“Briggs here,” the radio crackled. “The fire is burning in the conduit room but does not appear to have spread. The computer hardware bay is okay, and the FM-200 gas system has been activated there to prevent combustion. It doesn't look like the fire suppression system was triggered in the conduit room, but if we can get some extinguishers on her before she spreads I think we can contain it.”

Christiano grabbed the radio. “Do what you can, Briggs, help is on the way. Bridge out.”

Briggs and a fellow mechanic he had pressed into fire duty found a smoking rage billowing from the conduit room. No bigger than a large walk-in closet, the room housed power connections between the ship's electrical generator output and the myriad computers aboard the vessel that supported payload processing and launch operations. Briggs leaned into the bay and quickly emptied two fire extinguishers, then stood back a moment to see if the smoke would lessen. A cloud of acrid blue haze rolled out of the room, the noxious fumes it carried filtered by Briggs's respirator. His assistant passed him a third fire extinguisher and this time Briggs burst into the fiery room, directing the carbon dioxide spray at the remaining flames he could see flickering through the billows of dark smoke. His extinguisher empty, he quickly danced out of the room and caught his breath before peering in again. The room was pitch-black, with the beam of his flashlight reflecting only smoke. Satisfied that the flames were doused and not likely to reignite, he stepped into a side hallway and radioed the bridge.

“The fire is extinguished. Briggs out.”

Though the flames were extinguished, the damage had been done. It would take another two hours before the melted mass of wire, cabling, and connectors stopped smoldering and the Port of Long Beach Fire Department declared the ship safe. The pungent smell of an electrical fire hung over the ship like a cloud, refusing to go away for days. Danny Stamp arrived at the ship shortly after the fire crew left, the launch director having been summoned by Christiana Sitting with the captain in the adjacent launch control center, he shook his head as he listened to the damage assessment from the Sea Launch Commander's computer operations manager.

“You couldn't have picked a worse place for a fire to break out,” the systems man said, his face tinted red in frustration. “Literally every launch ops computer on the ship runs through that room, as well as most of the test and tracking monitors. We'll have to rewire the whole works. It's a complete nightmare,” he said, shaking his head.

“What about the actual hardware?” asked Stamp.

“Well, if you want to call that the good news, there was no damage to any of our hardware resources. I was really concerned with the potential for water damage, but, thankfully, our own crew put down the flames before any hoses were let loose on board.”

“In order to go operational, then, we're just talking about restringing the hardware. How long will that take?”

“Oh, man. We've got to rebuild the conduit room, order and obtain a couple miles of cable, some of it custom application, and re string the whole system. That would take three or four weeks at best under normal circumstances.”

“Our circumstances are a pending launch with significant delay penalties. You've got eight days,” Stamp replied, staring hard into the eyes of the computer manager.

The frazzled man nodded his head slowly, then got up to leave the room. “Guess I've got to get a few people out of bed,” he muttered while slipping out through a side door.

“Do you think he can do it?” Christiano asked once the door had closed shut.

“If it can be done, then he'll get us close.”

“What about the Odyssey} Do we hold her in port until the damage to the Commander'is repaired?”

“No,” Stamp said after mulling over the question. “The Zenit is loaded and secured aboard the Odyssey, so we'll send her out as planned. We can still make the equator with the Commanderin half the time the platform will take to get there. And there's no harm in having the Odyssey wait on station a few days if we're a little late getting out. That's just more opportunity for the platform crew to prep for the launch.”

Christiano nodded, then sat silently in thought.

“I'll notify the customer of our revised plans,” Stamp continued. “I'm sure I'll have to do a Kabuki dance to keep them calm. Do we know the cause of the fire yet?”

“The fire inspector will take a look first thing in the morning. Everything points to a short, probably some defective cable couplings.”

Stamp nodded silently. What next? he wondered.

The Long Beach fire inspector stepped aboard the Sea Launch Commander promptly at 8 A.M. After performing a cursory examination of the charred conduit room, he proceeded to interview the fire response team and other crewmen on duty when the fire started. He | then returned to the site of the blaze and methodically examined the burn damage, taking photographs of the blackened room and making notes. After carefully scrutinizing the charred cables and melted fittings for nearly an hour, he satisfied himself that there was no evidence present indicating arson.

It would have taken an excruciatingly attentive analysis to detect the proof. But beneath his soot-covered boots, there were the peculiar minuscule remains of a frozen orange juice container. A chemical analysis of the container would show that a homemade napalm mixture of gasoline and Styrofoam chunks had been mixed and stored in the small container. Planted by one of Kang's men days before and ignited by a small timer, the tiny fire bomb had splattered its flaming goo about the conduit room in a rain of fire, quickly incinerating its contents. With the overhead sprinkler system sabotaged to appear faulty, the damage was assured, as scripted. Enough damage to delay the Sea Launch Commander from sailing for several days, but not enough to raise suspicions that the cause was anything but accidental.

Stepping past the charred and indistinguishable juice container, the inspector paused outside the conduit room as he completed his fire assessment. “Electrical short due to faulty wiring or improper grounding,” he wrote in a small notebook, then stuck his pen in his shirt pocket and made his way off the ship past a gang of oncoming construction workmen.

A slow gray drizzle was falling at McChord Air Force Base south of Tacoma when the C-141 lumbered in from its transpacific flight. The big jet's tires screeched on the damp runway before the aircraft rolled to a stop in front of a transit terminal, where its engines were shut down and the large rear cargo door lowered to the tarmac.

Holding true to his word, Dirk had slept nearly the entire flight and exited the ramp feeling refreshed but hungry. Summer followed behind in a groggier state, having slept unevenly in the noisy aircraft. An air transit lieutenant located the pair and escorted them to the base officers' club for a quick hamburger before returning them to the flight line. Spotting a phone booth, Dirk eagerly dialed a local number.

“Dirk, you're all right!” Sarah answered with obvious relief.

“Still kicking,” he chimed.

“Captain Burch told me you were aboard the NUMA ship that sank in the East China Sea. I've been worried sick about you.”

Dirk beamed to himself, then proceeded to tell her an abbreviated version of events since flying to Japan.

“My gosh, the same people that released the cyanide in the Aleutians intend to launch a larger attack?”

“It appears that way. We hope to find out more when we get back to D.C.”

“Well, keep your friends at the CDC informed. We have a terrorism emergency response team in place to combat sudden chemical or biological outbreaks.”

“You'll be the first one I call. By the way, how's the leg?” “Fine, though I'm still getting used to these blasted crutches. When are you going to autograph my cast?”