Decree

By G. H. Spaulding

Originally published as a mass market paperback in 1999,
DECREE delivers a chilling preview of the tragic events of
September 11, 2001, and renders a scenario that is even more
plausible in the wake of security measures adopted since then. Its
plot reveals how terrorists might destroy key American targets
without resort to hijacking airliners.

In DECREE, Islamic extremists continue their campaign to
import terrorism to the United States. This time their target is
Denver International, the crown jewel of American airports.
Forewarned of the attack, airport authorities face a dilemma:
should they close the airport in response to a credible threat,
thereby setting a dangerous precedent, or defy the terrorists by
keeping it open? Will even the most sophisticated security
measures at their disposal protect DIA from obliteration?

DECREE goes much deeper than other novels of its genre to
illustrate how Islamic extremists twist the teachings of their
religion to suit their own evil purposes. It provides a unique
insight into the minds and motives of America's most fervent,
and perhaps most dangerous, enemies.

Nail-biting action, political intrigue and a powerful love
storythey're all here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 27, 2003
• ISBN: 9781403364302

G. H. Spaulding

G.H. Spaulding served as a career naval aviator, naval intelligence officer and U.S. diplomat with a capstone assignment as the United States Naval Attaché to Egypt. His unique experience lends both credibility and plausibility to his exciting first novel, DECREE, which earned an Honorable Mention in a nationwide novel writing contest sponsored by the National Writers Association. He is the author of C-C-Cold War Syndrome, a collection of 43 non-fiction short stories about the human and humorous side of the Cold War. Two of these stories are national award winners. A professional writer since 1995, G.H. Spaulding has also penned several highly acclaimed magazine articles. His second novel, TAKEOUT, is on the way. C-C-Cold War Syndrome is also available from 1stBooks Library.

Book preview

© 1999, 2003 by G. H. Spaulding. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4033-6430-3 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4033-6431-1 (Paperback)

ISBN: 1-4033-6432-X (Dustjacket)

ISBN: 9781403364302 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2002093959

First published in 1999 by The National Writers Press.

Cover artwork by Nick Zelinger at NZ Graphics, Lakewood, Co.

IstBooks-rev. 1/13/03

Contents

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the heroes—those we already know and those who have yet to step forward—in the war against terrorism.

One

Nicolas McCayne squinted against the glare of a killer sunrise to check his rearview mirror. The gray Mercedes was hanging back a little. He’d spotted it before—with almost predictable regularity—in the weeks since the press had first reported Tehran’s proclamation of his death decree.

Today though, something was different. Most often the driver was alone. This morning he had a passenger. Why two of them today?

The driver had been careful not to get too close. As usual he’d allowed two or three other vehicles to tuck into the space between his Benz and Nick’s Jeep Cherokee. Nick had never been able to see his face clearly or to get the license number.

Nor had he ever attempted to lose the Mercedes. No slipping through yellow lights, no quick turns in front of oncoming traffic, nothing of that sort, although it would have been easy to do. Better to keep the car in sight. If it suddenly stopped showing up, if the familiar pattern changed, then he’d start to sweat. Until then he’d decided, no point turning paranoid over such a trivial, if somewhat curious, annoyance.

The presence of a second man in the car today had Nick, without realizing it, keeping a closer than usual eye on the mirror. Nevertheless he knew that, whatever the reason for the deviation from normal routine, for now the game was about to end.

When he turned south onto Aspen Avenue, the approach to the main gate of Denver’s Buckley Air Force Base, the Mercedes did not follow. Instead it slowed, crept uncertainly through the intersection, then sped away to the east.

See ya later, fellas, Nick breathed, speaking to the reflection of the gray sedan sliding across his mirror. Guess you’ll have to find some other way to get your kicks for a while.

Then he shifted his gaze to the civilian security guard who strolled casually from the gatehouse and motioned him to a stop.

He lowered his window and held up the identification card of a former military officer. Below his photo, taken when his hair was still cut to regulation length, appeared his full name, Nicolas Allen McCayne, and his former rank, Captain, United States Navy.

The I.D. card represented a bridge to his past. He’d been a career naval aviator, a naval intelligence officer and, in his last assignment, the American Naval Attaché to Egypt. Now he was Dr. McCayne, associate professor of international relations at Denver University.

