This story takes place in the Cross-Currents universe about three months before Rite of Passage, or in early December of 1974. One note - since this series is unabashedly AU, I changed the sequence of many of the episodes to reflect the reality that the oceans are vast and ships slow, so the episodes I include in my universe that take place in one ocean are clustered together in a sequence rather than haphazardly spread out the way they were in production. This produced some interesting results. Eleven Days to Zero is still the first episode, but then I follow it with Mists of Silence, Hot Line, and The Ghost of Moby Dick. Given the damage sustained by Seaview in that particular episode, it seemed logical that she would need weeks of repairs. The events in this story come at the end of that repair period, after the boat is once again seaworthy and the crew can relax and take some leave. The next episode that would follow in my timeline is Long Live the King.

Intersections

By Storm

BBBRRRIIINNNGGG.

The incessant ringing of the phone sitting on the nightstand finally induced the blanket covered lump in the center of the king-sized bed that dominated the bedroom to stir. A hand with long slender fingers reached out, fumbling for the alarm clock that rested beside the phone. A sleepy hazel eye under a shock of unruly dark hair peered out from under the blankets, checking the time.

5:06 AM.

Groaning, the man threw back the covers and sat up. Sighing in exasperation, he picked up the receiver. “Crane,“ he growled, brushing the hair back from his forehead, “and this had better be important.”

The rushed squawking that came from the phone drained both the sleepy irritation and the color from his face.

“Are you sure? Have the police been called?” There was an indignant affirmative. “Okay, okay. You’ve done what you should have. Do you know if anybody’s called Admiral Nelson?” Crane was sliding out of the bed even as he spoke.

Squawks in the negative galvanized him, prompting him to forgo unbuttoning his pajama top; instead he pulled it off over his head with one hand and sent it flying into a corner of the room, then hastily stepped out of the bottoms to stand naked beside the bed. Shifting the phone to the left side as he stalked to the dresser, he opened drawers and quickly assembled underwear and socks as the speaker on the other end of the line continued his message; a few strides to the closet and Crane had a uniform draped over one arm as well.

“Alright, Clark, stay calm. I’ll call the Admiral myself - that‘ll be quicker than the FBI trying to go through the switchboard at this hour. We’ll fly to LAX and meet you and the FBI there. Give me the terminal and gate number where it happened. And the name of the agent on the scene.” Stepping back to the nightstand, Crane quickly rummaged through a drawer for a pad of paper and a pencil, then rapidly scribbled down the information he was being given. “Okay, Terminal 4, Agent Mathews. Got it. Stay there, help the police in any way you can.”

Putting down the receiver, Crane dropped his chin on his chest and stood silent for a moment as he contemplated his next move. Deciding that calling Admiral Nelson took immediate precedence over getting dressed, he heaved a sigh. Lifting the receiver back to his ear he dialed a private number that only a handful of people in the world had. It took several rings for the person on the other end to pick up.

“Admiral,” he said, falling into formal mode as a way of warning his CO that this was business, “this is Commander Crane. I’ve just been informed by one of the crew that Lt. Commander Morton has been kidnapped in the LA airport. The assumption is that the people involved are terrorists of some sort.” He grimaced at the not unexpected barrage of questions that followed. “No, sir. No demands. It’s just happened though, so there may not have been enough time. The FBI’s just arrived on the scene.” More questions. “Clark, sir. He was coming out of the terminal and saw the snatch. Otherwise we wouldn’t even know about it yet. He just called me. As soon as I can get dressed, I’ll call the flight crew for the Gulfstream, then meet you. We can drive straight to the airport and be in LA in less than two hours.”

************

The pale sunlight of a wintry December California dawn washed weakly over the bustle of Los Angeles International Airport. A white Gulfstream II business jet with two narrow dark blue stripes and the NIMR logo on the side taxied into position in front of Gate 48A of Terminal 4 at LAX, an area where an aircraft of this size would normally never venture. No sooner had the plane stopped than the cabin door opened, allowing a thin, sandy-haired man to step out onto the tarmac. The man moved with the dangerous grace of a jaguar and kept his right hand close to the front of his unbuttoned jacket. Walking completely around the plane, he surveyed the scene. Nominally satisfied that nothing harmful lay in immediate wait, he motioned for the others in the plane to exit. First out was a tall, dark-haired man in the uniform of a Navy Commander. He stopped at the base of the plane’s steps and waited as a shorter, auburn haired man in the uniform of a three star admiral made the descent. Following the admiral was a tall, lanky man with thinning brown hair in the uniform of a Lt. Commander and the insignia of a doctor; he carried a black medical bag that would have identified him as a physician even without the uniform. The burley shape at the doctor’s heels was in the uniform of a senior Chief Petty Officer. As the group gathered at the base of the plane’s step, they paused, impatient with obvious anxiety. A dark suited individual with an attitude and bearing that fairly shouted FBI approached them from the terminal.

“I’m Agent Mathews,” said the tall brown haired man as he offered a hand to the admiral.

“Nelson,” was the brief, gruff reply. “Commander Crane, Doctor Jamison, Chief Petty Officer Jones and my Chief of Security, Philip Haggen. Have you found my missing officer yet?”

The smile on the agent’s face faded at the brusque, all business greeting. “Not yet, Admiral, though we expect results before long. If you’ll come with me I can give you a briefing.” The agent turned and headed back towards the terminal, leaving the others no choice but to follow him.

Once inside Crane and Haggen both matched strides with the agent, flanking him. Haggen bluntly asked, “What have you done to find Lt. Commander Morton so far?”

Rapidly realizing that these weren’t ordinary ‘civilians’ he was going to be able to put off by being officious, Mathews slowed his pace and answered. “We got an APB out within fifteen minutes of Morton being abducted. Your man Clark was able to give us good descriptions of both the suspects and their van, along with a license plate.”

“And?” asked Nelson, coming up beside Crane.

Mathews grudgingly admitted, “The plate was stolen - the van probably was as well.”

“So you’ve actually got nothing to go on.” Nelson’s tone was biting.

Stung, the agent stopped to respond. “Actually, from the descriptions of the perpetrators, and their MO, we have a pretty good idea of who they are.” At Nelson’s arched eyebrow, Mathews felt he had to continue. “We’re pretty sure they’re a splinter faction of the Symbionese Liberation Army. One of our home-grown left-wing terrorist outfits.”

“The same group that snatched the Hearst girl back in February? And you think they took Morton because….?”

“Probably to hold for ransom of some sort. Either the release of some of their people in jail or money - if not both.”

Nelson’s eyes narrowed. “So they haven’t snatched him for information?”

“Not if they’re who we believe them to be.”

