"Another day passes as the night closes in
The red light goes on to say it's time to begin"

"No More Tears" - Ozzy Osbourne

11 January 2000
Augsburg, Germany

Maximillian Honnecker strolled through the fortified compound, his inspection of its security nearly complete. He nodded to the guards at the checkpoint and kept walking. Everything looked good, as it had at every station so far. The automated surveillance, the roving patrols, the checkpoints, everything was as it should be. As he saw it, there should not be a repeat of the tragedy that befell them four days before. Hopefully. There was still much to do, of course, but so far everything was on track.

After forty-five minutes more, he had completed his circuit of the entire facility and was glad of it. The three Quickenings from the attack in Austria had left him noticeably drained and he could use some rest. Rather than the nap he wanted, he decided to make better use of his time. He deviated his course slightly and walked toward the conference area. As he expected, he found Brad Miller there leaning over a massive map of Algeria.

"Mr. Miller," he began, "have you had any luck with the new maps I've provided you?"

The Watcher looked up from the multi-color map with a grin. "Significant, I'd say." He pointed at a spot on the paper. "I've found the training camp. Close enough, at least, that I think your people can make some use of the information."

Honnecker walked around the table and gazed down at the area Miller indicated.

"Southeast of Mechta Oulad Kassem and south of Djebel Bou Remli. Excellent. Yes, I think we can work with that. How sure are you of that location?"

"Almost certain," said Miller. "I know it had a north-south running road a few kilometers to the west and a river to the north. It also had a mountain just north of it and a town called Mechta somewhere to the northwest. This area fits perfectly. I looked at this other area to the southwest." Miller pointed to another spot near Oued Ain Snob. "That just has a trail running north-south of it. That doesn't work at all. The camp I saw had a paved road. This is the right point. I'm positive."

"Okay, Mr. Miller. We will move forward with that information. Thank you very much. You have been most helpful."

xxxxxxxxxx

11 January 2000
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael

David Ashton tapped the keys of his laptop and clicked his mouse. He frowned. The bank account he was trying to access said his password was incorrect. The Minoan knew it was not. He tried the Forgot Password option and accessed the security questions. A curse slipped from his lips. The questions displayed were not those he had set up. He clicked the address bar on the web browser and entered that of another bank. He encountered the same problem there.

"Trying to separate me from my money, are you?" he muttered, leaning back in his chair. He grinned. The Hunters were employing more techniques than simply guns and swords against him. Clever. Well, he had a backup plan for that. First, he had some writing to do. He hammered out a quick message which he sent by blind carbon copy to a list of people he had mentally stored away. A similar, but more cryptic version, of the email, he posted to a paratrooper message board. Both versions directed respondents to answer an address which would auto-forward to his main inbox. Lastly, he printed an email from Honnecker and a few other documents, folded them, and put them in his back pocket.

Standing, he picked up a photograph from the table and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He walked into the sitting room of the suite and spun the lock on the small safe sitting in the closet. Opening the heavy door, he withdrew ten thousand Euros he had withdrawn two days after checking into the hotel. He exited the suite, picking up a small backpack he kept at the door, and locked it. A few steps down the hall brought him to Dublin's suite. He knocked.

The door opened after thirty seconds. Dublin looked haggard, but alert. He looked at Ashton with curiosity, noticing the bag immediately. Cocking his head to the side, he waited for an answer to his unspoken question.

"I'm going away for a day or two," replied Ashton. "I'd like a favor from you while I'm out." Dublin nodded.

"Take a look at the organized crime figures around Paris. I'm interested in particular bits of information about them. Like Chicago in '29."

Dublin blinked once and nodded again. He understood.

"I'm leaving Ambrose in charge of things while I'm away," continued Ashton. "I'll be back in two or three days."

With a final nod, Dublin shut the door. Ashton turned and made his way down to Barron's suite to inform him of what was happening.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Was that Ashton?" asked O'Banian as Dublin ambled back into the bedroom. The Irishman grunted and nodded. "What's 'e doin'?"

"He didn't say. He's just going out of town for a while."