The guard waved him through the gate. Have a nice day, sir.

You too, Nick said, powering up his window. Then he headed for the flight line and base operations.

He was making his way to Washington, D.C., to deliver a lecture on Islamic extremism at the National Defense University, where Uncle Sam’s military elite came to study such things. He could have flown commercial out of Denver International Airport at NDU’s expense, but he preferred to catch a ride with the military whenever there happened to be a plane with an open seat going to the right place.

Today he was in luck. The Air National Guard was returning a contingent of military officers to Andrews Air Force Base near Washington following their inspection tour of base facilities in Colorado, and there were three spare seats.

Having confirmed McCayne’s arrival at Buckley, Moustafa pointed his gray Mercedes toward Denver International, roughly 15 miles to the northeast. He would drop his passenger there at curbside check-in, too much on his agenda to afford the man the courtesy of seeing him to his departure gate.

Next he’d e-mail his superior in Washington a detailed account of McCayne’s movements this morning. Then he’d visit a U-Haul agency, something he would have done long before had he not been saddled with this damned surveillance business.

But he would spend most of the day putting the finishing touches on the plans for the upcoming operation, over which he’d obsessed for over a year and for whose success or failure he alone would be held accountable.

Essentially the plan was complete. All that remained were the pesky little details that could undo the mission and lead to failure if not attended to properly.

The devil is in the details, he had often heard.

But Moustafa preferred his own version of the adage: In the details, the devils shall die.

***

Nick checked in at the passenger service desk, then located a pay phone, eager to let Laura know that he’d gotten a seat and would be leaving for D.C. within the hour. By now she would be at work at the downtown offices of Levine, Willis & Kaplan, Attorneys at Law, where at age 34, she was on the verge of becoming a junior partner.

Hi counselor. How goes your Monday morning?

My God, is it still morning? Seems like a long day already. She lowered her voice to a syrupy whisper. "Thanks a lot for keeping me awake all night, you…lascivious…"

Nick smiled at the memory. My very great pleasure, ma’am.

I’m paying for it today, but I had a nice time. I always do.

Me too, Nick said. He could almost see the mischievous smile in her cinnamon-brown eyes, smell the honeyed fragrance of her auburn hair, feel the slender contours of her tawny-skinned body. He pictured her naked, way he’d seen her last, then tried to imagine how she looked at this moment, freshly showered and immaculately dressed, perched at her desk preparing for legal combat.

Get your flight? she yawned. Guess you did or you wouldn’t be calling this early.

Right you are, m’dear. Now what can I bring you from Washington?

Hmmmm let’s see, Laura said. How ‘bout a federal judgeship? That’d be nice.

"No problem, although you may find me guilty of doing something…contemptible under your robes."

Sounds pretty kinky. No objection.

Nick caught site of fellow passengers shuffling toward the flight line door and frowned. Okay, lawyer babe. Hate to get serious, but it looks like we’ll be boarding any minute. Just wanted to let you know…and to apologize for sneaking out so early. Had to get home and pack, you know.

I know. Laura’s voice turned melancholy. I just wish you didn’t have to go at all. When’ll you be back?

In four days. Thursday. Don’t know whether I’ll be coming back military or commercial. Call you when I do.

And I’ll pick you up at DIA if you can’t get a flight back to Buckley. Be careful. Oh…and don’t eat the fish.

Never, Nick said, pleased that Laura had remembered his standing gag-fantasy about flying as a passenger—that the pilots would eat fish and be stricken with food poisoning so that he’d have to land the plane. Pure Hollywood.

Nick, I hate saying goodbye, especially on the phone, but I’ve gotta run, too. I’m due in court.

He remembered that Laura’s client was a former city employee who’d sued to get his job back, asserting he’d been the victim of political cronyism. Break a leg today.

Thanks. How ‘bout if I take you out to dinner Thursday night? Maybe something French. Come back hungry.

That too? I’ll make a point of it.

I love you, Laura said.

I love you, too.

Never had Nick been able to utter those words lightly. Unlike some men he knew, he’d never used them to pave his way into bed. He’d said them to Laura only recently—after their relationship had seasoned for the better part of seven months. It had been a monumental emotional step for him, a step away from the memory of his beloved Susan, who had died in his arms in Norfolk, Virginia, in the 12th year of their marriage.

