"Serena, let's not be watching that, honey." Kim Brown took the remote control away from her young daughter, flipping the station to something a little more age appropriate. The image on the television screen changed into a scene of a large bird with yellow feathers and a long neck crooning about the number 'seven' to a group of children Serena's age, all carefully selected for maximum cultural diversity.

Serena wasn't about to be distracted. "Mommy, I wanted to watch the other show. Isn't that what Daddy does?"

"No, honey, that is most certainly not what Daddy does. Daddy works in an office," Kim said firmly. A little too firmly, to be honest. She put the remote up on the shelf where Serena couldn't reach it.

But the original scene on the television screen had looked more than just a mite horrific. It was the Waco Massacre all over, waiting to happen yet again. It was a group of borderline psychopaths, sociopaths, and just plain crazies, thoroughly brainwashed by a cult leader into believing that the United States Government was an instrument of the devil whose sole purpose for the next decade was to torture and kill every one of the members of the 'Cult of the New Revelation' in preparation for the Next Coming which, according to the cult leaders, would be occurring in the near future. The information coming through the news media had been sketchy, but Kim found herself flipping back to the reporter on the scene every time that her daughter left the room, trying to glean every tidbit, as if that would make things come out better. There were some two hundred people in the compound, the reporter said, although that number was far from certain, and it was estimated that there were three to four guns per person with plenty of ammunition to go around. There was the Texas National Guard surrounding the perimeter, waiting for something to happen. So far, nothing had. The Cult glared at the Guard outside their fence, and the Guard tried to keep itchy triggers fingers from setting off the first damning shot. The governor was trying to negotiate a truce, trying to keep everyone and anyone from getting killed, and wasn't making good progress. It was a recipe for disaster.

Which was why, when her husband Bob's beeper went off, Kim Brown wasn't surprised. Not happy, but not surprised.

"I don't know that Texas is where we're being sent to," he told her, looking over her head, holding her close.

"Where else could it be?" Kim's voice was muffled in his chest. "What else could it be?" She clutched at him; a drowning woman terrified for her impending loss. It didn't matter that he'd come back to her every time so far, bloodied but unbowed. It didn't matter that the muscles in his arms were honed to within an inch of his life, that he worked out every day to maintain that physique so that he stood the best chance of returning home to her. It didn't matter all the time he put in on the shooting range, sending practice bullets into a sheet of recycled paper with a black silhouette on it.

What mattered was that he was going. What mattered was that down the street, just six houses away, was another wife—widow, now—who was packing her belongings and her children and trying to figure out how she could live on a low income wage and a survivor's pension.

What mattered was that Bob Brown might not come back.

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It took Tiffy Gerhardt more than a few moments to realize that it wasn't merely her husband in her bed that was causing bombshells to go off inside her brain.

It was that damn pager.

The thing was buzzing on top of the dresser, honking at them, the noise at first covered by the noise that the pair of them were making, but now, the fireworks over, the next set of fireworks were ready to begin. Mack glared at the small black box and cursed in resignation. He reached for his pants.

Tiffy knew better than to argue. She'd tried it in the past. It hadn't worked then, it wouldn't work now, and she sincerely doubted that it would in the future. Even the slender finger caresses, the moves that would always draw him back to the sheets at better times, couldn't compete with that damn beeper. It was the siren call in the true sense of the Greek legend, the sound that called brave men to their doom. She reached for his lean and hard body, wanting him to some day acknowledge his need for her even more than his need to do his job, wordlessly trying to pull him in to her. She couldn't help it. No verbal argument, but this time, just once, perhaps…

It didn't work, just as it hadn't worked in the past. He was gone, out the door and into his truck, heading toward 'the office.' It was where they all supposedly worked, where they were 'clerks' working 'logistical supply' for the army. It was a cover story growing thin, but it was still in effect. Her husband had just been called in to find out where a shipment of paperclips had been mis-directed to. Such an emergency.

Tiffy knew better.

The re-enlistment papers on the dressers, underneath where the pager had sat just moments before, kept reminding her. Her husband was going off to some corner of the world to prevent some crisis from reaching the boiling point. He would never tell her where, but Tiffy kept the set tuned to the world news whenever he was out of the house. She knew about the stand-off going on in Texas, the one where everyone was hoping that the crazies were going to give themselves up quietly and knowing that it likely wouldn't happen. That someone would end up shooting someone else, and like as not one of the shooters would be Mack Gerhardt. Her husband.

