but defended it by simply saying, "There aren't rules in war, sir." No other action was ever taken, and the Air Force never invited Jim or Alan to return for a rematch; but then, who would want that pair on their base?

After the initial debriefing, most of which would remain classified for a great many years, Cheryl and Jim were in the admiral's cabin. The dinner they had was the first offered in several weeks with a taste Jim and Cheryl enjoyed. And it felt good to be able to sit in a real chair, to drink coffee that wasn't freeze dried and stored in a microwaveable pouch.

"Well, how does it feel to belong to the group of those who have been shot down?" the admiral asked with a smile.

"Not just shot down, but shot down by friendly fire. It feels pretty weird, Sir," Jim responded shaking his head.

"All things considered, you did a hell of a job. I'm real proud of you, and that you're in my command."

"Oh, yes Sir. That's fine." Jim looked at Cheryl. He thought she had told her father about him; obviously she hadn't.

The admiral went over to the bar and poured himself a brandy, then turned around to the pair opposite him.

"Thanks, Daddy." Cheryl took her father's hand. "That something I wanted to talk to you about. About Jim..."

The admiral knew he was not ready for this. His mouth opened and closed several times. He pointed first at Cheryl, then at Jim, and back again.

"Not him ... You ... No!" He paused then put hand on his stomach. "I can't take this! One disaster at a time!"

"You're not the only one who's uncomfortable." Cheryl smiled. "You should have seen Jim turn white when he found out."

Jim's face reddened. As for the admiral, he rolled his eyes and looked to the ceiling. His stomach started to hurt again, and he knew this was going to be a rough day.

Send mail to adonnan@crystal-computing.net with questions or comments about this web site. Copyright © 2004 Crystal Computing Last modified: 06/18/06

Send mail to adonnan@crystal-computing.net with questions or comments about this web site.
Copyright © 2004 Crystal Computing
Last modified: 06/18/06