That afternoon Susan had played tennis at the base—her weekly doubles match with the girls—then stopped for groceries on her way home. While lugging the bags from her car to the kitchen, an intruder slipped into the house, beat her unconscious with a crescent wrench and raped her. Her attacker didn’t know, and would not have cared, that she was three months pregnant.

Nick found her there on the kitchen floor when he arrived home from work. He held her, stroking her blood-soaked hair, pleading for the ambulance to hurry.

I love you, Susan, he sobbed. I love you. I love you. Whether she heard him, he would never know.

Saying the words now to Laura infused him with a tangle of competing emotions—a warm sense that his life had finally regained purpose battling the demons of guilt and betrayal whose iron-cold grip still imprisoned his soul.

***

On the flight to Andrews Nick chatted for a while with an Air Force lieutenant colonel seated next to him, a fighter pilot from down around Austin. They compared flying experiences and duty assignments, in the process dredging up a couple of mutual acquaintances. Eventually the conversation began to lag and the lieutenant colonel dozed off. Nick had never been able to do that in the air.

Years before, during tedious low-level surveillance and submarine tracking missions in the four-engine P-3 Orion, he’d taken his scheduled turns out of the pilot’s seat, stretched out on one of the bunks in the rear of the darkened cabin and tried to wean his mind from the cockpit. But with two less-experienced pilots at the controls, his body had remained stubbornly attuned to every turn and power change. He could rush to the cockpit in an emergency, but only if he did not permit himself to sleep. That was a long time ago, yet he’d never been able to shake the habit.

And while he relished his years as a naval aviator, he’d also discovered life beyond the cockpit. Between flying assignments, he’d completed three graduate schools, spent two tours in intelligence and one as a naval attaché.

For Dr. McCayne teaching classes and authoring scholarly texts had proven a sedate contrast to the diversity of a Navy career. Mostly job, little adventure. To recharge his batteries and to relive the excitement of his flying experiences, he’d compiled a book of short stories about them. And to his pleasant surprise, Remember, It’s Break Ground and Fly into the Wind had actually been published. National distribution was about to begin.

He was carrying an advance copy of Remember in his briefcase as a gift for his dearest friends, Rear Admiral John Porthouse Gibson, director of naval intelligence, and the admiral’s irrepressibly capricious wife Janet.

Over the last few days, Nick had been mentally composing the right personal note to inscribe on the flyleaf. Finally he’d come up with something in keeping with the humorous tone of the book itself, but had not yet written it down. Best get it done now, he decided.

He popped his briefcase open and the lieutenant colonel stirred to consciousness, his eyes coming to focus on the book’s title. He chuckled at its play on words. Then he caught the name of the author.

Hey, is that you, perfesser? he yawned, stretching his arms over his head before folding them across his chest.

Fraid so.

But I thought you wrote academic kinda stuff. This looks like it’s about flyin.’

Right on both counts, Nick said, unsheathing his pen. This one’s more or less about flying. Something I’d wanted to do for a long time, mostly for fun. All based on personal experience, so it was easy to write. No research required. Then he added as an afterthought, And no controversy.

Controversy?

Yeah, Nick sighed. "My first book raised a few hackles among some of the more vocal Muslim factions, here in the States as well as overseas. Some of them even accused me of being in cahoots with Salman Rushdie—the guy who wrote Satanic Verses? Absurd, of course. But according to the press, Tehran has issued a death decree against me like their earlier fatwa against him."

Holy shit. The Air Force officer pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he digested Nick’s revelation. But… it don’t look to me like you’ve gone into hidin’ like he did. Must be you don’t take this decree thing too serious.

Not very.

It’s startin’ to come back to me, the lieutenant colonel said, wide awake now, but squinting to recall. "Made the front page of the Washin’tonPost, didn’ it?"

Unfortunately, Nick said, a vague look of disgust clouding his face. And their penchant for sensationalism—typical of the press—made folks think my book was anti-Islamic. Obviously they didn’t bother to read it.

"Now that you mention it, that’s the impression I got from the Post. Made you sound almost un-American, like you were against freedom of religion or somethin’, the light colonel said. But I gotta be honest with ya, perfesser, I didn’t read your book either. Not my style. Mind tellin’ me what it was about? Quickie version, I mean."