Tiffy Gerhardt cursed softly to herself as the sound of Mack's truck died away in the distance.

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The tools hadn't been cleaned before being put away as they usually were, but that needed to wait. The pager going off made him aware of that particular detail in no uncertain terms. But the leak had been fixed, and the lady that he was proud to call his wife wouldn't have to put up with emptying a bucket of water twice daily from underneath the sink. It was a job well done, even if he had to leave the tail end of it for when he came home. Hopefully it wouldn't be too long before that happened.

Molly Blane understood, and he was proud of that, too; as proud as the day that she accepted him as her husband. There had been tough times and joyful times. Today was one of the tough times. There was no need for words, just that solid enfolding her in his arms that told them both how strong their love was, but Molly felt the need to say them anyway: "Come back safely to me."

"Always," Jonas answered, hoping that it would be true one more time. And if this was the time that it wasn't? Well, he wouldn't be in any condition that he would be able to apologize. He'd just have to be satisfied that the Army would do his apologizing for him in the form of a spousal pension, and that the rest of his surviving team and his commander would make certain that she didn't want for anything. That his daughter would be able to finish college without owing anyone a dime.

Jonas wondered where it would be this time: Afghanistan? The Philipines? It had been South America two weeks ago. And there was that crisis in Texas going on, one just begging for some highly trained intervention. Just the type that he and his squad specialized in.

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Colonel Ryan handed out the maps, one for each of them. One was a road map that showed the little town of Saylorville some twenty miles away from the cult compound; that he handed off to Brown with another copy to Hector Williams. Brown settled his butt against the table, perusing the paper, committing the roads to memory. He didn't know if they'd need more than one way in or out, but that wasn't the point. If he needed the information, he needed to have it before the question came up. Preparation was everything. The topo map went into the hands of Gerhardt. As point, Gerhardt immediately starting looking for the best way into the compound, the best places to set up a shelter from which to aim a gun, the best spots for a soldier to be positioned. Gray, the smallest of the bunch but far from less dangerous, got his own topo.

"We don't know a hell of a lot about these bozos," was Ryan's opening remarks. "Like most cults, they're out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a bunch of trees that make it hard to move an army into position with any sort of reasonable firepower. It also makes it easy for them to position a lot of lookouts and snipers, so watch your step. They're well-armed and dangerous and the local law enforcement seems to think that they'll be more than happy to use those weapons that they don't think that we know about. They're paranoid, gentlemen. They think that we're out to get them."

"In this case, we are," Blane noted, his deep tones remarkably mellifluous for such a deadly remark.

Ryan allowed a brief smile to interrupt his lecture. "Their leader is a whack job who goes by the name of Father Tall. His real name is John Alloway, but he gave that up when he was released from the state psychiatric facility in Wisconsin. Seems the good doctors thought that Mr. Alloway was cured enough to be let out into society."

"Hey, if you don't like the society you have, create your own," Gray quipped. "Preferably one that comes with lots of bowing acolytes to fulfill your every wish." He ruffled his map, trying to figure out how the folds had gone and failing. "How many of them are there?"

"Good question. Could be anywhere from thirty to three hundred, possibly more. One of the deputies tried to serve one of the members a warrant about two months ago, and considers himself lucky to be alive. He says he saw at least twenty men—the women and children were all kept inside that barracks-like building on your map, Gray—and he saw enough automatic weapons lying around to equip a small army. He thinks he saw a crate of grenades, as well. Needless to say, the warrant did not reach its intended target." Ryan handed out an 8 x 10 glossy. The picture showed a man from some distance away, the picture shot through a telephoto lens. The subject was taller than the other men around him, and broad through the shoulders. Long brown hair was going white, with a think skunk streak to one side, the clinging locks dangling down around his shoulders. Long legs were stuffed into equally long jeans and boots, and he wore a long vest-like affair that reminded Jonas of some of the old Renaissance religious paintings. "Father Tall. That's the best picture we've got of him. It was taken some two months ago, when the FBI started to take an interest."

