Just a Gigolo

by kashkow

This story has been hanging around FOREVER. Finally got it finished. Not set in any of my usual universes, just a plot bunny that slipped the reins and went wild. Unbetaed so be wary if you are comma-sensative and be gentle if you review.

Just a Gigolo

By: Ellen H.

"You're going to beach me for two more weeks because of THIS?" The question was asked at a level loud enough to be heard from the outer room of Admiral Harriman Nelson's offices in the administration building at the Institute bearing his name. Angie, long time secretary to the admiral, and veteran of many a loud conversation didn't even pause in her typing as the voice rang through the room. The same could not be said for the man who was sitting on the corner of her desk, one leg dangling.

Chip Morton had been perched there, reading through a file on the particulars of the next cruise. Before the echo of the question had died he was on his feet and headed for the door to the inner office. He rapped smartly and entered without waiting for permission. If what he had heard was any indication, there were bigger issues than protocol to be dealt with. After closing the door, he turned to find the scene that he had imagined. The two older men, presenting a united front, sat on the sofa in the conversation area. Coffee cups, sitting on the table in front of them, showed that the conversation had started on a more civilized footing. The third man, and the source of the loud exclamation, paced in front of them. The obvious limp in his usually smooth stride was almost painful for Morton to see. The limp was why they were here, and the cause of raised voices, he knew.

As he approached he felt the impact of three pairs of eyes. One pair, darkened gold, burned through him and turned away, seeing no ally in the newcomer to the conversation. It tore into Chip's heart to see that dismissal. All of his instincts told him to go to the aid of his friend, but he knew that what was going on was for HIS good, and even if it hurt, it had to be done. He turned his eyes to meet the hazel ones of Will Jamieson, Chief Medical Officer for the Submarine Seaview, and final word on things medical when it came to who did and who did not sail with her. The eyes were determined, and there was no quailing before the anger of the young captain who stalked back and forth before him. The last pair of eyes, as blue as his own, met his with understanding, and Chip knew that it was as hard for Nelson to deny Crane as it was for him, even when it was for his own good.

Crane continued as if Morton had not interrupted. "There is NO reason that I cannot sail on this cruise." He declared. "The limp is minimal, and does not affect my performance, and I can continue the physical therapy onboard as easily as here." He waved a hand at the window where heavy rain pounded. The winter had been very wet so far, and forecasts were for continuing rain. Crane had been using the extensive gym facilities at the institute for his therapy, and there were similar, though fewer, machines aboard the large submarine. Morton knew that the treadmill was a major part of the therapy, replacing the walking and running that Crane would normally be doing outside. Not that the rain would have stopped Crane normally, but Jamieson and the therapist had refused to allow it, pointing out the possibility of re-injury rose with slippery footing.

Jamieson was shaking his head before Crane was finished. He rose to his feet to be on the same level with the younger man, even though Crane did not stop pacing. "We'll discount the fact that you still have the remnants of the various drugs that they pumped into you lingering in your system, a fact you seem determined to ignore, but what if there is a problem on board? What if you need to run through the boat, up and down companionways, or climb through the bilges? Your leg is not up to that, despite what you might think. How are you going to feel if you can't do what has to be done because you can't move? How are you going to feel if someone is hurt or dies because of it?" Morton winced at the question. Obviously he must have missed a good portion of the conversation if Jamieson was going for the jugular like that. He looked quickly at Crane, seeing the impact of the words on his friend. The pain in those golden eyes was almost more than he could take.

He barely had a chance to see it though before the shutters came down over the eyes, leaving them blank. It was worse than the pain. This was the Crane that he had first met over fifteen years ago- the defensive, over-achieving, quiet loner who had been so hard to get to know. This Crane was not prepared to hear reason, or the word 'no'. He had set a goal, sailing with the boat in two days, and he intended to reach it. The problem was he had obviously not counted on the men he considered his friends standing in the way of that goal.

He started to speak but then he stopped and shook his head. The blank eyes looked from Morton to Jamieson and finally Nelson, seeing in each the same determination. He shook his head again, as if in answer to some inner question, his face blank, and without a word turned on his heel and went to the coat rack where his coat and cover hung. He started putting on the coat.

"Lee…" Morton started only to stop as the expressionless golden eyes turned to him. He felt a cold shudder go through him. This was not going like he had envisioned. In the past Lee had been sidelined several times by the all too numerous injuries he suffered in the line of what he considered to be his duty. Usually he argued to the last then resigned himself to the inevitable, he wasn't happy about it, but he was willing to make the best of it. This silent anger was something else again. He didn't know how to deal with it, how to deal with this Lee Crane.

Harriman Nelson also had seen the flash of pain in Crane's eyes, followed by the blankness, and he rose from the sofa and went to Crane's side as he slipped into his jacket. He put a hand on the younger man's arm, but removed it as the eyes dropped to look at the hand as if it were the hand of a stranger. The shuttered eyes rose to meet his then looked away as Crane took his cover and tucked it correctly under his arm. He started for the door without another look at Nelson or the other occupants of the room. Nelson, unwilling to let it end on this note tried the only thing that he could think of.

"You have not been dismissed, Captain." He said in his best command tone, practiced through many years of command. He was counting on Crane's training to make him respond where a simple request might not. He was gratified to see Crane stop at the door, hand on the knob. However his gratitude turned to disquiet when after a moment Crane turned sharply and met his eyes.

In the years that he had known Lee Crane, it had become something of a tradition that he, Nelson, would be the one that lost his temper, and Crane the one that stayed cool and collected. But occasionally in those years he had run head on into the formidable temper that hide beneath the quiet exterior, and looking in Crane's eyes now, he could see that temper flare. The question was why? But he did not have time to contemplate that as Crane spoke.

"We are NOT operating under Navy regulations at this time, SIR." He said coldly. "That being so I have no obligation to wait for your dismissal, or to even take your orders. At this point in time I am an employee who has been told that my services are not required at the job for which I have been hired. I am, and have been, on medical leave for the last three weeks, a status which not only removes me from my position as captain of your submarine, but also from your control as an employer. Now, if you will excuse me, I plan to exercise my right to walk out of here when I please. You, of course, are free to take any action that you feel you must." With those words he turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The three men in the room remained standing where they were, staring at the door, for several minutes. Finally Jamieson sat down and gave a sigh. "That didn't go quite as planned." He said.

Nelson stared for a little longer at the door then went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. He threw back the two fingers of the family label in one gulp and put the glass back on the sideboard with a bang. He nodded without turning around.

"Yes…Yes I think you could say that." He put his hands on the sideboard and leaned forward on braced arms, staring down at his empty glass for a moment then turning to look at Morton who was still looking at the door. "Do you know what that was all about, mister?" he asked his voice rough from the whiskey and the emotions he was trying hard to control. For a moment he thought that Morton was not going to answer him, and wondered briefly if everything in his normally well-ordered world was going to hell, but then the XO turned his eyes to Nelson and shook his head.

"He's been quiet this time, quieter than ever before. He hasn't even complained about the physical therapy. I know he hasn't been eating much," he said with a guilty glance at a now scowling Jamieson, "I'm pretty sure he only ate when I was there, so I kept showing up with food at regular intervals. He didn't say anything but I don't think he's been sleeping too well either. Of course six hours is a full night's sleep for him. I tried to stay over and check it out one night on the pretext I drank too much beer to drive, but Kowalski dropped by and Lee had him take me home." Chip started pacing; taking the same track that Crane had paced minutes earlier.

"He won't talk about it either, at least not to me. I was hoping that maybe he had talked to one of you two…" At the negative headshakes from the others he continued. "So, something's been bothering him, more than just the physical inactivity." He looked at Jamieson. "Could this be an effect of those damn drugs they pumped into him?"

Jamieson considered for a moment then shook his head. "His last blood test showed only a trace of the drugs remaining. Even with the chemical soup they were using for their 'interrogation' method, I can't think of anything that would have such a profound effect now. The loss of appetite and the insomnia were quite likely side effects of the drugs before they were flushed out completely, it would have been nice if someone would have mentioned that." He said with a glare at Morton, who shrugged. Jamieson sat back with a sigh. "There is another possibility, one that I have mentioned before, and which of course HE discounts without a second thought, that of psychological damage."

Nelson straightened and turned to face Jamieson. His face was pale. "You think that the torture has caused psychological damage? ONI requires that all agents who are captured in the course of a mission whether they are tortured or not, have to undergo psychological evaluation afterward. The psychiatrist was there, at the hospital in Okinawa after they got Lee out. I saw him twice myself and I know that he was there several other times."

"Yes, I read the evaluation that Doctor Fischer wrote. It was quite comprehensive, and in my opinion as someone who knows Captain Crane intimately, it's a crock of…" he stopped with a grim smile. "Well, it was something less than realistic. He hit all the high points, asked all the correct questions, and got exactly the answers that he wanted, to every question. It was like reading a psychology textbook. How many times do you think that the skipper has been asked those questions over the years, by how many different psychiatrists? After I read that piece of fiction, I did some checking on Fischer. He's two years out of medical school, and newly posted to Okinawa from his last station in Alaska. What do you think the chances are that he's dealt with any other torture victims in his career?"

"So you think that Lee told him what he wanted to hear to make him go away." Nelson concluded. Jamieson nodded.

"Oh, I'm sure of that. The question is was that just his way of getting rid of another medical person, or is he actually having a problem and covering it up?"

"And how would we determine that? He doesn't appear to be in a very cooperative mood." Nelson said sarcastically going to sit next to Jamieson.

"Is it okay for him to be alone? I mean we're going to be gone for over two weeks. What if something happens?" Morton said worriedly.

"I have to be on this cruise because of the medical exams for the men in the labs. I can't leave that to my corpsmen, even though they know the procedure. It's too late to get a qualified substitute now. Once we get those done though I can come back and do an evaluation. He won't be able to pull the wool over my eyes so easily."

"Perhaps not, but will he cooperate at all?" Nelson speculated. "As he pointed out, he is under no obligation to submit himself to further testing. If we say it is a condition of his return to work, all he has to do is point out that he was cleared by a Navy psychiatrist, per regulations. He can be a hell of a sea lawyer when he wants to work the regs. I can hear him now pointing out that we can hardly hold him to standards that are higher than the Navy's."

"Hmm" Jamieson nodded. "I definitely don't think we'll have too much success simply ordering it done. However as you heard me tell him, I'll be giving him a physical at the end of two weeks to evaluate his leg wound. I can do a lot of talking in the time it takes to do a thorough exam, and I'll get him to talk, one way or another. I tend to think that we might be dealing with a case of PTSD, post-traumatic shock syndrome. There are signs I can look for. Of course that will be in two weeks, and doesn't deal with the time in between now and then."

"Do you think there's any kind of danger of him…hurting himself, or someone else?" Nelson asked. He didn't want to even think of it, but had to ask. He, also, had to be on the upcoming cruise. There were certain experiments, experiments that could not be delayed, that required his presence.

Jamieson shook his head. "No. I see no evidence of any such problem. I think that if I talk to Hitchens, his physical therapist, we can have a reliable pair of eyes watching him. He seems to be getting on with Lee well enough and he has had some experience dealing with PTSD. He worked with veterans of several wars, and knows the signs." The doctor cast a look at Morton who was still silently stalking. "He'll also be sure that the captain gets at least ONE meal a day."

Nelson sighed. It was not the solution that he wanted. He wanted to be able to be here himself. To be sure that Crane got whatever help he needed. But circumstances were such that he could not. He also knew that Crane would understand that. Nelson could wish it wasn't so. It seemed that duty had cost them both so much in the past. He would not have duty cost him Lee as well.

Chapter 2-

"…so please return all seats to their upright position and buckle your seat restraints."

Crane was jolted awake by the announcement that the plane was preparing to come in for a landing. He blinked in the now bright interior lights, and adjusted his seat. He surrendered his blanket and pillow to the attendant as he came by. He stretched in his seat glad he had decided to spend the extra money on first class. His leg was stiff from sitting for so long, but he had plenty of legroom, and he had been able to stretch it out. Until he had nodded off a couple of hours ago he had gotten up and walked once every half hour during the trip. He looked out the window, seeing that it was still dark outside, it being only just after 0500. He had left the west coast just over eight hours earlier, and he was wondering if he had been missed yet.

His theatrics yesterday morning should have earned him at least a twenty-four hour head start, if he needed one. He had taken further steps though he wasn't sure they would be necessary, to assure another twenty-four. That would mean that they would be on the boat and headed toward the labs, before they found he wasn't where he was supposed to be. They could not delay the trip. The experiments HAD to be completed. It had taken four years to reach the current point. Nelson, and the machinery onboard the boat, HAD to be there. Jamieson was also required for the physicals. Not for Will Jamison the expedient of simply signing off on another's work. He would do the physicals himself, and know they were done correctly. Since Crane himself wasn't going, that meant that Chip would be in command. In addition, O'Brien, the usually reliable second officer, was on family leave, his mother being in the hospital with a serious illness. They could not ask him to leave her side. As much as they trusted the rest of their officers, they could not really allow any of them to take command for an entire mission. So, all three men would be gone, and he could do what needed to get done with little or no well-meaning interference.

Crane's mind returned to the previous morning, remembering how he had felt as he shut the door of the inner office, quietly, in direct opposition to the feelings within him. He walked past Angie's desk without looking at her, and left the offices. In the hallway he went to the elevator and pushed the button. He waited with seeming patience for the car to come to the call. Once the doors opened he entered quickly, and waited for the doors to close. When they did he slumped back against the wall, his head dropping. What he had just done tore at him, despite the necessity. He had suspected that he was going to be beached, and had decided to use that time to complete the new assignment, with his friends none the wiser. He hoped.

But then he had found out this morning that the timetable had been moved up. That meant he had to be in Washington D.C. tomorrow before noon, three days early. That also meant that he had to get away from his well-meaning friends/mother-hens, and keep them in the dark as to his whereabouts for the next two days until they sailed. The only hurtle would then be whomever they set to watch him. He had a suspicion that the chosen watcher would be Hutchins, the therapist he had been seeing for his leg. It made the most sense from a practical point of view, since the therapist saw him daily, and could report his status to Jamieson under the guise of a medical update.

He had booked this red eye flight before leaving for the meeting that morning. The problem was that he couldn't come up with a plausible excuse for why he had to be in Washington on such short notice, at least one that they would believe. He knew that as soon as they found out his destination they would suspect that he was going to meet with Admiral Smith at ONI, and that there was a mission involved. Then there would be no peace for him. Nelson and Morton made no bones about their feelings about him taking ONI missions. The idea of him taking another when he was still recovering from the last one would have pushed them both over the edge, and he didn't even want to think about what Jamieson would have to say, hence his display in the admiral's office. He suspected his sanity had been discussed at length after his departure from the office.

The mission had been getting more unappealing since he had agreed to take it. Of course he had not been forced to do so. He was sometimes not even sure himself why he felt compelled to take whatever mission was offered. Admiral Smith had called him three days ago, ostensibly to ask how his recovery was coming. There had been the usual polite inquiries, and then Smith had sprung the question.

"Do you feel up to another assignment?"

Crane was silent for several seconds, surprised at the question, though he had known there was some reason for the call other than concern for his health. He had few illusions as to his worth to the ONI admiral. He was just another weapon in the man's arsenal, and he was used as necessary. Smith was no more concerned for his health then he would have been concerned about a broken down car that had been sent to the mechanic. If that one weren't fixable he would simply get another. Now he knew the reason for the call, to feel him out for a new assignment. The admiral was well aware of his seeming inability to turn down a mission.

"My leg is still not healed. It's not up to much besides walking. I wouldn't be any good in the field. In fact I won't be going on the next cruise because of it." He answered truthfully. He had not yet had the conversation with Jamieson about it, but he knew. He wasn't going to lie about his situation. It might not be just his neck on the line, and he could not risk someone else because of his infirmity. Smith however might not be so reluctant to do so if he were up against it for an agent.

"Okay. How about dancing?" That was another voice, a familiar voice, the President.

Crane had found himself at a loss for a reply. His mind had whirled, for a moment even wondering if he had gone crazy and was imaging all of this, the result of some bit of left over drug from the experience he had just had. Lord knew the dreams that had come had been more than disturbing enough to make him believe that he was going just the smallest bit nuts.

"Um…I'm sorry, sir, Mr. President. I don't understand." He finally said.

"Dancing, man! You know, waltz, tango, rumba, ballroom, formal dancing." The admiral replied.

"Well, I can waltz and tango, but I'm afraid that's it, sirs." He finally replied. Why was the President asking if he could dance?

"That'll do." The President replied in a satisfied tone. "We need you on this, Captain. Your country needs you on this." A few words more and Lee found himself agreeing. How could he NOT agree given what was at stake?

"Be here in 5 days." Smith said, "I'm sure that I don't need to tell you that discretion is important. Even Nelson isn't cleared for this." There was a pause. "In fact, Crane, it would be best for the assignment if you could somehow make it appear as if you were breaking with Nelson and that whole crew out there." He paused again as if sensing Crane's incipient protest then continued. "I realize that might be awkward, but you can make explanations later. You'll be on assignment, but you'll be in the open, not undercover. We need to build your back story. The limp will even help. I have an idea about that. Once you're here we'll go over the particulars." With that he had hung up in his usual abrupt manner, leaving Crane to figure out how to deceive his friends for the good of his country.

The plane landed and taxied to the gate. He disembarked with his carry on bag, picking up his garment bag from the luggage area, and headed for the nearest taxi stand. It wasn't too early for Smith he knew. Rumor had it that the man haunted the halls of the building that housed the intelligence division at all hours of the day and night. There were few things he was not involved in, and NOTHING happened without his knowledge. Admiral Ned Hickock, the retired head of ONI, claimed it was because the man was afraid of someone actually doing something worthwhile, and getting the credit for it, but Crane thought that it was because the man was a recent widower with no family, who had no where else to be. The admiral suffered from insomnia he knew, and it seemed that his chosen way of spending his time was to throw himself into the process completely.

The cab dropped him in front of the discrete combined brownstones that housed the ONI offices, and he stood there watching it disappear into the drizzly dawn. He hefted his bags and limped toward the main door, reaching for his I.D. He was known here, but regulations required it be shown. He was passed through security quickly, and a seaman escorted him to the admiral's office. There was no secretary on duty, so the seaman remained in the waiting area with him until the admiral called for him to enter. He left his garment bag hanging there in the outer office but took his smaller bag in with him.

He entered the admiral's office and walked to stand in front of his desk. He was not wearing his uniform, not wanting to draw attention to himself on the trip, so he did not salute, though he did draw himself up to attention. The admiral, who had been looking through some files, glanced up and then at the clock that was now showing 0600.

"You made good time, Crane." He observed. "I wasn't expecting you until later. Just as well, we have a few things to discuss, and I would rather do it without an audience." He shuffled around in the papers on his desk, finally finding a thick file and handing it to Crane. "Read through that, then we'll talk. No sense me telling you about it when you can get the whole story from that." He waved a hand at the sofa in the corner of the large office. Crane took the file and turned toward the sofa. He felt Smith's eyes on him as he walked, and he didn't try to hide his limp. He heard a small harrumph, but did not look back. When he sat down, a quick glace showed Smith back to reading the file before him.

Crane opened the file and, calling on his years of experience with reading field reports, winnowed out the less important routine surveillance listings, and got down to the meat of the file. He would go over the listings later once he knew what he should be looking for. He was so caught up in the reading that he wasn't aware of the secretary entering the room with coffee until she placed a cup on the table in front of him. He looked up in surprise, and glanced at the clock. He had been reading for over three hours and it was now after 0900. He looked over to find Smith sitting back in his chair, his eyes on Crane, sipping at a cup of coffee. Crane rose from the sofa and went to the chair in front of Smith's desk.

"I can't fault your concentration, Captain." The admiral said. "Have you completed the file?"

"All except the recent surveillance reports, sir. I assume that there is no update on his whereabouts since…" He opened the file again, checking the date. "The twenty-second?"

Smith shook his head. "No. Once they lost him in Amsterdam that was it. We know where he ISN'T. We've had every contact that we have in both Russia and the People's Republic checking to be sure that there isn't even a whisper of a suggestion that he's in either country. If the level of activity among their agents is any indication, that is true. EVERYONE wants this guy, and I intend to get him before they do."

"Obviously you have a plan." Crane said. "How do I figure in?"

"You saw in the file that Manes has two living relatives, an older sister and his mother. The mother is the key."

"His mother, sir?" Crane asked. He had, of course, noted the relatives in the file, but failed to see how the mother could be used to draw in the man they wanted. Smith smiled at him, and started telling him his plan. As he listened, Crane found himself calling on the lessons he had learned from Chip Morton to keep his face impassive. He asked the right questions at the right time, and kept his amazement from his voice as well. Finally the admiral wound down, and leaned back in his chair, obviously waiting for a reaction. Crane searched for the appropriate one.

"I see." He said. "It certainly isn't something that Manes will be expecting from us." It was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment. He saw Smith's dark eyes narrow for a moment, as if he was displeased with the noncommittal response, but then a smile pulled at the usually grim mouth.

"Can't say I blame you for being less than enthusiastic, not exactly what one thinks of when it comes to 'serving one's country' now is it?" he asked. Crane shook his head. He started to ask a question when the intercom buzzed. Smith pushed the button.

"Mrs. Manes is here early, sir. Should I show her in?" the secretary asked.

Smith looked at Crane who nodded and rose to his feet. Smith reached for the button. "Send her in." He said, standing. Both men turned to face the door.

Chapter 3-

"What do you mean he's not there? The notice he sent to security said he was at the base in San Diego. Have you tried contacting Lt. Commander Hill directly? He has to know where the captain is; after all he was staying with him there on the base." Nelson's voice left no doubt as to his expectations. The tone drew the attention of Morton who had been reading reports at the charting table. They had been at sea for just over 36 hours, having sailed with the tide the previous morning at 0400. So far the cruise had been routine, and they were on schedule to arrive at the lab precisely on time. Nelson, though somewhat subdued, had already started preparing his part of the experiment, and the machines were being calibrated for the necessary processing that would take place.

He had seen Nelson heading for the radio shack, and figured that the admiral was going to try to contact Crane. They had both been upset that their friend had bolted for San Diego on the thin excuse that a friend had been recently promoted, and he wanted to be there for the party since Hill had been there when Crane had been promoted to captain. He had left the afternoon of the confrontation in the office, before anyone could see him. He had been due back that morning, timing that no one was surprised to note would get him back after the boat had sailed. Morton put down the clipboard he had been reading, and walked back toward the radio shack. He arrived there in time to hear Hutchins' reply.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I already did call. Once I found that there was no answer at the captain's house I called his office at the Institute and when they hadn't heard from him I called security to check if they had an update on his whereabouts. That's when I found out that he had called in and told them he was staying there and that he would be out of touch except by beeper for at least a week. I called Lt Commander Hill and asked him if the captain was staying there with him, thinking I could recommend a therapist there on the base." Hutchins paused, and Nelson could hear the reluctance as the therapist continued. "The Lt. Commander hadn't seen the captain, sir. Not since the last time the Seaview was in the Armpit…er.. In San Diego, sir." Hutchins stumbled over the nickname for the base to the south, and then hurried on. "Our security called base security, and they confirmed that the captain hadn't been on the base for the last few months."

Nelson swore and threw the mic against the aft bulkhead of the radio shack. Sparks, veteran of years of experience, expertly ducked the ricochet and grabbed the mic on the bounce. He knew the admiral would want to use it again once he calmed down, so he kept it at the ready. "Stand by." He said into his own mic, cutting off the sound after getting the acknowledgment from his equally- experienced opposite number at the Institute Communications Center.

Chip watched as Nelson stomped toward the nose, muttering to himself. He suspected that the bottle of family label better be full, because the admiral had that look in his eye. His own thoughts were none the better as he contemplated the implications of what they had heard. Obviously Lee had lied to security about where he was going in the first place, and had simply changed to another tactic when the first ran out. Of course Crane was entitled to his vacation time, but over the last two years since the young captain had joined Seaview the only times that Crane had been gone without security knowing where he could be located was….Morton's head jerked toward the nose where Nelson was knocking back two fingers of the whiskey he had poured into one of the glasses. Despite his on-duty status Chip felt like going up there and requesting some for himself. The only time that Lee Crane had been completely incommunicado in the last two years was when he was on an ONI assignment. An assignment like the last one that had nearly gotten him killed, and from which he was still recovering, the limp only being the most visible of the wounds.

Morton motioned for Sparks to hand him the mic. He kept his eyes on Nelson as he spoke. "Hutchins, have the comm. center patch me through to the Chief of Security's office. If Hanson is in I want to talk to him." He said.

He waited as the connection was made, thinking. Well, that explained the confrontation in the Admiral's office. Lee had been maneuvering for distance, forcing his friends, who had tended to hover in the last two weeks, away. Once he had gotten enough room to maneuver, he had appeared to stand off: a short trip to San Diego, a friend's promotion party, a short break from the physical therapy. Then, when that excuse had run its course, he revealed that he had simply been covering his retreat, now too far away for active pursuit. But that didn't mean that he had dropped off the map, and if there were tracks, Hanson would be able to follow them. It would depend on how thorough Lee had been, on how much he wanted to get lost. Morton was under no illusion about Crane's abilities when it came to disappearing.

"This is Chief Hanson, go ahead sir," Said the Security Chief's deep voice over the radio.

"Have you been briefed about the captain?" Morton asked.

"Yes sir." Hanson replied, and went on to describe what his security personnel had found out from San Diego. Basically, Crane had never been there, and Lt. Commander Hill had not only not heard from Crane but had been promoted almost thee months ago. He had been reluctant to even admit that, but it had been a matter of record, and he had finally admitted it was true. Hill had been the dive officer aboard Crane's last Navy boat. Hanson was of the opinion that if the captain had asked him to lie he would have done so, but that had not been the case.

Morton was sure he was right. Crane engendered loyalty in any crew he commanded, and it wasn't something that went away. "Very well, I want you to see if you can find where he might have gone. If there's anything to find I want to know it." Morton ordered succinctly.

There was silence from the other end of the connection then Hansen came back on. "Uh…I may have overstepped myself, sir, but I got my boys on it as soon as we realized the Skipper wasn't going to tell us where he was. He's…well its best if we know how to find him if we have to. And it's not like we're going to invade his privacy or anything like that Mr. Morton, if he's really just vacationing." The chief hurried to explain.

Morton dropped his head and shook it. He sometimes wondered how dull his life would have been if he had never had a certain underage midshipman as a roommate at the academy. "I understand Chief, and I know that while he might not be too pleased about it right now, the captain would understand too. What have you found?"

"He wasn't covering his tracks at all, sir. I know I don't have to tell you that if that the Skipper didn't want us to know where he went then we wouldn't have found anything." The chief said in admiration. "Hell, he used his credit card to buy the plane ticket. He could have slowed us down just by using cash if he wanted."

"Plane ticket?" Morton echoed. "Then he's left the area?"

"He caught a redeye out of LAX two nights ago, sir, one layover in Denver, and then on to Washington D.C. He arrived there the next morning. We haven't been able to track him from there yet, but we're still working on it. We know he hasn't checked into any of the hotels there, or gone on to any of the bases in the area. Should we continue inquiries? If the skipper is 'working' we might be in the way."

Morton was almost unable to answer because when he had heard the destination of the plane, everything had suddenly become clear. So, that had been the purpose of the charade in the admiral's office. Crane had gone to Washington D.C. and there could only be one reason that he would do it this way. Conscious of eyes watching and ears listening, Chip forced his face to remain expressionless and his voice to remain steady as he raised the mic. "Stay on it Chief. I trust you to know where to draw the line. Seaview out." He handed the mic to Sparks with admirable restraint and went forward to the chart table where Lt. Ahern, the acting second officer, stood. He knew that everyone in the control room had heard what went on, and also knew it would be all around the boat before he could walk her length. He spoke briefly with Ahern, leaving him with the con, and went toward the nose.

Nelson had sat down at the table, the empty glass before him. He was staring out the window. As Morton sat down across from him he got a good look at the expression in Nelson's eyes, and knew that he was remembering another time when Lee had disappeared. A time when only a quirk of fate had allowed them to find him; fate and Crane's own inability to avoid trouble that only the Seaview and her crew could rescue him from.

"He went on another ONI mission." Morton said flatly. "With a bum leg and still recovering from the last one, he went on another. That's the only reason he would do this." He explained what he had learned from Hansen. It wasn't good news, but it was better than what had been on the older man's mind he was sure, maybe.

Nelson had turned towards him as he spoke, and now he nodded. "That explains a lot I guess. He didn't want to argue with us about it, so he manipulated us into leaving him alone so that he could…make his escape. He knew we would be gone soon and there wouldn't be anything we could do from here. We might have even bought the vacation thing if it hadn't been for Hutchins calling down to San Diego and speaking with Lt Commander Hill. Damn the man anyways." Morton knew that the admiral wasn't referring to Hutchins or Hill with his last statement, and nodded in agreement. Crane's sense of duty when it came to ONI missions was a sore subject between them.

"What do we do? Could Admiral Smith not realize that he's still healing?" The ONI admiral was not a favorite of Morton's. He had met the man on several occasions, and had found him overbearing and inconsiderate of the safety of his subordinates; in particular one certain submarine captain. The ends justified any means to Smith, and that meant that Lee was expendable in the greater scheme of things.

"Oh, I have no doubt that Lee's condition is a matter of complete indifference to Smith, as long as he is able to make an appearance and do what needs to be done. Most of his other agents are as useless as a hog on ice. Lee could show up in a body cast and still be more efficient." Nelson was even less impressed by Smith than Morton and had no constraint about letting the other admiral know it. When they did meet, it was easy to see that the dislike was mutual. "Of course it doesn't seem to matter much to Lee either." He pounded a fist against the table. "This has got to stop! He is going to have to make a decision whether he is going to be captain of this boat or Smith's answer to James Bond! I will not be manipulated in this manner, even if it is for the supposed 'good of the country'. He is going to have to choose."

Morton stared at him, unsure of how he felt about Nelson's ultimatum. Almost from the time that he had realized what being an agent meant he had wanted Lee to quit ONI. The fact that it was something that Crane felt he HAD to do was the only thing that had kept his protests on this side of civil. He was also aware that Nelson had left it alone for much the same reason. Now it appeared the gloves were to come off. He understood how the admiral felt, he too resented Crane's manipulation of their feelings to allow himself time to escape. But he also could see Lee's point of view. They had made it difficult for him to do what he felt he needed to do, even if that need were bordering on the pathological. In the end it was Lee's life, and he should be able to do with it what he wanted, even if his friends did not approve.

"What are you proposing sir? Lee won't much appreciate being backed into a corner." He offered finally.

Nelson sighed as the ire drained out of him. "I know. But damn it, I cannot take much more of this. If he won't give it up, he HAS to be made to understand that he can't go sneaking off like this, and he can't discount his own health. If he won't take care of himself, then he will have to allow US to do it for him. From now on he has to have Jamieson's clearance to take an assignment, and he MUST notify you or me, if not both of us, that he is going." Nelson's eyes met his. "We're going to have to present a united front on this Chip. It is not going to be easy. As you say he's going to feel pressured, and we both know he doesn't push. I propose that we use this latest tactic of his as a starting point." At Morton's frown of puzzlement he smiled slightly and continued.

"As you noticed he was uncomfortable, if efficient, in his manipulation of us. What I think we should do is…." As the Seaview went on her way, the two top officers on board plotted against her missing captain.

Chapter 3-

Felicia Manes strode into the office as if she were making an appearance on the red carpet of some social event. She paused in the doorway, and Crane wondered if she expected flashbulbs to pop as paparazzi took pictures for some society page. The woman looked to be in her fifties though he knew from the report he had just finished she was sixty-eight. Her hair, an improbably bright blond, was expertly and expensively, if he was any judge, coifed under a stylish hat that reminded him of those that Jackie Kennedy always seemed to be wearing in pictures taken in the early sixties. She was dressed in what several years of attending Edith Nelson's charity events had taught him was a designer suit in a deep shade of purple.

Her eyes, dark brown and sharp with intelligence, looked from Smith to Crane, her eyes lingering on the younger man. She left her pose near the door to approach the captain and circled him like horse buyer inspecting a colt, or at least that's how Crane felt. Finally she moved away and looked at Smith, seating herself in one of the two visitor chairs. Crane, amused despite himself, looked at Smith who was frowning. His attention was drawn back to the woman as she spoke.

"You should fire your photographer. The man is a hack. The photo didn't do the captain justice at all. He's perfect. George will be livid." She said eyes on Crane. She then looked Smith. "You'll forgive me for being early, but my manicurist can only take me at ten this morning, and I must get my nails done before tonight."

Smith's frown became a scowl and he sat back down in his chair, waving Crane to do the same. "I'm not running a modeling agency here Mrs. Manes, or an escort service. Captain Crane is an experienced operative and knows his job. His looks are beside the point."

"Maybe to you." She said, waving aside the protest and taking a cigarette out of a golden case. She placed it between her lips and looked from Smith to Crane, who sprang up and took a large lighter from Smith's desk and lit the cigarette. As he put it back on the desk he had to hide a smile at Smith's increasingly angry face. The man was not used to being upstaged or downgraded in importance behind a manicurist.

"Be that as it may," Smith started, "The captain has read your son's file, but I have not yet had an opportunity to brief him on the particulars of the mission. I emphasis again Mrs. Manes, that we expect your complete cooperation on this. We have gone to some trouble to meet your…requirements, now it's time for you to live up to your part of the bargain."

"Oh don't worry about that Admiral." She said, reaching over and patting Crane's knee. He looked at her in surprise. It hadn't been just a friendly pat. It had been almost…possessive. He was distracted from that thought as she continued. "Simply decant the boy into a tux and have him at my suite by five. I'll be having a few people over before the party, and we can set the stage. Most of them would love to have a juicy tidbit to leak to the press, and the story should be on the wire by the time the party gets going." Crane frowned, not understanding what the woman was saying. She seemed to be saying that he would be attending a party with her, but there seemed to be more to it than that. He looked at Smith who sighed.

"Captain you will be 'escorting' Mrs. Manes over the next week or so here and in New York, and…wherever else she might go. You will ostensibly be her…" he seemed at a loss for words.

"Paramour?" The woman suggested with a smile that approached self satisfied.

"Let's just stick with "escort" for now, shall we." Smith said acerbically.

