“The terrorists?” Caldwell asked, momentarily confused.

“No, damn it! These SEALs! Who gave them orders to board that oil platform?”

“As near as we can gather, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Bainbridge said quietly, “the SEAL commander on the scene interpreted his orders rather, um, broadly. He wrote up what we call an UNODIR report, a report telling us precisely what he was going to do unless we told him otherwise. Unfortunately, his report did not reach levels cleared to know what was going on until too late.”

“At this point,” Marlowe, the CIA director pointed out, “we’d do a hell of a lot more damage pulling them out than we would leaving them there.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Hemminger snapped. “What if they’re seen, damn it? What if that SEAL over there gets excited and launches a takedown? He could trigger the very disaster we’re trying to avoid!”

“I must remind you, Mr. Hemminger, that the British government has already authorized a takedown,” Caldwell pointed out. “They are proceeding with their plans as we speak.”

The President’s Chief of Staff looked shocked. “God! Why weren’t we consulted?”

Caldwell gave a thin smile. “Great Britain is still a sovereign country, you know, Frank. We were informed because it is our oil tanker which is at risk, but they are taking the steps they feel are necessary and justified to protect their interests, which in this case is a very expensive oil-production facility, half the oil-production capabilities of the North Sea, and the North Sea itself, for that matter.”

Marlowe stood up and walked to the far end of the table, where part of the rococo scrollwork and ornate wooden paneling of one wall had been slid back to reveal a large screen. “Can we have the first shot, please?” he said, raising his voice for the benefit of the unseen techs running the room’s electronics.

The scene on the monitor appeared to be an aerial photograph of the two Bouddica platforms, shot from an altitude of several hundred feet. Long shadows on the water indicated a time close to dawn or sunset; lines of white alphanumerics in the upper right corner listed security codes, and a time of 0734:15 GMT, with Wednesday’s date.

Marlowe pulled a pen-sized laser pointer from the inside pocket of his jacket and switched it on. The intense, ruby-red spot of light from the pointer danced wildly across the photo image. “This is a KH-12 series, with the first shot taken early Wednesday morning,” he said. “We started moving satellites as soon as the word came through that something strange was going down at Bouddica. We shifted KH-12 Delta into a new orbit with its apogee above the North Sea. Gives it a line-ofsight on-station time of almost sixty minutes. You can see here Bouddica Alpha . . . Bravo . . . Over by the edge, this fat cigar is the Noramo Pride. This speck alongside Alpha is the Celtic Maiden. That’s a workboat assigned to the oil platform.” The laser-light pinpoint zipped across to Alpha’s helipad and circled an insect centered in the pad’s bull’s-eye. “This is a helicopter that had apparently touched down in the early hours. Our analysts tell me it’s painted with the markings and hull insignia of an aircraft with the Royal Dutch Navy.”

“The Dutch!” Schellenberg exclaimed. “Has anyone consulted with them?”

“Their Defense Ministry assures us it’s not one of theirs, Mr. Secretary,” Marlowe said dryly. “It’s counterfeit, probably to let the terrorists board the Noramo Pride. Next!”

The scene on the monitor flashed to another view, this one from a different angle. The shadows were shorter and differently aligned; the date was still Wednesday, but the time was 0913:35 GMT. The Noramo Pride was nosed up to a buoy, visible as a small, gray blotch next to her bow. Another ship, a third the length and bulk of the tanker, was moving toward the platform, her wake indicating a speed of no more than a few knots.

“Almost two hours later, another ship came on the scene. We’ve identified her as the Rosa, fishing trawler, German registry. Interesting thing is she’s listed as scrapped. We’re trying to track down her current owners, but that may take a while. At first we were concerned that another civilian ship had blundered into the scenario. Now we think the Rosa is part of it. Next.”

On the screen, time leaped ahead once more. Noramo Pride was still riding at her mooring. The Rosa, however, was tied up close alongside Bouddica Alpha. A crane had been swung out over her cargo deck. The workboat Celtic Maiden was tucked in between the Rosa and the platform, partly hidden by the crane and by the bridge connecting the two platforms Alpha and Bravo.