Sitting up, O'Banian brushed the hair from her face. "Why?"

"Didn't say that, either. Just gave me some stuff to do." He sat in bed again and pulled the blankets over his legs. "After a little more sleep, I'll be headin' out."

She stared at him with wide eyes. "Doesn't it bother ya that he orders ya about without tellin' ya tha reason for it?"

"No," he mumbled. "You just have to know how the old man thinks. It all makes sense in its own way. I can't explain it."

O'Banian grumbled and leaned back against her pillows. After a moment of silence, she whispered, "What can I do ta help, then?"

"For now," said Dublin, half asleep, "just stay out of his way. That's enough."

O'Banian glared at him and was about to respond, but Dublin's measured breathing told her he was already asleep. She crossed her arms and grudgingly kept her silence.

xxxxxxxxxx

11 January 2000
Grafton, England

Alan Weatheral drummed his fingers lightly on the cask of honey mead, humming to himself. There were four such casks in the room along with four casks of apple brandy and two more of cherry mead, all his own creation. Now that his personal list of home improvements had been completed - some three months ago - he could devote some time to his hobby. In addition to the copious amounts of coffee he drank on a daily basis, he also enjoyed homebrewed meads and brandies.

He turned the tap on the apple brandy, filling a glass halfway. Its golden color was a delight to his eyes. He lifted the glass to his nose, inhaling deeply. Another smile. Pure Golden Delicious. He sipped slowly, letting the liquid slide across his tongue, savoring every bit of its flavor.

I could easily spend the entire rest of the day drinking this, he thought. What a joy it would be.

He took another sip and sauntered into his sitting room. The desktop computer on the far side of the room sat mute, its power off. He wandered toward it.

"I've neglected you for a while, haven't I?" he asked the box, noting the thin layer of dust on the screen. It didn't respond to his questioning. He rubbed the screen lightly with his fingers as he sat, putting his glass next to the keyboard. He switched on the machine and looked about for something more suitable to clean it. Seeing nothing nearby, he used his sleeve.

"Well, what should I do first?" he wondered. "The news?" He sipped the brandy again. "No, fuck that. I'm not in the mood for that foolishness right now. How about checking in on the boys on the paratrooper board? That's always good for a laugh. Maybe the Kilted Heathen is up to some mischief again."

He logged onto the internet and loaded the bookmark for the para message board. There were no recent messages from the Kilted Heathen. He took a larger mouthful of brandy and sighed. "So much for that," he said.

Another screen name caught his eye. Minotauros. His brow narrowed. Only one man used that name. David Ashton. He wasn't SAS, but he was prior U.S. Special Forces. Weatheral knew certain details about the man that others would find unbelievable, like just how old he actually was. His choice of screen name was a bit of personal humor understood by few. Weather clicked the link to the message and read it slowly.

As with anything posted on a public forum, the message was cryptic, written in a way that only the intended audience would understand it. Weatheral worked his way through each sentence methodically, making doubly sure he knew the meaning behind every reference. He nursed his drink and paused. He needed a map. Ashton mentioned going to visit landmarks while on vacation at certain times of day. This was his style of giving grid coordinates. Elsewhere in the message would be a hint as to where he meant those coordinates to be. Weatheral read on. There. Ashton reminisced about the soundtrack to Madamigella di Maupin and how he did not hear such a style in modern cinema. Weatheral smirked. The composer to Madamigella di Maupin was Franco Mannino, a Sicilian. Weather stood and went to search his bookshelves for an atlas.

Standing at the shelf, atlas in hand, Weather laughed to himself. The book would be worthless. The coordinates Ashton gave would be in military format; the atlas would not conform to that style. Weatheral would need a military map. He put the book back on the shelf and returned to his desk. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number for Hereford Army Base. He still had friends there, after all. Downing the last of his brandy, he waiting for someone to pick up the line.

"Operations. Linneman speaking."

"Gerald, this is Alan Weatheral."

"Alan, you old goat." The professional tone dropped away immediately. "How's the retired life?"

"I'm growing cobwebs and getting arthritis, just like all the old farts, what do you think?"

