"Sounds good." Mitchell rose. "And, sir, is it true you guys have the best food in the navy?"

"Oh, don't worry, Captain, you'll find out for yourself."

Damn Ramirez. He had Mitchell thinking about chow.

Once he'd met the other officers, Mitchell retired in privacy to a computer terminal. He accessed a prerecorded video message from General Keating, who confirmed that their satellite surveillance of the Hakka castle was now in place and that their two CIA agents had already been observed meeting with their inside man earlier in the day.

The general also indicated that there was a lot of activity in and around missile sites located within the Nanjing Military Region and that the situation in Taiwan was growing far worse. The declaration of martial law had resulted in numerous cases of human rights violations by Taiwan's military and police, and demonstrators were still picketing and being arrested in front of the presidential building. Images of bludgeoned and bleeding civilians flashed across the screen.

Of course, Mitchell could have bet a year's pay that the general would repeat that it was up to him, that everything came down to the Ghosts stopping the Spring Tigers from initiating their plan. Mitchell finished watching the transmission and growled, "Yeah, I know. It' all up to me."

A second message from the Red Cross caught him by surprise. Bo Jenkins's father had passed away. Last report was that he'd been stable, but he'd taken a sharp turn for the worse. Part of Mitchell wanted to hold off telling Bo so that the man's head would be in the mission. The other part said that wasn't fair and that Bo deserved to know immediately.

Then again, given what was at stake, Mitchell needed every Ghost operating at peak performance.

He sat there a few moments more, putting himself in Bo's place.

And that got him thinking about his own father, who was probably back home, using his router to round off the corners of his casket.

A young lieutenant with what Sergeant Alicia Diaz called a Cocoa Beach crew cut--bleached blond with highlights--watched her leave the VIP stateroom opposite the wardroom. She smiled perfunctorily, noting the gold wings above the lieutenant's left breast pocket. He was cute, so she asked, "Are you a pilot?"

"I'm a naval aviator. There's a difference." He offered his hand. "Jeff Moch."

She took it. "Mach, as in Mach Five?"

"No, it's spelled with an O."

"Be cooler with an A, as in my name: Alicia Diaz."

"That's pretty smooth. I heard something about you guys trying to defect to the navy."

"Vicious rumors." She hesitated, unsure of what to add, then suddenly blurted out, "So, Lieutenant, what is the difference between a pilot and a naval aviator?"

He snickered. "Naval aviators get shot off the front end of aircraft carriers. We use tail hooks and arresting wires to land. Pilots just kind of float in."

"Okay . . ."