"How old is he?"

"Barely forty. Not married, in the state's eyes, but the locals think that he performs a lot of 'ceremonies' where he gives the cult women to whatever men are favored for that particular night. We don't know how many kids there are, either. We've seen a few, but for the most part they're kept inside with the women. We're sure that they've dug tunnels that lead from one building to the next. That's the only thing that would account for not seeing the numbers of people that we know they've got." Ryan pointed out one building that was as large as the barracks. "We think that's the mess hall. We see smoke rising from those chimneys every night just before dinner time. These other smaller buildings, we don't have a clue."

"Could be entranceways to more underground tunnels," Gerhardt opined.

"Could be," Ryan agreed. "Could be storage depots for more munitions than we have on this whole damn base of ours."

Blane surveyed his own maps, both the road map and the topo. "Mission parameters?"

"That's where it gets tricky."

Why am I not surprised? Blane kept the impassive look on his face.

Ryan was used to him and to the attitude, and moved on. "There are a couple of them. First and foremost, there's Congressman Gerald Brideswell who has gotten himself into a pickle. His ex-wife is one of Father Tall's flock."

They looked at each other.

"All right. I'll bite," Gerhardt spoke up. "If she's his ex, why are we concerned? Why is he still concerned? This an election year?"

"So glad you asked." Ryan picked up another folder and started handing out pictures of a fourteen year old boy with light brown hair a little too long for anyone's taste except the shaggy-haired Gray. "Congressman Brideswell's ex-wife is also, to put it bluntly, looney toons in the certifiable sense of the word as attested to by psychiatrists in a court of law. Based on that, the congressman received sole custody of Matthew. Considering that Mom tried to take ten year old Matthew into a stripper bar a few years ago 'for the maturing experience'—in her words, quoted by the police—there really wasn't any opposition to speak of, except for Mom who is firmly convinced that Congressman Brideswell is also a servant of the devil in the person of the United States Government."

"Why do I think this is going somewhere unpleasant?" Blane murmured.

Ryan spared him a glance. "You're absolutely correct, Jonas. Mom kidnapped young Matthew and took him to Father Tall's compound. One of our spotters saw him there three days ago, and no one has left the compound since. We're ninety eight percent certain that he's still there. Your priority mission objective: get Matthew Brideswell out of there alive. Dead is not an option."

The five Unit members looked at each other glumly. Tall order, no pun intended.

"Is there a second objective?" Brown wanted to know.

"Of course there is, sergeant. This is the Army." Ryan beamed, the smile hearty and false. "The Attorney General has requested our assistance in serving warrants for the arrest of most of the adults that we've identified in there. It probably won't surprise you to know that the local law enforcement officers haven't had too much luck in that department."

"Probably had something to do with being seriously out-gunned," Williams offered, only half-joking.

"And out-numbered." There was no joke there. Gerhardt was serious. "There's at least thirty of them if not more."

Ryan nodded. "Which is why a frontal assault is out of the question, gentlemen. The first round of bullets is going to be followed by a general mass murder inside the barracks of the women and children, including Congressman Brideswell's son and ex-wife. Everyone would like to see that not happen. Election year or not."

"Which is why they've turned to us." Blane stated the obvious.

"Which is why they've turned to us," Ryan repeated, agreeing. "Jonas, I've put all the information that we have into these packets, damn little of it that there is. I've requisitioned a Blackhawk to get you there; it leaves in four hours. You have that long to get your gear together. Figure out what you need, and use my name to acquire it. God speed."

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Blane was the first off the Blackhawk, ducking slightly in an instinctive move to avoid being decapitated by the still whirling rotors. Everything that he needed was either inside his pack, lashed to it, or hanging from some other part of his fatigues. The others too cringed automatically, even Gray, the shortest of them all. They hustled across the landing zone, heading for the small group of men waiting for them at the far end.

Blane saluted out of courtesy, not certain which of those present in the welcoming committee was in charge, or who was entitled to a salute. None were in uniform; that was reserved for the National Guardsman who had apparently been assigned to act as chauffeur for the committee. The limousine that he'd driven waited in the background for whatever important man was here to meet them. Heat wavered off of the cement, baked in by the afternoon sun, and there was the off-kilter scent of machine oil that seemed to be omni-present where ever there were aircraft. Blane ignored both the heat and the smell.