Crane inserted a question. “How sure are you that’s who they are?”

“At least ninety percent. But we’re not proceeding on that assumption alone,” he hastened to add, anticipating Crane’s reaction. “I can give you some more details once we reach the temporary command center. Please, gentlemen, I would rather not have this conversation here. This area isn’t as secure as I’d prefer, just in case this whole affair is a red herring for something bigger.”

The NIMR security chief nodded thoughtfully in response to his words and resumed walking, leading the rest on, much to Mathews’ relief. LAX had been the site of a terrorist bombing recently; there had been two fatalities and five injuries. It wouldn’t look good on his record if it happened again and one of the victims was Admiral Harriman Nelson.

*************

Commander Crane surveyed the small room with it’s overflowing ashtrays and smoky haze with distaste. The dark suited FBI agent who had condescendingly met them at the plane held the door for him and the others in the group, no longer quite so arrogant. The short walk through the terminal to their current location had proved most enlightening - for Agent Mathews. Harriman Nelson in full three star mode was a force to be reckoned with.

The agent let the door close behind them. Nelson shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, then headed straight for the phone, while the others fanned out into seats scattered around a battered table. Crane positioned himself in a seat that faced the door; Mathews, after a moment of hesitation, settled beside him.

The agent licked his lips nervously, eying Crane uncertainly, clearly wanting to ask a question.

Crane took a modicum of mercy on him. “So what is it you want to ask?”

“Um.” The normally self-confident Fed cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder in the direction of Nelson before leaning in close to make sure no one overheard him. “Is he always so….?”

“Forceful?”

“That’ll do,” admitted Agent Mathews.

“To a degree. Right now he’s got a key member of his staff kidnapped. It’s his way of dealing with a crisis.”

The agent faintly shuddered. “I don’t envy you having to work for him.”

Shrugging, Crane responded. “You get used to it. It’s seldom personal with him.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Be aware though, that he suffers neither fools nor incompetents gladly.” Crane’s hazel eyes glinted with flint hard highlights that informed the agent that the Seaview’s captain didn’t suffer them gladly either.

Whatever the agent had been going to say in return was interrupted by the opening of the door. One of the plainclothes LAPD detectives they’d met on the way in motioned to Mathews, who got up and followed him out into the hallway.

A moment later he was back. “LAPD has located the van and it appears the SLA is holed up in an empty warehouse off Santa Fe Avenue. That’s about eleven or so miles from here as the crow flies. LAPD units are surrounding the area.”

Nelson hurriedly terminated his phone conversation as Crane and the others rose from their seats. At the agent’s questioning look, the admiral gruffly announced, “We’re going with you.”

“But… there’s not enough room in my car for all of you,” sputtered Mathews, taken aback.

Crane and Nelson exchanged looks.

“How many?” asked Crane. He was going if he had to ride on the roof.

Looking around at the implacable expressions, Mathews sighed and bowed to the inevitable. “Three,” he answered. “LAPD Detective Molina will be up front with me.”

“Doc, you’re with me and the Commander,” directed Nelson. “Chief, you keep Clark out of trouble. Philip…”

“I’ll find something to keep myself occupied, Harry. Go. Fetch our boy back.”

“Right.”

************

Crane looked out the side window from the back seat of the unmarked sedan at the rain dampened streets. The weak sun that had just cleared the horizon when they’d landed at the airport had now fled behind sullen brownish grey clouds that were intermittently spitting rain showers. The scenery that lined the street matched the gloomy sky, for the car was approaching one of the industrial districts along the concrete ditch that used to be the Los Angeles River. Grimy was the word that sprang into his mind. Too many of these buildings sat unused and empty because the owners preferred to let their property fall into disrepair rather than spend the money for upkeep or upgrades. He gave a small shake of his head at the waste.

The hand held radio unit belonging to Detective Molina suddenly squawked to life, drawing his attention back inside the car.

“William-34, suspects have spooked - they’re rabbiting with the hostage. Heading north on Santa Fe Avenue. William-34 in pursuit.”

“Damn.” The expletive came from the detective as he smacked a fist on the dash. “They’re moving away from us.”

Another voice on the radio. “Dispatch, 1-Adam-12, code 100.”

“What?” came from Nelson, though the same question was on the tip of Crane‘s tongue.

“They’re in a position to intercept,” translated Molina, adding, “William-34 is an unmarked detective unit. Adam 12 is a black and white.”

“1-Adam-12, code 3 in pursuit. Suspect vehicle is now going west on 7th.” A moment later, “Suspect vehicle now southbound on Mateo.”

“Yes!” He exulted. “Hang a left at the next corner. We can be in position to intercept them!”

They could hear the wail of sirens heralding the approaching pursuit as the tan car sprinted for the intersection ahead. It wasn’t fast enough. They reached Mateo just in time to see a white Ford panel van scorch past with a black and white patrol car on it’s bumper, followed by a green sedan.

Agent Mathews wheeled the sedan around to the left and accelerated into position behind the green police car. At the next intersection they were joined by two more patrol units.

“We’ve got to cut these guys off - looks like they’re headed for I-10. If they make it onto the Interstate, things could get really hairy.”

The clouds chose that moment to spit a momentary shower, but the white van simply accelerated, trying to reach the interstate onramp that was just becoming visible in the distance. The police units dropped back slightly and started spreading out; in these conditions, a single slip could result in a multiple car pile-up with dead officers and civilians.

The kidnappers didn’t care.

The inevitable happened.

As Crane and the others watched in horror, a westbound delivery truck with a green light at the next cross street started into the intersection ahead of the van. Police cars slammed on their brakes, attempting to avoid becoming part of the unfolding tragedy.

The van’s driver wrenched the steering wheel to the right trying to dodge around the front of the truck. Slipping on the rain slickened street, the van veered too far to the side, striking the curb, blowing out the right front tire in a shower of rubber. Fighting the wheel, he tried to steer left back into the street. A shower of sparks fountained as the van’s now rubberless rim dropped back down, biting into the pavement, throwing the van once more to the right; again the van impacted the curb. Bouncing out of control, the vehicle careened briefly onto the sidewalk, then began to slew around sideways. It came off the curb again on the cross street directly in the path of the oncoming truck.

Smoke boiled from the wheels of the truck as the brakes locked and the vehicle began to skid on the damp pavement.

The young man at the wheel of the van threw up his hands as if to fend off the looming truck, a look of horror contorting his face.

With a thunderous bang amid a shower of glass, metal, and coolant, the two vehicles impacted almost head on, the heavier truck sending the van spinning away.

