There were just two chicken fighters left: lean Lt. Col. Charlie Squires and his spindly son Billy and pumped Private David George and his son Clark. The kids pushed hair from their eyes as their fathers circled each other slowly, each watching for an opening, for a kid who lost his balance, made a clumsy offensive maneuver, shivered and broke his concentration.

Sgt. Grey's wife Lydia said, "Last week, when we were visiting my folks in Alaska, Chick and I got stuck in a snowbank and he refused to call for a tow. He told me to put the car in neutral, then he got behind and lifted it out. He walked bent over for two days after, but he wouldn't admit he was sore. Not Hercules."

There was a shout from the pool as Clark lunged at Billy. Instead of stepping back, as he usually did, Lt. Col. Squires moved in: while Clark was leaning forward, Billy grabbed his outstretched arm, pulled down, and the boy flopped back-first into the water. Private George stood there, aghast, as he looked from his son to Squires. There was a smattering applause from the side of the pool, where the other defeated chicken fighters had been watching the showdown.

"That's it, sir?" George said to Squires. "Lor-dee, that was shorter than the first Clay-Liston fight."

"Sorry, Sonny," Squires winked. He reached up and high-fived his son.

"And when did you work that one out, sir?"

"While we were suiting up. Made sense, don't you think? Guy expects a retreat, gets an advance-- he's gotta be surprised."

"He was, sir," George mumbled, wading toward the shallow end of the pool, his son in his wake.

"Nice fight," Clark said to Billy as he dog-paddled after his father.

"Don't talk like that," George muttered as he lumbered up the steps with the bearing and disposition of Gorgo. "You'll lose your edge for tomorrow."

Squires followed him out, his eyes drawn to headlights shining through the living-room window of his home in the base family quarters. He snatched a towel from a chaise lounge as the lights snapped off, then watched as a lone figure walked around the one-story cottage, silhouetted by the light blue horizon. No one could have gotten to this quarter without passing through the gate that separated his crew from the FBI Academy, and no one could have gotten through the gate without a call to him directly.

Unless they were from Op-Center.

Draping the towel over his shoulders and slipping on his sandals, the Lieutenant Colonel walked quickly toward the house.

"Charlie, your eggs are getting cold!"

"Be right there, Missy. Set 'em next to George, they'll stay warm."

Squires's Striker team of twelve full-time men and their support crews was established six months before, the same time as Op-Center. They were the so-called "black" side of the agency, their existence a secret from outsiders except those who needed to know: the heads of the other military and spy agencies, and the President and Vice President themselves. Their charter was simple: they were sent onto the field when offense was needed. They were an elite squad that could be counted on to strike hard and fast. Though all the Striker members belonged to the military and drew pay from their respective branches, they worked in nondescript camouflage pants and shirts without markings of any kind. If they screwed up, there was no way for anyone to trace them or place blame.