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An hour passed, with no sign of any other humans out there.

They heard the Holly River long before they saw it. The roar of its fast-moving waters rose with an all-encompassing clamor. On reaching its rock-strewn bank they halted.

“This is the preserve’s northern border,” informed the ranger, whose powerful voice was barely audible over the rushing waters. “Militia territory begins on the other side. I’m afraid we’re going to get a little wet crossing over there.”

The water turned out to be icy cold, and at the deepest portion of the channel, it extended well up to their thighs. Ever cautious of the swift current, Thomas followed the ranger over the slippery footing.

The ranger seemed less concerned. “Wouldn’t be bad fishing here,” he said over his shoulder, “if you didn’t mind the risk of getting shot.”

Any sort of trail was conspicuously absent on this side of the river, and they passed through a grove of gnarled oaks. A ghostly fog had settled here, yet this didn’t stop Thomas from spotting the hand-scrawled sign that had been nailed to one of the tree trunks. It read: warning private property! no trespassing! no hunting or fishing VIOLATORS WILL BE SORRY!!!

The fog further thickened as they crossed a scrub-filled hollow. The air temperature had dropped a good ten degrees and an eerie silence prevailed, broken only by the heavy sound of their footsteps.

On the muddy banks of a small stream, the ranger stopped once more. He checked his compass before addressing them in a hushed voice.

“This hollow will lead us to a ridge that partially encircles the compound. We should get rid of this fog up there and get a good look at what we’re up against.”

“Heads up for snares and booby traps,” Thomas added. “Remember, these folks are being led by a professional soldier.”

They crossed a stream and began a slight uphill climb. The fog dissipated slightly as they passed through a stand of pines whose lower trunks were still wrapped in thick tendrils of swirling mist.

Thomas, second in line, sensed a sudden tentativeness to their guide’s steps. This circumspection proved to be a lifesaver when a hunting arrow struck the tree directly in front of the startled ranger. The razor-sharp, barbed tip penetrated the dense trunk with a resounding thwack. Two steps farther, and it would have impaled his neck.

“Take cover!” warned Thomas as the horrifying reality of this near miss sank in.

“Don’t bother!” countered a female voice from the surrounding wood. “If any of you go for your weapons, you’ll die!”

This chilling threat took human form as a line of heavily armed figures materialized out of the fog. White camouflage fatigues gave them a phantom-like appearance as they completely surrounded Thomas and his men with an overpowering force that made resistance impossible.

16

“Bond. James Bond,” said Ricky in his suave st mock-English accent, while making the final adjustments to his tuxedo.

Peering into his stateroom’s bathroom mirror, he straightened his bow tie and pulled his shirt cuffs beyond the tux jacket’s black sleeve. He had to admit, he liked what he saw. And to think he’d fought his mother every inch of the way when she urged him to purchase a tuxedo for the crossing.

He buttoned his double-breasted jacket, and had to reach out and grab onto the marble counter when the deck below began rolling from side to side. This rocking motion had been getting increasingly noticeable, especially within the last hour.

Ricky hoped that the rough seas responsible for this movement weren’t the first signs of the tropical storm that everyone had started talking about. The ocean had been almost perfectly calm until now, and the resulting ride was so smooth Ricky had sometimes forgotten he was at sea. But reality struck home when the hull of the giant ocean liner rolled in the grasp of yet another massive swell, throwing Ricky hard against the counter top.

At the same time, his cabin phone rang. Steadying himself, he moved to answer it, hoping the caller was Kristin. He thought they’d been getting along pretty well, and so, earlier in the day, he had invited her to attend this evening’s gala dinner. But she immediately turned him down, giving him some lame excuse about having to work then. Maybe she had reconsidered.

His hopes were dashed, though, when he spotted his father seated at the stateroom desk, the telephone to his ear.

“Of course I understand, Sam,” he said into the handset. “And, listen, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Take two right off. I guarantee that in a half hour, you’ll be feeling like your old self again.”

As he hung up the phone and began scribbling on a notepad, Ricky could see that the call had interrupted his father while he was getting dressed himself. His formal shirt was still partially open at the neck, the studs yet to be buttoned, his bow tie and cuff links still on the dresser.

“Problems, Pop?”

Dr. Jim Patton looked up and smiled as Ricky crossed over to him.

“You’re looking awfully handsome, son. Your mom would be mighty proud.”

The distinguished, silver-haired physician briefly turned his attention back to the notepad before adding, “Appears that these seas have caused my first real case of seasickness. How are you feeling?”

Ricky responded while bracing himself against the dresser as the QE2 rolled into another swell. “Right now, my stomach’s fine, but I feel like a punch-drunk sailor. I guess it’s going to take a little time for me to get my sea legs.”

“Don’t forget to watch that hip,” warned his father. “If these seas get much rougher, I’d like you to keep off your feet whenever possible.”

“I’ll be fine, Pop. And besides, when I was watching the sunset earlier with Kristin, the whole western horizon was aglow. You know what they say: Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” As if to spite nautical wisdom, the deck rolled over with enough force to cause Jim Patton’s jade Buddha cuff links to slide off the dresser. Ricky picked them up, and looked on as his father pulled a small vial of pills out of his medicine bag.

“I’d better get moving, or I’m going to be late for cocktails,” said Jim Patton, placing the vial at his side and reaching for his cuff links.

“I’ve still got to deliver these pills to Sam Morrison.”

“I can do it for you, Pop. After all, that’s the least I can do to help work off my passage.”

Jim Patton took a second to snap his right cuff link in place before picking up the vial and handing it to Ricky. “I appreciate the help.

Special Agent Morrison is waiting for these up on Signal Deck, outside the President’s Penthouse. And please, watch that leg of yours.”

Ricky flashed his father an okay sign, pocketed the plastic vial, and turned to leave the cabin. He had yet to visit that restricted portion of the ship where the heads of state were staying, and he needed to refer to his pocket map to find the way.

Because he had to travel by elevator whenever possible, he chose a somewhat convoluted route. A short detour took him down to Two Deck, where he headed forward to the A-Stairwell and an elevator that whisked him up to the Sports Deck. He turned to his left, passed by the Radio Room, and proceeded through the Queens Grill, as the staff was putting the finishing touches to the decorations for the gala. The aft exit brought him into the Lounge and the Signal Deck’s private elevator.

Before he could enter this small lift, he had to pass the scrutiny of a plainclothes security guard. This brawny, no nonsense individual asked to see Ricky’s ID, and after verifying his identity, inquired about the purpose of his visit to the Signal Deck. Ricky explained his mission of mercy and showed him the pills. The guard relayed this information into a miniature, two-way radio transmitter that projected from beneath the collar of his jacket. The response arrived via a compact ear receiver.