Crane’s focus narrowed, shutting out everything but the van; the thunder of his heart in his ears was the only thing he could hear he watched the vehicle seem to move in slow motion across the street away from the delivery truck to impact against a light pole. For a terrible moment time stretched into eternity as pieces of the mortally wounded vehicle rained down on the street.

Then the screeching of tires and wail of sirens reasserted their presence. The pursuing police cars slid to a halt, some beside the now stopped truck, while others successfully dodged past and surrounded the shattered van. As Crane and the others spilled from the tan sedan and took shelter, the two uniformed officers in the lead cruiser bolted from their car, guns drawn, to cover the van.

Nothing in the wreckage moved. The two cops, one tall and dark-haired, the other older, shorter, and red-haired, darted from the cover of their car to the back doors of the van. Pausing, they carefully peered in the cracked glass of the back window. Seeing no opposition, they split up, one sidling along each side. When the red-haired cop reach the driver’s window, he reached inside with one hand to check the pulse of the man slumped on the steering wheel. He looked back at the detectives crouched behind their cars and shook his head. His partner responded from the other side with a similar signal.

The redhead tried to open the driver’s door, but it was solidly jammed. The officer moved back to the rear of the van, where his partner joined him in wrenching at one of the doors until it opened with a metallic screech of protest. The red-haired officer climbed inside and disappeared from view for a long agonizing moment while his partner leaned partially in. Crane breathed a sigh of pent up relief when the dark-haired officer stepped back and shouted, “Call for an ambulance and the fire department. We’ve got a man and a woman injured and trapped.”

Agent Mathews stood up from where he’d been hunkered down behind his car beside Detective Molina. Touching Crane on the shoulder, he said, “We need someone to identify your officer if he’s in there.”

Crane swallowed hard. “I can do it,” he said, glancing sideways at Nelson.

“I’m coming too,” added Jamison, as he reached into the back seat of the car and retrieved his medical bag. “I’m a licensed doctor in the State of California, so I can begin treating them.”

The men walked quickly over to what was left of the van. Crane stopped at the back and steeled himself. Taking a deep breath, he stepped up into the back of the wreckage, with Jamison right behind. His eyes immediately went to the one still bloody form that had blond hair. Dark blond hair in a decidedly non-regulation cut. Not his XO’s short, pale gold. He let out a sigh of relief.

“It’s not Commander Morton,” he told the red-haired cop who was crouched beside the man. He backed out and straightened to face the FBI agent, repeating his statement.

“Damn,” swore Mathews as he smacked his fist on the back of the van. “They must have pulled a switch on us. But where?” He fixed his gaze on the LA cop, who had exited behind Crane to make way for Jamison. “Who spotted the van?”

The cop, whose name tag read Malloy, shook his head. “My partner and I were called in as part of the perimeter. As far as I know it was an unmarked detective unit that spotted them.”

Crane looked thoughtful. “You think they might have switched vehicles and deliberately let this one be seen as a red herring?”

Mathews’ face turned glum. “That’s possible. But if that’s what happened, that would suggest this was a preplanned op, not a snatch of opportunity. Which would further suggest that they knew Commander Morton was going to be there at the airport.”

“Something they have the sophistication to pull off on their own?” A worm of worry was beginning to gnaw at Crane’s gut.

Mathews liked his lips nervously before answering. “Not as far as I’m aware.”

“They had outside help. And inside information.” Crane’s tone was flat and the worm of worry blossomed into something a lot larger. “Can we go back to the warehouse? If Morton was ever there, he’d try to leave some sort of sign.”

“I don’t know,” hedged Mathews, “it’s a crime scene.”

“And you’re supposed to be giving us full cooperation,” came Nelson’s voice from behind the agent. “Need I remind you of your instructions from Washington?”

Mathews visibly wilted.

Crane turned to face Nelson. “Commander Morton wasn’t in the van, sir.”

“So I surmised, Lee. And you’re quite right that Mr. Morton would try to leave behind some kind of clue if he could.”

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of the LA City Fire Department and two ambulances. The three men stepped to the curb, and watched the flurry of activity as firefighters began the tedious extraction process of removing the two surviving SLA members from the remains of the van. Nelson again spoke. “Agent Mathews, there’s nothing more we can do here. It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to get any information from those two any time soon, so I’d suggest we start seeing if we can discover anything at the warehouse this lot came from.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mathews sighed and nodded in a clear acknowledgement of defeat. “You’re right of course, Admiral Nelson. We’ll leave as soon as I inform the LAPD. Is your doctor coming?”

Crane and Nelson both looked back at the frenzy of activity around the van. “No. He won’t leave his patients until they’re at the hospital,” Crane told him.

“Even though they kidnapped one of your officers?” Mathews sounded surprised.

Shrugging, Crane simply said, “He’s a doctor and a damned good one.” The agent shook his head, bafflement clear in his expression. Crane wasn’t about to admit out loud that he didn’t always understand Jamison’s mindset either, but in the two short months that had passed since Jamison had come to the Institute to replace James Taver as Seaview‘s CMO, the captain had come to have a profound respect for the doctor’s deep grained sense of ethics.

“In that case, let me tell Detective Molina where we’re going.”

************

Crane got out of Agent Mathews’ car and stood for a moment gazing at the broken down hulk of the old warehouse in front of him. The transitory shower that had dampened the roads a short time before had also drenched the exterior of the building, enhancing the rust to stand in stark relief against the dull weathered grey of the sheet metal siding. Dark gaping holes marked where windows had once resided and the areas where the siding had fallen away - or been stripped off by vandals. Scraggly weeds struggled to grow around the foundation.

A beam of weak sunlight pierced the clouds, spreading fuzzy illumination over the scene. Crane wrinkled his forehead; even with better light the place still looked like a hard sneeze would bring the whole structure tumbling down. He stepped warily into the doorway, Nelson and Mathews at his heels, and paused briefly, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom within. The soft splat of dripping water echoed oddly in the cavernous space; the weak sunlight created a multitude of tentative tiny spotlights in the rusty walls and ceiling, highlighting wiring dangling like metallic spaghetti. He supposed that was where the light fixtures had once hung. Broken pallets, empty barrels, boxes, bottles, beer cans, old news papers and several battered mattresses littered the floor, along with other less identifiable refuse. It was a distressingly large area to cover in search of clues.

“Molina tells me that it appears the SLA was using the old offices at the other end.” Mathews motioned with his head in the direction of the far end.

“We’d like to see it,” was Nelson’s immediate response, accompanied by Crane‘s emphatic nod. Mathews shrugged and led the way through the piled up rubbish.