Looking from one to the other, Crane was surprised to say the least. He had assumed that the mission involved going to whichever country in which Manes had last been spotted. Instead, it seemed to involve staying with his mother. Of course that might explain the question of dancing.

"If you'll excuse me, sir, ma'am." He said, "I'm afraid I don't understand." Before Smith could answer Mrs. Manes rose to her feet and stepped closer to him. Without warning she reached out and brushed a hand through his hair before he could pull his head away. She smiled at him.

"I'm sure that the Admiral here will tell you all the dull details. As I said, be at my suite tonight with your things by five. Hopefully you have a 'good' tux. Of course you could wear your uniform…" she seemed to consider that and then shook his head. "No I think we'll start with just the regular tux. You should be quite stunning." She started for the door with a wave of her hand. "I must be going. I can't keep Patrice waiting you know; she gets so put out." With that she was out the door, leaving the two men to stare after her. Crane blinked and turned to look at Smith.

"Sir, am I to understand that I will be undercover as a…male escort?" he asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

Smith scowled again. "Don't look at me like that, captain. You're not some virgin we're planning on throwing into a volcano. All you have to do is parade the woman around to whatever parties and things she goes to and let yourself be photographed with her. Of course if asked, you will intimate that you are involved with the woman…sexually. Details will not be appropriate in any event so your reticence will be taken as discretion. "

"And how is this going to help us capture Manes, sir? I must be missing something." Crane said with a shake of his head. He really was at a loss for the rational behind this assignment.

Smith picked up another file from his desk, waving it. "You are missing something, this information. It seems that our boy Manes has one of those oedipal complexes, a weird attachment to his mother. One of the reasons he fled the country was that the local police were taking a hard look at him for the death of not one, but two of his mother's former lovers, and were starting to wonder about the supposedly accidental death of his father over thirty five years ago. Evidently the kid was a precocious little snot, and they think he may have messed with daddy's brakes.

"The boys in the psychology division think that if we put you out there in the spotlight that it will get his attention. Then, when he finds out that his mother has pulled in the reins on the trust fund that he's been living off of for the last year and a half, it should just about drive him over the edge, make him forget that we're looking for him."

"What's this about a trust fund sir? The report says he's forty seven, surely he's in control of it himself now."

"No, actually he's not. The money comes from his grandfather, on the mother's side. He didn't like the kid, and figured that the only way to control him was to put his mother in charge of his money at her discretion, with his sister taking over when the mother dies. Mrs. Manes never legally relinquished control of it. She just let him draw as he would. We've convinced her to put a stop to all requests for funds."

"Surely he can get money somewhere else? He can't just be living off the trust fund." Crane said, opening the file he still had and leafing back through it looking for a banking statement.

"The trust fund has principle in the upper ten digits. He's never bothered to open another account. Word has it that he has incredibly expensive tastes, any disposable income goes quickly. With him being on the run, there won't be any government willing to pick up the tab, and he'll be getting frustrated and desperate. We already have indications that he has tried to contact his mother by phone. We've made sure that she is never available to his calls. He would be just about at a boiling point now, and seeing you in the paper with her will really push him over the edge. The boys in psych say that the fact that you are younger than he is, coupled with the fact that you are ex-Navy, which he has a profound dislike for, will be the final straw. He WILL act. It is just a matter of when."

"So I'm the staked goat to draw him in." Crane guessed, understanding his part in the plan. "I take it we will be under observation?"

Smith nodded. "I'll have men on the staff at any hotel where you stay, and I have a copy of her social schedule and will have men at every event. They will contact you to let you know who they are and how to reach them. I hope that you do have a tux." He said with a doubtful look at the bag that sat near the sofa.

"I have one in my other bag sir. When you mentioned dancing I thought…" He started.

"Good, good." Smith cut him off, looking at the clock. "I see your limp is as noticeable as you said. That is going to work in our favor. I dropped a word in a few ears around town. By now it should be around that the injury is permanent and that Nelson has all but fired you pending the final medical evaluation. That will explain your presence here and why you might be looking for a new…source of income."

Crane frowned as Smith revealed this part of the plan. He had known that Smith planned to use his limp, but he had not expected to bring Nelson into it, especially in this manner. To suggest that Nelson would discard an employee because of an injury was spurious and defamatory. However, if Smith had started the rumor already there was not much he could do about it now. He would not propagate the information however. He could see no reason that the question should arise, and if it did he should be able to avoid answering it. He was not surprised that Smith had taken such a step, the two admirals were not friendly by any definition of the word, and the ONI head would delight in anything that made Nelson appear in a bad light. Crane had always felt that Smith envied Nelson his connections and power here in Washington. The fact the Nelson did not trade on it made it all the worse as far as Smith was concerned.

Smith was eyeing him as if expecting a protest. On more than one occasion Crane had refused to involve Nelson in his missions despite pressure from Smith, and the times when Nelson DID become involved, usually due to the dire straits Crane found himself in, Smith had not been pleased with the vitriol of Nelson's accusations regarding lack of backup for his operatives. At this point however, there was not much use to protest. The damage was done, but hopefully those who mattered would not believe any of it. As for the rest, he could do damage control later. He nodded slightly.

"I understand sir. I'll remember that should the question arise." He acknowledged simply. He refused to be used as a pawn in the war between the two men.

Smith looked disappointed, but could hardly protest the agreement. "We have some more clothes for you, expensive designer stuff. Should anyone check it, they were purchased on Mrs. Manes' accounts at some of the better tailors." He handed Crane another file. "Here is the background we've built for you and Mrs. Manes. It seems you met two weeks ago in Santa Barbara. She was out there visiting some friends in Hollywood. You…uh 'clicked' immediately and she invited you to join her here. You had to stick around for some more physical therapy, but finally made it here for the soiree tonight." He waved at the file. "Details of your whirlwind courtship are there. You know the drill on that. Mrs. Manes assures me that she's memorized them as well, though I wouldn't bet on that. I don't need to tell you about dealing with civilians. We wouldn't be doing this if there was any other way to draw Manes out."

"I understand, sir." Crane said knowing that he would get much more information from the documents provided. Smith looked back at the clock.

"I have an appointment at the White House in half an hour. You should go and get the clothes and maybe talk with the boys in psych. They can give you a better reading on Manes, and what you might expect. Have my secretary get you a car, something flashy and expensive and we'll make sure it's rented to Mrs. Manes. After that you're on your own until you make your appearance at the hotel. Make it look good, captain. We have to draw Manes in. There's not much more time." He stood and Crane did as well. "Dismissed captain."

Crane retrieved his bag and juggling the two files and the bag went out to see Smith's secretary who would have all the information he would need on who to talk to and where he needed to go.

Chapter 4-

Nelson was methodically writing formulas in the chalkboard in his lab when Morton came into the compartment just after 2230 hours. Even knowing the purpose of the experiments that were taking place at the undersea labs, it might well have been a foreign language to the XO. The power of Nelson's intellect never failed to amaze him, no matter how often he saw evidence of it. He waited quietly to the side, knowing that Nelson knew he was there, but would complete his work before acknowledging him.

Five minutes later Nelson put down the chalk and turned to face Morton. He glanced at the clock as he did so and smiled at the younger man. "Don't tell me that Jamieson sent you to tell me it's past my bedtime. He usually waits until much later in the cruise before he starts monitoring my hours." He joked. He had been working since earlier that day after he and Morton had finished their talk in the nose. There had been no further news from the Institute or Hansen regarding the whereabouts of a certain captain.

They were scheduled to reach the first of the labs at 0500 the next day. The first round of experiments would begin as soon as the various machines could be set up. Jamieson would start his physicals as the men became available. After this first phase was done in three days they would move to the second lab and repeat the process. After that, if everything went as planned, they would head back to Santa Barbara. Following that, Morton wasn't sure what would happen.

They would confront Crane together, share their hurt and disquiet about his ploy, and try to use that to gain his promise to not only limit his missions, but to notify them when he was going and allow them some measure of input on what he would and would not do, if only from a health standpoint. He still wasn't sure how successful they would be, but it was worth a try. Nelson, a veteran of nearly as many arguments as Morton, was sure that if they did it right Crane would see the value in the plan. Chip was cautiously optimistic. Nelson's genius might not be up to the stubbornness of a certain captain. Abandoning that line of thought he straightened from where he had been leaning against a lab table and smiled with a shake of his head.

"I was doing the tour and saw the light on. Thought I would just come in and see if everything was ready so I wouldn't have to wake you in the morning before they can move the machinery. No need for you to be there for that."

Nelson's smile grew. "So you've taken over the nightly tour as well? I didn't realize it had become regulation." He said, referring to Lee Crane's habit of doing a tour of his boat before retiring for the night.

Morton shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "You gotta admit that it is a good way to keep in touch with the crew. They all expect it now."

"Yes. I know how they feel. He usually stops in here or my cabin for an unofficial debriefing on the day and to go over any plans for the next day." Something in Nelson's tone sounded almost wistful to Morton, and he knew that the older man was missing Crane. It had pleased the XO over the years to watch as that relationship had developed, and he knew that the two solitary men had found in each other a companion, and more. He smiled.

"I'd be happy to tell you about an incident we had in the mess when one of the new hands told his tablemates that he didn't like the chicken stew because the chicken was stringy and the carrots weren't done, and how his mother had taught him how to make a MUCH better version. Cookie was standing right behind him at the time."

Nelson winced. All of the officers went in fear of offending the cook, and knew better than to even suggest that ANYONE could cook better than he could. He gestured toward the door. "This, I am sure, will require liquid refreshment. Perhaps a nightcap in my cabin?" he suggested. He knew that Chip was trying to make up for Lee's absence, and he appreciated the effort. The least he could do was go along with it.

Chapter 5-

Crane stepped out of the Ferrari in front of the Ritz Carlton, flinging the keys at the valet and starting toward the lobby as a bellman removed his bags from the passenger seat of the car. He had gotten the car just over an hour ago, and had taken it out on the freeway to 'test' its performance. It wasn't his beloved convertible, but it would do in a pinch. The weather hadn't allowed him to have the top down. Unlike the west coast where it was still raining, the clouds over D.C. had cleared, but it was bitingly cold. He had reluctantly guided the expensive car off the expressway and down into the city, seeing that he only had another half hour before he was due at the hotel. Early was always best.

He strode to the desk, not bothering to hide his limp, unconsciously reaching to straighten a tie that was not there, having been replaced by an open necked linen shirt under a cashmere sweater the same color as his eyes and a dark jacket over dark slacks. The woman at the ONI supply desk had informed him of the color match when she had suggested it. The matronly woman had fussed over him as if she was dressing a favorite grandchild, and he had been glad to escape her clutches. As he now noticed the looks being cast his way, he was glad he had taken her advice. His attire fit in perfectly, as he was sure the rest of the clothing she had provided would. The man behind the counter looked up in inquiry as he neared.

"Welcome to the Carlton. May I help you?"

"Lee Crane, I'm a guest of Mrs. Felicia Manes." He said in a voice calculated to carry to the people sitting nearby in the large comfortable seating area. He had been told that society reporters and photographers often waited there for chance appearances of those that filled the pages of the society rags. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several heads turn his way. After so many years of ONI missions it was strange to be drawing attention to himself in this manner. Covert was usually the watchword of the day.

The clerk looked in his computer and smiled at Crane. He placed a keycard on the counter. "Of course, Mr. Crane. Mrs. Manes informed us you would be staying with her in her suite. Here is a key card to the suite. The elevator is there, your card will give you access to the penthouse level." He pointed to the left, "The bellman will bring your luggage up immediately."

Crane nodded and went to the elevator. He slid the card through the groove and the elevator started to move. The penthouse, he wasn't surprised. He suspected that a night in the penthouse here cost about his monthly salary. He found himself reaching for his tie again, and mentally chastised himself. Surely he had not become that used to wearing a tie? He suspected that he was simply uneasy about this whole thing. He was an experienced agent. He had done many different things in the course of his duties with ONI and he told himself that this was just another job.

What was bothering him was not so much the assignment he suspected, as the manner in which he had gotten free to do it. He was still feeling guilty about the whole scene in Nelson's office. He had used his friends' concern about his health to distance himself from them. By now they would know that he had taken a 'vacation', ducking out on his physical therapy and security and he knew that would not be going over well.

He knew that even if the assignment was over in time for him to return before they did, he would have to confess what he had done, his own honor would allow nothing less, and he owed them the truth. As he watched the numbers ticking off on the panel over his head he considered why it was he could not leave it if he got away with his deception. It had a lot to do with the relationship that had formed between him and Morton over the last fifteen years, and with the one that had recently grown between himself and Nelson. If those relationships meant anything to him, he could not let this lie continue, and they had come to mean everything to him. A brother, a father; two things he had longed for from his earliest memories. He hoped that they would understand, though he knew that they would be angry with him, and rightly so. He could only hope that they would understand the circumstances that surrounded this particular mission, and why it had been important for him to take it despite his physical condition.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the 'ding' of the elevator as it reached the penthouse floor. The doors opened to reveal a short hallway with two doors. Looking at the card he saw it was printed with a large "A". He went to the one so marked and, despite his having the keycard, knocked upon it. He waited several moments before it was opened by a middle-aged man in a dark suit. He looked at Crane in puzzlement. Crane held up his key card.

"I'm Crane. Mrs. Manes is expecting me." He said. He recognized the man as Felicia Manes' social secretary, Augustine Curzon. He, like the others of Mrs. Manes' entourage, had been mentioned in the file that Smith's secretary had provided him. None of them knew Crane's true purpose. As far as they were concerned, Crane was the latest of Felicia Manes' younger male escorts, though he seemed to be even younger than her usual selection. He didn't need his years of experience to see the speculation in the eyes of the other man as he stepped back to allow him to enter the suite. The main room was everything he thought it would be, expensively furnished, expansive, and with a spectacular view.

Felicia Manes was seated on a sofa, with another woman, whom Crane recognized as Tina Biggins, a sort of maid/lady in waiting who went everywhere with Manes. She seemed to be the ultimate spinster: skinny, bespectacled, and plain. The two women looked up as he entered, and he saw a look of disdain cross Biggins' face, hastily covered as Mrs. Manes stood and approached him with hands out. The older woman was in a silken dressing gown, her hair expertly arranged. Her nails, a pale pink that morning, were now a flaming scarlet, and he could see her toenails were painted a matching color as they peeped through the open toes of her marabou covered slippers. Evidently the manicurist had come through.

"Lee, my dear, you finally made it. I was worried that I would have to send out a search party. Have you finished that tiresome therapy that kept you from me for so long?" she asked with a false pout, expertly supplying the excuse for his lateness in appearing in Washington after their supposed meeting in California. She stepped directly up to him, and kissed his cheek, stroking the other as she did so. He returned the cheek kiss if not the caress, and allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the sofa.

She glanced at the clock and back at him. "You have cut it fine. You only have thirty minutes to get ready." She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, smiling at his slight scowl. "Oh but you men don't take so long as we women do. I'm sure that you will do me proud. How was your flight, did you come in with the senator as you planned?" This too was part of the charade. Supposedly he had flown in with one of the senators that danced attendance on Mrs. Manes.

"It was fine." Crane said dismissively. He looked at Curzon. "Get me a scotch, straight up, will you? The senator's bar went dry somewhere over Ohio. Not that he had the good stuff anyway. Evidently he favors Irish whiskey." He gave a snort. "Forced more than enough of that swill down with Nelson, for all the good it did me." He added the last petulantly. As much as he hated the thought of presenting Nelson in a bad light, he had not been able to come up with a viable alternative, and so he had to go with it. He might as well start his playacting with these two. Mrs. Manes had told Smith that she was sure that one or the other, or possibly both, of her two employees were leaking information to the press for money. Curzon got the drink with ill grace after a look at Manes who raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. The secretary then went to answer the door for the bellhop who took Crane's bags into one of the rooms.

Felicia Manes laughed and patted his knee. He was going to have to get used to her touching him. It was very strange. In the course of his career with ONI he had pretended to be many things, but this was the first time he had to be a…toy. It rankled that this was the best plan that ONI could come up with to capture Manes. He was wished he had more latitude on this, as he usually did when he was on a mission, but being here in Washington meant being under Smith's more or less direct supervision, and he did not suffer changes to his plans lightly.

He stood, looking around at the door where the bellhop had gone. "That my room?" He asked. He headed in that direction, conscious that Felicia Manes had also risen to her feet and was following him. He was not surprise when she followed him into the room and closed the door pointedly behind them. He looked around, unimpressed with the opulence of the room, suddenly wishing that he were back on the Seaview, in his own small cabin. He turned to look at Felicia Manes.

"Really, captain." She said. "You could try to be something less like a nervous virgin at an orgy. I was given to understand that you were an experienced operative." She put special emphasis on the one word.

He started unpacking his bags. "There are different types of experience, ma'am." He said simply, emphasizing the same word. He was not prepared to spar with this woman. He could not help but compare her to another very rich woman he had known, Edith Nelson. She had been much younger, true, but they were of the same class. The resemblance stopped there however. Edith had never been one to flaunt the riches that were hers by birth. She was much devoted to the various charities that she supported, and would rather stay in more humble lodgings herself and put the saving to good use for others. She had moved in the same circles, because that was where the money was. She had often tried to involve Nelson, and his officers, in her charity events, counting on the allure of their bachelorhood to winnow more money from her willing victims. Beneath the rich girl though had been a genuine, likable, innocent, young woman who Crane mourned still. He suspected that Felicia Manes had not been innocent or genuine for many years, if ever.

"Indeed. You must tell me some of the experiences. After all we will be spending a lot of time together." She said the last as she came up behind Crane and in a move that startled him reached out and grabbed his left buttocks. He turned sharply, to face her, putting the offended body part out of her reach.

"Madam, I am here to do a job. While in public I expect a certain amount of physical contact will be necessary, but in private I must ask you to keep your hands to yourself." He said firmly.

She frowned at him. "A prude, captain?" she questioned in a purr. "That's not quite in keeping with the sailor mythos. Are you gay, or is it that you think I'm too old for you?" Her dark eyes were watching him keenly.

"Your age has nothing to do with this ma'am, and neither does my profession or my sexual orientation, which is none of your business. As I said, I am here to do a job, and I will do it to the best of my ability, however that job does not include your unwelcome advances on my person." He winced mentally at the prudish sound of his words, but it was too late to take them back, "I would not force my attentions upon you, and in fact would be condemned both by society and by law if I did so. I expect the same courtesy from you." He said formally. There was a silence as they stood there, eyes locked. Finally she started to smile.

"Bravo." She said in a very different tone, stepping away from him to sit in one of the chairs. "It's refreshing to know that someone in your Naval Intelligence actually seems to live up to the name." She smiled at him as he frowned at her in puzzlement.

"I'm not nearly as shallow as I may appear, captain. Not that I don't know many people who are, and not that I can't be if I wish to. Sometimes it's just…easier to be what one appears to be." She smiled even wider at his obvious astonishment. She laughed, and he realized that it was genuine amusement. "Oh, my dear boy, I really managed to shock you didn't I? I do apologize. I had to know the mettle of the man, and I used what fire I could bring to bear. Your Admiral Smith does not engender a lot of confidence. I don't appreciate being treated as a means to an end."

"I can assure you, Ma'am-" Crane started only to be stopped by her upturned hand.

"No assurances are necessary from YOU, captain. I am quite pleased with my choice. I believe we will rub along famously. My confidence in the plan has soared astronomically. I should have known that Edith knew of what she spoke."

Crane's eyes widened. "You knew Edith, Edith Nelson?" He had never suspected that the two had ever met.

"Yes. The girl was tireless with her charities. She left no stone unturned when it came to possible funding sources. She was one of the few genuine people that I have ever met. She truly cared about the people involved. It wasn't just a hobby that she had taken up because it was expected of her. I was at one of her parties when she had managed to get you and your admiral there." She smiled in remembrance. "I remember her being so happy that you were there, the two of you. She said that donations from the single ladies always rose astronomically, though I think she valued the ability to simply spend time with her brother more than the money." She cast a glance at Crane. "She credited you with his being there."

"Me?" He asked. "I usually only went when the admiral practically ordered me to." He smiled sadly. "I wish I had gone to more. If I had known…" he broke off.

"Yes, it was a tragedy when she died, and so young. I was in Europe when I heard, and I couldn't get back for the funeral. She was very fond of you, on many levels, so many that I don't think even she understood them all."

Crane had to turn away, pretending to be concentrating on putting his things in the bureau neatly. He too had been confused about how he felt about Edith. Sister, girlfriend, friend, all had run together to become the complicated relationship that they had just started to explore when she had been ruthlessly killed.

"She said that you made her brother human again, that because of how he felt about you, he could feel more for her. She was very grateful for that." Crane found himself blinking hard, as he closed the drawer, and leaned for a moment over the bureau. He wondered briefly how he had gone from getting felt up by, to nearly crying in front of, this woman. He was grateful when she changed the subject.

"I'm sure that this is very awkward for you. I am after all old enough to be your mother, possibly your grandmother, and I sense that you are a gentleman in all the various meanings of the word. I assure you that I have no designs upon you despite my earlier behavior and I will make an effort to follow your lead from now on."

"Thank you, ma'am, I appreciate your cooperation." was all he could think to say at that point. This was definitely not what he had expected.

"Do you think that you could bring yourself to call me Felicia?" She said with a small smile. "I hardly feel that 'ma'am' is going to have that ring of passion to it that we are looking for." He smiled at her, and her smile grew. "Now there is the handsome young sailor that I chose. You are going to create quite the stir among my friends. All the men will hate you and all the women will hate me."

"Well, I guess that's what we are aiming for. I'm told there will be quite a few photographers from newspapers around the world there tonight. We've made arrangements with the newspapers in the countries where we think your son might be to make sure that our picture is prominently displayed. If the psychiatrists are right your son should be watching for any news about you."

She rose from the chair and started pacing around the room, pausing to straighten various knickknacks as she did so. Crane took that to mean that she was not as calm about this whole thing as she might appear. "Yes. I think he will be watching." She glanced at him. "I know what you probably heard from your psychiatrists, about how my son is, but you probably can't truly understand. No one can who hasn't actually lived with it."

"He was always a clingy child, even as an infant. He couldn't bear to be held by anyone else, or to even be put down if I was in the room. He had nannies of course, but he wouldn't abide them for anything if I didn't simply leave the house all together. He would find a way to come to me if he knew I was there. We realized that he was exceedingly smart very early. He started talking at an incredibly early age, and walking. My husband insisted on having him tested."

"They said he was a savant, a genius. He was reading by three, was doing math that I didn't even recognize by five. Through it all he was always with me. He insisted on it, and he put that intelligence to finding ways to make is so. My husband was so proud at first, showing him off to all his cronies, bringing him out at parties to perform tricks like some trained monkey. But as he got older he got more…difficult for everyone to deal with. It became obvious that he had certain problems. He was obsessive about some things, and completely careless about others, but the one thing that never changed was his…devotion to me.

"He wouldn't go to school, even one for gifted children. He refused to be away from me for any amount of time. When George was twelve, my husband was killed in an automobile accident. At least we believed it to be an accident. My daughter and I were devastated, but HE was happy, though he tried to hide it. One of his doctors, who seemed to have more on the ball than the others, warned me that George had an almost pathological attachment to me. His sister was a year older than he was and was at boarding school. She went from there to finishing school, and then she married. She lived in Hong Kong with her husband so it was only the two of us. I believe that she made the choices to do what she did so that she could get away from him." Crane could hear the sorrow in her voice. She grimaced.

"I was not the best of mothers, especially to a clingy child like George. I was very young when I had my children. I had married at sixteen you see. The more he wanted to be with me the more I wanted to be somewhere else. I left him with the nannies whenever I could, and he made everyone pay for it. The turn over in nannies was constant, and finally I had to hire a man who acted more a jailor than a nanny, though he was officially a 'tutor'. I believe he was an ex-SAS operative who specialized in security. George ran him ragged but the dear man was persistent, and in his own field, just a bit smarter than George. He managed to keep him in control until he was sixteen. At that point George filed for emancipation from my parental care. There was no reason for it not to go through. He had the trust fund to live off of. He had already received a master's degree in biology and was working on his PhD. It was granted. I thought he would simply disappear from my life at that point, but he…hovered on the edges. Not there, but never quite gone.

Her eyes took on a haunted look before she turned away. "Then I met a man, Thomas." Her voice caressed the name. "He was everything I had missed all those years. He was killed two weeks after we announced our engagement, violently. It seems that George was prepared to allow me my freedom only so far. Then it happened again, with a man I had dated for almost a year." She took a deep breath and turned back around to face him, straightening her body and regaining the imperious posture she had adopted in Smith's office. "And so I became as you see me." She spread her arms, waving them to indicate herself.

"The perfect socialite. Shallow relationships that last a few days or weeks, then I move on. I don't even spend time with Helene, my daughter, or her children, my only grandchildren, in case he takes exception to them, too. When your Admiral Smith approached me about this I'm afraid I grabbed hold of it like a drowning woman would a life preserver." She looked at the clock near the bed. "Well, I've nattered on too long. We'll be fashionably late to our own party if we don't hurry. Of course it may just add to the story don't you think?" She started for a door that Crane assumed led to the next bedroom. She was gone before he could think of anything to say that would not come out as pity, which he sensed she would not want. She paused at the doorway. "Come in here when you are ready. We'll make an entrance." As the door closed he started to put on his tuxedo. This assignment was shaping up to be something quite different than he had imagined.

Chapter 6-

Chip Morton climbed to his feet and brushed a hand down his pants to get rid of the dust that clung to his knees. He would have to have a word with Dr. Newton abut the cleaning crew. They didn't seem to be too dedicated when it came to dust bunnies. Sharkey would have been apoplectic if he had found something like this aboard Seaview. Of course there would never have been a reason for the XO to be underneath a panel for this particular reason on Seaview.

They had arrived at the lab to find the whole place in a state of general upset. Some lab specimens, mice, had escaped the previous afternoon, and had managed to make it not only out of their cages but out of the labs as well. They were running rampant throughout the facility, evidently chewing anything and everything in their path, including certain electrical wires. Morton had overseen the relocation of the pertinent equipment, making sure that none of the fugitives could hitch a ride. When they had tried out the machines they had found the ones that Seaview had brought were working fine, but the ones from the facility were showing a fault. After long and tedious troubleshooting they had narrowed the problem to this one machine and to a partially chewed wire in the back. Morton had volunteered to fix the problem while the scientists, Nelson included, had started the first phase of the time critical experiments. As far as he knew the results were satisfying so far, and now that the machines were working correctly, they would be moving on to the second stage. He heard rapid footsteps coming down the corridor toward the compartment he was in, and looked around to find Patterson in the doorway.

"Sparks says there's a call for you from Chief Hansen, Mr. Morton-you and the admiral that is. He said he could pipe it over here if you want, but there are also some kind of pictures or video or something with it and he can't send those here." Morton raised an eyebrow, wondering what the security chief could be sending. He looked around to make sure he had policed his tools, and picked up the tool kit. He handed it to Patterson.

"Take this down to maintenance. Tell them that this part is fixed, and that I'll let the admiral know. As to the radio message, I'll let the admiral know about that too, and we'll see if he is at a place he can stop for now." The rating nodded his understanding and took the kit, disappearing toward the lower level. Morton went to the main lab section and waited for Nelson and the other scientists to notice his arrival, which took about five minutes.

"Did you get it working, Chip?" Nelson asked absently, not looking up from the printout he was studying. "We are ready to move to the second phase. Time is less critical now, but we do need to move on this in the next several hours."

"You're good to go, sir. Barring any further chewing everything seems to be working fine." Morton moved closer to Nelson, with a glance at the others. "We have a message from Hansen. He's on the radio now. Patterson said that he has some sort of video feed along with the radio signal. We'll have to go back to the Seaview to see it. Do you want me to take it alone?"

Nelson looked up from the report with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. "Video? Hmmm, I wonder what that is about." He looked around. "Alvin," he addressed one of the scientists, "I have to take a short break. Perhaps you can get set up for the next phase without me. I should be back in no more than ten or fifteen minutes."

"Sure Harry." The other scientist said. "It will give us all a chance to get some coffee and take a quick break ourselves. We cannot all work at your pace you know, must be the age difference." The last was said with a grin. All of the scientists here were at least ten years younger than Nelson. Morton, familiar with Nelson's drive when he was involved in anything he found interesting, smiled too.

The two men made their way back to the Seaview and went to the nose, closing the crash doors for privacy. Both men had agreed that the scuttlebutt would just have to go wanting. Sparks put through the call once the door closed. Hansen's square face appeared on the screen. He did not look happy, and Morton felt a chill work its way down his spine.

"Sirs, we have some more information about the skipper." The chief said plainly. He was a man of few words, preferring action to verbosity.

"Go ahead, chief. What have you found?" Nelson asked.

"We had some local operatives checking all the hotels in the Washington D.C. area as well as any of the bases nearby, but we didn't get any hits. We thought maybe the skipper had left town on a military transport, or even one of the secure flights out of Langley. Then we got a hit on the web."

"The web?" Morton raised an eyebrow. "You were searching the Internet?"

"You said a full search, sir. We assume that means every available source of information. We had a meta-search going on the server, set to give us an alarm when the spider hit any information with the skipper's name. We got a hit about forty minutes ago. When we saw what it was we made a few calls to confirm…" he trailed off. It wasn't like the chief to hem and haw, and the two officers exchanged glances.

"What exactly did this 'spider' find?" Nelson asked. He was not particularly conversant in Internet vernacular, but he did know that a spider was a type of search program.

"The spider got a hit on the Washington Post, not an article, but a picture caption really…It was on the society page." The chief finally admitted, as if he expected them to call him a liar.

"The society page? There was a mention of Captain Crane on the society page of the Post? Isn't it more likely that it was another Lee Crane? It is a strange coincidence surely; but-" he broke off as the chief started shaking his head.

"That's what I thought at first, sir." The chief admitted. "Don't quite trust all that 'web' stuff myself. That's why I had my people get on with the Post to verify the caption and get a copy of the accompanying photo. It…it's the skipper, no mistake."

"All right, chief." Morton said. "It's obviously something that we aren't expecting. Why don't you just put it out here and let us see it." Morton said, sensing that the chief was somehow reluctant to reveal exactly what they had found.

The screen went blank for a moment, then what appeared to be a page of a newspaper appeared on the screen. The picture changed once more to focus in on the upper right hand side of the page. The picture and the paragraph beneath it filled the screen. Nelson and Morton stood there staring at the picture, both not quite believing what they saw.

There on the screen was Lee Crane. He was dressed in a tuxedo and it was obvious that he was dancing with the formally dressed woman in his arms. His head was bent to hers, and he held her familiarly against him. The camera had caught them both smiling. The image was startling enough in itself, but the fact that the woman was not only unfamiliar, but was also obviously many years older than the captain added to their puzzlement. Nelson was the first to move, stepping forward to read the caption beneath the picture aloud. He recognized the tone immediately, having seen his own actions detailed in such language before, a not so delicate mixture of fact and innuendo.

"The biggest news of the star-studded evening was not the amount of money raised, but the advent of the latest in the long line of escorts for Felicia Manes, heir to the Prescott silver fortune and social butterfly. This time she seems to have done some fishing and hooked a big fish, a submariner in fact. Her escort for the evening, Captain Lee Crane of the Nelson Institute for Marine Research, Commander (dare we say, former?) of the submarine Seaview and a Naval Reserve officer, seemed to be a willing victim however. Rumor has it the much younger captain is staying in Mrs. Manes' suite at the Ritz. Maybe she won't be throwing this one back."

Nelson could barely finish reading it. He looked at Morton who was reading the words himself, as if Nelson had made some mistake. They exchanged glances again, each seeing the disbelief in the other's eyes. It was Nelson who found his voice first, though he found that he had to clear his throat before he began.

"Have you managed to confirm what is written here, chief? Society pages are not known for their veracity."

The picture remained on the screen as Hansen's voice came again. "I have my contacts working, sir. I'm afraid that they aren't used to working in places like the Ritz. They tend more to the no-tell motels. So far we do know that the skipper IS staying in the penthouse suite that is registered to this Mrs. Manes. I got a man working on her."

"Very well Chief. Let us know when you have something. Seaview out." Nelson said decisively, reaching over and flipping off the screen, as he could not stand to see it a moment longer. They stood there both staring at the blank screen, until Nelson turned and went to sit at the table. Morton stared for a moment longer trying to figure out what the hell was going on then went to join him.

"What the hell is going on Admiral?" He asked the older man as if he would have some insight on what they had seen.

Nelson shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know. I am at a loss to explain any of this. I thought I understood before; that he had gone to Washington to get an ONI assignment. That was bad enough, but this…" He trailed off. His mind kept returning to the part of the paragraph that mentioned Lee's name, where it said "…Captain Lee Crane of the Nelson Institute for Marine Research, Commander (dare we say, former?) of the submarine Seaview…". 'Former', the word seemed to stand out in bold letters. Was that fact or innuendo? What did the reporter know that he didn't? It seemed quite a lot. He looked at the clock, realizing that the time he had told the others he would be back had passed. He rose to his feet.

"I have to get back to the experiments. We can't delay the process much longer." He started toward the crash doors. Morton did not reply as he walked off, still sitting there, seemingly lost in thought. Nelson's enthusiasm for the experiment had waned, and he wished that he could regain it, lose himself in it, and not think about what he had just read. 'Former'.

Chip Morton watched as Nelson waited for the crash doors to open and left the nose, heading toward the main hatch where they were connected to the lab. The older man was moving slowly, almost carefully, as if he would break if he moved quicker. The boundless energy that Morton had smiled at earlier was gone, leaving only the prison of a troubled mind. He envied Nelson his experiments, though he suspected they were not much comfort to the scientist. At least he had something to do, something to take his mind off the picture, off the caption. What did it mean 'former' commander of the Seaview? Had Lee said something to the reporter, or someone else? Could the whole thing in Nelson's office NOT have been a diversion, a way for Crane to get free of them to take an assignment?

Morton searched his mind, trying to remember what had been said in the days before the confrontation. Lee had been quiet certainly, but that was not unusual when he was hurting, in fact Morton would have been concerned if Crane ever got verbose. Even when he was drunk he tended to get brooding and silent rather than talkative, not that he ever indulged himself to that level on a regular basis. Chip had certainly wondered about Crane's lack of complaint regarding the physical therapy and the necessary poking and prodding from the doctors, but had not seen it as a warning sign of anything, at least not until the other day. But then those fears had been replaced by the old familiar fear about ONI missions in general, but now the new fears were back.

