Austin, Texas - Three Years Later

Ike could feel a drop of sweat dangling precariously from the end of his nose. Why did that always happen at the least opportune time? He knew when the guitar solo from, "Hand In Hand," was coming because he could feel the sweat gathering there - at the end of his nose. It was his body's way of telling him he was about to make a mistake.

A mistake he could ill-afford right now.

As bombs went, this one looked pretty simple. It was what Ike liked to call a "brown" bomb, because it was brown. When people draw bombs with crayons, they draw red sticks. When people build bombs with explosives, they use brown boxes. The mechanism that would make it explode was a small digital clock (two minutes, fifty-two seconds and counting), three wires, and a contact plate that the wires were soldered to. Two of the wires formed a continuous circuit that, if broken, would tell the bomb it was time to explode. The third wire (the one Isaac was looking for) would tell the bomb to explode when the timer reached zero (in two minutes and forty-nine seconds). Find that wire, cut it, and you win.

Cut the wrong wire and...best not think about that.

His left hand was wedged between the three colored wires and the contact plate, and his right hand was simultaneously holding the wire cutters and covering the blasting cap. Admittedly, if the thing went off, he was iced Ike. That didn't mean he wanted to see it happen.

Keeping his hands immobile, he jerked his head to the left. The sweat droplet flew off to parts unknown. Still, he was frustrated. Zac knew bombs! Why wasn't Zac on his knees in the basement of this luxury hotel?

Ike shook his head, and tried to imagine what Zac would say, if he were here.

As if on cue, his younger brother drifted into the peripheral vision of his mind's-eye.

"Waasssuuuuuup!!!!" Zac cried, giving a "hang loose" sign.

Ike shook his head, and tried to imagine what Taylor would say, if he were here.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

"Actually I'm not old enough to drink," Taylor said. "I'm seventeen."

Jenna Bush shook her head and shrugged.

"Labels!" she giggled.

"I'll be 18 in March," he added. He pushed the Corona back across the table. "But thanks anyway. Do you really think you're dad's going to win this thing?"

Jenna answered, or at least she appeared to. Taylor wasn't really paying attention. His ability to engage in conversation with people--phenomenal really--without knowing or caring who they were or what they were talking about, served him well in his current position. Inwardly, he focused on the mission at hand, and Jenna Bush and her "conversation" faded into static and shapes.

Taylor had one mission. Keep people out of the basement. Admittedly he hadn't been expecting Jenna Bush (and a six pack of Corona) to need "keeping out", but here she was. He had steered her to a table and made small talk, keeping one eye on the basement staircase's imposing double-doors. He and Jenna were alone in the foyer - the door was safe for now.

It occurred to him that the Jenna Bush shape might have asked him a question.

"You're cute," he sighed, smiling at her. The staticky, Jenna Bush shape turned pink. That ought to buy him at least ten minutes. From Ike's last radio contact, ten minutes would have to be more than enough time...

...or not nearly enough, if you were a pessimist.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

"Come in Hawk - this is Badger. There's nothing out here. Over." Gilson tapped his radio irritably. He had been sent out running back toward the hotel--after some kid. The boss-man thought the kid was onto the plan. The kid might try to stop them. The kid was a threat.

Come on, a kid? Let the kid blow up if he wants back in the building so bad! Gilson leaned up against an oak tree and fiddled with the knobs on the radio.

"Hawk do you copy? This is Badger." Really this whole assignment was an insult to his professional credibility. In his day, he had supervised the destruction of sensitive documents and seemingly invincible space shuttles. Now he was practically running daycare. "Damn it Hawk! I don't have much time - can I get out of here or what?"

Finally the radio came to life. "Go ahead Badger. I read you loud and clear." Gilson held his radio closer to his ear and shook it. Not only was it oddly high-pitched, it seemed to be in stereo.

"Hawk? Your nose plugged up or something?"

"This isn't Hawk." The radio said. Stereo again. Maybe he had accidentally hit a button on the thing, but the sound seemed to be coming from more than one direction.

"Not Hawk? Who is this? Blackjack?"

"No." The voice was a whisper now. "This is Penguin." The sound was coming from the radio, but at the same time it was as if he were hearing it from an earpiece. He'd worn them before - but not tonight--too conspicuous. He was becoming concerned.

"Penguin? Who the hell is Penguin?"

Zac Hanson stepped out from behind the tree and grabbed onto either side of Gilson's belt.

"This is Penguin," he said, pulling down sharply until the offending pants were around Gilson's ankles. Zac planted his left foot in the small of the man's back and gave a short kick, watching him waddle helplessly for a few feet before falling over.

"I believe," he added, pulling a small billy club from his windbreaker, "you already know blackjack."

There was a three second pause, and a satisfying thump.

Zac laughed and shook his head.

"Kooky terrorists..." he said, and jogged back toward the hotel.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

"This is crazy. I'm going to cut the blue one." The blue wire was the one in the middle. It sounded like a good idea to him. Besides, in forty-two seconds the blasting cap would cut all-three wires.

His right hand quivered as he closed the clippers over the wire. He increased pressure steadily, waiting for the telltale snip.

"What the heck are you doing?" Zac asked over his shoulder. Ike was startled, but he kept as cool as possible. Still increasing pressure. Twenty seconds.

"I'm trying to save a bunch of lives."

"No I mean what the heck are you doing? It's the red one."

Ike looked at the wires again, uncertain. The red one was at the top. Wasn't that too obvious?

"But isn't that..."

"Just cut the red one."

"Yeah but the blue one is in the mid..."

"Jeez Ike! I'm the one that knows bombs!" Isaac flinched at the words, but he knew it was true. He shifted his hand and cut the red wire.

To his horror, the clock was still counting down.

"Run Zac! Get out of here! I'll try to shield it!" Five seconds. Ike looked desperately around the room. A concrete bunker would come in really handy right now. None were apparent. Two seconds! He clenched his teeth and looked away.

In his last second of life, he wondered if maybe it had been the blue one. Zero.

"So are you gonna ask that thing for a date or put it down and come rescue Taylor from the lush upstairs."

Isaac continued shivering, and completely failed to explode.

"Man it's not gonna go off. It was the red one."

"But... the time. The timer."

"Oh that. They only stop on TV."

"Oh. You seem pretty excited."

"Bro, we just saved democracy!" Zac was practically doing jumping jacks at the base of the steps, his arm wheeling wildly for Ike to follow.

Isaac tucked the now-defunct brown-bomb into his backpack and stretched his legs. Kneeling for extended periods of time is hard on you. It's even harder when you think you're going to explode.

"We save democracy all the time. Why are you so flighty?"

"Do you wanna help Taylor or what?"

"You penguined somebody, didn't you."

"MOVE!"