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"I'm sorry, Mr. Carstens is unavailable at the moment. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail? Thank you, I'll let him know." Betty grimaced and put another checkmark beside the topmost entry of the short list of comments she'd started on the legal pad that was centered on her desk.

For sixteen years, being the secretary—make that executive assistant—for the executive editor for the Los Angeles Times had been one hell of a job. Today, it was just hell.

She glanced up as the office's outer door opened. The auto-defense she'd prepared was set aside when she saw the long, lanky, and quite rumpled form of John "Jack" Cutter.

Sighing in relief she pushed one of the few non-blinking buttons on her phone. "Mr. Carstens, Jack Cutter's here."

"Tell the bastard to get his ass in here."

One of the first things a new employee of the Times learned was "The Look." It came in handy at times like this. Without wasting time or breath, Betty and Cutter exchanged The Look.

With a tilt of her head, she directed him to the inner office. "The lair's that way."

With a grim nod Cutter took a deep breath, grabbed the knob and entered. Betty turned back as her phone started ringing again. She stuck her tongue out at the phone before grimly picking it up. Pushing the button she said, "L.A.Times, Executive Editor's office."

The fiftyish, graying Executive Editor for the L.A.Times, William "Bill" Carstens, was standing looking out the wall-length windows that graced the corner office his position dictated. Of course the responsibilities that came along with that office was why he was clenching and unclenching the rolled up newspaper in his fist.

He turned as Cutter ambled across the thick rug and plopped into the padded leather chair across from the large oak desk from him.

Cutter grinned. "You wanted to see me, boss?"

His expression bitter, Carstens mimicked him, "You wanted to see me, boss? You're damned right I wanted to see you!" He tossed the paper he'd been mangling onto the desk. It unrolled to show the headline, "A Murderer Walks Among Us."

Carstens jabbed an accusing finger at the headline. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Cutter gave an insolent shrug. "You cleared the story. I told you I had the goods on a murderer living on the lam in Bel Aire."

Carstens' yell was well modulated to let everybody on the floor, doors closed or not, know that he was displeased. "You forgot to mention the part where he was on the FBI's Witness Protection Program!"

Cutter leapt up to lean across the desk on his fists and, matching Carstens' volume and tone, roared, "He admitted to ten murders!"

Not giving an inch, Carstens leaned across the desk and roared into his face, "He was turning state's evidence!"

Cutter didn't blink. "One of 'em was a woman and her two kids! He killed 'em to send a message to her husband!"

"His evidence brought down the Catalini family!"

Cutter shook his head. "He used power tools, and it took six hours for him to finish the job!"

Carstens was now jabbing his finger into the desk for emphasis. "He nailed three Mob bosses and at least a dozen lieutenants!"

Cutter banged his own fist on the desk. "One of 'em was a six-year-old girl!"

Carstens roared, "He was given immunity!"

Cutter matched his roar, "Not from me!"

Nose to nose they both turned as the office door opened. The tall, slim, and frumpy form of the Times' tech reporter, Catharine Calendar, sidled nervously into the room. She jumped as both men roared in unison, "What?"

Calendar blinked and gasped before stuttering, "M-Mr. Carstens, i-it's the space shuttle, the shuttle Atlantis!"

Carstens blinked. His tone, and volume returning to normal, he asked, "What about it?"

Firming up, Calendar managed, "It just came over the cable. There's been an accident. They're in trouble."

Cutter and Carstens traded surprised looks. Then, they turned in unison and rushed for the door, gathering Catharine up as they passed.

Heading for the paper's monitoring room, Cutter, Carstens, and Catharine rushed down the hallway and across the floor of the paper's wide, busy, and cluttered newsroom.

Over the busy clatter of the room Carstens growled, "Look, Calendar, you're my tech reporter, put the technobabble into something I can understand."

Catharine nodded. "Okay, the Chinese test-fired their A-Sat system."

Cutter blinked. "A-Sat?"

Ignoring him, Carstens said, "They shot at the shuttle?"

Turning from one to the other, Calendar tried to answer both, "Ah, um, A-Sat; it's their anti-satellite system. They've run it before, shooting at outdated and defunct satellites. And, no, they didn't shoot at Atlantis. They shot at an old weather-radar satellite."

Carstens nodded. "So what happened?"

Trotting to keep up and shrug at the same time, Catharine managed, "Well, they failed to get a T.V.K. and the off-cent—"

Cutter cut her off. "T.V.K.? What the hell's a T.V.K.?"

Catharine gulped. "A Total Vehicle Kill; they didn't get a complete kill."

Carstens dodged around a file-laden trolley. "So what? They just wounded it?"

Calendar, jumping around the far end of the trolley, shook her head. "No, they hit it. They hit it off-center sending it on an irregular tangential vector."

Having lost it at "tangential," Cutter blinked. "Huh?"

Carstens jumped in, "I think she's saying that instead of destroying the target, they whacked it off on a new orbit. Like hitting a pool ball off the bumper."

Calendar said, "Okay, yeah. Um, well then, the damaged casing of the satellite, when subjected to the extreme centrifugal forces of the new sping—"

Carstens and Cutter traded confused glances before asking, in perfect harmony, "Huh?"

Calendar raised her hands and shook them in frustration. "It broke up!"

They were nearing the far end of the room, as Carstens shrugged. "So? That's what they wanted, wasn't it?"

Calendar shook her head. "No, no, it created an orbiting debris field, whose orbit crossed that of the shuttle Atlantis."

Carstens said, "So, you've got several hundred pounds of assorted nuts, bolts, and razor-sharp wreckage—"

Cutter continued the thought, "Moving at several times the speed of your average cannon shell—"

Calendar finished the thought for them, "On a collision course with Atlantis."

Carstens gulped. "How long—"

They pushed through the double doors into the spartanly detailed and darkened monitoring room. Glancing up at the monitors that covered one wall, they could see the standard government briefing podium, with the NASA logo, and the worried-looking spokeswoman repeated in every screen. Calendar waved toward the screens, then said, "Too late."

