So the red dot reached the blue triangle without being spotted, dropped its bombs "destroying" the nuclear facility, and made its escape without incident, much to the delight of the military men in the room. After they had all filed out on their way to celebrate at the Fort Shafter Officers' Club, Foster sat alone in the Sim-Center, preparing the after-action review, which would be disseminated to the various commands involved.

Successful AARs were always harder for him to write, because there was little he could comment on. There were a few minor suggestions, but otherwise it was a pathetically thin report. And the problem with thin reports was that people then began to question the value of the Sim-Center. It was a Catch-22 that Foster had been fighting for over eight years.

The secure phone on his desk rang, and he frowned. It almost never rang unless a simulation was running. He stared at it through four rings, then reluctantly picked it up.

"Foster."

"Gambit Six."

The phone went dead, but Foster remained perfectly still, holding the receiver to his ear as if the voice would come back and retrieve the two words. They were words he had hoped to never hear.

The hammer came down on the Delta survivors draped with the thin velvet sheen of secrecy. It didn't soften the blow, just kept anyone other than the team from being aware of it. They were to get the hell out of the Philippines without anyone knowing they had left, just as no one had known they'd arrived. Vaughn found it ludicrous, because the world certainly knew they'd been here. But he kept his mouth shut, said "Yes sir," and, with his gear in hand, climbed into the back of the deuce-and-a-half covered truck that had backed up to the door of their isolation facility.

It wasn't fancy transportation to the airfield, and he suspected that if the military had them available, the team would be put on a World War II era DC-3 cargo plane to fly them back to the States. And the hope would be the aircraft would fall out of the sky and everyone would disappear. But that damned video wouldn't disappear. Vaughn had to wonder about that. Who had shot it? The filming began even before the missile impacted, which disturbed him greatly.

Had the Abu Sayef been that ready? Having a camera continually running to cover themselves in case of attack? But if they had been that ready, the defense would have been stronger than it was. If the LLDS had not malfunctioned, Vaughn was confident they could have rescued the hostages.

He was concentrating on these questions because it helped keep his mind from darker thoughts and emotions. Somewhat. The vision of Jenkins wouldn't go away. His sister had to have heard by now. He had written her a letter, including the photograph, but had no guarantee that the officer he'd handed it to would make sure it was delivered. He knew when he got back to the States that he had to visit her, which made him none too anxious to be returning home.

The truck lurched to a stop, almost throwing the men off the wooden bench they were seated on and tossing their gear about. Then the gears screeched as the truck reversed. Vaughn knew the drill. They were backing up to either a C-130 or C-141 cargo plane's back ramp. They would be off-loaded quickly, straight from truck to plane without touching the ground, the ramp closed, and then be in the air as soon as possible. Just like cargo, except now they were cargo no one wanted. He could pick up the familiar stench of JP-4 fuel burning, and the engines on the plane were already whining with power.

The canvas cover over the back of the truck was pulled aside by an Air Force crew chief. As expected, the back ramp of a C-130 cargo plane was waiting for them. As they got up to grab their gear, the crew chief held up a hand.

"Just the major," he said, pointing at Vaughn.

"The rest of you will be taken to another plane."

Vaughn frowned. He tossed his gear onto the ramp, said his good-byes to his teammates, then hopped onto the ramp. Even as his feet touched the metal, the crew chief was closing it. The truck pulled away with a belch of diesel exhaust, mixing with the exhaust from the C-130's four turboprop engines. The back ramp closed and Vaughn turned to the interior of the plane. The cargo bay was empty except for his gear, which the crew chief was stuffing into a bundle, the type used for an air drop.

"What are you doing?" he asked, shouting to be heard above the sound of the four turboprop engines revving up to taxiing speed.

The crew chief pointed at a parachute strapped down on the red webbing seating that ran along the outer bulkhead of the airplane.

"You got two hours until the drop zone, so you figure out when you want to rig."

"Where am I jumping? What the hell is going on?"

The crew chief shrugged.

"You're jumping onto Okinawa. Why, they don't bother to tell me those things. We got orders, we follow 'em."

He looked at Vaughn.

"You must be pretty damn important to get a whole plane just to drop you."

Vaughn didn't bother to tell the crew chief it was notoriety, not importance. He sat down on the red web seat as the plane lurched forward. He felt the absence of his teammates with the emptiness of the large cargo bay. The crew chief had finished rigging the bundle and gone up front to the cockpit.

Abruptly he stood up and walked to the front of the cargo bay, then back to the ramp. Then back again. He paused at the right rear door and peered out the small circular window. The plane was roaring down the runway now, and he had to grab hold to keep from falling as the nose lifted and they were airborne. He spotted the deuce-and-a-half truck backed up to a C-141 cargo plane – a larger aircraft with jet engines, not turboprop. That indicated the rest of the team was going back to the States, since the 141 was a more logical choice for that long journey. Then he spotted the ambulance waiting its turn to deposit its cargo in the plane. Vaughn knew what was on that ambulance: the bodies of his lost teammates in flag-draped coffins.

He raised his hand, half in salute, half in farewell, and twisted his head, keeping it in sight as long as possible.

"Bring him in," Rogelio Abayon ordered the guard, his voice filtered by the speaker system. The old Filipino's wheelchair was in a room that was part of a tunnel system, the rock walls of the room semicircular from floor to ceiling, the room running straight and narrow, with doors set in steel walls on either end. Bisecting Abayon's desk and the room was a sheet of bulletproof glass, a speaker and microphone on either side to relay conversation. The glass was pitted in places, as if its strength had been tested sometime in the past and it had weathered the storm.

On the other side of the glass the guard swung open the steel door opposite Abayon and gestured. A middle-age Japanese man in a stained and rumpled black suit stepped in. Over the suit, the man wore a canvas vest with deep pockets. In those pockets were small charges of C-4 explosive with blasting caps stuck in them. The wires led from the blasting caps to a detonator set on a chain looped over the man's head. A blinking red light on the detonator indicated that it was armed. The man looked decidedly unhappy.

The guard immediately went back out the door, shutting it behind him, leaving Abayon alone with the visitor, albeit separated by the glass.

"Is this necessary?" the man asked in Japanese, indicating the vest.

Abayon nodded and replied in the same language, "Yes, it is."