Had Jamison been right about the P.T.S.D? Could this whole thing be some sort of strange reaction to the torture? He needed to talk to the doctor, get his opinion. At least he knew that he could count on Jamieson's discretion. There would be no rumors about this running wildly around the boat. Morton found himself almost sick at the idea of having to tell the crew that Crane had left, that he had abandoned them for….for what? Who was that woman, and what did she mean to Crane? She looked to be more a contemporary in age to Nelson rather than the young captain. Morton had long experience with Crane's ability to attract the opposite sex. Females from 1 to 100 seemed to fall before the quiet charm of the man. He could not count the number of girlfriends he had at the Academy who had told him how cute his friend was, and how they knew just the perfect girl for him. It would have been annoying if it had been in any way intentional. Instead it seemed to simply be a part of Crane's essential self that just didn't turn off.

But this woman in the picture had to be old enough to be his mother at least. Had Crane, in an unstable mental state, gone looking for a much older woman to satisfy some heretofore unknown longing? Morton got to his feet and started aft, intent on speaking with Jamieson. He stopped at the radio shack and arranged for Sparks to print off the picture and caption. He saw the raised eyebrows of the radioman, but knew that he would not speak of it to anyone. If you were a communications specialist, you didn't talk about your work to anyone, and Sparks was the consummate professional.

He made his way back to the sickbay, entering through the now empty bunk area. John, one of the corpsmen, sat at the small desk, working on a log, and he glanced up as Morton passed, but did not speak. Morton stepped into Jamieson's office and closed the door behind him. The doctor, who was sitting at his desk going over a report, probably on the first of the physicals, looked up, his eyes going from the closed door to Morton's face. The XO made sure that the door leading to the corridor was shut then moved forward and handed Jamieson the printout, without saying a word. Jamieson's eyes went from him to the photo, and Morton saw them widen as he took in what was there. He waited as the doctor read the caption. Finally the medic finished and put the paper face down on his desk. The hazel eyes looked up at him.

"Well that puts a new spin on the whole thing, doesn't it?" He said lightly, though Morton could see the concern in his eyes. He tapped the page. "Somehow I suspect your average ONI mission does not involve being photographed dancing with a socialite and having your name spread all over the papers."

Morton sank into the chair across from him with a shake of his head. He reached over and took the picture, intentionally not reading the paragraph below it. He held it up. "Could this be something to do with the P.T.S.D?" he asked baldly, though he feared the answer.

Jamieson sat back in his chair, staring at the picture. "As I said before, I am not a psychologist, I know a little about the syndrome, mainly the physical effects. From what I have read however, people with the disorder often act in ways that they would not have done before the incident that triggered it. That could include something like this. We know that the captain tends to avoid publicity, even when it could do the Institute good, and he much prefers to keep his personal life personal. In my opinion there is certainly something going on. I am not qualified to go beyond that." His eyes fell to the paragraph below the picture then moved to Morton.

"It suggests that the captain may have left the Institute, is there anything to that?"

Morton shot to his feet. "NO!" He started pacing then stopped with his back to Jamieson. "At least I don't think so. Nelson seemed as surprised as I was." He said finally.

"Seemed?" Jamieson questioned. "Do you really think that the admiral would have fired the captain, or even accepted his resignation without saying something?" he said reasonably.

Morton spun on his heel, throwing out his hands. "I don't know what to think anymore!" He said. He pointed at the picture. "My best friend is on the society page; romancing a rich woman who looks to be almost twice his age; staying in her suite; and blows us and his physical therapy off to go to some Washington D.C. party; the same kind of party that he'd rather have root canal than attend usually. Then there are the veiled references to him quitting his job. The whole damn universe has gone out of whack. Why not believe Nelson knew and didn't say anything. It doesn't look like LEE felt it necessary to talk to me, why should the admiral?"

"So what bothers you more?" Jamieson said with a small smile. "That he went or that he went without discussing it with you?"

Morton glared at him then broke into a smile. He shook his head. "Damn it, Jaime." He said softly. "There has got to be something wrong. He WOULDN'T do this. I don't know how to help him." The last was what Jamieson had been waiting for, the real reason that Morton was so upset and off balance. His friend, his brother, was evidently sick, and the efficient XO didn't know what to do, couldn't simply solve the problem. He was frustrated and worried, and Jamieson hoped that they could find a way to ease that frustration and worry. He knew part of the problem was that Morton was stuck here on the Seaview while Crane was nearly five thousand miles away, and he could not leave. However, Jamieson might just have a solution.

"Is the FS1 available for use?" He asked. Morton frowned.

"It's available, but I can't go anywhere." He said morosely.

"I was actually thinking of going myself." Jamieson said with a smile. At Morton's puzzled look he continued. "I was talking with Doctor Chu from the facility. He wants to go back to Santa Barbara with us when we leave. He's a qualified physician, and I did his physical first this morning. He's been cleared, and he is familiar with the procedure for the yearly physicals. He can finish the ones here and go with you to the second facility and do them there as well. What I propose is that I go to Washington, via San Diego, where I will get a friend of mine to talk to me about PTSD. He specializes in it, and he can tell me what to look for. Can you spare Sharkey to fly me there?"

Morton considered. Sharkey certainly wasn't doing anything that couldn't be done by someone else right now, and he liked the idea that someone would be there for Crane, someone who knew how he was, and would not allow him to push aside their concern. It wasn't the perfect solution, but then that solution was not available to him given the circumstances. He nodded.

"I'll have to check with the admiral. He…may have some plans of his own about the FS1."

"I know that the captain would understand that you both have duties to attend to, maybe better than anyone else. He knows, and maybe counted on, that fact. Don't beat yourself up over this Chip. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it, short of keeping him from going on the last mission, and you know how successful you would have been with that." Jamieson comforted. He sighed.

"In fact if anyone is to blame for not seeing any problem it is I. I may not be a psychologist, but as a physician I am supposed to be cognizant of the mind/body connection. If there was something there to see, I should have seen it." He shook his head. "PTSD is incredibly hard to diagnose for sure in many people. There are other things, other problems, which can mimic it. In someone as damnably psychologically complex as the captain…I'm not sure that even Nick, my friend, would have seen it."

"I don't think there was anything to see Jaime, not really. He was quieter, but who wouldn't be after that? He wasn't…up until that morning, he was fine. He was just…fine."

Jamieson shrugged. "We'll never know for sure when it started. It may not have even been so much the torture as just the captivity. It may not have even been this mission that started it. PTSD can be cumulative. This could have been coming for a long time. I should have insisted on further testing once I found out about young doctor Fischer. Who knows how many times that same scenario has taken place; I had hoped that ONI had their own people taking care of their agents."

"They didn't have anyone available." Morton said bitterly. "All the agency shrinks are in Afghanistan and Iraq. They couldn't spare one for Lee."

"Be that as it may," Jamieson soothed. "We need to get a professional to evaluate him. Even without the familiarity that we have, Nick will be able to get past his BS and find out what is going on. He's used to it. Most people that have PTSD don't want to admit to it."

"I'll check with the admiral now and let you know." Morton started for the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. "You uh…you'll be able to let us know won't you? I know there's the confidentiality thing and all..."

"I may not be able to give you details, but I will have some latitude, given the circumstances." Jamieson assured him. Once Morton was gone, Jamieson sat down at the desk and looked at the photo again. He felt the knot in his stomach clinch. He had failed the young captain, and that was something he bitterly regretted. He began putting together the papers he wanted to take, including the rather hefty file that he had on Lee Crane. He had no doubt that Nelson would agree to his using FS1, and he wanted to be ready to go. He would need to call Nick Butcher once he knew when they would be getting into San Diego, but since Butcher was semi-retired there should be no trouble getting him to come along. He would not fail Lee Crane again.

Chapter 7-

Felicia Manes looked up from the small table where she sat reading the morning paper to see her social secretary entering the room with an envelope and what appeared to be her schedule in his hands. It was just after 10:00 AM and she was just finishing her breakfast. She would soon bathe and get dressed. She had a lunch and shopping date with the First Lady and several congresswomen at 1:00PM, and after that she was due at the yacht club for cocktails at 5:00PM. It was her usual schedule while she was here in D.C.

She sipped at her coffee as Augustine crossed the room, noting the black look that he threw at the open door into the other bedroom. She knew that Crane was not there, and in fact had been missing when she knocked on the connecting door after rising an hour earlier. Since they had been out at the party until just after two she had expected the young man to sleep in, but when she had opened the door after receiving no answer to her knock she had found the room empty. A casual question to the room service waiter had revealed that the captain had breakfasted on coffee and toast just after 6 AM, and gone out dressed in running clothes. He had returned around 7, evidently showered and changed, and had gone out again in his little Italian car that was the envy of all the wait staff. She had marveled at this display of youthful energy, but remembered that the young man was recovering from some sort of injury, hence the story about physical therapy. She had noted the night before that he had been pacing himself during the dancing, sitting out at least one in between each dance, usually with her. He had been quite the sensation.

It had begun at her small pre-party get together. She had intentionally invited those people most likely to talk about what happened there, meaning for the word to spread quickly and into the right ears. Tina had been completing her make up, hovering in her usual way when the knock had come on the door. Biggins had looked at it in consternation, but had gone to open it. Felicia had to smile as she remembered the look that came over the other woman's face as she beheld Crane standing there in his tux. He really was a beautiful boy.

The black tux, obviously tailored, had fit him like a glove. The stark black jacket, black pants with silk stripe down the side, and almost shockingly white shirt with the perfectly knotted bow tie had proven the perfect frame for the slim form. The dark hair, and fine boned, tanned face, with those wonderful golden eyes had added to the picture, rendering Biggins completely speechless.

She had motioned him to the small window seat, and he had sat quietly while Biggins finished. It was a good thing that only the blush remained as the woman had developed at least three more thumbs. Her eyes had constantly roamed to the young man seated nearby, staring out the window. Finally Felicia had sent her away and had looked at Crane to find him on his feet straightening his jacket. She had gone to the bouquet of dark red roses and broke off one of the perfect blooms. She then had gone and tucked it into his lapel. The red went perfectly with the tux, as she had known it would. Her own dress, floor length and floating around her thankfully still trim figure, was a perfect match to the red of the rose.

She had looked at the clock, and had turned back to see Crane offering his arm in a courtly manner. She had accepted his elbow, and they had swept toward the door leading out to the main room. They could hear the voices of the guests already there as they opened it and entered the room. There was a moment of silence as they entered, and Felicia felt a very satisfied smile growing on her face. Even if it weren't all play-acting a woman would have to be dead not to appreciate the envy she saw in the eyes of the other women in the room.

Over the next hour they had made a circuit of the room, Crane never far from her side except to refill her drink, and dropped numerous hints regarding their 'relationship'. No one of course came right out and asked if they were an item, but by the time they left for the party, it was well understood by everyone present that Lee Crane was indeed the newest man in Felicia Manes' life.

Afterward they headed to the charity event in the hired limo, arriving fashionably late to a cordon of reporters and photographers. The limo had pulled up to the red carpet, and the doorman had opened the door. Crane had gotten out first, turning instantly to offer his hand to Felicia. The young man was incredibly smooth in his courtesies, offering them in a manner that suggested a much earlier time when such gestures were signs of respect and caring, not the rote socially correct motions of today. With a fine disregard for the popping flash bulbs he had escorted her down the red carpet and into the ballroom. There they had mingled, dancing occasionally, and she had introduced him to her acquaintances, finding that he seemed to be well known in his own right among a certain group of congressman who were members of appropriations committees. Others simply knew him by his association with Nelson. As Crane spoke of the scientist and his work she thought she could hear a level of pride and devotion to the man that made her curious as to the exact nature of the relationship between the two.

She had listened in approval as he had deftly turned questions regarding his continued employment with the Nelson Institute, answering without actually saying anything in an almost political way. Only a few had noticed, and they had obviously drawn their own conclusions, as the rumors had been rife by the end of the evening. Several female friends had approached her in the powder room seeking information. She had followed his lead, a veteran of many years of speaking without revealing anything of importance. Let the rumor mill fill in the blanks. It could be counted on to supply the most sordid explanation to any story.

She had found herself enjoying both the coy dodging of questions, and the attentions of the young man. She had grown not so much tired of the endless round of society, after all it had been her life since a small child, but since the death of her fiancé, and then her friend, she had simply been there in body but not spirit. It had been that very lack of spirit that had allowed her to say yes to this plan when Admiral Smith had approached her over three weeks before at her hotel in New York

Once he had explained to her why he was there she had been forced to examine her true feelings. She knew herself to be something less than the ideal mother, though she had made sure that her children had wanted for nothing, except perhaps the devotion only a mother could give. She probably should not have had children, but her husband and society had expected it of her, and she had complied. She had in some corner of her mind simply assumed that George was the way that he was because of HER lack, and so she lived with it. But to what point did she allow it? She had cut herself off from her daughter and grandchildren, and then from any hope of companionship. How much did she have to pay for her sin of indifferent motherhood?

Then, Smith had told her WHY Naval Intelligence was looking for her son. To say that she had been shocked was an understatement. She had ascribed George's peculiar hatefulness to those that might distract her from him but it seemed that it had grown into contempt for mankind in general. How had the child that clung so desperately to her skirts grown to a man that could make a weapon of such hateful effect? And then to sell it on the market to the highest bidder, as if he were a farmer selling his livestock, it was unconscionable. She had been forced to release her penance, and agree to this charade to draw George into the trap.

She had not been prepared to give up all control however. She had demanded, and eventually received, permission to vet the choices for the agent who would become her supposed paramour. She had looked through what seemed like a police line up book of thugs and deviants before finding a picture of Crane. As in the other pictures he had been looking into the camera, but where the others seemed to have sought to look as tough and unapproachable as possible, Crane had simply had a slight smile. She had liked his handsome face immediately, though the black and white picture had not done him justice, as she had told Smith. Upon hearing he might not be available due to an injury she had threatened to pull out of the plan, leaving them to find George on their own. Something had said that the man in the picture would make sure that the job was done correctly, and that she need not worry about him seeking to take advantage of the situation.

Now, after spending several hours in his company, she was even more satisfied with her choice.

It remained to be seen if his presence would be enough to lure George out of the woodwork.

Augustine came to a halt before her, taking an exaggerated look around the room. "Don't tell me you ran him off already." He said sarcastically. He had been with her for over five years, expertly juggling her social calendar and handling her social correspondence, and took some liberties to be a perk of the job.

"Lee's not much for sleeping late. He has already been out jogging and went to take care of some business. Some people could take a lesson; lord knows you could stand to do a few laps."

"I much prefer my exercise later in the day and inside; away from all that nasty fresh air. If I want to travel several miles I'll do it on a treadmill like civilized people." Curzon replied, handing her the envelope and opening the calendar. "You have the luncheon at one, and you promised to shop with the First Lady before you go to the yacht club at five. I assume the boy wonder will be accompanying you to the club?"

"Yes, Lee" she emphasized the name, "Will be coming with me. I don't know his plans for the afternoon. I mentioned the luncheon to him yesterday, and the club, and he knows to be ready. Do try to be civil if you two end up here together alone. You might just want to make a friend of him; he'll be around a lot if I have anything to say about it."

"Yahoo!" Curzon said snidely. She knew that information would make its way to one of the gossip columnists by the end of the day. Crane had asked her last night why, if she knew they were leaking information, she kept Curzon and Biggins on. She had replied that one could not buy loyalty, and if you didn't wish to put out the effort to earn that loyalty you put up with what you got. What she hadn't said was that she feared without them she would be completely alone.

Five hours later she was getting ready to leave for the yacht club, having just returned shortly before from shopping with the First Lady. They had gone to several exclusive shops, and she had found some every nice outfits that were being tailored to her measurements. Biggins was finishing her hair when there was a sound at the connecting door and Crane entered without waiting for a summons. She had to hide a smile at the young man's assumption of this most intimate of habits. The boy was a fast learner. He took several steps in and then pretended to be startled to see the two of them.

"I'm sorry." He said, addressing Felicia. "I thought you were alone. I can come back when you are finished." He offered. She allowed her smile to grow. Once again he looked perfect. Dark blue slacks fit his lower body exquisitely while an open necked light blue shirt had been tailored to his torso. He carried a dark blue blazer with brass buttons that would complete the look.

"No. We're done." She said as she rose to her feet, waving off Biggins, who was once again staring at the younger man. If this kept up she would get no use out of the woman at all. She settled on the window seat and patted the cushion next to her. "Come tell me about your day. I missed you." She said. She waved Biggins toward the door, not removing her eyes from Crane. He sat next to her, their thighs touching, and leaned toward her as the other woman closed the door, her eyes locked on them until the door closed.

Once she was gone Crane had straightened and looked at her curiously. "I apologize for taking liberties," he said glancing at the door to let her know what he was referring to. "I thought it would appear more…"

"Intimate." She supplied when he seemed at the loss for the word to use. She patted his thigh. "You were right. Biggins' eyes almost popped out of her head. No one has dared to be so bold in the past. I believe the rumor mill is going to get a lot of grist out of this day. May I ask where you have been?"

"I was at headquarters most of the day. We have various…sources in the countries that we think are possible hiding places for your son. I was coordinating reports from them, and making sure that the pictures from yesterday were being distributed in those countries. The more chances he has to see them, the better."

"I understand. I hope that you will be able to keep me informed, though I understand that you are working under certain restraints. I trust you." She patted his thigh again, smiling to herself as she saw a blush work its way up under the olive tone of his skin. The boy really was delicious. She could wish to be thirty years younger, or even twenty.

"I'm glad of that ma'am," Crane replied, falling back on the formal address. He was glad that she was comfortable with him, and had no complaints about her compliance with the plan so far. She had been gracious and had followed his every lead the night before as if she were an experienced operative. He had found the night incredibly uncomfortable on his own part due to the number of familiar people that he had been forced to stonewall when questioned about his plans to stay at the Institute. Most had been too involved in seeing and being seen to really listen to what he said, but those that had listened had drawn a conclusion that he regretted bitterly. He knew that by now it would be all over town that he was leaving Nelson and the Institute, and that he had taken up with Manes. He was glad that Nelson was at sea, and out of reach of all but the most persistent of story carriers. If he were lucky all of this would be over before the Seaview returned.

This time it was he that looked at the clock and rose to his feet, offering his hand. "We should get going if the party starts at 1700 hund...five o'clock." He said, correcting to civilian time at the last minute.

She took his hand and rose to her feet, shaking her head. "Oh, my dear boy. I'm afraid your education has been sadly lacking. One never appears at a function at the time stated. It just isn't done. Surely your Admiral Nelson has taught you that. He has many years of experience, I know. I would have thought he would pass on the hard won lesson." She teased going to get her wrap that he took from her and helped her into.

He looked at her curiously, slipping into his blazer. "MY Admiral Nelson?" He asked more sharply than he had meant to. There had been something in her tone. What was she suggesting? He might have to go along with the plan, but he would not have her thinking less of Nelson because anything he might say or do.

She smiled at him, and nodded as if she had confirmed something she had been thinking. "Yes, I think he is. You'll have to tell me why that is sometime. I think it might be an interesting story." She headed out the door.

Hours later they were returning from the party in the limo. Crane had found the whole thing incredibly tedious though he had put on a good front he thought, talking sailing with men several years his senior, Italian cars with his contemporaries, and fighting off women of all ages. Felicia had made the rounds in a nearly professional manner, exchanging greetings and gossip. He had been surprised at the amount of business she had done along the way, however. New contacts for shipping and processing had been made, and deals were brokered. It seemed that just as with Nelson there was more to her socializing than it might first appear. He remembered from the reports he had read that she remained on the board of directors for her father's companies, and evidently she took the responsibility seriously.

They pulled up to the hotel at just after eleven and he handed her out of the back seat after the bellman opened the door for them. He really didn't like traveling in the huge cars, for all the luxury, but appearances were everything in the circle he was pretending to be part of, and the limo was a prerequisite. He tucked the older woman's hand in the crook of his arm and led her toward the front doors of the hotel. She was telling him some rather amusing stories about some of the people that they had encountered that night, and they were laughing as they entered the lobby. He had started to lead her to the elevator, almost fifty feet across the huge lobby when he looked up and saw the three men coming to their feet from chairs situated near the elevator. He stopped, forcing her to stop as well, and she looked at him in puzzlement. She followed his gaze to the three men then looked back at him.

"Do you know them?" She asked. One, a middle aged man with receding brown hair, had stepped forward and his eyes seemed to be going from Crane to her and back again, and even from this distance she could see he was not pleased by the picture they presented. The second man stood a little behind the other, but he too was studying them with an intensity that made her somewhat nervous. He seemed to be older, around her own age perhaps, and was quite handsome The third man, who had been sitting slightly away from the other two now stood behind them, holding a magazine and looking nervously everywhere but at Crane. He was dressed in khaki-colored clothes and dark shoes, in what she would deem a uniform, but without any of the braid or colorful medals she was used to seeing on uniforms here in Washington. When he finally glanced their way she could see his face had a hangdog look of apology when he looked at Crane.

She looked back at the younger man, and was both surprised and interested to note that he seemed to be struggling to contain several emotions. For all that she had found to admire in the young man, she had found him rather emotionally distant, a characteristic she had ascribed to his needing to remain objective about his assignment. Now she could see that the young man did indeed have emotions. Anger, fear, sadness, embarrassment, and chagrin all went through his eyes as he looked at the three men, though he did an admirable job of keeping it off his face, all except for the slight blush that colored his cheeks. She wondered if anyone had ever told him that he blushed rather delightfully. It was not a talent that many in her circle still had, few of them being embarrassed about any actions, however deviant they might be to others. She suspected this young man had not grown that hard veneer of so called sophistication, for all his skill at playing the part. Whoever these men were, they very definitely were causing him some concern though. She sensed that they did not offer a physical threat, but rather some other sort. For a moment she thought that he might not answer, but finally he looked away from the men and down at her.

"Two of them are from my boat, the Seaview. I don't know the third." He looked around the lobby, now mostly empty except for the clerk at the desk, and a bellman seated nearby. "I can handle this. Why don't you go ahead up? I'll be along as soon as I…" he stopped, not sure what he was going to do. He couldn't reveal his true purpose. If Nelson wasn't cleared for this, then Jamieson and Sharkey certainly weren't, and he had no idea who the third man was, though given who it was with him, he suspected he knew what the man's profession might be. He also knew that they would not be easy to put off.

He frowned as she shook her head. "If I'm supposed to be your…girlfriend" she smiled at the term, "Then should we not present a united front. If I run won't they be suspicious?"

"I have a feeling they are already suspicious, but I don't think it is just about our relationship. When I left, I couldn't tell anyone where I was going, or why. So rather than lie to them I just left, and let them think I was…unstable."

She raised an eyebrow. "Unstable?" she questioned. She noted that the three men were waiting for them, and not approaching, curious and curiouser.

"I was…injured during a previous mission. That's where the limp came from. When I heard about this mission, and that my participation was a requirement for your agreement to the plan, I knew I had to come. Unfortunately convincing Admiral Nelson and our Chief Medical Officer," he waved a hand toward the three men, "Will Jamieson, of that was going to be impossible. The admiral would have forbidden it, and Jamie, Doctor Jamieson, would probably have locked me in the sickbay and had my head examined. So, to avoid the arguments, I…pretended to be upset with them about not being able to go back on full duty. I left in a huff and told them I went to visit a friend in San Diego. I was counting on them being out to sea by the time I had to come back here."

"So now you have to keep up the charade." She said in understanding. She felt a flash of shame that her demands had caused him trouble with his friends. She knew she had made the right choice, but she could regret the deception he had been forced to start.

He nodded and looked back at the three men. "I don't think this is going to be pleasant. Are you sure that you don't want to…" He stopped as she shook her head. He nodded, and reached for her hand, tucking it back at his elbow. He straightened his back and raised his chin. She saw a spark of something like humor in his eyes. "Very well then, madam, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead." He started toward the elevator, his eyes locked on the goal, seemingly ignoring the men. She took her cue from him, and put on her best haughty look.

They had almost reached the elevator when the first man realized they were not going to stop and stepped forward. "Captain, I need to speak with you."

"I'm off the clock and on vacation. You'll have to wait until or maybe I should say, IF, I return to duty." Crane replied. It was delivered with a careless aplomb that was in direct contradiction to the tenseness of the arm under her hand, and Felicia suspected that subtle rudeness had not been easy for the man.

The man Felicia assumed was Jamieson stepped forward. "If you don't do the physical therapy then that is going to take longer, captain. I'm here," he stopped and waved a hand at the others, "we're here to make sure that you can get back to work as soon as possible. A little cooperation on your part would be appreciated." The last was said with a bit of asperity.

Crane walked to the elevator and pushed the button. The car appeared to be on the top floor already. He looked back at Jamieson. "You have until the car gets here. I suggest you hurry."

Felicia could see a flash of anger in the doctor's eyes, but he held it down with admirable restraint in the face of Crane's rudeness. "Very well, Captain, if you insist. I need to do a physical and psychological evaluation of your condition. We can do it here, or wherever you would feel the most comfortable."

Crane looked at the elevator indicator then shook his head. "As I said, I'm on vacation. When…IF, I choose to return to the Institute, I will submit myself to whatever tests are deemed necessary. But until then…you made a long trip for nothing." The door opened and he ushered Felicia inside. He had his card in his hand and swiped it quickly. Jamieson was just approaching the doors as they closed, and their eyes met for a moment, golden and hazel. Crane hoped that he kept his feelings out of his. He had no trouble seeing the anger in Jamieson's. He knew it wasn't over.

Chapter 8-

Will Jamieson cursed silently as the doors of the elevator closed, cutting off his view of Crane and the woman. As they closed, his eyes had locked with Crane's, and he thought that he saw a flash of regret in the familiar eyes, but it had been gone so fast he couldn't be sure. In any event the captain's words had been anything but regretful. Before he turned to the two other men he took a deep breath and let it out. If nothing else, the years of dealing with the young captain had taught him anger management and patience.

He turned to find Nick Butcher studying him with the same clinical look he had aimed at Crane moments earlier. He scowled at his medical colleague and looked at Sharkey. The chief was looking worried, a look that had been there since he had found out they were going to Washington after the captain, and had intensified when they had picked up Nick Butcher in San Diego. He had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the flight, though Jamieson was sure he had been listening with every pore as the two doctors had spoke in general about PTSD, and the causes.

Sharkey and Jamieson, with Nelson's blessing, had left the Seaview that morning, and had sped to the east, stopping in San Diego to pick up their passenger. The trip across the country had been swift, to the amazement of Butcher, but they had been stymied at the desk of the Ritz. The desk clerk had only told them that Mr. Crane was not in, and neither was Ms. Manes. He would not say when they were expected back, or even if.

With the confirmation that Crane was indeed staying in this woman's suite, Jamieson had felt a further sinking in his heart. He had hoped that by some miracle Hansen's contact had been incorrect in his information, that Crane was staying at the Ritz, but alone. He was becoming more and more convinced that he had failed the young captain, badly. He should have seen the effects that the confinement and torture had on the younger man. Even the strongest of men, and Jamieson had reason to know that Crane was both mentally and physically strong, could reach a breaking point, or even if it hadn't gone that far, a bending point, where they needed help to work their way through it. He had counted on Crane's amazing powers of recuperation, and mental steadiness, and it was beginning to appear he had erred. As a doctor he could not afford the human failing. His errors could mean death or disability to his patients, and that was unacceptable, doubly so in this case. He had come to think of Crane as more than a commanding officer, more than a patient, as a friend.

They had sat in the lobby, suffering the evil eye of the desk clerk, and the puzzled glances of the tenants, reading the magazines and talking in desultory fashion. Sharkey had gone out and gotten them some sandwiches at the deli down the block, though the concierge had frowned at their impromptu picnic as he had passed through the lobby. When the doors had been swept open by the door man at just after eleven, it had been with no little relief that Jamieson had seen the tall form of Lee Crane leading a woman into the hotel.

He had not spent much time looking at the woman in the picture that Morton had shown him, instead focusing on Crane. Now he could see that she was indeed significantly older than the young captain, more a contemporary of Nelson. Even his inexperienced eye could see that she was very expensively dressed, and had taken some pains to look younger than her years. The two had been laughing at something when they entered, but the laughter had run from Crane's face as he became aware of them, and he had stopped abruptly, causing the woman to look up at him. The two had a short conversation then had continued across the lobby.

Jamieson needed no clinical experience to recognize Crane's posture and demeanor. The captain was angry, angry and defensive. He had heard Sharkey mutter a curse behind him, no doubt recognizing the same thing he had, and out of the corner of his eye had noticed the chief sidling sideways as if to distance himself from the two doctors. He could not expect Butcher to help him much at this stage, so it looked as if he were on his own. He squared his shoulders and approached the couple that looked to be headed for the elevator as if the three men did not exist.

"Captain I need to speak to you." He had said, in his best 'I will not be put off' tone, and things had gone down hill from there. Now he stood staring at Nick Butcher, his mind in turmoil. Somehow he had not considered that Crane would simply refuse to talk to them, to hardly even see them. In all of the years that Jamieson had dealt with the young captain he had noted that Crane was almost always polite, if not friendly. He treated everyone in the same manner from seaman to visiting congressman. The fact that he was now openly rude was perhaps another indication of how wrong things had gotten.

"Well" Butcher observed, "I don't believe we can say that went as planned. I take it that young gentleman was Captain Crane? You really should have introduced us, Will." He gently joshed Jamieson, obviously reading his puzzlement and distress.

Jamieson shook his head and gave his colleague a wan smile. "I think that would be a safe report of the encounter." He agreed. He looked around. "Well since I know I can't afford this place we should go find a slightly less expensive place to lick our wounds and figure out what we're going to do." He eyed the large man who had appeared to stand nearby, hotel security, if he was not mistaken.

They went outside, pausing before they started down the street to where their rental car was parked. Sharkey looked nervously over his shoulder as if he expected Crane to appear at any moment. "Uh…what if the skipper leaves? He wasn't any to happy to see us, and if he decides to take a hike between now and when we get back, what then?" The two doctors exchanged looks. The chief was right, but there was little they could do about it if Crane did decide to leave. Even if they were there when he left they could not stop him from leaving.

"We'll have to take that chance." Jamieson said, looking back at the entrance. He noticed that the bellboy, who had been sitting inside had come to the foyer and seemed to be watching them, perhaps at the behest of the security man or the concierge. They would not be allowed to simply camp out in the lobby in any event, so the best course seemed to be to get a place to sleep, and try again in the morning. They got into their car, and Sharkey pulled into traffic. Had any of them looked back they would have seen that the bellboy had stepped out of the foyer and was now watching their car disappear, speaking into a cell phone as he did so.

The next morning Will Jamieson woke at just after 0600, his regular time, and after stretching looked toward the other bed where Nick Butcher had slept. The bed was empty, and he spotted a piece of what appeared to be notebook paper on the pillow. He got out of bed and picked up the paper. He instantly recognized Butcher's cramped scrawl.

"Will," he had written "Woke early and didn't want to wake you. Too early to sight see, and I don't read the morning paper. Decided to go and see if perhaps Captain Crane will speak with me alone.

I remember that you mentioned that he usually runs in the morning. I think that perhaps he will be slightly more approachable if he doesn't have to deal with familiar faces. As we discussed shame is often a significant factor in PTSD. If he is aware of his pathology, but unable to resist the effects, he might be too ashamed to face you. If he does not come out, I will send up a note asking to see him. The worst he can do is refuse, and we can go back to the ambush plan. In any event the hotel will probably be much happier with only one of us in the lobby at a time. I will let you know what is happening." He hadn't signed it, but he had put a time on it, just after 0530.

Jamieson could understand Butcher's plan, and also could see how Crane could be reluctant to admit weakness, especially what he would consider to be mental weakness, in front of his shipmates. But he also found himself not happy about the thought of being left out of the process. It was selfish, and completely unprofessional. He wanted what was best for Crane, but he also felt a need to be there for him, to help him. It was an unprofessional lack of distance between doctor and patient, but it was part of their dynamic, and he didn't like that he was being left out. He sighed. What was it about knowing Crane that could change a lifetime of habit and training?

He dropped the note, and went toward the head. Well at least he could enjoy a long hot shower.

He had almost made it when there was a rather loud knock at the door. He sighed, looked like his shower was going to be delayed.

Chapter 10-

Crane leaned back against the side of the elevator as it descended toward the lobby. It had been a difficult night. They had arrived at the suite and Felicia had simply looked at him, and reached up to pat his cheek in gentle sympathy. With that she had turned and retreated to her own room without a word. He had gone to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, hoping it would help him forget the scene in the lobby. He hated being rude especially to a man that he owed so much. He knew that he had survived some of the things that he had because of Jamieson's devotion to his job. It was a poor reward to be blown off in a hotel lobby in the middle of the night after what was probably a long flight.

The elevator opened to the lobby and he walked out. It was almost empty at this hour, with only a desk clerk drowsily reading a newspaper and a janitor running a buffer over one section of the marble floor. He wondered where his contact had gotten off to. There was supposed to be someone on duty all the time. He would have to ask Smith when he got to ONI. He had planned his route so that he could stop by for any updates.

There was no doorman at this hour, so he pushed out the door and moved to the side to start his stretching. He would not be able to run his usual distance, and would probably end up walking back from the offices, but at least he was getting some of the exercise he was supposed to be getting for therapy. He was just bending to stretch his back when he noticed someone coming toward him. For a moment he thought it was just another early morning jogger, but then he recognized the man as the one that had accompanied Jamieson and Sharkey the night before. He straightened as the man came up to him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, in very good shape, but not hiding his age. His once dark hair was mostly gray, but his dark eyes had a spark of energy that reminded Crane, painfully, of Nelson. The man put out a hand, and Crane took it after a moment's hesitation.

"Dr. Nick Butcher." The other man said by way of introduction. "You don't know me Captain, and I am willing to bet you probably don't want to, but here I am. Would you mind if I joined you for your morning run? I promise not to bother you, at least not much." He added the last with a smile.

