"I've been studying military history ever since Faure was elected secretary-general," Doug said. "One thing I've learned is that we're going to need somebody to give his undivided attention to this crisis. I can't be running the day-to-day operation of Moonbase and handle the war at the same time."

"You said it's not a war," Joanna said sharply.

"Not a shooting war," Doug admitted. "Not yet. But we've got to be prepared for that possibility."

"You can't-"

"He's right," Brudnoy said, interrupting his wife. "Doug should devote his full attention to this situation."

"And I'm gonna be base director again," Anson said. She did not seem displeased with the idea.

"So you will be our generalissimo," said Brudnoy, pointing at Doug. "Jinny becomes base director once again. And you, dear wife," he turned to face Joanna, "must serve as our foreign secretary, in charge of diplomatic relations with Masterson and the other corporations."

"And what will you be doing, Lev?" Joanna asked her husband.

"Me?" Brudnoy's shaggy brows climbed halfway to his scalp. "I will remain as usual: nothing but a peasant."

"Yeah, sure," Anson chirped.

Brudnoy shrugged. "I have no delusions of grandeur. But I think it will be important to keep the major corporations on our side."

"I'll handle relations with Masterson Corporation," Joanna agreed. "We'll try to put some pressure on the government in Washington to oppose this U.N. takeover."

"If you can keep the board on our side," Doug said.

His mother raised an imperious brow. "I told you, don't worry about the board."

"Or Rashid?"

"Or Rashid either," Joanna riposted. Turning slightly toward her husband, she added, " Rashid's a man with real delusions of grandeur."

"Okay," said Jinny Anson. "Then I'll run the base and you, Doug, you can run the war."

"Thanks a lot."

"Somebody's got to-"

"Hold it!" Doug snapped. The message icon on his left screen was blinking. Urgent message. And he saw that a cardinal red dot had cleared the swarm of low-orbit satellites around the Earth and was heading outward.

"Message," Doug called out in the tone that the computer recognized. His voice trembled only slightly.

"A crewed spacecraft just lifted from the military base on Corsica," a comm tech's voice said. "It's on a direct lunar trajectory."

"Peacekeeper troops," Doug said.

"Must be."

They all turned toward Doug.

"So what do we do now, boss?" Jinny Anson asked.

TOUCHDOWN MINUS 114 HOURS 35 MINUTES

"Five days," Doug said to the woman's image on his screen. "They'll be here in a little less than five days."

Tamara Bonai frowned slightly, nothing more than a faint pair of lines between her brows. But on her ethereally beautiful face it seemed a gross disfigurement. Her face was a sculptor's dream, high cheekbones and almond eyes; her skin a light clear teak; her long hair a tumbling cascade as lustrous and black as the infinity of space.