Knights of Aurora

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The Knights Of Aurora

Chapter 16

"THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks," quoted Bill Estes, a slim-bodied, brown-haired man with the face of an angel.

"Shut the fuck up," snarled Ned Hadfield as he peered into the darkness of the line of trees.

Bill ignored Ned. The fool had lost half his command and on top of that he'd got them lost! "Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight," he intoned. Bill had been a sophomore at Columbia University when he had got drunk one night, become angry at the unpatriotic rants of his fellow anti-war students, and enlisted. He would, he thought, as he fancied himself a writer, and his prof had told him that he had talent, write the Great American Novel. A year and three months after his enlistment he had returned from Vietnam, not having written anything, not even the Great American Postcard!

"I'm warning you," threatened Ned, who was not in the mood for poetry, particularly Longfellow.

"Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms," emoted Bill with a wave of his arms.

Behind Bill, Austin Peck, a tall, handsome Alabaman, laughed nervously. He, like Ned, was constantly looking around, his eyes trying to penetrate the dense stands of pines that made up this section of the Crown Lands. From the underbrush came a soft, scuffling noise and Austin crouched warily. "They're around us!" he said, his eyes narrowing.

"Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest," intoned Bill, clutching his hands to his chest and looking like he was having a heart attack.

About one hundred feet inside the tree line, well hidden, The Phantom poked Arden Chan's rump. Making a wide trumpet-like bell of his hands, Arden raised them to his lips and let loose with a blood-curdling howl, something sounding halfway between a cocker spaniel on heat and a hungry wolf.

Austin almost jumped out of his sweat-stained fatigues. "What was that? What was that?" he asked, wide-eyed. He moved closer to Ned, who had also crouched down.

Bill, momentarily silenced, looked around. He could see nothing. "A critter?" he asked, although he knew that no critter he had ever heard of could make such a blood curdling, eerie noise.

The Phantom, seeing the three men crouched in a more or less circle, held up the first three fingers of his left hand. He looked at Two Strokes and described an arc above his head with the forefinger of his right hand, bringing to a rest between his wide spread fingers.

Two Strokes, who had proven his pitching ability on the playing fields of Aurora, nodded and reached for one of the small canisters that Alex Grinchsten called a "whiz-bang". Properly thrown it simulated the sound of an in-coming mortar round. Drawing the pin on the canister, Two Strokes threw back his pitching arm and lobbed the thing between the tree branches.

The three men heard the slight waffling sound in the air. Wide-eyed, Bill yelled, "Incoming!" and threw himself flat on the ground. Ned and Austin dropped as well and covered their heads with their hands. The canister landed almost exactly in the middle of the three prone men and exploded, a muted "whump" echoing against the trees, and a small column of smoke rose ominously.

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ!" exploded Austin. "They got mortars!"

"They got jack!" snarled Ned. He raised his head. No damage had been done, except for some burn holes where sparks from the exploding whiz bag had fallen on his trousers. "It was a practice round. It's meant to spook us!"

"And a damn fine job it's doing," observed Bill. He raised his head, looked around, and sat up. He could see nothing, and the air was deathly still. He rose carefully and shook his head. "Little bastards!" he swore under his breath.

Ned and Austin also rose to their feet. Ned, his face suffused with anger and shame at being lost, surveyed the area. They were standing in the middle of wide, almost barren firebreak, carved into the forests as a stopgap in the event of forest fires. The break seemed to stretch to the horizon and was devoid of any sign of humanity.

"You think they've gone?" asked Austin.

Nodding, Ned replied, "Yeah, they're just trying to freak us out. Come on." Ignoring the fact that a real mortar round would have eliminated them all from the game, permanently, Ned started walking forward, looking for a trail that would lead them toward what he thought was their objective, the flag of the young knights.

"This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?" Bill began again.

Still hidden in the underbrush, The Phantom nodded to Corey and Thumper, who immediately began tickling Randy and Joey, who squealed and giggled loudly. When they stopped The Phantom nodded to Cornelius Chan.

The high-pitched, mocking giggling had barely died away when they heard a deep, basso voice thunder, "Too Tall, you are goin' down!"

The voice was followed by what sounded like a quick scuttling noise, the undergrowth rustling as The Phantom and his hunter-killer team quickly moved out of the immediate area.

"They're moving out," said Ned, whose keen ears had picked up the sound of movement.

"They'll be back," grumbled Austin.

"Shut up!" snapped Ned. "Look, all we have to do is find their damned flag! It's got to be around here somewhere!"

Bill took a deep breath. Ned had started out almost two hours before, full of piss and vinegar. Ned had overflowed with confidence, sure that his knowledge of the area, and the inexperience of the knights and their allied Cousins, would make the exercise, for him and the ten men . . . a cake walk! Now, down to two men and, in Bill's opinion, lost, they had found nothing but trees!

"Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers . . .?" Bill started in again.

"Bill, I swear to God I'll kick you in the balls if you don't shut up!" yelled Ned. "Just shut the fuck up!"

He set off at a careful, but brisk, pace. Where the hell were they, the little fucks, and where the hell was their flag?

Ned had arrived at the designated assembly point exactly on time: 0830 on a bright and sunny Friday morning. He had expected to find a gaggle of Sea Cadets milling about, along with a herd of Cousins picking their noses and wondering why they weren't back home, in bed, playing with their morning woodies. He found, instead, Laurence, Colin, Commander Stockman, Andy and Kyle.

The absence of the "Opposing Force" aside, Ned noticed that Father, Colin and Kyle wore their white peaked caps. Laurence and Andy wore forest pattern, camouflage garrison caps, around which they had tied a piece of white cloth. Each man had also tied strips of white cloth around their upper arms. This signified that they were the Referees, they enforced the rules and they alone would decide who would be "killed" and which side won the game. Their word was law, and there was no appeal.

Slightly miffed, Ned asked where the kids were.

Laurence answered, "Your opponents have been and gone."

"What?" Ned yelped. "But we weren't supposed to start until now! Can't those brats tell time?"

Ignoring Ned's outburst, Laurence smiled grimly. "Nowhere in the rules does it say that any side must adhere to whatever schedule has been laid down. They arrived early and their Commanding Officer asked if they could deploy earlier. That permission was given." He gave Ned a stern look. "War does not necessarily start on time!"

Ned had to admit the wisdom of Laurence's words. Okay, he'd been caught napping. But he had forty men, all experienced jungle fighters, veterans of Vietnam, hand-picked by him for that experience. Forty seasoned fighters against an almost equal number of so-called experienced Sea Cadets and Chinese Cousins whose only experience was the guerrilla war they conducted against their nursemaids! Ned smiled and thought to himself, "Not a problem!"

Laurence looked completely unbiased as he went on. "I regret that there was a small problem with the maps you provided." He shook his head as if to say, "it happens sometimes".

"The maps?" asked Ned, alarmed. Had he been caught?

He had.

Laurence nodded. "Yes, it appears that when you transcribed the map data from the master copy you somehow became confused with where some of the trails led. I took the liberty of replacing your map with true copies of the original." He looked at Ned. "We must be fair, and impartial, after all."

Not having too much leverage, Ned had to agree with Laurence. His little attempt at counter-intelligence had backfired, to his disadvantage. It happened. Not that it mattered. There were only a few trails in this area, and an even fewer number where he thought the knights and Cousins would "fort up" and plant their flag - if they had one. He looked around, seeing nothing but trees and underbrush. It was eerily quiet, but then it was early in the morning and the animals would naturally be hunkered down, waiting for their natural prey - man - to leave. He did not remember the oldest rule in the book: when the jungle or forest was quiet, danger was near.

Deciding to assume of role of graceful defeat with the maps, Ned asked, "Then they're ready for us?"

Shrugging, Laurence replied, "One assumes so."

Seeing that he was not about to get any help from Laurence, Ned accepted the inevitable. "Well, I suppose we should get started then." "Yes," replied Laurence. He gestured toward the other officers. "We shall be about, keeping an eye on things."

"In other words, don't cheat. Play fair and square," Ned thought to himself. He then asked brightly, "Oh, who's the man in charge?" "Chief Petty Officer von Hohenberg, the big lad who is the Drum Major," advised Laurence.

Ned cackled inwardly and all but hugged himself. Harry! The Drum Major! Hell, that big goof couldn't find his dick in the heads if the lights weren't on! This was getting better and better! A cakewalk! With Harry leading they would be so disorganized they'd welcome the chance to be captured.

With pretended indifference Ned turned and began his campaign. He had organized his men into five sections, each section led by a man he trusted. Avram Stein had one section, Hank Peabody another. Dino Antonelli led a section. Not only was he a graduate of Ranger School, he had served two tours in Vietnam. Dave Edge, who had graduated from The Citadel, led the fourth Section. Ned would lead from the field. The sections would communicate by field radios and Ned knew that the knights had none. He had made sure of that, bribing the radioman in charge of them to take them out of service for "maintenance".

Pleased with his preparations - and himself - Ned once again surveyed the area, nodded confidently, and then shouted, "Move out!"

Laurence watched them go and then turned to his fellow referees. "If the lads listened to Alex Grinchsten, and use what he gave them wisely, I have a feeling that our Ned Hadfield is in for a very rude surprise!"

Father, Andy and Kyle nodded sagely. Ned had underestimated their young men. This would not be quite the pushover that Ned thought it would be.

The knights had planned well, or so they thought. They had begun in the morning room, and quickly settled the command structure. When the question of "Commander" was raised several heads had turned almost automatically to look at The Phantom, who was more or less prepared for it. However, he had no intention of being any such thing. As he told the others, while he did have a great deal of experience in the woods, and felt that he could more or less hold his own in the trees, he really had no military experience at all. He could set a trap to catch his dinner, read the trails, build a blind, and make a shelter of pine boughs, but he couldn't set up a defensive position to save his soul.

The Phantom knew his strengths, he knew his weaknesses, and was not ashamed to admit them. He frankly felt that he would be of more use in the woods, sneaking around (which he said he did very well) as part of a defensive field force.

Several of the cadets then thought that Tyler, who was still, in their eyes, the Master-At-Arms, and the senior ranking cadet, would want the job. Tyler demurred. While he enjoyed his rank and position, he did not particularly enjoy not being able to participate in some of the more interesting exercises the junior cadets engaged in. As a "trained leader" Tyler was excellent. However, today he wanted to have some fun and sitting in a dusty field waiting for an attacking force to put in an appearance did not seem to him to be anywhere near approaching fun.

Val was of the same opinion, although one reason stood out. He was a city boy who rarely had the chance to see anything more than "miles and miles of fucking wheat fields or city streets". He had been on QUEST, as had all of the senior cadets, but two weeks in a structured camp, doing set-piece exercises, where everybody from the get go knew who would win and who would lose, hardly qualified him to take charge in what was becoming more and more a war!

Mark, Tony and Nathan were considered, but as they pointed out, they had never been in Vancouver before, let alone the forests that surrounded the city. They had done a tour with the Junior ROTC Army Cadets back home, but that had only been for a week, and they had spent more time learning how to set up camp and fire off various and sundry weapons than in field craft.

The Twins also declined. They were well-trained, had taken all the courses, including QUEST, although Cory cattily thought that Todd had spent more time in the tent putting the blocks to Sylvain than he did in learning how to read a map. Cory did not say anything, of course, for Sylvain was dead, and one did not speak ill of the dead. Besides, the Twins were active, hands-on young men. They did not care for the thought of sitting behind and waiting. No, they would help The Phantom, thank you.

Sean Anders very quickly informed everyone that while he felt he could do the job he, like Mark and Tony, knew nothing about playing in the woods. He also felt that his style of leadership and discipline was more suited to the quarterdeck than it was to forests.

Nicholas, who had the rank, reminded everyone that he was the Chief Yeoman of Signals, and they would need communications if they were going to break up into small groups. Besides, he didn't know a stag from a skunk. Well, he did, but they all knew what he meant.

Mike Sunderland, whose entire career in the Sea Cadets had been with the Physical Training Branch, observed that he couldn't read a map, didn't want to read a map, was big and strong and felt that somewhere along the line a little muscle would be needed. He would very gladly supply the muscle.

Phil Thornton was not about to be left high and dry on some hill while Randy and Joey were off playing silly buggers in the woods. He knew them, and he knew what could happen. After all, look what happened the last time they went into the woods! Where they went, he went, and no lip from the stokers if you please!

As names were bandied about, Harry, quite uncharacteristically for him, sat quietly in the corner, munching on a tray of muffins. He was so quiet that had he not let loose with a loud belch he might have gone unnoticed. Hearing the familiar sound, and quietly thanking God that Harry had not, as was his usual morning custom, serenaded them with a fanfaronade of flatulence, The Phantom exchanged a look with Todd, who looked at Harry, who ignored him, and smiled.

"Harry," began The Phantom as he moved alongside the hulking Drum Major. "Is it true that you're qualified to teach QUEST courses?" The Phantom was blatantly stroking Harry's ego. "And that you can track like an Indian?"

Harry, who knew a snow job when he heard one, grunted and reached for a raisin and spice bran muffin. He was very fond of raisin and spice bran muffins.

"And not only that, The Gunner told me that you took "Cock of the Walk" at the range shoot," put in Todd. He looked to find Cory and motioned frantically for his brother to come alongside.

Harry, his face full of muffin, said nothing.

"Harry, come on, you're the best man for the job," began Cory enthusiastically. He positively beamed as carried on, "And I heard that the last time you defended the flag your tactics and positions were impregnable!"

Harry, with great indifference, studied the tray of muffins. He saw that he had eaten all of the raisin and spice muffins and shrugged. Apple and cinnamon muffins were good too.

"You were magnificent," said Todd, deliberately pandering to Harry's ego. "Remember how the instructor said that only you could have pulled off such a difficult mission!"

Munching contentedly, Harry did not think it advisable to disagree. Had he done so, Harry would have pointed out to Todd that while what he said was true, Todd could hardly have heard the instructor handing out praise as Todd had been skiving in his tent, popping corn with Sylvain.

The Phantom tried a different tack. "Harry, we need you!" he wheedled. "I can't do it, because I don't know my ass from my elbow when it comes to things military."

Harry looked thoughtful. The Phantom was a great guy, and no danger. But he had his faults, just as did everybody else. He nibbled his muffin, looking, or so Cory thought, like a large mouse chewing on a particularly succulent piece of cheese.