Crane studied the man's face, trying to read his intent. He knew that the man had an agenda, and knew that the more time he spent with him; the more danger there was of his true purpose being revealed. It was one thing to fake being angry, but it was another to fake being ill. Any doctor worth his salt, and he knew that Jamieson would only have found the best, was not going to be taken in easily. That being so he could still think of no real reason to refuse the man's request. If he wanted to run, let him come along. He could always go to ONI later. He nodded to Butcher.

They started down the street, and Crane could tell that the doctor was an experienced runner. They went for several blocks without speaking, allowing their muscles to warm. Crane noted that the doctor allowed him to set the pace, no doubt having been briefed by Jamieson about his leg. Soon they were moving at a comfortable pace, though considerably slower than Crane usually ran. Finally the other man made his move.

"So, captain," he began. "Your friends are very concerned about you." He let the observation simply hang there, not forcing the issue. They had traveled almost 100 yards before Crane replied.

"There is no need for them to worry. I'm on sick leave and my time is my own. What I choose to do with it is my own business. IF I decide to return to the Institute then I will submit myself to whatever tests are deemed necessary. Until that time I would thank you all to leave me alone." He said it calmly, with just the smallest bit of anger at the end.

Butcher shrugged. He was beginning to breathe harder now, and Crane sensed that while the man might be a runner, the pace was faster than his usual one. The doctor seemed determined to stay the course however, and Crane could respect the dedication. There was no need for this man to be out and running at this hour other than a desire to help. They ran in silence for several minutes, during which Crane headed back toward the hotel.

"I know that you may feel that you are not acting out of character, and perhaps you are not, but a simple explanation of why you have chosen to do what you are doing would set your friends' minds at ease. Surely you do not begrudge them that explanation?" The doctor said reasonably. He was puffing harder now, and Crane could see that he was having to put a lot more effort into running now.

"Perhaps if they are my friends they should give me the benefit of the doubt and leave me alone. I believe that I have made it clear that I do not want them involved in this. I would hope that I have earned that respect from them, if nothing else."

"I can see how you might want that. But given the circumstances preceding this radical change in your life you can see how they might be concerned that you are making decisions based on a false conception of what you might want or need. You do see that this is a radical change from your previous lifestyle, do you not captain?" The question was slipped in casually. Crane shot a smile at the other man, who smiled back at him. They had reached the hotel once again, and they dropped to a walk. They paced back and forth in front of the hotel, cooling down.

Crane considered his answer. He had no experience with this man, but he suspected he was not going to go away. He knew for sure that Jamieson would not give up until he was satisfied. He needed to get them to go away, and he knew that the only way to do that was to assure them that he was in his right mind, and where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do, even if neither of the latter two were true. As he worked through that convoluted logic, it struck him that perhaps he did need a psychologist if he had deluded himself into thinking that this was in any way a healthy way to make a living. He started to speak, but Butcher spoke first.

"Perhaps we could speak over a cup of coffee? I don't know about you, but that run wiped me out, and I need to sit for a while before I go back to the motel and shower. I understand you have a suite here at the hotel, maybe we could go there." It was possibly a not so subtle attempt to verify his current living arrangements he knew, and it might be just what he needed to convince the man that he was actually doing what he wanted to do. Let the doctor see the suite, allow him to see the comfort and luxury. It shouldn't take much to convince the man that he liked it. The doctor didn't need to know how much he wanted to be on his boat, or even at his apartment in Santa Barbara. Crane nodded and jerked his head toward the door. He thought that he saw a hint of surprise in the doctor's eyes, and he felt his smile widen.

"Of course, Doc." He said heartily, and led the way toward the doors. "I'll have room service send up some coffee and a light breakfast. Do you have a preference?"

Butcher's eyes narrowed for a moment in consideration of this unexpected development, but to his credit he rolled with it. "Well anything short of eggs benedict, don't want to counteract that running by clogging the arteries, maybe something in a nice fruit plate?" The two men headed for the elevator, both wondering where exactly this was going to take them.

Chapter 11-

Jamieson opened the door and stepped back as Sharkey pressed forward holding a large white bag and a cardboard container of coffee. The smell of baked goods quickly filled the room, as did the smell of strong coffee. The chief put the food on the small table near the window, and looked around the room.

"The Doc already go out?" he asked, seeing the open bathroom door, and no evidence of the other man.

Jamieson shut the door and leaned against it. He nodded. "Yes, he went running. I see you have been up for awhile. May I inquire what is in the bag?"

"There's a bakery right down the block. Got some great looking Danish, right out of the oven, and some pretty fair coffee. It ain't up to Cookies' standard, but it'll do. I had a cup while I waited on the pastry."

"You mean it won't completely destroy the lining of your stomach." Jamieson observed as he went to take one of the cups. He was as addicted to the noxious brew that the cook called coffee as any other man aboard, but still griped about it-it was part of the tradition. He sipped at the strong brew, feeling the effects of the caffeine immediately. Sharkey took out a pastry and offered it, and after a moment's thought Jamison took it. He didn't usually indulge in fattening foods, it was too hard to keep off the pounds at his age, but the baked good smelled wonderful. They both sat at the small table and ate, not speaking.

An hour later, after Jamieson had showered and dressed, the two men entered the lobby of the Ritz, and disregarding the evil eye of the man at the desk, they took up their previous seats near the elevator. Butcher was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you think he might have followed the skipper somewhere?" Sharkey asked Jamieson who shrugged.

"It's certainly possible, though I don't know how he would have done it. He didn't have a car, and I doubt he took along cab fare if he was planning on running with the captain." He said. Their speculation was interrupted when the elevator doors opened to reveal Butcher, dressed in a sweat suit. The older doctor sauntered out of the elevator, and caught sight of the two men sitting to his right. He walked over to them and shot Jamieson a smile.

"About time you crawled out of bed, Will, never seen such a lollygagger. You should be up and running with the rest of us. It'll keep you young. Chief you need to start harassing the man. I know I saw you heading down the block when I was leaving the motel." He seated himself in another chair.

"He was heading for the nearest bakery, the product of which he forced upon me when I was still weak. So don't try to set him on me; talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Where have you been? Did you try a direct assault on the door?" Jamieson asked. At Butcher's nod he continued. "How did you get in to begin with? I thought you needed a keycard to even get on the elevator." He saw a twinkle in Butcher's eyes that he could not quite identify, but he was too focused on Crane's issues right now to want to pursue what it might be about. He made a mental note to tackle the older man later.

Butcher shook his head with a smile. "I went up with the captain; an invited guest I might add. While you gentlemen have been gorging yourself on sweets, I have not only ran farther and faster than I usually do, but I have also broken my fast on what might be the largest spread of out of season fruit that I have ever seen. I must say that I have obviously been slumming when it comes to the hotels which I frequent."

"You had breakfast with Captain Crane?" Jamieson said incredulously. He had definitely not expected this outcome when he had come here this morning. He had expected that if Butcher had managed to corral the young captain into running with him that the notably tight lipped man would simply stonewall the doctor until they were finished, and then retreat to the penthouse, that was if Crane made an appearance at all.

"Yes, and with Mrs. Manes as well." Butcher said succinctly. He settled back in his chair, and smiled upon the dumbfounded pair. As Jamieson started to speak Butcher raised a hand. "Let's go back to the motel. I need a shower, and I don't think we want to discuss this any further here, too many possible eavesdroppers. The captain will not thank us for adding to the rumor mill I am sure." He rose to his feet. "Also, I have to see about doing some shopping. I don't think that I can attend the party tonight in anything that I have in my bag." With that cryptic statement he started for the door. Jamieson and Sharkey, reeling from one blow after another exchanged puzzled glances and a shrug then followed him out the door.

Just before 1700 hours that same day Dr. Nick Butcher stood in front of the mirror in the room he was sharing with Will Jamieson and studied his reflection. He might not cut quite as dashing a figure as Captain Crane did in a tux, but this one was not bad for coming off the rack. He shot his cuffs and turned to raise an eyebrow at Jamieson who was sitting on the bed watching him preen.

"What do you think? Will they let me in the door, or will I have to sneak in through the servant's entrance?" he asked, honestly wanting an opinion.

Jamieson shook his head. "Why is it everyone I know can wear a tux off the rack and look like that and I have a tailored version that makes me look like a matire'd in some cheap restaurant?"

Butcher grinned at him and turned back to study his reflection.

"Just lucky I guess." He said as he tugged on the lapel. He saluted himself, catching Jamieson's eyes in the mirror, and with a laugh went to join the other man at the small table. His face became serious as he leaned toward Jamieson.

"I hope that you do not feel that I have preempted, or cut you out of the process, in doing this, Will. The opportunity arose, and I felt that I could not afford to refuse the invitation. Indeed I got the distinct impression that Captain Crane was none too happy with Felicia, Mrs. Manes that is, asking me along. I know that you want to be involved, and I don't want you to feel that I have made a unilateral move without consulting you."

Jamieson sat back in his chair and considered his colleague's question. He knew that Butcher was sincere in his concern, and he wanted to be sure that he gave an answer based on his true feelings, and not false assurances. As he thought his mind went back over the information that Butcher had shared with he and Sharkey earlier in the day.

To say that he was surprised that Butcher had been asked up to the penthouse suite by Crane was an understatement, and Jamieson's respect for his friend had risen considerably. Lee Crane was not a man that was easily manipulated, even by a man as smooth and practiced as Nick Butcher. When he had mentioned that earlier Butcher had smiled and shook his head.

"I'm not sure who manipulated who, Will. I somehow get the distinct feeling that my invitation to the suite at least was part of some plan of the captain's, though the additional invite definitely was not. Don't give me too much credit. At least not until I get a little more time with the captain. We hardly had time to talk before Felicia, Mrs. Manes, joined us."

Jamieson found time as he reflected to smile inwardly as he thought about how Butcher continually used Mrs. Manes first name, and corrected himself hastily about it each time. He thought that perhaps the man had been quite taken with her, of course so had evidently Lee Crane. Could this woman have some kind of …strange appeal to men that wasn't apparent? Jamieson set aside that speculation to continue thinking about his answer and the revelations earlier that day.

Butcher had reported that Crane had taken him to the suite, and had casually ordered room service for three. He had left Butcher alone for almost ten minutes, disappearing into what he had assumed was a bedroom. He had appeared showered and changed, and had told the doctor that Mrs. Manes would be joining them in a while for breakfast. He had taken this to mean that the two might be sharing the same room or more likely, given the size of the sitting area, there was a connecting door between the rooms. In either event the two were ostensibly intimate to some degree at least.

Both Jamieson and Sharkey had been taken aback at the thought that the two might actually be…involved. They both knew that Crane was something of a ladies man, and that he certainly had shared the bed of many ladies over the years. But somehow the thought of Crane and the woman they had seen in the pictures, obviously much older than the young captain, and while certainly not ugly, not up to the Captain's regular standards, just didn't sit well with either one. Sharkey had grimaced and shook his head.

"I can't see the skipper taking up with someone that old." He said then flushed as he realized he was talking to a man not far from the same age, if not older. "I mean he has his choice of woman back in Santa Barbara, and they are more his own age…I mean" He stopped as he saw Butcher trying to hold in a laugh.

"Don't worry about it Chief. I am not offended on behalf of my fellow senior citizens. It is unusual to say the least for the captain to 'take up' with someone of Felicia, Mrs. Manes', age. It could be an unconscious desire for a mother figure. I understand that the captain's childhood was…unusual."

Jamieson had nodded his understanding, seeing Sharkey's curiosity peaked by the reference to Crane's childhood. The captain's past was not general knowledge, and even though he trusted the Chief's discretion, he planned to keep it that way. "So did you get a sense of that dynamic when you were with them?"

Butcher had canted his head to the side as if considering. "It is really hard to say. I would say that there was definitely affection there. She kissed his cheek when she joined us, and throughout the meal they exchanged the type of information that you would expect of a couple."

"But?" Jamieson asked, sensing that the other doctor had reservations.

"But…I don't know." Butcher smiled. "Your captain is as canny as you say Will, he gave nothing away. If he is suffering from PTSD, he's hiding it well. However, since that can be part of the syndrome, that doesn't really help us much. He gives every appearance of being completely comfortable where he is, and has little, if any, desire to return to his 'normal' life." The doctor's brown eyes moved from Jamieson to Sharkey.

"I know that you gentlemen might not want to consider this, but for the good of both the captain and yourselves, I have to ask. What if this isn't PTSD? What if the captain has simply had enough of what he was doing and decided, however precipitously, that he wanted a change? This might not be your choice for him, and given the ostensible circumstances I can understand your misgivings, but as an adult he has the right to do whatever he wishes with his life, even bad choices."

He had watched as both the Chief and Jamieson chewed over the question. Sharkey began shaking his head almost immediately, followed by Will Jamieson seconds later. It was Sharkey that spoke what was obviously the answer for both of them.

"That just can't be it. The skipper, you don't know him like we do. He isn't just the captain of the Seaview; he's like…a part of her. He can do things with her that no one, not even the Admiral can. He can feel when she's not right, and sometimes I think she can feel when he's not right. It would be like a hermit crab sayin' 'the heck with a shell'. It just ain't gonna happen, Doc."

Looking from Sharkey to Jamieson Butcher had given them a bow of his head and a small smile. "I bow to your expertise. That being the case, I believe that your captain is going to be a tough nut to crack. Other than this radical change of profession, he shows no signs. I engaged Felicia, Mrs. Manes, in conversation over our breakfast, and she made it quite clear that she found the captain delightful." Butcher frowned at something, but shook it off and continued. "Despite what you might think given the blurb in the paper, she strikes me as quite a discerning woman, and not one to be taken lightly, or to be taken in by insincere feelings. Barring further study of course, at this point I would have to say that ostensibly, the captain is where he wants to be, and unless physically constrained, will remain there."

"And how does this all result in you attending a party with them tonight?" Jamieson had inquired. "I hadn't thought a cocktail party to be quite the atmosphere for psychoanalysis."

That earned him another smile. "Actually it is one of the better places. At parties people trot out their best public faces, but it is most easy to see underneath if you look with a discerning eye. Cocktail parties, at least in my experience are like plays. It is just that in the case of a party everyone is writing their own lines and stage direction, having created their own character. 'The play's the thing…' etc. Perhaps I will have as good a luck as Hamlet."

"Uh…didn't he end up dead?" Sharkey asked, causing a raised eyebrow from Jamieson. "Hey. I do read you know." He said defensively. "Besides it was all that was left in the boat's library during a really long cruise when I was still a rating." He added in a mutter.

With a hearty laugh Butcher had risen to his feet. "Indeed he did, as did just about everyone else in the play. However, I feel somewhat safer at a cocktail party than in the Danish court. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to go shopping. I don't know how long it will take to find a tux in my size."

"I'll go along with you, Nick. Maybe you can explain again exactly how you got yourself invited along." Jamieson said and rose to his feet. Sharkey also stood.

"I think I'll go see if I can find Hansen's source here in Washington. The Chief gave me his address and told him I would be coming by. Maybe I can get some more on this Manes woman."

Jamieson blinked as the afternoon ran through his mind, and brought his thoughts back around to the question Butcher had asked. DID he mind having Butcher take this out of his hands completely? No, he wanted what was best for Crane. He was aware of his professional shortcomings in the psychological department, and Nick Butcher was the best man he knew in that field. He couldn't help Crane himself, but he COULD get him the best help possible, he would be satisfied with that. He met Butcher's eyes.

"Don't worry about my ego Nick. The captain has given me plenty of business, and I am happy to pass him on to you. You're the expert, and that is what he needs right now it seems." Something made Jamieson add something else. "I can't say that I don't have some guilt about not catching this earlier. I knew he was a candidate, but he had always sprung back so quickly before…" Butcher was shaking his head.

"The doctor in Okinawa can feel guilty. That boy needs to go back to school, and don't think that I am not going to drop a word or two into the right ears when I get back. I still have a lot of friends in the medical command, and there will be changes. You on the other hand, shouldn't feel guilty. Put that out of your head. And just for your information, it doesn't matter what he had done before, Will. Every time he suffered a traumatic experience, which reading just the unclassified materials seems to be more often than anyone should, he pulled the string a little tighter. It is no surprise, given the circumstances in which your captain seems to operate, that the string finally snapped."

Jamieson nodded reluctantly, not sure if he was prepared to be absolved of his guilt. He glanced at the clock. "You know you never did explain exactly how you got invited to this shindig. And just why are you're calling Mrs. Manes, Felicia? Have you fallen under her spell as well?" Jamieson had offered the last facetiously, but when he saw the blush creep up from Butcher's collar, he had to wonder.

Butcher reached up and ran a finger around the suddenly tight collar of his white shirt. He was not sure exactly how to describe what had gone on between himself and the woman. He had been almost startled when Crane had brought her out. It was a gesture of familiarity he had not expected. He would have not been surprised had Crane simply gotten him the cup of coffee and then hustled him out without ever having met Felicia Manes.

Instead he had found himself sitting down to a fine breakfast and very good French roast coffee with a woman that, for the first time since his wife of thirty years had died almost five years ago, had peaked his interest. He had felt almost an instant connection with her. He had found her attractive, and after spending almost an hour with her, intelligent and well read. Only as he was heading down in the elevator afterward had he realized that Crane had been sitting back in his own chair, smiling faintly as his gaze had moved from one to the other of the older people. He had not seemed put out at all to be left out of the conversation. Butcher wasn't sure if that was because it kept Butcher diverted, or if he just didn't mind that the woman seemed to be as taken with Butcher as he was with her. They had discovered that they shared a love of art, one that she was much more able to indulge than he, and had discussed the various galleries both here in D.C. and back on the West Coast.

The only thing that had seemed to bother the young captain was when Felicia- he didn't bother to correct it in his own mind. No use lying to himself- had asked him to accompany them to the gallery opening that night. Butcher had by chance been looking at Crane when she had asked, and had seen what he could only describe as disquiet flash across his eyes, though his face revealed nothing but pleasant acceptance. From that Butcher felt he could draw one of two conclusions. The first would be that things were as they appeared to be. As an 'escort', as the gossip rags had named him, Crane would have few, if any, issues about possessiveness, but probably would not want the lady's favor to wander too far. The second conclusion was that things were not as they appeared, but that there was indeed some connection between the two, but not for the reason that everyone assumed.

The first conclusion, being such a change of behavior, was indicative of a larger problem, one that would need to be addressed, despite the reluctance of the young captain, and it was for this reason that Butcher was here. The second was a puzzle. Butcher could think of no good reason that the two people, evidently formally unknown to each other, would suddenly, and publicly, become a couple. For a reason that he did not want to delve into at this time, he found himself wishing for the latter. Of course that meant that his help would not be needed, but then he had nothing better to do at home, he was semi retired from his practice, and he intended to stay right here and find out what exactly was going on.

This determination reaffirmed in his own mind he gave Jamieson a smile. "Let's just say that Mrs. Manes and I found some common ground, and she invited me along tonight to indulge my preference for the impressionists." He said, and laughed at the expression of puzzlement on Jamieson's face. "The party is in a new gallery. They are featuring works by Monet for their opening. We had been discussing art, and when she found out I was a fan, she invited me along. I took it as both a way to indulge my passion for Monet and to further observe the captain. There was no chance to wangle further invites I am afraid." He glanced again at the clock and rose to his feet.

"I can't exactly see Sharkey hanging out in a Washington art gallery in a tux, and I left mine at home." Jamieson said wryly, though he noticed that there was no explanation given about using the woman's first name. He was about to broach the subject again when the phone rang. He went and picked it up, and was not surprised to hear Nelson's voice.

"Jaime, have you found him?" the abrupt question did not surprise the doctor, and he was not put out by the lack of greeting. He knew that Nelson had to be very anxious about Crane, though he would never admit it outright.

"Yes, sir, we have located him. He was at the Ritz, in the situation that Hansen mentioned." He really wasn't comfortable talking about the situation with the captain and the woman. It suddenly felt like gossip.

There was a sigh from the other end of the line. "So it's true. Have you…have you talked to him at all?" The question was almost hesitant, and Jamieson realized that Nelson was afraid of the answer.

"I was only able to talk to him briefly. That didn't go very well. However, Doctor Butcher, my friend I told you about, was able to spend some time with him this morning, and is going to see him again tonight. Hopefully after that he'll be able to give us a better feeling for exactly what is going on." He answered.

"Jaime, he was all right wasn't he?" That was Chip Morton. Evidently they were on speaker.

"Physically he seems to be doing well. Part of the time Dr. Butcher spent with him this morning was while running, so he is at least keeping up that part of his therapy."

"And this woman, are they…" Morton broke off, evidently not able top finish the thought.

"I haven't had a chance to see them together." Jamieson hedged, hoping that would put off the questions for now. "Dr Butcher is going to spend some time with them both tonight. We should have more insight then."

"Jaime, have you gotten any sense if he intends to return here?" Nelson asked. Jamieson was sure that both men were hanging on the answer, and hated to give them the only answer he could right now.

"I'm afraid that I can't give you a definitive answer on that. When I spoke with the captain he used the word 'if' several times, but he didn't rule it out." The doctor paused, and considered if he wanted to continue. He knew what he had to add would be painful for Nelson, but finding out about it some other way would be more so. And even at sea, Nelson was not completely cut off. "I'm…afraid there are some rumors floating around town. Sharkey got quite an earful when he called some of his friends in the Pentagon."

"What kind of rumors, Jamie?" Nelson asked.

"As you might guess there is quite a bit of speculation going on there about this whole thing. I guess the captain spoke with a few officers at a party and they have put their own spin on it as well. The prevailing rumor is that the captain's leg injury is permanently disabling and that…" he stopped.

"Go on." It was a grim, tight command.

"The rumor suggests that given that the captain can no longer command the Seaview, that he has been…discharged." Jamison put it out baldly, knowing that further dissembling would not be to anyone's benefit. There was a long silence from the phone.

"So I have discarded him due to his injury and he has found other…employment. Well that manages to put the both of us in the worst possible light doesn't it?" Nelson finally said anger and just a touch of hurt evident in his tone. "I can't say I'm surprised. The gossip in Washington has always been ever so slightly more vicious than anywhere else. I…can only hope that those people that I consider my friends don't believe it, and the rest will believe what they want anyway." He was silent again for a moment. "You'll let us know what the doctor finds out tonight?"

"Yes sir." Was all that Jamieson said. The connection was severed and he put the phone down. He stood there staring at it for a moment until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You handled it the best way you could have, Will. You wouldn't have done him any favor by holding it back." Butcher said. Jamieson sighed and nodded. He looked at the clock and turned to look at Butcher.

"Don't you have a party to be getting to? It's not every psychologist that gets to do his work surrounded by Monet's best. I hope you appreciate that we've given you this opportunity." He tried for a jocular tone. Butcher's eyes told him that he had failed miserably, but he played along.

"Indeed I do, thank you. Always knew that you had to be good for something. Since you managed to sleep through my class on 'The Mental Effects of Physical Illness', I was pretty sure it wasn't going to be as a psychologist. That was a horrible blow to the ego of a first time teacher. If they have some of my favorites tonight I may forgive you."

"I can live with it. Just don't get so caught up with the pretty pictures that you forget why you are there."

"Monet created paintings; glorious representations of the subconscious desire for perfection, not 'pretty pictures', you uncouth bubblehead. As to my job, you can count on me." The last was said in all seriousness as he picked up his over coat and slid it on.

"I know I can." Jamieson said, equally serious. "But don't think that I'm going to forget about why you keep calling Mrs. Manes, Felicia." Butcher was laughing as he left the room.

Several thousand miles to the west two men sat in the nose of the worlds most innovative submarine, with only the faint light from the windows lighting the room, lost in thoughts that were little brighter.

Chapter 12

Crane offered an arm to Felicia, and she wrapped a hand around his elbow. She looked over her shoulder at Butcher, who was taking a last look at one of the Monet before they left. They were the last of the crowd that had filled the posh gallery for the evening. Felicia was close friends with the owner of the gallery, and had wanted to stay as long as possible. It was now just after midnight, and she had let Crane know she was ready to go. She had known that while he seemed to enjoy the paintings, he had not enjoyed the evening much.

It had been subtle, and he had certainly given every appearance of having a wonderful time, schmoozing with congressmen and their wives, most of who wanted to know her secret to catching such a handsome young man, with emphasis on the 'young'. But she could tell he was not really comfortable with the attention or the party. She had steered all conversations back to the gallery opening, promoting her friend's efforts, and she thought she had done well for her. Crane on the other hand had seemed focused on remaining as far from Butcher as was possible, and she doubted if the doctor had managed to spend more than five minutes with the captain in the five hours they had been there.

She was still somewhat amazed by her reaction to the man. When Crane had knocked on her door that morning and told her who was out in the sitting area, she had questioned his purpose in inviting the man up. He had told her that he was sure that they would have little peace from Dr Butcher as long as Jamieson and Sharkey were in the area. They had obviously brought the man to evaluate his, Crane's, mental stability, and knowing his men as he did, he knew they would not be put off by his rudeness the night before, in fact it had probably added fuel to the fire.

She had wondered why they could not simply tell the men that the captain was on-how did he put it-an assignment? Surely he could trust them not to tell anyone. Crane had assured her that he trusted both of his crewmen with his life, and did not doubt that Dr. Butcher, by association, was also trustworthy, but he had been ordered to keep the assignment secret, and that is what he had to do, even if it meant that his friends and crewmembers thought that he had gone around the bend.

She had suggested that she might leak the information to them, but a stern glance from the younger man had forced her to fling up her hands in submission, men and their silly little rules. She had agreed to come out to run interference at breakfast, and had emerged in her dressing gown to find Crane and the man she assumed was Dr. Butcher sitting at the table sipping coffee. She had been almost taken aback by the man Crane introduced. She had expected a man not unlike the psychiatrist she had sought help from, years earlier, when she had first suspected George's problems. He had been thin and severe, and not given too much beside what she now considered psychobabble about needs and subconscious desires.

This man was older certainly, in his late sixties or early seventies even, but in very robust health. His skin was tanned, a natural dark tan from a lifetime spent outdoors, not the spray on stuff so popular with the monied crowd who wanted to look 'in', and he had brushed back, longish hair, liberally speckled with gray. He was the epitome of distinguished, and had she been free, she would have been delighted to make his acquaintance over dinner. She found him very charming, and after almost an hour of small talk, in which Crane let her take the lead, had found that they had many things in common including a love of Impressionist paintings. They had spoken of the galleries they had been to, of museums and private collections. She had felt a connection forming, had felt like a young woman again, capable of catching and holding a man's attention. It had been glorious.

She would never admit it to the young captain, but she had forgotten herself for a moment when she had asked Nick Butcher to join them at the gallery opening that night. For a moment she had been free to date whom she chose, to be seen with them wherever she wished to be, and not fear for their life. It was only as Butcher was accepting that her eyes fell on Crane, and she saw the look in his eyes. It all came back to her then, exactly what they were doing, and why. She had almost retracted the invitation, as much as she did not want to, but she had seen Crane shake his head slightly when Butcher had looked down at his coffee cup and had left it alone.

Later, after Butcher had left, Crane had given her a stern lecture, a thought that even know brought a small smile to her lips. She had felt like a naughty child, standing before her father once more as she had so many years before, as he spoke to her about her deportment. The incongruity of the feeling, and her age, coupled with the youth of the lecturer had almost sent her into giggles. Only an even sterner look from the young captain had kept them at bay, and she had nodded solemnly as he had pointed out the possible dangers of involving anyone else in their plan, especially if they did not know the risks. She had sobered at the thought of Butcher possibly being hurt, and had sworn that she would distance herself from him.

She had managed to do so tonight by staying with Crane most of the evening, and spending what time she was away from him with her friend. She had noticed that when he was not looking at the paintings, Butcher would be watching the two of them, a speculative gleam in his eyes. As much as she wanted George stopped, as much as he needed to be stopped, she almost regretted the charade she was forced to play out. She would never forgive herself if she was forced to allow Nick Butcher to leave town, and never see him again.

She shook off the thought as Crane thanked the doorman who let them out and then stepped back inside to lock the doors behind them. They had lingered so long that it was almost deserted on the street. Only a few cars remained, including the limo from the hotel in which they had come. Crane gestured at the driver, and smiled down at Felicia as they waited at the curb.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked with the perfect touch of fondness in his tone. The boy was a natural actor. She patted his arm.

"It was lovely. Doris always has the best taste in artists, and the Monet…I was stunned that she had managed to get so many to display. If I were the owner of any of them I would never let them out of my sight. Don't you agree Doctor?" Butcher smiled at her.

"I thought we had agreed it was to be 'Nick'?" He said with a shake of his head. She nodded. "As selfish as it sounds, I too would tend to hoard any such treasures that came my way. I don't think I could bear to let one go once I had it. I really must thank you for allowing me to tag along, the proverbial third wheel and all that. I thoroughly enjoyed it. My dreams will be filled with those colors and strokes..." He broke off as the limo pulled up to the curb. He stepped forward and opened the door. He looked toward the other two, intending to bow them in, when he saw Felicia's hand fly to her mouth in shock, and Crane's face suddenly took on a look that definitely was not in keeping with the tone of the night. He turned to look at what they were staring at, and found himself staring down the barrel of an automatic weapon.

"Get in the car, quietly." A voice growled from inside the darkened car, "Or I'll kill the 'doorman' here first."

Chapter 13

Sharkey and Jamieson had spent most of the evening sitting in the doctor's room, watching TV. There had been a short but intense argument about what they would watch, ending with neither particularly happy with the choice of a western movie of doubtful vintage. They had walked to a nearby restaurant to have dinner earlier, and neither felt much like going to bed this early. They were both eager for Butcher to return and tell them if he had managed to talk with Crane.

The credits of the movie were just starting to scroll across the screen when they could hear the phone ringing in Sharkey's room next door. The chief had hurried through the connecting door and had answered before the ringing had quit. He was on the phone for almost ten minutes, and Jamieson was about to go and see what was taking so long when the chief had hustled back into the room, putting on his pea jacket as he walked.

"Get your coat, Doc. We gotta find out where this gallery opening thing is, and I mean right now. Did Doc Butcher say where this shindig was at? I mean there are a lot of galleries in D.C., and we might not have a lot of time." Sharkey was taking the doctor's coat out of the closet as he spoke, tossing it in the direction of the other man and heading for the door before Jamieson could so much as get to his feet. The doctor was forced grab the coat and his keycard and run after the chief to avoid being left behind. He was only able to catch up as the chief impatiently awaited the elevator. Jamieson shrugged into his coat and looked askance at Sharkey.

"Would you care to share exactly what this is all about?" He questioned as they boarded the empty elevator.

"That was Hanson's contact here in DC. He's been doing some digging on that Manes broad. I asked him if he could get us anything that was available on her. I kinda figured it was a 'know thy enemy' kind of thing, you know." Sharkey said in his usual laconic way.

"And I take it there is something that warrants a sudden trip to I believe it was a Georgetown art gallery at eleven o'clock at night?" Jamieson asked as a small shiver ran down his back. They were after all talking about Lee Crane here. The man could find trouble anywhere, or actually, it could find him. "What is she, some kind of axe murderer or something?"

"Or something." Sharkey said mysteriously as they exited the elevator in the parking garage and headed for the car.

"You're joking, right"

Sharkey didn't speak until they were in the car, and Jamieson's shiver was becoming an all out tremble. "It isn't her; it's her son, George Manes."

"HE'S an axe murderer?" Jamieson said trying to grasp what was going on. Sharkey revved the engine and headed out of the garage, turning toward Georgetown. He shook his head.

"That's just it, for a while no one could find out just what it is with the guy. The contact had his contacts asking questions just about everywhere, trying to get information. When they started mentioning Mrs. Manes, and her family, they started getting some serious stonewalling, followed by some suggestions that it just might be healthier to stop asking questions."

"I take it they didn't? Stop that is." Sharkey shook his head again, cutting through a yellow light just before it turned red. He looked around for any cops, didn't need a ticket now.

"Naw…these aren't the kinda guys who get scared when government agencies say 'boo'."

"Exactly which agencies were saying 'boo'?" Jamieson asked, hanging on as they took a corner at high speed. A quick glance at the speedometer had him rolling his eyes.

"Just pick a set of letters, and they were involved." The chief said as he merged onto the expressway. "Any idea where in Georgetown this place was?"

"Nick said something about Hamilton Avenue. I think it was part of the name of the gallery. So you know where that is?" Sharkey had been an aide to Nelson when the admiral had been stationed at the Pentagon, and had driven through much of the surrounding area, including Georgetown.

"Yeah, or at least I know the area, and we can just cruise it till we find the place I guess. I don't see us finding too many people out that can give us directions to an art gallery at this time of night."

"So the contacts kept digging. What exactly did they find?" the doctor asked, wincing as Sharkey cut off another car as he took a sudden exit off the expressway. Watching the way the chief drove made him understand why Nelson now always preferred to drive himself.

"They were getting stonewalled by everyone. Finally one of their people hooked up with someone in one of the alphabet agencies and they got a lead." Sharkey said as he merged into the traffic on the frontage road that Jamieson assumed would take them to Hamilton Avenue. There were honks from the cars behind as the chief switched lanes rapidly. Jamieson reached up and grabbed the handle above the window that in his youth was called a panic bar. Now he knew what it was for. "Anyway this guy told the contact that the agencies were all in a dither about finding this guy, name of George Manes, who just happens to be the son of the woman that the skipper is…well, that Manes woman."

"Why are they looking?"

"That took a little more digging, and they finally had to go to someone in London or somewhere like that. I think Hanson is going to owe someone big time for this. Anyway this guy they are looking for is some kind of scientist, and they think he's trying to defect or something, along with whatever research he does, and everyone is really hot to find him, and I mean really hot. They warned the contact guy off again."

"So do they think that his mother may know where he is?" Jamieson was starting to get a whole new bad feeling, or actually an old bad feeling, about exactly what was going on with Crane.

Sharkey shook his head. "That's where it gets really weird." He said and took a corner at wheel screeching speed. Jamieson tightened his hold on the bar. "The guy has this thing…an Eddie purse complex or some such thing."

Jamieson stifled a snort, and with an admirably straight face suggested, "Perhaps it was 'Oedipus'?

"Yeah, yeah that's it. Eddie puss. I guess it means he likes his mother, I mean he REALLY likes her. They figure he won't go nowhere without he at least sees her before he goes. He might even try to take her along."

Jamieson's bad feeling got worse. "And did they mention whether Mrs. Manes is inclined to go with her son?" he asked, already suspecting that he knew the answer. He was going to kill a certain submarine captain when he found him.

