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lock!” Harker screamed.
    The man’s head was darting. “We can’t. She’s pressurized the cabin!”
    “Rip out the hinges!”
    One of the men began pulling him to his feet. “We’ve got to get you to the pod, sir.”
    “Yes. Yes. By all means.”
    His mind was whirling, out of control. He was trying to move, to walk, but they were handcuffing his wrist to that stupid briefcase. That was about the last thing he needed right then.
    They had him walking. His free hand fingered the gun in his pocket, just in case. They moved to the rear of the cabin. One of the men was already turning the wheellock in the floor that led to the pod.
    He turned once more to the front of the plane. The man up there was having some luck with the hinges.
    “The door . . .” he started.
    “No time.”
    They were easing him down into the pod. It was small and cramped—claustrophobic. There was a tiny padded seat, the walls likewise padded. The only instrumentation was a readout screen that sat in front of the seat.
    Hands were fastening his seatbelt. Someone clamped an aluminum bracelet onto his wrist, and the readout board immediately lit up, showing in moving blips his life functions: blood pressure, heartbeat and temperature. He thought about how silly it was to have a machine to tell him when he died.
    He looked up just once to see faces staring down at him. Every one of them wanted to be in that pod. His fingers tightened on the pistol.
    Then they closed the hatch, and Harker was alone in a dark void, his only companion a blipping readout board, a perverse sort of mirror. Then,
    movement . . .
    Rehme was trembling, hands over his face. “Oh god,” he moaned. “Oh god, no.”
    Hauk just ignored him, his gaze fixed on the radar screen, his mind whirling, looking for alternatives. On the screen, the red blip was moving into the flashing danger area—New York City.
    He glanced over at the controller. The man was white as milk, lips moving soundlessly. No one talked; they just watched the blip.
    Static over the speaker, then that voice again: “What better revolutionary example than to let their President perish in the inhuman dungeon of his own imperialist prison.”
    Hauk moved away from the screen, away from the congestion of men standing around it. He stood, back to the commotion, staring at nothing. The crazy woman was still talking.
    “The bosses of the racist, sexist, police state are shuddering under the collective might of the worker’s rightful vengeance!”
    Hauk put a hand to his hair, smoothed it, composed himself.
    “Workers of the world, look up into the skies! The people have won a glorious victory.”
    A crashing sound came through the speaker. A cry from the woman, a strangled rasp of, “Bitch!”
    There was loud popping, distorting off the audibility range, coming through as dead air at its peak.
    Bullets, Hauk thought
    He spun back to the screen, hope rising. A low moan was seeping through the speaker. Then a high pitched squeal, then . . . nothing. Soft, purring static.
    There was a second of silence, then the controller said, “He’s down.”
    Hauk was out of the traffic control door before he even thought about it. Central control was down the hall; they’d know exactly where the plane went down. He heard a noise behind him and turned. Rehme was right on his heels.
    “I need you in one piece,” he told the man.
    There was already activity in the bunker when they arrived. They had watched the thing go down, too. Blackbellies were running everywhere. Preparing advance deployment
    “Commissioner,” someone called to him as he entered. He hurried over.
    It was a beanpole of a man, all knees and elbows. He was excited, pointing to a medical scanner.
    “What is it?” Hauk barked.
    “Vital signs monitor,” the man choked out. “We use it for shore parties. It came on just before the plane crashed.”
    Hauk looked at Rehme. The man had composed himself somewhat. “Escape pod,” he said. “They must