"And the boys like you, Harry," said Todd with great emphasis. "They respect you!"

"Why they almost adore you," said Cory, laying it on thick. "Why only you could have whipped the Band into shape!"

Harry gave Cory a look. The Band had respected him, and in some cases, adored him, but only in the rare moments when the horn blowers were not arguing with him, or the drummers waving their sticks, or worse, their peckers, at him!

Todd looked at Harry, thinking that the big mutt looked like a contented bull munching on alfalfa. "God dammit, Harry, say something!" he growled, completely exasperated.

Harry looked at The Phantom, then at Todd, and then at Cory. He carefully brushed the crumbs from his fingertips, ran his hand down the front of uniform, stifled a burp and said, "I get to pick my own team."

The Phantom was the first to recover. "Harry, you bugger! You were going to do it all the time!"

Chuckling, Harry stood up, placed his hands on The Phantom's shoulders, kissed him on the nose, and then whispered, "Gotcha!"

Laurence, who had been talking to Alex Grinchsten beforehand, returned to the morning room. "Well," he asked The Phantom pointedly. "Have you sorted things out?"

Taking a deep breath, The Phantom replied, "I think so."

"You had better know, not think," returned Laurence brusquely. He looked at the quiet crowd. "Well then, gentlemen, shall we open the ball?"

As the cadets and Cousins straggled down the steps of the house Tyler took charge. As far as he was concerned they were, except for the Cousins and Nate Schoenmann, still Sea Cadets and still under his authority. He had not forgotten his duty. They were cadets, and he was still the Master-At-Arms. Quid pro quo, they would form up properly and march to the assembly area.

Nate Schoenmann, neither fish nor fowl, deliberated on walking on alone, but decided that since he was, after all, a Companion of the Order, his place was with the cadets. Val looked at Nate quizzically, but said nothing. Nate was finally becoming one of them.

Alistair, not to be outdone, quickly arranged the Cousins into the semblance of a ragged military formation. His efforts were not helped by Arden, who giggled, or Max, who muttered that he was not in the frickin' Navy! Alistair glared at both boys, something he had never done before. His look had a telling effect and the Cousins settled down.

Tyler, after having Val size and reform the platoon reported to Laurence that there were 33 Knights and Companions and 11 Cousins on parade. Laurence gravely returned Tyler's salute and ordered him to follow.

They marched from the house, down the drive, and through the ornate iron gates. For some reason the four men on duty, each armed with a wicked-looking automatic weapon, thought it fit to line up outside of the gatehouse at attention.

The assembly point was located on the outskirts of the small cluster of cabins, Mess Hall, gym building, canteen and small stores building, that housed a part of the Security Force. The wide, long field was actually a football field (if one was American), or a football pitch (if one were British or from one of the Dominions).

At the far end of the field, standing outside of the low, brick hut that housed the latrine the players and few spectators used, Alex Grinchsten waited. Beside him on the ground was a large canvas bag. The bag contained, he explained to the cadets and Cousins once they had fallen out and gathered around, what he hoped would be a few unpleasant surprises for Ned and his cohorts.

"I tried to get you some field radios," Alex explained first off, "but except for the ones Ned took with him, the others are out of service for maintenance."

Laurence, who had been in the communications shack, only the day before, knew that the radios had been working perfectly well then. He looked incisively at Alex, who continued, "That's what I was told." He reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like green painted ladies compacts. "I did manage to get these, however."

Nicholas reached for and took one of the objects. "It's a heliograph," he said. As the others craned their necks to look at the small mirror, Nicholas looked up at the sky. "It's sunny out, and it's going to get hot. No clouds, so no rain." He nodded his head. "We can use these!"

Alex looked surprised. "You know how to read Morse?"

Puffing out his chest, Nicholas looked hurt. "I am the Yeoman of Signals. I can read Morse! And so can that . . ." he turned and looked at Calvin. "Calvin! Let's go!"

Brian and Thumper held up their hands. "We can read Morse," they said almost as one.

"Have you ever used a signal lamp?" asked Nicholas.

"Well, no," admitted Brian.

Thumper shook his head, no.

"Well, come on then, one quick lesson and then you're on your own," said Nicholas. He took them to one side and began to explain how to use the heliograph.

Willy Chan, who was very analytical, sidled over. "I can read and send Morse," he said. "I taught myself!"

"You can?" asked Nicholas, his eyes widening. He could not understand why anyone would voluntarily learn a code that was fast becoming obsolete.

"Oh, yes. I had nothing better to do one afternoon and I was reading a book on the American Civil War," Willy replied with a grin, explaining, "The book was very interesting and one of the chapters dealt with how the armies communicated with each other, and then Morse code was mentioned and I thought it might be interesting, so I found it in the encyclopaedia and learned it."

"He's very analytical," offered Joey Chan.

Nicholas could not see how being analytical could lead to one learning Morse, but wasn't about to argue. "Okay, how about you run down to the far end of the field and practice sending and receiving with Calvin?" He looked sternly at the young red-haired signalman. "You remember, pervert, that you're looking at what Willy sends, not Phantom's butt!"

After scrunching up his face at Nicholas, Calvin walked off with Willy. Presently the two boys were flashing away.

"Okay, problem one gone," said Alex as he handed out what looked like tubes of lipstick.

"What's this?" The Phantom asked as he rolled one of the tubes in his hand.

"Camouflage paint," replied Alex. "Brown, black and green. You paint your faces with them and don't worry, it washes off fine."

"I've never used it," admitted The Phantom. Harry reached for one of the tubes. "Here, I know how to put it on," he said. "Phantom, lift up your chin a bit."

"Make sure your guys keep their caps pulled down. Some of them are too blond and you've got some redheads." Alex looked around. "Maybe you can have them go behind the latrine and make some mud pies."

"Latrine?" asked Alistair, whose black hair was not in danger.

"There's water in there," Alex said with a snicker. "You didn't think they'd use pee, did you?"

"Of course not," returned Alistair sharply. "That would smell!"

"Yeah, I guess it would," said Alex. "All they have to do is smear some mud on the sides and back. And remember to keep their hats on!"

"Okay," said Harry as he began to paint The Phantom's face and watched as Alex next brought out a small arsenal. First came long, thin, red-tissue-wrapped packages. "Firecrackers?" he asked.

"Firecrackers?" The Phantom looked. "Where did you find firecrackers?" Laughing, Alex shook his head. "In the quarters used by the Chinese guards. When they were sent home they left some of their gear behind." He looked at Alistair. "They were always setting these things off!"

"They used the firecrackers to frighten off evil spirits," explained Alistair, deadpan. "Especially Feng Shui, who are very mean and bad-tempered spirits. Sort of a celestial amah!"

"I'll take your word for it," replied Alex. He reached into his bag and brought out a small, black spheroid, and a thick, stumpy cylinder, also painted black.

"Cherry bombs!" exclaimed Tyler.

"Nope." Alex held up the sphere. "This as a whiz bang. Actually it simulates a mortar round being fired and makes a noise like a shell coming at you." He held up the cylinder. "This is an artillery simulator. It makes a hell of a bang, and creates a lot of smoke. It has been known to scare the crap out of a guy if he's not expecting it."

Laurence's eyes grew wide. He had not known that such things were available. "Where did you get them?" he demanded to know.

"Buggered if I know," replied Alex with a shrug. "All I know is there are two boxes of each in Captain K'ang's old room. Maybe he wanted to use them on an exercise," he finished somewhat lamely.

"Or as a diversion when he and his men attacked the house," thought Laurence grimly. Fortunately the discredited K'ang had been found out, and now occupied a different sort of room. It was six feet long, two feet wide and six feet down.

"You may use them," said Laurence presently. "But only on well travelled paths or in open fields where there is no danger of starting a fire." He waved at the encompassing stands of pine and fir and redwoods. "The Forestry people will be very upset if you manage to ignite a conflagration!"

Laughing softly, Alex replied, "Don't worry, I'll be wandering around to keep an eye on things. The he turned and asked The Phantom, "Have you decided who is doing what, and where you want to fort up?"

"That's Harry's department," said The Phantom. He turned to Harry who, not having seen the new map, shrugged and reached out his hand.

After studying the map, Harry regarded The Phantom. "I don't know how experienced Ned is, but from the looks of things there are only five main trails leading into the woods."

"That is quite true, but there are also deer runs," said Alistair. He looked over Harry's shoulder. "They are not marked but we have walked them."

"And if Ned uses the main trails, we can go around, um . . ." began The Phantom.

"Outflank them," supplied Alex.

"Yes, that too," returned The Phantom with a grin.

Harry looked at Alistair. "All of the Cousins know these deer runs?"

"Oh, yes. We have been playing out here since we were little. Some run parallel to the main trails, others wind around a bit." He smiled diffidently. "Honest, we do know our way around these woods."

Harry regarded The Phantom a moment. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" The Phantom nodded his head. "Each of our 'hunter-killer' groups has a Cousin along to guide us. Hell and sheeit! We can ambush the sumbitches!"

"Fuckin' aye!" growled Harry in reply. "Okay, you sort out how you want your groups to be. I want Nate, Nathan, Steve, Stuart and Brian with me." He saw the questioning look on The Phantom's face. "I know what to do, Phantom." He regarded the map a moment. "I'll also need some shovels, a heliograph, some rope and a lot of whiz bangs and arty rounds."

Laurence, who was anxious to get things going asked, "Have you decided where you will make your stand."

"How about here?" Harry asked as he pointed. "It's a small rise, not too open, and . . ."

"I am afraid that is not possible," said Alistair.

"What? Why?" Harry asked. "It's ideal, good field of fire and open. We can see Ned's people coming a mile away."

Shaking his head, Alistair said, "It is an Indian Burial Ground, much revered by the local aboriginals. You cannot desecrate such a place. They would be very upset."

Harry thought a moment, and then said, "Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't like a bunch of barbarians like us pitching camp in the family plot." He did not feel the need to add that just such a desecration had occurred, not once, but twice, in his family's ancestral cemetery back home in East Prussia, when the Russians came calling.

"I suggest here," Alistair advised. He pointed with his finger. "It is also open, much larger than the area you chose, and there is a stream running through it." He ran his finger along a faintly line. "See, just here, at the base of this small rise. The main trail goes straight into it and there are at least three deer runs back behind the rise."

"Fine by me." Harry turned and looked at The Phantom. "You want to choose your guys?"

"I'd like Arden, Randy, Joey, Two Strokes, and Thumper." The Phantom scratched his chin. "Mark as well. I'll also need some shovels, or at least something to dig with, and some rope, if we have any."

Phil Thornton scowled at being separated from Joey and Randy, but said nothing.

"There's some sash cord over in stores," said Alex. "And some entrenching tools - collapsible shovels. You can draw them when you're ready."

"Okay." The Phantom beckoned to Harry. "As I see it, Ned is going to be hot to trot to take you down. If we, I mean the other groups, can whittle down his columns, it will make it that much easier on you."

"Sounds about right," Harry agreed. "But we won't know how many columns, or where they're heading."

"No, but he's got to start here, so here is what I think we should do . . ."

As Ned strode confidently into the woods he did not know that a pair of very young, and very keen eyes watched every move he and his columns of men were making. Fifty yards into the trees, and perched on the limb of an ancient pine, Calvin watched carefully, and then turned slightly. The sun was at the right height and he began flashing his heliograph, taking great care to space the sun flashes correctly.

Three hundred yards in, up an equally tall and older redwood, Willy Chan perched comfortably. He saw the flashing light and began whispering down to Nicholas, who stood at the base of the tree. "Yankee Force moving out," he translated. "Five columns approximately eight men in each. One column on designated trails. General Hooker with Column 3, Trail 1. Message Ends."

Nicholas turned to Max. "Okay, run and tell Harry. Ned is heading right down the trail leading to the flag." He looked up. "Willy, make to Calvin: 'Return to Johnny Reb'. When you've done that run and tell Phantom and then Tyler. And come right back!"

Max took off running. Willy soon followed. Nicholas' signal force was in operation.

Harry listened to Max as he tried to breathe and report at the same time. When Max had finished and while the young Chinese was catching his breath, Harry turned to Mark. "Right by the book."

Nate Schoenmann, who was digging a trench of some kind that Harry had ordered him to dig, paused. "Never fails. Ned's too sure of himself, too cocky. He thinks he's going to waltz right through us."

"He's got another think coming if I have anything to say about it," snarled Harry. He turned to Max. "Okay, back to Johnny Reb for you. Tell Nicholas to send a flash to Phantom: 'Good Hunting'."

Max looked seriously at Harry. "Nicholas has given Phantom the code name of General Lee," he said officiously. "You are Richmond Prime."

"I am?" asked Harry, trying to maintain his composure and not laugh. "What's Nicholas?"

"Jeb Stuart," replied Max promptly. He then started running across the small clearing. Harry called him back. "Tell General Stuart to knock it off. I work on the KISS principle." He saw the confused looked on the young Cousin's face. "K-I-S-S: Keep it simple, stupid!" he translated.

Visibly relieved, Max laughed. "Thank God! I can't remember half of what Nicholas said anyway!"

"Just remember the important things," Harry said with a smile. He gave Max a swat on his fanny. "Off you go now, and don't get caught!" Laughing, Max took off and said in a hoarse whisper over his shoulder. "I wouldn't dare get caught. Nicholas would kill me!"

"What's with the 'Gone With The Wind' routine?" asked Nate as Max disappeared into the forest. "And what am I digging, a grave?"

Harry watched as Stuart, Steve and Brian came out of the woods, each carting a large bunch of small tree limbs. "Over here!" Harry called. He returned to Nate. "Nicholas is a true son of the South. He was born in Charleston - South Carolina, not West Virginia. His daddy was stationed there when Nicholas was born."

"Oh." Nate threw the shovel to one side. "And this?" he asked, pointing down to the hole he had just dug.

"That, my friend, is a surprise for whoever comes calling," replied Harry. He laughed heartily. "A very big surprise!"

"I don't like this," Vince Demarco said to Dino Antonelli. "It's too damned quiet."

Dino looked at the short, dark-haired, and darker-visaged Vince, and nodded. "Those brats are out there." He looked ahead to see Eric Carter, tall, blond, and lanky, who was on point, hold up his hand. Moving ahead quickly Dino asked, "What is it?"