The office space had most of the windows that faced the exterior boarded over from the inside; those on the interior wall had been covered with heavy woolen blankets. The door currently hung crookedly by it’s hinges, the splintered wood of the frame mute testimony to the violent entry by the police into the room. Inside was a table and several chairs, along with a couple of cots. Empty cans overflowed a cardboard box in one corner while a row of water filled plastic jugs shared a wall with cases of unopened canned goods. Articles of clothing - a tattered denim jacket, a flowered print shift, a ratty looking sweater - lay scattered on the cots. The occupants had clearly been here for some time and had obviously been prepared to stay longer. A uniformed officer stood just within the door holding a large flashlight as a crime lab technician dusted for fingerprints, while another detective sifted through a stack of papers that had been found stashed in a shoebox tucked into an old metal filing cabinet that sat in the corner opposite the box of empty cans.

“Anything so far?” asked Mathews, directing his question at the detective.

The detective shook his head. “I don’t think they ever brought your missing officer in here. I’d be willing to bet they simply transferred him to another vehicle before the ones you chased ever even came here. But we‘ve got people scouring the area outside where the van was first spotted, just in case.”

Crane’s heart sank; he had to steel himself to keep the dismay from showing on his face. The odds against a quick resolution to Morton’s abduction were becoming longer by the minute. He turned to say something to Nelson, but stopped short at the appearance of another uniformed officer at the door who motioned urgently to the detective and FBI agent. The newcomer leaned in and handed a rectangular piece of paper that had been placed in a clear plastic bag to the detective, who carefully examined it under the beam of his own flashlight before handing it grimly to Mathews.

“It’s a boarding pass,” Mathews said bleakly, “for the flight your missing officer was on. There appears to be blood on it.” He handed the evidence back to the detective before turning to face Crane and Nelson. “Well, there’s no doubt now that they have him and that he was in fact here before they spotted us and took off.”

“Where did they find it?” Nelson wanted to know.

“Outside, beside the loading dock,” answered the uniformed officer who’d brought the evidence in. “And we have another break - there’s a couple of homeless fellows who’re holed up in the building across the alley. They had a clear view from where they were and they’ve given a description of a second vehicle.” Stepping further into the room, he pulled out a small pocket notebook. “Description given as a beat up light brown 1959 Plymouth Fury with California plates. We‘ve got a partial on the plate.”

“How reliable do you think they are?” Nelson didn’t bother to hide his skepticism; Crane privately agreed that a couple of individuals who were in all likelihood drunken bums were not what he’d call a reliable source.

“We interviewed them separately and they both accurately described the van - said they’ve seen it around here for some time now - without telling them we were specifically interested in it. Ditto on the description of the car, so it’s probably pretty solid. But most importantly, they both report a tall blond haired man being forced into the trunk of said car this morning. We‘ve already issued an APB for the vehicle.”

“Still…” Crane wasn’t entirely convinced and it showed.

“Look, Commander,” said the uniformed officer in an annoyed tone, “they’re regulars around here. I know them and they know me. And contrary to what you’re probably thinking, they aren’t winos. They‘re both reliable witnesses.” The cop paused for a moment, as if considering how much to say. “They’re both Vietnam vets - some of the walking wounded, if you get my drift.”

That put an altogether different spin on things - and left Crane with a question. “So why didn’t they call and report it?”

“Nearest pay phone is blocks from here and doesn’t work half the time. Vandals keep tearing it up. The guys don’t like to leave their hideaway; too much chance what little they have might not be there when they got back. This is a pretty rough area - all sorts of lowlifes frequent the streets here. And they didn’t know Morton was a Navy officer, just figured it was a spat between hippies over drugs or something. Be glad they were here; without them we might not have any clues at all.”

Crossing his arms and sighing, Crane grudgingly nodded. At least the trail hadn’t gone completely cold. “So now what?” he asked.

“Now we wait until somebody sees the car or the SLA makes their demands. Whichever comes first.”

“Uh, Officer Powell?” The young patrolman who’d been standing by the door holding a light shuffled uncertainly, causing the officer and Crane to concentrate their attention on him. “Did you get a description of any of the people in the car?”

“Yeah. Three men and a woman. All white, all in their early twenties.”

The young officer’s face took on a look of gloom. “The woman wasn’t a tall, slim strawberry blonde with hair about waist long, was she?”

Crane looked questioningly at Powell, who nodded an affirmative to the young cop.

“You think you know her?” Everyone in the room stopped to hear the answer to Powell’s question. It was a tremendous long shot that the young officer might actually know one of the perpetrators, but cases had broken before on stranger coincidences.

“Sounds like a girl I’ve seen around the campus at Cal State.” The young man sighed. “Drives a car that make and color.”

“Cal State is just a few minutes from here on I-10,” noted Powell thoughtfully.

“And the direction the four in the van were trying to head,” added Mathews.

“Do you know where she lives?”

The young cop shook his head. “Just that she doesn’t live far from the campus. That old clunker isn’t too reliable.”

“I’ll call it in to DMV. With a partial plate and a general location, that’s enough to narrow the search,” said Powell decisively as he headed back out the door to his car and the radio.

Crane’s eyes narrowed in anticipation. The trail had just gotten hot again. He hoped.

**************

Crane sat beside Nelson in the back of Mathews’ tan sedan and fidgeted with anxiety. It had taken DMV twenty minutes to produce a match for the car and another twenty for a detective to cruise by in an unmarked car and check out the address on Barnett Way. To their relief, the battered Fury had been there, half hidden by bushes at the side of the house, parked so that the trunk was obscured from the view of anyone on the street. More importantly from Crane’s perspective and that of the police, though, had been the nervous presence of at least one male suspect matching the description given by both Clark and the two men at the warehouse.

It had taken another hour for the police to formalize a rescue plan and gather their resources into place. Now Seaview’s captain and admiral, rejoined by the CMO, sat one street below on the hillside, looking up towards the house where they hoped to find Morton.

A black police van pulled silently up beside them and stopped. Half a dozen black suited SWAT officers spilled out in a silent tide and spread out to vanish between the houses. Two pairs of black and whites paused momentarily by the watch sergeant’s station wagon for instructions, then moved off in opposite directions to take up positions to block access to Barnett Way; the winding road had only two access points and no alley. The net was starting to silently close.

Sudden angry shouts from the hillside disrupted the morning quiet. Crane stiffened in his seat, instantly apprehensive. Up front, Agent Mathews cursed and bolted from the car, sprinting up the steep hill through a yard, pistol drawn, running past the startled residents who’d poked their heads out of the house to see what the ruckus was about. Detective Molina and Crane followed hot on his heels. Before they’d gotten across the lot, gunfire erupted ahead of them; the three men flattened against the side of a storage shed halfway across the backyard as several bullets whistled through the air just above their heads. The shocked occupants of the house behind them dived back inside.

