Kate was aware Carag was talking to her but didn't hear anything he said. Every sense in her body felt numb, desensitized to everything and everyone that evolved around her. Swallowing hard, she reached for her coffee, sloshing the liquid over the side before she realized her hand was shaking so hard she could barely control the cup. Setting the mug on the table, she became vaguely aware that Carag was staring at her.

"Dr. Manning?"

"Yes," she replied as she slowly regained some sense of feeling. Glancing around, she realized they were alone.

"I was saying that I deem it an honor to work with you."

Staring at the slight man blandly, she cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"I've admired your work for years. The achievements you made on Project 90 were incredible. When Briere mentioned that I'd have the opportunity to assist you, well, I naturally jumped at the chance."

Smiling almost pleasantly as she responded, "I find you completely and utterly contemptible. Always have." She pushed away her chair and strolled across the deck, the wind blowing strands of dark hair into her face.

~oOo~

It was well after dark when the ship to shore line buzzed loudly.

"Mr. Briere, a call is coming through for you," the young crewman yelled down from the bridge.

Briere rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Unless I am mistaken, this is the call we have been waiting for."

Rattling up the stairs that led to the bridge then edging his way along the narrow passageway to the radio room, he put the phone to his ear and listened with excited interest then returned the receiver to the crewman.

"Success!" he shouted, mobilizing his large frame down the stairs. Regarding Kate and Carag, his eyes alight, "Lightning Bolt will be here in a matter of hours. I suggest you retire now. Morning will come quickly and we have much to do in very little time."

~oOo~

Lying on his back on the hard deck, Nelson found sleep very elusive. It wasn't that he wasn't tired—he could have slept for days had he been in his bunk aboard Seaview. His shoulder had settled into a dull ache and he just couldn't seem to get comfortable. Giving up the fight, he forced himself to sit up, leaning his back against what he could only assume to be the bulkhead and cringing as the movement caused a stab of pain through his shoulder and arm. The brackish, stale air coupled with the damp, iron fetidness of seawater and rusted metals took him back years to his childhood, conjuring up unpleasant memories long since forgotten. Staring into the inky black of the storeroom, he remembered why he disliked darkness.

He was a boy, 7 or 8 years old, when he had climbed into the storm drain on a dare. The thought of descending into the dank, dark chamber below scared the life out of him but with the bigger, older boys egging him on, he couldn't turn away. He was a slight boy, short for his age and extremely shy. Making friends was not an easy task for young master Nelson and being the new boy in the neighborhood automatically made him a target for the older boys. He wanted so much to be accepted by the other boys; he simply couldn't let them think he was a coward. So, he had taken a deep breath and ventured down the ladder, into the stale, rat-infested stench below. Midway down, he looked up; saw their faces staring back at him, laughing at him, taunting him, as they slowly lowered the cover back into place. He clung to the rung, knuckles white from tension. From unseen corridors, whispering voices called his name, beckoning him like a siren to a forgotten sailor; icy fingers snaked out of the water below, snatching his ankles and trying to pull him down. It had all been his imagination, he knew later, feeding from the cold terror that engulfed him. Fear overpowered him, clawed at his insides until he could stand it no longer and he had raced to the top rung, yelling and screaming and pleading to be let out, banging on the sealed cover until his fists were bloody. And finally, the cover had moved. A large, powerful hand, his father's hand, had reached down and pulled him out. Walking home, sobbing uncontrollably, the other boys watched, laughing at him, taunting him.

Harry Nelson no longer feared the dark; he conquered that anxiety many years ago. Still, he hated the unpleasant memories and uncertainty it aroused: memories of unspeakable horrors that sought refuge in darkness. Horrors that inflicted their wrath and pain on him more times than he cared to recall. Horrors the frightened 8 year-old boy could only imagine but the seasoned grown man knew were all too real. An involuntary shudder coursed through him as he recalled some of the more terrifying creatures of the dark he had encountered—many only a small child with a vivid imagination could have visualized; some with the more familiar face of man. Pushing away the memories, returning them to the crevices from which they escaped, he forced himself to think of the present: of Briere, of Kate, of Lee Crane and Chip Morton and Seaview.

Nelson had no idea what time it was but an educated guess put it at roughly two or three o'clock in the morning. In a matter of hours Seaview would be making preparations to get underway and Kate would begin work on Lightning Bolt. He ran his hand through his hair and for once wished he hadn't been so impulsive in chastising Briere. Although he had no doubt that Kate was more than capable of taking care of herself, he couldn't help but worry about her.