"That's the next thing. I mean it was like pulling teeth to get anyone to talk about this George Manes guy. But that was easy next to getting anything on the mother. Hanson's contact says that the whole intelligence sector is puckered up like they been sucking lemons. No one is talking." He took another corner at speed, just missing an old man and his dog, out for a late night stroll.

"Well I assume someone must have talked about something, or we wouldn't be hurtling through the night risking life and limb to get to an art gallery."

"What's risking life and limb? I know these streets like the back of my hand." Sharkey took a hand off the wheel and waved it. The fact he was maneuvering through a group of cars at well above the speed limit seemed not to phase him. He returned it to the wheel as he continued. "Hanson's contact, I really got to find out this guy's name, he's a good man to know, he got tired of getting nothing, so he started getting sneaky like. He wouldn't say how he did it, but he found out that the alphabet agencies got a tip that Manes had taken steps to get his mother, and anyone with her and bring her to him. It looks like they are going to do it in the next several days, and no one is really sure where or when."

"And you think it is going to be tonight at this galley opening? Isn't that a little public?" the doctor questioned. He thought about just closing his eyes and hoping for the best, but discarded the idea as even worse than it was already.

"What public? It's a bunch of people who spent hours looking at pictures, eating fish eggs on stale crackers, and sipping cocktails." The Chief's contempt was obvious. "That ain't much of a challenge for some thug. It'll be like a cakewalk for them. Of course they don't know about the skipper, but even if they did, he's only one guy, and he has to think about the woman and Doc Butcher. You know how he is, always putting everyone else first. And you can bet that ONI ain't got him covered much. You know how ONI can't seem to ever cover all their bases."

"So you are assuming this is an ONI mission?" Jamie asked. He had reached the same conclusion, and strangely was finding it a slightly more appealing explanation, even given Crane's record on ONI missions.

"What else? I know you and Doc Butcher had all these theories about the skipper maybe was sick or something, but it just didn't wash, Doc. I mean he's been through a lot of stuff, and he ain't gonna throw it all away and be some…gigolo or something. It just ain't gonna happen."

"And if Hanson's contact is wrong about the timing? Do you think that the captain is going to appreciate us barging in on him and possibly blowing his cover more than we might have already?" Jamieson was starting to realize that they could have done a lot of damage with their sudden appearance. Whatever the plan was, he was sure that it had not included the appearance of shipmates with a psychologist in tow. No, Crane was not going to be happy to see them again.

"If we get there and there ain't nothing going on then we just follow them back to the hotel and make sure that they get there okay. Maybe we can figure out a way to let the skipper know that we know what's going on and he can count on us for back up."

Jamieson was not so sure that such information would be welcome, but he said nothing. He looked out the window, and was surprised when he saw a familiar figure on the sidewalk ahead. He would have recognized the tall slim form even without the tell tale limp. Mrs. Manes was at his side, and Nick Butcher was standing nearby. As they neared the trio a limo was pulling up to the curb, and Jamieson saw Butcher reach out to open the door and make a sweeping gesture, only to stop in mid-movement. He stood there staring into the car and Jamieson saw the woman lift a hand to her mouth as if to stifle an exclamation. Crane had stiffened, and Jamieson easily recognized the tension-filled pose. There was something wrong. Sharkey was pulling the car to the curb as first Butcher then Mrs. Manes entered the car.

Jamieson bailed out of the passenger door almost before Sharkey had put the car in park. He started toward Crane, only to stop as the captain, in the act of getting in the limo, turned his head to look at him, and gave him an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The doctor reached out and grabbed Sharkey's arm as the Chief started toward the limo, getting ready to call out.

"Get in the car." Jamieson said releasing his arm and heading back to the passenger side. The chief looked from the limo that was now pulling out back at the doctor. "Get in the car and follow them, now!" the doctor called out. Sharkey shook his head and ran back to the driver's side. In a matter of moments he had the car started and was pulling out after the limo. He started down the road, trying to catch up with the larger car. It didn't seem to be heading back toward the hotel. In fact it seemed to be heading toward the southbound expressway that headed out of the city. He was just turning to ask Jamieson what was going on when he was forced to slam on the brakes to avoid a car that cut in front of them and then came to a sudden stop. Sharkey cursed and started to pull out to go around when the doors of the car all seemed to explode open. Men with machine guns leapt from inside and were aiming them at the two men. Sharkey raised his hands and saw Jamieson doing the same. He sure hoped that these guys weren't trigger-happy.

Chapter 14

Crane folded himself into the limo, taking the rear-facing seat, his eyes never leaving the man with the gun. Peripherally, he was aware that the man at the wheel was not their driver, and he spared a thought for the man, wondering if he had become the first victim in this farce. And where exactly were the back ups that he had been promised? The one contact he was sure of had been posing as a waiter in the gallery. He certainly hadn't been in evidence when the gun had been pointed at them. Then there had been Jamie and Sharkey. He suspected that his cover had been blown there. He had no other explanation for their appearance here, or Jamieson's ready acceptance of his signal. He had been almost desperate for them not to approach. He was going to have enough trouble making sure that Mrs. Manes and Butcher got out of this alive, he didn't need to be responsible for two more people.

He turned his attention to the man with the machine gun, an Uzi by the looks of it, one of the older models. Evidently Manes could not afford to buy high quality thugs with new equipment. That was in keeping with the profile, though still as deadly. It wasn't especially comforting however since nonprofessionals might be trigger- happy whereas professionals might understand that discretion might be to everyone's advantage. As another indication of his inexperience, the man wasn't even watching them. He was speaking quietly into a cell phone, though he did keep the gun buried in Butcher's side.

Crane's gaze was drawn to the rear window where he saw a car pulling away from the curb. He was sure that Sharkey would have no problem following the limo. It would be good to have some help in dealing with these men. Any hopes he had for assistance were dashed moments later, however, as he watched another car pull out of an alley and block the car containing his friends. The limo turned a corner before he could see what happened to the other car, and he hoped that whoever it was, they would not hurt the two men. He could only suppose that their kidnappers had prepared for any possible tails, and had planted another car to intercept. The man with the gun finished his conversation and closed his cell phone. Crane turned his gaze back to him, though he did not cease thinking about his men back there in the street.

"Who are you and what is this about? If you want ransom-" He started only to be cut off by the gunman.

"Shut up and sit back. You might as well enjoy the ride." He grinned. "You ain't gonna enjoy much else from now on."

"Young man, there is no need to be rude." Felicia said pointedly, and looked down at the gun still in Butcher's side. "Must you do that? If we go over a bump you might unintentionally fire that weapon."

"Then you better hope that we don't go over any bumps hadn't you lady." He punctuated his words by jabbing the gun into Butcher's ribs harder. The doctor winced, but otherwise did not move. The gunman shifted the weapon over to point it at Crane. "Course I could point it at the boy toy over here. Would that be better?" He laughed as Felicia frowned at him.

Crane noted that during this exchange Butcher's eyes were going from him to Felicia, and there was a calculating look in them. Evidently their cover was blown everywhere, except with the man with the gun. He had to hope that Butcher had more sense than to blurt out any question he might have. Their eyes met, and he saw the certainty grow in the older man's eyes. Very slowly the eye on the side away from the gunman winked.

Crane did not respond, but instead turned his head as the Limo slowed and turned into what appeared to be a warehouse. The roll up door closed behind them, and the limo pulled to a stop. Crane expected to be motioned out of the car, but instead the gunman opened his door and stepped out, closing the door behind him. The driver must have activated the automatic locks because he heard them engage, and knew they were now locked in the back of the car. The clear glass panel that separated the front and rear of the long car started slowly up, sealing off the back of the vehicle. The driver then also opened his door, and stepped out. The two men moved about ten feet away from the car, and looked back. Crane had a bad feeling. Just as he was contemplating how he could batter his way out of the car, a white smoke began hissing from beneath the rear seat.

"Are we on fire?" Felicia asked, for the first time showing fear. She had been admirably calm up to that point.

Crane put his hand over his mouth and nose, taking in as much clean air as he could before he did so and shook his head. "It's gas." He bit out briefly. He half stood, and threw an elbow into the glass separating them from the driver's seat. All he got for the effort was a sore elbow. It was bulletproof glass. He was sure that the glass for the outside windows was the same. The other two started to cough. He jerked his head at Butcher to move to the other seat then helped Felicia to do the same. He started to pull at the seat. If he could get to the canister he might be able to turn it off. Of course that would only delay the inevitable, but he might be able to fool them into thinking he was unconscious and would be able to have the advantage.

He had managed to rip one end of the seat from its anchor before he heard the coughing stop behind him. A quick glance showed that the two others were slumped against each other, their eyes closed, breathing slowly. At least it appeared to be some sort of sleeping gas, and not one of the deadly varieties. He could feel his lungs straining as he tried to wrest the seat up and away, but it would not release from the bolt holding it down. He knew that he was reaching his limit, but he kept trying to reach the container. His head started to swim, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He had to breathe. There was no avoiding it. He pushed the seat back into position as much as he could, and sat. He let his breath go in a gust, and almost reluctantly drew in a breath. The gas was mostly odorless, though it tingled in his lungs. He tried to remember which of the many gases had that particular characteristic, but his head was suddenly spinning. He closed his eyes to avoid the vertigo that threatened to make him heave, and settled back against the cushions of the seat. He hoped that Manes was just angry enough to want to face the man who had stolen his mother's attention, and not just inclined to drop him into a convenient body of water. As the darkness overcame him his last thoughts were of the Seaview, and those he had left behind. Would they forgive him his charade? He hoped he had the chance to find out.

Chapter 15

Chip Morton turned thoughtful eyes toward the nose from where he stood at the rear of the control room. He was talking with Ahern, who now had the con, about the required course changes during the next watch. Morton was confident that Ahern would perform adequately else he would not be here in the control room. Ahern was one of Crane's finds. He had met the young officer on one of his ONI missions. The young man had been an officer on a submarine that had extracted Crane from one of his more exciting missions. He had been forced to flee the country he had been in by the unusual expedient of rowing out to sea in a rowboat. While it might not have sounded too unusual to someone who knew the young captain and how he often had left countries under even worse conditions, his expert handling of the small skiff through the rough waters of the harbor entrance and the subsequent row out to meet the submarine in seas that had sent the local fishing fleet into harbor had caught the imagination of Ahern.

Once the young man had completed his tour of duty, and his commitment to the Navy, he had been faced with the choice of signing up for another tour, or resigning his commission and finding a new career. He had found that he enjoyed being a submariner, but he was uncomfortable within the constraints of the regulations. Crane, always on the lookout for quality officers, had met with and recruited him in one afternoon. Ahern had found the more relaxed discipline of the Seaview to be the perfect atmosphere, and had proven to be every bit the third officer that Crane had said he would be. Now the young man turned sympathetic eyes toward the nose as he followed Morton's gaze forward. In the two months since he had joined the Seaview he had come to realize just how close the three top officers were, not that it was out there for everyone to see. In those two months however he had been privy to the hidden dynamics of the three men.

Whatever he had expected about the Seaview had been far exceeded by the reality of the great boat, and the expectations he had about her top officers had also been blown away. Nelson was every bit the genius that he was said to be, and had the fiery temper that was rumored to intimidate even other admirals. Mr. Morton was everything that Ahern had ever imagined the perfect XO would be. The man seemed to be exactly where he needed to be to do what needed to be done, and he made it look effortless. Ahern was determined to learn everything he could from Morton.

However, it was Crane that had been the biggest surprise. Ahern had been dazzled by the young captain when they had first met, seeing a man who had risen to the rank of captain, who had his own boat, and who still risked his life in missions in hostile countries. A desire to be a man like Crane was the reason that Ahern had joined the Navy. He had found it ironic that it was when he was thinking of leaving the Navy that the opportunity to work with Crane had been presented to him. He had seized the opportunity without hesitation, and had been so glad. He had quickly become aware that he would never be the officer that Crane was, would never be the man that Crane was, but rather than finding that discouraging, he had found that he had become confident in his own abilities, his own strengths, and knew that he could be whatever he wanted to be, and that was because Crane encouraged each and every man aboard his boat to be the best. That was all the captain asked of his crew, and what he gave of himself.

Now, Ahern knew that something was going on with the skipper. Ahern had been officer of the deck when they had picked up Crane in Okinawa, and had been shocked to see the thin, pale man that had been helped aboard. The doctor had been trying to force the captain to allow himself to be carried aboard on a stretcher, but Crane had simply ignored the doctor and had walked aboard with only the aid of Morton's strong grip on his arm. He had been limping heavily and had dark circles around his eyes. Ahern had not really expected that the skipper would be on this cruise with them, and indeed Mr. Morton was in command this trip. However the scuttlebutt had been flying through the sub from the first about just where the skipper was. Then the Doctor and Chief Sharkey had taken the FS1 and not come back.

The final indication that all was not right had been the call this morning. The boat had left the lab the previous evening. From what Ahern understood the experiments so far had gone exceptionally well, but you couldn't tell by the spirits of the admiral or XO. Always before when he had been working the admiral had been almost electric with his excitement, but now he seemed…tired. The XO had been simply grim, going about his duties with his usual exactness, but without the underlying satisfaction that so marked his usual work. Ahern had not been on duty this morning, but scuttlebutt had it that the admiral had requested that Sparks put a call through to Washington DC, where evidently not only the Doctor and Chief were, but also the skipper. The admiral had taken the call in his cabin, with the XO present, and whatever had been said, it hadn't been good. The XO had emerged grimmer than before, and the admiral had not come out at all. Rumor had it that he had not so much set foot in his lab despite the incipient experiments at the second lab which they would reach the next morning. An hour earlier, just after Ahern had reported for duty, the admiral had come down the spiral stairs and sat at the table there in the nose. He had been sitting in the same place the whole time since, simply staring out the windows into the darkness beyond and smoking. Morton had gone forward once and spoken to him, but Ahern had seen that the OOM had simply shaken his head to whatever Morton had said and simply lit another cigarette. Morton had retreated back to the chart table, and had completed the transfer of command.

Morton absently clapped Ahern on the back and started forward again, intent on he knew not what, but he had to do something, something that would take that look out of Nelson's eyes. The look that had been there since the admiral had hung up the phone that morning after talking to Jamieson. After the doctor had reluctantly told them about the rumors, about what was being said about why Crane had suddenly appeared in Washington on the arm of a woman twice his age. As Nelson had said, the rumors had been calculated to be as vicious as possible to all concerned. And Morton knew that they had torn at Nelson. He had tried to get the older man to eat earlier, but he had refused, not even speaking. Morton had no idea what to say, but if all he could do was sit with the man he was prepared to do that too. He just didn't want him being alone anymore. He was halfway to the nose when Bonds, the communications man on duty called out to Ahern.

"Lt. Ahern. I have an incoming call for Admiral Nelson from an Admiral Smith. They say its top priority." The radioman reported. Ahern looked at Morton who had turned at the man's report. Morton nodded.

"Pipe it up to the nose. I'll tell the admiral. Is there anything about it being classified?" Morton said.

"No sir." Bonds said.

Morton turned on his heel and went forward. This was definitely not going to be pretty. The two admirals were never friendly, and with Nelson in this mood, he suspected that the coming conversation was going to be a humdinger. He hit the button to close the crash doors as he passed the panel, and waited for them to close before moving further forward. He stood at Nelson's side for several moments before it became obvious the older man was not going to acknowledge him. Morton took a deep breath.

"Admiral Smith is on the video phone for you, admiral, top priority." He said. For several more moments the admiral sat still then he turned his head to look at Morton.

"I do not feel like dealing with that jackass at this point in time. Tell him that I'm busy." Nelson said and looked forward again.

"It could be about Lee, sir" Morton said. He didn't have Crane's skill with dealing with an angry Nelson, but he vastly preferred an angry admiral to the quiet man that sat before him now. Nelson head snapped around and the blue eyes locked on his.

"He probably just wants to verify the rumors. He'd love to get his hooks into Lee full time. He wouldn't let a little thing like a limp stop him. It would make a good cover." The last was said with a sneer.

"That could be." Morton conceded. He knew that Smith would like anything that made Nelson uncomfortable, or caused him pain. "But maybe he has some insight from the debriefing from the last mission that we don't know about. It might be worth it to talk to him."

Nelson glared at him for a moment, no doubt easily seeing his purpose. He finally took the cigarette out of his mouth and ground it out in the ashtray. "Very well, let's get this over with." He said with a growl and rose to his feet. He moved to stand in front of the video panel, and Morton could see the combative stance that he recognized so well. No, this wasn't going to be pretty. He hit the button to bring up the screen.

Admiral Smith was looking down at some papers on his desk as the picture solidified. He was in full dress uniform, including medals. Morton raised an eyebrow. It must be after midnight there in Washington DC. If the admiral was in his class A there must have been some shindig going, and if he had come out to make a phone call to Nelson, it certainly wasn't due to prurient curiosity. The admiral looked up at the camera and scowled.

"Took your own sweet time about it, didn't you Nelson. God forbid they should interrupt your dinner. Stark said your discipline was lax, but I didn't think that meant you gave it up all together." He growled. If anything Nelson's posture became straighter, and more aggressive.

"Perhaps if it had been someone worth talking to, I would have hurried. As it is I wouldn't stop in the middle of a root canal with no anesthetic. What do you want? I have important things to be doing." Morton could see Smith bristling at the tone.

"Look Nelson. I wouldn't have to be calling you if you would keep your nose out of things that don't concern you. Your men have interfered in an operation that we took a lot of care to set up. Because of their interference we've lost Crane and the others and we'll have to scramble to make sure that they don't leave the country before we locate them. If your men hadn't gotten in the way…"

Nelson cut him off. "What the hell do you mean 'lost Crane'? Are you telling me that Captain Crane was working for YOU in Washington D.C., even though he was injured?" Morton got the distinct feeling that if he could Nelson would reach through the video screen and grab Smith by the neck. For himself, he too had caught the reference, and he felt his heart first rise at the thought that Crane had not abandoned them for another life, for whatever reason, only to have it sink as he realized what Smith was saying. Lee Crane, his leg still not healed from the last assignment, had taken another mission, and in the process had caused them all a great deal of mental and emotional pain.

"I'm going to kill him." He murmured under his breath, though evidently not low enough as Nelson turned burning eyes to him.

"Stand in line, commander." He growled and then turned back to a sputtering Smith. "I want to know exactly what is going on."

Smith gave Nelson a nasty smile. "You don't have the clearance to know about this, and that comes from the very top." Morton could hear the satisfaction in the man's voice. "Suffice to say that your two men may have ruined a very important undercover assignment. As it stands they are being held incommunicado, at my discretion, in a federal lockup facility, and they will stay that way until I say differently. The only reason I am contacting you at all is to make sure that there are no more of your little toy sailors to get in our way. If there are, they will be dealt with in the same manner, and you can be damned sure that I will press whatever charges I can find against them and you. Smith out." The admiral jabbed a finger at a button on his desk and the screen went dark. For a long moment it was silent in the nose as both men stood staring at the blank screen.

Then very quietly came "Damn him." Morton turned his head and looked at Nelson. He smiled grimly.

"Which one?"

"Both of them." Nelson said without turning his head. He was silent for several more moments. Chip could almost hear the gears grinding. Then he turned and looked at Morton.

"Call the Institute. Have FS2 launched immediately. Have them go to Lab 4 and pick up Dr. Vermann and bring him to us at Lab 7. Once that's done, have communications get me Alvin at Lab 4, tell them to wake him up if necessary. Once I am done with that get me Richards at Lab 7. You could do me a favor and figure the shortest route from here to D.C. Given our latitude I think the polar route will be best, but I'd appreciate it if you would run the numbers." He gave a bitter laugh. "I'm afraid I might not be at my best for navigation figures right now."

"Sir…" Morton began, already knowing what the answer would be, had to be, but he had to ask. Nelson was already shaking his head.

"No, Chip. I'm sorry. Not all of us, not at the same time. With O'Brien being out I am not comfortable leaving only junior officers in command. I understand why you want to go, and maybe you have more right than I do, but this time it is going to have to be Admiral's privilege."

"Aye, sir." Morton acknowledged, accepting what he knew had to be without an argument. He watched as Nelson wondered back over to the table and sat down heavily. The older man folded his hands on the table, and the XO could see the knuckles turn white from the force that the admiral was exerting. He went and sat down across from Nelson and they sat quietly for a moment, each thinking their own dark thoughts. Finally Nelson loosened his grip and sat back in his chair.

"I don't know if I'm angrier at that jackass Smith for offering the mission to Lee, at Lee for taking it, or at myself for allowing this to go on. I do know that I will not allow either of them to manipulate me in this manner again. It was bad enough when we first thought he had simply gone on a mission and dodged our concern by that show of anger, then to be led to believe that he was ill, and now to find out that he has allowed Smith to manipulate rumor and innuendo in Washington to suit whatever plan might be in the works is completely unacceptable. My own feelings aside, the reputation of the Institute and the people that work for it have to be considered. Even if the rumors are proven false, the memory of them will linger and I don't need to tell you how capricious a finance committee can be. One opinion, even if it was formed based in incorrect information, can be the difference between allocations going to the Institute or some tobacco farm in Virginia."

"Not that I am not angry with him too, but do you really think that he had a choice in that, I mean Admiral Smith is there in Washington. He could have done it with or without Lee's approval, or even before he got there. There wouldn't have been much he could have done about it at that point, not if it was part of his mission. What I want to know is what kind of mission involves tangoing the night away with a woman twice your age and getting your picture in the society pages?"

"I don't know, but I can tell you that I am going to find out, security clearance or not. Smith can cling to his petty 'in the interest of National Security-need to know only' all he wants. I WILL get answers if I have to go all the way up to the President." He sighed and some of the tension drained out of him. "It is really my fault in the end. I've allowed this to go on too long. I didn't want to pull the reins in on him, make him feel that I was trying to run his life. But now, I see that I have only enabled his need to do this. When he wants to go I let him, no matter the inconvenience. When it all goes to hell I go to his rescue, no matter what might be interrupted." He held up a hand as Morton started to protest.

"Not that I begrudge a single time, or ever would, but I have to bear part of the blame now when he has gone to these lengths to hide the fact that he was working again, despite his physical handicap, and it has spilled over into what should be his main concern, the Institute. Whatever it is that drives him to do this is like a drug addiction, or alcoholism and I've enabled it."

Morton shook his head. "I don't see it that way. Yes, you could have told him no more ONI missions, and he might have even done it, out of respect for you, but then…" he paused trying to collect his thoughts. "If he HAD quit because you asked, or under pressure from me, then he would know that there were things that he could have done, people he could have helped, but that he didn't, and that would have weighed on him. Even if he never went back to it, he would have regretted it, and maybe in a way he wouldn't be the man that he is. I don't know why he needs to do it any more than you do, but I know that it seems to be an essential part of what he is. It's damn hard to watch him go, and you can bet I will tear a strip off him for this, but in the end I have to weigh what I want for him verses what he has to have to be who he is." He stopped, a little embarrassed at revealing his feelings. It wasn't that Nelson didn't know, it was just saying them out loud. It didn't help that Nelson was staring at him. He shrugged and fell back on the last bastion of male avoidance, humor.

"Of course it just might be that we need to see if Jaime's friend can give us a group rate. I'm delusional, you're an enabler, and Lee has a death wish. It's a three for one deal. What psychologist could pass up the challenge?"

A smile grew slowly on Nelson's face, and he sat forward to lean on the table. He shook his head. "No, I think of the three of us you may be the sanest. Though I am not sure that is saying much. You're right however. Maybe that is why I haven't given him the ultimatum. I would like to think so." His smile widened. "It absolves me of some of the blame." They shared a laugh, and Morton pushed himself to his feet.

"I'll go get on those radio calls." He paused. "Admiral Smith said Lee was missing. Given his record that could mean anything from he's gone deeper under cover to get the job done and left everyone else in the dust or it could mean someone has taken him. I'll free up Kowalski to go with you. He's not doing anything that crucial to the experiments, and that way you'll have someone that can co-pilot." He didn't add that he thought the rating might come in useful if, when, they found Crane in it up to his ears like usual.

He could tell by Nelson's amused look that the admiral understood his reasoning, but he made no protest. Morton opened the crash doors, closing them again after he passed through. He saw the curious looks cast his way, but ignored them as he went to the communications shack. He relayed what was needed and stood by as the first call was placed. He got FS2 in process and then with a last few words with Ahern went to his cabin, stopping by the nose to gently urge Nelson to do the same. The morning was going to come too quickly, and he suspected it would be hectic. He was sure that whatever sleep he did manage to get would be more than Nelson would. As he settled into his bunk he wondered where Lee Crane was, and if he was looking at the day with expectation or fear. It was a question that haunted what sleep he got throughout the night.

Chapter 16

Felicia Manes woke to find herself in a narrow bed in a small square room lit only by light from a small round window. She lay on the unmade bed still in the dress from the gallery, but her coat was missing. She was covered by a raggedy wool blanket. She groggily sat up, and as she lowered her feet to the floor she noticed two things. One, that her shoes were missing, and two that the floor, which seemed to be made of steel painted with flaking grey paint, was cold. In her muddled thoughts she had a moment to regret the loss of her favorite pair of Manolo Blanhiks, before the reality of the situation came to her. She rose shakily to her feet and surveyed the room. It was spare, consisting only of the bed, a bunk she supposed it should be more properly called, a small fold down table, and a built in chair. A small door at the end of the bunk opened to reveal a laughably small room that contained a toilet and a small sink. She availed her self of these facilities and then went out to study the door to the room. She tried the handle, not surprised finding it locked. She briefly considered a dramatic pounding upon the door, accompanied by demands for her release, but doubted that would be particularly effective, and might draw unwanted attention.

She instead went to the small round window and looked out. The view, distorted by the thickness of the glass and a layer of what she assumed to be salt residue on the outside was not informative. She could see only the sea and the sky, grey and overcast. It at least confirmed what she had suspected. She was on a ship. Now the question became where was the ship going, and what had happened to her two companions?

Coincidence be damned. She knew this had to be something to do with George, and she was afraid of what the future may hold for them all. She knew that ONI had wanted something to happen, but she could not think that having them Shanghaied to heavens knew where could possibly be what they were hoping for. She returned to the bunk and sat down, if nothing else to get her feet off the cold floor. The room was cool, and she shivered slightly. She drew the blanket around her shoulders and sighed. She could only wait.

Nick Butcher first became aware that he was awake when something-he didn't seem to have enough brain cells available to figure out just what it was yet- ran across his outstretched legs. At first it seemed to be very dark, but that was remedied when he realized his eyes were still closed and, after a struggle that was much harder than it should have been, managed to open them. He was staring down at his own legs, clad in the black pants of his tuxedo, and the shiny black shoes he had purchased to go along with it. He vaguely noticed that his jacket was missing, and that the formally white shirt was now dirty. He struggled to remember why he would have fallen asleep sitting up, still wearing most of his tux, and in a very uncomfortable position.

He noticed for the first time that he seemed to be sitting on the floor, but it wasn't the floor of his hotel. It was metal, and cold, and dirty, as was the wall that he was leaning against, and to which his right wrist appeared to be shackled. A line of rivets passed just beyond his feet, and his eye followed the line into the dimness to another wall, or rather a bulkhead. Well damn, he was on a boat. He had managed to avoid that for most of his Navy career, and he could not figure out why he would be on one now. Since he was becoming aware of his surroundings, his mind decided to remind him of what he had last been doing before….well before whatever happened. He definitely recalled shopping for the tux he was wearing. He also recalled looking at some wonderful Monet's and sipping some damn fine champagne. He had been having a great conversation with…Felicia! He had been with Felicia Manes and Lee Crane. They had been at the gallery opening. Then it was all there, the gunman in the car, the trip to the warehouse, the gas from below the seat. Whatever had happened after he had lost consciousness, it had landed him here, but what about the others?

Ignoring the pounding in his head he looked around, first seeing only the cargo containers in what he thought must be the hold of a ship. Then a faint sound drew his attention to the left, and he saw Crane, sitting against the same bulkhead as he was, and similarly imprisoned. The younger man was turned away from Butcher and it took a moment for the doctor to realize that Crane appeared to be working on the lock that held his chain to the bulkhead. Obviously the captain had been awake a good deal longer than Butcher. He cleared his throat, and Crane looked around at him, though he didn't stop what his hands were doing. After a quick glance, he turned his attention back to the lock.

"The effects of the gas wear off after a few minutes." He said almost casually. Butcher did not bother to restrain his snort of disbelief.

"I have to tell you captain, at this point the effects of the gas are not my biggest concern. You look as if you've been awake, did you manage to turn off the gas?"

The dark head shook. "No, but I've always had a resistance to anesthetics, drives Jaime up the wall." He tossed a grin over his shoulder. "I woke up about a half hour ago. I think we may have been at sea for a while. It's daylight." He looked up to where light shown through the slats of a hatch cover. It was a pale light, but at least they were not in the dark.

"Well you seem to be putting your time to good use." Butcher observed, raising his free hand to rub at his temple where a headache throbbed. "Don't tell me that they left you a lock pick. Or did you have one hidden in your belt like James Bond?" That earned him another grin and another headshake.

"They took our belts and coats, so all my super secret gadgets are gone. But they left me a pen that I had in my shirt pocket. I took the spring out. It's not the best, kind of light for the lock, but I think with time I can make it work. The lock is pretty old."

Butcher shook his head, wondering exactly what this young man had been up to that he should be so quick on his feet with an escape plan, and able to pick locks. Last he knew they were not teaching that at the Academy. "Have you seen Felicia, I mean Mrs. Manes?" The captain cast him a thoughtful glance but then answered.

"No. I can only hope that they decided to keep her in somewhat better quarters." He seemed to consider for a moment before continuing. "I…have reason to believe that they won't hurt her."

The doctor could tell that the young man was not going to elaborate on that very provocative statement, and cast a wry eye at the captain who shrugged and returned to his lock picking efforts. Butcher had already figured out that something was going on. He remembered the look he had seen in Crane's eyes back in the limo. It had been the look of a predator sighting his prey. Whatever had gone on had been what Crane wanted to happen, or at least was part of a greater plan. Whatever Jamieson and the others thought, this man was not suffering from PTSD. Of course there might be other issues, but that was a question for another time.

"Do you have any idea where we are, other than on a ship, or how far out we are?" Butcher was just knowledgeable enough about ships to know that they were underway and that the seas were calm, but that was as far as he could go.

Crane shrugged. "I'm not sure where we are exactly. We've been moving at about 20 knots since I've been conscious. From the feel of it the seas are moderate and the wind aft. I heard a small helicopter landing about five minutes before you woke up. That puts us within about 150 miles of land. I'm pretty sure I caught some talk in what sounded like Arabic. I'm willing to bet we're on a Libyan freighter, probably in the eastern Atlantic, as they are no longer allowed in American ports since the sanctions. As to where we are heading…your guess is as good as mine."

"I somehow doubt that, Captain." The two men exchanged a speaking glance, and Butcher saw a small smile cross Crane's face.

"You weren't part of their plan. You should be okay. They have no reason to harm you." He said

"And you?" Butcher asked. He got another smile this one humorless.

"I am part of the plan," was all Crane said. He was turning back to the lock when the hatch above them was thrown back. Butcher was aware of Crane hastily dropping the spring against the wall where it shouldn't be noticed as he watched a ladder being dropped from above. Three men came down the ladder. All were swarthy in the Arabic way, with dark hair and eyes. They moved away from the ladder and looked up as a fourth made his way down the ladder.

This man was obviously not Arabic, being blond and fair skinned. He was heavy set, and his clothing while of obvious quality, fit him badly. When he turned to look at the two men chained to the wall, they could see his eyes were brown, and Butcher was struck by a sense of familiarity. He appeared to be about the same age as Crane, perhaps a few years older, and there were lines of what in an earlier century would have been called dissipation on his face, aging him several more years. Butcher was sure he had not seen the man before, at least not in person, but there was something about his face… The man's eyes passed over Butcher with no interest, and focused on Crane who was sitting back against in the wall, calmly watching. The newcomer stalked across the hold to stand over Crane, hands on his hips.

"So this is mother's latest toy, is it? Seems to have robbed the cradle this time. What have you to say for yourself?"

"And you would be?" Crane said in a tone that suggested no more than simple curiosity. Butcher, having had the opportunity to observe the captain, was suddenly quite sure that Crane knew exactly who this man was, and that he was the reason that this whole thing was happening. That predatory look was there in Crane's golden eyes, hidden certainly, but there. The newcomer scowled, as if put out that he had not been recognized. He started pacing back and forth in a short arc in front of Crane, and Butcher recognized it for the physical release of inner turmoil. It seemed he was going to have more than one person to study here.

"I'm George Manes." He said finally, announcing it as one would a well-known name. Crane continued to stare at him, one eyebrow raised as if the name was meaningless. "Oh come on man, I'm sure mommy dearest must have mentioned me. The light of her life, the apple of her eye, her bouncing baby boy…surely in the time you've spent with my mother she has mentioned that she has a son."

"We've…had other things to talk about during the time we've spent together." That was said with a suggestive smile. Then with a shrug Crane added "I knew she had a daughter, she didn't mention you." Butcher watched the tide of red covered Manes' face. Before Crane could move Manes lashed out with a foot and caught the younger man in the left rib cage. Crane rolled with the hit, his tethered arm jerking him to a stop in time for a second kick to catch him in the same place. Manes' face was a study in anger, almost rage. Butcher scrambled to his feet as best he could, screaming at Manes to stop, not caring if he drew the wrath down on himself. He regretted that the first true emotion that he seemed to have gotten out of the players in this drama was rage.

Manes delivered two more kicks before one of the Arab men stepped forward and took his arm. Manes almost turned on the man, but he managed to bring himself in line, breathing heavily, before he did so. Crane had curled up in a ball as best he could to avoid as much damage as possible. Butcher could see that the kicks had certainly hurt the younger man, though he could not tell how much. The captain moved stiffly back to a sitting position. His face was blank, though Butcher saw a flare of anger in his eyes, hastily banked as Manes turned back to him.

"Worthless piece of Navy trash." The man sneered in a way that reminded Butcher of a petulant, bullying child on a playground. "Course you weren't even good enough for that, were you? Sold yourself to Nelson as some sort of errand boy, or maybe it was something else you were selling to him." He said with a suggestive sneer. The fire of anger flared briefly in Crane's eyes again, though Manes didn't seem to see it as he continued in a nasty voice. "Then when he got tired of you, you had to move on to selling yourself to old women. Did she pay you well?"