Nick smiled. "Actually the title, Islamic Fundamentalism: A Movement Betrayed, pretty much says it all."

Sounds heavy.

Not really. It’s about the way some Islamic terrorist groups use legitimate—and often unwitting—Muslim organizations as fronts to support their activities.

Over in the Middle East, ya mean.

Sure, Nick said. "But what most Americans don’t know is that groups like Hamas and Hezbollah also operate active support networks across the United States."

You’re kiddin.’ Here in Amer’ca?

That’s right. They recruit, train, raise money to buy weapons…you name it, Nick explained. And thousands of unsuspecting American Muslims contribute to it without realizing how their money is being used.

Guess I didn’t know that. Kinda scary.

Yep, Nick agreed. And it’s impossible to write a book about the problem without dicussing the Koran—the Islamic bible—and the ways different Muslim factions translate it to suit their own ends.

The Air Force officer leaned back in his seat. Hell, he said through a smug grin, that don’t sound so different. Lotta Christians do that with the Good Book, too.

True enough. Trouble is that some Muslims are deeply offended whenever a Western ‘infidel’ like me claims any degree of expertise about their sacred Koran. They consider it blasphemy.

So they issue death decrees, the lieutenant colonel said. I see what ya mean about controversy. Then he changed the subject. So compared to all that hassle, writin’ this little flyin’ book here must have seemed like takin’ a vacation.

Almost.

Can I…uh…take a peek at it?

Sure. Just be careful with it. It’s a gift and I want it to be in virgin condition when I give it to my friends.

The Air Force officer wiped his hands ceremoniously on the legs of his blue trousers. Nick grinned, then handed him the book. He opened it gingerly and scanned the table of contents. Selecting a story whose title intrigued him, he began to read.

Nick put away his pen. He’d have to postpone writing his note to the Gibsons. No problem. There’d be plenty of time for that and for visiting with the two people who meant so much to him. His thoughts turned to them.

The admiral was the only male Gibson he’d ever known who was not nicknamed Hoot. It was J.P. to his friends and Admiral to everyone else. At J.P.’s insistence, Nick would be calling on the DNI in his Pentagon office this afternoon and tomorrow night would be having dinner with him and Janet at their home in Reston, Virginia.

Dear, sweet Janet. Following Susan’s death, during the darkest period of his life, she’d taken on the role of Nick’s surrogate sister, providing him needed solace. When J.P. eventually engineered the attaché job for him in Egypt, it was Janet who persuaded him to take it. Therapy, she’d called it.

Nick hadn’t seen the Gibsons in over a year. A lot of catching up to do. This, he decided, would be an especially pleasant and memorable journey, long overdue.

Outside the smudged glass door of the U-Haul agency’s frigid rental office, Moustafa lit a cigarette. He emerged from the building’s shadow, inviting the warmth of the mid-morning sun to blanket his face and bake the residual chill from his clothing.

The agency occupied one corner of an intersection in one of the city’s busiest commercial districts. Moustafa scowled at the converging streams of delivery trucks, giant SUVs and hand-polished foreign cars—some of whose drivers held cell phones to their ears like status symbols—that accordioned to a grudging halt when the light turned red, then herded forward with a great roar the instant it changed to green.

Fools, he said under his breath. Always in a hurry, chasing dollars. For what? To acquire more technological gizmos? To satisfy your unholy addiction to them? You think technology will enable you to manipulate the world like some…mindless video game? Soon you will know otherwise. Very soon.

He sucked a final toke from his cigarette and flicked the butt end-over-end into the air, a dry wind gust whipping it in a sideways arc, trailing sparks across the parking lot’s oil-stained blacktop. Then he eased into his Mercedes, started the engine, turned on the radio and smiled.

Finally he could focus all of his attention on the mission. No more distractions.

McCayne was gone. He would not be coming back.

Two

Ten miles out of Andrews on final approach, landing gear motors whined and the jet’s wheels thunked into their down-and-locked position. As if on cue, the lieutenant colonel closed Remember and, chuckling, handed it back to Nick.

"Great story, perfesser. Pretty wild. That really happen to you?"

Just like I wrote it—a few years ago, of course. Some of the other stories are more recent.

I’d like to read ‘em all. When’ll I be able to buy the book?

Give me your name and address. I’ll send you a courtesy copy.