“Enhance, please,” Marlowe said. The scene on the monitor zoomed in tight, the complexity of the southeast corner of Bouddica Alpha and the bridge expanding swiftly to almost fill the screen. At this magnification, only a portion of the Rosa’s deck was visible. An open hatch in the deck gaped at the sky; the platform’s crane was hoisting something clear of the opening, while a number of men clustered on the deck guided it along with upraised hands.

What the “something” was was not clear. It was large, certainly, roughly cigar-shaped, and bundled up in tarpaulins and packing straps.

“When we first caught sight of this,” Marlowe went on, “we assumed it might be the terrorists’ bomb. The only problem was, it’s way, way too big, lots bigger than any A-bomb would need to be. In fact, some of our analysts thought the PRR might have taken a shortcut and put together a whopping big conventional bomb instead. Next.”

A second enhanced view showed that the package had been moved from the Rosa’s cargo hatch and onto the afterdeck of the Celtic Maiden, after which the Rosa had moved clear, tying up at another mooring nearby. The tarp-bundled package was resting on some sort of cradle on the Celtic Maiden’s after deck.

“Our satellites could tell us a lot about the thing. It’s a bulky, oblong object about six meters long bundled in a tarp and resting on a wooden cradle. We could estimate that it weighs between eight and twelve tons.” The laser-light pointer flicked past the images of two armed guards standing next to the object. “We could even tell that the bad guys had posted guards armed with H&K submarine guns, which suggests they want to protect it.”

Marlowe flicked off the pointer and turned to address the room. “This, gentlemen, should be an object lesson to those of us who tend to put too much reliance in spy satellites and other long-range, high-tech spy equipment. We never would’ve had a prayer of learning what this thing was if it hadn’t been for the report from our SEALs. In my trade, it’s called HUMINT. That’s human intelligence. You can only rely so far on machines.”

“So what is that thing?” Clayton asked. “If it’s too big to be a bomb . . .”

“Next.”

The aerial view was replaced by a close-up of what seemed to be the rear end of a very large torpedo or small boat, with a propeller encased in a smooth, shiny shroud. Someone’s black-gloved hand was visible to the left, pulling back a corner of the tarp.

“Enhance.” Writing filled the screen, blocky Oriental characters and several numerals that might have been serial numbers.

“Korean characters,” Marlowe said. “It reads ‘People’s Defense Ministry, Special Project’ . . . and that number. This down here might be a part number. And this on the shroud is the Korean equivalent of ‘no step.’

“We were able to trace the numbers. What we are looking at here is the stern of a small one- or two-man submarine, similar to the Shinkai-series research subs of the Japanese, or our own Alvin. It appears to be of North Korean manufacture but is basically Japanese technology . . . probably openly purchased, though the material’s supposed to be restricted. I’m sure you’re all well aware of the problems we’ve had with several major Japanese corporations on that count.

“We think this must be a special project of the North Korean Navy that they call ‘Mul ojing o,’ or ‘Squid.’ Designed for salvage work, sabotaging or tapping undersea cables and the like during war, probably mine clearing as well. Like the Japanese model, it’s equipped with teleoperated arms. It would probably be particularly useful for undersea assault.”

“What, with frogmen?” Hemminger said. He shook his head. “It doesn’t look that big. What’d you say, six meters?”

“No, sir. With those remote-control arms, it could plant a bomb against an underwater objective. A big bomb.”

“An underwater objective,” Schellenberg said thoughtfully. Then realization dawned and his eyes opened wide. “You mean like Bouddica.”

“Precisely. It’s likely that the Squid is there to plant the A-bomb beneath the platform.”

“Damn,” Clayton said, his fist clenched on the tabletop before him. “Why didn’t those SEALs take out that sub when they had a chance? What’d they do, just leave it there?”