They joined the rest of the room's occupants in silently staring at the image of the NASA spokeswoman, as she continued, "...can confirm that, due to the speed with which this situation developed, Atlantis was unable to move out of the way of the debris field. The shuttle has suffered extensive damage. The damage has severed all normal communications leads. We can only communicate with the shuttle via low-powered, emergency voice-radio. Due to this situation, we cannot utilize our normal diagnostic links to determine how extensive the damage is.

"We have verified that all four crew members are okay. Flight Commander Thompson reported that the cabin was holed. Emergency repairs are being made as we speak."

Inside a smashed, smoking, and sparking shuttle cockpit, Pilot Officer Jensen, Crewman Phelps, and Crewwoman Ralston brusquely scrambled about in zero-gee making repairs and checking panels.

The only lighting available was from the sunlight streaming through the windows, along with a few of the buttons and alarm indicators on about half the panels. Everything else was dark.

There were several obvious patches on the inside walls, and a couple of the windows were starred and cracked.

Flight Commander Thompson was floating at the window, straining to look back over the outside of the ship. His expression was grim as he shook his head and tripped the earpiece microphone switch. "Houston, this is Atlantis. VSE from the cockpit, that's a roger...I can see several holes in both wings and fuselage. Large areas of the heat shielding tiles on both wings seem to have sheared off.

"We've sealed the cockpit ruptures. But, I can see that we're venting through hull ruptures into space. Apparently fuel and oxygen tanks have been holed."

All four crewmen stopped what they were doing to look at the speaker as the scratchy, static-filled voice came over the tiny speaker, "Roger, Atlantis. What are your gauges reading on fuel and oxygen?"

Thompson glanced over at Jensen, who shook his head. He then tripped his microphone. "That's a negative, Houston. They're dead; we're not getting any readings at all on either primaries or backups."

"Roger, Atlantis. What is your power status?"

This, Thompson already knew. "We're showing ten percent battery power. And, we had to jury-rig our emergency light batteries into the system to get that much."

"Roger, Atlantis. What is the state of your flight controls and engines?"

Thompson's expression was getting grimmer. "That's a negative on both, Houston. At this time we are dead and drifting. As soon as we can tie things down here, Phelps and Ralston will suit up for an E.V.A. to survey damage."

The pause before Houston responded stretched for several seconds. Then, the speaker buzzed to life, "Atlantis, I have CAPCOM for you. Go ahead, CAPCOM."

The voice over the speaker changed. "Um, Atlantis, that's a negative on the E.V.A."

All four astronauts froze at this. They exchanged worried looks as Thompson tripped his mike. "CAPCOM, we'll need to E.V.A. to evaluate our status and effect repairs."

"Atlantis, our calculations are that you will intersect the debris field again in thirty-two, I say again three-two minutes."

Thompson seemed to deflate as comprehension dawned. Tripping his mike he said, "Roger, CAPCOM, understood. What about evacuation using the Soyez emergency pods from the station?"

"Negative, they are not capable of that sort of mission."

Thompson said, "Roger, CAPCOM, understood. Any chance of a launch from the surface to evacuate?"

"Negative. We've checked with the Russians, Chinese, French, and Japanese. Nobody has anything on the pad. It'll take days to prep a flight."

Thompson's calm voice didn't reflect what his expression was broadcasting. "Roger, CAPCOM. Thanks for being straightforward with us. Give us a minute, will you?"

"Roger, Atlantis, CAPCOM out."

As the speaker clicked off Phelps muttered, "We're dead."

Thompson shook his head. "We've not dead yet."

Jensen shrugged and said, "We could always suit up and hope for the best."

Ralston joined in. "We won't last long on suit air. Even if we don't get holed."

Phelps gave a bitter chuckle. "I suppose we could push off from the ship. Maybe we could drift clear of the field?"

Ralston kept her focus. "Again, we won't last long on suit air."

Thompson shook his head. "I'd rather take my chances with staying on the ship. At least if things go south, here it'll be over quick."

In the newspaper's television room all the screens were set to show one huge image of the direct-feed from NASA. If anything, the NASA pressroom was more crowded and noisy than it had been. Reporters were trying to give their story details to their home offices over their cell phones. Then, everybody in both the NASA newsroom and the L.A.Times' TV room got real still as the NASA spokeswoman entered the room and stepped over to the podium.

Her expression was carefully neutral as she started, "I have been notified that the previous reports have been verified, and are accurate. As it currently stands, there is no possibility that a rescue mission could reach Atlantis before its orbit intersects the debris field again.

"We do have everybody, and I do mean everybody, working on alternatives and actions to maximize the crew's chances of survival."

She paused before continuing, staring blankly into the hidden distance, "About all the rest of us can do is pray."

Cutter shook his head and muttered, "Ah crap! Those guys are dead."

Catharine gulped. "Well, the NASA people are the best there are and they might..."

Carstens joined Cutter in shaking his head. "When a NASA engineer gives up on selling technology, and tells you to go see God..."

Catharine was blinking back tears. "Well, there's always a chance that—"

Carstens cut her off. "It'd take a miracle. And, we've been mighty short on those lately."

The floor of the massive NASA Control Center was lined with rows of monitors and computer stations. Conference rooms overlooking the room from the back wall, and the room itself, were a scene of controlled chaos as people rushed about, banged away on keyboards, and argued over piles of arcane diagrams and manuals.

Covering the entire front wall, and faced by all the stations was a glowing map of the planet earth. Overlaying the continents, islands and seas were the orbits and positions of Atlantis, the International Space Station, and the debris field.

A technician sitting at one of the more menial stations was leafing through a thick ring binder, trying to track down the orbital maneuvering capabilities, if any, of the old Russian Soyez capsules, that the station used for "lifeboats." He was disturbed by a low-toned beeping alarm. Looking at the forgotten screen, his brow crinkled as he tried to make out the meaning of a red scroll that was streaming across the bottom of the screen. Finally, he realized what it meant and grabbed for the phone at his elbow.

In the largest of the conference rooms overlooking the floor of the control room CAPCOM, a fiftyish, balding man, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a determined look on his face, was trying to get control of the situation. Or, at least the meeting. He had given up on the "rocket scientists" and was now trying to get something, anything, from the NASA engineers. The room was crowded with arguing, pudgy men, wearing ill-fitting shirts and pocket protectors.