Motion out of the corner of his eye caught Crane’s attention. Someone was scrambling over the wooden fence that separated the two lots - someone with short, pale blond hair above a pale battered face.

“It’s Morton!” shouted Crane at the two officers, who had begun to swing their pistols towards the newcomer. Morton fell heavily from the top of the fence, landing on his left shoulder and curling into a ball, obviously injured. Ducking low, Crane sprinted for his XO’s side as Mathews, Molina and the SWAT officers began laying down covering fire, driving the men who’d been shooting at Morton back towards the house. Not knowing how badly Morton was hurt, Crane didn’t want to move him. But with only the dubious shelter of an inch of redwood fence between them and the kidnappers, he didn’t dare stay where they were either.

“Can you move?” he whispered in Morton’s ear as he hovered over the fallen man.

“Yeah, don‘t think they hit me,” came the pained reply. “Good thing they can‘t shoot straight. Embarrassing to get dumped by a damned fence though. Hurt my shoulder but my legs still work.”

Crane froze. While the voice sounded like Morton’s, the accent wasn’t quite right. Looking closer, he realized that this man, while he looked like Morton under the bruises on his face, had the tanned and weathered skin of someone who‘d spent most of his life outdoors, not the pale complexion of a career submariner. “Who are you?” he hissed.

“Cody Bristol,” came the reply, “and it’s about damn time somebody asked. But can we save the questions for later and just get the hell out of here?”

“Where’s Chip Morton?” Crane wasn’t moving until he knew where his XO was.

“If he’s the fellah who’s seat I got on the plane, then I reckon he’s still snowed in somewhere in Chicago. I was flyin’ standby and damned lucky to get out when I did.”

“Still in Chicago?” Crane couldn’t quite believe his ears. “So somebody who looks like him just happens to get his seat? Just a coincidence?”

“Look, mister, I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on here any more’n you do. But can we have this conversation someplace where we ain’t about to get shot?” The question was punctuated by a bullet drilling through the fence just above their heads, showering them with splinters.

“Right,” muttered Crane, as much to himself as Bristol. Taking a firm grip on the man’s right arm, he helped him to his feet. The two cautiously made their way back to the shed where Mathews waited impatiently.

“He’s not Commander Morton and he says his name is Cody Bristol,” were the first words out of Crane’s mouth when they’d reached the dubious safety of the shed.

“What?” Mathews frowned at Crane, disbelief obvious.

“Then where’s Morton?” came from Molina.

The blond man sighed as he sank tiredly to the ground, cradling his left arm in apparent pain. “Like I told this fellah. He has to still be snowed in up in Chicago. I missed my flight out yesterday afternoon cause I had trouble gettin’ to the airport. Snow just about had the whole damned city shut down.” He paused and shrugged, wincing as he did so. “So when not everybody showed up for the red-eye last night the airline gave me a seat on it. Last flight out too, ‘fore they closed the airport. Then when I got off in LA and was walkin’ out to catch a cab, this bunch of young idiots grabs me right off the sidewalk. They called me Morton - who the hell is this guy, anyway?”

“My executive officer, from the submarine Seaview,” Crane told him shortly.

Bristol lifted his head and gave Crane an eerily familiar grin. “A sailor, huh. Well, I’m just a lowly cowboy, myself.”

Now that he had time, Crane studied Bristol more closely - and the man’s resemblance to Chip Morton was astonishing. His inspection took in the assorted cuts, bruises and abrasions on Bristol’s face, plus rope burns on his wrists. All signs of forced captivity and abuse. Crane also noted the scars and calluses on the man’s hands - he definitely wasn’t a desk jockey. Despite his initial suspicions, the seed of doubt began to grow in Crane’s mind that just maybe Bristol was no more or less than he claimed to be - and that the whole affair was a monumental coincidence - and a case of mistaken identity. Well, the man’s story would be easy enough to check. If Chip Morton never made it to the airport, a call to his brother Hank Morton would confirm it. Crane shook his head as he contemplated the puzzle. Morton should have - would have - called if he was going to be late coming back from leave. On the other hand, if the snowstorm was as bad as Bristol claimed, the phone lines could easily be down.

“Agent Mathews,” said Crane, “I need to make a phone call and see if Commander Morton even made it out of Chicago. That should confirm - or not - this man’s story.”

Mathews looked thoughtfully at Bristol before answering. “If he‘s not Morton, then I‘ve got questions myself.” The agent glanced back in the direction of the house, where the gunfire was tapering off as the kidnappers retreated and could be glimpsed barricading themselves inside. “But for right now, I’ll start with how many of them are there in the house.”

Bristol considered for a moment. “I think there’s at least four. Two guys and a couple of girls. There was some more in the van they were driving when they bulldogged me. Don’t know where they all went after they hogtied me and stuffed me in the trunk of that damned car.” He made a sour face. “Like to have gassed me. Thing smokes like a chimney. By the way, there’s a sort of basement in that house. That’s where they had me till I managed to get the ropes loose. You get into it through a trapdoor in the closet of one of the bedrooms. And they’ve got a damned arsenal in there. Enough ammo to fight a small war. Never seen anything like it.”

Molina had narrowed his eyes when Bristol mentioned a basement. He pulled out his hand held radio unit and quickly repeated the information to the SWAT command post. The radio relayed back the information that one of the male suspects had been hit, but made it back into the house. The police were in the process of setting up for a siege.

“Could take a while,” commented Bristol. “One of the bedrooms was stacked with boxes of canned goods and bottles of water.”

“Great,” muttered Molina under his breath, but he relayed that information as well before commenting, “That fits with the way this group operates. Good thing you warned us about the basement - these houses weren’t built with any, so we wouldn’t have been expecting it. Has to be something they’ve built themselves. This could take a while.”

“Uh, fellahs, I hate to be a wet blanket on the party here, but do you think we could go someplace where I can take a piss? And it wouldn’t hurt if we could find a sawbones to take a look at my shoulder. Feels like I might have dislocated it. Starting to hurt pretty bad.” Bristol leaned back against the shed, looking exhausted.

“Doctor Jamison’s in the car with the Admiral. We can take him to be checked out and find a phone,” suggested Crane, hoping at least one of the cops would take the hint.

Mathews nodded. “And I want to talk to your man Clark again. Although,” he glanced over at Bristol and shook his head, “I can see how he might have mistaken Bristol for Morton.” He turned back to Molina. “What about you?”

“Until SWAT has things under control, I’ll stay here. But later, I‘ve got some questions too.”

Crane reached a hand down to Bristol and helped him to his feet. The man’s struggle to rise made him wince in sympathy. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Bristol had been hurt worse than anyone initially realized, himself included. Now that the adrenalin rush was wearing off, he was clearly starting to feel his injuries.