Eric pointed down to the packed earth path. "Looks like someone's been along here, and not so long ago."

Nodding, Dino studied the scuffed earth. He had seen much the same pattern before, when he was on exercise with the Citadel Cadets back in Carolina. He looked back. The rest of the men in his column were crouched down, alert. Dino nodded and then spoke softly. "A set-up."

"Don't see anything," replied Vince as he peered into the dark woods. The whole area was as still as death. "Up ahead?" he asked.

"Yeah," replied Dino. He pulled out his map and studied it. "There's a bend up ahead. That's where I'd put an ambush."

Vince agreed. They stood and Dino signalled for the other men to go forward.

Dino had been right. He and his men were being set up for an ambush, only not where he thought it would be. In fact, he was already in the place that The Phantom had decided he would start his little war.

The column had barely taken another step when there was a woosh and a thud and grey smoke rose in the still air. As they had been trained to do the Dino's men dropped and rolled to one side of the trail, not knowing that The Phantom had had his troops gather up small pellets of deer droppings and line the sides of the trails with them.

The dull echo of the exploding whiz bang had barely died away when there came the sharp rattle of exploding firecrackers, which sounded too much like the chatter of an AK going off for comfort. The men hunkered lower and then it was quiet. Slowly, carefully, they rose up, some cursing the deer poop that spotted their uniforms, looking around.

Some of them began to laugh uncomfortably, and to brush off their fatigues. Dino cursed under his breath and looked around. Something was wrong! He looked again and just as he was about to turn around and count heads a bowel churning, blood curdling, primordial scream filled the air.

The men fell back down and once again rolled to the side. They waited for more explosions. When none came they raised their heads cautiously. Dino belly-crawled down the line, and it was only then that he realized that Jay Richards, who had been walking rear guard, was gone. There was no sign of a struggle, although the underbrush beside the path where Jay had been was disturbed.

"Jesus Christ!" Dino breathed. "And fuck you, Ned Hadfield!"

Colin, who had been strolling down the path following Dino and his men, and almost peed himself when the first explosion went off, heard a small hissing noise. He turned and saw Thumper, looking like a demon in his black and green and brown painted face and with bits and pieces of pine and underbrush stuck in his cap, gesturing. Colin followed the young man through the woods for a short piece and stopped when Thumper indicated for him to do so. Thumper pointed at a prone figure lying in the middle of the deer trail. Colin looked down and chuckled.

Jay Richards, white faced and wide-eyed, and trussed up like Christmas turkey, his hands and feet tied firmly with sash cord, looked back. Jay thrashed about but with his mouth stuffed with Alistair's handkerchief, his cursing was incomprehensible.

Kneeling down, Colin removed the improvised gag from Jay's mouth. Spitting out cotton fibre, and with his face flaming with embarrassment, Jay growled. "They're like ghosts! Jesus, man, that scream!"

Colin, who would never admit that his sphincter had clamped shut at the first sound of the scream, nodded. "Looks like they mean business." He untied Jay and pointed back down the path. "Report to the assembly point." Then he assumed a very bad, Eric von Stroheim accent. "For you, the war is over!"

At the assembly point, Laurence waited, hearing very little. The woods were so thick here that they muffled every sound. He was bored, and wished that Logan were with him. The younger man could have stayed behind to keep track of who was doing what to whom and Laurence could have done what he wanted to do, go into the field and watch how the young knights and Cousins performed. But Logan was not here. He had left earlier to take the first ferry to Victoria, where he would meet with Eddy Tsang.

Beside him Laurence could hear the field radio crackle to life. He had gone to the communications shack as soon as the knights and Cousins, trailed by their referee-officers, had disappeared into the woods, and demanded to know what the hell was going on.

The radioman had tried to prevaricate and obfusticate, but in the end admitted that Ned had promised no night duty for the next 30 days, and a three day pass if there were no radios in service for the boys. Laurence, after signing out a radio, promised nothing but night duties for the next 30 days, and no passes until Christmas! Laurence listened carefully.

"Red-1, Red-3, Over!"

Laurence recognized the voice. It was Dino Antonelli. He sounded calm, but agitated.

Ned answered almost immediately. "3, this is 1, over." Ned, who could not have been very far into the forest, was, by the sound of his voice, drawlingly complacent.

"Dammit, they've got simulators!" came Dino's growling voice. "And I've lost a man!"

"Lost? What? What the hell do you mean?" came Ned's angry reply.

"Exactly what I said!" snarled Dino. "Jay, Jay Richards. He was walking the rear and the little fucks let loose with a string of fuckin' firecrackers and a whiz-bang! When I turned around he was gone! It was like, hell, like he just vanished into thin air!" In the telling of his loss Dino became even more agitated.

"Calm down, 3!" Ned ordered sharply. "He can't have vanished. The little bastards got him!" There was a lengthy pause. "Okay, just keep your balls loose! We expected to take casualties!"

"Ned, there's something out here!" exclaimed Dino in a low whisper. "Honest, man, you wouldn't believe the scream we heard! My balls were loose, but not after that scream! Man, they shrivelled! Over!"

"He's losing it," thought Ned as he stared at the radio. He took a deep breath, determined to put Dino's backbone back where it belonged.

"God Damn It!" Ned's voice was harsh. "Now listen, 3! It's them brats! There is no Sasquatch running around, or forest demons, nothing! It's them brats!" He took a deep breath that the radio handset amplified. "They're trying to spook you. Ignore them! Just check out Point Delta . . ."

Ned had designated each possible site where the knights might have set up their flag according to the Phonetic Alphabet. " . . . If they're not there return to . . ." he consulted his map. "Map reference 1-4-4 square 7. That trail you're on winds around right back to that point. Out!"

Dave Edge, who had been monitoring the radio conversation between Dino and Ned, looked around and studied the ground carefully. The trail was clean and looked as if no one or no thing had been on it for weeks. He was point, and he was very good at it. He could see no traps, nothing that caused alarm.

"Hey Dave," came a voice toward the rear of the column.

Turning, Dave asked, "You see something?" He saw Bob Zbacnik, a tall, black-haired Floridian pointing into the woods.

"Naw," replied Bob. "I gotta go."

Dave shook his head. Bob should have taken care of any business before they left. However, when Nature called, Nature called. "Well go ahead! But hurry it up!" Dave snapped.

Bob ran into the woods about twenty feet or so. He wasn't exactly shy, but sometimes a guy needed some privacy. He quickly undid his trousers and pushed them down, paying no attention at all to the small pile of leaves and brush, a natural enough sight in the woods, that mounded to his left. He also failed to look up into the branches of the tree under which he squatted.

What Bob did not know was that under the pile of leaves and twigs was Matthew Chan. Nor did he know that hanging above him, ready to drop, and silently wondering how such a big guy could have such a skinny pecker, was Mike Sunderland.

Further along the trail, but well inside the trees, Tyler motioned to Phillip, called the Assistant, and Chris. They pulled the pins on the artillery simulators they were holding, dropped them, and scuttled into the woods.

Bob, his eyes closed, and sighing happily had just finished and was cleaning himself with Handi Wipes - being an old soldier, so to speak, he was always prepared for life's little emergencies. He had started to rise when two hellacious bangs rent the air. He bent and fumbled his trousers halfway up his legs, paying no attention at all to the shouts and curses from the trail, and trying to untangle his briefs. He did not hear the low growl that emanated from the innocent looking pile of leafy rubbish. He did feel the wind being knocked out him, as Matthew Chan seemed to be propelled out of nowhere.

At the same time, Mike dropped and flopped on top of Bob's leg. Bob, surprised and breathless, did not know what hit him and lay, pinned down by two of the biggest lugs he had seen in a long time. He opened and closed his mouth, drawing in air, his eyes wide with shock. He was looking frantically around when three more figures appeared, one tall and stocky, and the other two shorter.

Tyler squatted down beside Bob. He held up a length of sash cord. "According to the rules, you are now dead," Tyler whispered. "I can't see the point in tying you up and leaving you here until a referee wanders by. Will you give me your word that if we just loop this around your wrists you'll go back to the assembly area?"

Caught with his pants down, literally and figuratively, Bob really had no choice. He nodded. "Can I pull up my pants first?" he asked.

"Of course," replied Tyler. Then he added, graciously, "I do apologise for any embarrassment." He motioned for Matthew and Mike to get up.

Freed, Bob stood up, pulled up his underwear and trousers and then held out his hands. "I'll go quietly." He looked closely at the fresh-faced young man who had bested him. "You're good, kid." He looked at the others. "And so are they. I never heard a thing, never saw a thing."

Laughing quietly, Tyler signalled with his hand. Mike, Phillip, called the Assistant, Matthew and Chris threw Bob a mock salute and slipped into the woods. From the trail came the voice of Dave Edge, calling frantically for his missing man.

Bob, his hands lightly bound, winked at Tyler. "Since I'm dead I guess I can't tell what happened to me."

"Guess not," replied Tyler, returning the wink. "Mind how you go," he said and then, with a slight wave of his hand, was gone.

If The Phantom was sneaky, Cory was, if anything, sneakier. With Cornelius as guide, Cory and his "hunter-killer" group had quickly navigated the deer trails to the small clearing - it was barely 20 yards across - that he knew one of Ned's columns would head for. Once there, Cory looked around, looked back down the trail that led into the clearing and grinned evilly at Alistair. Cory had a plan.

With Cory directing traffic the two Knights, Peter Race and Phil Thornton, and the three Cousins, Alistair, Cornelius and Harry Chan set to work. Cory reasoned that the enemy column would go slow, expecting something to happen along the trail. Something would happen, just not wherever whoever was leading the enemy force expected it to happen.

As they worked the young men heard muffled thuds and strings of sharper explosions, which told them that the other groups were putting the small cache of firecrackers, whiz-bangs and arty simulators to good use. They also heard the most God-awful, blood-curdling howl that Cory, Peter and Phil had ever heard. All three stopped what they were doing and looked around.

Cory stared at Alistair. "What . . . what the fuck was that?" he asked, his voice shaky and his face slightly pale.

Alistair snickered and Cornelius and Willy, who had merely looked up when they heard the howl, shrugged. "Oh, that's just Arden," Willy said and then went back to excavating the hole Cory had told him to dig.

"You're kidding!" Phil gasped. "Fuck, that was . . . I don't know how to describe it! But it damn near scared the piss out of me!"

"Fuckin' aye!" agreed Cory, glad that he had actually worn underpants for a change. He knew that a small drop of urine had oozed from the head of his dick and that his balls had retracted upward for safety. "Arden made that sound?" he asked. "Hell it's damn near . . ." He searched for the word he wanted.

"Primordial?" supplied Cornelius with a wide grin.

"When it comes to primordial shrieks Arden is your man!" boasted Harry Chan.

"You should hear him when Amah is chasing him around the bedroom trying to get him into the bathtub," added Alistair. "Positively makes the blood run cold!"

Shaking his head, Cory laughed quietly. "Well, I hope I'm never at your house at bath time, then!"

Before Alistair could reply, Max Chan stepped unexpectedly from the tree line. "Hi, guys," he said cheerfully.

Both Cory and Alistair jumped slightly at the short, slight apparition that seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Where the hell did you come from?" demanded Alistair.

"Jeb Stuart - Nicholas - sent me," replied Max with a sniff. He thought that sometimes Alistair was too big for his britches! Max turned to Cory. "There's a really neat deer track we found last year that sort of winds around and around but connects with all of the clearings. I followed it and here I am."

"Okay, so what does Nicholas, I mean 'Jeb' want?" asked Cory.

Max squatted in the traditional Oriental manner, which Phil unkindly thought made him look as if he were about to take a dump, and started talking.

"Jeb Stuart says to tell you that all Yankee columns are moving out. Phantom - is covering Yankee 3, which is led by Dino Antonelli. Tyler is hunting Dave Edge, he's . . . shit, I forgot!"

"Speak English, then," remonstrated Cory.

"Fine by me," replied Max equably. "General Pegram . . . sorry, Val . . ."

"General Lee called him the 'Gallant Pegram'," interjected Cory, who did know his Civil War history.

"Whatever," Max replied dismissively. "Val is hot on the trail of Avram Stein. Your brother, Todd, is looking after General Hooker, also called the great, the glorious, the omnipotent Ned!"

"And who am I?" Cory asked, curious.

"Nicholas says you are General E. Porter Alexander. You're looking to see General Butler pretty soon, I think." Then Max asked, "Nicholas called him "Beast Butler". I don't know why."

"Beast Butler was the general who was in charge of New Orleans after the Yankees took it. When the ladies of the city snubbed him, and his soldiers, he issued an order saying that any woman who treated him or his men with contempt would be considered a 'woman of the town, plying her trade' and arrested! Then he stole all the family silver he could lay his hands on," explain Cory. "So General Butler is near?"

Max nodded. "He's about a hundred yards down the trail, coming slowly. That's Hank Peabody, by the way." Max stood up and continued, "Well, gotta go. Phantom says that once you take care of Hank you're to come alongside Val - he's on the next trail over. Once Phantom has taken care of Mr. Antonelli he'll be heading to Richmond Prime - that's Harry." He turned to leave, "Oh, I almost forgot. Phantom and Tyler have taken prisoners."

"How many?" Phil asked.

"One each."

"We'll do better than that," said Cory confidently. "Okay Max, thanks."

With a wave, Max was gone.

Cory turned to his "Rebs". "Okay guys, let's give Beast Butler a nice big welcoming party!"

Hank Peabody considered himself a woodsman. As a boy he had hunted every autumn with his father, his uncles, and his brothers across the fields and woods that abounded on the vast acreage his family owned in the northwest corner of Massachusetts. He had learned at a very early age to read the signs, signs that a deer had passed, or a moose. As he stalked carefully along the footpath, Hank looked for signs.

There were none, really. The path looked as if it had not been travelled on in a long time. This did not surprise Hank. The footpath angled off from the main trail used by the tourists and the hikers, and ended in a small, conical clearing surrounded by dense Douglas Firs and pine trees. The clearing was also more or less off limits, as it was allegedly an Indian Burial Mound, and the Forestry people were very careful not to offend Aboriginal sensibilities.

