“Sorry for being such a jerk. That guy would have killed me if you hadn't stepped in. I wandered around and hung out with some pals feeling sorry for myself. When I got back to my apartment, there was a message from Therri. She said that SOS was going off on its own. Ryan talked her into it, I guess.”

“Damned fools. They'll get themselves killed.”

“I feel the same way. I'm worried about my family, too. We've got to stop them.”

“I'm willing to try, but I need your help.”

You ve got it.

“How soon can you leave?” “Whenever you want me to.”

“How about now? I'll pick you up on the way to the airport.' ”I'll be ready."

After Zavala left the NUMA building, he drove his 1961 Corvette convertible to his home in Arlington, Virginia. While the upstairs was spotless, as would be expected of someone who routinely dealt in microscopic tolerances, Zavala's basement looked like a cross be- tween Captain Nemo's workshop and a redneck gas station. It was crammed with models of undersea craft, metal-cutting tools and piles of diagrams marked with greasy fingerprints.

The one exception to the jumble was a locked metal cabinet where Zavala kept his collection of weaponry. Technically, Zavala was a marine engineer, but his duties on the Special Assignments Team sometimes required firepower. Unlike Austin, who favored a custom-made Bowen revolver, Zavala employed whatever weapon was handy, usually with deadly efficiency. He eyed the collection of firearms in the cabinet-wondering what, short of a neutron bomb, would be effective against a ruthless multinational organization with its own private army-and reached for an Ithaca Model 37 repeat- ins shotgun, the primary weapon used by the SEALs in Vietnam. He liked the idea that the shotgun could be fired almost like an automatic weapon.

Zavala carefully packed the shotgun and an ample supply of am- munition into a case, and before long he was on his way to Dulles Air- port. He drove with the top down, savoring the ride because he knew it would be his last in the 'Vette until his assignment was over. He pulled up to a hangar in an out-of-the-way corner of the airport where a crew of mechanics was doing last-minute checks on a NUMA executive jet. He kissed the Corvette's fender and said a sad good-bye, then climbed aboard the plane.

Zavala was going over his flight plan when Austin arrived a short time later with Ben Nighthawk in tow. Austin introduced the young Indian to Zavala. Nighthawk glanced around as if he were looking for something.

“Don't worry,” Austin said, noting the expression of consternation on Nighthawk's face. “Joe just looks like a bandit. He really does know how to fly a plane.”

“That's right,” Zavala said, looking up from his clipboard. “I've passed a correspondence course, all except for the part about the landing.”