The smallish man in the center held out his hand. "I was told that you'd be arriving. David Rostenberger, from the governor's office."

"Jonas Blane." Blane took the hand, found the man's grip to be a bit limp. A lackey, then, fit only for carrying communications to and from the governor who at the moment was still supposedly trying to negotiate with the cult. He looked that part; a three piece suit in this heat did it every time. Jonas himself felt far more comfortable in his fatigues. "Have there been any developments in the past two hours?"

"No—" Rostenberger started to say, but one of the other men with him interrupted.

"There's been some movement throughout the compound," he offered, "and our Forensics Unit has uncovered some airtight evidence. We can now add a warrant for murder to the charges, a warrant for one Curt Brodin. We think he's the number two man under Father Tall."

Jonas eyed the other man carefully, liking what he saw. The man's posture held that stiffness that suggested a background in the military, the crisp clean look not entirely covered over by civilian life. "And you are—?"

"Raymond Olivero, from the local FBI bureau. Thank you for coming in on this, Sgt. Blane. We're looking at a potential disaster here."

"I have to agree with you on that," Jonas said. "There's been some movement?"

"Yes, and my people think that there's more through the tunnels between the buildings," Olivero added. "Men have been moving things here and there. We've pulled back. Tall's people are getting nervous, and we don't want to push them into anything prematurely. Not yet, anyway."

Blane nodded. "Smart move. You have a computer with a secure line somewhere that I can use?"

"We've set up a command center—"

"What do you need a computer for?" Rostenberger broke in harshly. "You're here to force those people to surrender!" He surveyed Blane's team, making his annoyance clear. "Where's the rest of your squad? When are the rest going to arrive? We have an emergency here, dammit!"

Blane kept all expression off of his face. It was clear where at least some of the roadblocks would be. The governor's office would want to keep this as quiet as possible and get it over with as quickly as possible. Well, those two objectives dovetailed with his own but he suspected that the methods about to be used were at odds.

"Mr. Rostenberger," he said, using his deep voice as a weapon of another kind. "If an army had been called for, you have one right here in the form of your very fine State National Guard." Out of the corner of his eye, Jonas observed the flicker of a smirk on the chauffeur's face. Clearly Jonas and his men were not the first that Rostenberger had tried to suborn. "Your superiors and mine, having evaluated this situation very carefully, have determined that a frontal assault with guns waving and bullets flying would result in a great many lives lost." People lost who then would not be able to vote in the next election, he added mentally. "Having received those same instructions from my superiors, I have taken it upon myself to plan a mission that will carry out those instructions in a fashion that I hope will minimize casualties. Part of that planning includes up to date intelligence on that compound. Now, do you have anything to add that might give greater insight into the workings of that compound?" Jonas waited.

"The governor—"

"Is the governor inside the compound?"

"No, he's—"

"Is he speaking with any member of that compound?"

"No, he's back at the capital, waiting—"

"Then, Mr. Rostenberger, can you tell me any reason why I should be directly communicating with the governor except for him to tell me to be careful? An instruction, I believe, that I and my men have already internalized to an exceptionally high degree."

"This is the governor's state—"

"And he has already come to the very sensible conclusion to call in expert assistance from the United States Army to preserve the well-being of that state. When you call in experts, Mr. Rostenberger, you do not engage in micro-management. You step out of the way and allow your experts to perform the task you have set for them. Now, if you will excuse me, I and my men need to brief ourselves on the further developments of this situation. I believe Mr. Olivero has the equipment that we require. Mr. Olivero?"

"Right this way." Olivero too had trouble keeping the smirk off of his face.

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Molly Blane glanced at the television. Vacuuming covered over the sound, but dusting had the advantage of being able to listen and clean at the same time. Molly dusted.

"Talks appear to have broken down," the reporter told the camera earnestly. "The Cult of the New Revelation has reinforced their borders with additional men, bringing the count of able-bodied and armed cult soldiers inside up to two hundred and fifty known combatants."

Molly wondered if that was where her husband and his unit had been sent to. It was a strong possibility.

