Spyder Web. Tom Grace

from their long exposures to cool salt water. Their swim fins had been removed in the water and hooked to their dive belts in preparation for the transition from sea to land. All were armed and each focused his attention on a specific section of the beach. They thought and acted as one.

      ‘Master Chief,’ Nolan Kilkenny called out, ‘did everybody make it home?’

      ‘Hoo-yah, sir!’ Master Chief Max Gates replied. ‘Just a walk in the park.’

      ‘Very well, then. This beach is secure and the exercise is over!’ Kilkenny announced. ‘Stow your gear and clean your weapons.’

      Kilkenny slipped his mask down around his neck and stood to survey the beach. ‘Rodriguez.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied a short fireplug of a man who had been born in a small town near the base.

      ‘Nice job on point.’

      ‘No sweat, sir. I just followed the smell of my mama’s cooking.’

      A pang of regret hit Kilkenny—that was a smell he would never follow home again.

      Kilkenny’s squad walked the short distance from the beach to the huts that served as their base of operation. Loose gear was removed first, dive belts, masks, and fins, and dunked in a large barrel of freshwater to rinse off the brine. Next off came the closed-circuit rebreathing units the SEALs used in place of the more common open-circuit scuba tanks. The rebreathing units, which recycled the diver’s exhaled air for reuse, allowed the SEALs to approach a target from beneath the water without leaving a telltale stream of bubbles along the surface.

      The men stripped their weapons down and carefully inspected and cleaned each component. This work was done quietly and with the utmost seriousness. Each member of the squad relied on the others, and none wanted a mission to fail or a buddy to be hurt because of something as preventable as a dirty weapon.

      After reassembling and stowing his Heckler-Koch submachine gun and his 9-mm pistol, Kilkenny checked the in-basket in his hut. Inside, he found a manila envelope containing the latest satellite photos of the Haitian jungles. After a week of hard preparation, his team was beginning to gel. He had them eat, sleep, and breathe the mission twenty-four hours a day. Each piece of the equipment that they would use was becoming like a part of their bodies, each inch of Haitian rain forest as familiar as their own backyards.

      This wasn’t how Kilkenny had expected to spend his Thanksgiving, training in isolation with the six other men who made up his squad, but it was this kind of preparation that made the SEALs successful. Each mission was treated like a moon launch, with no detail so unimportant that it could be overlooked.

      Gates approached and knocked on the door frame.

      ‘Yo, Chief, come on in. I got the latest pictures.’

      Master Chief Max Gates entered the small hut and sat in the folding chair next to Kilkenny. Though junior in rank, Gates was Kilkenny’s superior in age and combat experience. Like most SEALs, Gates was shorter than Kilkenny by half a head, but he made up for it with a barrel chest and a pair of forearms that would make Popeye proud. He was nearly bald, ruddy-faced, with a pair of dark brown eyes that peered out from beneath a pair of bushy brown eyebrows.

      ‘The boys are looking good, Nolan.’ Twenty years in the navy hadn’t softened Gates’s Oklahoma drawl a bit. ‘They want this one.’

      ‘As they should,’ Kilkenny replied. ‘Hopwood was a SEAL legend, and the cocksucker who cut him down deserves to die.’

      ‘Actually, Nolan, they want this one for you.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because you’ve led these guys to hell and back and you never let them down. They just want you to go out the right way.’

      Before he could respond, a truck pulled up to their base. Kilkenny and Gates left the hut and walked over to the truck’s tailgate.

      ‘Listen up!’ Kilkenny shouted. ‘D day is in ten days, which means ten more days of fun in the sun. Ten more glorious days of sweating, and marching and running launch drills off the submarine.Ten more days’—Kilkenny paused, looking over his men—‘starting tomorrow. Today, we quit early.’

      Cheers and excited profanities filled the air around him.

      ‘I knew you’d like that. Since it’s Thanksgiving, I cut a deal with the base commander to supplement our meager rations. Tonight, we dine on swordfish, steak, and beer.’

       5

      CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

       November 30

      Alex Roe arrived for her interview with Phillip Moy at five minutes to ten. The silk suit she had chosen for this interview was stylish, sophisticated, and sexy. A few moments later, Moy’s executive assistant ushered her into his office.

      Roe had interviewed the legendary computer genius five years ago, in a cramped, windowless office filled with used furniture. Today, his office was a little larger, the furniture was all new, and he finally had a window. Phillip Moy stood at his desk and waved to Roe as he finished a phone call.

      ‘I apologize for the delay, Ms Roe, but I had a minor problem to clear up. It’s a pleasure to see you again.’Moy’s smile and handshake were genuine. ‘I greatly enjoyed the last article you wrote about my company.’

      ‘Please call me Alex, and the pleasure is all mine. For the record,we are starting the interview one minute early. I like what you’ve done with your new office. Quite an improvement over the old one.’

      ‘A few more creature comforts, but functional nonetheless. In the old building, there weren’t enough spaces with windows, so I decided long ago that I wouldn’t have windows until my staff did. I made good on that promise in this building.’

      As they took their seats, Moy’s assistant entered and placed a silver tea service on the table and poured a cup for each before leaving.With the initial flattery over, the real interview began.

      ‘I run my company by simple common sense,’ Moy announced proudly, setting the tone. ‘If you treat your people well, they will be loyal and work well for you. To illustrate that point, our employees control the largest block of shares in this company and, unlike the stock held by outside investors, these shares almost never trade. My people believe in their work and invest their own money into this company. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that someone will work harder, and smarter, for something they care about.’

      ‘Well, that’s what I’m here to look at,’ Roe explained. Moy’s remarks were part of his corporate gospel and Roe’s strategy was to make him feel that her article would be another public-relations coup. ‘At a time when other high-technology manufactures’ earnings are flat or even down, your company’s soaring performance is nothing short of astonishing. Moy Electronics is one of only a few American firms that seems to have made the transition to true global competitiveness.’

      Moy smiled. Alex Roe had written a very positive piece about his company five years ago, one that, combined with their annual report, had caused Moy Electronics stock to rise several points. The publication of another glowing article about his company, followed by the announcement of the new product line, might work similar magic on Wall Street.

      ‘Your praise is appreciated, but if you really want to find out about the reason for our success, you’ll have to talk to the people who make it happen. I may carry the vision for where I think we should go, but it is all the other owners of this company who get us there.’ Moy picked up an itinerary from his desk and handed it to Roe. ‘You asked for permission to interview some of our employees. I have arranged for you to observe a few project teams in action during the next two weeks.My assistant will furnish you with the necessary information and security passes for your visit. In this way, I think you’ll