As he walked carefully Hank did what his training had taught him to do. He watched, he looked down, and he listened. He saw nothing that caused him to suspect that he was about to walk into an ambush. The trail seemed to have been barely disturbed and hidden under a bed of brown pine needles - not surprising. The trees in this section were old when Vancouver was first settled and trees abounded. As they grew, their lower branches died and shed their needles.

Midway down the trail was a small pile of droppings, again not surprising. With no natural predators, and hunting strictly forbidden, the deer flourished. There were scattered branches lying about, a sign that a storm had passed recently. Hank could see nothing wrong and while cautious, he moved forward, toward the clearing.

What Hank did not know was that Cory's men had not been on the trail. Cornelius had led them along a barely visible deer track that wound around a bit, but came out directly behind the mound. Avoiding the open area, the boys had stayed as best they could within the overgrown weeds and underbrush that lined the field.

Well hidden in the darkness of a tall, overgrown Douglas fir, Cory watched as the point man of Hank's small column stepped cautiously into the clearing. He crouched, as if expecting an attack, and looked around carefully and, seeing nothing, raised his arm. His fingers snapped twice and he moved forward. Cory raised his fingers to his lips.

Hank had just stepped into the clearing when a long, high-pitched whistle rent the still, morning air. Off to the left Peter Race lit the long string of firecrackers he'd been given and tossed them, the fuse sputtering, high into the air, almost directly over the head of the point man. At the first sound of the sharp, exploding firecrackers burst over his head, the point man dropped and rolled. What he didn't know was that less than a foot from where he rolled there was a small trench covered with branches and leaves and pinecones. He rolled into the pit and floundered around, yelling and cursing at the top of his lungs.

Behind the point man Hank looked up, saw the descending string of exploding firecrackers, and stepped back, bumping roundly into the second man in the column, who stumbled backward into the third. Both men went down with a crash that sent dead pine needles and deer droppings flying.

Alistair and Harry Chan, one on either side of the trail, lobbed arty simulators between the third and sixth man in the column. These exploded with a most satisfactory bang, which caused the sixth man to turn and try to run back. Directly in his path, which he did not see because he was looking toward the sound of the explosions, a line of sash cord, until now hidden under the carpet of pine needles and trash that littered the trail, suddenly rose up taut. One end of the sash cord was tightly looped around a tree. The other end was held firmly by Phil, who had braced himself against a stump for leverage.

The sixth man in the column was catapulted forwarded, directly into the last two men, and all three went down in a tangle of arms, legs and scattered equipment.

This was the moment Cory had been waiting for. With an ear-splitting howl he ran from his hiding space and leaped on poor Hank, who went down like a sack of flour. The other boys followed suit, leaping from the underbrush and screaming like banshees. The men of Hank's column didn't know what hit them!

Hank, struggling at something that would not let go, cursed and swore and swung his arms. In a fair fight Cory would have been overpowered. But this was not a fair fight. He reached between Hank's legs and squeezed.

Howling louder than any of the attackers, Hank stopped struggling. "Okay, fuck man, you're squeezing my balls!"

"Give up?" asked Cory.

"Yeah, just let go! I give up, you little fuck!" snarled Hank. He was beaten, and he knew it.

"It's not wise to call the man who has your family jewels in his hand a 'little fuck'," opined Cory. He gave Hank another squeeze to teach him some manners and moved away.

When the dust and pine needles settled, it was evident that Hank had lost his entire command. Kyle, who had been trailing Hank, walked into the clearing and declared that Hank and his men were indeed "dead" and out of the war.

As he looked around, Kyle shuddered at the sight of Cory and his men. They looked like imps from hell, with their painted faces and, in Cory's case, head plastered with mud to disguise and darken his natural blond hair.

One of the men, a short, not bad looking Irishman named Rob Williams, lodged a protest. He was not upset so much at being whipped by a bunch of kids as he was at having, as he described it, his "junk" squeezed!

Kyle, for a moment not understanding, paused. Then he remembered his training with the Base Defence Course on his first time out. He didn't know just what the Americans were taught, but he'd been told that in a mob situation, when all else failed, go for a man's most vulnerable parts. He regarded Williams and then said, "All's fair in love and war. Perhaps you should have worn a cup!"

As Hank and his men straggled back, with Kyle leading, Cory watched with curiosity. He knew that he hadn't been anywhere near Rob Williams. He was about to shrug off the man's complaint when Harry Chan, who had shouldered the field radio as "spoils of war", whispered, "Williams ain't bad in the looks department. But if you want the truth, he's got a long way to go in the 'junk' department!"

Laurence continued to watch and wait at the assembly point. The field radios blared a litany of defeat for Ned's men and more and more of the Security Force came out of the woods, looking angry, or downcast at having been beaten by a bunch of kids. He listened to the men grumbling as they reported in and then went off to their lunch. Laurence was laughing silently when he heard the sound of a car and turned to see the doctor's car pull away. He wondered how the examinations had gone but yet another screaming fit by somebody over the radio suddenly diverted his attention.

As the clock approached noon, Daniel decided to take a break. He was entitled to a lunch break, and he needed to report to Diem. He left the surgery and told Thad that he could send the waiting recruits to lunch. He also told Thad that he had business ashore and that he would return as soon as he could. Thad waited until the doctor left the building and when he heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside, the sound of a car leaving, he reached for the telephone.

Driving just over the posted speed limit, Daniel made very good time to the brothel. He parked his car, and strolled to the entrance. He did not look around. It was a busy day on a busy Friday afternoon, with plenty of people walking about. Daniel was just another pedestrian on a narrow street filled with pedestrians.

As Daniel rapped on the brothel door, across the street a bundle of rags stirred and raised a brown paper bag to his lips. If Daniel had been observant he would have seen the bundle of rags and dismissed the man concealed in the rotting clothes as just another drunken street bum - there were plenty of them around and the busy street made for easy panhandling - and one more drunk on the streets was hardly worth noting.

Miles Boulton drank deeply from what appeared to be a mickey of cheap rye - it was actually tea - for he never drank while on assignment. His finger pressed the plunger and click - he had another picture. He hoped that the camera was focused properly, but he could not be sure.

The call from Tommy Chan, for whom Miles worked from time to time, had come very early in the morning and there had been little time for Miles to get into his street bum surveillance rig, and then drive from his apartment to Dallas Street. He had grabbed the small camera - it had a long wire shutter release that ran from the back of the bag he concealed it in, and now held in his hand - and settled down across the road from the address he had been told to watch.

The camera was concealed in the brown paper bag, with a ragged hole poked for the lens to peer out of. It was a rough and ready solution, but it had worked before.

Placing his battered fedora on the sidewalk in front of him, Miles waited patiently, sipping at the cold tea and watching for the man he had been told would come sooner or later. Miles had no idea who the man was, or what why he needed watching. It was none of his business. He was being paid well to do a job and that was all that concerned him.

As the morning passed, and the day grew warmer, Miles watched. He had been around the block a few times and knew what lay behind the battered door in the building across the street. At first business had been slow, but it was early morning and not many men went looking for cho-cha so early in the day.

Around lunchtime the foot traffic increased as men, most in business suits, came up, rapped on the door and were admitted. Miles ignored them for the most part. They were almost invariably Oriental - Chinese or Vietnamese - he couldn't tell the difference, and unknown to him. He did recognize one or two faces from photos he had seen in the newspapers, businessmen of some prominence in the community. These he snapped. You never knew when a picture of a man of substance sneaking into a male whorehouse might come in handy.

The sun was warm on Miles' body and he was becoming decidedly sleepy, and needed to take a piss, when the car turned into the street. He recognized the license number of the car, and settled back. "Bingo!" he thought. "Tommy was right on the money."

As Miles snapped away, Daniel rapped on the door again. Usually it was opened immediately. The glum-faced, hulking Cerebus who usually guarded the door seemed to live behind it. Every time Daniel had visited the brothel the same beetle-browed thug was there. Daniel was mildly surprised when the door was opened by one of the "boys". He wondered, as he entered, if the boys who serviced the clients had taken the day off.

What Daniel did not know was that Fridays were always busy, particularly in the afternoons. The men who used the services of the prostitutes who worked in the brothel could always find an excuse for staying late downtown. They were businessmen and business knew no time constraints. They dealt with commodities and stocks and what not and worked late hours. Their business interests crossed many time zones and staying late at the office was an excuse the wife at home would believe. On Friday nights, and the weekends, however, the vast majority of the men went home to their wives and kids, and the brothel did little, if any business.

Somewhat at a loss, for Daniel was not sure the boy spoke English, he looked around. Then he spoke the one word he knew the boys would understand, "Diem?"

The sloe-eyed Vietnamese, who actually spoke English very well, chattered rapidly in his native tongue and pointed to the stairs. Daniel nodded and was about to place his foot of the first step when the door to the office opened and the guardian thug exited, adjusting the flies of his trousers. Another boy, slighter and younger than the first, who was tying a white towel around his naked body, followed him. Neither seemed too perturbed that Daniel was watching them.

"You want?" asked the thug.

"Diem?" Daniel replied impatiently. "Is he here?"

"Always here!" replied the thug. He reached for the in house telephone, muttered into it and then hung up the telephone. "He say go up. You know where."

Diem listened and said nothing while Daniel told him everything that Pete had said. When the doctor finished speaking, Diem asked, "The Stewart Street warehouse?"

"Yes. A planning meet with the Italians and the Columbian."

Nodding slightly, Diem thought that what the doctor had told him made sense. The Italians, specifically the Sicilians, had long controlled the narcotic trade in North America. The cultivation of the opium poppy was a huge money crop in Afghanistan. The harvested sap would be sent first to Turkey - Istanbul, a huge seaport was the ideal starting point for any smuggling operation in the Mediterranean.

Depending on who bought the crop, and the Sicilians seemed always to be first in line with bags of gold coins, the crop would then be smuggled into Messina where the Mafia had the labs needed to refine the basic sap of the poppy into opium and heroin.

From Sicily the heroin would be smuggled into America, specifically New York, and distributed throughout the Northeast. Later, when the opium from the Far East began to come on the market it was sold to buyers in Vietnam and shipped to Hong Kong, refined and then smuggled into the United States and once again the Sicilians stood ready with suitcases, this time filled with American dollars.

The Italians controlled much of the traffic in narcotics. They had started very early in the century, in New York, and as the "Families" grew and spread across the country, they had established the distribution system needed to sell the product. They had the contacts, the politicians and judges, and in many instances, the police, in their pockets. It made good business sense to involve the Italians.

It made better business sense to involve Michael Chan who controlled Vancouver's Chinatown, had influence in every Chinatown in the country, and also controlled the dock unions, the stevedores, the longshoremen, the men who operated the cranes ashore and were essential in the loading and unloading of ships.

Michael also controlled the union that the plane handlers and baggage handlers at the airport belonged to. The Italians controlled the Teamsters, the truck drivers, who would transport the smuggled narcotic from the docks, or the airport. An alliance with the Italians might be a marriage of convenience perhaps, but it would be a very profitable marriage.

Diem did not doubt that the humble coca leaf, grown in the Andean fields of Bolivia and Peru could be refined into a cheap high for the masses. The sap of the opium poppy was refined and became heroin. The coca leaf was refined into cocaine, a white, crystalline powder that could be smoked or snorted - inhaled - even injected. If the Italians could offer a cheaper, but just as effective "high" to its customers, then the potential market would respond, with predictable results. Diem looked at Daniel, "A billion dollars?" he asked.

"Minimum, one billion, US, is what I was told," replied Daniel. "And from what I was also told the expectation of profits from this new form of cocaine will go higher, much higher."

Diem nodded, thinking, "Another reason for Michael Chan to be involved."

The problem with drugs was not in the importation or distribution of the product. The problem was what to do with all the money! A kilo of cocaine was 'stepped on' three and four or more times with every stage of the operation, to the extent that the final product sold had only six or seven percentage of cocaine. The rest was fillers, lactose powder, or whatever. A kilo sold for around $20,000.00. The distributor, who received the kilo directly from the smuggler, stepped on it, and sold it to a dealer, who in turn stepped on it.

The dealer in turn sold it to the street dealers, the men, women, and gang bangers who actually had contact with the customers. More often than not they also stepped on the product. Everybody made money, tons of it, and everybody had a problem with it. The money had to be "laundered", cleaned. Sudden wealth drew the attention of the authorities. The money had to come from somewhere and "clean" money could not be confiscated, or the owner sent to spend a few years as a guest of the Crown.

And this is where Michael Chan's involvement came in. He had legitimate businesses, large and small. He had strong ties with the Triads in Hong Kong and Taiwan. He had influence in New York and all the major cities in Canada and with Michael Chan acting as "banker" the money could be moved out. It would come back "clean", as payment for goods and services, or as the natural result of business investment. Michael would not have to actually handle the narcotics, or be involved in the trade in any way. In a way, Diem admired Michael's shrewdness. He could say, in all honesty, that he did not deal in drugs. His conscience would be clear and his bank accounts would grow.

Frowning, Diem thought that everybody would make money, everybody except Minh, and of course himself. Which could change in a brief moment if he planned well.

"The house is well-guarded?" he asked Daniel sharply.

"Very," replied Daniel with a nod. "There are four men in the gatehouse, all armed. Two man teams, armed with automatic weapons, patrol the grounds constantly. There are patrols in the woods that surround the place as well. There are also closed-circuit television cameras on every entrance and in some of the corridors." Daniel mentally totalled up the number of men in the security force. "You're looking at a minimum of 100 men, all ex-servicemen of one kind or another. I've been examining the newest recruits and they are tough and experienced."

Diem recognized Daniel's words for what they were: a warning. "Don't fuck with the security force."

"No Chinese?" asked Diem, who was still wondering where they had gone.

"No." Daniel shook his head firmly. "The household Staff - the footmen and under butlers - are white and from the look of them also ex-service. I didn't see any Chinese, although one of the footmen told me that there were some in the undercroft - the basement - where the kitchens and prep rooms are. From the way the man talked I have the impression that these Chinese are only around for a little while. The house is overrun with catering people and the Chinese were brought in to keep an eye on them. The caterer will be gone after the dinner tonight and I suspect so will the Chinese."

"Tsangs!" Diem thought with a shudder. "These Chinese are not then a normal part of the security force?"

"I've never seen one in the grounds, or above stairs in the house," replied Daniel truthfully.