Crane reached up with his free hand and wiped blood from his chin. "That's between me and her. A gentleman never discusses a lady." He smiled a not particularly nice smile. "Guess that doesn't apply to you." Manes took a step forward as if to start kicking again but Crane didn't flinch. Manes was stopped again by the Arabic man who muttered something into his ear. An almost petulant look came over the Manes' face for a moment, then was swiftly replaced by a look of evil enjoyment.

"I am reminded by my friend here that you are, inexplicably, worth more alive than dead. It seems there are those that would pay a lot of money for you, money that I can use right now. They seem to think you know some of Nelson's secrets. Since I can't see a man as intelligent as Nelson being taken in to that degree by someone like you, I doubt it, but then they won't believe you when you tell them, and they'll just keep digging until you…are...DEAD!" Manes nearly screamed the last word, laughing at the thought. He turned on his heel and went up the ladder without another look at Crane or Butcher. Two of the other men followed him up. The man who had stopped Manes remained, watching until the others were gone and then turned to look thoughtfully down at Crane.

The two men contemplated each other silently then the Arabic man nodded as if in confirmation of something. Without a word he turned and climbed up the ladder.

The ladder was withdrawn and the hatch closed, leaving the two prisoners sitting once again in the dim light. Butcher shook his head. Whatever was going on was definitely out of his league. However he was equally sure that the man calling himself George Manes was in desperate need of a therapist and possibly medication. Of course he could make no diagnosis based on a few moments of observation, but he was willing to bet that the man was at the least a very troubled personality, and at the worst, possibly homicidal. That rage had been instant and incendiary, and there had been no control. Such an individual was a danger to himself and all around him. Butcher looked over at Crane who had gone back to working on the lock as if the interruption had been only a slight inconvenience.

"I take it that our friend is who he claims to be?" Butcher asked. Crane nodded, not stopping his hands. "Speaking as a mental health professional, and on slight acquaintance, I must say he seems somewhat unbalanced." This time Crane replied with a soft snort.

"You are the doctor." The younger man replied, not looking around. "After all who am I to say who's mentally ill and who's not?"

"I believe that may be a discussion for another time and place, though one has to wonder at certain motivations…" Butcher replied obscurely. Obviously Crane did not want to talk about his playacting, perhaps suspecting that they were being recorded or monitored.

This time Crane did look around. "You're not the first to suggest that. Everyone can't be wrong…" he smiled, "could they?" He was making obvious reference to Butcher's involvement, and was perhaps taking advantage of the fact that the doctor could not argue without revealing more than he felt was prudent. The young captain's golden eyes were filled with humor and understanding, and Butcher found himself smiling back. Crane returned to his lock picking efforts.

"It seems that even professionals can be fooled. Perhaps those closest to us can see us the least clearly, and just maybe a doctor should not allow himself to be swayed by the judgments of those in such a position. It is something to contemplate." He mentally shuffled words to express what he felt needed to be expressed. "You do understand that sometimes even those actions which we feel are important, and perhaps necessary, can be painful to others, especially if they do not understand the motivations?"

Crane's hands stilled, and Butcher knew he had made his point. The dark head dropped for a moment, and the shoulders slumped a little, as if taking a blow. It was interesting to the doctor in a clinical way that while physical abuse had left the man seemingly unmoved, mental castigation was very effective. It spoke to him of a past that might just bear examination. This young man was a study in complications. Finally the shoulders straightened, and the captain turned to look at him, abandoning the lock for a moment. The formally humorous eyes were now darker and almost burningly intense.

"You think I don't know that? Do you think I liked doing what I did? If there had been another way without them arguing with me…" he stopped and shook his head and raised a hand as if forestalling a protest that Butcher had not made. "No, wait that sounds like I am blaming them and it's not their fault. It's my fault. I didn't want to argue with them, give them a chance to try and talk me out of it, so I took the easy way out, and I know that I hurt them in the process. I'm not even sure exactly why I agreed…" The burning eyes turned away for a moment, then swung back, this time they were sad, and just a little lost, Butcher thought.

"Maybe it is some kind of sickness. Some weird thing left over from my childhood. Some feeble attempt to control what was so out of control for so long." He threw a considering glance at the hatch. "It seems to stick with you more than I thought." He looked back at Butcher, and now the eyes were resolute. "But it's the way I am, and it does need to be done. I can't live with the idea that if I don't do it, whoever does do it might not have the edge I have, the skills I have, and they might fail, almost certainly at the cost of their own life, most probably at the cost of the lives of others, and I can't, won't, allow that. Call it egotistical, call it suicidal, call it what you will, but it is the way I am, and I happen to like me…at least for the most part. Why should I have to justify that, even to them?" The speech was just on the edge of allowing too much information, but Butcher sensed it had needed to be said.

For all of his years of experience Butcher still felt mildly uncomfortable under the gaze of the young captain. But it gave him a great deal of insight into why the man was such a good leader. The energy he projected was formidable. He considered his answer. He wanted to not only give it the consideration that it deserved, but also he knew he had to couch it carefully lest there be listening ears. This had to be the strangest conditions he had ever operated under, and he had once done a preliminary interview in a foxhole while under mortar attack. He finally found inspiration in his own life.

"You shouldn't have to justify yourself to anyone, not even those that care for you. As a more than competent adult you are certainly capable of making your own decisions about what you want to do with your life, no matter how foolish it may appear to those around you. I believe that those that care for you will understand the importance of what you do, eventually. My family was not too enthused when I joined the military after spending so much time to become a doctor. They felt I was missing out on an opportunity to make a lot more money and gain prestige. They still don't really understand, but they can see that I have enjoyed my life, and are happy for me. But there seems to be some question as to why exactly you made the decision that you did at this time, even given your…situation." He thought it best not to mention the leg wound, thus giving Manes a focus for his virulent hate. "I have to wonder if perhaps you were being manipulated."

"Manipulated?"

"Given your history, it isn't hard to see what makes Lee Crane run. Maybe not the deep-seated reasons, but the surface results are easy to see. Someone who knows those buttons, and isn't afraid to push them, could be said to be manipulating." He paused for a moment letting the thought sink in. "And if those buttons were pushed at such a time when a person was having some problems…having a hard time rationalizing what he did, even though he wanted to do it, arguing with himself, wouldn't that be manipulation?" There was a long silence.

"I've been having some problems getting my…balance, I guess you could say." Crane finally said, obviously not referring to his leg. "I just can't seem to shake it off like I have before. The dreams keep coming. What worked before doesn't seem to be working as well now." Butcher could see the other man was genuinely puzzled, and Butcher suspected that he was perhaps hearing what he had been hired to find out.

"Sometimes even the strongest people need a little help to get their minds around something traumatic. And that can be anything from an accident, to the death of a loved one, to…well, each person has their own limit." He wasn't going to mention the specifics. That was part of the game that they were playing. The rules suited him for now, and he wanted to keep playing, wanted Crane to keep playing.

"I have what Jaime calls an aversion to doctors, all kinds of doctors. Asking for help is…difficult."

"You don't strike me as a man that is afraid of the difficult." There was silence again. Then a whisper barely carried to him across the space that separated them.

"It depends on the difficult thing." He nodded, understanding how to a strong man like Crane, talking about his problems could seem to be more frightening even than the disquiet caused by them. He was silent himself for several moments, then made a suggestion.

"Maybe you could tell me about the dreams. It seems we have a lot of time and not other way to pass it."

Chapter 17

Will Jamieson completed his penultimate circuit of the small cell that he and Sharkey had been deposited in the previous night. Since then they had seen no one other than each other. Their food, on metal trays, had been slid through the slot in the bottom of the door, and the small hatch over the mesh insert in the door had remained closed. If it hadn't been for the regular arrival of meals, so far four, he would have little idea of how long they had been here. Their watches and all other personal property had been taken from them when they had been brought here. Given that the last meal that had been passed through the slot had been the second time they had received reconstituted scrambled eggs and overcooked sausages he was pretty sure it was now midmorning of the second day of captivity for them, that captivity was made all the worse by it being at the hands of their own government and completely without explanation.

Jamieson made another turn and grimaced as another snore broke the quiet of the room. The chief had woken to eat the breakfast with undisguised relish, and then had retreated to his bunk and returned to sleep. Since there was little else to occupy their hours Jamieson could not blame him for the escape from the boredom. However, having listened all night to the subdued roar that was Sharkey's breathing, he had promised himself to discuss snoring solutions with the COB as soon as they returned to the sub, if they returned to the sub. He was beginning to envision a lifetime spent in this small room, forgotten by all but the person that gave them their food.

Their own status aside, even more disturbing was the fact that Lee Crane had been kidnapped before their eyes, forced into a car in some way. They had no idea what had happened to the limo that they had been following, and the men who had brought them here at gunpoint would not give them any information. Jamieson had gone over the scene again and again in the last 36 hours. He saw once again the slim form of Lee Crane, his body at that form of attention that it seemed to reach in moments of danger, looking from the interior of the car to Jamieson. Their eyes met, and Jamieson could still feel the intensity of those eyes, asking him, no commanding him, to stop and not interfere.

What had been going on? Why would Crane not want them involved? Surely between the three of them they could have found someway to overcome the probable threat in the car. Even if the driver had been in on it, the unexpected arrival of two men should have thrown off any plan…Maybe that was it. The unexpected arrival HAD thrown off a plan, Crane's plan. The one thing that kept going through Jamieson's thoughts was that Crane had not been afraid, angry, or even surprised at the event. He seemed to be…expectant.

That brought him back around to what Sharkey had found out. Government agencies from the CIA to the NSA seemed to be interested in the son of the woman for whom Crane had seemingly thrown away everything that meant anything to him. Jamieson was starting to see a way too familiar pattern forming. Indeed it seemed that Nelson's first instinct had been the correct one. The captain had indeed gone on an ONI mission, wounded in both mind and body, and at the expense of his relationship with Morton and Nelson. What could have been so very important? Maybe whatever had everyone in such an uproar that they could lock two law abiding sailors up with no due process, and let them rot in the boredom of an anonymous cell somewhere in Washington D.C. He had heard the explanations before from the young captain. National Security, Safety of the Free World, the Continued Existence of Mankind, all with capitol letters and all of which tended to cause excessive blood loss to the captain. Which one was it this time that had driven the young man to manipulate those he valued? Jamieson knew how much Crane valued and respected the two men in question, and whatever the cause, it had to be dire, at least to Crane, for him to have taken such a step.

Sharkey had mentioned some type of research, and defection. That could mean any variety of things. Some sort of high tech development that the government would rather the current crop of enemies not get their hands on, some sort of code breaker, or even, and this was the one that made Jamieson shudder, some type of weapon that was so effective that the mere thought of it falling into other hands was enough to incite the minor betrayal of close friends and family, and the major quashing of civil liberties. If it was something on that scale, and with Crane it always seemed to be something on that scale, then Jamieson knew that the young captain would have agreed despite the handicap of his own condition.

Sharkey gave another blast and turned on his side with a snort. Jamieson was thinking about wedging his own pillow under the chief's back to keep him on his side and preserve the silence when the sound of the door being unbolted made him stop in mid step and turn to face the doorway. Maybe they were going to get some answers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sharkey jerk awake at the sound and sit up on the bunk. Jamieson felt his stomach knot. The tension dissolved as soon as he saw the form that stepped into the open doorway however. Admiral Harriman Nelson, in full uniform with all his stars displayed stepped into the room and looked around. His displeasure was easy to see and he looked over his shoulder with a glare that should have shriveled the man standing there.

"And why are my men being held like common criminals? You are well aware that they have committed no crimes. If you feel that you are above the constitution simply because of the job you have been given, then you are about to discover that it isn't true." He turned back to Jamieson and Sharkey. "Get your things, we are leaving, now." With that he turned on his heel and pushed past the man who had opened the cell door. Since they had only what they were wearing, and neither had bothered to remove so much as their shoes since they were not sure when they might be moved, they hurried out the door, and headed down the long hallway after Nelson, who was under full steam, and didn't seem to be slowing for the metal door at the end of the corridor. Just as it seemed he would have to do so, the door swung aside with a whoosh. Two men in dark suits stood at the other end of a short hallway, a third man popped out of a doorway and handed Sharkey and Jamieson each a large envelope as they passed by. Jamieson found his wallet and the other items from his pockets inside. At first it appeared that Nelson would march past the two men, but one put out a hand and the admiral stopped, and glared at the pair.

"What?" he snapped. Few men could stand the full glare from those laser-like eyes when Nelson was in full temper, and the two men were no exception Jamieson noted with amusement as he slid his watch back on. The two men looked at each other, and one of them took a deep breath and spoke.

"I have been instructed by Admiral Smith to remind you that this operation is off limits to any unauthorized personnel, and that no one with a security level lower than your own is to be made privy to any of the information that you have been given. He uh…" the man's bravado seemed to wane as he looked at Nelson who was watching him stonily. "The admiral said that I should tell you that under no circumstances were you to attempt to uh...interfere in the operation by trying to rescue Crane and the others. He said that he would keep you apprised of the situation as it develops." Nelson nodded slowly.

"First of all, it is Captain Crane, and you can tell Smith that I am not in his chain of command, and what I choose to do with my own resources is my business. You can also inform him that I do not need any instruction from him or anyone else regarding the dissemination of top secret information. As to him keeping me informed, tell him that I shall be getting my information directly from the White House from here on out, as I trust him just about as far as I could throw him." With that Nelson took off again, with Jamieson and Sharkey on his heels. The chief gave the two men a large smile and a left-handed salute as they passed.

Outside was a long black limo, into which Nelson climbed without further words. Jamieson and Sharkey followed, and as soon as Sharkey pulled the door closed behind himself, the big car took off. Nelson sat staring out the window for several minutes, and Jamieson could see that he was trying hard to rein in the temper for which he was so famous. Even Sharkey, not one to hold his tongue in any situation, recognized the signs and held his peace. Finally his breathing calmed and he turned to the two men with a rueful smile.

"Sorry it took so long for me to get here, gentlemen. Your jailors were not exactly in a hurry to let us know what was going on, or where you were. Suffice to say that I got to you as soon as possible." He sighed. "I take it that I don't need to tell you that Captain Crane has seen fit to take another ONI mission, in fact it seems he was encouraged by our Commander-in-Chief to do so. That whole charade in my office was just a way for him to get away without having to tell us what he was up to-" he started bitterly, but was interrupted by Jamieson who was shaking his head.

"I don't know that I believe that, Admiral. Yes, I think that he was trying to throw us off the track, but I think that the method was suggested by his pathology, not simply as a means to an end." The doctor said. Nelson frowned, obviously caught off guard. Jamieson allowed him to think about it for awhile without adding anything else, knowing that once Nelson pushed aside his hurt at the thought of what Crane had done, his scientific mind would give him answers.

"You mean that you think that Lee really is suffering from PTSD, but that he used it to get some maneuvering room? Would the condition allow that kind of planning on his part?

"I think that we, I, may have over estimated the severity of the syndrome, which is no doubt exactly what he wanted. Lord knows the man has more right to a full-blown case of PTSD than anyone I have ever met, but I think that he only has a very minor case of it. Enough that when he was pressured to take the mission, by his Commander-in-Chief no less, his judgment was impaired, and he hatched this plan to do what he felt he had to do. I am sure that he realized that it was going to be hurtful to those who cared about him, but I have come to believe that he was compelled to do this."

"So basically Smith and the President caught him in a weak moment, and took advantage of it?" Nelson interpreted angrily.

"I wouldn't go that far-" Jamieson started only to be cut off by Nelson.

"Well I would!" He said, practically vibrating with anger. "Maybe not of the President, though he is a politician, and he's used to getting what he wants regardless of the consequences to the people involved. But Smith, that man would send his own mother on a suicide mission if he thought it was tactically necessary." The two other men could almost see the wheels turning in Nelson's head.

"Maybe your ignorant young doctor found out more than he put in his report. Maybe he reported to Smith that Lee was on the edge, and that he was 'malleable'. Smith knew just which buttons to push." Jamieson frowned in puzzlement. "Do you think that the President regularly makes calls to agents, even ones as good as Lee? No, I can see now that perhaps there was more to this decision of Lee's than even he knew." He hit a button on the armrest, and the panel between the rear of the car and the front dropped. Nelson snapped out an order and the driver nodded and the large car swerved onto an off ramp, cutting off several cars in the process.

"Uh…admiral, I don't think you can just drop in on the President unannounced." Sharkey observed hesitantly. Nelson smiled at him, it was not a nice smile.

"Oh I don't know about that Francis, it might not be easy, but I think that's the best way to do it. That way no one has time to make up stories, or inform certain people about what I am doing. You gentlemen will have to wait outside I'm afraid. It's going to be hard enough getting in myself. I don't want to give them any more reasons to put me off."

"How do you know he's even there?" Jamieson asked, hiding his amusement.

"I spoke to him earlier today. That's how I found out where you were. Without his push I'd still be checking every jail in the metro area." Nelson said dryly. "He happened to mention that this was one of his slower days, only a few meetings this morning and he was going to be at his desk working on paperwork this afternoon." As he finished speaking they were pulling up to the first guardhouse at the White House, and he was lowering his window, ID in hand. "My name is Admiral Harriman Nelson. I have to speak to the President immediately. It is a matter of National Security…"

Chapter 18

It was night now, and they had been left alone in the hold for the last two hours. There had been another quick visit from George Manes, which had consisted of an opportunity to taunt Crane with his fate in the hands of his enemies. Manes had taken great delight in theorizing about exactly what they would do to make Crane talk, and about his doubts that Crane could possibly know anything anyone would want to know. After another half-hearted kick at Crane's torso he left, leaving the same Arabic man behind once again. After the others had left the Arab turned back to Crane and spoke in broken English.

"You are Crane." It was a statement more than a question. He looked over his shoulder at the hatch, as if making sure Manes was gone, then turned back to meet the captain's gaze. Crane considered him for a moment, and casting his own glance at the hatch, nodded.

"I am Karim Al-Filastini, my father is Mahmud Al-Filastini, a fisherman from Tunis. You will not remember-" he started but Crane cut him off.

"Your father's boat was adrift during a storm. His engines were out and his radio call was mostly lost in the interference from the lighting. We picked up the tail end of his SOS, and were able to triangulate his position using two shore stations that were able to pick up a portion of his signal. We were close enough to reach him before his boat swamped. We brought him and his crew to shore. I remember."

"You make it sound so easy. You just take them to shore. But there was more. My father said how you came in the rubber boat. How your boat took his crew a few at a time, how you stayed with him there until all his crew was safe. His boat was almost sunk before your boat could come back, but you stayed." Al-Filistini looked over his shoulder again. "He does not forget this."

"You are Ansar al-Sunna." Crane said knowingly, speaking of a known terrorist group. "He spoke of you, your father did. He was saddened at your choice. He seemed a good man."

"My choices are not my father's. Some things a son must do on his own and by his own feelings. You are American military, ally to my enemies, but my father has given me honor, and I will not allow a debt to remain unpaid. I cannot release you, but there may be a time when I can make the end quick rather than slow." With that he disappeared up the ladder. The two men sat there in silence for several minutes before Butcher spoke.

"Well I guess we don't have to worry about being listened to." He observed, assuming Al-Filastini would not have spoken out if there was a chance of being overheard. Crane shrugged.

"I…think we shouldn't assume anything." Crane said.

"You think he was lying, trying to gain our trust for some reason? To what purpose?"

"Let's just say that his father and I had a lot of time for conversation as we waited, and politics was not the only thing that father and son disagreed on. He has certain…affiliations that make me wonder if he's any too anxious to "help" me out. If anything he's trying an end run around Manes to deliver me to his own friends instead of whomever Manes had planned. Either that or it's some kind of mind game that Manes is playing. Give us false hope and then dash them at the end just to see us suffer all the more. I think I'll make other plans of my own." As he spoke he was once again working the small spring.

Butcher, having little insight to the inner workings of locks, wasn't sure exactly what needed to happen, and had no idea at all how long it might take. His speculation was stopped as the cuff suddenly opened, and Crane gave a satisfied grunt. He pulled his arm out of the cuff, rubbing it to return the circulation. In the dim light still remaining in the hold Butcher caught sight of the raw torn wrist of the younger man, knowing that had happened when Crane had attempted to avoid Manes' violence. Crane simply pulled his shirt cuff over the wrist and scuttled over to Butcher's side, reaching for his cuff.

"This will go quicker now that I have the technique. Each lock is different, it's usually a matter of figuring out what sequence of moves you have to make." He explained as he started on the lock. Butcher nodded taking the opportunity to study the younger man at close range, even in the dim light. The young face was drawn and pale, and Butcher could see that crouching was difficult for the young man. He was sure the leg was painful though Crane had not so much as mentioned it since they had been captured. He also noted that Crane was favoring his side. Butcher wondered if the ribs were just bruised, or if there were cracks or even breaks. Not that the damage seemed to be slowing the captain down any, as the cuff opened under his ministrations.

The doctor rubbed the circulation back into his arm as he watched the younger man begin walking around the hold. He knew that Crane was working on a plan to get them out of the hold, and off the ship, and withheld the questions that pushed at his tongue. He was sure that the captain would share his plan when it was formulated. Even on short acquaintance, he could think of few people he would trust more than Crane. He watched as the other man climbed up the ladder that had been left in place from before and pushed gently at the hatch. He was surprised to see it rise up slightly. Evidently it was not battened down. That should make this easier. Crane raised the hatch only an inch or two and rose up to look cautiously around before closing it and climbing down again. He looked at Butcher.

"We'll wait until midwatch. Most of the crew should be asleep then, and those that are on duty should be at their least attentive. There doesn't appear to be a guard on the hatch, but it is visible from the wheelhouse. They haven't turned on any deck lights yet, so I can't tell what kind of shadows we'll have. We'll want to take advantage of everything we can."

"What about Felicia?" Butcher asked. He was sure that Crane did not mean to leave the woman here, but he felt a need to ask.

"She'll be in one of the cabins I'm sure. Finding her is going to be your job. I'm sure that I don't need to mention that it would be best if you weren't seen."

"No, I don't think you need to mention that." Butcher said wryly, covering up his sudden trepidation at being told he would have such an important part in the plan. He had expected to simply follow Crane. The interesting part was that with Crane's implied confidence in his abilities, his own confidence rose. It was a powerful leadership tool, and he once again reminded himself that this man had more than proven himself as a leader of men. There was a question he needed to ask however. "And while I am freeing Felicia, God willing, what will you be doing captain?" He could barely make out the smile that crossed Crane's face, but he heard it in the other man's voice.

"I'll be keeping occupied," was the only answer he gave. "The first thing I want to do is check out the helicopter. If it's big enough, we'll use it, otherwise it will have to be disabled and we'll check out the lifeboats. If we have to take that route, we'll want to get off the boat, and get as far away as possible before morning."

"Won't that be rather noisy? I don't imagine they could sleep through a helicopter taking off. I am also assuming that you know how to fly it, and are not thinking of taking the pilot hostage. Your file didn't mention helicopter certification along with all the other types." Butcher said. Crane smiled again.

"I plan for them to have other concerns besides the helicopter. As to flying it, I have had several lessons, enough to get us off the deck and away from here. Landing may be problematic, but if we make it to land, I should be able to get some help, or at least find a soft landing place." Butcher stared at the younger man for a moment, trying to see if he was kidding about the landing issue, but the other man's face gave nothing away. The doctor decided to have faith in the younger man's capabilities. He already had ample proof that the man was more than adaptable to his circumstances. He settled back into the place he had been sitting before, and tried to relax. He thought it was several hours to midwatch, and he better try to get what rest he could. He suspected he was going to need it.

Chapter 19

After almost an hour of waiting in the limo Jamieson and Sharkey were relieved to see Nelson coming out of the White House. There was a satisfied look in the man's blue eyes as he slid into the seat beside Jamieson. He must have spoken to the driver as he was getting in as they immediately started moving. Nelson settled into the cushions and looked from Jamison to Sharkey. His face was serious.

"What I am about to tell you is highly classified. I have been authorized by the President to share this with you men as you will be involved in what I hope is the resolution. The fact that your civil liberties were curtailed by members of his administration was a factor in gaining his approval. He feels that you have paid the price for the information and also understand the consequences of any improper use or sharing of it." He sighed and seemed to settle deeper into the seat. The other two men exchanged a quick glance then focused back on Nelson.

"It seems that George Manes, son of Felicia Manes, is something of a genius. He holds degrees in several different disciplines, but his focus for the last ten years has been biology, more specifically, bacteriology." He let the statement hang for a moment, letting the implications grow in their minds.

"It seems that despite the international ban on bacteriological warfare, that certain factions of our government felt that we needed to be "prepared" in the case of a bacteriological threat with a similar weapon. It wasn't enough to develop antigens to the possible pathogens that might be used; they developed their own pathogen, a very, very, deadly little bug that had the "benefit" of acting quickly and being inexpensive to deploy. Dr. Manes was the person who was in charge of developing the weapon. However, those people who chose him for the post failed to take into consideration that he was mentally unstable."

"Unstable? How?" Jamieson asked, both professionally and personally interested.

"Aside from a very badly disguised case of megalomania, according to those who worked directly with him, he tends to be alternately paranoid, bad-tempered, psychotic, or bitingly sarcastic. He has little patience with anyone he considers less brilliant than he, which is just about everyone, and he has a particular dislike of naval officers."

"Why just naval officers?" Sharkey asked.

"It appears that at some time that particular branch of black operations was under the control of a high ranking naval officer, the President did not specify who it was. Once he got wind of what was being developed he took steps to quash the whole project, wanting to funnel the funds into other avenues. He and Manes had several loud and acrimonious discussions in the labs, and the project was shut down. Manes was repurposed to another project. One he felt was beneath him. Two months later the naval officer was killed in an "accident". His replacement didn't have as fine a moral sense and Manes talked him into letting him go back to his experiments. He also managed to get the man to agree to allow less oversight, saying his creativity was being squashed by the necessity of having to report his every move."

"Let me guess," Jamieson said. "He developed his pathogen, but didn't tell anyone." Nelson nodded.

"Indeed. He then proceeded to try to sell it to the highest bidder. It was by mere chance that he was found out. Unfortunately by that time he had already removed the pathogen from the labs, leaving relatively harmless bacteria in its place. Since he refused to divulge the location, he received what amounts to a slap on the wrist and was fired. The plan was to watch him; to wait for him to collect the bacteria then close in. However they underestimated him, he eluded his watchers a week afterward, and disappeared. He's managed to stay out of reach this long by trading on his knowledge. It appears he took the time to troll through the computers at the facility where he worked, and got information on several active projects. He's sold that information to live on, and for promises of safety."

"Obviously something has changed recently, or we wouldn't be here, the captain wouldn't be here." Jamieson said, watching as the effect of his words hit Nelson. Nelson's jaw set, and anger flashed in his eyes.

"Yes," he said bitterly. "Something changed. Word trickled down to the intelligence community that Manes had reached the end of his funds. He stepped up his efforts to sell the bacteria, and was willing to make a deal with whoever could meet his requirements, regardless of their political or religious affiliations."

"So he got desperate and put the bugs on sale, and we're afraid of who might be buying. So they brought in the skipper to find him." Sharkey said, putting his own particular spin on the story as he speculated. Nelson smiled slightly and nodded. The anger then reappeared.

"One of Dr. Manes' psychoses is evidently an unnatural attachment to his mother. The plan was that they would use that attachment to draw Manes in, and then they would take him into custody. It seems that in the past Dr Manes has been responsible for the deaths of two and possibly three of Mrs. Manes' companions, one of who was his own father. Mrs. Manes evidently was prepared to cooperate, but demanded some input on who would be chosen to act the part of her…paramour. They knew that it had to be a naval officer, or give the impression of being one. It was one of the few reliable buttons they knew to push. The operative also had to have sufficient clearance for the project. News of the government's involvement in bacteriological experimentation could not be allowed in just anyone's hands. They needed a loyal operative who would not talk."

"The skipper." Sharkey interjected.

"Yes, Lee was one of the shortlist of men that they came up with, and it was his picture that Mrs. Manes selected."

"Why was he included given his physical condition? Surely they knew that he had recently been injured. Possible mental side effects aside, they must have known he might not be physically ready for something like this." Jamieson said angrily.

"They didn't much care, Jaime." Nelson growled. He lit a cigarette and took several puffs before continuing. "The President says that while they were aware of Lee's current condition, they didn't feel that it would hamper the operation. There was thought to be little chance that he would be required to do much more than squire Mrs. Manes to several events and be photographed for the society papers. Beyond that he was supposedly covered by backup, and if Manes made a move to see his mother, or to target Lee, they not he would be the ones in action."

"Sure didn't work out that way did it, sir?" Sharkey said disgustedly. The brass didn't always look at things very realistically. He had learned that after a very short time in his career. It was usually best if you could get them to leave you alone and make your own plans. The skipper had learned that too over the years, but this time he seemed to have gone along with the brass, and look where it had gotten him.

"No, it didn't. Lee's back up that night was acting as one of the wait staff at the party. When Lee, Mrs. Manes, and your Dr. Butcher left the gallery he was supposed to alert the tail so that they would be covered. However there was some sort of crisis with the caterer's equipment, and he was unaware that the others had left. By the time he had figured it out, Lee and the others were already in the limo with the gunman. The tail, which had been waiting, saw the limo go by, followed by your car, and assumed that you were getting ready to act. They stopped you, thinking the limo would simply go on to the hotel. It wasn't until almost thirty minutes later that they realized what had happened, by that time it was too late of course." Nelson added bitterly.

"So they have no idea where the captain and the others are?" Jamieson asked.

"That is certainly the impression that they tried to give me at ONI when I went there earlier. Smith was as helpful as usual, basically telling me to butt out. I knew I wouldn't get anything out of them. I got the same results out of the other agencies that were involved to some degree or the other. Smith had called them before I got there and made sure that they would not talk. At that point I knew that I had to either find someone who would be willing to talk, which could take too long to be of any help to you two or Lee, or I could go directly to the President. Mainly to get me off their backs about Lee, they let me know where you two were. I think they were hoping I would take that and go." A satisfied smile crossed his face. "Needless to say, they were wrong."

"So, where we going now, sir?" Sharkey asked. "If they don't know where the skipper is, how can we do any better?"

"Ah but that's just it, Francis." Nelson said. "They do know where Lee is, or approximately where he is. It turns out they are running a deeper game then even most of the participating agencies know. They want Manes, almost desperately given what he has to sell, but they also want who he is selling it to."

"Then they know who that is?" Jamieson guessed.

"Yes. Intel finally came through with something useful. A very large amount of money was being moved, and one of the undercover agents managed to find out what for. The main man in the organization was making the deal himself and would be exposed. He alerted his handlers, and the news worked its way back to ONI. They have been looking for the roots of this particular thorn bush for some time, and they feel that this is the time to deal with not only Manes but with the group as well. They've been waiting for all the players to be in position, and they feel that the time is coming soon to move, and WE are going to be there, gentlemen, when they do, to protect our own interests so to speak." Both of the men knew that he meant to keep Crane and Butcher alive. Collateral damage was not something that the alphabet agencies cared much about when they were chasing something of this nature.

"Where exactly, Admiral?" Jamieson asked.

"Off the north-western coast of Africa, a Libyan freighter. I am given to understand that they have finally managed to find her, and that they are watching via satellite. There are three Special Forces teams prepping now at one of our bases in the area. They are waiting for just before local dawn. If we push it we'll be there just before they take off. We'll be taking one of the teams in the flying sub."

"I bet that took some talking, sir." Sharkey said with a grin. Nelson nodded.

"Yes, it took a little bit of talking, but they could hardly argue with a vehicle that would allow them not only fast access but silence as well. The team we will be taking will be the ones that go aboard first. We'll bring them as close as possible to the ship and they will go aboard. The level of resistance that they meet will set the tone for the advent of the two other teams who will be standing off waiting for a signal. Two of us will be going aboard with that first team." As he finished speaking the limo pulled up to the dock where the two flying subs were tied up. The men climbed out of the limo and after Nelson thanked the driver, they headed down to the subs. After running through their checklist and strapping in they were soon in the air in FS2, headed east at top speed.

Chapter 20

Butcher woke to find Crane in a crouch above him. The light from above was barely enough to see by, but once the younger man knew he was awake he moved toward the ladder. Butcher, sensing that the time was near for their escape, he refused to think of it as an "attempt", moved to join him there, groaning a little as he stood. The deck was not the most comfortable of sleeping accommodations. Once he was there, Crane started up the ladder and after a quick check lifted the hatch only a few inches and seemed to practically slither out the small space. Butcher was not sure that he was up to moving so stealthily, or out such a slight opening.

As it turned out he needn't have worried, as minutes later the hatch was lifted almost half way, and he could see Crane motioning him to climb out. He did so, and crouched down next to Crane in the shadow of a vent. He got his first look at the ship they were on in the dimmed lights. They seemed to be just forward of the wheelhouse, and near mid-ship. There were several larger hatches evenly spaced forward. Another small hatch like the one they had exited could be seen on the port side of the ship. Crane indicated that Butcher should stay where he was and moved toward the other hatch. He watched as the young captain opened the hatch and after a moment disappeared down the ladder. Butcher tried to keep watch on all directions at once as he also tried to watch the hatch. He was anticipating a passing guard to find him at any second. What could the other man be doing down there? Did they really have time for this? He was shifting nervously in his crouch, almost ready to follow the younger man when the hatch lifted and Crane was back at his side. He said nothing about what he had been doing in the hold, but instead instantly grabbed Butcher's arm and started leading him back toward the superstructure, keeping to the shadows as much as possible.

Once they had reached the forward hatch leading into the superstructure, Crane paused and cocked his head. He then dragged Butcher to the side and forced him into a narrow storage area, placing the older man against the bulkhead and standing in front of him. They were in deep shadow. Butcher was about to ask why when Crane's hand came up and clamped over his mouth. Moments later a man walked past their hiding place. Butcher could just make out that he was carrying what appeared to be an automatic rifle. Several moments more passed before Crane removed his hand and leaned forward to cautiously peer forward. He hastily pulled his head back, and Butcher took that to mean that they could not move. It was several minutes later when the man passed them again, and a few more before Crane led the way out to the hatch. He spun the wheel and pulled it open. He went in, followed by Butcher. The doctor pulled the hatch closed behind them, and they stood in the pale light of the dim bulb on the overhead. Crane was studying a conveniently placed map that was on the bulkhead just inside the hatchway. He tapped his finger on the level below where they were, and turned to Butcher.

