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Rappelling. Flashing down a rope almost as fast as he could fall. A window appeared in front of him and he crashed through it, his government issued M-9 Beretta 9 mm pistol blazing as he saw and identified the bad guys. Small hooks on the ropes, biting into the roof, bearing his weight. What if the anchor point cracks and breaks away? Faces. A pockmarked face, a nondescript face. Trouble.

Skipper suddenly sat up in bed, his heart beating fast with excitement. He knew what the gouges meant. He'd been asleep and dreaming, as he often did, of his years in the U.S. Army as a Green Beret. It was a life he'd left behind with mixed emotions. The dreams were often nightmares. This one had been nearly so; scary, but not one of those that left him in a cold sweat or woke him with his own half-choked scream. He awoke from this one with the sure knowledge of what the gouges on the roof at Intertech meant -- his subconscious mind had supplied the information which had been eluding conscious recall.

He got up quickly and went to the phone in his office so he wouldn't wake Patti, who was sleeping, curled up in fetal position, next to him. Three rings later he heard the sleepy voice of Bert Johnson.

"Hello, Johnson here."

"Bert, wake up."

"Skipper? What time is it? No, who cares what time it is. You got something?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I know who did it. Not a hundred percent, but my gut tells me I'm right. Do you want it now or in the morning?"

"Now. I'm already awake and you can't dangle something like this in front of me and expect me to go back to sleep."

Skipper and Bert had agreed long ago that sensitive information would never be shared over the phone. "There's a Denny's just off the Harbor Freeway at Sepulveda in Torrance. It's closer to me; but the way you drive those hot rods of yours, we should get there about the same time if I leave right away and you dawdle a little."

"See you there," Skipper grinned and hung up without waiting for further reply. As he walked back through the bedroom toward the shower, Patti lifted her head and looked at him across the bedroom with sleepy eyes. "Something wrong?"

Skipper looked at her a moment before replying. Her hair was tousled, her silver flecked blue eyes sleepy -- she'd never looked more beautiful. His smile was partly for her and partly for joy over the first big break in the case. "No, but I have to run out and go over a new lead with Bert. You go on back to sleep."

Patti let her head sink back into the downy pillow and snuggled into the covers. "I'll miss you," she purred. "Be careful and hurry home to me, Skipper." She was asleep again, even as she sighed his name.

At Denny's Skipper chose a seat near a back door marked "FIRE EXIT ONLY," which was also by a window through which he could keep an eye on his prized 1966 Ford GT40 Mark II. The car was virtually an exact copy (including right hand drive) of the fire breathing, black and silver, GT40 P, which had been driven to victory by Bruce McClaren and Chris Amon in the 1966 "24 Hours of Le Mans" race. Skipper borrowed the original car, chassis number 1046, from it's owner, a classic car collector, and had a duplicate made. Skipper's copy was exact to the last detail including the day-glow orange quick-jacks and large white ovals displaying racing number 2. Then he'd added a heater, air conditioning and such legal refinements, like mufflers, as were necessary to drive the car in California. When the car was completed the two vehicles were almost impossible to tell apart, even when compared side by side, or sitting in the drivers seat.

The GT40, powered by the same engine as the 427 Cobra, was almost as quick as the Cobra in the quarter mile; but the GT40 had a much higher top-end speed and had been clocked at speeds in excess of 215 mph - a speed at which even the most hardened and experienced race drivers said the car scared them nearly to death. Skipper loved the looks on peoples' faces when he drove either the GT40 or the Cobra -- and he was the first to admit it.

Bert arrived about ten minutes after Skipper. His eyes looked tired, with dark circles under them. His hair was disheveled, as were his clothes; obviously a man who'd been awakened and had rushed out without giving thought to his appearance.

In contrast, Skipper was neatly but casually dressed in a sports shirt, pullover rag sweater, twill slacks and leather walking shoes. His ever-present, nearly ancient, brown leather bomber jacket lay on the seat next to him, and a cup of hot chocolate sat on the table between his hands.

"How the heck can you look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at three o'-damn-clock in the morning? What's up?" Even though he looked tired and acted grumpy Bert's grin made it obvious he was eager for any kind of information about the case.

"Good morning to you, too. Coffee?" Skipper's smile was big, genuine and good natured.

"Sure."

Skipper signaled the waitress who was already pulling the pot off the warmer and had a cup and saucer in her hand. After she poured the coffee and left, Skipper leaned over the table and fixed Bert with his dazzling blue eyes and a concerned look.

"I think we've got even more trouble. I'm pretty sure I know who pulled this off; and, if I'm right, it's almost a lead pipe cinch the goods are already in the hands of the buyers and they're another jump ahead of us. If we're going to have any chance at all in this we'll need one heck of a lot of luck; and, if we get that, we'll have to move quicker than spit on a griddle." Skipper's tone was so earnest, so matter of fact, it made his smile seem out of place.

