The nice thing about infra-red goggles was that it allowed a man to see in the dark, which gave him a distinct advantage over his enemy. The problem arose when the enemy had the same advantage.

Grey picked out the irregular outline around the man's head in an instant. He held up his hand to stop Williams behind him. Two fingers, motioning: Williams to move to the left, Grey would handle the right.

Only one man. Grey paused for several long moments to make certain of that. What was the man doing?

The pair had made their way to the power room at Blane's behest. The bunker, all ruined miles of it, needed power to supply the ventilation. Heat also would be nice, but without air circulation the trapped inhabitants of this mountain would slowly suffocate before anyone could dig them out which meant that Grey had been elected to see what he could do to get power back on line, and Williams to make sure that he got there without being unduly delayed by anyone.

That felt good, having his buddy Williams at his back. There were a bunch of terrorists types wandering around, armed with automatics and bad attitudes, and trying to concentrate on a power grid and shoot back at the intruders wasn't something that Charlie Grey looked forward to. He could trust Hector Williams to look out for him.

It looked like someone had gotten to the power grid first, and he was still there. Big dude, over six foot, dark hair if Grey could trust what the night goggles were telling him. The bulge in the back pocket was the man's handgun, and both of the hands were poking and prodding at the circuits. Electricity jumped across two wires, and the man cursed and swore, jumping back in surprise.

Good. Grey and Williams remained undetected. The man in front of them was completely engrossed in his work. It also meant that this man was likely one of the friendlies, since the enemy would be counting on continued darkness to cover their actions. An enemy wouldn't want the power to be restored. An enemy would simply toss a bomb into the works and skedaddle before he himself could get caught in the fallout, unless he was of the martyring persuasion and was looking forward to forty two virgins in the afterlife.

Still, no point in taking chances. On three: Grey held up his fingers. Three. Two. One.

"Don't move, friend," he snapped out, automatic in place.

The man froze. His back went rigid.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em," Grey instructed. He stepped forward, careful not to get in Hector's line of fire, and slipped the man's own handgun out of his shoulder holster. Grey kept his guard up, but started to relax. Not too many terrorists used shoulder holsters, not in his experience. He tucked the gun into his belt to keep it out of the way. "Name?"

"Who am I talking to?"

"A man with a gun aimed at your spine, guy, with a friend with another gun in case I miss," Grey told him pleasantly.

"Really?" Clearly considering a fast move. Wondering if his leg was being pulled, that there was only one man behind him.

"Yes, really," Hector Williams slipped in, making it obvious that the man was outnumbered.

The man's shoulder's slumped. "In that case, I'm Steven Foster." Deep breath. "NSA."

"You got some ID?"

"In my breast pocket. Shall I—?"

"Turn around slowly," Grey instructed. He grinned, even though it would be difficult to see with night goggles. "I'll do the honors."

It was. The man had been accurate, or else had a damn good forger on his payroll. Grey nodded, and Williams lowered his own weapon. "Grey and Williams, U.S. Army. Mind telling me what's been going on?"

Foster frowned. "Hell in a handbasket, gentlemen. This is a top secret mission, so I can't give you details. My objective at this point is to get enough power to get a message out. My superiors need to know what's happened."

"A message has already gone out," Grey told him.

"Going to the NSA?"

"I don't know," Grey had to admit. "My people know about it, which is why we're here."

"Then we need to get out of here." Foster came to a decision. "This is national security. A band of terrorists have infiltrated this bunker and taken out one of our consultants. He's dead, and the information that he was trying to decipher is lost. My people need to know this as soon as possible." He straightened himself. "I'm commandeering your squad to get me out of this bunker as quickly and as safely as possible, so that I can communicate with my people back in Washington. Let's go, men."

"Hold on." Grey was unimpressed. "I'll check in—"

"There's no time for that!" Foster insisted. "Sergeant, there are terrorists roaming this bunker as we speak, and they are looking for me! We need to leave now!" He held out his hand. "Give me back my gun."

"Hold on." Grey pulled out his radio. "I'm checking in." He sent the squib, and got an answer back right away.

"Snake Doctor. What's your situation, Betty Blue?"

"Found a kissing cousin, Snake Doctor. He says that the package has been damaged beyond recovery and is requesting an escort to go home to mama."

"What? Say again, Betty Blue."

"The package has been damaged beyond recovery, Snake Doctor. Our kissing cousin confirms, and wants to tell mama ASAP."

Pause. Both Grey and Williams could see Blane in their minds' eye exchanging glances with Colonel Ryan, trying to decide what to do. Foster glowered at them, waiting for the response. Then: "Negative, Betty Blue. Inform your cousin that the telegram has been sent. Maintain current objective."

"Roger that, Snake Doctor. Maintaining current objective. Betty Blue out." Grey turned back to Foster. "Sorry, guy. We're to stay right here and restore power to this heap of dirt."

Fury blazed in Foster's eyes, quickly damped down by ironclad control. "Unacceptable. This is national security." He tried another tack. "We have to get out before the terrorists find us."

Williams shook his head. "We've got a bunch of buddies who are trapped on another level," he told Foster, "and they're going to suffocate if we don't get the power back on. Your message has already gone out, and will make it to your people real soon. That's been taken care of. Now it's time to pull our guys out of the fire before your terrorists get to them."

Foster stared at first one, then the other. He allowed his shoulders to slump ever so slightly. "All right." He gestured to the power grid. "I count at least fifteen different breaks. Where do you want to start?"

Special Agent Eppes grabbed the edge of the table. It tilted crazily under his white-knuckled grasp. Even his subordinate, Sinclair, still trying to shake off whatever concussion or drugs he's been through, lifted his head in horror.

"Did he—?" Eppes' voice came faintly.

Ryan was direct. "I'm sorry, son." Ryan wasn't much older than the FBI agent himself, but that didn't matter. Ryan knew what it was like to lose a man; had lost far too many. The men that Ryan lost may not have been biological brothers, but each and every one was as close as a brother for all of that. Ryan could respect what the other man was going through.

He moved in, took Don's arm firmly. "There's nothin' you can do for him sittin' here, Eppes. Move out. Make his life worth somethin'. Make the bastards who killed him pay."

He watched the FBI man take hold of himself, take another grip on his handgun. He could read the thoughts going through the man's mind: Eppes still had his gun, and there were still a boatload of murdering terrorists who had attacked his brother, his team, and his country. He watched Eppes harden his soul, saw the other agent Sinclair put steel into his own eye along with the gun in his hand.

Ryan nodded with grim approbation. "Move out," was all he said.

Blane took point.