"I think you should start down here. It is most likely that they are holding Mrs. Manes in one of the smaller cabins below decks. It appears that this level is mostly mess and wardroom with the captain's cabin and what appears to be a few large cabins for passengers willing to pay a little more. I imagine our friend Manes is in one, and his Palestinian friend is in the other."

"Wouldn't Manes want his mother with him?" Butcher asked him. He was aware that there were dynamics in the relationship that he was not aware of, but still, she was his mother. Crane was shaking his head.

"I'm no psychologist," he said with grin, "but I think he's going to want to punish her for what he sees as her betrayal. He won't let her "enjoy" his presence until she's properly repentant." Butcher frowned at him.

"Our friend has other problems?" he asked, meaning Manes.

"I believe the term being bandied about by the company shrinks was "Oedipal complex." Crane replied. Butcher rolled his eyes.

"Wonderful. The man is clearly a danger to himself and those around him, all he needed was a little bit more of a twist to make him homicidal, and that should do it."

"So they say." Crane said blandly. Butcher gave him a look.

"And you set yourself up as bait?" He asked, as the parts began to take shape in what was obviously a very well thought out plan. Crane didn't reply but the doctor nodded anyway. "Maybe you are nuts after all." Crane grinned at him and pushed him toward a companionway not far from where they stood.

"I thought the term was 'mentally ill'." Crane said with a smile in his voice as he turned back.

"No, that's just nuts." Butcher said as he allowed himself to be moved. "Where do we meet?" He wasn't going to ask again what Crane was going to be doing, as he suspected he would get no more of an answer now than he had earlier. The captain had an agenda, and Butcher could only make it more difficult by asking questions that the younger man would not, or could not, answer.

"The helicopter deck, aft, in thirty minutes." Crane pulled a small crowbar out of his belt. Where he had found it Butcher didn't know. "You may need this." Butcher started down the companionway, when Crane spoke again. "Doctor," Butcher turned. "I won't be able to wait for you, so be there. Do you understand?" Butcher could see that he was serious, and after hesitating a moment nodded. He gripped the crowbar hard and turned away, another agenda indeed.

He headed down the companionway and found himself in a similarly dim corridor lined with doors at regular intervals. How was he to tell where Felicia was being held? Finally he determined that the door would probably be locked, hence Crane's suggestion that he might need the crowbar. He moved to the first door, and very carefully tried the handle. It turned under his hand, and he backed off on it. He moved on to the one across the corridor and repeated the exercise. Unlocked, he moved on to the next, and the next. He was almost to the end of the corridor, near the aft companionway when he found a handle that did not give to his turn. Now he had to figure out if this was actually where Felicia was being held, or just the room of someone who valued their privacy.

After a quick glance at his watch, he had already lost ten of his thirty minutes, he put the crowbar in the back of his belt and straightened his shirt and hair as best he could, and knocked. He was sure that he did not make a very pretty picture, but then the corridor was dimly lit, and he hoped if someone did come to the door they would be newly awoken from a deep sleep and not in the most observant of moods. There was no answer, and after looking both ways he knocked once more, a little harder, in case the person inside was a deep sleeper. He had just about decided to just start with the crowbar when a voice spoke from with in.

"You know very well I cannot open the door, so stop that infernal knocking. If you are acting on my son's orders you can tell him you have succeeded in waking me up. If you are not, you have the wrong room. Good night!" Butcher smiled at the tone and content of the speech, and reached for the crowbar. He leaned into the door and spoke as quietly as he thought he could and still be heard by the woman inside.

"Felicia, it's me, Nick Butcher. Stand back, I'm coming in." With that quick warning he wedged the crowbar in the crack between the door and the frame, and pulled. There was a crack that sounded just short of a rifle shot to Butcher, and the door swung open. He was soon standing face to face with Felicia Manes who, like himself was still dressed in the clothes they had been kidnapped in, though she was wrapped in a blanket. Her hair was no longer perfectly coiffed, and she had washed away her make-up, but there was color in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright in the light from the corridor. She clapped her hands softly together.

"Wonderful!" She said softly. "I knew one of you would be here soon. George is no match for either of you. Can I assume we are leaving this….boat, ship, or whatever it is?" Butcher stepped into the room, and it seemed natural to open his arms to her, and just as natural that she stepped into them. They stood there, giving and getting comfort for several moments then he backed away, glancing again at his watch. They only had just over twelve more minutes, and he wasn't going to be left behind, and not only for himself and Felicia. He suspected that as bad as it might end for them, the fact that he had left them behind would possibly be the straw that broke the camel's back for Crane.

The man was extremely well balanced for someone who had gone through what he had. The dreams that he had been having were, in Butcher's opinion, a residual side effect of the chemical soup that his torturers had been using. The young man had an unusually realistic view of his own capabilities, and an almost pathological sense of responsibility. As dangerous as that combination could be to the physical health of the individual, it was not a sign of mental illness. But that overdeveloped sense of responsibility led to an equally well-developed sense of guilt over things that he could not change. The man really didn't need any further pressure right now. It might just turn a temporary loss of balance to a permanent problem. Butcher was, after all a physician, and the health of his patient had to be a prime consideration.

Felicia was looking at him in question, and he whispered to her what he knew of their situation, and what they had to do in the next twelve minutes. She nodded and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders tying the ends to form a type of shawl. He tucked the crowbar back in his belt and taking her hand started back into the corridor, only to stop, forcing her back, and rapidly closing the door. He leaned against it, straining to hear what he had heard moments before, footsteps in the hall. Was it Manes coming to taunt his mother? Was it the guard, having heard the noise? Was it another of the inhabitants of this deck seeking the head? He heard the footsteps approaching, and held his breath, unconsciously tightening his hold on Felicia's hand.

Did the footsteps pause outside the door? He took the crowbar back out of his belt. He would use it if necessary. He had gone through all the training as a young officer. He knew the movements to make, even if it had been years since he had raised a hand in anger to anyone. He was in reasonable shape. He should be able to at least make a good account of himself. If he could at least distract the man, Felicia might be able to make a run for the helicopter. He released Felicia's hand and pushed her around behind him. He raised the crowbar in anticipation, but the door didn't open, and the footsteps did not stop. The sound faded down the corridor. He let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding, and heard Felicia make a similar sound. He looked at his watch again. Ten minutes. He opened the door and after a cautious glance up and down the corridor, he led Felicia out, and headed toward the aft companionway.

Once Butcher had disappeared down the companionway Crane headed down the corridor, passing the empty mess hall and wardroom. He also bypassed the cabin that had been designated on the map as the captain's. Finally he stood by the door to the first of the two large passenger cabins. He stood a fifty-fifty chance of selecting the right one, but his luck hadn't been very good of late, so he was wary as he reached for the handle.

The cabin was dark, lit only by the light from the corridor, which disappeared as he pushed the door closed. He stood for several moments, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. He could make out shapes and a lighting of the darkness to his left. It appeared to be a doorway into another room, lit perhaps by the dim light through a porthole. He moved quietly across the room, careful of any hazards. When he came to the doorway he could make out a bed and another small door that he assumed led to a head. He could hear breathing, slow and steady. He moved closer to the bed, tensing as he did so. One possibility would be the one he wanted, and the other was one that he might not survive.

If this was Manes, he expected little, if any, resistance. If it were Al-Filistini, then he would have to retreat as silently as possible, and hope what luck he had held. From what the man's father had said, and from what he had seen for himself, Crane knew the Palestinian was a dangerous man. He was second in command of a very powerful terrorist cell, and Crane knew that you didn't get that position by being unwary. He stepped even closer to the bed, and let out a sigh as he realized the form in the bed was too big to be Al-Filistini.

Now that he was sure that he had reached the right target, he started looking around the room for a few things he would need. This was going to be tricky, and he didn't have much time. Finally he was ready to go. He took the three silk ties that he had found in the dresser, along with a clean handkerchief, and went to the side of the bed. He put the three ties on the small table bolted to the bulkhead that served as a nightstand, making sure he knew exactly where they were. He was planning on moving quickly, and he needed to be sure that the tools he planned to use were where he could reach them when he needed them.

He leaned over the sleeping form, and moving quickly stuffed the balled up handkerchief into the slightly gaping mouth. As the sleeper's eyes popped open with shock, he grabbed the first tie and wrapped it around his head, tying a quick knot. As the shock wore off, Manes started reaching up to remove the gag, but Crane was ready for the move. He ruthlessly flipped the man over in the bed, and placing a knee in his back, grabbed first one then the other flailing hand. He tied them behind the man's back, using another of the knots that he knew would not slip, confident in the strength of the silk fabric. He leaned over, not shifting his weight off Manes' back, and grabbed the last tie. It was a struggle to get it around Manes' head and tie it so that it acted as a blindfold, but by increasing pressure to the back he got the point across that he expected cooperation. Finally he had the man trussed like he wanted, and he moved off.

He grabbed one of Manes' arms and pulled him over onto his back, and then to the edge of the bed. He let the man get his balance for a moment, but before he could start to struggle he leaned in and spoke in Manes' ear.

"If you want to keep living, you will do as you are told, when you are told to do it. I will have no compunction against snapping your neck if you so much as sneeze loudly. We are going for a walk now, and you have two choices. One, I can knock you out and carry you. I will not enjoy it and neither will you. The second choice is that you walk when and where I tell you. Now, I am told you are a very intelligent man. I am going to assume that you will go with choice number two. As soon as I get the feeling that you are not cooperating we will go to choice number one. Do you understand?" There was a pause then Manes nodded. Crane grabbed the nearest arm and pulled Manes upright, steadying him when he tottered a little. Then he started moving the man toward the door. They didn't have long to make it to the helipad.

In the corridor he pushed Manes before him, trying to keep an eye on the bound man, as well as keeping an eye out for the wandering guard. Manes stumbled a few times, but each time Crane pulled him back up by his bound arms and pushed him forward again. He didn't want the man to have time to think, to try to escape. It was one of the reasons he had chosen to blindfold him. Taking away a man's sight was one of the best ways to keep a prisoner off balance. They reached the aft end of the corridor, and the hatch leading on deck. Crane pushed Manes against the bulkhead next to the hatch and leaned into his back.

"Move and we'll be going with plan one. Do you understand?" Another nod of the head, and he reached for the hatch. He had just started to pull the hatch open when something made him turn around. He did so just in time to block the blow that would have struck his head. He managed to block it with his forearm, and despite the numbness that seemed to take over his left arm he slammed into his attacker, pushing them both into the bulkhead. He had a moment to realize just who it was before Al-Filistini pushed him off, and sank into a crouch. Crane echoed the movement, and they circled each other in the close confines of the corridor, looking for advantage. Manes, obviously sensing that an opportunity had presented itself, was grunting through the gag, and started to move away from the bulkhead. Crane, as he circled around, viciously kicked him behind the knee, bringing him to his knees with a muffled scream. He wouldn't be going anywhere. It was one less thing to worry about.

Crane turned his attention back to the Palestinian, who chose that moment to attack. They struggled together, each testing the other's strength. They appeared to be evenly matched, though Crane was at a disadvantage just by virtue of needing silence, and needing to get to the helipad. Minutes flew by as they struggled, and Crane was getting desperate. He needed to get moving. His ribs were screaming at him, as was his leg. He had to end this. In the years that he had been doing his work with ONI he had tried his best to avoid using deadly force whenever possible. It wasn't that he couldn't kill; it was just that he did not wish to do so when there was another answer. He was trained in numerous martial arts, and had been taught more than one way to kill a man with his bare hands. It was knowledge that he sometimes wished he had not gained. Now, for the good of the mission, and for the survival of his two companions, he had to push past that conscious objection. That decision made, his movements became more purposeful, his blows aimed ever so slightly differently. Now he was seriously hurting his opponent, and ignoring the punishment he received in return.

In a classic strike/counterstrike move he broke Al-Filistini's nose, and as the tears blinded him, he moved behind the Palestinian and gripped his head and neck in the hold that would, with just the right pressure, result in a broken neck. He was preparing to apply that pressure when his eyes fell on the partially opened locker just down the corridor. It was small, barely a foot wide, obviously made to house some sort of cleaning supplies perhaps, and it was just over five feet tall. After a lightening moment of consideration, he shifted his hold and applied pressure to the nerve at the base of the neck. In a matter of moments Al-Filistini was limp, completely unconscious. Crane took a pistol out of his belt and patted him down for other weapons. There was one knife that Crane took as well, but nothing else. Evidently the man had been confident in his fighting prowess, since he had not pulled either weapon. Ego made for a lot of painful lessons.

Crane dragged him to the locker, and after removing two brooms and a mop, had enough room that he thought the man would fit. He pulled off the other man's belt and used it to tie his hands behind his back. One arm of his shirt became a gag. His shoelaces were used to tie his feet together. It took some doing, and was definitely not comfortable, but Al-Filistini was in the locker, and Crane pushed the door closed. It latched firmly, and Crane was satisfied that the man should be out of the way for sufficient time for them to make their get away. There was no lock on the door, and in any event the man should be out for another ten minutes at least. Time was flying by, time he could not afford.

That task completed, he turned to Manes, who had curled into a ball around the pain in his leg, and grabbed his arm. Manes howled through the gag, but a quick hiss from Crane got his attention and he quieted. Crane pulled him to his feet and with a shove started him down the corridor once again. They had only a few minutes to get to the helipad. Manes stumbled against the bulkhead, and Crane grabbed his bound arms, and ignoring the muffled yelp of pain, and yanked him back on his feet. Moments later they had reached the aft hatch that led out to the helipad. Crane propped the other man against the bulkhead with a warning in his ear about movement, and cautiously opened the hatch. He could see no movement on deck. He reached back and got Manes moving again, and in less than a minute he could make out the shape of the helicopter against the darkness of the sky.

He sent up a silent thanks to whatever gods watched over sub-captains/spies. The darkness was a plus he hadn't counted on. It would make his job much easier. No lights meant that they couldn't be as easily observed. He jerked Manes to a stop as he saw movement to his left. He started to spin toward it defensively, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Oh, thank God you made it!" It was Felicia Manes, with Nick Butcher at her side. In the faint light of the stars Crane could see that the woman was looking a little worse for wear, but did not seem to be harmed. He grinned at her, knowing she would see it.

"Can't leave my best girl in the lurch now can I?" He said quietly, reaching to squeeze her hand. "I was always taught that you leave the party with the one you came with."

"Oh, you dear boy." She said stepping forward to kiss his cheek. "I'm so glad to see you." She whispered in his ear. She turned her attention to his prisoner. "I'm afraid I can't say the same to you, George." Manes made a sound of surprise, obviously recognizing his mother's voice. Crane started dragging him toward the helicopter, motioning Butcher and Mrs. Manes toward the other side of the machine.

He strapped Manes into one of the two back seats, and left Butcher to make sure that Mrs. Manes was strapped in properly at his side and had a headset. Crane removed the tie-downs on the helicopter and did a quick check on the outer hull. Nick had gotten into the co-pilot's seat. He had already strapped himself in and had a headset on. No doubt in his time in the Navy he had been on several helicopters. Crane suspected that the man was not one to wait in an office when there were people who needed him in the field.

He climbed into the pilot's seat and strapped himself in. He put on the headset and peered at the controls that he could see. After determining that what he expected to see was where he expected to see it, he closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to remember the preflight checks his instructor had gone through with him. He didn't have time to do this right. He had to get the rotors going and up to speed as soon as possible, and get the machine off the deck. The diversion he had arranged should help, and if they were lucky, most of the crew would simply assume that the visitors were leaving to avoid the trouble, but there would be those who would know, and would try to stop them.

He reached over and lifted Butcher's wrist, glancing at his watch, his own had been taken. It was one minute until the diversion was due to start. He ignored Butcher's questioning look and started flipping switches. He could only cut so much time off the process. It took a certain amount of time before the rotors reached sufficient speed to give them any lift, that was a fact of aerodynamics, and no one could change that. He was counting in his head as he had everything ready, and poised his finger over the ignition button. He counted down the seconds.

Suddenly the quiet of the night was split by the sound of automatic rifles firing. Seconds later flood lights lit up the night and a claxon began going off. The firing was from the bow area. Crane punched the ignition button, and the rotors began spinning. He knew that the noise might be ignored for a few moments, but soon there would be no covering them. He watched the gauges as the fuel and oil pressures rose, and the rotor speed indicator started to rise.

His suddenly saw movement on the upper deck. A man with a rifle came up to the rail and looked down on the helicopter. He seemed to be yelling at them, and Crane shook his head and pointed to his earphones. The man gestured again, still yelling. Crane just shook his head again and looked at the speed indicator. They were almost there, a minute more and he would have enough lift to get them off the deck. The man stopped yelling and started toward the ladder leading down. Evidently he was going to try a more direct appeal. Crane lifted the collective, and positioned his feet on the rudder controls. Before he grabbed the stick he pulled the pistol out of his belt and handed it to Butcher. The doctor looked at him for a moment then with a nod worked the slide, chambering a round. He opened the small window set in the Plexiglas door, and leveled the gun toward the area where the man would appear. Crane took hold on the stick.

He could feel the power in the machine. His instructor had always said he didn't need gauges. That he could tell when the copter was ready to fly simply by the feel of her. Crane didn't have that skill, and so he had to depend on the gauges glowing before him. Everything looked like it was supposed to, and the indicator had reached the green zone. He pulled up on the collective, pushing down the left rudder. The craft lifted off the deck, and turned so that Butcher had a direct shot as the man with the rifle came around the corner. He was lifting his rifle when Butcher fired once then again. The man fell. Crane increased the power, lifting the collective more. As soon as they were high enough to clear the rail he pushed the stick forward.

The chopper dipped forward and started toward the side of the ship. They were just passing over the side when Butcher ducked to the side. A stitch of bullet holes appeared in the Plexiglas on that side of the housing. Crane cast a quick look over his shoulder, relieved that the back seats seemed to have escaped the bullets. They were moving rapidly away from the ship now, and were out of rifle range in moments. He brought the helicopter around in a wide arc, glancing at the compass. He suspected that they were off the coast of Africa, the question was where and how far off. He had glanced at the stars earlier, and he had been able to tell that they were close to the equator, but how far off he couldn't tell. Their best bet was to head East and hope that they made land soon.

He was just about to announce that he thought that they had made it when he saw the oil pressure starting to drop. It was moving slowly, but it was moving. He had a feeling that his optimism had been a bit premature.

Chapter 21

Nelson guided FS2 to a gentle landing on the surface of the water. With the extra men aboard, he thought it prudent to go easy on their untested nerves and make the easier transition from air to water. They were just out of radar range of the ship that was their target. From here the sub would travel underwater, surfacing only when they were right behind the vessel, in the shadow of her radar. In the darkness no one would see the small craft, and the team would access the ship. Nelson had made it clear that at the very least one of the men from the Seaview would be accompanying the team aboard. If he had his way Sharkey would be left to pilot the small craft while he, Jamieson and Kowalski boarded the ship.

Sharkey had protested that plan, pointing out that due to his rank and experience, that he should go, and Kowalski should stay. The rating had been quick to answer that the chief had given the very reason why he should stay on FS2. His vastly superior experience with the craft meant he was the perfect man for the difficult task of keeping the sub steady as the team accessed the ship, and kept pace with her once they were aboard, ready to take them off should the need arise. Also he would be dealing with the other teams that would be coming in, and who would listen to a simple rating. Now a Chief Petty Officer, he would have some authority. Hoist by his own petard, Sharkey had settled in to sulk for most of the trip.

This team would be the first aboard, would take the most fire if discovered. Nelson knew that the team leader was not happy with the arrangement, not wanting the extra people to look out for, but the admiral assured him that he and his men could look out for them selves, and that they would not hinder the process.

Now as they were approaching the ship, Kowalski sitting in the co-pilot's seat, was monitoring it with the various devices that FS2 boasted. Nelson looked over at the rating as he guided the sub, and was concerned to see a frown on the man's face.

"What is it Ski?" he asked. He was aware that he had the attention of the men seated behind them as the rating held up a hand, listening hard to what ever he had in his earphones. Nelson could see that he had the hydrophone activated as well as the sonar. Ski suddenly tore the headphones off and looked at Nelson.

"I don't know what's going on up there sir, but that ship is not asleep. I can make out what sounds like a claxon, and a whole lot of noise. The engines stopped about ten seconds ago, and she's starting to drift." As he finished speaking the radio came to life.

"This is Team Two." Team two was approaching the ship on small surface craft, and should have been about a mile off their port bow. "The ship just lit up like a stadium on Saturday night and we can hear gunfire, lots of it. Damn it, a helicopter just lifted off the helipad. It looks like he's circling around. Hold one." Came the report. There was a pause then the man came back on. "One of my men says he's pretty sure that the helicopter was fired on when it left. He couldn't make out whom or how many were inside. Are we still a go?" Nelson handed a mic to the team leader, who, after a look at Nelson, shook his head and spoke.

"Two this is one, negative. We don't need to be walking in on something that we don't understand. This could be some sort of double cross or a mutiny. Let's monitor the situation and we'll reevaluate. Can you get in any closer since they are stopped?"

"We're moving in now. We can come up under their bow and they will never know we are there. I'll send a man up to take a look. We'll keep you advised. Two out." The team leader contacted the third team, and let them know that there was at the very least a delay. He then looked at Nelson.

"We don't know who left on that chopper. If our man was on it, this whole mission is a bust. We've lost the element of surprise, and if we go aboard now there will be a firefight, possibly from two different sides. We'll have to get more Intel before we can make a move." He said. He could tell by the frown on Nelson's face that he wasn't best pleased with the news, and that made him nervous. Usually, making admirals displeased was a very bad thing. Nelson seemed to be pondering something, and the team leader hoped it wasn't the end of his career.

Nelson turned back to his controls and began surfacing the craft. He brought her up slowly, and turned her until the cameras in the nose could focus on the ship. They could see that she was indeed brightly lit up. He turned back to the team commander.

"We have two zodiac rafts in the hold, commander. I believe that you and your men should be comfortable in them until such time as you either decide to board or are picked up by your support craft. The chief will help you deploy them." He said briskly. The team leader raised an eyebrow, one didn't usually question an admiral, but he had to ask.

"I thought you were set on boarding with us Admiral. Why the sudden change?" Nelson didn't look all that upset at the question.

"Call it a hunch, Commander. If you knew Lee Crane like I know Lee Crane, then the only place he could be is on that helicopter, and if Lee is there, I would be willing to bet your target is there as well. The question is who is holding whom prisoner. I intend to find out. This craft can out fly any helicopter made. We'll follow it to its destination, and see who is aboard. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get on our way." Sharkey had already started pulling one of the rolled up zodiacs out of the small cargo hold below deck, and was indicating to Jamieson to open the rear hatch. Nelson reached over and killed the main interior lights so that the light would not be seen from the ship.

The team leader looked from Nelson to the hatch and back. He was frankly rather at a loss.

It wasn't as if he wanted the men from Seaview to come along, or that he had a problem with using the Zodiacs. He had been against their inclusion from the start, but had been outranked and overruled. Now, he was faced with getting what he wanted and found himself conflicted. What if Nelson was right? What if Manes was on that chopper? He was their main target after all, if he was gone there was only the secondary target, the terrorist leadership. The rescue of an ONI agent and two civilians had been third on his list. He was well aware however that it had been first on Nelson's. To have a man like Nelson operate on a hunch, meant it had to be some hunch, based on years of experience. It had to have some validity. But, the commander had to work off the Intel he had and could not go haring off after hunches. He came to attention and saluted Nelson who saluted back.

"Very well admiral. Thanks for the ride so far. It was sure something to travel in style for once." He turned and gave orders to his men, who moved quickly to gather their gear. The first group was loading into the first boat when Ski cursed out loud.

"What is it Ski?" Nelson asked, ignoring the language.

"The helicopter is having some trouble I think, admiral." The rating said, peering at the radar screen. "It started to slow down not long after it got on a heading toward the coast. It's also losing altitude. I think that it's going to ditch."

"Damn it, Lee. Not yet!" Nelson snapped. He turned toward the commander. "Sorry for the bum's rush commander, but we have to leave, now." The team leader nodded, and helped his team throw the last of their gear into the boat. He leaped in last, and pushed away from the small craft. As Sharkey started to close the hatch the commander called in a low voice.

"Good Luck." He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Sharkey mutter something, something that sounded like 'With the skipper we'll need it.' But he wasn't sure. In a matter of moments the FS1 moved away into the darkness, and it was only because he knew what to listen for that he heard the powerful engines lifting her from the surface of the water. Nelson had told him that they didn't use the stealth mode often, and that this was a good opportunity to try it out. He had expressed surprise that an exploratory vessel would have need of such a thing, and had been puzzled by the smiles that had crossed the faces of the Seaview crew but he had never had the chance to ask about it. He supposed that he never would now. He shook off his distraction and reached for his walkie-talkie, time to get an update on the situation.

Chapter 22

Nick Butcher knew something was wrong. What he knew about helicopters pretty much began and ended with being able to strap himself in and put on the headphones, but Crane knew about them, and several minutes after they had taken off the man's posture had changed from a relaxed attention to detail to very tense. There was no appreciable change in their flight, at least nothing that Butcher could see, but something was wrong. He reached for the small control pod in the wire that led to his headset. There was a button that directed his comments only to the pilot's headset, and he flicked it into place.

"What's wrong?" He asked. Crane shot him a glance, then looked over his shoulder. He reached out and thumped a gauge among the many on the control panel. It seemed to have little effect, and Butcher could see that the level of whatever it was measuring seemed to be dropping. It wasn't in the red yet, but it wasn't far from it. "Fuel?" He asked.

"Oil" Crane replied with a shake of his head. "If they had got the fuel we would probably be a ball of flame floating off the port side of the ship about now. As it is we'll at least have some distance from them. I'm nursing her along as best I can. I don't know how far we are from land, we may make it or we may have to ditch. We're going to have to find out if there is a raft, or any type of flotation devices aboard. Check under your seat. Have Mrs. Manes do the same."

Butcher, who had been feeling a cautious sense of optimism, felt the cold hand of fate hovering over them once more. Was there no end to this? Were they to go from good fortune to bad over and over again? When was it going to be one time too many? He knew that ditching in the ocean at night was not going to be pleasant, and he wasn't even sure exactly how one ditched a helicopter. He reached under his seat and found a small bag. Pulling it out and into his lap he found a life vest, a flashlight on a lanyard with a whistle, and a small item that looked like a walkie-talkie, but without the place one would regularly speak into. He held it up where Crane could see it.

"Location device, one of the older ones, but as long as it works the signal should be picked up by any military or rescue ships in the area. It will also send out a signal on several frequencies that are used for local traffic. It's better than nothing." The younger man said. "Now what we need is a raft. Can you explain to Mrs. Manes and have her check under her seat and in any storage back there."

"How much longer do we have?" Butcher wanted to be able to give Felicia as much information as possible when he spoke to her. She had shown that she could be calm in the face of danger, and he was sure she would take this news with as much equanimity as she had the rescue.

"I can nurse her along for another five minutes, maybe ten. Then the engine is going to seize. I have to set her down before that. We aren't high enough or moving fast enough for the autogyration to kick in. If I can't control the landing we may not get out. If I can we'll hover and launch the raft. Then you'll get out and then I'll move off and set her down." Crane understood that Butcher need complete details not just for himself but for Mrs. Manes as well.

"What about our friend Manes? He can't swim like that, and I doubt if Felicia can handle him in any event."

"We'll take off the blindfold and cut his hands free, right before we go. Have her put a headset on him, and I'll….explain the process to him myself. Do you think that you can handle him in the raft?"

"I can. Of course we're assuming that we have a raft."

"The pilot must have known he was traveling over the water, and must have had some experience with landing on a watercraft. No reasonable pilot is going to take the chance of being caught over open water with no raft."

"Reasonable. What reasonable man deals with terrorists? I'll talk to her now." He flipped the switch and turned so he could see Felicia. She had been watching them obviously sensing that something was going on. He explained the problem, and after seeing her face pale she resolutely raised her chin and started looking around. She quickly found her own life vest, and another that she put on her son, despite his struggles. She then started looking through the storage. She found a large square bundle which lettering in several languages showed as a raft. He explained the plan, letting her know that the raft would open as soon as it hit the water. After it deployed she should get out of the chopper and swim to the raft, he would follow her and join her there. She looked at George.

"What do I do about him, I…can't leave him. Even with what he's done…" She started. Butcher shook his head.

"We won't leave him. Crane is going to explain to him his options. If he wants to live he'll cooperate. He'll go out after me, and I'll have the pistol. Once he's in the raft we'll tie his hands again." She nodded, smiling at him in gratitude for his understanding. He motioned to her to put the headset on her son, and when it was done he looked at Crane and nodded.

"Mrs. Manes I would appreciate it if you would take off your headset for a moment while I talk to your son."

"My dear boy, I assure you that there are few words you can use that I have not heard, in fact I was able to swear in three languages before I was five." She said.

"Be that as it may ma'am, it would make me more comfortable if you would take yourself out of the loop." Crane said firmly. She acquiesced, knowing that their time was short. It took a minute for Crane to explain the situation and she saw George react. He had some sense of personal safety, even if he cared nothing for others, and she was sure that he would see the logic of cooperating. When he nodded his head she assumed that he had agreed to the plan and plugged her headset back in. The helicopter started down. The plan was in action it seemed.

Chapter 22

Nelson looked over at Kowalski as he guided FS2 east. The rating was closely watching his screens. "Are we on the right heading, Ski?" He asked.

"Aye sir, dead on. I think they are getting ready to ditch. They were losing altitude rapidly, and are now only ten feet or so off the surface."

"How far are we?"

"About fifteen/twenty miles, sir. I don't think we'll get there before they ditch, but we shouldn't be too far behind."

"You think they got a raft, admiral?" Sharkey asked.

"We can only hope so Francis. At least they seem to be controlling their landing. The pilot must know what he's doing."

"You really think the Skipper is on board, sir?" the COB asked the question that all of them had been thinking.

"Something is telling me that he is, Francis. Call it familiarity, call it a hunch, but whatever it is, I think he is there. I just wish we were." He pushed the throttles all the way forward getting the last bit of power out of the engines. Moments later Ski frowned.

"They're down. Chopper is off the scope."

"Mark the area."

"I got it, sir." He replied. Kowalski flipped another switch, and put a hand to his earphones. "I got a locator signal! They must have made it out okay." It seemed to take forever as they covered the last distance. Finally Kowalski indicated that they were in the correct area. Sharkey rose to his feet and went to the cameras.

"Light it up, Francis." Nelson ordered, and Sharkey turned on the spotlights along with the cameras. Nelson kept the ship moving in a circle as Sharkey scanned the darkness below. There seemed to be nothing for a while, then Jamieson, who had been watching the screens cried out.

"There, a raft! Go back, chief." Sharkey moved the camera back and focused it on the raft now revealed in the spotlight. In the blaring light they could see two people in the raft. They seemed to be looking overboard, instead of up at the light. As they watched one of the figures looked up and waved out toward where they had been looking. Nelson, looking at the screen, decided to put the small craft down on the opposite side of the raft from where they had been looking, hoping that whoever they had been looking for was there, and there was no chance of hitting them.

He brought FS1 in for a quick landing, and taxied her toward the raft where the two figures were now alternately looking from them and then back to the darkness. He turned her so that the rear hatch was near the raft and Sharkey opened it, leaning out to grab a rope that one of the figures tossed.

"Nick!" Jamieson cried out in surprise as he recognized his friend. He was equally surprised at the blood that was coursing down his face from a split in his eyebrow, and what looked like it was going to develop into a very colorful shiner.

"Will! Damn but I am glad to see you." He swung an arm toward the darkness at his rear. "Captain Crane is out there with Manes. They were fighting. You have to find them!" he said. Nelson, having left Kowalski at the controls, came up behind Jamieson. From the doctor's response he assumed that this was the psychologist that Jamieson had brought along for Lee, and since they had been kidnapped together, he assumed that the woman kneeling in the raft next to the man was Mrs. Manes.

"Let's get you and the lady inside then we'll find Lee and the other man." He said hastily. The two were helped aboard, and Nelson who had already armed himself moved out into the raft. "Where did you last see them?" he asked Butcher urgently. The doctor pointed to the right. Nelson nodded and looked back toward Sharkey who appeared in the hatchway with two oars, one of which he threw to Nelson. Sharkey climbed out into the raft and moved to the opposite side. Jamieson also climbed out, ignoring Nelson's look. Butcher released the rope, and stood watching as they paddled slowly out of the ring of light around the FS1. He hoped they were not too late, given what had taken place after they had abandoned the helicopter, he didn't have too much hope that they would find both men alive.

Chapter 23

The raft had expanded out when it hit the water, just as Butcher had described. As soon as she saw that it was completely inflated Felicia had jumped out of the helicopter and into the water. She had ripped the bottom off her gown to allow her the freedom to swim, and she had managed to reach the raft easily. With some difficulty she had then pulled herself into it. At least the water was warm here. Butcher had leapt into the water after her, and he pulled himself in with more ease, and looked back toward the chopper. As he turned George Manes leapt from the door, and started swimming for the raft. As he did, Crane moved the chopper away planning to jump from it himself as soon as it was far enough to not cause any damage to the raft as it landed and sank. They heard it hit the water and the sound of the rotors died away.

Butcher looked back at Felicia, taking in her dripping hair, torn gown, and makeup-free face. She had never looked so good to him. He was sure that he made quite a picture himself, in a dirty, wrinkled, white dress shirt, with torn pants and sopping hair. Somehow he had managed to be opening his arms to her just as she flung herself in them, and they clung to each other there, on their knees in the middle of a raft, in the middle of the ocean. For Nick Butcher it was a surprisingly fulfilling moment. His heart had been so barren since his wife's death. Knowing the process of grief and the psychology of loss had done nothing to help him heal, but somehow this woman had, since he had first met her, and now it was as if he had known her for a lifetime. He didn't know how long they would have stayed like that if a voice hadn't spoken from the side of the raft.

"Don't tell me that you're two-timing your boy toy, mother dear, how disappointing."

