The ride was long and in places bumpy. After an hour or so, Chinga asked, "Where are we going?" and General West replied, "To a safe place."

More time passed and then the snow machine halted under a large platform. It began to ascend.

"Good," said the General. "We're here, Penelope."

"Where is 'here'?" asked Chonga.

"A safe place. Nowhere, to be precise," West replied, and chuckled.

The elevator containing the snow cat reached the deck of the platform and they climbed out.

"Inside, quickly," urged General West. "A storm is brewing and out here the wind will blow you into Russia."

They quickly went into a rounded building and then were led by guards -- armed guards, Penelope noted approvingly -- into a large office.

"Good," said the General. "Now we can talk. First, you wonder where you are. You're nowhere. This place is an abandoned oil platform, you are in international waters -- or rather ice, at the moment -- in the Beaufort Sea. It may be a British possession, but Russia, Canada, Norway, the United States, and other countries have claimed this area. Until ownership is settled, if ever, we're operating out of here."

"MI17?" queried Chinga.

"No. A different agency. SOB. Special Operations, Blue. And don't make any wise comments as it's a long way down to the ice."

"So we're SOBs now," mused Penelope. "Why 'Blue'?"

"Because black ops has a bad, bad reputation," replied the General. "And oh, yes -- your plane. Or rather, Her Majesty's plane. The Sorry Paling organization blew it up, of course. But they're backed by something much bigger, some government or government-like entity. SOB got the job of pulling you out because neither we nor the Yanks can afford you dead." He turned as a man entered the room. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Here it is, Sir. Just as we thought." And he tossed a small metal capsule on the table.

"Oh, dear me. I'd hoped we were wrong." The General looked up at the Sergeant. "You know what this means?"

"Yes, Sir. Only too well, I'm afraid."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Dismissed."

The Sergeant, who obviously wanted to come to attention and salute, instead turned and left the room.

"What is it, Nigel?" asked Penelope, anxiety on her face and on the faces of the others.

"A capsule of VX nerve gas. If you'd stayed in that suite overnight you'd have all been killed. Nasty stuff. O-ethyl S-[2-(diisopropylamino)ethyl] methylphosphonothioate) chemically. Dispersed as fine droplets, which this container would do when heated on your suite's room heaters, it would land on you body and be absorbed through the skin. It does a number of things to your ACTH, making quite a mess of your nervous system. Among other things, you die."

Chonga looked stricken. "No guys with gats? Just a few droplets on a breeze on your skin and the lights go out?"

"That's it," said Penelope. "I've know about VX but never in a personal manner." She frowned. "I'm afraid, Nigel, that I will be taking lives before this is over."

"We all will. Hmm...I wonder if they knew that the Suite would continue deadly. This is a persistent agent. A lot of people would get sick and perhaps die. I don't think the hotel management was involved or this would never have been approved. Ladies and gentleman (he nodded to the pilot) we are up against a ruthless, ruthless organization." He turned to the pilot. "Sir, we can send you home or you can stay and work with us. Which would you prefer?"

The pilot answered, softly, "I'll stick. I had some friends lost to VX in Iraq when a chemical munitions weapon exploded. I hate that stuff. Sir," he continued, "if you could provide me with arms? I was PBI in the 'Stan and know something of their use."

"Thank you, Leftenant." West chuckled and said, "I know more about you than you think. DSC, MC -- your record speaks for you. And now," he continued, "shall we get down to work? I'm quite afraid blood will be spilt."


(Whose blood? Chinga's? Chonga's? Penelope's VX? -- you don't buy that at the local pharmacay, so where'd it come from? Don't change that dial!)