That was good. Diem moved on, thinking quickly. "The meet is to be held at the Stewart Street warehouse, tomorrow at midnight?"

"Yes. My contact was very firm on that point. He was also the man in charge of arranging security and guards there." Daniel paused, and then added, "The man is very competent, Diem. Don't underestimate him."

Diem glared angrily. "I am well aware of Michael Chan's capabilities, and the calibre of the men he has working for him. I never underestimate anything!"

Daniel did not immediately reply. He did not want to antagonize the man in the least. He had bigger plans to think about. "I want in, Diem," he blurted suddenly.

"What?"

"If you pull this off, if you get rid of Michael Chan, and the Italians, Minh will step in. The Columbian will have to deal with him." Before Diem could bellow an angry reply, Daniel held up his hand. "I have a plan, which I will tell you about when I have all the details sorted out in my mind. It's a good plan, I think, and it will bring me what I want!"

"Money?" spat Diem.

"Of course," replied Daniel calmly. "Isn't that what this is all about - money, and power, of course, but mostly money? I want in." He sniggered. "What is it the Italians say? Ah, yes, I want to wet my beak . . . just a little."

"The Italians also have a saying about sleeping with fishes!" thought Diem. Then he thought that Daniel had been a very welcome source of information. Perhaps it would not harm anything to listen to him. "When you are ready," he growled. "Now go. I have much to do."

"I have to get back anyway," said Daniel as he rose from his chair. "I still have some men to examine."

When he left Diem's office, Daniel thought that things had gone well. If anything came up he would telephone Diem, although he did not expect anything untoward to happen. The new Knights and their Companions and minders would all be gone soon, as would he. He did not look forward to spending the next few days in the company of the kids, or their minders, but he would have an opportunity to fine-tune his plans.

As he stepped into the small foyer, Daniel looked into the parlour to see one of the "boys" idly leafing through a Chinese language skin book. The boy was pretty and Daniel thought of the men he would soon be fondling. The incident with the Scotsman had not quenched the raging lust he felt in his loins. God was he horny!

Bypassing the door to the outside, Daniel walked into the front parlour and stood in front of the Vietnamese boy, who tossed his magazine aside and looked up.

Wordlessly, Daniel pulled down his zipper and reached into his boxers. The boy shrugged and leaned forward.

Miles had moved his position slightly, down the street and next to a dumpster. Here he had a better angle at which to photograph the doctor as he left the building. He passed the time drinking tea and taking pictures of Daniel's car, making sure that they clearly showed the license plate number. He observed the passers by, mostly businessmen rushing to or from lunch, a few suburban matrons come into town to shop, the odd panhandler who gave Miles a wide berth. They seemed to know, he thought, as an ancient, shrivelled man scuttled away. He probably thinks I'm a cop on stakeout!

Miles was not paying too much attention to the foot traffic and he was momentarily surprised when a shadow darkened his sky and he heard the clink of coins being tossed into his hat. He looked up to see Cousin Tommy Chan staring back at him.

Tommy was smartly dressed in a pinstriped, Italian silk suit, and carrying a shiny, alligator skin attaché case. "You've made contact?" he asked out of the side of his mouth as he straightened and adjusted the hang of his suit jacket.

"Yeah. I got him getting out of the car, and waiting to be let in," replied Miles. He played the role of a drunken bum to the hilt. "Thank you, Brother!" he said loudly as he waved the bag containing the bottle of tea in the air.

"Try to use the money for food," replied Cousin Tommy, playing the role of a concerned young, urban professional. "Try the Jade Doll." Then he added, much more quietly. "Use the back entrance. Li Hung Chang is expecting you."

Miles knew the restaurant. As soon as he was finished here he would retire to his office, where he had his own darkroom, develop the negatives and deliver the photos. The owner of the Jade Doll, Li Hung Chang, would accept delivery and make payment.

Cousin Tommy strolled off and Miles settled back to wait. Perhaps a half hour later - Miles did not have a watch on him, he never did when he was on surveillance - he saw the doctor emerge from the brothel, all but skip his way to his car, get in and drive away.

Waiting ten minutes or so to make sure that he was not observed, Miles then rose shakily to his feet. Still in his role as a street bum one step this side of the DTs, he shuffled off, rounded the corner, noticed that his parked car had a ticket on it, cursed a bit, and then returned to his office. Cousin Tommy would have his pictures in a few hours. Miles would have his fee.

What Michael Chan would do with the photos, Miles did not know, or really care. He knew, however, that the man he had been watching was in big trouble. How big, again Miles did not know. He only knew that Michael Chan never forgot an offence, or forgave an insult.

As he walked up the steep flight of stairs that led to his office, Miles felt a chill of fear run down his spine. "Somebody has just stepped on a grave," he muttered as he hunted for the door key. "And I have a feeling I know whose."

It was going well on to two of the clock when Daniel returned to his surgery. If anything, he was even more frustrated than he had been. The all too brief, barely satisfying session with the Vietnamese boy, obviously a well-grounded and very experienced hooker, had increased his need for something more. The boy had a gifted mouth, but as a professional, who specialized in quantity and not quality, he had finished Daniel quickly.

It had taken Daniel all of five minutes to fire his load into the Vietnamese boy's mouth. On the drive back to the compound Daniel had shaken his head, wondering what had made him do it so quickly. He hadn't shot like that since . . . well, since his first time with his first boy, back when he was what . . . fifteen? Fifteen, when a warm breeze would give him an erection, and the mere touch of another boy's lips on the head of his dick caused a massive, involuntary explosion of semen. He wondered briefly what had happened to the first boy who had served him. He could not remember the guy's name!

Names mean nothing to him, really. He did remember that the boy had been a classmate, as geeky, as nerd-like as he was, skinny, with nothing really attractive about him but his dick. Daniel always remembered the dicks! His first had been long, and skinny, curving like a banana, with the skin pulled back to reveal a stumpy head, dark purple and glistening with fluid. Daniel had come to believe that a guy always remembered his first time and he often wondered what had happened to the first boy he had ever slept with. Not that he cared. The boy had been a good fuck, and willing to do anything Daniel asked of him. He had been, Daniel thought with a smile, very accommodating.

As he approached the mansion, Daniel wondered if he could get out of the dinner planned for the evening. He knew that he would never make it to the Investiture, or whatever it was Michael had planned for the afternoon. So far as Daniel knew, he wasn't receiving anything, and therefore he saw no reason to be present. There would be plenty of Professed Knights around anyway, so Michael would have his "quorum".

Daniel also told himself, honestly, that he would not be missed. He really didn't feel like getting dressed in all his finery, or listening to Michael Chan mumbling Latin and handing out empty praise to adolescent schoolboys. What he did feel like was a hot, heavy, and long session with one, or better, two of the "Masters" back in the Dallas Street brothel. What Daniel wanted was a good old fashioned, ball-rattling fuck!

Daniel thought of Rob Roy MacGregor. God! The Scotsman had a dick of death, a cock that would cause sheep to flee in panic and small ponies to shy in fright!

Sighing at the lost opportunity, Daniel passed by the gates leading to the mansion and proceeded on to the athletic building. He got out of his car and adjusted his erection. He should have reached for the Vaseline he thought sadly. As soon as that Scot appendage rose into a fair resemblance to a caber, he should have reached for the Vaseline!

Thad heard the wheels of a car grinding along the gravel outside of the surgery and looked out of the window. He saw that the doctor had finally returned - horny if what he did when he got out of the vehicle was any indication - and set about putting his plan into action.

The new recruits had returned from lunch, removed their clothing, and stood around, shuffling and complaining about the wait. Jude had busied himself taking blood pressures, weighing the recruits, and generally performing the minor duties expected of him, darting glances at Thad from time to time, wondering just what in the hell his fellow medic was up to.

While they waited for Daniel to summon the first examinee, Jude took the opportunity to ask Thad what was going on.

Thad, who had lunched with Major Meinertzhagen up at the big house, looked around and then pulled Jude into a discreet corner. "I'm not all that sure," he admitted truthfully. "If I knew, I'd tell you." He pointed with his chin at the surgery door. "All I know is that the Major wants him kept far away from the house."

Jude's eyes widened slightly. However, he said nothing. He had been employed here far too long to ask questions. "Okay," he said presently. "So how do you plan on doing that?"

Smiling, and cackling darkly, Thad replied. "Easy." He returned to the table where the recruit files lay in three small piles. He opened the first file and pointed. "This guy won't please the doctor."

Jude read, turned and found the man in question and shook his head. "Why not? The ol' doc is as queer as a duck, and everybody knows it! MacGregor told everybody that the doc gave him the best blow job he ever had since he met up with some underage Sauchiehall Street hooker when he was on leave in Glasgow!" He grinned and added, "Gender unspecified!"

"That's as may be," replied Thad with a wave of his hand. "But, look . . ." Again he referred to the files. "MacGregor goes in, the doctor gives him a head job, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Who went in next?" asked Thad.

Jude thought a moment. "Guildenhall. Short, kinda moody. Hairy and with a normal-sized dick."

"You noticed, I see!" replied Thad with a laugh.

"I could hardly help it!" relied Jude indignantly. "Guildenhall was as naked as a jay!"

Without replying, Thad looked around the table, found what he was looking for, opened the file and pointed.

Jude read and shrugged. "So?"

"Jude, sometimes I despair," said Thad, feigning sadness at Jude's apparent lack of observation ability. "Who went in next?"

"Uh, Bookman, the Aussie." He grinned again. "Tighty-whiteys, not too big in the basket."

Ignoring Jude, Thad found the file and pointed. "Am I getting through to you?" he asked.

Jude's eyes widened. He looked at the pile of folders, rummaged a bit, found what he was looking for and read. His mouth dropped and he looked at Thad. "The next one in was the kid, the one they call Rusty. Baggy, issue drawers, obviously has no sense of adventure!" He read the file again, saw the checked box, and asked in a slight whisper, "You think?"

"I know," replied Thad with a firm nod of his head. "I know because I checked. All of the guys this morning, except for MacGregor, got the standard finger wave, were told to cough, and nothing else!"

"Obviously none of them had the right stuff," said Jude, laughing. "None of them had any 'stuff'," returned Thad. He looked around the room. "The doctor won't bother most of these guys. Which is fine." He picked up a file and yelled, "Welling!"

A smooth-faced, muscular man with curly black hair raised an arm. "Yo!"

"You're up when the doctor resumes," said Thad pointing to the closed door of the surgery. He took up another file. "Halpin!"

"Here!" A slim-bodied, impossibly innocent looking young man with dark blond hair raised his hand.

Jude eyed the new-style bikini type briefs that Halpin was wearing and nodded approvingly.

Seeing Jude's gaze, Thad nudged him. "Don't get your hopes up. He's ex-IDF and he left 16 Arabs - confirmed count - wishing they'd turned Jewish."

Jude regarded Halpin in a different light. "Who's next?" he asked.

"Franco, followed by Stafford, Pennington and . . . Mathers," called out Thad.

The six men, all of them young and all fairly decent looking, took up their places alongside the wall to the surgery.

Jude handed each man his folder and returned to where Thad was standing. "Okay, who's up after these guys?" he asked.

"Groesselaar," said Thad. "The appetizer."

"What?" Jude held up his hand. "Come on Thad, you don't know that the doc will try anything! He didn't do anything to Lagerberg and he's . . ."

"He needed a good scrub!" opined Thad. "We made all the others shower. Groesselaar is ideal."

"And what makes you think that he will go along? Even if the doctor tries to put the moves on him - and you can't be sure of that - how do you know that the po-faced Dutchman will go along?"

Instead of giving Jude a direct answer to his question, Thad asked, "Jude, when you were in Vietnam, did you by any chance have a foxhole buddy?"

Jude knew exactly what Thad was asking him. "No!" he declared firmly. "I never did anything when I was in the boonies with my Marines!" He gave Thad a sheepish look. "A couple of the guys hinted around that they . . . well, I never did. It just didn't seem right."

"I admire your dedication to duty," sniped Thad waspishly. "But some of them did have foxhole buddies?"

"Yeah."

"Well, in a way, these guys . . ." Here he waved his arm in a wide circle, encompassing all of the recruits. " . . . They're young. They're far from home. They've cut all ties and left behind girlfriends, wives, partners, whatever. They are also ex-service of one kind or another. They've all got some kind of experience. Most of the Americans were in Vietnam so they know what went on."

"Yeah, but still, you can't know that Groesselaar will go along with . . ."

"Maybe," agreed Thad. "But, and here's the point. They all know that the doc gave MacGregor a head job. Knowing that, if a guy is standing there, naked, with the doc playing with his balls and dick, and he throws wood, do you really think he's going to say no?"

"Well, if you put it that way, maybe," replied Jude grudgingly.

"Look, they've all been checked out. They know the score here. We're isolated. They get a weekend leave once every fortnight. Chances are most of them haven't been laid since they left New York, or even when they were in New York."

"Well, I have to admit that some of them did get a little antsy when MacGregor flapped his gums. And I know Lopez squeezed his crotch and grinned like a cat with a mouse." Jude shrugged. "So . . . maybe." He regarded Thad a moment. "You might want to give them a little warning, the ones that you've decided will play the fly to Doctor Bradley-Smith's Black Widow spider!"

"Oh, they'll be warned," replied Thad with a thin smile. "They'll have every opportunity to say no. You're going to make sure of it."

"Me?" exclaimed June. "Oh no! Not me."

"Yes you," returned Thad firmly. "Now go and speak to the Dutchman!"

Mark-Paul Groesselaar listened to Jude explain what might happen during his physical examination. As he listened he absently squeeze himself through his tighties. He had been born and raised in Amsterdam and as a boy had wandered the streets after school, learning much more about Dutch culture than his parents would have preferred. He knew that most of the Dutch population had a very liberal, live and let live attitude.

He had seen young tourists, Americans for the most part, but also many Germans, littering the public parks, smoking pot. He knew that there was a red light district where women of all ages catered to every taste. He knew that stunning-looking women who were not exactly women patrolled the streets alongside some of the canals. Sex in all its varieties was available to those with the urge and the money to satisfy the urge, and sex was available on half the street corners in the city.