Linneman laughed. "Now I know you're lying, you devil. Knowing you, you're brewing mead and you've repainted the whole house like you've been saying you would for years."

"Alright, you got me. Guilty. I've got six casks of mead and four of brandy sitting in the back right now. You should come on over and try some. I just had a glass of the apple brandy and it's exquisite."

"Apple brandy, you say? Now that's enough to get me to come visit, for sure." Linneman chuckled again. "You might be down a cask or two by the time I leave, presuming I'm able to walk by the end of the night."

"Hah! You'll need a taxi, definitely, my friend. You have no self control after the first pint."

"Now look who knows me too well," countered Linneman.

"Hey, Gerald, I'm doing a bit of fooling around with geography at the moment. Is there any chance you could use that fancy big scanner of yours and send me a copy of one of the Sicilian map sheets you've got? It's got a lot more detail than my old atlas does."

"Sure thing. Do you know which sheet?"

Weatheral glanced at Ashton's message board post for a hint. "Uhm, let me see, I think it's, ah, yes, here we go." He told him the sheet number.

"Give me a moment," said Linneman. Weatheral heard the distant sound of drawers opening, sheets ruffling. "Got it," Linneman told him when he returned. "I'll run it through the scanner and email it to you. What's your email address?"

Weatheral gave it to him. "Will I be able to read grid coordinates like usual?"

"Yeah, if you print it off at normal scale you'll be fine. It'll take several sheets of paper, but you'll have the whole map. You can even move it about on your screen and find the area you want, too."

"Great. That will work out just fine."

"Alright, I'll have it to you in a few minutes. I wish I could say I'd be there tonight to drink your brandy, but the wife already has plans. Let me take a raincheck on that."

"It's an eventual date. Thanks, Gerald."

"Anytime, Alan. Goodbye."

Weatheral reread the post while he waited for the email to arrive. The empty glass beckoned for a refill, but he resisted its call. The rest of the message meant he would have to be on a plane later tonight and in Sicily tomorrow. Between now and then, there was a lot to do. He picked up the phone again.

"Yeah?" grumbled a raspy voice.

"Sandy, it's Alan. Check the para board. We've got some traveling to do."

"Roger that," said the Scotsman without hesitation.

xxxxxxxxxx

12 January 2000
Paris, France

Thoreau Comtois nudged the arm of his friend and gestured to the Parisian streets. "Look at this place, Danial," he said in English, the language the two of them used between themselves. "Makes you wish for the old days, doesn't it?"

Daniel Brodeur sniffed, wiping his nose on his collar. "You mean the days of running drugs about the city or the bank heists? That was fifteen years ago. Or do you mean the turf wars and extortion rackets of the last ten years? I'm not sure I want those back, either."

Comtois scowled, but chuckled nonetheless. "I forgot about the drugs. I was thinking more about the whores and the numbers. I enjoyed that kind of work back then. Never really cared for the jewel heists and the like that we've done lately. I guess I'm old and set in my ways."

"Heh, an old mobster who wants to go back to slapping streetwalkers and running craps. Times are changing. We have to do the same or we don't make money."

"Yeah, I know. It's just not as fun anymore."

Brodeur sniffed again, his nose running. "Would you rather have fun or have money?"

"Both, if I have to be honest about it," said Comtois, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "The bosses are doing more of this sliding into legitimate business sort of thing, or at least appearing to do so, than I care for. It just doesn't seem like our kind of thing."

The two gangsters strolled through the crosswalk to the other side of the street. Comtois leaned on the lightpost on the far side. Brodeur eyed him for a while before responding.

"The legit businesses are a way to reduce the violence in the city. And we certainly have enough of that already. We still have the turf wars going on throughout the arrondissements and, to make it worse, these crazy beheadings and whatnot. I'll take some mild extortion and legit business work over that kind of thing, myself."

"Yeah, well…" began Comtois. He didn't finish the comment, just let it dangle in the air. He busied himself with kicking a pebble with his shoe.

"Sounds to me," said a new voice, "like you fellows need to either find a new line of work or be glad with what you've got."