"The governor's office declines to comment at this time, stating that further details might prejudice upcoming discussions with the cult and its leaders. The National Guard continues to maintain a wide perimeter around the compound, out of range of the weapons that the fanatics have been seen to carry. There has been no food or water taken in, but no one knows how much the cult has got in storage or how many days they can last without additional supplies."

Even if this was where Jonas was, Molly knew that he would never share that with her upon his return. He never talked about his missions. Yes, there were those occasional muttered comments in his nightmares, the ones where he woke her up with the anguish easy to hear under it all, but he would never tell her. Not directly.

"This stand off has gone on for two days now," the reporter reminded her. "Live, from Texas, this is—"

Molly tuned out the name. Just another reporter, hoping for his or her shot at fame and national prominence. Already Molly couldn't remember who the reporter was, even if it was a man or a woman. What she was really looking for, she couldn't see. There was no sign of her husband on that TV screen.

Not that she had expected there to be.

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Jonas negotiated the protocols that would allow him to download the latest from the DOD satellites. Pictures flooded the screen, made eerie by the red of the heat sensors that tracked movement underground. There was precious little to be seen with conventional views, but the underground activity was noteworthy. He started with the conventional view.

It was late afternoon, and the pictures were in real time. They were showing what was occurring at this very moment inside the compound. Was Father Tall aware that he was being observed through the miracle of technology? Jonas wasn't able to tell, not with this information. Just how paranoid was the man? The previously confidential psychiatric case file, ripped open by the needs of national security and a sensible federal judge, had minimized the paranoia and emphasized the grandiose statements of a truly sick mind. Of course, those were the same psychiatric personnel who were unable to predict this outcome, this gathering of like minds into a few square miles chock full of weapons, so Jonas chose to reserve his opinion on the accuracy of that case file.

The conventional view had shown the compound. There were armed men milling around, several at the front gate and several more at the back. An additional cult soldier had been stationed here and there inside the fence, something like an M-16 cradled in his arms. Blane's hopes rose for a speedy and successful outcome: no one inside knew strategy. There were large gaps in the areas being guarded, the inhabitants of the compound instead relying on the chain link fence to keep others out.

That was all for show. The National Guard had likewise been stationed, weapons at ready, every few yards in a circle surrounding the compound but their circle was a good two miles out. Their goal was to prevent a break out, not to engage the enemy. Jonas approved. The distance between the two forces, although demanding more soldiers to maintain, would diminish the chance for a nervous and trigger-happy finger to turn this mess into a massacre.

He turned his attention to the compound itself, aware of his men over his shoulder, looking down at the computer view screen. There were two large barracks dug part way into the ground, one clearly used for cooking as shown by the quantity of smoke rising from the four chimneys tacked along the roof. Jonas could almost smell the scent of food through the computer. The other large building was more difficult to assess: best guess was that it was used as a gathering place. The intel had spoken of various 'ceremonies' that Father Tall had performed, usually bestowing female favors upon whichever man had pleased him that particular day. Was there some way to use that against them? Lock the doors, perhaps, trapping a large portion of Father Tall's men inside? Jonas set that thought aside for the moment, intending to come back to it after completing the briefing.

The smaller buildings were more troubling. There were at least twelve of them, dotted around the compound, too small to be any sort of living quarters. Jonas instructed the view to dolly in. Yes, too small for living quarters, but five of them looked well worn. The ground was shiny, packed down hard, in front. Entrances to the tunnels below, he realized, watching figures pass through. But there were more smaller buildings, and Jonas pushed the screen around until he could focus on one of them. It was squat, too short to accommodate the average man's height, and padlocked. Jonas pursed his lips. There was something stored in there, something that the average person ought not to be playing with, and Jonas could just bet he knew what that something was. Those seven buildings represented a major danger.

They had yet to discover the location of the congressman's son. Jonas switched to the heat-tracking mode.

A lot more intel popped up. Jonas blinked. He pulled the view back for a global shot, estimating at least one hundred warm bodies radiating heat from under the cover of ground and buildings and probably more. It was impossible to get an accurate count under these circumstances. The soldiers on guard duty were the brightest, the easiest to track, but deep below the surface of the ground the compound was riddled with tunnels and dug in living quarters. It looked like an ant colony. He patiently began to trace the tunnels, aware of his men mapping the routes behind him, trying to decipher the purpose of the larger spaces: offices, some of them. More weapons caches; those were the darker spots, with few hot bodies to illuminate the space.