“They did,” Admiral Bainbridge said. “And I have to believe they did the right thing. According to the report from the officer in charge, they didn’t have time for more than a quick look. Worse, they haven’t found the A-bomb yet. Blowing up that minisub would’ve been a great way to tip our hand and set off the fireworks, don’t you think?”

“What are the SEALs doing now?”

Marlowe looked toward the ceiling and raised his voice slightly. “Can we see the telephoto shots, please? Run through the series.”

On the monitor, a new photo appeared, grainy but distinct. It showed a rough-looking man in watchcap and combat harness, lighting a cigarette. An H&K subgun was slung over his shoulder, muzzle-down. That image was replaced a moment later by another, showing a different man, similarly armed and equipped. He was leaning on a railing, looking out across the sea with an almost pensive expression on his face. Next there were two armed men, obviously engaged in conversation. A long, flat, open wooden box rested on a fifty-five-gallon drum at one man’s elbow. One of the men was pulling something from the box, something like a black spindle on the end of a stick that Bainbridge instantly recognized: rocket-propelled grenades for an RPG.

“To answer your question, the SEALs have been running an OP—an observation post—right under the terrrorists’ noses. They’ve got a digital camera with them, with a telephoto lens, that records images electronically instead of on film. They’ve been shooting pictures of everyone they can see and all of the equipment they can find, then uploading the camera’s catch onto the satellite net for us to decipher here.

“So far, they’ve recorded fifteen different men, though there are certainly more than that present. We’ve been able to identify six of the faces—two are die-hard members of the Provo IRA, the other four were spotted by the German BKA as former members of the Red Army Faction. The SEALs have also catalogued an array of weapons that includes rocket-propelled grenades, submachine guns, and at least one U.S.made M-60 machine gun.”

“And how many SEALs are aboard?” Hemminger wanted to know.

“Five. And there are twenty-eight SAS men in the anchor tug, which left the immediate area after concluding the first round of negotiations but is maintaining station just over the horizon.”

“Thirty-three? Against what amounts to an army?”

“Seems to me we’ve got a more serious problem that that,” Clayton pointed out. “All those weapons, all of those explosives aboard an oil-production rig, for God’s sake. They start shooting, and the PRR isn’t going to need an A-bomb. Remember Piper Alpha?”

Everyone there had received briefings on the history of North Sea oil platforms, including some of the notable disasters. In 1988, the British platform dubbed Piper Alpha had exploded when an undetected gas leak had been touched off by a spark. Of the 231 workers aboard, only 64 had survived.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” Hemminger said, his long face growing longer. “If someone touches off a gas explosion in there, maybe we won’t have to worry about the bomb.”

“That’s for damned sure.” Clayton brightened. “Yeah! That’s right!” He turned to Caldwell, on his right. “How about it, General? If we launched an attack, I mean, a really massive, all-out air strike. Laser-guided bombs, missiles, the works. Could we just blow that baby right out of the water? Before anyone in there had time to push the button?”

Caldwell looked pained, then shook his head. “I don’t think—”

“No, really!” Clayton said, enthusiastic now. “I know it’s kind of drastic. There could be lots of—what do you military guys say? ‘Collateral damage’? But fuck it! This gives us a fighting chance!”

“Ignoring for the moment the more than three hundred hostages being held at the objective—”

“Damn it, General, we’re balancing three hundred hostages against how many thousands of people who die if that bomb goes off? I find those losses to be acceptable!”

“Ignoring the hostages,” Caldwell repeated, pushing ahead, “and ignoring for the moment our own military forces at the objective, there are some serious basic problems with that approach. We don’t know how the nuclear device is shielded, armed, or triggered. Any atomic bomb, however, depends on a conventional explosive charge to compress the fissionable material of the warhead to critical mass. Set off as big an explosion as we’re talking about here, and there’s a good chance, a very good chance in fact, that the bomb’s conventional explosive would be triggered through something called sympathetic detonation. And that, of course, would create critical mass and a nuclear explosion.