Mark-Paul knew that he was a very handsome man, with a strong muscular body. He knew that both women and men desired him. He had the European mentality concerning sex. It was permissible to sleep with boys; it was permissible to sleep with girls. How else was a young man supposed to learn of himself, to "sow his wild oats" as the Americans said? Young men were expected to experiment. It was the nature of boys after all, to explore, to discover. Once they got everything out of their system they would then settle down, marry and raise children, good Burghers and citizens all.

Mark-Paul Groesselaar shrugged and said in heavily accented, guttural English, "It's okay by me. It was long flight from Amsterdam!"

Hughie Jackman gave Jude a direct look when informed of what might happen. He reached down and squeezed his solid, soft, six inches of man meat hidden under his blue briefs. "He doesn't bite, does he? I'm not into pain and suffering!"

Jesus Javier Lopez smiled, his dark, smouldering eyes bright, as he listened to Jude explain what could happen to him in the surgery. Jesus had grown up in a slum, a shantytown on the outskirts of San Juan, Puerto Rico, the middle son of a woman who had no husband, worked as a cleaner in the hotels that lined the San Juan beachfront most of the time, partied in the bars frequented by Yanqui touristas, and enjoyed life to the extent that none of her seven children had the same biological father, and Paco, the youngest, was quite black!

Life in the barrio was hard, both in Puerto Rico and later in Spanish Harlem. Everybody in the family worked. Jesus had been an attractive, athletically built teenager, with a smooth, lithe, golden-honey coloured body. He had very early on learned that he could use his greatest asset, his body, to good advantage. He also knew the effect he had on the tourists - female and male, young and old - when he strolled languidly along the San Juan Copacabana wearing the skimpiest bathing suit he could find. Jesus was available for a price, to women preferably, but if the señor was prepared to be generous, Jesus was prepared to be accommodating. He once joked that he had seen the insides of more hotel rooms that his mother had!

Later, in New York, Jesus had worked for a while as an "escort", proving very popular, and knowing what he had hanging between his legs and bulged out his white boxers was his greatest asset. His career as a paid companion had unhappily ended when he received a letter from the local Draft Board.

After Basic Training and Infantry school, Jesus had been sent to Vietnam. Having no tearing great desire to be shot at, Jesus had used his first leave to his advantage. He had heard certain rumours and was determined to follow up on what he had heard.

In Saigon he had spent a few piasters and purchased an essential item - a bathing suit so skimpy, and which turned translucent when wet, that he might just as well have been naked. He had then taken pedicab to the Circle Sportif. Here he had strolled casually out of his dressing room and by the pool, where he knew American and SEATO officers, and high-ranking Vietnamese, lounged the day away. He had a cooling swim in the pool and within ten minutes Jesus had been sitting on the terrace, with an American major who just happened to be on the staff of the Commanding General, and whose eyes kept darting down to where Jesus' big amigo was on full display.

The major, as it happened, was in need of a driver. Jesus, complaining of the muggy heat, ran his iced-drink along the length of his big amigo, and smiled. As it happened, Jesus was looking for a posting that did not involve firearms, or little yellow men in black pyjamas firing them, and opined that he would love to be the major's driver, and within the hour Jesus was enjoying the hospitality of the major's villa. All in all Jesus knew that his great asset had kept him out of combat and he spent his time in Vietnam pleasantly enough driving a staff car, and helping the major deal with the stress of war.

When Jude had finished his con job, Jesus had smiled, reached into his boxers and said, "'Mano, he be nice, me and my big amigo, we show him a good time!"

"Private Estes, shut the fuck up!" Ned screamed, venting his anger and frustration at the hapless Bill.

For Ned it had been a morning of defeat and humiliation. His grand plan to search and destroy a pack of high school kids, not one of them dry behind the ears and maybe half of them with hair one above their dicks, had been fucked up beyond all redemption.

Ned could have stood it if his opponents had been men from the Security Force, men he knew and men who knew him. They would have played the game fair and square. But not these . . . little bastards!

Not only had they started earlier, and thus had more time to prepare their defences, but dammit! They dropped from the trees! They lunged from clumps of bushes! They seemed to rise up from the ground like Dragon's teeth! They skittered through the woods like wraiths, never leaving a trail, hell never using a trail! Every bend and turn on every trail seemed to be a trap of one kind or another and just when you least expected it a whiz bang would go off, or an arty simulator, or a string of firecrackers would explode over your head! Which was bad enough, because it spooked the men. What was worse was that the little bastards understood psychological warfare!

Ned looked around cautiously. Everything was quiet. Still he knew that without warning the air would be sundered by the most God-awful, shit loosening, primordial scream he had ever imagined. The scream would be followed in almost every case by giggling, and then a rapid skittering as the screamer, or screamers, Ned could never be sure which, moved rapidly away, deeper into the forests.

How they managed it, Ned was only now beginning to understand. He had not bothered to look, but knew that there were other trails, trails and tracks that the tourists never saw. The forest hereabouts was infested with deer and other animals, bears and an occasional moose. These creatures avoided the well-travelled hiking paths and created their own trails through the deep woods, avoiding man. Some of the Outside Security Force members knew these trails, but they had been kept back, to watch and listen, as they had always done, for infiltrators. Ned now realized that there were others who also knew the back trails and pathways, the Cousins! They lived here and played here and God Dammit!

They were walking along the main trail again, with Bill Estes on point, then Ned, then Austin Peck. Ned had started out with nine men. He had lost two men from the get go, having barely got ten feet into the woods when one of the men, Nick Scotti, stumbled over an exposed tree root, which sent him sprawling. He wasn't seriously hurt - a sprained and bruised ankle, but he had to be helped back to the assembly area by yet another man, Eli Wood. Wood had been told to take Scotti and return. He never did.

As the two men walked haltingly back down the trail, Ned had got on the horn and requested replacements. His requested was denied. The Force Sergeant Major would not further weaken the patrols in the woods, or take men from the gatehouse. Ned had requested forty men. He had been assigned forty men. And Ned could forget about the new recruits. They were new, had never been in the area before, didn't know it, and needed time to be kitted out, and processed. They also needed to be settled into their new quarters. No, Ned would have to make do with what he had.

While Ned was arguing with the Sergeant Major he had lost another man. One minute he had been there, the next minute he was gone. He had been a few feet to the front of the column and it had been an easy thing for Rob and Sandro to simply reach out and snatch him into the woods.

Another man, Andy Shue, had sworn he saw one of the little bastards lurking on the side of the trail and before Ned, or anyone else could stop him, had charged forward. The men on the trail heard a growl and a shout and a squeak and a great deal of thrashing. When they cautiously moved into the forest they found the grass and underbrush mashed down, but no sign of Andy Shue.

From the sporadic radio reports Ned knew that the same thing was happening to his other columns, or worse for there had been no reports at all. The radio was silent as a tomb. Ned halted. "Try 'em again," he ordered Austin, who was humping the radio on his back.

"Ned, they ain't there," replied Austin quietly. "Face facts, man, we're whipped."

Ned's face flushed with anger. "Oh no we ain't!" he growled. "I ain't a-gonna let a bunch of little bastards whip me!"

Shrugging, Austin began to mutter into the handset of the radio. All he received back was a crackle of airwaves. "Nothing," he said eventually giving up.

Bill Estes, who had been hanging back, heard a scuffling off to his right. "Damn, Ned, they're all around us!"

"Bullshit!" snapped Ned. "It's just a deer!"

What Ned did not know was that "they" were there. The Phantom, with input from Harry, Tyler and Todd, had devised a scheme that in the end worked out every well. Since they knew where every column of Ned's was, they shadowed and trailed, using the Cousins as guides to outflank the "enemy force". They lay in wait, threw whiz bangs, firecrackers and the odd arty simulator to demoralize and, when the opportunity presented itself, they snatched and grabbed, which, between stamping out errant sparks, kept the referees busy declaring people "dead" and sending them back to the assembly point.

Both Bill and Austin were correct. There was no one there, and Avram Stein, Hank Peabody, Dino Antonelli and Dave Edge were back where they started, licking their figurative wounds and wondering if they could get a beer.

At The Phantom's suggestion, once a column had been eliminated, the attacking force doubled back, using the deer trails, to join up and help their fellow knights. Val had finished first, and joined with The Phantom to help take care of Dino. When they finished there they followed Arden, who led them to where Cory was making life miserable for Hank and his men. After Hank the combined force of knights and Cousins then went to visit Dave Edge.

Todd had harried Ned's column and managed to whittle it down to the three, Ned, Bill and Austin. Todd had also very quickly discovered that the screams, howls, and shrieks, which Arden was capable of producing, not only unnerved him, but also had an even more adverse effect on Ned. The man was still in iron control, but a hair's breadth away from losing it. His profane outbursts, his constant referral to the knights and Cousins as "little bastards" just made things a little worse for him. Nobody like being called a bastard!

As they watched Ned trying to figure out which way to go, Todd smiled grimly at The Phantom. "We could end this, you know, but . . ." he whispered.

"But what?" asked The Phantom, who could see Todd's devious mind was working overtime.

"It's not respectful to call us bastards."

"My mother would be most distressed," agreed The Phantom.

"Let's have a little fun," said Todd. He motioned for Cory to come alongside.

"Should I keep Arden?" asked The Phantom, wondering what Todd had in mind. "I want to send the bulk of the guys to where Harry is. Are Willy and Max in place?"

"All ready," said Cory. He looked at his brother. "So what are we going to do?"

"This . . ." replied Todd.

The radio crackled. "Too Tall, you are goin' down," came a ghostly voice. Bill jumped and looked at Austin. As both of them were of average height, and Ned towered a head over them both, they knew exactly who "Too Tall" was.

"We're fucked," Austin whispered.

"No we are not!" yelled Ned. "And . . . and what the hell is that?"

From the radio came the rollicking words and music:

"If you go down to the woods today, You're sure of a big surprise.

If you go down to the woods today, You'd better go in disguise."

"What the fuck?" Ned stared at the radio. "What the fuck is that?"

"For ev'ry bear that ever there was, Will gather there for certain, because Today's the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic."

In the bramble where he was hiding, The Phantom clutched his sides, close to peeing with delighted laughter as Cory and Todd, grinning like loons, drew out the last word, "Piiiiccc . . . nik!"

Ned lunged at the radio, stumbled, and fell on his butt as the radio continued to blare.

"Ev'ry Teddy Bear who's been good, Is sure of a treat today.

There's lots of marvellous things to eat, And wonderful games to play."

Bill and Austin stared open-mouthed as the words continued to flow.

"Beneath the trees where nobody sees, They'll hide and seek as long as they please

'Cause that's the way the Teddy Bears have their picnic!"

"Give me that fuckin' thing!" howled Ned as he reached for the handset.

"If you go down to the woods today, You'd better not go alone

It's lovely down in the woods today, But safer to stay at home."

"I wish I'd stayed at home," mumbled Bill.

"Give me that fuckin' thing!" snarled Ned as he struggled to stand up.

"For ev'ry bear that ever there was, Will gather there for certain, because Today's the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic."

The Phantom, who could hear Ned's cursing, motioned for the others to move out and join Harry. He looked at the Twins. "Bring it on home, brothers!" he said with a muffled laugh. He slithered on his belly into the underbrush. "Make it good!" he said over his shoulder as he disappeared.

Cory grinned at Todd and nodded. The tune became more rollicking and the Twins gave their full measure of bringing the song "home".

"Picnic time for Teddy Bears, The little Teddy Bears are having a lovely time today

Watch them, catch them unawares, And see them picnic on their holiday

"See them gaily gad about, They love to play and shout;

They never have any cares;

At six o'clock their Mummies and Daddies, Will take them home to bed,

Because they're tired little Teddy Bears.

"Picnic time for Teddy Bears, The little Teddy Bears are having a lovely time today

Watch them, catch them unawares, And see them picnic on their holiday.

"See them gaily gad about, They love to play and shout;

They never have any cares;

At six o'clock their Mummies and Daddies, Will take them home to bed,

Because they're tired little Teddy Bears."

With an unearthly yell Ned grabbed the handset and tore it from its socket. He threw it into the woods (narrowly missing Todd) and screamed, "Fuckin' little bastards!"

Back at the assembly point Laurence could not believe what he was hearing. "My God," he laughed. "I haven't heard that since I went to a Christmas pantomime when I was ten!"

"It's a catchy tune," replied Thad, who had come out to attend to Nick Scotti's ankle. He looked up at Nick as he wrapped the tensor bandage snugly around Nick's ankle. "You can see the doctor, you know."

"No way, man," growled Nick. "The guy gives me the creeps."

"Me too," replied Thad. He looked pointedly at Laurence. "Me too."

"Are you ready?" asked The Phantom.

Willy, his face hidden under a layer of grease paint, snickered. "Sure am."

"Me too," said Max. "We're gonna do it!"

"Okay, just don't let them catch you," cautioned The Phantom. "Let them see you, then run like hell to the place."

"We are like the wind!" replied Willy with a small laugh. "Take off, Phantom, and we'll see you in a bit."

Nodding, The Phantom walked up the trail. "Be careful," he admonished again, and then he was gone.

Willy winked at Max. "Piece of cake."

"Yeah," returned Max in a whisper. "Here they come!"

With Ned leading and bitching over the loss of his radio, the three men rounded the turn in the trail. They were not prepared as two small clumps of what looked like bushes suddenly rose up, looked back, and took off running down the trail.

"It's them!" yelled Ned. "Come on, we got the little bastards!" He started running.

"I think they got us!" responded Bill with a shake of his head. He looked at Austin, who shook his head, and then they followed their leader.

Max and Willy flew out of the path into the clearing and dodged to the side. Within seconds Ned, charging like a bull, and roaring what he thought was a battle cry, was halfway across the clearing when he realized that there was no one there and stopped.

The clearing was wider than it was long. Directly to Ned's front was a rise - not steep, a sloping gentle rise of greensward. At the bottom of the rise and separating it from the clearing a small brook rippled. It was all very peaceful and serene and Ned was about to turn and leave, thinking that he'd been led on a wild goose chase, when from behind the rise rose a behemoth. It was wearing jungle fatigues. Its face, what Ned could see of it under the pulled down hat, was green and brown and black. In one hand the behemoth held a long pole from which drooped the multi-coloured flag chosen by the knights and Cousins: a pair of paisley briefs.