"What?" Comtois glanced up, taking in the countenance of a smiling man standing near him. He wore a dark hat and heavy trench coat, but neither concealed the fact that he was slender and dark-haired. Brown eyes twinkled beneath the hat.

"Who are you?" demanded Brodeur.

"Someone that men of your profession should know well," replied the stranger, "at least by reputation." His smile broadened as he took a slight bow. "I am Clément Caron."

"Mon…Monsieur Caron, pardonnez-moi s'il vous plaît," (Mis… Mr. Caron, please forgive me,) stammered Comtois, reverting back to French as his face paled.

Caron continued to smile. "No, no. English is fine. And no offense taken."

"But, Mr. Caron," continued Brodeur before catching himself. He hung his head.

"Yes, yes. If you had known I was here, you would not have been saying such things. Don't worry about that."

Brodeur nodded and looked back up at the man. His eye twitched as he spoke. "What brings you back to Paris, Mr. Caron? You haven't been here for two years?"

"I've come to check on the status of my business interests here. That's all."

"Yes, of course," said Comtois. "We should take you to see Mr. Lefebvre. He'll want to pay his respects and give you a personal tour."

Caron's smiled all the more. "Excellent. Lead the way, gentlemen." Clément Caron followed the two gangsters as they led him to the local mob boss to make the introductions.

xxxxxxxxxx

12 January 2000
Paris, France
Quai Voltaire Hotel
Watcher Headquarters

"So far, the class is doing well," reported Jonathan Matzel. "They've taken to the fitness regimen decently and there have been no disciplinary issues so far. We'll move into some rudimentary weapons training week after next. After a few weeks of that, we'll transition to security protocols and communications and then the month after that we'll throw in some variable training. Should be some good stuff by then."

Sather nodded slowly and tapped a few keys on his laptop. "I know it's early yet," he said, "but I want the cadre to keep out an eye for leadership potential in the candidates. We're going to need trainers for the next class."

"Already on it, boss," grinned Matzel. "They're keeping tabs on everyone. People are already showing their colors. There's promise among them."

"How are the people in Spartanburg taking it?" asked Capella. "The presence of our people and our facilities there?"

Richard Emerson, one of the logistics officers, spoke up. "Those South Carolina folks think we're a bunch of FBI agents doing special training near their town. We're fostering that notion and, so far, we have their full support. We even have our people carrying badges and credentials just in case they're questioned."

Capella frowned. "What if actual FBI agents check them out?"

Ramesh Laghari, the intelligence officer, chimed in. "We already had legal and IT deal with that. They've tapped into the FBI systems and added our people in as recruit trainees. They'll pass any initial scrutiny. They've even been briefed on how to answer simple questions should agents try to quiz them."

"Sounds good," said Sather. "We just have to make sure the new facility is built and equipped in time for the next class, then. How is that coming, Bryan?" He glanced at the other logistics officer seated next to Emerson.

Bryan Green looked up from his laptop, his expression grim. "The construction is going along on schedule," he said. He pointed at his screen. "There is a problem with the equipment, though."

Sather frowned. "What's that?"

"Our storage depot in Clamart where we were staging the gear and weapons was hit last night. I just got an email from two men who were taking a truck down there to drop off some sheet metal."

"And?" prompted Sather.

"Everyone there is dead," said Green. "The entire platoon of Guardians and the workmen at the warehouse, all dead. Forty-seven men in all. And most of the supplies there are gone. Cleaned out."

Sather's fist slammed on the table. "Goddammit! Now these fuckers are using our own weapons against us. What's next?"

xxxxxxxxxx

12 January 2000
Portopalo di Capo Passero, Sicily
Ristorante al Faro da Corrado

Dining at an Italian seafood restaurant was a challenge for one who preferred to eat as close to kosher as possible. Such was Ashton's habit of eating. The cuisine at the Restaurant at the Faro by Corrado, however, was heavily garnished with lobster, mussels, or other shellfish. Ashton scoured the menu meticulously before finding one dish he could safely order and, even then, he had to ask for the half dozen shrimp to be left off the top of the entree. The waiter gave him an odd look but promised to pass on his request to the chef.

