Hedrick has a heck of a problem, Charley thought. If she had needed any confirmation of Hedrick's intentions, his indecision just now certainly supplied it. He never intended for the saucer to reach Paris. However, if he destroyed it before he received the Europeans' money, he would probably never get paid. The saucer had to be intact and Pieraut alive and well when the money arrived in Hedrick's banks or he would never be able to hang on to the bucks.
And then there were the Japanese. The commandos were either trying to steal the saucer or destroy it, and if they succeeded at either mission Hedrick wasn't going to collect money from anyone. It was a nice problem.
Charley helped herself to another glass of water. More bullets came through the main window, and the crowd around Hedrick's desk ducked below the level of the windowsill.
'Where is my army protection?' Hedrick roared at the two government ministers, who were huddled on the floor beside him.
As if in answer, a tank loosed off a round nearby. The boom took out another couple of windowpanes.
Just then Red Sharkey and two of his men marched the senior Japanese delegate, Hideo Ota, into the room at the point of a gun. Sharkey had a battery-powered radio transceiver in his hand. It was squawking gobbledygook.
Hedrick went at Ota like a tiger. '
Hideo Ota had had it with Hedrick. His face twisted in a snarl. 'How would I know?' he asked in heavily accented English.
'I think your government is trying to steal the saucer or destroy it. You
'I don't care what you think,' Ota replied and calmly crossed his arms. Hedrick slapped him. To his credit, the negotiator pretended not to feel the blow.
Apparently shocked by his own behavior, Hedrick backed away several steps and wiped his face again. He put the handkerchief in his pocket, squared his shoulders, shot his cuffs, checked his tie.
His eyes came to rest on Charley Pine. 'Fly the saucer to Paris,' he said.
'How is she going to get to the hangar?' Red Sharkey asked. 'They're having a war out there.'
The two Tomahawk missiles flew only a hundred feet above the waves. They flew into a rain shower, rode through the turbulence, and came flying out the other side unaffected.
The crew of a small fishing boat making a set saw the missiles. Before the sailors caught sight of the missiles, they heard the engines over the noise of the boat's diesel engine. One of the men pointed, and seconds later the first missile flew almost over the boat. The second one passed a hundred yards to the south about a minute later.
When the missiles had disappeared in the haze to the west and the noise of their engines had faded, the fishermen talked about what they had seen. The captain radioed his base in Sydney — his wife — and left it to her to decide if the government should be informed about the missiles. Then the fishermen went back to work.
Rip Cantrell ran back down the central corridor of the horse barn. He looked in every stall. If he could find a vehicle, figure out a way to get to the house, where Charley was…
Nothing. Four very nervous horses were prancing in their stalls, nickering loudly, their eyes rolling, but there wasn't even a golf cart in the barn.
He reached the end farthest from the house and peeked through tiny cracks between the boards of the door. Two tanks were clanking down the hill, men were running for the foxholes at the base of the hill, wisps of smoke were rising from a far tree line.
Even as he watched, something struck one of the tanks. It seemed to stagger as fire and smoke erupted from the open top hatch. The tank ground to a halt. One man tried to climb from the hatch with his clothes on fire. His face was blackened. He got halfway out of the turret and collapsed facedown. Smoke rose from his clothing.
Rip went back through the barn, opening tack-storage closets and food bins. He was near panic when he saw a silver serving tray sitting on top of a barrel. On the tray were two empty wineglasses.
Rip opened the door to the main storage room. Tools, saddles, bridles, brooms, sacks of feed… and a door. He jerked it open. A stairway led down. Rip dashed down the stairs as the door swung shut behind him.
At the bottom of the stairs was a narrow corridor that turned right, toward the main house. The underground corridor was lit by bulbs every thirty or forty feet. Rip ran along it.
He saw a stairway ahead. The door at the top was unlocked. On the other side he found himself in another narrow passageway.
There was something familiar about this one…
He had been here before! He was under the main house. He kept going, went around a turn, and was looking through a glass panel in a door into the kitchen. No one in sight.
Staying low, below the tops of the counters, he slipped through the kitchen and took a look into the main dining room.
A man with a rifle was moving from window to window, looking out.
Rip looked around the kitchen. A rolling pin was handy, so he picked it up. As he turned he saw the dining room door opening, and he ducked down.
The man came along between the work islands. As he hurried by, Rip smacked him in the knee with the rolling pin.
The man went down hard, swearing. Before he could get the unwieldy rifle around in that confined space, Rip tapped him experimentally on the head with the pin. The thunk of wood against skull was sickening. The Aussie collapsed to the floor and let rip a mighty oath.
Rip gritted his teeth. He was going to have to hit the man harder, take the chance of cracking his skull. He swung the pin again, put more muscle into it.
The gunman went limp.
Rip got the rifle, checked the magazine, eased the bolt back for a look. Yep, he saw the gleam of brass.
The safety must be this lever here, and it was on.
He had done enough hunting as a teenager to be familiar with rifles, but he had never before handled a genuine assault weapon. Two spare magazines were in the unconscious man's pockets. Both were full of cartridges.
The gunman was out cold. Or dead. Rip felt his carotid artery for a pulse. still there. He touched his skull where the rolling pin had whacked him. A large knot, big as an egg, was swelling up. The skull didn't feel pulpy.
With the rifle at the ready, Rip Cantrell slipped out of the kitchen into the dining room, then made his way deeper into the main house.
Captain Koki Owada of the Japanese Self-Defense Force threw himself against the bottom of the hangar personnel door and tried to catch his breath. Four of his men threw themselves to the ground near him.
He had had six men with him when he started; two were now dead.
Owada keyed the microphone switch on the back of his left hand and spoke into the headset he wore. 'Red One is at the hangar door. We're going in now.'
'Blue One, roger. The Diggers have their heads down.' Blue One started the day with two dozen commandos. Koki Owada had not asked how many were still alive.
'Red Two, open the door.'
Lieutenant Kawaguchi complied.
Owada dove through the door with his rifle at the ready.
No people visible.
The saucer sat in the middle of the bay facing the door.
Owada scanned the gloomy interior, ready to shoot. Not a soul in sight.
He posted two of his men outside, then he and Kawaguchi approached the saucer.
Extraordinary. It was so large, so…