Glaring at the dumbfounded Ned, who could not quite believe what he was seeing, the behemoth slammed the pole into the earth, crossed its arms over its chest, and roared, "Too Tall, you are goin' down!"

Ned, as still as stone, stared, slack-jawed.

Behind Ned, just into the clearing, Bill and Austin saw what Ned could not. Directly behind, and to the right and left of the tall West Virginian, the grass seemed to open and Mike Sunderland, Chief Physical Training Instructor of Aurora, as tall as Harry, but much more muscular, and Phil Thornton, Coxswain of Command YAG 330, designated HMCS Exeter, rose stealthily from the earth, two spectres of might and muscle.

There was a soft shuffling in the underbrush and the Boys of Aurora, together with their Chinese Allies, stepped into the clearing. From behind Harry bodies appeared as Harry's command joined him.

"Uh, Ned, you might want to consider a strategic withdrawal to the rear," suggested Bill Estes. "Like we're almost surrounded."

From behind the two men came a small, discreet cough. They turned and saw The Phantom, Todd, Cory, Val and Tyler smiling at them. The Phantom waggled his fingers at Bill and Austin. "Hi, guys," he said with a grin. Bill yelled to Ned, "Uh, Ned, correction to last! We are surrounded!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ned yelled back. He turned slightly and saw the small group of knights behind Bill and Austin. "Oh, shit!" he muttered.

On The Phantom's signal, the knights and Cousins advanced. Each held a long piece of sash cord. Ned, remembering what had happened to him the last time that he had played in the woods, when Laurence and Logan Hartsfield had made a monkey out of Pete Sheppard, clutched his belt buckle. "Please, guys, an honourable surrender?" he asked. He had no desire to be stripped and left naked in the middle of clearing in the BC forests.

The Phantom had discussed with the Twins, and Tyler and Val, and later Harry, what they would do to Ned once they captured him. Their discussion had not gone unnoticed by the Peanut Gallery, and suggestions, including black balling Ned, shaving Ned, pouring red ink over Ned's privates (this from Joey, who had found the bottle of red ink in the desk drawer in his room), or tying Ned to an ant hill came hot and fast. In the end it was left to Tyler to decide.

Fearing the worst, Ned was bound and lightly gagged, and then lowered to the green grass. The Phantom regarded Bill and Austin, and then said, "We have no quarrel with you. You may go."

Bill and Austin exchanged glances. "We can?" asked Austin.

"Yes." The Phantom turned to Ned and squatted down beside him. "Ned, I know you expect some dire punishment, but that isn't about to happen."

"Mmmfff?" asked Ned, his words incomprehensible behind the gag in his mouth. His eyes widened into a quizzical gaze.

"It isn't?" asked Bill Estes, who had decided to stay a while and watch the fun.

"No," replied The Phantom. He looked at Ned and said, "You know, Ned, sometimes a man says things in the heat of battle that he shouldn't. I am sure that you regret calling us 'little bastards' because we feel that is very disrespectful to our mothers. This is especially hurtful in that one of us lost his mother in tragic circumstances."

"Too Tall, you are goin' down," growled Randy. He pulled out his clasp knife and opened it carefully.

Ned saw Randy's painted face and thrashed about, shaking his head frantically.

"I take it that you apologise most sincerely then?" asked The Phantom casually.

More incomprehensible mumblings and Ned nodded his head frantically, yes!

"Good. I knew that deep down you were a man of honour. I knew that there was a reason why I liked the cut of your jib."

Austin, who had seen Ned in the shower, sniggered. "His jib ain't cut!"

The Phantom, for the moment at a loss for words, could barely control himself. He rose to his feet slowly, his emerald green eyes dancing with hidden laughter, turned and walked to the edge of the clearing, ignoring the muffled snickering of the other knights, and the Cousins. He jammed his fist into his mouth to muffle the sounds of his laughter while his shoulders shook with merriment.

When he had composed himself, The Phantom returned to squat beside Ned. "I sincerely apologise. We did not mean to offend, but you must admit that what Mr. Peck said was funny."

Ned left off glaring daggers at Austin and shrugged.

"Mr. Hadfield, we are not going to do anything outrageous to you." The Phantom turned and looked directly at Tyler. "Are we?"

"No, not at all," replied Tyler with an insincere smile.

Ned closed his eyes, preparing himself for the worst.

The Phantom reached out and pulled the gag from Ned's mouth. "I, we, are leaving now. Tyler, Val, Mark and Tony wish to discuss a matter with you. It is between you and them."

Rising again, The Phantom motioned with his hand and silently the other knights and Cousins, pushing Bill and Austin ahead of them, slowly left the clearing. "He's all yours," The Phantom said to Tyler.

Ned, relieved that he wasn't going to be stripped and humiliated in front of his own men, tried to put on a brave face. "Okay, guys, let's just call it quits. You got me fair and square."

"I am afraid not," responded Tyler as he squatted down beside Ned. Val, Mark and Tony arranged themselves in a loose circle around Ned. "Mr. Hadfield," Tyler continued, almost sadly, "when you were with us last evening we thought that you were an okay guy. We enjoyed playing cards with you."

Knowing what was coming next, Ned said quickly, "I was, I was just trying to make you guys feel welcome."

"Perhaps," agreed Tyler reluctantly, "but you deliberately threw the game. You let us win."

"Oh, come on!" yelped Ned. "I was just tryin' . . . well, hell, is that what this is about? I didn't want to take money from a bunch of . . ." He stopped abruptly as he saw four youthful faces darken.

"Kids?" queried Tyler with deceptive calmness. He shook his head, remembering all too vividly how he and his friends had been treated from the day they enrolled in the Sea Cadets.

Sighing, Tyler regarded Ned a moment, and then said, "Mr. Hadfield, you forgot that we are knights, Knights of the Order, and that we are no longer 'kids'. Having said that, I must also say that long before we were knights, we were brothers. As brothers we value each other, and love each other. We also ask, as brothers, that we give and receive support, and complete honesty in everything we say or do.

"You are not one of us, Mr. Hadfield, but you could have been, and perhaps you one day might be. You say that you wanted to be a friend. We accept that. But friends are honest with each other. You were not."

For a moment Ned did not believe what he was hearing. Could anyone that young be really that sincere? He stared into blue eyes and then asked, "Are you going to punish me for letting you win at poker?"

Knowing that Ned still did not understand, Tyler shook his head. He motioned for Val and Mark to remove the sash cord that bound Ned's hands and feet. "No. We are returning your money." He pulled a white envelope from the pocket of his fatigue trousers, opened it, and a small stream of coins and notes cascaded into Ned's lap. Ned made to sit up but Tyler's hand pushed him back down.

"We all knew how much money we each had when you sat down at the table. We kept back our stake money and are returning what we believe are your 'losses'."

Tyler stood up and was about to leave when he looked down at Ned. "Mister Hadfield, I have a feeling that for however long you remain in Michael Chan's employ your path will cross with that of the Knights. I know that you don't truly understand what that means. I hope that in time you will come to understand because The Phantom told you that he liked the cut of your jib. Hopefully you will come to know that you were paid a compliment by that statement." He tossed off a salute to Ned. "Pax tecum, frater."

Ned did not hear the young knights leave. He was too lost in thought. He had a vague idea of what Tyler had called him. "Brother", Tyler had said.

He stared up at the clear blue sky and presently he came to understand. The Order was not just some loose organization of men, but something deeper, something stronger. The knights, whom he had to admit had contested honourably, and treated his men and him with dignity and respect, were not just some gaggle of teenage boys. They were bound by something he could not yet put his finger on, but he now understood that they were a Band of Brothers.

He had seen it before, in boot, in Vietnam. You lived and worked and died with your brothers. You fought, not only for yourself but also for your brothers. You bonded, you became as one, with your brothers. If a brother fell, wounded, you cared for him tenderly, and nursed him as best you could. If a brother died you took him home, never leaving him until he was given into the care and love of his family. If he had no family, you became his family, his mother, his father, and you stood by him always, seeing him safely to the mansions of the Lord. You loved him, you honoured him, you never, ever betrayed him and . . .

"Assshooole" Ned groaned as he rolled on his side, scattering the loose coins and notes. He pounded the earth, and then rose slowly, his hand gathering the money. He stared at the crumbled notes, the silver quarters and dimes that had fallen away from his hand and then flung the money away. "Assshooole!"

Michael Chan, with Alex Grinchsten and Patrick Tsang a few feet behind him, watched from the deer trail as Ned sank to his knees and hung his head. Michael said nothing, just nodded, and turned away.

Michael hurried down the path, barely noticing the knights and Cousins, many carrying shovels, as they headed into the woods, grumbling and complaining about having to police the area and fill in the holes they had dug.

There was one more thing Michael had to do. He saw another small group of cadets as they walked away from the assembly area. Motioning for Alex to continue on with the young men, and for Patrick to go ahead to the assembly area, Michael caught up with The Phantom and took his arm.

"You did well, my prince," Michael said softly.

The Phantom, somewhat startled at Michael's sudden appearance, blushed a self-deprecating blush. "I only used the training I'd been given, and a little common sense," he replied. He was about to ask Michael what he was doing in the bush when Michael spoke again.

"That is not what I meant," said Michael, "although that is a part of what I mean." He gestured at a rough-hewn wooden bench that sat in a small clearing beside the path. "Come, let us sit and talk."

Once they were settled on the bench, Michael waited until the others were well on to the assembly area. He motioned for Alex and Patrick to move away, and then regarded The Phantom closely.

The young man seemed to be his normal self, although slightly embarrassed at the praise just given him perhaps. Michael had meant to have this conversation earlier, but time, and circumstances, had conspired to make him wait. Now, however, Michael had the opportunity and he would use it well, he hoped.

"Phantom, you have not asked, but have you not noticed that I refer to you as 'Prince'?"

"Well, yes, I noticed," replied The Phantom. "And Chef has hinted around. To be honest I just thought it was some sort of honorific, you know, the way The Gunner calls all the guys he really likes 'Boy chick!'"

Chuckling, Michael shook his head. "I assure you that what is about to happen, what you are about to be given, is much more that an 'honorific'." Taking The Phantom's grubby hand in his, Michael patted it gently.

"Phantom, of late I have noticed that you have had a tendency to take charge of everything. The others defer to you because, if I may be so bold, they are desperately infatuated with you - most of them anyway."

The Phantom stiffened. "That's not true. They like me, but . . ."

"Ah, but it is true," responded Michael with a slow shake of his head. "What stands you in good stead, however, is that in addition to loving you, they also trust you."

"They're my brothers!" replied The Phantom softly. A strange glow came into his emerald eyes as he said, "They trust me, as I trust them, as I have always trusted them."

Releasing The Phantom's hand, Michael continued slowly. "Which is a wonderful thing, but, dear Phantom, in your trust you allow this . . ." he pointed at The Phantom's chest, " . . . instead of this . . ." he reached up and pointed at The Phantom's temple, " . . . to rule your actions."

"But . . ."

"Listen to me, please," said Michael calmly. The Phantom nodded and Michael continued. "It seems to me that you possess a 'sixth sense' - if that is the phrase I want to use. You seem to know intuitively whom you can trust and whom you must avoid."

"Is that a bad thing?" asked The Phantom testily.

"At times, no," replied Michael, growing calmer. "You also have a keen, observant eye. You see things going on around you, things that others would dismiss as inconsequential, or not notice at all. In a leader, in a man who will one day be Grand Master or . . ." He shrugged and frowned, " . . . in a man in my position, given the nature of my business, it is quite a gift." He leaned forward and clasped his hands together.

"Phantom, you will soon be raised to great honour. When I first decided to restore the old honours, I freely admit to you that I had my doubts." He held up his hand, forestalling any protest on The Phantom's part. "You are young, and in many ways inexperienced, but your friends, your brothers, stood by you and I began to doubt my doubts!" He laughed quietly. "I came out here to see how you were doing. What I saw dispelled many of my doubts."

"How? What did I do to make you change your mind?" asked The Phantom, perplexed.

"Phantom, you, as would any good leader, led, but gently. You asked for the opinions of your fellows, Tyler, Harry, the Twins and the rest. You listened to them and you gave them the chance to prove their worth. You stood back, as you should, and watched them. You confirmed your expectation that you could rely on them, as they rely on you. You also demonstrated your understanding that with their help you could achieve much more than you could alone. You thought with your head, and not with your heart. That is the mark of a leader."

Michael then turned to look directly into The Phantom's eyes. "Until only a short while ago I did not fully understand that you have another gift. You are insightful, and you see in your fellow man things that others do not. I listened as Tyler spoke to Ned Hadfield. The words were yours, the thoughts were yours, but it was Tyler speaking. He spoke quietly, and thought before he spoke."

The Phantom stiffened, and then his body slumped. "I'm too impulsive."

"Very," agreed Michael mildly.

"Sometimes I don't think before I speak, and sometimes I assume that what I see is seen by others. I stick my nose in when I shouldn't!" He shook his head. "Too often I just blurt out what I feel, what I see. I shouldn't do that!"

"No, Phantom, you should not. Today you thought about the task ahead. You were sent out here to learn how to lead men. Today you did everything right."

"But I didn't when I forced Alistair on you." He looked sincerely at Michael. "I believe that he should succeed you as the Serenity. I believe in him, but I did not believe in you!" This time The Phantom held up his hand. "I should have spoken to you before I opened my mouth. I should have consulted with you, expressed my feelings about Alistair, and then let you decide. I didn't, and for that I am humbly sorry."

Nodding, Michael smiled. "Now you understand why you will one day be the Grand Master, why I have decided that you are the Chosen One. You are the heir to the Order, Phantom. Today you began to think, and act, as the leader that you truly are."

The Phantom's eyes grew wide and he began shaking uncontrollably. He had heard the words, but he could not believe them! He shook his head emphatically. "Grand Master?" he gasped, "Me?" He was on the verge of tears. "I'm . . . not worthy! I don't know what I'm doing, really, half the time! Steve Winslow is the next Grand Master! Not me, not me!"

"I did not say it would be soon, Phantom," protested Michael, thinking how typical of youth, all full of piss and vinegar one minute, and trembling in fear of the future. "And yes, I expect that Stephen will succeed me, in time."

Much to Michael's surprise, The Phantom reached out, his hands clutching at the lapels of Michael's suit. "I can't . . . I'm not ready! Please, Michael, please . . ."