Like a growing number of military officers, the lieutenant colonel carried a supply of business cards. He jotted his home address and phone number on the back of one and gave it to Nick.

James W. Dubinski, Nick read aloud before filing the card in a pocket inside his briefcase lid. Jim or Ski?

Jim.

Well, nice to finally meet you, Jim. I’m Nick. The two men shook hands for the first time as the aircraft settled onto the runway at Andrews Air Force Base.

Taxiing to the passenger ramp, it rolled past Air Force One and Air Force Two, a matched pair of gleaming 747s parked in their normal spots.

Looks like both the prez and the V.P. are in town today, Jim said.

Yep. All the more convenient for securing Laura’s appointment to the bench, Nick quipped silently.

By the way, Nick, what are ya doin’ for wheels?

Rent something at the passenger terminal. I assume they still do that.

Why bother? My car’s in the lot and I’m headed on over to the ‘puzzle palace.’ I can take ya there or drop ya wherever ya need to go.

Nick smiled at hearing the term puzzle palace once again. It was how most military people in Washington referred to the Pentagon.

I’m staying at the Crystal City Marriott, he said, if you don’t mind stopping there. That way I can check in, drop off my luggage and take the Metro to the Pentagon.

Done.

Room seven three one, said Magda, the attractive desk clerk, whose accent Nick judged to be Indonesian-British or something close to that. Her jet-black hair had a burnished luster and hung down her back to her waist. The porter has already taken your bags up. He’s waiting in your room.

Thank you. But I’m on my way to the Pentagon now, so I won’t be going up right away. I’ll take care of the porter when I come back. What’s his name?

His name is Benjamin, sir.

Well please tell Benjamin I’ll see him later. And before I forget, I’ll need a rental car tomorrow morning.

No problem, sir. I will just make a note of it here. You can take care of the paperwork at your convenience. And I will give Benjamin your message.

Great. Thanks again, Magda, Nick said with an appreciative thumb up. He turned and hurried out of the cavernous lobby toward the adjoining subterranean shopping mall where he would board the Metrorail.

It was just after four o’clock when he stepped from the train at the deep underground Pentagon Metro station. Rush hour had begun. The first of the 26,000 bureaucrats and military people who labored inside the miniature metropolis above were fanning out to make their public transportation connections to the Virginia and Maryland suburbs.

A few inbounders, watchstanders mostly, were just trudging in to work, many carrying brown-bagged midnight lunches. Others, like Rear Admiral Gibson, would remain on the job for several hours more. For them 14-hour days were common.

Nick rode the escalator up to the concourse level, passed through a security checkpoint and entered the Pentagon. He took a shortcut across the shaded lawn of the inner courtyard and, minutes later, arrived at the fifth-floor office of the director, naval intelligence.

Hi, Millie, he said to J.P.’s sixty-something, pleasantly chunky secretary.

Just how long Millie had occupied the same desk he wasn’t sure. But she’d held the place together, he knew, for at least three of J.P.’s predecessors. She was an indispensable treasure with a warm smile, once she came to trust you, and she seemed to be plugged into everything.

Captain McCayne! Millie exclaimed. She jumped up from her computer screen and hugged him. How nice to see you again! He presented her with a half-dozen white roses he’d bought for her in the Crystal City Underground.

How pretty. Thank you, she said, inserting the roses into a slender crystal vase that sat empty on her tidy desk. I’ll get some water for these in a minute.

I was afraid you’d already left for the day.

Oh be serious! You know I’m always here until six. Heck, I’d stay later, but that’s when the admiral chases me out of here, no matter how late he works, Millie said. He works so hard…like the others. I worry about his health, you know?

Just then the door to J.P.’s private office swung open and Rear Admiral Gibson strode out. He wore a brown leather flight jacket over his white shirt, black necktie and black uniform trousers, which the Navy called blues. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled, as always. A pair of frameless half-eye reading glasses rested on the end of his nose and an unlit meerschaum pipe protruded from his clenched teeth. In his left hand were several pages of hand-written notes. Looking over the top of his glasses and smiling broadly, pipe and all, he reached out to shake Nick’s hand.

Thought I heard a familiar voice out here, he said, his grip firm and welcoming. Have you been harassing poor Millie again?

Actually, she was just telling me what a slave driver you’ve become, J.P., Nick replied, winking at Millie.

