Clear and Present Danger

'What about SHOWBOAT?' the President asked while buttering his croissant.

'It's underway, sir. Ritter's people are already at work,' Cutter replied.

'I'm still worried about security on the operation.'

'Mr. President, it's as tight as one could reasonably expect. There are risks - you can't avoid them all - but we're keeping the number of people involved to an absolute minimum, and those people have been carefully selected and recruited.'

That earned the National Security Adviser a grunt. The President was trapped - and as with nearly every president, it had come about from his own words. Presidential promises and statements... the people had this annoying way of remembering them. And even if they didn't there were journalists and political rivals who never passed on a chance to make the necessary reminders. So many things had gone right in this presidency. But so many of those were secret - and, annoyingly to Cutter, those secrets had somehow been kept. Well, they had to be, of course. Except that in the political arena no secret was truly sacred, most especially in an election year. Cutter wasn't supposed to be concerned with that. He was a professional naval officer, and therefore supposed to be apolitical in his outlook on the ins and outs of national security, but whoever had formulated that particular guideline must have been a monk. Members of the senior executive service did not take vows of poverty and chastity, however - and obedience was also a sometime thing.

'I promised the American people that we'd do something about this problem,' the President observed crossly. 'And we haven't accomplished shit.'

'Sir, you cannot deal with threats to national security through police agencies. Either our national security is threatened or it is not.' Cutter had been hammering that point for years. Now, finally, he had a receptive audience.

Another grunt: 'Yeah, well, I said that, too, didn't I?'

'Yes, Mr. President. It's time they learned a lesson about how the big boys play.' That had been Cutter's position from the beginning, when he'd been Jeff Pelt's deputy, and with Pelt now gone it was his view that had finally prevailed.

'Okay, James. It's your ball. Run with it. Just remember that we need results.'

'You'll get 'em, sir. Depend on that.'

'It's time those bastards were taught a lesson,' the President thought aloud. He was certain that the lessons would be hard ones. On that he was correct. Both men sat in a room in which was focused and from which emanated the ultimate power of the most powerful nation in the history of civilization. The people who selected the man who occupied that room did so above all for their protection. Protection against the vagaries of foreign powers and domestic bullies, against all manner of enemies. Those enemies came in many forms, some of which the founding fathers had not quite anticipated. But one sort that had been anticipated existed in this very room... though it was not the one the President had in mind.

The sun rose an hour later on the Caribbean coast, and unlike the climate-controlled comfort of the White House, here the air was thick and heavy with humidity on what promised to be yet another sultry day under a lingering high-pressure system. The forested hills to the west reduced the local winds to a bare whisper, and the owner of Empire Builder was past being ready to go to sea, where the air was cooler and the breezes unrestricted.

His crewmen arrived late. He didn't like their looks, but he didn't have to. Just so long as they behaved themselves. After all, his family was aboard.

'Good morning, sir. I am Ram n. This is Jes s,' the taller one said. What troubled the owner was that they were so obviously tidied-up versions of... of what? Or had they merely wanted to look presentable?

'You think you can handle this?' the owner asked.

' Si . We have experience with large motor craft.' The man smiled. His teeth were even and brushed. This was a man who took care with his appearance at all times, the owner thought. He was probably being overly cautious. 'And Jes s, you will see, is a fine cook.'

Charming little bastard . 'Okay, crew quarters are forward. She's tanked up, and the engines are already warm. Let's get out where it's cool.'

' Muy bien, Capit n .' Ram n and Jes s unloaded their gear from the jeep. It took several trips to get it all stowed, but by nine in the morning, MY Empire Builder slipped her mooring lines and stood out to sea, passing a handful of party boats heading out with yanqui tourists and their fishing rods. Once in open waters, the yacht turned north. It would take three days.

Ram n already had the wheel. That meant he sat in a wide, elevated chair while the autopilot - 'George' - handled the steering. It was an easy ride. The Rhodes had fin stabilizers. About the only disappointment was in the crew accommodations, which the owner had neglected. So typical, Ram n thought. A multimillion-dollar yacht with radar and every possible amenity, but the crew who operated it didn't have so much as a television set and VCR to amuse themselves when off duty...

He moved forward on the seat, craning his neck to look on the fo'c'sle. The owner was there, asleep and snoring, as though the work of taking the yacht out to sea had exhausted him. Or perhaps his wife had tired him out? She was beside her husband, lying facedown on her towel. The string for her bikini top was untied so as to give her back an even tan. Ram n smiled. There were many ways for a man to amuse himself! But better to wait. Anticipation made it all the better. He heard the sound of a taped movie in the main salon, aft of the bridge, where their children were watching some movie or other. It never occurred to him to feel pity for any of the four. But he was not completely heartless. Jes s was a good cook. They both approved of giving the condemned a hearty meal.

It was just light enough to see without the night-vision goggles, the dawn twilight that the helicopter pilots hated because the eye had to adapt itself to a lightening sky and ground that was still in shadows. Sergeant Chavez's squad was seated and strapped in with four-point safety belts, and between the knees of each was a weapon. The UH-60A Blackhawk helicopter swooped high over one of the hills and then dropped hard when past the crest.

'Thirty seconds,' the pilot informed Chavez over the intercom.

It was supposed to be a covert insertion, which meant that the helicopters were racing up and down the valleys, careful that their operational pattern should confuse any possible observer. The Blackhawk dove for the ground and pulled up short as the pilot eased back on the cyclic control stick, which gave the air craft a nose-up attitude, signaling the crew chief to slide the right-side door open and the soldiers to twist the release dials on their safety-belt buckles. The Blackhawk could touch down only for a moment.

'Go!'

Chavez went out first, moving perhaps ten feet from the door before he fell flat to the ground. The squad did the same, allowing the Blackhawk to lift off immediately, and rewarding each of its former passengers with a faceful of flying grit as it clawed its way back into the sky. It would reappear around the southern end of a hill as though it had never stopped. Behind it, the squad assembled and moved out into the treeline. Its work had just begun. The sergeant gave his commands with hand motions and led them off at a dead run. It would be his last mission, then he could relax.

At the Navy's weapons testing and development facility, China Lake, California, a team of civilian technicians and some Navy ordnance experts hovered over a new bomb. Built with roughly the same dimensions as the old two-thousand-pounder, it weighed nearly seven hundred pounds less. This resulted from its construction. Instead of a steel skin, the bombcase was made of Kevlar-reinforced cellulose - an idea borrowed from the French, who made shell casings from the naturally produced fibers - with only enough metal fittings to allow attachment of fins, or the more extensive hardware that would convert it into an 'LGB,' able to track in on a specific point target. It was little known that a smart-bomb is generally a mere iron bomb with the guidance equipment bolted on.

'You're not going to get fragments worth a damn,' a civilian objected.

'What's the point of having a Stealth bomber,' another technician asked, 'if the bad guys get a radar return off the ordnance load?'

'Hmph,' observed the first. 'What's the point of a bomb that just pisses the other guy off?'

'Put it through his front door and he won't live long enough to get pissed, will he?'

'Hmph.' But at least he knew what the bomb was actually for. It would one day hang on the ATA, the Advanced Tactical Aircraft, a carrier-based attack bomber with stealth technology built in. Finally, he thought, the Navy's