The long conference table was buried under a mountain of papers, blueprints, computer monitors and photographs, which threatened to avalanche to the floor at any moment.

The door to the conference room opened, and the technician from the main floor, having been unable to get anybody to tell CAPCOM that he REALLY needed to talk to him, came rushing in. Catching the older man by the elbow, he started whispering frantically in his ear.

The older man listened. Blinking, he gave him a puzzled look. Then he suddenly straightened and waved his arms yelling, "Quiet!"

As the room went silent, he turned to the technician. "Say what?"

In the cockpit of the Atlantis, the four astronauts were busily helping each other into their space suits, when the radio buzzed to life.

"Atlantis, this is CAPCOM, over."

After trading puzzled glances with the rest of the crew, Thompson tripped his microphone and said, "This is Atlantis, go ahead, CAPCOM."

"Atlantis, we have picked up a very large radar blip approaching you from the surface."

Thompson blinked. "Say again, CAPCOM?"

"There...there's been some sort of launch from the middle of the Pacific. We're detecting...something on a direct-intercept course with your position."

Thompson traded puzzled glances with his crew before tripping his microphone. "Roger, CAPCOM. Did you say the mid-Pacific? Is anybody claiming a launch?"

"Negative, Atlantis; all other nations are denying a launch."

Thompson said, "Roger, CAPCOM. Could it be a missile of some sort?"

"Atlantis, that's the odd part. We have no thermal flare of a rocket engine. It's cold."

That got everybody's attention. Thompson tripped his mike. "CAPCOM, what's the ETA?"

"Atlantis, it's less than two minutes. Do you have a visual? We show it approaching you directly from the surface."

All four of the astronauts rushed to various windows. Peering out they quickly turned back, disappointed. The slowly tumbling shuttle was facing away from the earth.

After verifying the bad news with the others, Thompson keyed his mike. "That's a negative, CAPCOM. It must be approaching from our blind spot."

Ralston was the first to get a glimpse and said, "There! They're coming up on the port wing!"

CAPCOM was insistent. "Atlantis, do you have a visual?"

All four were too busy, peering out the windows on the left side of the shuttle to answer. A couple of them had their jaws hanging open in shock.

A touch of urgency tinged the static-cut voice coming over the speaker, "Come in, Atlantis! Do you have a visual?"

Thompson's eyes were fixed on the view outside the window. Shaking his head, he keyed the mike. "Uh, CAPCOM. We have a visual...um, please hold."

"What? Hold? What do you mean hold? Atlantis, do you have a visual? Can you make an ID?"

Thompson gulped hard. "Um, roger, CAPCOM. We have a visual. It's a, um, it looks like a...uh, a submarine, CAPCOM. It looks like a submarine."

In deep space, against the background of the earth's curvature the shuttle crew saw the huge, extended-teardrop shape of a Russian Akula-class submarine floating gently off the shuttle's left wingtip. It was covered with ice, along with the odd frozen barnacle, a starfish, and long strings of frozen seaweed.

His shocked mind reeling, Thompson automatically began to catalogue facts—about 360-370 feet long, 40-42 feet wide, and the hull 38-40 feet high, with the conning tower on top of that.

The voice over the speaker was back. "Atlantis! Atlantis! Say again? It looks like a what?"

Thompson traded glances with his crew, shrugged, and tripped the mike. "CAPCOM, it appears to be a submarine."

"It's a what?"

As they watched the submarine started to quiver, then shake like a bell. The hull rang silently against the earth's background. The ice caking the hull first cracked, then split. Then, it exploded into a glittering sunburst. A galaxy of ice shards slowly expanded, then whipped away. Thompson watched a frozen starfish drift past his window, on its slow way into the depths of the Milky Way.

The shuttle crew could now see the hull directly. The deep blue-black of titanium, they also could see that there were many differences from the standard Russian warship.

Twin lines of glowing portholes stretched down the side facing them. That, and while the submarine retained its rudder and fins, it was missing its propeller. Replacing it was a large, fascine-like bundle of tubes or rods jutting out of the tapered point of the hull's stern. What appeared to be a large, closed metal iris was set in the side of the hull directly behind the down-curve of the bow.

Also, jutting forward from the base of the conning tower were two long tubes. They ran on either side of the curve of the forward hull to the edge of the crystal bubble of the nose. They looked like either small diameter torpedo tubes, or large caliber cannon.

But the most amazing difference was that the rounded bow had been cut away, and replaced by a crystal-clear bubble with the same lines.

Through the bubble they could see a pair of gray-uniformed crewmen sitting in cockpit-like seats at the base of the bubble. Jutting into the exact center of the bubble on a short gantry, and sitting in another comfortable-looking pilot's chair was a man in a gray uniform-like jumpsuit. He was well formed with iron-gray hair, weathered skin, and a scrutinizing, intelligent gleam in his eye. The only marking on his jumpsuit was a tiny, teardrop-shaped pin on each side of the high, old-fashioned collar.

Thompson watched in open-mouthed wonder as the man glanced across the narrow gap, looking him right in the eye. The man gave him a gentle grin, nodded, and waved a derisive, mock salute at him.

Thompson automatically returned the wave with a weak-fingered version of his own, before he caught himself and keyed the mike to answer CAPCOM.

"Um, CAPCOM, it appears to be a Russian Akula-class nuclear attack submarine. Though there have been some modifications."

Dead silence from the other end stretched into a long minute before CAPCOM came back on the radio. "Flight Officer Phelps, do you confirm?"

Phelps shook his head. "Roger, CAPCOM. It looks like one of those old Russian attack boats."

"Um, Atlantis, please check your cockpit oxygen levels."

They all blinked at this. It was a moment before Thompson realized what CAPCOM was actually asking.

He keyed the mike. "Dammit, CAPCOM! We're not hallucinating! You asked what it looked like, and it looks like a submarine!"

Even over the tiny radio speaker, CAPCOM's voice still sounded incredulous. "Okay, we'll go with that for now. What's it doing?"

Thompson was still watching the patiently waiting man in the bubble. "Well, CAPCOM, first it shook itself off. Now I guess it's the Captain; he's sitting there watching us." Seeing the man in the other boat chuckle, he made a guess. "I think he's listening to us."

The other man laughed and gave Thompson a nod.

