By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Vice-Admiral Louis J. Warley, USN, Central Command’s J-2 intelligence officer, came to the office door a moment later. He held two printouts in his hand. Naylor motioned him into the office.

“I’ve got the one I think you were referring to,” Warley said. “And a second one just came in. Both from DIA.”

He handed them to Naylor, who glanced at them and handed them back.

“That’s what we’re going to talk about,” Naylor said.

General Albert McFadden, U.S. Air Force, CentCom’s deputy commander, walked into Naylor’s office without asking permission.

“Somebody’s grabbed a 727?” he asked.

“Read all about it,” Naylor said and motioned for Admiral Warley to give the printouts to General McFadden.

McFadden read the printouts and added: “A 727 and the crew, apparently. I wonder what the hell this is all about?”

No one answered him.

The last person to arrive was Mr. Brian Willis, of the FBI. He held a printout in his hand.

“The bureau just sent me this, General,” he said. “Actually, while we were in the conference. Is that what you were talking about?”

Naylor glanced at it. It was Miller’s first satburst.

“That’s it, but there’s already been a second,” Naylor said.

“Here,” General McFadden said, handing it to him.

Naylor waited until Willis had read it, then said, “Brian, can you get on the horn to the FBI in Philadelphia and see what they have on this Lease-Aire corporation, and the pilot? I think we should have that.”

“So do I,” Willis agreed, after a moment’s thought, and then appeared to be wondering where he was to sit at Naylor ’s office conference table.

“How about doing that now, Brian?” Naylor asked, hoping his voice didn’t reveal his annoyance. “While we’re waiting for General Potter? Use the phone booth, if you’d like.”

He pointed to the cubicle with the desk, chair, and secure telephone.

Willis nodded, said, “Oh. Sure. Okay,” and walked into the small room.

He was still on the telephone when General Potter returned.

“Up and running, boss,” he said.

“Okay. Good.” Naylor looked around the room. “Everybody ’s here, and everybody’s read the two satbursts from Angola, right?”

Everybody nodded.

“Okay,” Naylor went on, “then let’s get started.”

He sat down, raised the lid of the laptop, and turned it on.

“Let’s do two things,” he began when all but Willis had taken seats. “Let’s do worst-case scenario; and, in the military order, junior man first.”

When it came to seniority among the liaison officers, somewhat important for some things, Naylor had used what he thought of as the George Orwell Theory of Seniority. All pigs are equal, but some pigs are more equal than others. All the liaison officers, he had decreed, were to have the assimilated rank of major general, and rank between them was to be determined by how long they had been assigned to CentCom.

That made Brian Willis of the FBI the junior man. He was the fourth FBI liaison officer. Naylor had sent back the first three as unsuitable. Fremont had had only one predecessor.

Willis slipped into a chair at the conference table.

“I talked to the SAC in Philadelphia,” he began. “He got the first message from the bureau, but not the second.”