With a deep sigh, he rested his head against the firm metal and closed his eyes, eventually drifting into a light sleep, only to be jerked awake by the ship's abrupt lurch. A low, steady hum and slight vibration against the bulkhead told him they were getting underway.

~oOo~

As Kate Manning lay across the bed, tired but restless and unable to sleep, she too felt the sudden motion. Staring at the yellowed, water-stained ceiling, she wrestled with the heavy sense of conscience, guilt and worry that had plagued her since earlier that afternoon. Was it right to cooperate with Briere? If it kept Harry alive, she was willing to do anything. And anything was what she would have to do. Briere held her trump card and had already proven he wasn't afraid to use it. Her thoughts drifted to Harry and once again the pang of guilt and worry stabbed at her unmercifully.

Grabbing the pillow that hours ago Nelson had rested upon and drawing it close to her, she could still discern the faint smell of him. God, how she wanted…needed…to have him here with her, not in an intimate way but in a comforting, sheltering way. She longed to feel his arms wrapped around her, protecting her, to hear him whisper in that velvet voice how they would be all right. Switching off the bedside lamp and lying in the darkness, the dulcet tones of an old Ella Fitzgerald song ran through her mind:

Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb

There's a somebody I'm longing to see

I hope that he turns out to be someone to watch over me.

"Oh, how I need someone to watch over me," she repeated aloud with a remorseful sigh, turning over and burying her face in the pillow. Her shoulders convulsing with the sobs, she cried and cried until she could cry no more, until she realized how selfish she felt. Harry couldn't help her. He couldn't be her shepherd and she couldn't expect him to be. It was up to her to be strong and resourceful. She had cried her self-pity out and now she was ready to do whatever was needed to get them home. Filled with a sense of determination and rising courage, she lay awake a while longer until finally drifting into a shallow, dreamless sleep.

~oOo~

In his cabin aboard Seaview, Lee Crane was having an equally restless night. There was so much he wanted to do and so little he could do. He despised feeling helpless but more than anything he despised not knowing. He could almost accept that the admiral might be dead. How many times in the past did he resign himself to that fate only to find him very much alive? The admiral did have a knack for getting himself into and out of trouble.

Still, he had so many questions. If the admiral and Dr. Manning had been kidnapped, why hadn't anyone contacted the Institute? Why hadn't he heard anything from the police? He would have thought they could have turned up a fingerprint, a clue…something. In the last few hours he had tried to think of every madman, every diabolical mastermind they had ever encountered who might have had a grudge against the admiral. But that was an impossible task—there were just so many. And was he being close-minded to think this only concerned the admiral? What if this abduction had nothing to do with him? This Dr. Manning seemed to hold a prominent position at the Center and her list of clearances and credentials certainly was impressive. Maybe these people were after her and the admiral just happened to be in the wrong place. Why hadn't he thought of that aspect before? He had naturally assumed the admiral was the target. Perhaps Dr. Manning was the intended target. He made a mental note to discuss this aspect with that detective from the Santa Barbara Police Department.

In addition to the admiral's disappearance, the stress of the pending mission weighed heavily on his sense of duty. On one hand, he knew Seaview had to sail. Professor Byers and the men at the Cetacean Lab were critically dependent on the supplies Seaview would bring. He couldn't very well leave the scientists stranded. But on the other hand, he felt his place was here at the Institute ready to mobilize in the event of news—news that might not come. It wasn't rational to think he could affect events if he stayed at the Institute and besides, the waiting would drive him crazy. But the admiral was his friend and somehow, to sail with Seaview made him feel as if he were abandoning his friend. No, he rationalized, his best course of action was to sail with Seaview. It would be a fairly routine trip but eventful enough to keep him occupied. And besides, if word did come, the Flying Sub could have him back in Santa Barbara in a matter of hours. His mind partially placated, he tried to concentrate on sleep.

~oOo~

Maxwell Briere stood just inside the wheelhouse as the sun poked its first rays above the distant horizon. "It's going to be a fine day," he announced cheerfully. When he was a boy, he loved to sit on the stone fence overlooking the sea while his mother played Delius' Florida Suite, in particular, By the River. As he placidly stared across the endless water, he felt a sudden yearning to be back with his mother, listening to the soothing sound of the wonderful music.