The individual living quarters were the most numerous, and Jonas kept count. One hundred. Two hundred. A larger area with bunks for the small children, another for the adolescents. A third for the adult women; Jonas could barely make out their smaller forms in the waves of the heat sensors. It was only the odd arrangement of heat signatures that told him the gender differences. Behind him he could feel his men noting the same thing. There weren't as many bodies in that particular area but the hot couplings in the individual living quarters suggested that Father Tall had performed many 'ceremonies' just recently. An incentive to keep up the good work, Jonas thought grimly, feeling like a voyeur. Father Tall may be crazy, but he clearly wasn't stupid.

It wasn't going to be easy. Going into those warrens was going to take a great deal of courage, not to mention a healthy side helping of crazy.

Mission objective: pull out one fourteen year old boy. Where would he be? Did Father Tall know what he had on his hands? Jonas turned to Olivero. "The negotiations. Was there any progress on Congressman Brideswell's son?"

"I wouldn't call it progress." Olivero set his jaw. "Father Tall now knows that he has a valuable hostage."

"Then he is taking precautions not to lose that hostage prematurely."

"I don't have your connections," Olivero said, "and I haven't been able to see inside or underground." The FBI agent had also been drinking in the sights from the computer monitor. "But, based on the files we've amassed on Father Tall, that would be my assumption."

Jonas had to ask. "Did the boy go into the compound willingly?"

Olivero made a face. "I take it you're asking if you're going to have to drag him out, kicking and screaming and alerting the rest."

"That would be my question; yes."

Olivero pulled out a disk from the pile on the side of the table. "Take a look at this. That will better answer your question."

'This' was of one of the earlier attempts at negotiations. Jonas recognized Rostenberger as one of the lead negotiators for the state. The sound was blurry, but the pictures did a great deal to make up for it. The officials had approached the perimeter of the compound under a flag of truce, staying outside the wire fence. Father Tall had met them at the gate with a force of men and boys, all armed to the teeth.

"Freeze frame," Olivero directed. He pointed. "Look there."

Jonas looked, feeling the hot breath of his men on his neck as they craned around to look. "Matthew Brideswell."

Gerhardt snorted softly. "I guess that answers that question."

Williams agreed. "One of Tall's hand-picked guards? Smack in the middle of them? I should say so."

Jonas cocked his head, staring. "Can you enhance this shot?"

"Not much. It was taken from pretty far away. Wait a minute; let me try." Olivero fiddled with the controls. "Any better?"

"Zoom in on the boy," Jonas directed.

Matthew's face got larger and blurrier. Jonas wasn't certain that it was much of an improvement. But there were some significant points. "Look at his hands. What do you see?"

As one, his team's collective glance looked downward.

"Nothing." Brown was the first to put it in words. "His hands are empty."

Jonas nodded, satisfied. "No gun. And, look here," he pointed at the screen, "this man has his hand on Matthew's shoulder, keeping him under control. I would say," Jonas mentioned, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction, "that young Matthew, even if he walked into the compound willingly with his mother at his side, has now realized just how much trouble he is in. And that Father Tall is well aware of it, and is taking precautions. Any argument?"

There was none.

"Where are they keeping him?" Brown asked. "That important, they're probably keeping the kid away from the others."

"Good point." Jonas directed the camera to stop rolling the disk and to return to the heat tracking equipment. "Look for a spot away from the main group."

There were several spots, looking identical to the individualized living quarters that they'd seen earlier. Jonas focused the cameras onto one place in particular. Only two of the warrens in that tunnel were occupied, one by a single tall figure giving off very little heat and the other by a pair of bodies emitting more than their share. It was the only area that had less than five bodies, the only area that appeared to be alone. Some ten yards away, however, a cluster of five gathered. Those fives were stationary.

"Could be anything," Gerhardt said doubtfully.

"True." Jonas accepted that assessment as accurate. "But in the absence of additional data, it's worth noting. Everyone getting a good sense of those tunnels?"

A murmur of assents.