The most important rule during underwater training was never to hold your breath. For good reason -- according to Boyle's law, the air in a diver's lungs expanded during ascent and contracted during descent. As long as the diver breathed continuously, excess air could escape. But trapped air would cause the lung walls to rupture.

And the second rule when things went tits-up: do not panic, a lesson drummed into Papa from his instructors when he went through the crucibles of Underwater Demolition training.

Before hitting the surface of the water, Papa had squeezed all the air from his lungs. After that, he sank like a rock, touching the muddy river bed. With the oxygen-saturated hemoglobin in his blood, he wasn't worried about passing out and drowning in 40 feet of water. Not for 30 minutes, the length of time a real seal could stay underwater.

Papa used this time to free himself and find his bearing. His reflective eyes could see the riverbed was full of trash and twisted metal hulks of man-made objects -- the frame of an ancient automobile, a rusted bicycle, a boat's broken hull swallowed by mud, and dozens of tires. He found a rusted edge of a car door to cut his bonds, running the plastic up and down until it snapped.

The current was surprisingly strong so he let himself drift downriver, always looking up to the surface. He knew the search for his body would be underway. To get air, Papa ascended gently from the deepest part, took a few breaths to replenish the hemo-reserve, emptied his lungs, and returned to the depth. Sitting on the river bottom, he reconsidered -- the people who took him weren't amateurs. They would do their homework. They would know of his augments and their capabilities. If so, they would be patient as he must likewise.

Surface activities were more frequent. Instead of running the length of the river, some boats circled overhead and anchored. He could see searchlights from helicopters piercing the gloom as they scoured the shallows. It was River Police & Rescue. But he couldn't take the chance they were there to help. Surely, the ones who wanted him dead would be waiting, at least to confirm the cops had dredged the river and found his body. No, better they think I'm swept by the current. That would buy me a day or two to find Bonnie. She must be out of her mind.

Disturbances on the surface caught his attention. Rescue divers and ROVs had entered the black water and were using wide search beams to illuminate the riverbed for his body, in case it had snagged on some bottom trash. The dive lights crept closer.

Papa sensed he was getting close to the thirty-minute mark. The first signs were the light-headiness and the rapid heart rate pounding in his ears.

Next came the burning in his lungs and muscles as lactic acid built up, similar to intense physical exertion. He could taste sour metal in his saliva and sensed the narcotic effect of extra nitrogen in the body which impaired sensory perception. These symptoms required that he ascended right away.

He let go and ascended, breast-stroking with the current. It didn't take long to put distance between himself and the bevy of search activities. Yet, several times, the eddies around bridge pylons and river bends threw him into jagged debris where he cut his arms and shoulders and banged his head in the low-light.

The gradual float up eventually broke the surface. He took several small breaths to replenish his blood-oxygen supply and felt safe enough for a good peek of the surroundings. The current had thrown him so far from the bridge he could no longer see the bright city core.

He drifted another half mile before he made it to the left shore and stumbled onto a sandy bank, cold, exhausted but alive. A marina was nearby, lit with moored boats and human activities. People would call the cops no doubt. Trust no one.

Papa climbed the stone steps and made his way to the main road, careful to keep out of sight. Chilled to the bone, he rubbed his arms to increase circulation and warmth. There were no clothes conveniently hanging on the dry-lines or from a nearby laundromat he could steal. Fairy tales wouldn't happen until he made it happen. He could roll some unsuspecting pedestrian and take his clothes, but then he'd have all of them after him, cops and killers alike. Take the cold, he decided. Hell, he had gone through worse, balancing a log in freezing surf for half an hour with seven other men. Now that was real hell.

Not far away, he could see signs leading to the interstate.

Past the ramp, huge robot-semis hauling precious food destined for the big cities whizzed by blowing the flaps of his wet jacket. Armed men in modified trucks guarded these half-mile long caravans in Mad Max fashion, hired to protect the eighteen-wheelers and their cargoes. Food jacking by organized crime had risen of late since food relief convoys became more valuable than armored cars carrying gold. A truckload of vegetables or meat didn't have a shelf life. Once taken, they were stripped under five minutes. These thundering fleets dominated the mag-lev highways like buffalo herds of old.

When his thumb caught no one's sympathy or generosity, he settled in for the long walk. A twenty-mile hike was no biggie, he thought. He might even enjoy the freedom of the road. And the expanse felt good, giving him room to stretch and keep his mind off his family. He began a slow bouncing jog along the curb to keep warm.

Just then, a hair-raising horn boomed behind him. He spun around, almost tripped. A Blue Bird bus braked, hissing to a stop -- its mammoth appearance startling, its lights searing. Papa stood there for a second, perplexed but soon his apprehension gave way to joy. This was manna from heaven. Fairy tale did happen. Covering his eyes against the glare, he glimpsed the two faces behind the windshield.

"You want a lift or you prefer walking like a big duffus?" A voice through the exterior speakers squawked. Papa could detect a smile behind it.

"Sons of bitches!"

Papa howled with laughter as the door hissed open.

The men came together in a hearty embrace; laughter mixed with profanity and vigorous pats on the back.

"You're blue as ice," Warchild said.

"No idea -- man," Papa said between trembling words.

"Get out of the wet rags. I got the heater cranked up," Rotter said.

Papa stripped off his wet clothes, hung them over the seats, and rubbed his arms and chest vigorously to warm himself. "How? How did you know to find me?"

"Who else would be loco enough to jump in the Delaware in late November?" Rotter said with a wide grin.

"We saw the news clip -- of you on the bridge, and your side view -- that's how we knew for sure it's the Smurf," Warchild said. "Besides, there was no report of a body -- only meant you were sitting down there, waiting for nightfall. It's a simple matter of factoring in drift downstream and bingo, there you are trying to hitch a ride."

"Halle-lujah."

Warchild shook his head with disapproval. "That was risky, Pops. What if it wasn't us?"

"No choice," Papa said, his smile melting away fast. His body was warming up fast, the stuttering ebbing. "These pricks zapped me -- pulled me from my car. I came to later, figured I was a goner -- if I didn't make a break for it."

"You were lucky," Warchild said.

"We got hit too," Rotter said, lifting his shirt to show Papa his wounds. "I got shanked by this really hot chick --"

"All of us got hit," Warchild said.

"All of us?"

"The whole team," Warchild said. "I can't confirm but I'd bet good money many of the boys bought it. So we gotta be real careful from now on."

"They're not the only worry," Rotter said. "We're out of meds."

"I gotta get to Bonnie," Papa said with a sudden spasm of panic.

"Relax, I spoke to her the day before," Warchild said. "She and the kids aren't in Philly no more. They're with her sister."

"Then that's where I'm going," Papa said firmly. "To New York."

"Slow down, big boy, we'll get your family," Warchild said. "But we can't rush in there without a plan. We have to assume they're being watched."

Papa nodded. "Then we have from here to New York to hatch out details."

"Two hours," Rotter mumbled.