"I am not at all sure," Stephanie mused, "how we're going to do this." She peered through the hedge defining the boundary of the Chevy Chase Country Club's property. They had already gone completely around the property once, and by now they knew the layout fairly well. The golf course had been converted into a field camp for the Green Berets, a small sea of tents and a number of vehicles and small helicopters sitting about. It seemed reasonably obvious to all of them--Stephanie, Conch, and the six gladiators who'd come with her on this mission--that the main clubhouse was the most logical place to go first.

It was just as apparent that they could not simply walk in. Green Berets with weapons in hand were patrolling the grounds on all sides. They could, she thought, take out any one of those guards; they were, thanks to Prof and Conch, just as well armed. But they could not hope to fight the Green Berets straight up, and certainly any gunfire would bring distinctly unwanted attention.

"I don't either," Mindy agreed. She wore the same skintight leotard she'd worn on these missions before, but she'd not bothered to paint her legs this time.

Stephanie--at Mindy's insistence--was dressed in her leathers. At the moment they were unarmed, but assault rifles for all of them--and many of the gladiators' weapons--were in the Army truck parked behind them. Watching the house, Stephanie reviewed the events of the past hour. A emergency message had come in from Eileen; the command helicopter carrying Melanie and Harry--along with Dave, Mitch, Jackie, the pilot, three other survivors of the Preserve and two Navy SEALs--had been shot down. Based on "line chatter" some of Mitch's techs had been intercepting, all had survived and all had been taken captive by the Green Berets. Whether or not they actually knew who they had was unknown. Where they had taken them was also unknown, but certain chatter had been interpreted to suggest that they'd gone to a base the Special Forces had set up on the grounds of the Chevy Chase Country Club in northwest Washington. For Stephanie and the others, the prime mission was to find out if they were actually there. They had readied themselves quickly; the truck Conch and Prof had used getting in was parked where they'd left it, and within thirty minutes they were at the Club. Now, she had no idea how to proceed.

Conch grinned. "Well, ladies, if I may, I think I may have a plan."

Stephanie turned to him. "You do? Well, let's hear it!"

He took a cell phone out of his pocket. "We need a distraction," he said. "I do believe an airstrike on that encampment down there would provide quite a significant distraction, don't you?"

Mindy grinned and nodded vigorously. "And help the cause as well; we don't need all those soldiers in DC. Do it, Conch." Conch, nodding, made the call--to an office in Annapolis, which would relay his request--and the coordinates--to the Jimmy Carter sitting out in Chesapeake Bay.

"Nothing to do now but wait," he said.

"And plan our next move," Stephanie corrected. "We need to know what we're doing when those bombs start falling. We make any wrong moves here and some of us are going to be dead."

They went back to the truck; in the back, under the canvas, they made their plans. Just a few minutes later they heard the roar of the incoming jets. They all piled out, now not too worried about being seen; any passerby or wandering policeman would have more on his mind than some oddly-dressed people. Just as they hit the ground, thunderous explosions rocked the whole area, shaking the ground like an earthquake. The early evening sky brightened over the clubhouse, then smoke began rising.

And Stephanie, alone, went into action. Hoping one of the explosions would not cause her to fall--running in spike heels was hard enough, much less running on shaking pavement--she charged unarmed and headlong onto the grounds.

"Please!" she yelled at the guard who was then looking in the direction of the golf course. "Please help me, what's happening?"

He whirled around to face her and leveled his gun at her. For a terrifying moment she feared he might open fire first and ask questions later.

But he did not. "Lady, get the hell out of here!" he shouted.

"But, but, I'm scared!" she yelled back. "All those explosions, what's going on?"

"Air strike," he snapped. "Now you get--"

That was all he had time for. Distracted by the bombing and by Stephanie, he never had a chance to notice Mindy and Peter sneaking under the hedge. Mindy reached him first, running up at full speed behind him. She jumped up to get the right angle and swung her sword; the Green Beret's head went flying. Mindy kept running and Stephanie jumped back to avoid the spouting blood as the body fell and jerked around wildly on the ground. Once he had stopped moving, they dragged his body into the hedges and tossed his head in after it.