The three men made their way back to the street as the residents of the neighboring houses peeked out through their blinds, curious now that the gunfire had ceased, but not quite willing to come out and ask what was going on. Nelson and Jamison were standing beside the car, anxious expressions on their faces. The looks turned to relief when they saw the trio emerge from between the houses, then to puzzlement as they approached the car.

“Doctor, this man took a pretty hard fall from the top of a six foot fence - he may have a dislocated shoulder. He needs to be examined for that and other injuries.” Mathews addressed Jamison, who was looking at Bristol with raised eyebrows.

“Who is he?” asked Nelson, indicating the limping Bristol with a thrust of his chin.

“Cody Bristol. I’ll explain on the way to the hospital. We need to find a phone and call Hank Morton to see if Chip ever got on the plane last night,” Crane said as he helped Bristol ease into the back of the car. Jamison looked at Crane and Nelson and shrugged, then walked around the car to get in on the opposite side. A patient was a patient.

Nelson blinked in surprise. “Chip could still be in Chicago?”

“According to Bristol that’s where he has to be.”

Nelson shook his head, but climbed into the front passenger’s seat of the sedan, as Crane settled into the back with Bristol in the middle between himself and the doctor. Mathews took the wheel and headed for the nearest hospital.

The ride to the hospital took only minutes, not enough time to adequately relay to Nelson the preceding events. With Mathews’ badge clearing the way, a room was found where Jamison, with one of the hospital’s own doctors in attendance, could examine Bristol for injuries. Crane sought out the lobby and a pay phone, with Nelson close on his heels.

Pulling a card from his wallet, Crane quickly found the number he sought. Dialing the operator, he requested the number and directed that the call be charged to the Nelson Institute and gave the operator the appropriate information. As he waited, he could hear the clicks on the line of relays carrying his call east. The phone at the other end began to ring.

“Hello?” answered a female voice from the other end. Crane recognized it as Chip’s sister-in-law, Rachel.

“Rachel, it’s Lee Crane. Is Chip still there?”

Rachel laughed. “No. He left for the airport about an hour ago. The phone was still out then - has been since yesterday afternoon - or he would have called you. He was in a swivet about not being able to call and let you know. He made a bet that as soon as the lines were back up you’d be calling.”

“So the weather was that bad?” asked Crane.

“Oh, yes. Lot of snow, but it was the wind that made it so much worse. Piling up drifts, knocking down trees and power lines. Hank had to stay over at the station because several of the firefighters on the following shift couldn’t get in to work. But I expect him home any time.”

“Who took Chip to the airport then?”

“He caught a ride with one of the neighbors. You remember Officer Pulaski, don’t you? He’s on duty at the airport now, so Chip went in with him. It may be a while before Chip gets a flight though. The airport got shut down last night, so flights out are really scrambled.”

“Ah. Well, he’ll probably call as soon as he finds a working phone. I just wanted to make sure nothing had happened to him.”

“You’re a good friend, Lee. Thanks for caring.”

Crane couldn’t help the faint blush that crept along the edges of his ears. “That’s what friends are for,” he replied, acutely aware that Nelson was listening to his side of the conversation. Making his farewell, he hung up and turned to the Admiral. “Rachel says that Chip left for the airport about an hour ago with one of the neighbors who’s a cop. She confirms that the phone lines have been down and that the airport was closed last night.”

“So the whole thing with Bristol was just a coincidence?” Nelson’s tone indicated incredulity. “What are the odds?”

“Pretty long,” admitted Crane, “but then with some of the things we’ve seen in just the four months since I became captain…” He had to admit privately that he still couldn’t quite believe there wasn’t some diabolical plot involving Bristol in motion, but they did say everyone has a double somewhere in the world….

Nelson snorted, but then had to give him a rueful grin. “I’m going to have to put a rush on finishing the Flying Sub project. We could have gone after Morton and avoided this confusion if it had been completed.”

“Maybe,” said Crane. “But let’s go see how our cowboy look-alike is doing. I’d like to find out more about just who he is. And why the SLA grabbed him. Did they think he was Chip or did they snatch him for some other reason? And if they thought he was Chip, how did they know he was booked on that particular flight? The whole thing looked to be too organized to be a crime of opportunity.”

“My questions as well,” came the voice of Agent Mathews from behind them. “So your missing officer is still in Chicago, I take it?”

“According to his sister-in-law, yes. Though if he can get a flight out, he might be here by this evening.”

“Perhaps I should call the field office in Chicago and see if we can’t expedite his return. I’d like to get him here and make sure this whole thing is really what it’s starting to look like - just one of those really strange coincidences.” He paused and pulled a small notepad out of his pocket. “By the way, I got a little more information from our cowboy. He claims he lives on the family ranch here in southern California - he was on his way home, he says, after going to look at a bull for his uncle, whom it seems, is a rodeo stock contractor. Our boy also rides bucking broncos on the rodeo circuit.”

“So that’s what he meant when he said it was embarrassing to get dumped by a fence,” Crane chuckled.

Mathews shared a quiet laugh with Nelson over the comment. “I can see where a rodeo bronc rider wouldn’t want to admit to something like that. I also just spoke with your doctor. They’re still taking x-rays, but he says it appears Bristol does have a dislocated shoulder. I expect the doctors will want to keep him overnight for observation - we’ll give him a keeper to make sure he stays until all the questions are answered.”

“So now what?” asked Nelson.

His answer was a shrug. “Now we wait for Morton to get back and the LAPD to root out the SLA and see what kind of answers we get.

****************

Lee Crane stood in the waiting area next to Gate 48A of Terminal 4 and looked out at the lights of the multitude of aircraft shuffling busily about in the predawn gloom. He glanced at his watch; 6:40 AM. Dawn should be breaking any moment. Looking to the east where a faint lightening of the sky was barely discernable, he crossed his arms impatiently and sighed. He hated waiting on airplanes, but Chip Morton was supposed to be coming in on the next one to dock at this particular gate. Crane was determined to be there and make sure that his XO really was back.

The squeak of plastic behind him brought forth a thin smile. He wasn’t the only one waiting. Morton was going to have a most unusual welcoming committee when he arrived. Nelson was parked in one of the terminal seats, going over reports with Philip Haggen. Doctor Jamison slouched in another chair, nursing a cup of coffee, while Agent Mathews and Detective Molina occupied two more seats. The passengers waiting for their outbound flight eyed the group with some unease, since the Institute personnel - except for Haggen - were all in dress blues. Three star admirals and submarine captains weren’t something the average traveler encountered every day.