"Yes, sir," agreed his captain, a tall serious man whose alliance with Briere stretched as far as he was willing to pay.

"How long do you estimate our journey will take?"

"By my calculations, sir, 11 days—barring inclement weather."

"We'll be avoiding the shipping lanes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you Captain." Briere exited the wheelhouse for the warmth of the new sun. Placing the straw Panama hat firmly on his shiny pink head, he took his place aft. Always watch the sun rise and set his mother had told him. He had always tried to do what mother said.

~oOo~

The wake-up call came at 0530, much too early for Kate Manning. Staggering into the small shower inside the cramped lavatory, she emerged twenty minutes later with a few less cobwebs and a strong desire for hot coffee. Brushing aside a wave of guilt that had plagued her since the night before, she quickly dressed and headed topside where Briere and Carag were already enjoying a hearty breakfast under the warm, summer sun.

"Dr. Manning!" Briere poured a measure of coffee into her cup. "How refreshed you look this fine morning. I trust you slept well?"

Kate accepted the cup, trying not to look as desperate for the liquid as she felt. "Under the circumstances, as well as expected."

Briere's features softened as he read the unspoken statement in her words. "Please trust that the admiral spent a perfectly undisturbed night as well. Granted, his conditions were less pleasant than yours but you must agree he brought it on himself. I'm a most forgiving man but I will not have open hostility directed at me. Until he apologizes for the assault, he can stay down there."

Kate stared incredulously at the man, unable to fathom what she was hearing. The man, this veritable megalomaniac, had the audacity to say he felt assaulted! Kate bit back her temper and nodded perfunctorily. Harry would never apologize.

"We have a busy day today, my friends. I suggest we finish our delicious breakfast and get started. I've prepared a schedule and the first milestone is a mere twelve hours from now. I realize it is aggressive but each day wasted represents forfeited profit."

Kate barely had time to finish her coffee before she and Carag accompanied an anxious Briere forward. Mounted on a heavy platform was the perpetrator of Kate's plight: what had been termed by her predecessor as Lightning Bolt. She regarded the medley of components with great despise. It had been a pinnacle achievement to recreate such a complex device on shear powers of recollection but now she hated herself for it and the feeling of accomplishment it had brought her. Had she more courage and an utter disregard for her own life and, more importantly, Harry's, she would have struck down the object right then and there. But, thankfully, more courage and utter disregard eluded her. She had a strong feeling that Harry's future hung precariously on her actions and any misstep on her behalf would easily result in his demise. With a deep sigh, she strolled closer to Carag, just catching the end of Briere's tedious explanation of the broad array of instruments, tools and equipment at their disposal.

"You find something not to your liking?" Briere asked, noticing the look of undisguised contempt etched on Kate's face.

Unaware her emotions were so apparent she was taken aback, "I was just thinking of the best way to boost power to the amplifier."

"Good. For a moment I thought your enthusiasm might be waning."

Enthusiasm, she thought? Her enthusiasm had waned about twenty-four hours ago. "No," she only partially lied, "I'm very anxious to get this over with and to return to some semblance of my life."

"That's the spirit!" Briere cried with a pump of his fist.

~oOo~

"Morning, Chip." It was a weary Lee Crane that greeted the exec.

"Good morning, Lee," Chip said, glancing up from the plot table and seeing the dark circles under the Skipper's eyes. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," Lee answered, sarcasm seeping into his voice. He ran his hand through his hair. "If it's any consolation, I probably feel as bad as I look."

"The admiral's disappearance is getting to you, huh?"

Lee let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, I guess it is." He caught the quizzical look on his exec's face and continued. "I don't know Chip. I thought I knew the admiral better than, well, better than anyone else. And I never knew about this Dr. Manning. He never, ever mentioned her."

"Would you have expected him to? Lee, we both know the admiral's a very private man. I would think he has a few secrets that he keeps from even you."

Lee let out a long, ponderous sigh, "You're probably right."

"Go easy on yourself. You can't be responsible for every thing that happens to the man. He's a big boy and contrary to what we might think, he's probably more capable of taking care of himself than either you or me."

Again, Lee found reason in what his exec said. "I know, I know. I just feel like there's more we could be doing."

"Like what? You've got the Institute Security and the Santa Barbara Police Department alerted. Apart from calling in the FBI, there's not much more we can do unless some firm evidence shows itself. For all we know, the admiral and Ms. Manning got spontaneous and decided to run off to Vegas to get married."