CAPCOM's voice was more than incredulous now. "What do you mean, he's sitting there watching you? What? Is he sitting on the deck in a lounge chair?"

Thompson was too fascinated with the sight to catch the barb. "No, CAPCOM, one of the modifications seem to be that they cut away the boat's bow and replaced it with some sort of glass or crystal bubble. He's sitting in some sort of pilot's chair watching us."

"Has he done anything else?"

Thompson shrugged and said, "Well, he waved to us."

"Waved to you? Great. Um, okay, does this submarine have any markings on it? Like a name or a number?"

Thompson gave the other boat another quick once-over before replying, "Negative, CAPCOM. It's got no other markings."

Behind him, he heard Ralston mutter, "I guess we won't be able to tell it from any of the other flying, glass-nosed, nuclear attack submarines."

The shuttle commander joined the rest of the crew in a chuckle. He saw the other man motioning toward his mouth.

"Um, CAPCOM. I think he wants to talk."

The reply from the other end was quick. Thompson got the impression that CAPCOM was a bit rattled and didn't realize that the mike was already keyed. "Well, he's a polite bastard. I'll give him that." After a pause CAPCOM continued, "Okay. Well, you have our permission to talk to the nice man."

Thompson saw the other man lift an old-fashioned corded microphone to his mouth.

"United States Space Shuttle Atlantis, this is Captain Jacob Brinn of the experimental craft Argo. I understand you may be in distress?"

Thompson keyed his own mike. "Um. This is Colonel Thompson of the US Air Force. Um, that's a roger?"

He saw the other man give an unconscious nod. "Are you able to exit your vehicle?"

The four astronauts traded glances. Thompson keyed his mike. "Roger, our suits are undamaged, and we've checked the lock hatches. We can exit our vehicle."

"Good, we haven't much time. I will attach a magnetic grapnel to your ship. You'll have to pull yourself over hand-over-hand. I'm afraid we'll have to use my boat's escape trunk as an ersatz air lock. Once you are safely on board, I will transport you to the international space station, and we'll reverse the process. Do you understand?"

Thompson traded looks with the others. After getting a nod from each, he keyed his mike. "Roger, um, Argo understood. Break, did you copy, CAPCOM?"

The reply was quick. "Roger, we copy. We're checking, um, ships registries for an Argo. We haven't been able to find anything even close to what you've described from any nation."

Thompson gave the radio an irritated glare. With an ironic twist to his mouth he muttered, "Really? I'd never have guessed." After trading grins with the others he keyed his mike. "Okay, CAPCOM, we roger. Do you have instructions for us?"

"Atlantis, you'll have to use your own best judgement. You're the man on the spot, and the books don't cover this sort of thing."

Thompson nodded. "Roger, CAPCOM, I copy. We'll transfer over. It seems to be the only ride we're going to get."

"Roger, Atlantis, we copy. Um, remember to take pictures of your trip. We can't wait to see the slide show. CAPCOM out."

Thompson said, "Roger, CAPCOM, see you on the other side. Atlantis out."

As he clicked off the radio, he heard Phelps mutter, "Damn."

Thompson gave him a puzzled glance. "What?"

Phelps gave him a wry grin. "The Navy's never going to let us live this down."

From a point on top of the submarine's low conning tower, a tube-like instrument rotated to point toward the shuttle. There was a silent puff of freezing gas, and a flash of flame launched a metallic disk toward the shuttle, dragging a cable behind it.

The shuttle crew heard a distinct clang as the disk hit and stuck.

In the monitoring room of the L.A.Times, Carstens, Cutter, Calendar, and a crowd of the newspaper staff were standing and staring at the image of the NASA spokeswoman. Somebody had rigged the screens so that they formed a single giant picture. That, and the picture itself had changed. The spokeswoman was now carrying herself with confidence and smiling.

They watched as she stepped to the podium and grinned into the camera. After a dramatic pause, she said, "I can confirm that our crewmen used their space suits to evacuate Atlantis, and are now safely aboard the International Space Station."

The newspaper people heard their counterparts across the continent burst into a storm of questions.

The spokeswoman held up her hand as she started trying to answer a few of the questions. "No, I haven't been fully briefed as to the details of their rescue...Yes, they are in excellent condition and will be brought home on the next shuttle mission...No, at this time Atlantis looks to be a complete loss...No, I can't speculate on how it was done. I..."

With a snort Carstens turned and motioned for Cutter and Calendar to follow him. He quickly eased between the others in the room and out into the paper's big city room.

Heading for his office he growled, "She's dancing around something. I'd be willing to bet they were saved by some sort of top-secret government spaceship."

Catharine's brow crinkled. "Aurora maybe?"

Carstens shrugged. "Well, rumor has it that it's a super-secret, hypersonic, suborbital replacement for the old SR-71."

Calendar shook her head and said, "That doesn't sound right. If it's suborbital, how did it rescue them from orbit?"

Cutter nodded. "And, most recon birds don't have seating for four extra people. Not to mention an airlock to bring them on board."

Now it was Carstens turn to nod. "Right. Okay, this is hot. I want you two on this. Yeah, yeah, we'll run the standard NASA blurb. Go ahead and get the human interest side of it. What their families think, heroically pushing the limits of exploration and all that. Push the whole deal. But, find out what really happened...What?"

He was brought up short when he realized that both Cutter and Calendar had come to an abrupt halt and were now several paces behind him, glaring at each other.

At his question, they both broke and started rattling off.

Cutter grumped, "She's a rookie-geek! All she's ever done is..."

Calendar wasn't to be outdone, as she rattled, "He doesn't know squat about tracking down a tech story! He's all scandal and crime."

Cutter was winning the volume contest. "She doesn't know jack about tracking down a real story. If it's not on the Internet, she..."

Carstens stood there, head bowed and eyes closed, holding the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Finally, having heard enough, he silenced them with a slice of his hand. "Cut it! This is just what you both need. Cutter, you're too hot a ticket after blowing the whistle on that mobster. You'll be lucky to avoid a subpoena. Running second fiddle on a tech story is just the thing to keep you off the FBI's radar.

"Calendar, say what you want. But, he knows his shit when it comes to tracking down a story. Okay? Either of you have a problem with that? Comments?"