“Second, we still don’t know where the bomb is being kept. We haven’t seen them unloading it and don’t even know what it might look like. Maybe it’s already on the platform. Maybe it’s aboard the tanker. Maybe it’s on the fishing boat where the minisub was stored, but it hasn’t been unloaded yet. While we could easily trigger a natural-gas explosion on the platform, there’s no way in hell we could get all of the possible targets. In the case of the various ships and boats on the site, even a large number of direct hits wouldn’t make the target explode or sink immediately. Someone, either on Bouddica or on the ship, would have plenty of time to evaluate the situation, decide all was lost, and push the button.”

“I would have to agree with that assessment,” Hemminger said. “But with the proviso that it does give us some hope. I think my recommendation would have to be to leave the situation to our people there, but have the air strike ready, just in case. If things get bad, if the assault is beaten off, we can hit them with the F-15s and hope for the best.”

“Hope for the best?” Bainbridge laughed. “We’re talking about a nuclear weapon here, gentlemen!”

“I’m well aware of that, Admiral,” the Secretary of Defense said coldly. “Which is why this must be a political decision, not a military one. The detonation of that device could ruin the economy of a vital ally and would seriously threaten U.S. strategic interests in the area. If we have any chance, any chance at all of stopping that detonation, we must take it. Must take it. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Bainbridge said coldly. “I understand you very well. I just wonder, though, if you’ll give the order.”

“Eh? What order?”

“The order to those airmen who’ll have to fly in and fire the missiles that will kill over three hundred civilians and a number of comrades-at-arms.”

Hemminger shot Bainbridge a black look but said nothing.

“So what are we saying?” Schellenberg asked.

Clayton shrugged. “I suggest we let them go. Go! We’ve got men on the platform already. The Brits have their SAS people on the tug. I say we deploy the rest of the SEALs to the Noramo Pride, back up the Brits with every scrap of air and supply at our disposal, and run with it!”

“But Christ,” Schellenberg muttered, his eyes wide. “I mean . . . Christ! We don’t have any control over those people, those SEALs! We can’t leave leave something this important to trained killers like them! We have no control!”

“Maybe,” Marlowe said with a faint, tight smile, “that’s the way it should be.”

It had to be an assault. It had to be. If these tangos got away with their nuclear blackmail . . .

The past twenty hours had been fairly typical for a long-term SEAL OP watch. They’d prowled both platforms during the night, looking for intel, identifying tango security elements and positions, familiarizing themselves with the facility’s maze-like layout. During the day, they’d kept to their perch save for brief forays to keep tabs on the terrorists who were also on Bravo, down on the first level. The rest of the time, they took telescopic photos of terrorists and equipment, watched the movements of men aboard the Rosa and the Celtic Maiden, ate cold packaged rations, and endured the numbing chill of wind and weather. Much longer, Murdock knew, and the men would begin suffering from the effects of exposure, despite the protection afforded by their dry suits.

Still, BUD/S had shaped all of their minds as much as it had shaped their bodies. They might grumble about the cold quietly among themselves, but they endured it.

They had to. You may not like it, ran the old SEAL adage, you just have to do it.

They did it. In Vietnam, SEALs had trained themselves to deliberately assume uncomfortable positions in order to stay awake, while waiting at an ambush for hour after aching hour. This, Murdock thought, was much like that . . . though he did make his men take turns catching a few hours of sleep at a time.

He checked his watch impatiently. Waiting. Not knowing. That was the hardest. Always.

“Watchdog, Eyrie, Sierra three-five,” Sterling whispered into his mike after an interminable wait. “Acknowledged. Eyrie, out.”

“Well?” Murdock asked.

“Orders, L-T,” Jaybird Sterling said, replacing the headset from the satcom unit in its case. “Looks like we stay. . . .” He paused, then grinned wickedly. “And kick some tango ass!”