Millie made a face, then giggled.

The worst. Come on in, Nick. We’ve got some catching up to do. Coffee?

Sounds great. Black if you please, Millie, Nick said, beginning to feel the effects of having missed both breakfast and lunch. But coffee would do for now.

Me too, my dear, J.P. said. And then I’ll need these typed up, if you can decipher my scribbling. Straight secret, no codeword. They gotta get down to CNO tonight.

It sounded as though the chief of naval operations would be working late as well.

Millie delivered coffee in two china mugs emblazoned with the seal of the Office of Naval Intelligence. The admiral settled behind his desk and began filling his pipe. Nick sat facing him on a burgundy-red leather sofa.

You look good, old buddy. Working out?

Sort of. Nick blushed. You look tired.

Goes with the territory.

How’s Janet?

Wild and crazy as ever. J.P. paused to light his pipe, producing a series of smoke puffs that twisted into contorted shapes as they ascended to the ceiling. She can hardly wait to see you again. Dinner, our place, seven tomorrow evening?

Accept with pleasure. I’m hungry already.

So, shipmate, how’s life in academia treating you?

Slower pace for sure. Took me awhile to adjust, but I’m enjoying it. Best of all, I don’t have to pack up and move every couple of years.

No regrets about your decision to retire?

None. Not that I didn’t love the Navy. But after my assignment in Egypt was finished. and with Susan gone. I felt it was time to change course.

She was a special lady, J.P. said, his jaws tightening. Shame that bastard only got life in prison. A perfect case for capital punishment if there ever was one.

Nick let the comment pass, a signal that he wished to leave the subject behind. He had not yet told J.P. or Janet about Laura, having opted to save the news until the three of them were together. Janet, he knew, would be ecstatic.

But Susan’s death wasn’t the only reason I bailed out. I just felt like my mission was complete. The Soviet Union had collapsed. The Berlin Wall was down. The entire Warsaw Pact was a shambles. Our main enemy was defeated.

"Although not our only one," offered the admiral, gazing weary-eyed over Nick’s shoulder at a map of the world that covered most of the paneled wall behind him.

I know, J.P. I’ve become something of an authority on that, you know.

And made some enemies of your own in the process.

One or two, I suppose.

I understand you’ve been under surveillance.

How the hell did you…?

Gimme a little credit, the admiral scolded Nick good-naturedly, jabbing the air with the stem of his pipe. What do ya think they pay me for? Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled. After those Iranian kooks issued their infamous death decree, I asked my friends at the Agency and the Bureau to keep tabs on you for a while. They told me you were being watched, but, by whom they still don’t know.

Every so often. But, so far…no harm, no foul.

The admiral stuck his pipe in his teeth and flipped quickly through his Rolodex. When he found the card he was looking for, he copied something onto a sheet of memo paper and pushed it across his desk. "This gent runs the CIA regional office in Denver. If things get hairy out there, call him. He knows about you. In fact, they’ve even given you a code name—Sailor."

That’s appropriate, Nick said, shaking his head and yielding an embarrassed smile as he reached for the paper.

Seriously, watch yourself. These people are screwy and your book really pissed ‘em off. And because of all the publicity it received, some people over at State—and one or two at the White House—think you deliberately set out to undermine the so-called Middle East peace process.

That’s ridiculous! Makes me wonder if they ever read the damned thing.

Couldn’t say. I read it though. Thought it was right on the mark.

Well, speaking of books, Nick said, I’ve brought you an advance of my latest. He removed the still unsigned copy of Remember from his briefcase, placed it face up on the desk and maneuvered it through the clutter to within the admiral’s reach. This is somewhat lighter reading.

A smile creased J.P.’s face when he read the title. It evaporated when he lifted the cover. Hey, aren’t you gonna sign it?

Tomorrow night.

At that point, Millie’s voice came over the DNI’s intercom. "Sorry to interrupt, Admiral, but they need you down in Intelligence Plot. ASAP."

A part of the Navy Command Center, Intelligence Plot was the gathering place for the Navy brass whenever a crisis arose. There they received top-secret briefings and deliberated naval options. Nick tried to work out in his mind which international situation had deteriorated to the point of crisis, but none registered immediately.

Thanks, Millie, J.P. said into the box. Sorry, Nick. Duty calls. He