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Dr. Roach had returned home from work and just as he sat down to eat his TV dinner and look over his latest issue of Electronics Journal he was disturbed by someone knocking on the door. Being a very private man he ignored it just as he always did.

Seconds later the door crashed open breaking the little chain lock and splintering the jamb.

Roach looked up in astonishment as two burly men in dark ill-fitting suits rushed him. Before he could protest they held him down and one of them injected him with a loaded syringe. Almost instantly he was very groggy and unable to offer any resistance and he allowed two more men, "paramedics," to place him on a stretcher and wheel him out to a waiting ambulance. The others searched his apartment, took some of his clothes and left.

None of his neighbors interfered. Roach was a miser who lived in a shabby little apartment in a run-down section of Lomita near the Intertech complex. The people who live here mind their own business and don't ask many questions. It was dinnertime, it was cold and they had their own worries.

The morning sky promised to be bright and clear to the east over the Angeles Crest Mountains but to the west, over the Pacific, the horizon was obscured by a line of dark rolling clouds. In a few weeks it would be spring.

Skipper was cycling along Highway 1 several miles north of his home. It was five-thirty on a crisp Monday morning and he was in the last half hour of a three-hour ride. He'd left long before the eastern sky had begun to turn rosy. This was his favorite time of day and he felt curiously alive, content and serene. The cast had been removed, his other injuries had all but disappeared and he was trying to forget Pak and Dr. Roach's horrible weapon. This morning he was simply riding and enjoying the sunrise.

"Maybe I'll take Patti out this evening", he thought. Although they'd spent quite a bit of time together they hadn't been out for an evening since returning to the U.S. nearly a month ago. Skipper was startled out of his reverie by the shrill tone from the earpiece of the cellular phone in the back pocket of his cycling jersey. Since Patti's abduction he tried not to be out of touch.

Skipper reached up, pinched the little button on the microphone near his mouth and answered the call without slowing his pace on the bike. Sitting up and balancing without his hands on the handlebars he took out his water bottle to get a drink at the same time.

"Hello."

"Skipper, where in hell are you? I've gotta talk to you."

"I'm at the other end of your telephone, Bert. Talk."

"No, Skip. In person only. We have trouble. Same problem, new actors."

Skipper recoiled and felt his world slip out from under him and his bike swerved slightly before righting itself. Fighting off the feeling and without allowing any emotion into his voice he said, "Okay Bert. Come over to my place. I'm on my bike out on Highway l. I'll be there in about fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Right." Bert hung up the phone and stabbed the gas pedal. He was already halfway to Skipper's house. If he hurried they'd arrive about same time.

Bert, also a permanently cleared visitor, was waved through the security gate into Skipper's private community in Laguna then pulled into the large circular drive on Skipper's property. The gate leading into the rear parking and garage area was open and Bert drove in. As he did he saw Skipper in the garage wiping down his custom-built road-racing bicycle.

"Hi, Bert. What's up?"

"The brown stuff's hit the air circulator, Skip. You mind if I sit down and have a cup of coffee?"

"Sure, but you gotta cut back, buddy. You're running a big company now, you know." It was a word-for-word, half joking statement they'd said to each other since their Army days and they continued to use it even though either of them rarely touched alcohol.

"Don't you ever take anything seriously?" Bert looked strained.

"Sure, Bert. But I try never to worry over things I can't control and certainly not about things I don't even know yet."

"Touché."

Skipper took Bert through the house into the sunken living room overlooking the Pacific Ocean and Skip's private beach. There was a Bunn coffee maker behind the bar and soon Bert had a fresh cup of hot, black, Italian roast coffee.

As Bert savored the aroma of his morning "cup of ambition," he turned to look out over the ocean. He started to take a sip but before the steaming mug reached his lips he stopped, placed it on the rock hearth and began to speak. His voice sounded hollow.

"One of the whiz kids at Intertech called me last night -- early this morning, really. Kid named Phillip Weston. Scared to death. Said a couple of thugs claiming to be feds came to visit him at home. Wanted to know if he was working with Dr. Roach. At first Weston wouldn't tell 'em, but they scared it out of him. They told him they had Roach and Weston had a choice: either go with them to work with Roach at their lab or die. Smart kid -- he decided to go with 'em. They packed him up right there and took him but he got away when they stopped for gas. While one of 'em was in the can and the other was pumping gas Weston just jumped into the front seat and took off. First, he started to go back to his place then thought better of it and called our security desk on the cellular he found in the car. They patched him through to me at home." Bert stopped talking and stared out at the ocean.

"Then?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Skip. I gave him directions to my cabin in Big Bear. He should be there soon. I called Roach's home number but got no answer. We had one of our guys posted outside his apartment building but he didn't answer his radio so I sent another man over there. He found Carlisle unconscious in his car and Roach's place had been ransacked. No sign of Roach.

"Weston's sure they'll come after him again. He and Dr. Roach were the main two researchers working on the project. He's scared to death, Skip. He says both men carried automatic pistols and they were driving a rented car. He figured that one out because the Avis rental agreement was on the front seat. Told him I'd call him this afternoon. What d'ya think?"

"I think I'd like to know where Dr. Roach is."

"He always shows up at the office about six-fifteen. If he's coming in he should be there by now. I had my guy sit tight at his place in case he showed up there. I'll call and see if he's made it in yet." Bert didn't wait for a reply; just picked up the phone and placed the call.

Bert hung up the phone moments later with a pained look on his face. Dr. Roach had not come in and it was now six-fifty-five.

"Let's go, Bert," Skipper said. "This thing's gotta end. The guys who have Roach and the ones who picked up Weston aren't on our side. The way they work tells me they're well trained, probably by the KGB, and are probably the same bunch that followed me in Hong Kong. They've figured out I don't have the plans so they've gone after the source.

"You and I are going to be busy for a little while. First, we're going over to Roach's place, then we're going by your office, then out to your cabin. In the meantime Patti and Mary are taking a trip up to my place on Silver Lake. I want them as far away from here as possible and tucked away safe. You call Mary and don't take any guff from her." Skipper left the room to find Patti.