"Shit!"

They could read three of the four numbers in the bottom row: one, nine, eight. Whoever had programmed the numbers was blocking the last one on the right.

"My guess is the last number's an eight," Stoll said. "That's been a recurring theme today."

"Let's hope you're right," Hood said as he got back on the phone to Rodgers.

"Mike, you've got to program the missiles as follows: one-nine-eight-eight on the bottom row, zero-zero-zero-zero in the middle row. Repeat--"

"Nineteen eighty-eight on bottom, four zips in the center. Stay on the line."

"Don't worry," Hood said under his breath. "I'm not going anywhere."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Wednesday, 9:24 A.M., the Diamond Mountains

The foliage canopies were lying beside the missiles, which glistened like polished ivory in the young sun.

Rodgers climbed up to the control panel of the nearest Nodong and told Puckett to punch the two codes into the second, Colonel Ki-Soo into the third. A medic was following him, snarling with rage as he tried to bandage his hand on the run.

Rodgers hit one-nine-eight-eight, then stood there expectantly waiting for the middle row of numbers to light up.

They didn't.

"Nothing happened here, sir," Puckett said.

"I know, soldier," Rodgers said.

He didn't bother trying the numbers again. Not with four minutes twenty-five seconds on the countdown clock. He ran back to the tent.

"Paul," he said, "it didn't work. You sure about those numbers?"

"The one-nine-eight part," he admitted. "We're not sure about the last one."

"Great," Rodgers snarled as he bolted from the tent.

He thought as he ran back to the Nodong. Less than five minutes. Takes about five seconds for each goddamn number to click in. That doesn't leave much time.

"Private Puckett," Rodgers yelled, "start with nine-teen-eighty and--"

A soldier, festooned with medals, came running up to the Nodong on which Puckett was standing. He pushed the soldier off, where Rodgers couldn't see, whipped out his pistol, and fired once toward the ground. Then he turned and emptied several rounds into the keypad before Ki-Soo could order his men over. The North Koreans wrestled him to the ground, screaming.

Squires's voice crackled over the field radio. "We heard that shot. What was it?"

Rodgers whipped it from the strap on his belt. "Someone doesn't like us being here," he said. "Don't worry. They've got him."

"Sure feels useless up here, sir," Squires said.

Rodgers didn't answer; he understood. But he had bigger problems right now.

The medic left Ki-Soo's side and ran to Puckett. Fighting the urge to join him, Rodgers climbed up to the nearest Nodong and started punching in numbers.

One-nine-eight-zero.

Nothing.

One-nine-eight-one.

Nothing. Nothing until he reached one-nine-eight-nine. There was a beep, the middle row lit up, and he quickly changed the numbers to zero-zero-zero-zero. As he did so, the missile began to lower.

The top clock read two minutes two seconds. He ran to Puckett's missile. The keypad was shattered beyond repair, but at least Puckett was alive. The doctor had pulled away his shirt and was wiping blood from a shoulder wound.