"Will do. And don't worry about Alex. He'll be fine. Kids are tough."

"They've got to be to survive us," Hood said, reaching for the intercom. Buzzing his aide Bugs, he told him to have Liz Gordon report to the Tank.

As she left, Martha hoped that she hadn't been too forward by offering to sit in for Hood. She felt bad for the way she jumped on Alexander's misfortune to improve her résumé, and made a mental note to have her secretary send him some balloons; but while Ann Farris had her heart set on the Director, Martha had her heart set on the directorship. She liked and respected Hood, but she didn't want to be Op-Center's Political Officer forever. Her fluency in ten languages and understanding of world economies made her more valuable than that. Co-managing an international crisis like this would have been a major notch in her portfolio, setting her up for advancement here or, if she were lucky, a move to the State Department.

There's always tomorrow, she told herself as she traversed the narrow corridor between the bullpen and the executive offices, passing Liz Gordon who looked like she had a serious head of steam and was in desperate need of a place to vent it

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tuesday, 6:03 A.M.,

Andrews Air Force Base

"You really don't care if the boss blows a gasket, do you, sir?"

Lt. Col. Squires and Mike Rodgers were jogging across the field. It was less than a minute since the Jet-ranger had touched down and already it was airborne again, headed back to Quantico. The two officers were leading the line of Striker men toward the C-141B, which was revving up on the airstrip ahead. In addition to his gear, Squires was carrying a Toshiba Satellite portable computer with a specially designed side-mounted laserjet printer, which contained flight plans for 237 different locations, along with detailed maps and possible mission profiles.

"Now what would Hood blow a gasket about?" Rodgers asked. "I'm a quiet sort of guy listen a lot. I voice my opinions politely and deferentially."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but Krebs is your size, and you had him bring an extra set of togs. Our playbooks are all designed for a twelve-man squad. You're taking George's place, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"And I'll bet a month's pay that Mr. Hood hasn't okayed it."

"Why trouble him with details? He's got a lot on his mind."

"Well, sir-- right there are two very good reasons why gaskets blow. Pressure, and a piece o'something where it doesn't belong. In this case, you here."

Rodgers shrugged a shoulder. "Sure, he'll be pissed. But Hood won't stay that way. He's got a perfectly capable team back at Op-Center and, hell, we don't agree on much anyway. He won't miss me."

"Which brings up another point, sir. Permission to speak freely?"

"Shoot."

"I've got a perfectly capable team here too. Are you going to be running the show, or are you taking Private George's place?"