George Manes was pulling himself into the raft, his eyes locked on them. Butcher pushed away from Felicia, not coincidently pushing her behind him. He pulled the gun out of the pocket he had put it in for safe-keeping and cautiously moved to the opposite side of the raft from Manes pulling Felicia along with him. When Manes had gotten aboard, lying in the bottom of the raft breathing heavily, Butcher pulled out the straps that Crane had had him cut from the harness and moved forward.

"Hands out." He ordered, pointing the weapon.

"Or you'll what?" Manes sneered. Butcher gave him a small smile.

"I don't believe that I've mentioned that I was in the Navy, or that I was a qualified marksman. I was always quite good with guns, and have kept my hand in over the years. I can put a bullet where I want it. Now, put out your hands."

"And then what? You can't hold a gun on me while you tie it." Manes pointed out the obvious.

"Give me the gun." Came Felicia's voice unexpectedly. Butcher wasn't sure who was more surprised, himself or George Manes. He was pretty sure that the looks that they turned on her were equally puzzled. "I'm not totally useless you know. My father was quite certain that we would be attacked and kidnapped at any moment, and insisted that we know how to use a gun. He carried a pistol with him until the day he died; peacefully in bed I might add. The thing was under his pillow. I was quite a good shot; daddy wouldn't accept anything else."

"Felicia, he's your son…"

"I'm your son…" They started speaking together, and stopped as they realized what the other was saying. They looked at each other and then back at her.

"Genetically yes, he is my son, and to some degree I am responsible for what he was as a child. We should have made sure that he was helped, should have taken him to someone besides that quack." she replied to Butcher, ignoring Manes. "But I have come to the conclusion that I am not responsible for what he has become as an adult. That he has done to himself. He cannot be allowed to do what he was planning to do."

"What do you know about what I was planning to do, mother dear?" Manes almost purred the question. He looked from her to Butcher. "Is there something that you haven't told me, mommy, dearest. Something that your baby boy needs to know?"

"Well you aren't so smart if you haven't figured that out, now are you George? Perhaps they have over estimated your 'genius'." She said snidely.

"They who?" Manes demanded

"You think about it George, while we're waiting to be rescued. I'm sure that you'll come up with something. Give me the gun." This last she addressed to Butcher who, with a shrug, handed it to her. She pointed it at Manes, her assured handling of the weapon leaving no doubt that she knew what she was doing. Butcher approached Manes with the strapping, motioning him to put out his hands. Manes was staring at his mother with calculation. He slowly raised his hands. Butcher was reaching forward to tie his hands when it happened.

Manes suddenly threw himself at Butcher. As he tried to set himself for the impact the doctor heard the gun go off, but he was pretty sure that Manes was not hit as they collided. The momentum of the larger man threw Butcher back into Felicia. She was forced by the weight of the two men against the side of the raft, and as they struggled she was almost pushed over the side. She tried to twist around and help Butcher, but because of her position she could do little to aid him. The two men tumbled away from her, and with horror she realized that she had lost the gun. She frantically tried to spot it in the bottom of the raft, not even sure if it had fallen there or overboard. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light from the moon and stars, but she could not see the weapon in the darkness. She tried to maneuver around the struggling men, fighting the bounce of the floor of the raft as much anything, looking for a way to help and feeling for the gun as she did so. Unfortunately, it was not she that found it.

There was a curse as Manes kicked Butcher away from him and rolled to his knees, back against the side of the raft, gun in his hand. Butcher put himself between Manes and his mother, but had little hope that the man would spare either of them. He was steeling himself for a no doubt futile attempt to get the gun when the water behind Manes seemed to explode.

Later, Butcher would recall the whole scene in startling detail, though at the time it all happened so fast. In the silver light of the moon, Lee Crane seemed to shoot out of the black water like a dolphin. He wrapped his arms around Manes, and with a lithe twist of his form dragged the man over the side of the raft into the water. The two men disappeared into the darkness as the waves they made forced the raft away. There was not enough light to see what was happening specifically, but they could hear the two fighting in the water. The raft seemed to be gaining speed moving away from the two men, and Butcher was afraid that they had been forced into some current that would carry them rapidly away.

He was sure that under normal circumstances that Crane would be more than a match for Manes, but these were not normal circumstances by any definition of the term. Aside from the fact that Crane was only recently recovering from capture and torture, with a leg that still was weak, the young man had not been treated particularly well over the last several days. They had been gassed, kidnapped, and in Crane's case, assaulted at least once. Butcher had noticed some new bruises forming on the younger man's face when they had gotten in the helicopter, and he had assumed that the captain had run into some trouble getting Manes. Add to all that the lack of sleep and food, and the ditching of the helicopter. Surely even a man as demonstrably strong as Crane must not be at his best. Butcher was frantically looking for some way to steer the raft back towards where they had last seen the two men when Felicia grabbed his arm and pointed into the sky.

He looked up to see the fantastic flying submarine that he had traveled across the United States in, passing overhead. Her yellow skin gleamed in the moonlight as she turned in a tight circle above them. He let out a yell and gestured toward the area that he thought the two combatants were in, but there was no response from the craft, except it seemed to be lining up to land nearby. He had not really expected them to understand, but he was frustrated that there would be a further delay. He watched as the small flying machine dropped onto the water like a thistle down, and started maneuvering towards them.

"What in the hell is that?" Felicia's question, so uncharacteristically blunt made him tear his eyes away from the small submarine and look at her. She was watching the small yellow flying submarine approach with something that was a cross between disbelief and curiosity. He realized suddenly that she had no idea that this was help. As far as she knew it could have been the terrorists coming to get them. He patted her hand where she still gripped his arm.

"That, dear lady, is the cavalry." He quipped with a smile. At her puzzled look he continued, "That is Nelson's little toy, they call it the flying submarine. I believe that Admiral Nelson may have come to repossess his captain." Felicia smiled at him and looked back at the FS2.

"I knew that it was too good to last, I think that I was too much for the boy. What will I do for an escort now?" she said wistfully with a sideways look at Butcher. She had felt a wave of almost unbearable relief when Butcher had said it was Nelson that had arrived in the unusual machine. She felt that she had come to know the man to some degree through Crane's stories of him, though they had been few. But in those stories Crane's absolute belief in Nelson's integrity, intelligence, and courage had come through clearly. She could only believe that Nelson must hold the young man in the same esteem to first send the three men after him, and now to send this fantastic craft to his rescue. Butcher smiled back at her as the craft he could now see was actually marked FS2 pulled up along side the raft and a hatch in what appeared to be the aft section opened. The man that Crane had identified as Chief Sharkey poked his head out and smiled at them.

Within moments it seemed she was being helped inside. A man who had to be Nelson, with his red hair and sharp blue eyes, glanced at her and back at Butcher as he described briefly what had happened. The admiral, his face having gone from relieved to concerned, had quickly hopped into the raft, and he and Sharkey, armed with paddles from a storage locker, were paddling back toward where they had last seen Crane and George.

She was torn about George. For those few moments aboard the raft it had become clear to her that whatever remained of the child that she had borne had been lost. Now there was only the stranger who looked so like her late husband. She could not reconcile the actions of this man with those of a child of hers. He sought to sell a deadly weapon to people who would use it on innocent victims. But where they at least claimed to kill for a cause greater than themselves, George did his dealing in death for money. Did that make him worse? She wasn't sure. Now it might have come down to a choice between the man who had been her son and the man who had come to capture him.

Searching her deepest feelings, she could not help but hope that if it came down to saving only one of them that it was Crane that they found out there in the darkness. She allowed herself to sink back into the seat and closed her eyes. She was so very tired and her heart ached for that clingy child of so long ago who had gone such a long way down the wrong road. She sent up a small prayer, and hoped it would be answered.

Chapter 24

Nelson paddled the raft in the direction that Butcher had indicated, his mind whirling with a mixture of anxiety and fear. Butcher had said that Lee and Manes were fighting. Usually Nelson would have little fear of Crane's ability to take care of himself. Lee was a powerful swimmer, and well trained in self-defense. However that was usually. Jamieson had mentioned that Lee's limp had not noticeably diminished, that meant that his leg was not up to keeping him afloat for as long as usual and if he was having to fight...Nelson gestured to Sharkey to stop paddling, listening desperately to hear something besides the sounds of the night. Kowalski had turned the FS2 and was moving slowly in their wake, scanning the area with the floodlights. For several moments there was nothing, then, just as he was going to start paddling again, Jamison grabbed his arm.

"Wait! I heard something, that way!" The doctor said, pointing toward their port side, outside the reach of the spotlight. Nelson didn't hear anything, but he was prepared to take any chance that presented itself. Sharkey bent his back to the paddling and they were soon moving toward the area Jamieson had indicated. The small current that had caught the raft earlier was making it difficult to make any headway. Kowalski had seen them turn and was following along fifty yards behind, turning the floodlights ahead of them. It was that which allowed Nelson to see the body floating toward them in the current moments later. He felt his heart drop.

"Sharkey, over there." He croaked, his throat tightened. There were too many shadows to see clearly. Sharkey bent dug his paddle into the water deeply, turning the raft in the direction that Nelson indicated, seeing for himself the form in the water. He cursed under his breath then started muttering a litany.

"The skipper wouldn't come all this way just to die in the water, so that ain't the skipper. It's the other guy." Jamieson cast him a quick look, and then turned his attention forward. He could see only the form floating face down. It seemed a little large to be Crane, if anything the man had been even thinner than usual, but that could be an illusion of the darkness and the water. He moved forward, knowing that the other two men would have to maneuver the raft in the current. Also, if it was Crane, he didn't want Nelson to be the one who…made the first discovery. He could at least spare him that. He leaned far over the side of the raft, reaching for a floating arm. As soon as he grabbed hold he knew that it was not Crane. This was not the well-muscled arm of the young captain. An arm he had doctored on several occasions for one reason or another. This was the arm of someone who did not work out, with little muscle. Jamieson looked around at Nelson.

"It's not him, it's not Lee." He said with all the assurance he could as he pulled the body toward the raft. He saw the relief in the admiral's face before he turned back to the job of pulling the body into the raft. Sharkey dropped his oar and grabbed the other arm, and they soon had the flaccid form aboard. In the reflection of the lights they could see that this was indeed not Crane. Nelson recognized George Manes from the pictures he had seen. If Manes was here, dead, where was Lee? He was about to have Sharkey start paddling again when a hand reached out of the water and grabbed the rope that went around the perimeter of the raft. A dark head appeared above the edge of the raft.

"A little help here?" he said with a small smile. Nelson threw the oar aside and reached for Crane's arm. Sharkey pushed forward and grabbed the other side. They soon had the younger man aboard. He crouched in the bottom of the now very crowded raft and stared at the body of George Manes. Nelson could see the disquiet and sorrow on Crane's face, and he placed a hand on his shoulder. Crane looked his way, and this time Nelson saw the regret in the golden eyes.

"I'm sorry." Crane said, and the admiral knew that he was saying that he was sorry for a lot of things; for the whole deception, for the worry, for the fact that he had been forced to kill to preserve his own life.

"I know, lad." He replied, squeezing the shoulder. There would be more discussion later, but for now… He felt Crane start to shiver as the air cooled his wet clothing. He started to say something about getting Lee aboard FS2 when the golden eyes rolled up and Crane started to fall. Nelson grabbed at the younger man, bringing him against his chest. He grunted as Crane's full weight fell against him. Jamieson, who had been doing a quick examination of Manes turned at the sound and scowled. He crawled to Nelson's side.

"Damn it. Let's get him back to the FS2 so I can see what the hell he did to himself this time." He growled as he lifted Crane's wrist. Sharkey was gesturing toward the flying sub, and Kowalski started toward them as quickly as was prudent. He had seen the activity in the raft, and assumed that they had found one or both of the men. He maneuvered the hatch around to the raft, and Butcher swung it open. He leaned out and grabbed the rope as Sharkey pushed it toward him. His anxious eyes went from the still form on the floor of the raft to the one in Nelson's arms.

"My God…" he breathed out. Jamieson looked over his shoulder.

"The captain is alive. We need to get him aboard so I can examine him." He said to his colleague then looked at Sharkey. "Can you get aboard and we'll hand him up to you and Nick?" Sharkey nodded and clambered back aboard. Jamieson turned to Nelson who was still holding Crane.

"Let's get him inside Admiral. His pulse is good, but you know how he is, and I'd rather look him over while he's still out rather than fight him for information later." Nelson nodded and ran a hand through Crane's damp hair stroking it back from his forehead. He let Jamieson take the long legs, and lifted Crane's head and shoulders himself. They carefully transferred the limp form to the two men in the flying sub. They carried the unconscious man to the built-in bunk. Jamieson followed them. Nelson started to follow then looked at the body on the bottom of the raft. They couldn't just leave the body to float around the Atlantic he supposed, though he had no feelings for the man one way or the other. Sharkey appeared in the hatch with a survival blanket.

"I figure we can wrap him up and put him in the cargo hold for now, admiral. We'll probably be going back to that strike base in Nigeria again won't we? We can drop the body off there." The COB said practically. Nelson nodded and took the blanket. With Sharkey's help he wrapped the body and with some yelled directions to Kowalski, they put the body in to one of the outside cargo holds. They maneuvered the raft back to the hold, intending to deflate it and pull it into the flying sub. Nelson was preparing to climb out when he looked up and found Felicia Manes standing in the hatch. He had no doubt that she had been watching as they manhandled her son's body in to the cargo hold. He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry for your loss, madam. I regret that we do not have the room to handle your son's body in a more…respectful manner." Despite his own feelings, he would in no way wish to make this harder on the woman, despite her complicity in Lee's charade. She shook her head and smiled sadly.

"I lost my son years ago, Admiral Nelson. That man was a stranger to me. I'm only sorry for the damage he has done so far, the lives he's disrupted…and taken." She looked over at the bunk where Jamieson and Butcher were bent over Crane then back at Nelson. "You are an incredibly lucky man, Admiral. You got by chance what I could not get through nature. Treasure it, care for it. He's worth it."

"Madam, I…" He started stiffly, only to stop as she raised a hand.

"You surely know by now that it was all playacting that he hasn't left you for the bright lights of the social round. He would have far preferred to be on your wonderful submarine than anywhere that we went. That was easy to see. I don't know if Smith told you that I practically forced him into this." She could see by Nelson's face that he had not been informed of that. She shook her head. "That man Smith should be fired, or be deposed, or what ever you do to someone in his position. He shouldn't be allowed so much power. It has made him drunk with it. I took rather a large amount of pleasure in pushing his buttons and deflating his pompous ego. However I see that he took it out on you. Are you aware of the general parameters of our charade?" she asked. Nelson glanced at the bunk, and knowing that he needed to stay out of the way, pulled his attention back to the woman.

"I know that you were trying to attract your son's attention, and that the plan was to trap him when he attempted to contact you, a plan that obviously went wrong at some point." He looked back at Lee again. Just how wrong it might still go he was not prepared to contemplate.

"Yes, I think you could say that. What was obviously not shared with you is that it was I who chose your captain to be the 'stalking goat' as it were. In fact I made it a condition of my cooperation that he be the one." She saw the surprise in Nelson's face, and looked once more at the bunk. "I think that he deeply regretted that he had been forced to keep this all under his hat, so to speak. Smith was very insistent on his 'need to know'. He also was angry that Smith had started a rumor about how you…discarded him due to his leg. He refused to repeat the rumor when people asked him about it. I was quite impressed with his waffling skills. He managed to answer some rather direct questions without really saying anything. He didn't want your reputation to suffer."

'That's very…reassuring." Nelson murmured. She looked at him sharply.

"You're still angry with him though aren't you?" She said with a sigh. "I should have allowed Smith to pick whom he wanted, but I didn't trust him, so I stood by my choice. Your captain could have said no, perhaps should have, but then in the short time that I have known him I have come to know him as a man who is deeply committed to doing what he sees as his duty." She glanced at Nelson out of the corner of her eye. "Not a trait that one could really call a fault." Nelson sighed.

"That depends on your point of view, madam. And even a virtue can lead to a premature death." he said. He noted that Jamieson had straightened, and seemed to be conferring with Butcher about something. Nelson looked back at Mrs. Manes whose attention had also been drawn to the bunk area. "There has been some…discussion between us about his…extracurricular activities. I'm afraid that we have yet to reach an agreement on the number and frequency of such activities." She smiled at him in understanding.

"Yes, I can see that it would be quite the problem of logic-How to rein him in without breaking his spirit and losing that which makes him what he is." She smiled slightly. "I am hardly one to give parenting advice, though my daughter came out very well if I may say so myself, but I think that you are going to have to give him the benefit of the doubt that he may just know what he is doing." She held up a hand as she saw him about to protest. "Yes, I know that you only want what is best for him, want to have him live a long and happy life. Every parent does. But at some point, no matter how painful it is for you, you have to let them go, have to let them make their own mistakes, their own way, and that includes incredibly brave, incredibly trouble-prone Navy captains." Nelson looked over at the bunk. He was able to see Crane's face, pale and thin.

"And if one day his 'way' gets him killed?" He asked without thinking. He almost instantly realized that her own son had just gotten killed because of his choices, and he had died at the hands of Lee Crane. Despite her protests to the contrary, he knew she must have some sorrow for a lost child, even one as misguided as her son had been. He turned back to her to apologize, and saw her shaking her head with a grimace.

"That's the price we pay, for our…hubris, for our attempt to send some part of ourselves into the future, as if we are something the universe had never seen before and will never see again. 'Hostages to fortune', isn't that how the quote goes? He could just as easily fall down a ladder on that submarine of yours and break his neck. Would you be any happier that he had died there?"

"I'd rather he didn't die at all, and there is a lot less chance of it happening on my boat…" He stopped as he realized just what he was saying. More often than not, the missions that they were called on to complete were just as dangerous as Lee's ONI missions. Felicia Manes was smiling sadly at him. She seemed to understand, though there was no way that she could know about their missions. She reached over and patted his hand where it rested on the back of the chair.

"Let him be what he is, Admiral. He's a good man, with so much to give. You may not have given him the gift of life, but you can give him the gift of being able to live his life as he wants to live it." She stopped speaking as the two doctors stepped away from the bunk. Jamieson spoke first.

"Well, he hasn't managed to damage himself more than usual." The doctor said snidely. At Nelson's raised eyebrow, he waved a hand. "He's more exhausted than injured. He's unconscious now because of the length of time he spent in the water. The water here is probably around 60 degrees, and he was in it too long for his current condition. His body just decided to shut down until it got itself warmed up. It's a natural defense mechanism. He's got some cracked ribs, again, and his leg is showing some swelling, which is only to be expected since he's pushed it to the limit. He's also got the usual assortment of bruises and contusions. On the upside he hasn't been shot or stabbed and he doesn't have a concussion. As soon as we can get him warmed up, get some food in him and get him some actual rest, he'll be fine. I'm willing to call it a good day."

"Oh, thank God." Felicia Manes breathed, and slumped in the chair. She sniffed, and dabbed at a tear that slid down her cheek. Nick Butcher knelt down beside her and took her other hand. She gave him a watery smile and reached to cup his cheek. Nelson decided to give them a moment, and looked at Jamieson.

"Can we go ahead and take off? We can be at the base in West Africa in fifty minutes. They have a full hospital there. If there is something that he needs…"

"No hospital, I want to go home" said a voice from the bunk, cutting off Nelson. They all turned to see Lee Crane, propped on one elbow, looking back at them. There was slightly more color in his face, though it was easy to see that he was still weak, and he was shivering. Before Jamieson or Nelson could speak Felicia Manes was on her feet standing before the bunk, hands on her hips.

"Young man you will listen to your doctor and do what he tells you to do! I will not stand for this willful disregard of your health. If you continue in this manner, the admiral really will discharge you, and you will be forced to come and be my escort permanently. If you think the parties we attended in the last several days were boring, wait until there is no escaping them. I'm sure that you don't want that now do you?" She didn't wait for him to answer. She spun in her heel and resumed her seat with all the aplomb of Queen Elizabeth taking her throne. "It's decided then. We will be going to your base, admiral. Please see to it that we get there as soon as possible. I am quite looking forward to the trip." Everyone blinked at her in disbelief, and looked at Crane. For his part, the normally irascible captain looked pained and lay back down on the bunk, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders.

"On reflection I could use a little down time and maybe a hot meal. Somebody wake me up when we get there, okay?" He rolled carefully over and curled on his side, facing the bulkhead. If his shoulders seemed to be shaking slightly he managed to keep the resultant sound quiet. There was a snort from Sharkey, who covered it with a cough, and gestured toward the chairs next to Mrs. Manes as he headed back toward the controls. He shooed Kowalski out of the co-pilot's seat.

"You can sit over here Doc Butcher. Since we dumped the SEALS off on the ship we got plenty of room." He said cheerfully. Evidently as far as Sharkey was concerned they had received their orders and were good to go. The Chief started running preflight checks. Nelson looked from Mrs. Manes to Lee to Jamison, who was retaking his seat with a shrug.

"Wonder if Mrs. Manes would be interested in spending a little time on board a submarine" the doctor speculated. "I could use some back up with certain people." There was a distinct snort from the bunk area but the huddled figure did not move. Nelson, realizing he had been over-ruled, even if he had wanted to do anything else, moved toward the pilot's seat.

"I have a feeling Jamie that Mrs. Manes has a few other things on her plate at this time. I'm afraid that you'll have to make do the old-fashioned way." He looked to Sharkey who nodded. They were ready to go. He hooked into the comm. System and buckled up, glancing back to make sure his passengers were also buckled in. His eyes went once more to the bunk area, somehow wanting to make sure that the whole thing had not been some dream or illusion. Lee was really there, mostly well, and they were really going home, even if it was with a stop in West Africa. It was more than he had dared hope for when he had first set out so many hours ago. It was enough for now.

Epilog-

It had been a long two days. The doctors at the base in West Africa had been pleased with Crane's body temperature and general fitness when they arrived, however they were not pleased about his level of exhaustion. Crane's protests that he could sleep on the way back in the bunk had gone unheeded, and with Jamison's happy cooperation, and Mrs. Manes' outright order, Crane had been confined to a hospital bed for a day to sleep. A sedative, which by some coincidence had made it into the IV fluids he had been given when they arrived, had seen to it that the sleep was deep and uninterrupted. The captain had been less than happy when he woke up to find a day gone, but everyone had emerged from the hospital unscathed, and the whole group had headed back to the U.S. The plan was to drop Mrs. Manes in Washington D.C. and allow Crane to be debriefed. Nelson planned to be present for that process. He had a few choice words to share with Smith. Then they would meet up with Seaview. Nelson couldn't wait until they were back aboard his boat.

Five hours after landing in D.C., Nelson, Crane, and Dr. Butcher were sitting in the living room of Felicia Manes' hotel suite. It was just after 2000 hours and Crane had meant to pack up his things and take his leave of Mrs. Manes as they were heading out early the next morning. Sharkey, Jamieson, and Kowalski had left already in FS1. However, when he went in "his room" he had found them already packed and ready to go. A quick glance around had shown him the disapproving face of Augustine peering through the connecting door to Mrs. Manes' room. He was actually surprised the man hadn't left them out in the corridor. No love lost there. He carried his bags out and found the other three in a deep discussion. He was not comforted by the end of the statement that he caught as he set the bags near the door.

…so you see I need to go back and finish this up, Felicia dear, before I let you cozen me away with your social merry-go-round and easy access to the Met and private collections in New York. As much as I am intrigued by the chance to spend some more time with you, and to see some paintings which haven't been available in my lifetime, I must not shirk my duty to the captain."

"Don't put things off on my account, Doctor." Crane said as he sat down beside Nelson. Both men were dressed in their navy uniforms, having come directly from the debrief. It had been long and not particularly pleasant as the two admirals had not been shy about expressing their mutual dislike, but eventually all of the questions had been answered, pending a written AAR, and Crane had managed to drag Nelson out of the brownstone before any actual blood had been shed. He had a feeling that Smith was not going to be pleasant to be around for a long while. He glanced at Nelson, whose face was still a little red. "Though you might talk to the Admiral about his anger issues." He suggested. Nelson growled at him and sipped at the very fine Irish whiskey in the glass he held.

"I'll show you anger management, captain." He said with a glint in his eye. He was just happy that Crane was here to tease him. He was one of the few that had ever dared do so, and Nelson found he valued that more as he went along. It just might keep him from becoming a little too much like Smith. Crane grinned at him.

Sitting across from them on the smaller sofa at Felicia's side, Butcher was glad to see the interaction, but he sensed that the two men really needed to talk. He had a feeling that much of the issues that Crane had could be dealt with by the simple expedient of the availability of a caring and understanding ear. And who better to offer that than Nelson? Butcher had been fascinated to watch the interaction between the two men. Even with the tension between them it was easy to see the affection and deep caring, dared he say 'love'?, that was there.

He was a great proponent of the 'chosen family' school of thought. He had seen, and counseled, many people for whom their biological families were toxic. The human mind, the human heart, was willing and able to make deep personal connections with those unrelated by blood. In many cases such connections were tighter and more…life-affirming than the blood ties. He knew that such connections could be equally damaging when ill-chosen, when done out of desperation, or coercion, but he knew that this was not the case here. Nelson was the father that Crane needed. From what he had heard Chip Morton was the brother that Crane had never had, and the crew of the Seaview was his extended family, caring and fierce in their protection of one of their own.

They had all, himself included, been taken in by the story that Smith and Crane had spun to give their plan verisimilitude. The whole plan was actually a quite impressive achievement, and he wished he knew who had crafted it. The man, or woman, responsible probably was a better psychologist than he was and he could probably learn a few things. Did Crane actually have some degree of PTSD? There was a very good possibility of it. No one, not even a man as capable as Crane, could do what he did and not feel conflicted about it. But he had his coping mechanisms, mechanisms that had worked in the past, and that seemed to be working now, if slowly. Did Crane need Butcher's help to get over it? The truthful answer was probably not. The man had issues, some unconnected with his job, but what Butcher suspected Crane needed was the safe confines of his boat, the caring ear of his family, and…the lack of psychiatric intervention. His presence would not be welcome, and he was almost convinced would do more harm than good.

Crane would not participate willingly. His family, anxious to help, would demand his cooperation, and more tension would arise. That was not exactly the healing environment that Butcher hoped to foster with his patients. He looked at the two men sitting across from him and then over at Felicia who was watching them all with a small smile. He somehow felt that she knew exactly what he was going to say already. What a fabulous woman.

"Actually Captain, I believe that you might be right." He held up a hand as Nelson began to protest. "Not about the anger management, Admiral." He hastily added with a smile. Nelson settled back down.

"What I meant was that I do not think that there is anything that I need to do to help the captain at this time. Though I will always be available should you feel the need to talk to someone on the outside. I assure you I have a high clearance, and I am only a few hours away." He addressed the last to the captain directly. He could see the man's almost instinctive shake of the head, but there was a gratitude in the dark eyes that made him know that the offer was appreciated, even if it was never taken.

"No thanks, Doc. I have enough nursemaids and mother hens as it is." The captain said lightly. He very noticeably did not look at Nelson. Nelson frowned at him anyway.

"I have noticed that you have a very….concerned family. You are a lucky man captain." Butcher said, and looked over at Felicia. "As am I. It seems as I can now surrender myself to your tender mercies, for at least for the next week until my vacation is up." She smiled at him.

"Oh, I wouldn't count on anything ending after a week. Have jet, will travel, you know." She almost purred. They stared at each other for what could have been anywhere from a few moments to a few days before a cleared throat drew their attention to Nelson, who had risen to his feet with Crane by his side.

"I think that we'll leave you two alone now. We have a very early morning." The admiral said. He shook Butcher's hand. "Thank you for your help Doctor, even if it was not quite what we thought it was." He offered his hand to Mrs. Manes who took it gracefully, rising to her feet. "I am sorry for your loss, despite the circumstances the loss of a child is not so easily faced." His eyes glanced at Crane. Mrs. Manes smiled at him, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

"As I told you before I lost my son many years ago. But, as you say, it is not easy. Value what you have, Admiral, value every minute. You have a treasure." She turned to face Crane who had blushed slightly at her words to Nelson. "And you…" she said, shaking her head. He offered her his hand and she gave it a disapproving look.

"Oh really, after all we've been through? After all we've been to each other?" she said teasingly. He could not help but smile as she fluttered her eyelashes at him in a silly manner. She spread her arms wide and, giving into the inevitable, he stepped forward into her embrace. She held him tightly for a moment, not saying anything, then stepped back, hands still on his shoulders.

"I will be spending a lot more time on the west coast from now on young man." She said with a guileless smile at Butcher. "I WILL be stopping by your little facility, and I will be expecting you to be in good enough shape to take me dancing for real. I know a woman out there who would be positively green to see me turn up at one of her parties with YOU on my arm. Don't take away my fun." She commanded. He smiled shyly at her.

"I'll do my best. Lord knows I can't deal with both you AND Jaime hounding me." Crane said. He started to step away, but then he suddenly stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. "You are one of the bravest women I have ever known." He said to her in a low voice that nevertheless carried to the other two men. Her cheeks colored and she put her hand over the place he had kissed her, eyes shining with pleasure and tears both. Crane smiled at her again and looked at Butcher. "Take care of her." With that he and Nelson took their leave, leaving Butcher to wrap his arms comfortingly around the woman who had come to mean so much to him in such a short time.

Nelson had rented a hotel room near the docks where the flying sub was docked, a small suite with two rooms and a small sitting area. After they had left their things in the bedrooms they had ordered some room service and eaten a late dinner. Afterwards Nelson poured himself an Irish whiskey from the bar and offered some to Crane. The younger man nodded, knowing that what was coming next would be a little easier with the smooth bit of the liquor. Nelson sat down on the opposite end of the sofa from Crane and sipped at his drink. They were silent for several minutes.

"I didn't want to use the story that Admiral Smith came up with." Crane finally said out of the blue. "He had already started the rumors before I even got here. You know how rumors spread in this town."

"Do you really think that my main concern was my reputation, or even that of the institute?" Nelson asked, not looking at Crane. He had decided that aside from whatever Crane needed to get off his chest, the matter was over for him. After realizing that Crane had been just as manipulated as they had been he now could move past his own hurt, and was ready to help Crane deal with his own. The younger man needed to understand the forces that had been in play here. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Crane shaking his head.

"No, I know that you would be concerned about me. But….it matters. Your reputation, the Institute's reputation, matters to me, and I know how hard it will be to reverse whatever damage has been done and….I'm sorry."

"Is that all you are sorry about?" Nelson listened carefully for the answer. It was a very important question, at least as far as Lee was concerned he knew. There was silence for a long time.

"I know that you hate this….That you hate me doing this. But I….I can't really explain it Harry. You have to know that I don't do it to hurt you, any of you. And despite what Doctor Butcher and all the other headshrinkers might think, I am not suicidal, or messed up….well, maybe I am a little messed up, but that's just ME. Maybe someday I won't have to do this anymore. Maybe someday running the Seaview will be enough, but for now…..for now, Harry, THIS is what I have to do, have to be, and I'm sorry I can't be what you want me to be, at least not all the time." Crane set his half full glass of whiskey on the table, not wanting to watch his hand shake as he held it. He didn't look at Nelson as he continued.

"I am deeply sorry for the deception that was necessary…no, I won't say that. It wasn't 'necessary', it was just the easiest way to do what I had to do. The fact that it hurt you; hurt Chip…" He shook his head. "I really can be a manipulative bastard when I want to be Harry. Maybe it would be better if…" Nelson's hand on his knee stopped what he was going to say. He looked over to find Nelson had moved to his side and was now looking him in the eye.

"Don't." It was an order. "It would not 'be better if' whatever you were going to say. I am not going to sugarcoat it and say that what you did didn't hurt. I am also sure that Chip will be having something to say about it as well. However, I don't think that you were the only 'manipulative bastard' in this whole thing." Nelson held up a hand as Crane started to protest. "You have buttons, Lee. We all do, but yours are a little better labeled for those who know where to look, and believe me Smith and the President knew exactly where to look. They made sure that the 'request' for your participation was put in just the right words to make sure that you would go for it. I would not be surprised in any way if that farce of a psych evaluation that you had in Okinawa wasn't part of the whole plan. This plan has been building for weeks, even before Mrs. Manes agreed to it. That being said, how you chose to…disengage yourself from us was certainly more in keeping with what they wanted then what you would normally do. Was it your idea, or Smith's?"

Crane at there staring at Nelson as he digested what the other man had said. Had he been just as manipulated as his friends? Thinking back to Smith's statement about making a break with Nelson and the Institute and the fact that the President had been present for the phone call, he suspected that he had. He had no illusions about either of the two men involved. The president was a Politian, and manipulation was a way of life, and Smith…well he knew where he stood there. He didn't like to think that his last mission had unbalanced him so badly that he had allowed such a thing to happen unaware, but he had to face the facts. He had never been as tired as he had been since he had gotten out of that hellhole he had been held in. Until this last week, the whole last month had been a series of pain filled days and nightmare filled nights that had sapped just about all of what energy he had managed to rebuild. This mission had given him a chance to focus on something outside himself, something bigger, and in doing so he had found a little of himself that he had if not lost, then at least misplaced for awhile. As he thought about the phone call that had started this all he became sure that Nelson was right. He blinked, focusing once more on the blue eyes that were watching him. He nodded slowly.

"You're right." He admitted. "They used my…condition to…take advantage of my…" What could he call it: A pathological need to help? An egotistical belief in his own unique skill set? His speculation was cut off by Nelson once more squeezing his knee.

"Let's just call it an overly well-developed sense of duty and leave it at that shall we?" The admiral asked with a small smile. "I think we've all had enough psychobabble thrown around for a while. If one more person comes to me with talk of 'motivations' I might be forced to turn to drink." He finished off his whiskey with a twinkle in his eye. Crane accepted the suggestion with a nod and a smile of his own. But he had to ask one more question, had to know.

"Harry…are we ok? I don't want all this to damage our…friendship. If there is something I can do…" He offered. He felt a sudden disquiet as he saw a slightly evil smile cross Nelson's face.

"We're fine, Lee. You should know that nothing you can do would make me turn away from this…friendship that we have." Nelson was as reluctant as Crane to use any other word to describe their relationship it seemed. "However, since you asked what you can do, Chip and I have come up with a plan so to speak, and I am sure that you will give it your complete cooperation…"

Crane reached for the whiskey glass once more. He had a feeling he was going to need the fortification.

The End

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