Both reporters glared at each other. Without breaking the staring contest, Cutter grumbled, "Yeah, I got a comment." He raised his hand and gestured by holding his two middle fingers extended and spread apart, his index and little finger curled down, effectively giving the editor a double-finger salute. "Live long and prosper."

Calendar gave a distracted snort. "Actually, the Vulcan salute uses all four fingers extended."

She smiled brightly as she demonstrated a proper Vulcan salute.

Cutter and Carstens gave her blank looks for a moment. Then, both simply turned and walked away. Cutter rubbed his forehead and gave a dramatic groan.

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In Carstens' office, Cutter and Calendar were sitting across from Carstens' desk. They were watching the editor, as he read through the pages in a manila folder. After he finished the last page, he closed the folder and looked at them suspiciously. "This all you've got?"

Calendar shrugged. "NASA and the astronauts are sticking to the story that they were rescued by the crew of the space station, flying over to get them in their escape pods."

Carstens waved both hands in a "so what?" gesture. "What's wrong with that? It sounds reasonable to me."

Calendar shook her head. "Because those escape pods are old Soyez capsules. They haven't been updated since the 1980s."

Cutter added his two cents' worth, "It'd be like trying to drive a wheel barrow down the freeway."

Calendar gave him an irritated glare before going on, "I mean, if they could do that...Why would they need the shuttle to service orbital laboratories and telescopes? Why not just go puttering around in the pods like some sort of orbital golf carts."

Carstens gave her a grumpy glare. "Why are you asking me? Aren't you the tech reporter here? Isn't it your job to answer questions like that? Tell me again, why I'm paying you? Maybe it's just an excuse for NASA to keep funding the shuttle? Find out."

They all jumped as a sudden "tweedle" sound filled the room. Cutter gave them a shamed little grin as he pulled out his cell phone and flicked it open. He tapped a couple of buttons, then stared at the tiny screen for a moment, reading the text message that came up.

After a moment he switched the phone off, closed it and stuck it into his jacket pocket. He gave the others a little grin and said, "Um, it was from a source. He's got a tip for me."

Carstens gave him a suspicious glare. "A source? On this story? It better be on this story. I told you I didn't want you on your regular beat. The feds are still looking for any excuse to fry your ass."

Cutter licked his lips nervously. "Uh, yeah. Sure it's on this story."

Calendar wasn't buying it either, as she asked, "What kind of tip is it?"

Cutter shrugged and glanced around the room nervously. "Ah, it's a...um...about that...that tape. Yeah, that tape that's been going around the Internet."

Calendar turned to an incredulous Carstens. "Some guy claims he was monitoring the emergency radio chatter between NASA and the shuttle."

Cutter ran with the opportunity offered by her explanation. "Yeah, um...uh...He said that since it was an emergency, backup system, it wasn't encrypted."

Calendar nodded absentmindedly. "You were there when I tracked it down. You know it's complete bull."

Cutter shrugged. "Well, there was that photo from the amateur astronomer, the one with the big-ass telescope."

That perked Carstens' interest. "Photo? Why haven't I heard about this?"

Calendar stepped in. Red-faced she glared at Cutter. "Because it's all bull. He heard about the tape and photo-shopped a fake. Just some geek looking to get his name in the paper."

Carstens glanced back and forth between the two reporters. "What the hell are you guys talking about?"

Calendar snorted. "There's some cock-and-bull story, that the shuttle crew was saved by the miraculous appearance of Captain Nemo and his mystical, magical, flying submarine."

Carstens' face was turning various shades of red, through to purple and back. But his voice was still controlled as he asked, "You're shitting me, right?"

Calendar shook her head. "No, really, that's the story."

Carstens turned to the other reporter. His voice dangerously calm, he asked, "Cutter, you've got to be kidding me?"

The experienced reporter knew a train wreck coming when he saw it. "No, well, you see, I...Oh, I remembered what you've always said about assuming things. So I, ah, remembered that the Russians had sold off some of their deactivated nuke boats for scrap prices, from when I was covering the war."

Carstens nodded and grunted, "Uh-huh."

Cutter licked his lips again. "Yeah, and, ah, remember, they caught that one guy. He bought and converted a surplus submarine for smuggling."

Carstens nodded again. "No shit."

Cutter shrugged. "Well, how hard could it be to track down a submarine?"

Carstens calmly stood up and leaned toward them, both fists on the desk. After a moment he roared, "Get the hell out of here! Both of you! And take your lying ass and that National Enquirer crap with you! If this is the kind of shit I can expect, you two will be out of here, and on your asses so fast you won't hear the thud for a week! Now, bring me something or start cleaning out your desks!"

Cutter and Calendar beat a hasty retreat. As the door closed behind them and Cutter headed for his desk, Calendar grabbed his arm and spun him around.

Ignoring the others in the city room she snarled, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Cutter glanced around the room nervously. Making "shushing" motions with his hands he muttered, "Now look, I'm sorry. I was caught flat-footed and had to try to bullshit him. And, it didn't work. Okay? I admit it; I screwed up. But this is worth it."

Calendar gave him a suspicious look. "What's worth it?"

Cutter said, "Remember how I told you the initial info I got on that witness protection crap was in an email from an anonymous source?"

Calendar nodded. Pointing at the pocket Cutter had put his phone in, she asked, "That was him?"

Cutter nodded eagerly. "Yeah, he wants to meet. And, he's got some info on a major deal going down. Some gang-bangers are trading up for some major firepower."

Calendar was thinking fast. "Ah, and if he has info on people in the witness protection program and arms smuggling...then he'll have access to government 'black programs' and be able to get the goods on this NASA cover-up for us."

Cutter blinked in surprise. "Um, okay, that works too."

Calendar gave him a suspicious look. "Why? What were you thinking?"

Cutter grinned sheepishly and weakly muttered, "Oh, ah, that if I could bring in a solid story on a guns-for-drugs deal, it could save my job?"

Calendar angrily hissed, "And where did I fit in this? Or, were you just going to throw me under the bus? Especially after it was you and your B.S. that got us in this spot to begin with?"

Cutter stuttered, "Oh, um...y-you can write up the techie stuff on the weapons. Like points of origin, maximum kiloton rates of fire, and all that stuff."