Gently Michael removed The Phantom's clutching hands. "Listen to me," he said firmly. "Calm down and listen!"

Slumping, The Phantom waited.

"Phantom, you saw something in Alistair that I did not. You have asked me make him my heir, my Prince of the House of Chan." The Phantom remained silent as Michael continued, his voice firmer. "I believe that you are correct. I also believe that you are not the only one who is capable of judging a man's character!"

The Phantom clasped his hands together, squeezing them tightly, ignoring the pain from his recent wound. The once white bandage was filthy, covered in dirt and grit, and would have to be replaced. "And I must be a man!" he murmured as a tear rolled down his cheek.

"You already are," replied Michael. "You just don't want to admit to yourself that you are. You proved your manhood today, Phantom. You also proved that the trust that I will soon place in you is not misdirected."

Taking a deep breath, and after wiping away the tears with the flat of his hand, The Phantom bowed to what he now knew was the inevitable. He looked at Michael and shook his head slowly. "But I have much to learn, Grand Master."

"Yes, you do," agreed Michael. He stood and reached out his hand. "And just as I must teach Alistair what will be required of him, I must teach you. Today is as good as any to begin your education."

Michael heard the high-pitched chatter of Arden and looked up to see his young cousin, looking dirtier than he no doubt had ever been in his life, dancing around Harry, who was grumbling away about how badly Arden smelled!

Smiling wistfully at the antics of the young men who followed Harry and Arden, Michael reached out his hand. "Come, walk with me. It is time now for a shower and, I think, a little retrospection."

Somewhat shakily, The Phantom stood, and together Michael and he walked toward the assembly area, Michael's arm crooked in The Phantom's. As they neared the area they saw Tyler waiting impatiently for the cleanup crews to return. Everybody was filthy and hungry and most of the knights and Cousins smelled of deer poop! Not that any of it mattered. Tyler had decided that he would form the knights and Cousins into one large platoon. They were all brothers now. They had fought together and now there was no division between any of them.

The Phantom regarded the happy-looking Master-At-Arms. "Tyler is a good man, I think."

"Yes."

"You know that he is to be a Naval Cadet at Royal Roads?"

"Yes. Is that a problem for you?"

The Phantom smiled fondly at Tyler's departing figure. "No. Tyler will do well. But I, well, he'll be alone."

"Ah, but he won't," replied Michael without inflection.

"Grand Master?"

Laughing quietly Michael said, "I would have you take luncheon with me, my soon to be Prince. I told you that your education begins today and I think it is time that you knew what resources we have."

The Phantom returned Michael's laughing smile. "Which hopefully I will use wisely."

"Hopefully," replied Michael. He stopped suddenly and scowled.

"Is something wrong?"

"The doctor's car is gone," replied Michael.

"It is lunch time . . ." began The Phantom. He carefully considered what he said next. "Grand Master, I do not trust the doctor. He is a traitor, if not to the Order, then to you. Would you please consider not sending him to Quebec with us? I would feel more comfortable if he were not along."

Once again Michael considered his words carefully. "I share your concerns, Phantom. What we must do now is wait. We must be sure of our position, and sure that what we suspect is true. We must decide the depth of his treason, his treachery, carefully, and act only after we know all of the facts." "I should not condemn him out of hand simply because I distrust him or I don't care for him, you mean."

Yes. He is being watched, his movements monitored and if what we suspect is true, then I will ask you to help decide his fate." Michael regarded The Phantom. "As a leader, as Grand Master, you must learn that the decisions you make will bring honour and prestige. Other decisions you make will bring something entirely different."

"I must be prepared to deal with the bad, as well as the good."

"Yes." Michael nodded and began walking again. "There is much you need to know. When we are alone, I shall tell you."

As they walked away The Phantom glanced back at the athletic centre. The doctor would return, eventually, and eventually he would be called to justice. A Bar of Justice.

Daniel closed the file and handed it to Mathers. Barely nodding, Mathers took the file and left the surgery. Daniel grimaced slightly. All in all a very boring session. Six men, six dicks more or less the same, and nothing of interest at all. There was a light tap on the door and the next recruit entered. Looking up, Daniel saw a blond, well-built man. He reached out his hand and took the proffered file. Scanning the file, Daniel noted that the man was named Groesselaar, had been born in Holland, and was, at least according to the file, in very good health.

"Dutch, I see," Daniel said as he rose from his desk.

"Yes, but I have been in America for a long time," replied Mark-Paul. "I was back home when I was called to report."

"Amsterdam, according to your file?"

"Yes, my parents are still there," replied Mark-Paul as he watched the doctor take up his stethoscope, and wondered when the man would make his move - if he made his move.

"This won't take long," Daniel said in an off hand manner. "My," Daniel thought admiringly, "he does have a nice bulge in his tighties. And he's Dutch. Perhaps things are looking up."

Mark-Paul winced slightly. The damned stethoscope was cold against his chest as the doctor listened to his heart.

"Sorry," Daniel said with a small smile. "Should have warmed it up." He turned, noted Mark-Paul's heart rate and then said over his shoulder, "Okay, now comes the embarrassing part. Drop your pants please and bend over."

When he turned around, Daniel was confronted with a fine pair of buttocks, pinkish white against Mark-Paul's slightly deeper tanned back and lower legs. "Not bad, not bad at all!" he considered inwardly, his eyes growing lustful. Although normally an enthusiastic "bottom", Daniel had, on occasion, travelled the chocolate highway, and wondered if he might taste a little Dutch Chocolate.

Hearing the snap of a surgical glove being pulled on, Mark-Paul closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth. He knew what was coming next and loathed having a foreign body inserted in his rectum. He also knew that some found this quite . . . stimulating. His best friend back home, Hendrik Vermeer loved it when they had had sex, squeaking and moaning, mumbling barely comprehensible gutter talk while Mark-Paul pumped into him. Hendrik had been a wild creature, and Mark-Paul missed him. He did not miss Hendrik trying to slip his finger in his most unwilling orifice!

Daniel massaged Mark-Paul's prostate and felt the man's anus clamp around his finger. Groesselaar was tight, and apparently still a virgin in that department. As he withdrew his finger Daniel now wondered if the Dutchman were a top!

"All right then, turn around," Daniel instructed as he pulled off the latex surgical glove and tossed it into the waste receptacle. "Just have to check you for a hernia. It won't take a minute and then you'll be on your . . ." Daniel's eyes widened and he gasped slightly.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Mark-Paul as he looked down at his crotch.

Shaking his head, Daniel continued to stare at Mark-Paul's soft, hanging appendage. He had never seen anything quite like it in his medical career. Not that there was anything wrong, really. Mark-Paul had a decently enough sized penis, with a set of middling-size testicles hanging exactly as they should.

What astounded, and attracted Daniel no end, was that the end of Mark-Paul's penis was covered by the longest foreskin he had ever seen, smoothly curving over the glans corona a good inch, and ending in a swept-back angle of wrinkled, pink skin. Had Mark-Paul been twenty years younger, a little prepubescent boy, Daniel would not have been surprised. Uncircumcised little boys invariably had a penis covered by a sheath of skin that made up for half, sometimes more, the length of their little appendages, and would continue to do so until the underlying penis grew into the foreskin. Daniel had never seen such a thing in a fully-grown male!

Mark-Paul could not understand the doctor's reaction. His penis was quite normal, he thought, although the skin was a little longer than most, and almost all of it pulled back when he got hard. He looked at the doctor, who was all but drooling, and waited to see what would happen next.

With a quavering voice Daniel reached out a slightly shaking hand and said, "I . . . um . . . I need to look at your glans, um, the head of your di . . . penis."

Mark-Paul could not see why the doctor was so nervous. "Sure, go ahead," he replied with a slight shrug.

Slowly retracting the foreskin of Mark-Paul's penis, Daniel asked, "Do you have any trouble with this when you have sex?" He slowly manipulated the skin down to reveal a plump, quite normal glans corona.

"You do seem to have a rather long prepuce," Daniel continued as he pushed the skin up, and then brought it back down. When Mark-Paul did not reply, Daniel continued to manipulate. "You might want to consider a small reduction," he whispered, not really meaning it. He licked his lips as he felt Mark-Paul's manhood start to harden.

"I've never had any complaints," said Mark-Paul slowly. He could feel himself getting hard. He looked down. The doctor was not paying attention to him, his eyes slightly glazed and focused on the rising organ.

As he began to pant, Mark-Paul thrust his now erect penis toward the doctor, who continued to frankly masturbate him. Mark-Paul could feel the tingling begin in his groin and before he could stop himself the tingling became a thunderous roar. "Ach, shit!" he groaned as his orgasm exploded.

Surprised, Daniel yelped, "You're cumming!" Then he quickly lowered his head and began sucking frantically on Mark-Paul, swallowing the spewing seed.

Stabbing abruptly into the doctor's mouth, Mark-Paul grunted and finished. Almost immediately he pulled away. "I am sorry, but the head, it is too sensitive!" He staggered back a foot or so and tried to catch his breath. "I have never had that happen before!" Then he thought that he should have done what Lopez had done - masturbated in the showers. He always lasted much longer the second time around.

"Don't worry about it," replied Daniel with a wide grin. "It happens and quite frankly, you were just what the doctor ordered!" He winked at his small joke, and then gestured. "You can dress now."

Mark-Paul was scowling as he left the surgery. He had been manipulated, and dismissed like a servant! At least Hendrik always thanked him when their sessions together ended. He nodded toward the next man and said, "I guess you can go in. He's more than ready for you."

Jed Hildebrand reached down, adjusted himself, and replied with a wicked smile, "And I'm sure ready for him!"

If Hildebrand expected to be asked for a "semen sample" he was sorely disappointed. Daniel had examined him, pronounced him fit, and asked for the next man to be sent in. The same thing happened with the men who followed Hildebrand. After the Scotsman in the morning, the Vietnamese for lunch, and then the Dutchman, Daniel was sated. Not that he failed to notice that Hildebrand had a fine looking ass, and a beautiful dick, well formed and with a very crisp glans corona, just as he noticed that Timberlake, the next man, had a longish, pale penis with a slightly red, very even circumcision line. He noticed, but he did nothing but look, and cop a "medicinal" feel for hernias.

Hugh Jackman entered the surgery and immediately pushed down his dark blue briefs. "I expect you want these off," he said as he stepped out of his underwear.

Daniel nodded, and then gaped blatantly. "Holy Jesus! A Blue Ribbon Winner if ever I saw one!" thought Daniel as his heart started palpitating.

The doctor's reaction to the sight of his organ was not lost on Jackman. "Uh, you gonna do anything?" he asked. He knew that he had a lot to offer - six inches soft, with a hairy scrotum containing two goose egg-sized testicles. He reached down and raised his penis slightly, as if offering it to the doctor.

Jackman's double meaning was not lost on Daniel. His hand began to shake as he reached out and slowly fondled the man's huge balls. His eyes never left Jackman's genitals as he muttered, "Um, first I'll check for hernia, and then I'll just draw back your foreskin to check that it's loose. It won't take long. Is that all right with you?"

With a low growl Jackman nodded and said, "Take all the time you need, and it's fine with me!"

"Oh, God," Daniel moaned softly to himself. "Can Heaven be far away?"

Jackman left the surgery, gave a "thumbs up" to Thad and Jude, adjusted his package, and then sauntered off to get dressed. Thad smiled at his partner in the not so criminal seduction of Doctor Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith.

"Bingo!" Thad grinned.

Heaven, at least Daniel's version of it, was closer than he knew. Jackman was followed by six more men and as the last man, Feehily, a very handsome, dark-haired Irish-American from Rochester, New York, but sadly disappointingly lacking in the fundamentals, left, Daniel saw that there was only one piece of paper on his desk. He had not noticed that the time had flown past and only just realized that he had missed the Investiture. He was thinking that Michael would just have to understand that duty came first when Jesus Lopez came into the surgery.

Daniel saw the handsome young Latin and wondered what was hiding under the baggy issue boxers he was wearing. He reached for his stethoscope and was about to listen to Lopez's heart when the young man asked, unconcerned, "Hey, Doc, you want my drawers on or off?"

"Off please," replied Daniel automatically. He turned and noted Juan's heart rate on the chart. "I'll just check your genitals for . . ." Daniel's eyes devoured Jesus' bared genitals. "Holy Fuck! The Mother Lode!" he yelped silently.

Jesus saw the doctor's bulging, staring eyes. "Doc, my amigo is big and he works just fine!" Jesus said as he reached down and slowly pulled back his foreskin to reveal the deep pink glans. "See?"

Daniel lost all semblance of control. His head was swimming and he was as giddy as a schoolgirl! "Oh, God! I've reached the gates of Heaven!" he thought.

Watching Jesus' dark-skinned, Latin treasure growing, Daniel blurted, "God, would I like to have that sitting on my face!"

Laughing quietly, a low, leering chuckle more than a laugh, Jesus replied, "Maybe you like to sit in my lap?"

"Fuck yes," breathed Daniel as he reached up to unknot his tie. Then he hesitated, remembering where he was. "Hold on one minute!"

Adjusting his throbbing erection, Daniel thrust his head out of the surgery door. He saw Jude and Thad arranging the files. "Um, you can go now. I only have the one and I can take his chart over myself," he half-yelled across the empty room.

"You sure?" asked Thad, deliberately adding fuel to the fire. "We can wait."

"No, no, you've had a long day," blurted Daniel impatiently. "I can take care of this man. You be on your way."

"Okay," said Thad. "Just leave the chart in the filing cabinet and I'll pick it up in the morning." He gathered up a pile of folders. "And oh, would you mind making sure that the lights are out before you leave?" He winked at Jude, who winked back.

"Of course, yes, I'll make sure," said Daniel to the departing backs of the two medics. He waited as the door to the outside slammed closed and then quickly stepped back into the surgery.

Jesus was sitting on the examining table idly playing with himself. He said nothing as he slowly pushed down his hard, extremely thick, organ.

Daniel gawked and then began to all but rip his clothing off.

"I have a feeling that the doctor will be late for dinner," observed Jude as he and Thad walked toward the orderly room.

"I have a feeling that the doctor has a lot more to worry about than missing dinner," returned Thad enigmatically. "A lot more!"