Bert understood his friend, though. The smile was there because Skipper was caught up in this thing like a hunting dog when he's picked up the scent. Nothing in life excited him more than being hotly involved in the chase...or scared him more.

"So, okay. Who did it, where are they and when the heck do we get the stuff back?"

"In the order you asked; one, I think the men who did it are a couple of pros who used to be Army Rangers and they're damned good at what they do.

"It's been bugging me since we inspected the roof. Then, all of a sudden tonight, it just popped into my head. It's kinda funny -- I was dreaming about the Army and a training mission we did with the Rangers. You might remember it. We were at Mott Lake teaching anti-terrorist tactics -- methods of scaling walls and rappelling while firing into windows..." Skipper paused, grinning at the pained expression on Bert's face. "Why am I telling you all that? You were there!

"Well, one of the Rangers devised a method of using an itty bitty, sharp-pointed hook tied to the end of a rope for an anchor point to rappel from, rather than the standard Army method of tying off to two, solid anchor points. His reasoning was that with just a quick shake on the rope it comes loose and you don't need anything other than an edge to hook up to. I liked the idea for emergencies but it was too damned risky for general use. He tried to sell the Army on it but the brass thought the same way I did, only more so. They wouldn't go for it at all.

"You might remember that this guy and his buddy were always in our faces and in trouble over one thing or another. They were such a pain they became a common joke among our Special Forces people there."

Bert jumped in. "Hey, are you talking about old Arnburg and what-his-ugly, uh, Peterson?"

"Yup. That's them and that's why I remember their names, Arnburg and Peterson. To cut a long story short I heard they got caught in a sexually compromising situation with each other and Uncle Sam kicked them out for being gay, which in those days wasn't condoned."

Bert perked up a little more as his memory overcame his sleepiness. "Yeah, I remember. This Arnburg character was supposed to be pretty good at some Ninja style martial art and had quite a reputation for winning fights. His partner usually put a little side bet or two on it and picked up some cash. They were also suspected of being involved in a few other even less respectable adventures but never got caught at anything. I remember they were already good at the stuff we were supposed to be teaching them.

"I've gotten wind of them from time to time." Bert continued, "They've been steadily working their way up in the underworld and getting a reputation for being able to bag anything anybody wants. Trouble is, I only get rumors after the fact and I've heard nothing at all for about, oh, jeez, two years now. They were wanted for questioning by half the police departments in the world. They're suspected of being involved in all kinds of jobs, from jewel heists to industrial espionage; but nobody knows where they are, or for sure which jobs they've pulled. They're always very meticulous, very clean and vanish very quickly. Hot dang!"

"I know you had the place dusted," Skipper said, "and I'm equally sure you came up with nothing or you'd have told me."

It was more of a statement than a rhetorical question, he was really just thinking out loud. Bert answered automatically, anyway, "Right."

"As to where they are, that's anybody's guess. But I'd say it's very far from here. As to point three, when we can expect to have the stuff back..." Skipper raised his eyebrows and shrugged his muscular shoulders.

"For now, though, there are a few things you can do for me. Your company has contacts all over the world and I think your friend with Interpol still owes you a favor. Call in that favor and see if you can get them to alert their informers to BOLO (Be On Look Out) for information on either: a) something very unusual and very expensive for sale, or b) Arnburg and Peterson."

Bert thought for a few seconds, "I can get word out through my channels right away. Besides Interpol, I have quite a few friends in Europe with good connections who can pick up just about anything on that side of the water. Through Intertech I have a few connections with the Asian electronics families. They're fairly closemouthed with us but we use their stuff so it's worth a try."

Skipper already planned to cover the Asian community himself. His connections there were far better than Bert's. The martial arts family is far flung, with respect flowing between countries and styles through the high-ranking, more influential masters transcending the petty squabbles often occurring among lesser instructors and students. Skipper was respected by many of these masters through his own association with the arts on an international level and through his association with his own master who was well liked and respected. Through these channels Skipper could gain access to information from just about any circle in the Orient, including the underworld. Favors were often owed and always repaid as a matter of honor. Skipper would put the word out and perhaps, if he got lucky, a favor would be collected and Skipper would owe one. That was life.

"Let's link up at least once a day. I'll try to keep you informed of my whereabouts as much as possible in the event you need to contact me and can't reach me on the cellular. Agreed?"

"Affirmative," Bert answered, giving a friendly mock salute.

The two men parted and went their separate ways, each with his brain churning over who to contact and how to get the word out without spilling the exact nature of what had been stolen -- what they didn't need were the intelligence operatives of half the countries in the world stumbling over each other trying to get the Roacherian Effect device for themselves.

Bert drove off toward the Intertech complex, calling Mary on the way to let her know he wouldn't be home for breakfast.

Skipper fired the powerful GT40 to life and launched it toward Master Lee's home, knowing that the old man would be just partway through his morning workout at 4:30 a.m.