Cap reached toward the dashboard-a vast array of aircraft-style dials, monitors, and switches-and tapped a small button. On the rear of the van, the commercial license plate morphed into a federal emergency plate with different colors, character styles, and numbers. That would be enough to ward off any attempt to pull the van over, something Captain Anger was reluctant to permit.

The plate actually contained an array of thousands of tiny rods, each with a color changing tip. The rods extended or retracted to form the numbers on the plate and the tips changed color to match the designs of all fifty state license plates, federal and state government plates, and the plates of the Canadian provinces and Mexican states. Each license plate image stored in the van’s database was valid for a white van registered in each jurisdiction.

“He’s heading toward the Palo Alto airport,” Rock said.

Cap nodded, his deep sea-green eyes never turning from his view of the road. Though his mind no doubt followed several trains of thought at the same time, he appeared to be concentrating all his powers on the simple act of high-speed driving.

“Our jet’s in San Jose!” Leila said. “If we can’t stop him or plant a homer on his plane, we’ll lose him!”

Cap monitored the car’s progress on the computer screen, never once coming so close to Dandridge as to make visual contact. The business buildings on El Camino Real whipped past them; cars screeched to a halt, narrowly avoiding the speeding white blur. Twists and turns took them away from California’s oldest highway and toward the bay.

The sedan reached the airport. Cap’s van followed.

And faced a wall of machine guns.

William Arthur Dandridge knew he was being followed.

Even though he could not catch more than an occasional, distant glimpse of the white van, he knew that the people from Madsen’s house hounded his heels. This caused him no fear. It merely forced him to think and act quicker.

William Dandridge enjoyed thinking quickly. Short and wiry, he gave the impression of being a nervous man when in fact his energetic intellect made him impatient with the rest of the world, which he perceived from behind his thick glasses as slothful and irresponsible. Years earlier, he had decided that the majority of mankind ought to be responsible-responsible to him. And he had spent his subsequent years in an effort to make them so.

Now-on the eve of his triumph-someone had intervened. That mysterious, ragged man on his video monitor. The man with the ursine male and dark, alluring female companions. The man to whom even the police and that quack from Lawrence, Bhotamo, deferred.

Who was he? Dandridge thought as he raced drove toward his airport destination. Who was it that could shoot a heavily armed assault helicopter out of the sky? Who was it that discovered the secret of his microbot so quickly and mounted such a swift counterattack? It wasn’t Madsen. Madsen was neutralized.

Swerve, brake, accelerate. Dandridge plowed through Palo Alto with a speed that in other men would be reckless. His rapid reaction time, though, made such maneuvers a simple task.

Madsen was slow, he thought. Slow and methodical. The microbots were nothing more than laboratory curiosities for him.

Avoid the station wagon. Run the red light. Crash through the street barrier. Speed across the construction zone.

The airport grew nearer. He was going to make it. There was no doubt in his mind.

He speed-dialed a number on his car phone. “Coming in,” he said with terse urgency. “Cover me. Being followed.” He dropped the phone to the car seat and slammed on the accelerator. With a thud of shock absorbers, Dandridge crossed the first yellow-striped speed bump that guarded the entrance to the airport. Four men dressed in battle fatigues and at the ready jumped into the street behind the brown sedan as it roared past. Each toted an automatic rifle loaded with.223 caliber ammunition. They formed a line and knelt to take aim at the onrushing van. Almost as one, their fingers squeezed the triggers.

•

Captain Anger saw the line of men and swerved to avoid them. The van’s windshield crazed under the impact of dozens of bullets. Jonathan Madsen yelped in pain as the van hit a curb with jarring impact, sending unsecured equipment flying inside the rear of the vehicle. The shooting continued. The van smashed its left side against a brick building and scraped to a halt, still ringing with the sound of rifle fire and bullet impact.

Cap threw a switch on the dashboard. Outside, billows of a purplish mist erupted from vents in the side of the van. It wafted around the riflemen, filling their lungs

They continued their fusillade despite the gas. The cabin reverberated with direct hits.

Madsen tried to cover himself. Rock lifted him up, saying, “Relax, boy. Van is bulletproof. The Skipper doesn’t take chances. And knockout gas should have them down in no time.”

Captain Anger drew his autopistol. “Not this time.”

“What?” Leila Weir climbed out of the jumble of fallen instruments and stared at Cap with a puzzled expression. “They weren’t in full-body insulation suits, were they?”

Cap simply waited. After a moment, the shooting abated. Cap opened the rear doors of the van and jumped from it, hitting the ground and rolling to come up with his pistol aimed directly at the murderous quartet.

The four still knelt, aiming their rifles at the impact-peppered vehicle. Most of its white paint had been blasted away to reveal a gleaming, blue-green metal alloy underneath. It was this material that had stopped the bullets.

Cap coolly observed the riflemen. They stared blankly at the van, aiming down the rifle sights, their fingers spasmodically squeezing the triggers. The chamber of each rifle lay open, their bolts locked back after the last round in the magazine had fed through.

Leila jumped out of the van, pistol drawn. “Are they hypnotized? The gas should have knocked them over no matter what.”

Cap bent down on one knee to see more closely. None of the four reacted at his approach.

“They’re unconscious, all right,” Cap said. “Yet something is keeping them going. Something-”

“There he goes!” Jonathan cried, pointing to the sky. “He’s taking gramps’ plane!”

Cap subvocalized to his earcomm.

“Flash-tap into the air traffic control network. Cessna 152 taking off right now from Palo Alto airport. Course”-he glanced at the sun-“three-ten. Ground speed about one-twenty, climbing through one thousand feet.”

After a moment, Flash radioed back, “Got a lock on him, Cap. Tracking.”

Captain Anger ran a powerful hand through his dark red hair and gazed at the horizon. Then he grinned. It was a wide, feral, flashing grin that exposed the twin rows of white teeth in his mouth. The teeth were perfect, except that the four canines were just slightly longer than those of most other men. It gave his smile an animal quality, like that of a wolf, or a lion.

He turned that roguish smile toward Jonathan Madsen. “It looks as if we’ve got a hunt on our hands. Maybe you know something that can help us.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to stop him.”

•

While Leila patiently explained to the newly-arrived police the reason for the high-speed chase that ended in the airport ambuscade, Captain Anger listened to the young man’s story. Rock, meanwhile, attended to the van, attempting to make it roadworthy again. At the moment, he was running the flame from a blowtorch over the bullet-spattered windshield. The heat softened the super-strong memory plastic and allowed it to flatten out again into a reasonably transparent sheet.