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points.
    Ross rested his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry, Ron. I’m not sure I can handle another motivational speaker telling us how far to bend over during a Washington terrorist attack. I’ve heard it all before. I’m just sick of it.”
    “Hey, I understand,” Hollings reassured. “If it makes you feel any better, this guy’s spiel is supposed to be pretty good. A friend of mine over at Justice heard it and said it really woke him up. Your friend Ms. Petri has publicly challenged the content. If she’s there, we might see some fireworks.”
    Nancy Petri was an Illinois congressional representative and special liaison to the NTSB’s Office of Public Affairs.
    Ross rolled his eyes. “Petri runs her office by the book and nothing but. If this guy gets cocky I wouldn’t want to be in her sights, but whatever. Let’s go. And mark my words—I will get my life in order.”
    He slid into his suit coat and strode out the door.

 
     
    THE NTSB used a state-of-the-art underground conference center adjacent to its headquarters building at 429 L’Enfant Plaza Southwest in Washington, DC. The center consisted of a theater-style auditorium for 350 people, 1,682 square feet of flexible space, and two aisles wide enough to accommodate even the largest of public press venues. Every seat was filled.
    “Good morning,” Roger Barrens, the NTSB’s Managing Director, announced from the center stage. “We’re excited that the Secretary of Homeland Security, Samuel Bridge, could join us this morning.”
    The room gave out strong applause. Bridge waved. Barrens produced a fact sheet.
    “The speaker you’re about to hear is Jack Riley, Director of Homeland Counterterrorism. Mr. Riley hails from Georgia, where he graduated from Emory University with a degree in mathematics. He served in the United States Air Force, achieving the rank of captain. In Desert Storm, he was in charge of placing, encrypting, and synchronizing all satellite-to-ground voice communication links. He’s a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and also has, dare I say, the unique honor of reporting directly to Secretary Bridge and is therefore allowed to ignore . . . er, bypass all those evil undersecretaries.”
    This drew a mass chuckle. Barrens’s brother carried that title in the DHS Office of Intelligence and Analysis.
    “Mr. Riley also has a rather quirky fetish for stuffed animals that’s well-known in the intelligence circles. I’ll let him explain that. His presentation today is called “Komodo.” The president has seen it and was so impressed that he ordered it be taped and delivered to all federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies in the nation. That about sums up the gravity. Secretary Bridge has also expressed strong support for the theory based on its, and I quote, ‘on-target significance.’ With that, let’s begin. Mr. Riley?”
    The audience applauded warmly.
    The spitting image of a youthful Sidney Poitier sprang from his chair next to the Secretary and approached the podium. He appeared physically fit, with a strong jaw line, symmetrical facial features, a touch of temple gray, and an unusually grim visage. He clipped a wireless microphone set to his belt and necktie but had apparently forgotten to turn it on. His midnight blue suit gave off a subtle metallic flash as he walked regally down the center aisle. He carried an olive-gray, black-blotched stuffed animal the size of a football under one arm. It was a fish.
    “Thank you, Roger. Good morning. My Christian name is Prince—Prince Jackson Riley. I’m neither Irish nor next in line for the British or any other throne. My mother named me Prince because she thought I looked like African royalty when I entered this world. My friends still call me that. You may call me Jack.
    “As Roger pointed out, I work in DHS counterterrorism, and I have one heckuva job. I get to snoop around, ask questions, assess and alert other agencies about potential gaps in