Calendar glared at him. "Uh huh, and exactly when and where are you supposed to meet this source? Don't you think I should be there too? So I can get all these technical details? Or would you rather I go tell Carstens that you're blowing off his instructions to stay off your crime beat?"

Cutter blinked at her in surprise. "You wouldn't! You would."

Calendar gave him an evil grin. "You throw me under the bus. I throw you under the bus."

Cutter glanced around nervously before surrendering. "Okay, he's supposed to pick me up in front of my place tonight at eleven sharp."

With her evil grin still firmly in place, Calendar reached up and tapped his cell phone where it rested in his pocket. "When you RSVP him to tell him you'll be there, be sure to tell him you'll be bringing a date."

Cutter gave her a weak grin. "Uh, yeah, sure thing."

Calendar said, "For that matter, why don't you do it right now, so I can watch?"

Sullenly Cutter pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.

The street in front of the upper-class condo was busy. Cutter and Calendar were standing, waiting impatiently. They were dressed in neatly pressed, business-formal attire.

Calendar tapped her foot and looked at her watch. With her voice pitched in a low growl, she muttered, "Look, Cutter, this guy had better show. Or I'm making a phone call at eleven-oh-one."

Cutter threw up his hands in exasperation. "Hey look! I've never met the guy, okay? I don't know if he's punctual or not. I just know he gave me some really good info. That's it. So, he says to be here at eleven, I'm here at eleven."

Calendar didn't give an inch. "Well, this had better work or we're both—"

Cutter cut her off with a grin. "Looks like our ride's here."

A massive Hummer SUV silently pulled up to the curb. It was the deep blue-black color of titanium. The color matched the heavily tinted windows. Cutter glanced down and saw it had a vanity plate saying "Mako." No sooner had it come to a stop than the chauffeur, a tall, leggy, redheaded woman, in a severe charcoal gray jumpsuit and chauffeur's cap, jumped out and opened the rear door for them.

They didn't have to bend over to see that the only other occupant of the vehicle was a well formed man in a gray jumpsuit. Twin teardrop-shaped pins glinted at his collar.

With a smile the man gave them a polite nod in lieu of a formal bow. "Ah, the honorable Mr. Cutter, I presume. Please forgive me if I kept you waiting. I am Captain Jacob Brinn. And this is?"

Cutter said, "This is Ms. Catharine Calendar. She's the technical reporter with the Times."

Captain Brinn's grin was wide and genuine as he said, "Indeed! Delighted to meet you, my dear. Please be seated; we have an appointment and we daren't be late."

With Calendar in the lead, the two slid into the Hummer's plush rear seat. As she passed the silent chauffeur holding the door for them, Catharine saw her giving them both a hard, measuring look. Catharine couldn't help but shudder at the cold, emotionless, almost lizard-like appraisal and promise that those eyes held.

She felt a surge of relief as the redhead closed the door before climbing into the driver's seat and pulling the Hummer away from the curb.

The rear seat of the customized Hummer was spacious and plush. There was a thick, padded console between the back seat and the front. A tinted-glass window was raised, sealing the rear off from the forward driver's area. The back of the seat was against another solid partition that separated it from the vehicle's rear cargo area.

The two reporters looked around as the lights of the city started streaming past the tinted windows.

With a start Calendar turned to the Captain. "Is this electric? I didn't know you could get this in electric. Or, is it a hybrid?"

Captain Brinn stared absentmindedly out the window for a moment before answering. He smiled as he said, "You would be surprised at the options available. And, I have made a few modifications of my own."

Cutter got his attention by tapping the door glass on his own side. "Yeah, like armored glass?"

Captain Brinn chuckled. "Some of my more exotic enterprises can become quite distressing, if one is not properly prepared."

Cutter grinned. "So, Captain...Brinn, is it? What kind of enterprises do you handle for the government?"

Brinn's grin widened. "A reporter indeed. What makes you think I work for the government?"

Cutter pulled out his notebook and a pen. "Well, sir, you did give me the goods on that gangster, and he was on the FBI's witness protection program."

With an enthusiastic nod, Catharine joined in. "And, Cutter here tells me that you tipped him on arms smuggling. Only someone with access to government files could have gotten that info."

Brinn nodded. "Ah, I see. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you. As for the miscreant, he was known for having a predilection for a particularly vile and violent perversion when it came to his amorous relationships. My dear, a leopard cannot change its spots. I simply monitored police and emergency room reports until I could identify a particularly likely area on the map." He shrugged. "Then, it was simply a matter of hiring a rather nondescript, but very discreet detective agency. I soon had all the information I needed to put Mr. Cutter on the trail."

Catharine was crestfallen as she muttered, "Oh."

But, Cutter wasn't giving up. "And the info on the arms smuggling?"

Captain Brinn laughed. "Ah that. Well, there you have me. In another of my professional incarnations, I'm the one that brokered the deal. So naturally, I have the information." He turned to gaze calmly at the city lights as Cutter and Calendar traded worried looks.

Calendar gulped. "So, you don't know about the rescue of the shuttle crew?"

They were caught off guard as the Captain's head snapped around in surprise. His expression was wondering as he asked, "Ah, excuse me. Why would you be asking me about that?"

Cutter's expression was puzzled. "Well, we thought that if you had access to secret government files, you might be able to tell us what actually happened up there."

Captain Brinn relaxed. Nodding he said, "I see. So you don't believe the official story?"

Catharine said, "Let's just say it makes about as much sense as that cock-and-bull story about the flying submarine that's been making its way around the Internet."

The Captain chuckled as he turned to study the scene streaming past the window. "I see. Well, my dear, as a cautionary note you might heed the words of the bard. To paraphrase: 'There are more things under heaven and earth than can be conceived of by our science'."

Cutter blinked at this. "Huh?"

Calendar was more to the point. "Are you trying to tell me...?"

Without turning Captain Brinn raised his hand. "I am simply asking you to keep an open mind."

He turned to Catharine and gave her a quirky smile. "Never mind. Can I assume it is in the hope of obtaining such information that we owe the pleasure of your presence, my dear?"