Another gladiator, a pretty brunette girl named Andrea--once a professional soccer player, now a net-and-trident gladiator, currently dressed as if for the arena--ran in and tossed Stephanie her machine gun; she used, by preference, the small one she'd taken from Ray Parker's men. Seeing no other obstacles, they all sprinted for the clubhouse. There was a porch around it, and they reached it without a problem. Carefully, her weapon at the ready, Stephanie peered in though one of the windows--and quickly drew back.

"Soldiers," she whispered to the others. "A dozen or more. Running, headed for the golf course, it looks like."

"Let's let them go," Mindy whispered back.

"Right."

After pausing for a few minutes, Stephanie peered in again. It seemed clear; she walked down the porch a little ways, stepping carefully to prevent her spike heels from clicking, and tried a door. It opened; she stuck her head inside and looked around. Still clear. She entered, motioning for the others to follow. When they were all inside, Andrea closed the door. In a long hallway, they huddled.

"Anybody know the layout of this place?" Stephanie asked.

"Yes," Andrea said. "I do. I used to have some friends who were golfers, we came here two or three times."

"Good. Any ideas about where to go now?"

Andrea nodded. "Yes." She pointed. "Down there is a stairway, it leads up to a series of meeting rooms and lounges and so on. If the captives are here they're probably in the main hall, and there's a balcony upstairs overlooking it."

"Great. Let's go." Letting Andrea lead, they went down the hallway single-file. At the entrance to the stair, Andrea stopped them and peeked around. She turned back. "Guard," she mouthed, without making a sound. She motioned to Mindy and Peter, both standing by with swords drawn, and made some motions with her hands that Stephanie did not understand.

Then she pointed. Immediately after that, she dropped to the floor, her net in her hand, and slid out into the open space in front of the stairway. She flung the net up, and when it came back down, the guard's rifle was entangled in it. Instantly, Mindy and Peter stepped around the door and made sharp thrusts with their swords, his high and hers low. Stephanie saw nothing except a sudden pool of blood forming on the floor. The entire operation had been conducted in absolute silence. When she stepped around the doorway, Stephanie saw that Peter's expert thrust had gone right through the man's throat, killing him and silencing him at the same time. Mindy's, driven up under his breastbone, was just insurance. There was a utility closet nearby; it wasn't locked, and they stuffed the sentry's body inside. Then they went up the stairs. At the top--or, hopefully, down on the floor below--they could clearly hear voices.

At the top, everyone paused below the top except Mindy, who, staying low, peeped over the top step. Seeing nothing, she went on; just a few minutes later she came back with the word that the rooms off the balcony seemed to be clear, but that everyone should stay low to avoid being seen from the floor below. They all went on up, and seconds later Stephanie was peering through the railing at the large room below them.

Immediately, there was no question that the electronic "chatter" had been read correctly, and that Andrea had been right about where important prisoners might be held. Down below them, across the room, sitting against the wall with their hands behind their backs--apparently bound, but how Stephanie could not see--were six men and five nude women. One of the men wore camouflage, three were dressed in Navy uniforms, the other two dressed casually. Of their identities, there was not the slightest doubt. Besides these, Stephanie counted fourteen Green Berets. Two were evidently officers; the others all had rifles slung over their shoulders. Something like an interrogation was in progress, one of the officers was yelling at the captives and stomping around as if in a rage. Stephanie signaled the others to move back to one of the private meeting rooms; they slipped inside and closed the door behind themselves.

"Technically," Stephanie told them, "our mission is over. We were only asked to gather intelligence. We've done that. Melanie and Harry and the rest are here, captives, and it does not appear that any of them have been harmed yet."

"I'm very sure," Mindy said, "that as soon as we report this, the SEALs will mount a rescue operation. They're fucking sure to do it better than we can hope to. But on the other hand, they can't get here in ten minutes. Anything can happen down there, that officer sounds like a nutcase to me. He might just decide to slam them all up against the fucking wall and gun them down."

"I agree," Conch said. "I am not in favor of simply slipping back out and making a report. We need to do something. The question is, what? Those are Green Berets. Special Forces. Very highly trained. With rifles and such we aren't a match for them. Worse, there are fourteen of them in that room alone and only eight of us. We need a really good plan, and this time I don't have one."

Stephanie considered for a moment. "I guess it's my turn then," she said thoughtfully. "Listen..."