Lee gaped incredulously at his exec then laughed openly at the thought of the admiral running off to Vegas. He knew what Chip was trying to do and was grateful for his efforts. "Do you really think the admiral is capable of that kind of spontaneity?" he asked with a relaxed smile.

"I don't know, sometimes he's full of surprises."

Lee cast his mind back over the years, to some of the wilder stunts the admiral had pulled that had astounded Lee and the crew of the Seaview. "Maybe you're right," he replied, scratching his chin and realizing he could have done a better job shaving. "Even so, you and I both know he would never go off on a whim and shirk his responsibilities to Seaview and the Institute."

The exec nodded, a raised eyebrow emphasizing that he conceded the Skipper's point. If anything, the admiral was almost obsessive about his responsibilities. Studying the amused expression still adhering to Crane's dark features, Chip felt now was as good a time as any to broach the subject. "Lee, I hate to mention this but it's 0630. I've already fielded half a dozen calls from Professor Byers." Chip cringed at the memory of his last conversation with the professor. The man was easily on the other side of seventy but could still use words that made even the stoic Chip Morton blush.

"I know," he answered, his look of resignation making a rapid return.

~oOo~

Hearing the bolt on the door disengage, Nelson looked up to see Marco wave him out. "Come on. Mr. Briere says you get a trip upstairs."

Nelson struggled to his feet then led the way through the narrow passageway and up the metal stairs, blinking hard as his eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed bright sunlight that trickled in from the Main Deck one flight up.

Marco motioned him towards the crew's lavatory. Positioning himself outside the door, he let the admiral pass. "You've got fifteen minutes."

Disappearing into the lavatory, Nelson shut the door. The space was small, confined, and had a faint odor of warm seawater, mildew and other unpleasant smells that generally accompanied a men's lavatory. At this point, he wasn't particular. Completing his first urgent business he wandered over to the wash basin, letting the water run until it was lukewarm then pulling up the stopper and letting the water run until the sink was halfway full.

Glancing into the mirror, he noticed the dark crimson patch that stained the light cotton shirt. Thinking back to the previous night, he guessed that he had probably reopened the wound when he ran into the I-beam. He gave a moment's thought to cleaning and rebandaging the wound then decided it would take much more effort than he was willing to expend. Noting his appearance, he let out a disbelieving laugh at the sight that greeted him. Dried blood, a painful reminder of yesterday morning's ordeal, was still encrusted in his disheveled hair and a heavy layer of stubble covered his chin and jaw. Predominantly white stubble he noted, much to his chagrin.

Splashing the tepid water on his face and washing away the last remnants of blood, he casually glanced at the faucet, a thought occurring to him. Quickly, he opened the cabinet below, examining the connections that ran from the sink to the drainpipe. Bending to his knees and realizing too late that he should avoid sudden motion like that, he tested the pivot rod that connected to the clevis that in turn controlled the stopper. The bolt from the pivot rod to the clevis would be impossible to free by hand but all he really needed to do was free the pivot rod. Gingerly guarding his shoulder, he leaned into the cabinet and attempted to break the clevis. The metal was thin, pliable, bending easily between his fingers. If he broke it, he doubted any of the crew would know the difference but they might notice the leak that would ensue once the pivot rod was missing. Thinking through his options, he remembered a simple trick he learned long ago.

An impatient knock on the door brought him abruptly to his feet, bumping his head against the cabinet in the process and cursing under his breath. He hadn't quite worked it free but was confident it would give after one more attempt. If Briere was that concerned with his well-being, he might just get another chance later in the day. Before opening the door to Marco, he quickly took a handful of water and deposited it under the pipes so that it formed a small puddle. He took another handful and splashed it liberally on the pipes so that there was a noticeable drip.

"Time's up," Marco called, rattling the door handle.

Feeling his confidence returning, Nelson quietly closed the cabinet then opened the door. "Sorry," he apologized rather sheepishly as Marco surveyed the lavatory for anything out of the ordinary. "By the way, there's a leak under the sink."

Marco opened the cabinet, saw the water and grunted. Then, satisfied everything was in order but still giving the admiral a suspicious glare, Marco nudged him forward. "Back the way you came."

Nelson allowed himself a slight grin. He had a plan, albeit dangerous and rather tenuous, but a plan nonetheless.