Seeing her dejected nod, he chuckled. "Ah, well, I'm afraid you'll have to be patient. You see, I had a bit of an ulterior motive in providing Mr. Cutter here with the information I have."

Cutter rolled his eyes. His tone was sarcastic as he said, "Oh? Above and beyond wanting to see justice done? Who would have guessed?"

Captain Brinn actually laughed at that. "That too. Now, don't be disappointed, my good sir. The story was something of a test. Which I might add you passed surprisingly well."

Cutter traded a wary glance with Calendar before asking, "What test?"

Brinn was looking out the window again. "I needed to see if you would be willing and able to see the truth come out. This, despite the sensibilities of the US Government, and at some professional risk."

Cutter's mouth twisted into a sardonic grin. "So, what do I win?"

The Captain didn't turn from the window. "After tonight's business is completed, I was planning to offer you a proposal. One I believe you will find hard to turn down. To say the least."

Cutter had to laugh at that. "An offer I can't refuse?"

"Indeed," said the Captain. Now he turned to Catharine. "Ms. Calendar, while I approached Mr. Cutter because of his reporter's skill and reputation, I would be delighted to have you along as well. For your technical expertise as well as your delightful company."

Catharine glanced nervously from one man to the other. "This offer doesn't involve a horse's head or anything, does it?"

Captain Brinn blinked at this. "A horse's head? Dear me, no."

Cutter said, "Okay, so that's for later. What's this business we have to do first? And, what about this guns-for-drugs deal you've said you set up?"

Captain Brinn chuckled. "My dear sir, that guns-for-drugs deal IS the business appointment we're headed for."

Calendar gulped. "What? Um, hey, I'm just the paper's tech geek. What say you let me out anywhere along here?"

Brinn gave her a disarming smile. "Oh my dear. I'm afraid that would be quite impossible. First, because this is not a neighborhood a single young woman would be safe in, especially at this time of night. Second, because we're here."

The two reporters took a good look out the windows. They were on a street in one of LA's least reputable neighborhoods. The Hummer slowed and turned to carefully climb over the curb to pull onto an empty, trash-strewn lot. The vehicle made a wide turn to face back toward the empty street. The headlights created a cone of light that just reached the wall of the abandoned, boarded-up, and graffiti-marked building on the other side of the street.

In the back seat of the Hummer, Captain Brinn pushed a button on the console. It opened up to reveal a compact, but efficient, and complex computer/communications system and several racks of small, oddly-shaped objects. Some of them looked vaguely weapon-like. Everything was marked with cryptic symbols or, like the computer system, in a neat, blocky alphabet that neither of the reporters recognized.

To the two reporters, Brinn said, "If you will excuse me..." He reached up to take a flat, circular, palm-sized metal disk off a rack. He flipped a switch on the disk and checked the glowing-green numbers on the readout. Nodding, he slipped the disk into the pocket of his coverall.

He then took out and activated a second disk. Reaching forward he pushed a button that lowered the glass partition. Without a word, the chauffeur reached back to take the second disk. She slipped it into the pocket of her coverall before opening the door to climb out of the vehicle.

Opening his own door, Captain Brinn turned to the reporters, and said, "Please be so good as to stay in the vehicle, if only for your own safety. And, oh, please don't touch anything. Some of the vehicle's accouterments can be quite distressing to the uninitiated." He then closed the cover on the console and climbed out of the vehicle. He carefully closed the door behind him and turned to join the chauffeur standing in the beams from the Hummer's headlights.

Calendar turned to Cutter, who seemed to be trying to look in all directions at once. With a gulp she asked, "Think we should make a run for it?"

Cutter waved a distracted hand toward her. With his other hand he pulled out his cell phone. With a growl he muttered, "Not on your life. Damn!" No matter what he tried, he couldn't get the phone to synch up. Putting it back in his pocket, he reached down and picked up the old-fashioned notebook and pen he'd set on the partition in front of them. Flipping the notebook open, he started scribbling notes.

While this was happening, Calendar pulled out her own Blackberry. But, she couldn't connect either. Putting it away, she looked through the Hummer's windshield.

Cutter was trying his phone again. "Why won't these damned things work?"

His attention was drawn by Calendar's whispered, "Oh shit!"

He looked forward to see that a long, white limousine had pulled to the curb in front of the Hummer. Four very large and muscular men in nondescript but well fitting suits had gotten out. The three holding the automatic rifles stayed slightly behind the fourth who walked empty handed over to Captain Brinn.

The two reporters could see Captain Brinn talking to the newcomer. But, they couldn't hear anything. They watched as the Captain and the newcomer traded a hearty hug.

Cutter was almost hopping with excitement. "Hot damn! That's Igor Sergeovitch; he's the top dog of the Russian Mafia's west coast operations. If he's here personally, this must really be some hot shit. Dammit, I can't hear anything!"

He turned to reach for his door's handle. But Catharine, who was still looking at the scene unfolding in front of the Hummer, grabbed his arm.

Puzzled, he turned to look at her. She was staring forward as she muttered, "I think we should do exactly as the man said and stay right here."

Cutter turned to look forward, and blinked. From the left, a long black Mercedes limo had pulled up and stopped at the edge of the Hummer's beams, facing the Russian's limo. Four men got out; three holding automatic rifles of their own.

Everybody but Captain Brinn and his chauffeur tensed as the four approached the others.

The reporters watched as Brinn greeted the newcomers with a call and a friendly wave of his hand. These were large, muscular Hispanic men. They were dressed in suits that were brighter, but as well tailored as the Russians'.

Cutter blinked. "Crap! I recognize the second guy from the left. I don't know his name, but the cops got his picture from a bank's security camera after a robbery. He's with MI-13."

Calendar gave him a puzzled look. "MI-13?"

Cutter said, "Yeah, a bunch of them joined the Mexican Army as Special Forces Commandos. After their hitch, they left the service and hired on as freelance mercenaries to the drug cartels in their cocaine wars. If the lead guy is Igor's counterpart, he must be Commander Machetareo."

Calendar blinked. "Machetareo? Isn't that...?"

Cutter nodded. "Yeah, it's Spanish for 'The Machete.' It's his trademark to dismember his victims. Even if they're already dead."

Calendar gulped. "Oh boy. I really do think you can have the crime beat all to yourself from now on."