Out on the tarmac, a Pan Am jetliner turned off the taxiway and began waddling it’s way towards the section of the terminal where Crane was standing. He could see a ground crewman with the lighted wands waving directions to the pilots while another walked below the nose of the plane, wearing a headset that was plugged into a jack in the aircraft’s skin, giving him a direct voice link to the pilots as he guided them around obstacles they couldn’t see from the cockpit. Crane had to smile at the sight, for it reminded him of a man walking a dog; only this was a very large dog indeed - one of the new Boeing 747s. It towered above all of the other passenger planes around it.

The plane eased into place in front of the gate. He watched as chocks were placed on the wheels to make sure the huge machine didn’t decide to go rolling off on it’s own. A flock of empty baggage carts appeared from out of the shadows; he could hear muffled thumps as the cargo doors opened and baggage handlers swarmed into the belly of the plane. Meanwhile, the jetway reached out and hissed as it sealed itself to the forward cabin door. More muffled thumps and finally the bleary eyed passengers began streaming out of the jetway into the terminal. Crane repositioned himself for a better view of the disembarking passengers and found himself joined by Nelson and the others.

Morton emerged from the door, looking a bit groggy himself. He yawned - and caught sight of his reception committee. His mouth closed with a sudden startled snap and he froze momentarily in place, until an impatient man behind him poked him in the back to get him moving again. Crane could almost hear the wheels turning in Morton’s head, wondering what had happened to justify the array of brass waiting for him, especially at this hour of the morning.

“Uh, hi, Lee, Admiral.” Morton came to a halt in front of Crane, uncertainty showing in his posture as his reception committee eyed him critically, looking closely to make sure that this was indeed the Seaview‘s XO. When their eyes met and he read the silent question What’s going on here? in his friend’s eyes, Crane finally relaxed, sure that this was Morton.

“We’ve got the right one this time, Admiral,” he said with a touch of a smile and no little relief.

Nelson harrumphed. “Good. It’s bad enough that there are two of them - three would be too much.”

Morton wrinkled his forehead, clearly puzzled. “Two of me? I don’t understand. I finally got through yesterday afternoon to tell you I was delayed by weather, but neither of you were in and the secretary who answered didn’t know where you’d gone,” he added defensively.

“Relax, Chip,” said Nelson, clapping a hand on the blond officer‘s shoulder. “Lee managed to get a call through to your sister-in-law yesterday after you’d left for the airport. We knew you were going to be late because of the snowstorm - we just needed to make sure the person coming in on the plane was really you - and make sure that you made it back to Santa Barbara without interference.”

“Why wouldn’t it be me?” Morton asked, looking askance at his two superior officers.

Crane clapped him on the other shoulder and laughed. “I’ll tell you on the way back. Trust me, Chip, you were lucky you got caught in Chicago. The guy who got your seat on the plane is still in the hospital because a bunch of terrorists thought he was you.”

Morton swiveled his gaze back to Nelson. “Admiral?”

“And we thought they had you as well. Clark witnessed the kidnapping and even he thought it was you they grabbed,” Nelson informed him.

“Clark? What? How? Where did this happen?”

“Here at the airport, yesterday morning. The SLA grabbed a blond cowboy, thinking he was you. Probably lucky for him that Clark did mistake him for you - they didn’t believe him when he said he wasn’t you,” Crane told him.

“The SLA! But how did the SLA even know I was supposed to be on that flight?”

At this point Agent Mathews stepped forward and introduced himself and Molina. “Seems that the house we tracked them to is - was - rented to the daughter of a lady that works at the travel agency the Nelson Institute uses. The girl was in the office the day your reservations were made. Apparently she copied the information down when her mother wasn’t looking and gave it to her friends. It was a crime of opportunity. You’re high enough in the command structure of NIMR to be valuable. We figure they wanted to try swapping you for some of their members currently in prison - or for ransom. We wouldn’t have done either, of course, but that could have made things somewhat dicey for you.”

“Except they got the wrong guy.” Jamison joined the conversation.

“What has the SLA said about it?” asked Morton.

“Nothing. And we’ll never know what they might have said,” answered Molina. “LAPD and the FBI laid siege to the house yesterday after Bristol - that‘s your cowboy doppelganger - escaped. Fired in some teargas canisters - and apparently some of the SLA members were in the process of wiring explosives into booby traps.” He shrugged ruefully before continuing. “Something set the explosives off. We don’t know if it was heat from the canisters or if somebody inside panicked and screwed up, but the house immediately went up in a massive fireball. All we’ve recovered so far is a two bodies, both male. They’re still searching the wreckage for the two females we know were in the house.”

Morton shook his head. “I think I’m glad I missed that little adventure. But how could you have mistaken some cowboy for me?” He sounded a bit offended.

Crane grinned at him. “We’ll have to run you by the hospital and let you meet Mr. Bristol. Even I thought he was you until I heard him talk and really looked close. He could be your brother, Chip.”

“This I’ll have to see,” responded Morton dryly. “So are we driving back to Santa Barbara, then?”

“We need to tie up a few loose ends here, then we’ll take the Gulfstream home,” said Nelson.

“Okay, then. I need to get my checked bag first.”

“I’ll go with him, Admiral,” said Crane. “Meet you at the car?”

The Admiral nodded and the two officers took their leave, heading down the length of the terminal to the baggage claim area. Morton looked over at his friend as they walked. “You mistook a cowboy for me? I think I’m insulted.”

***************

“Let me go in and see how he’s doing first,” said Jamison to Crane and Morton as they approached the hospital room. The plainclothes police officer standing guard had stiffened as they approached, but relaxed when he recognized the doctor and Commander Crane. His reaction to Morton though, was wide eyed surprise.

“Holy cow,” he blurted, “twins!”

Laughing, Crane turned to Morton. “See, I told you he looks like you.”

Morton glowered at him. “I still won’t believe it until I see it. This is one of your jokes. I must admit it‘s more elaborate than usual and I don‘t know how you got the Admiral and Jamie to go along, but I just don‘t believe he could look that much like me.”

Crane just shook his head as Jamison opened the door and walked into the room, leaving the pair waiting in the hallway. Voices from within greeted the doctor and they could hear him shooing someone out so he could examine his patient in private. A trio of weather-beaten cowboys trailed out, talking amiably amongst themselves until the oldest caught sight of Morton.

“Holy hell!” was his exclamation, causing the other two to jerk around in surprise.

“Jesus, Cal, he looks just like Cody,” said the red haired man to his left.

“Wow,” said the third, a tall, slim man who looked to be the youngest of the three. “I thought the doctor was kidding us when he said they could be twins.”

Crane cocked his head to one side and surveyed the three with keen interest. “And you are?”