Murdock felt a surge of relief. He’d risked everything with his decision to bend the rules this far, both for himself and for his men, by coming here instead of adhering to a strict interpretation of his orders and staying on alert ashore.

“Yes!” Roselli said, clenching his fist and jerking his arm back. “All right!”

“Are we gonna hit them?” Johnson wanted to know.

“Let’s keep a sock on it, people,” MacKenzie said, lowering his binoculars and turning to face the others. But he was grinning. “What’s the story, Jaybird?”

“Okay. They’re gonna want to talk to the L-T to finalize shit.” He looked at his watch, peeling back the Velcro cover. “Thirty-five minutes. Fourteen-hundred hours, our time. But an assault is go. They’re bringing in the rest of Third Platoon to hit the tanker out there, and more SAS to take down Bouddica Alpha. We’re to stay put, but act in support from the Eyrie. And . . .”

“What?” Murdock asked as Sterling hesitated.

“The station’s radar. They want both of them taken out, just before the show goes down.”

“We don’t have much with us in the way of bang-clay,” MacKenzie said. “What . . . three kilos?”

“That would be enough to take both radars down,” Murdock decided. Bouddica had two radar towers, visible above the main platform as a pair of slender towers capped by what looked like large, white golf balls—the weather shrouds housing the radar dishes.

“There’s more,” Sterling added.

“What?”

“Any preliminary data we can acquire about the location and nature of the, quote, possible nuclear device, unquote, as well as any information on the location of the hostages and the disposition of tango security elements on any of the targets, including the fishing trawler Rosa . . . ” Sterling stopped, and drew a deep breath, before proceeding. “Would all be greatly appreciated!”

“Tall order,” Murdock said. He was already considering possible approaches to the main personnel habitat over on Alpha. If they could just slip across the bridge unobserved, at night . . . “We’ll have to see what we can do about that. When it’s going down?”

“Tonight. Time’s not set yet, but tonight. The British government has been in radio communication with the terrorists. I gather they’ve agreed, at least in principle, to all of the tangos’ demands, though they’re claiming some problems.”

“Delaying tactics,” MacKenzie suggested.

“Sounds like it,” Sterling agreed. “Things like, the UN can’t make an official vote on admitting the PRR until a full session of the General Assembly can be arranged Monday.”

“They bought that?” Roselli asked. “The tangos, I mean?”

“They’re probably more interested in the money transfer,” Murdock suggested. An earlier burst-transmission picked up from MILSTAR had brought the SEALs up to speed on the terrorist demands.

“Probably.”

“What about the prisoner release?” MacKenzie wanted to know.

“The British have promised to release the prisoners,” Sterling said. “One of them, the Korean woman, will be sent out to Bouddica tonight. The terrorists were demanding that she be flown out to the platform by helicopter, but the Brits are pleading that bad weather in the area might pose a danger. So they’re sending her out on the Horizon.”

“Which lets Wentworth get his boys in close when they come in to hand her over,” Murdock said, nodding. “Slick.”

“If they can manage it, the tug will move in close and provide a diversion while SEALs and SBS take down the tanker and the trawler. We’ll hit the facility’s radar so that the main assault force can come in by helo.”

“What about the minisub?” Johnson asked.

“The SAS’ll hit that off the Horizon.”

“Sounds like it’s all covered then,” Roselli said.

“Yeah,” Murdock said. “Except for one little thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Where the hell’s the A-bomb? Sounds like Washington is expecting us to find that out for them.”

Sterling nodded. “I guess they’re working out a set of code words now, Skipper. They’ll discuss that with you when you talk to them later. So we can tell them where the thing is, or even call the whole thing off.”

Roselli laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Which makes it our fault if the thing goes down bad.”

“Shit, Razor,” Murdock said, grinning. “Isn’t that the way it always is?”

“Scars and stars, L-T,” Roselli said, shrugging. An old SEAL saying held that others got the stars—meaning promotion to admiral—while the SEALs faced the actual combat. “It’s always scars and stars. . . .”