As they watched, Captain Brinn turned and looked back at the Hummer. He nodded politely to the chauffeur and said something the reporters couldn't hear. They saw him give them a cold smile as the chauffeur pulled out a key-fob, pointed it at the Hummer and clicked it. The Hummer's four-way lights flashed, the door locks thumped down, and there was a loud alarm beep.

The two in the car saw Brinn and the two crime lords laugh and continue talking, while the six guards continued to watch each other.

Watching the tableau, Calendar gulped nervously. In a very quiet voice she muttered, "Something's up."

Cutter, frustrated by not being able to hear them, growled, "You think? We've got a half-dozen or so gangsters with machine-guns, and you think something's up?"

Calendar shook her head. "No, something else..."

Everybody jumped when a sheet of plywood, that had been covering a window in the building across the street, suddenly popped free and fell to the street. All six guards snapped around, guns up, pointing at the building. With practiced speed, both crime bosses had drawn pistols and leveled them at each other.

The two reporters watched as a laughing Captain Brinn talked the tension out of the situation. He gently reached up and pushed the two bosses' guns down with his own hands.

Then, things started happening fast.

The windows in the building across the street started shattering; plywood sheets splintered and popped free; mortar crumbled and bricks cascaded into the street as the building's facade disintegrated.

First a Russian gunman doubled up in agony. A Mexican vomited. Soon, all were twisting in agony as weapons dropped from nerveless fingers.

Cutter and Calendar watched in horror as blood spurted from eyes, ears, noses, and mouths.

All this time, Captain Brinn and the chauffeur were standing in the middle of the carnage. They simply watched the slaughter with mild interest. At one point, the Captain calmly reached up to flick a bit of dust off his coverall.

As the last of the mobsters stopped twitching, Captain Brinn turned to the chauffeur. With a curt nod, the chauffeur pulled out her key-fob and pointed it at the Hummer.

As the chauffeur clicked her fob [flash, click, beep], the Captain was talking into his wristwatch.

Catharine gulped. "It's probably safe to get out now."

Staring at the bodies, Cutter said, "Yeah, probably." He didn't move toward the door.

Neither moved as a black truck pulled up and several men and women jumped out. Most looked to be Polynesian, but with others mixed in as well. Without hesitation, they rushed over to the limousines. Moving with quick efficiency, they popped the trunks.

The two reporters watched as the people pulled what appeared to be weapons' cases out of the trunks and hauled them back to the truck. At least one of the cases was marked with the international symbol for radioactive material.

Calendar and Cutter watched as the Captain checked the area and the limousines before returning for a quick conference with the driver of the truck and the chauffeur.

When it was over, the chauffeur joined the driver in the truck's cab.

As it started up and pulled off into the street, the Captain walked over to the driver's door of the Hummer and opened it.

Cutter gulped. Pointing at the bodies still lying in the Hummer's headlights, he asked, his voice shaky, "What the hell happened?"

Brinn gave him a cold smile. "An arms deal just went horribly right."

Calendar nodded. Turning, she opened her door. "We're outta here."

The Captain chuckled. "I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that, my dear."

Calendar stiffened and went pale as Cutter growled, "What do you mean?"

Rather than replying, Captain Brinn reached over and activated the control on a small TV screen that was set into the middle of the Hummer's dashboard. When it lit up they could see pictures of Cutter, Catharine, the chauffeur, and the Captain flashing across the screen. A descriptive scroll rolled across the bottom. The pictures appeared to have been taken when they met at the curb in front of Cutter's condo.

Captain Brinn motioned to the screen. "The live feed the FBI is sending to the local forces of law and order. My good sir, did you really think that after exposing their 'witness protection' miscreant, the FBI wouldn't have you under the closest scrutiny? And now..." He waved a hand toward the contorted bodies. "They will be able to reclassify you both as terrorists. Which, under your country's rather draconian terrorism laws, strips you of all rights...including the right not to be tortured."

Cutter and Catharine exchanged The Look. Finally, Cutter said, "Okay, you've made your point. What next?"

Captain Brinn smiled. "I said I had a proposition for you. I am planning a little trip out of the country, and would like you to accompany me."

Catharine gulped. "And, if we don't want to go?"

Brinn shrugged. "Then you are free to leave and take your chances with the authorities. Tough after recent events. I can assure you they will be quite excitable about your being involved with me."

Cutter shook his head. "What kind of trip?"

"I am going to battle against all flags. It will be a voyage with wonders beyond imagination and terrors beyond nightmare. Or, if nothing else, I can assure you I've retained the services of a first-rate chef, and stocked an excellent wine rack."

Catharine waved at the screen. "But, if we run, we'll never be able to come back."

The Captain chuckled at this. "Trust me, my dear. Upon your return, the authorities will be perfectly willing to trade immunity for the information you will have. They will have far more to worry about than prosecuting a couple of reporters."

Cutter nodded. "An offer we can't refuse..."

Brinn turned dead serious. "We don't have much time. What is your answer?"

Cutter shook his head. "I only have one question. No bullshit now; what happened here?"

Captain Brinn shrugged. "I needed certain materials to complete my preparations. Over the years I have made several contacts with various high-level crime organizations. I found these two to be particularly reprehensible. I decided to, as they say in America, 'kill two birds with one stone' and rid your country of these parasites."

He waved toward the bodies. "I informed the Russians that the mercenaries wanted nuclear material to make a 'dirty bomb.' I informed the Mexicans that the Russians wanted to buy some heavy weapons. When in actuality, I was laying an ambush for both."

White-faced, Catharine waved her hand toward the bodies. "So, you killed these men because they were the worst of cold-blooded killers? Then, what does that make you? Justice?"

Captain Brinn looked at her, his expression blank. After a moment he said, "Justice? No, my dear, not justice. Irony. It makes me the embodiment of pure irony. So, what is your answer?"

After trading looks, both reporters nodded and Catharine slammed her door shut.

Captain Brinn grinned and climbed into the driver's seat. "Excellent! Buckle yourselves in. The world as you know it has ended."

He started the vehicle. With a crunch of gravel and rubble he turned to avoid the bodies, slipped over the curb into the street and turned to head for the nearest freeway.

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