Congressional assistant Jim Dillon has discovered a time bomb in the Constitution that could wrest power from the Chief Executive. Now a battle group -- commissioned by Congress and opposed by the President -- steams toward conflict in the Java Sea, and a great nation prepares for war…against itself.

"Good morning," the man said in English, not taking Phillips's hand.

Phillips looked into his dark brown eyes. There was no joy at being a Ford mechanic in them. "You boys here to get the cars ready?"

"Where is captain?" the man asked. He had a perfect complexion and dark eyes. His eyebrows were thin lines. He was much shorter than Phillips, who was six feet tall and weighed two hundred fifty pounds. The small man weighed half as much.I could crush him like a bug, Phillips said to himself as he unconsciously sucked in his belly.

"What do you need to see the captain for?" Phillips asked, annoyed. "Can I see your papers?"

"Where is captain?" the man said in a quiet voice, standing steadily, unintimidated by Phillips.

"I suppose he's on the bridge. But before we do anything, I need to see your papers.

The man put his satchel down and squatted next to it. He opened the zipper half-way and quickly pulled out a Chinese Type 64 machine pistol with a long silencer. He came up suddenly and placed the barrel under Phillips's chin. "Where is captain?"

"What the hell, . .?" Phillips's mouth suddenly went dry.

"Shut up," the man said quietly.

Phillips nodded.

"Take us to captain," the man insisted. "Now." He eased the pressure of the barrel on Phillips's chin. Phillips swallowed hard. His heart raced. He tried to think of some way to deflect them, to get them into a compartment he could lock, but his mind wouldn't work fast enough.

"Now," the man said again.

Phillips walked forward down the passageway Franklin had used. He stopped at the foot of a series of ladders that led to the bridge. As he missed the first step, his boot smacked the tiled deck with a loud noise. The leader moved up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned forward. "More noise, I shoot." He put the pistol in Phillips's back. "Understand?"

Phillips nodded. He climbed the ladder carefully. As his head reached the next deck, another sailor was waiting to go down the ladder. "Get out of here!" Phillips said in a terrified whisper with a wild look in his eyes.

"Why the hell should I?" asked Bart Jenkins in his usual cavalier tone as he stood waiting for Phillips.

"Now!" Phillips whispered, wanting to scream at him.

The leader noticed Phillips had slowed. "What doing?" he said, pushing up through the hatch with surprising force. Phillips rolled off the top of the ladder onto the deck. The leader stuck his head up through the hatch and saw Jenkins, who froze as the man raised his gun and shot.

Jenkins's knees gave out and he fell as two bullets screamed by just above his head. His adrenaline took over. He scrambled on his hands and knees through a hatch and around a corner.

The leader pushed his way past Phillips and stood. Two other men in Ford coveralls climbed up next to him and looked around hurriedly with their AK-47 assault rifles ready. They pointed anxiously in the direction Jenkins had gone. The leader shook his head, clearly not concerned.

Phillips stood.

The leader looked at him closely. "Who that?" he asked.

"Bart Jenkins."

"What does he do?"

Phillips almost answered automatically, almost told him Jenkins was the radio operator. "Engineer," he lied.

He looked at Phillips for several seconds before speaking again. "To the bridge," he said.

Phillips made his way up the next ladder, and the one after that, followed by a long trail of men in Ford coveralls. As they moved snake-like through the ship, the Pacific Flyer's crewmen assumed they were the Ford mechanics they had been expecting.

They stopped behind the bridge, and Phillips pointed to the door. "That's the bridge."