“Sorry, mister,” said the older man, “didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m Cal Bristol, Cody’s uncle. These two worthless crow-baits are Red and E.J., friends of his.”

“Lee Crane. And this,” he grinned over at Morton, “is Chip Morton.”

Cal Bristol shook his head. “I’m just amazed. They look so much alike it’s scary.”

Morton looked back at the three, uncertainty beginning to form furrows on his forehead, then glanced over at Crane. “Sorry, Chip. It’s no joke. They say everybody has a double somewhere in the world and yours is right here in that room.” Crane’s tone conveyed sympathy. “And for what it’s worth, I do know how you feel. On the way home remind me to tell you about the time I ran into my double - a CIA agent named Felix Leiter.”

Jamison stepped back out into the hallway. “Okay, you can come in now.”

Crane nodded and motioned for Morton to precede him. With Bristol’s uncle and friends bringing up the rear, it was an apprehensive Morton that walked into the room.

The tall blond man who sat on the edge of the bed, one shoulder immobilized, turned to look as they came in. The blue eyes settled on Morton and went wide in surprise.

The two men stared silently at each other for a moment, each cataloguing the similarities and looking for differences.

Finally Bristol smiled wryly. “Boy, I can see now why those idiots grabbed me at the airport. When your friends first told me how much I look like you, I thought, there ain’t no way. Guess I was wrong.” He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “But, you know, that does explain a really weird thing that happened to me about six months ago. Met a tall red-headed cop at a rodeo in Colorado that swore he knew me. Had to show him my driver’s license to convince him I was really me. Fellah seemed awfully disappointed.”

Morton made a helpless gesture. “I can’t think of anyone I know in Colorado that fits that description. I‘m not sure I even know anyone from Colorado, let alone a cop.”

“Well, seems like he might not have been from there. On vacation maybe. But I can’t remember where he said he was from or what his name was. Sorry.”

“Probably not important. Anyone that knows me would know where to find me.” Like Bristol he shook his head in amazement. “I just don’t know what to say. I…I’m sorry you got caught up in this because of me.”

Bristol made a wave of dismissal. “Not the first time I’ve been in a tight spot and it probably won’t be the last.” A snort from near the door caused him to momentarily turn his attention away from Morton and glare at his uncle. His two friends tried unsuccessfully to hide snickers, which prompted him to include them in his displeasure.

Crane chuckled. “That’s one way to tell the difference between you two. Chip here has a glare that can send just about anyone on the Seaview running for cover.”

“Somebody has to maintain discipline,” Morton informed them dryly, prompting laughter from Jamison and an exasperated sigh from the captain.

“No respect,” muttered Crane, rolling his eyes, but the smile on his face showed he didn’t really mean it.

“Okay, gentlemen, I hate to break up this funfest, but I think Mr. Bristol needs some peace and quiet.” Jamison stepped in before things got boisterous. “The Admiral is probably finished downstairs by now, so we need to get under way.” Used to taking commands, Crane and Morton started for the door. Their action prompted the other three to fall in as well and the entire group shortly found itself back out in the hallway, headed for the elevators.

“That was awfully generous of Admiral Nelson to pay for Cody’s hospital bill,” said Cal, turning to Crane as they paused to wait for the elevator car to arrive.

“He felt that since Mr. Bristol got hurt because terrorists thought he was one of the Admiral’s people that it was only fair.”

“Still, a lot of people wouldn’t have done it,” insisted Cal.

“That’s the Admiral’s way,” added Morton. “He doesn’t like to see an injustice done. And to him, just walking away and letting you bear the burden would be an injustice.”

Cal Bristol nodded thoughtfully. “It’s good to know that there are people like you and your Admiral Nelson defending this country. It gives me hope for the future.”

****************

The ride back to the airport in the limo had provided a much needed respite for Morton. Sinking back into the seat, he had almost drifted off to sleep when Crane reached over and shook his knee. Yawning, he sat up and looked around.

“Didn’t you get any sleep on the plane?” queried the captain.

“No,” sighed Morton, “There was a woman with two kids in the row just behind me. Between the youngest one crying and the oldest one kicking the back of my seat, there wasn’t any way I could get much sleep.”

“Ouch,” sympathized Crane. He looked over at Nelson and added, “You were right - we do need to get the Flying Sub project finished. I‘ve had a few flights like that myself.”

“Why do you think I splurged on the ‘luxury’ of the Gulfstream for the Institute?” asked Nelson dryly. “VIP’s who don’t have to fly commercial airlines to get here always arrive in a much better frame of mind. Makes life immensely less complicated.”

Crane blinked in surprise. “I’d never thought about that.” He reflected for a moment on the idea, then smiled wryly. “But it does make sense, given some of the people we have to deal with in the government.”

“Wish you could have sent it for me,” said Morton wistfully. “I could have slept all the way back.”

“Don’t worry about it, Chip. Under the circumstances, I’ll be happy to give you a day extra to get yourself caught up. It really could have been you in that hospital bed - or worse,” stated Nelson emphatically.

“Thanks, Admiral,” said Morton gratefully, trying to smother another yawn.

The car pulled through a gate and headed towards the corporate aircraft terminal. Morton gazed drowsily out the window, smiling as he spotted a pair of LAPD officers on patrol, riding small scooters instead of cars. Crane leaned over to see what he was smiling at and recognized the two cops.

“Malloy and Reed,” he told Morton, getting a blank look in return. “The two cops. They were involved in the chase yesterday. The short red-haired one is Malloy. I guess they pulled them off street patrol to keep the newsies off their backs and keep the SLA from retaliating - if there’s any of them left now.”

A third police officer wearing a sergeant’s stripes walked out of a door and flagged the two patrolmen down. Crane’s mouth fell open as he stared in stunned disbelief. The admiral’s words about three came rushing back to him.

“What is it, Lee?” asked Nelson, concerned by the captain’s sudden shocked expression. Crane wordlessly pointed to the tall blond LAPD police sergeant who was now standing by the door with his back to them, talking to the other two officers. Morton and Nelson both looked at the man, puzzled as to why a police officer should produce such a reaction in Crane. Their interest attracted the attention of Jamison and Haggen, who were just as baffled. Then the sergeant turned around and the rest of the limo’s occupants stared at him in stunned astonishment as well.

Except for the mustache, a couple of pounds around the stomach and a touch of gray at the temples, he was a dead ringer for Morton.

“Oh my God,” whispered Nelson, “there really are three of them!”

END

Author’s note: for those of you that don’t recognize the reference in the last scene, Bob Dowdell guest starred on an episode of Adam-12 as the sergeant at the LAPD’s LAX substation. Oh, yeah, I did. ;-)