The SEAL team was standing on a platform with a large rectangular opening in the center. The missile hung down through the opening from the ceiling, held in place by gantries that extended from the walls like helping hands. There was silence as the men gazed with awe at the huge cylinder. The light gleamed off the metal skin and the rotor housings.

“Look sharp. No time for sightseeing!” Mason barked.

Baron ran his fingers over the surface of the missile. Then he inspected the intricate network of hoses and elecical connections that snaked down to the missile from a ole in the ceiling. He sucked his breath in. “Man, I've ever seen anything like this.”

“The question is, can you deactivate it?”

Baron grinned and rubbed his palms together. “Does the pope live in Rome?”

“No, actually he lives in the Vatican.”

“Close enough.” Baron dug into his pack, pulled out a stethoscope and plugged it into his ears. He listened at several points on the outside of the missile, smiling and frowning like a heart specialist examining a patient.

“She's all dressed up and ready to go. I can hear humming.”

“What about those connections?” Mason asked.

“Fuel and electrical. I could cut them, but that might tell this baby it's operating on its own.”

“In other words, it might start the launch.”

Baron nodded. “I've got to cut the heart out of this thing.” He ran his fingers along the slightly raised edge of a panel on the side of the missile. Then he dug out a set of tools from his rucksack, and after a couple of tries found a lug that fit the nuts holding the panel cover on. Using a battery-operated wrench, he started to unbolt the panel cover.

Like a sportscaster broadcasting play-by-play, Mason kept up a running account of Baron's work for the other teams, instructing them to stay one step behind. His men, in the meantime, had scoured the area and come up with one-inch cable they'd found in a storeroom. They ran the cable under the thrusters, hoping to rig up restraints on the projectile.

Baron was making slow progress. He stripped some bolts that had rusted in the dampness of the big room and had to use a special attachment to get a grip on them. He was leaning against the missile, his head close to the exterior. All at once, he stopped his work and listened.

“Crap!” he said.

“What's wrong?” asked Mason, who'd been peering intently over Baron's shoulder. Baron started to answer, but Mason stilled him with a hand signal. The 21C was calling from the wheelhouse.

“I don't know if this means anything, Lieutenant, but all the screens and panels are going crazy up here.”

“Stand by.” Turning to Baron, he said. “That was the wheelhouse. The instruments are showing unusual activity.” Mason cocked an ear. A loud humming that grew in intensity filled the chamber.