The other five at the table had no such dietary impediments and ordered without restraint. They were especially free, per Ashton's directive, with ordering wine. Six different bottles of it were spaced across the table, one for each occupant.

"Now that we are comfortable and have placed our orders," said Ashton, "I think I should finally get around to the introductions." He smiled at Weatheral and Traynor. "Of course, Alan and Sandy already know each other, but you are strangers to the others here." He gestured to the three others seated nearby. "I would like the three of you to officially meet Alan Weatheral and Sandy Traynor, both recently retired from the British Special Air Service."

Weatheral and Traynor nodded and smiled at the young woman with the metal bar through her eyebrow and the stud in her nose and two middle-aged men seated across from them. The trio returned the greeting, the woman adding, "Good evening."

"This," Ashton continued, "is Dr. Nicola Courtorielle. Don't let the green hair - it used to be pink - fool you. Nicola is an expert on Middle Eastern culture and religions and a professor at Swansea University."

Ashton moved on to the man with the graying brown hair. "And this is Oskar Traeger, one of the best pilots I have met in the last twenty years. What he lacks in manners, he makes up for it in guts."

The German pilot nodded, remaining silent and sipping his wine. Ashton kept speaking.

"Finally, we have Colonel Cyryl Jankowsky, late of the Polish Special Forces." The soldier gave them a grandfatherly smile from behind his wire-frame spectacles and folded his hands on the table.

"I have asked all of you here to offer you a special job," continued Ashton. "Obviously, it is a dangerous one or I wouldn't have been so secretive about it. For that, I will compensate all of you handsomely, if you are willing to take it on."

"What's the job, sir?" asked Jankowsky.

Ashton paused, making sure the chatter from the other guests in the establishment sufficiently masked what he was about to say. He leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. "The surveillance and, potentially, destruction of a terrorist training camp."

Weatheral whistled. "That's quite a job. We'll need more than what we have at this table."

"True enough," said Ashton, drawing a sheaf of papers from his back pocket and laying them on the table. "So, you're all in?"

There were nods all around the table. Ashton smiled and spread out his documents.

"I received this information yesterday. The camp is in Algeria, about sixty kilometers south of Annaba. The plan is to land two surveillance teams north of the camp. They will march south and set up hide sites to keep eyes on the place for a few days while a control cell in Annaba monitors them and transmits reports back to Paris. When the time is right, I will join the teams on the ground with three more men and we, along with the two surveillance teams, hit the camp. Once that is done, we withdraw back to the landing zone, link up with Oskar, and fly out. In Annaba, the control cell packs up and leaves once we are safely out of the country.

"We'll need eight men for each of the two surveillance teams, five team members, a medic, a commo man, and a team leader. The control cell will be four people. Another four for security of the control cell. There will be Oskar and a co-pilot and a backup plane with another pilot and co-pilot. That's twenty-eight people total. Thirty-two when I arrive with my people from Paris.

"I will pay each of you €250,000 for the job except for Cyryl who, as commander of the operation, will receive €500,000. Should anyone be killed during the operation, their families will receive double the promised salary. I will also see to the medical expenses, should that be necessary, of anyone injured on this job.

"I have a list of about a dozen men on one of these pages. They should be willing to come along. I'll need the rest of you to come up with people to fill the other vacancies.

"I already have put in an order with an underground supplier for all of the equipment that will be needed for this operation. It will be arriving in Sicily in a few days. Cyryl, Alan, either of you can pick it up. I'll give you the details since I will be going back to Paris tomorrow. I'll have the money for you by the time the gear arrives.

"Oskar, I also have a lead on two planes for you. You can check them out and, if they're satisfactory, purchase them. I'll leave the money with Cyryl. I'll also leave it up to you to find the other three pilots we'll need.

"That is all I have for my basic brief of the plan," said Ashton, gathering his papers as the food arrived. "I'll pass these around again once the waiter finishes passing out our meals and then you can ask any questions you may have."