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Buchanan’s bluster. He had seen civilians come and go through many administrations and had served them all to the best of his ability. Hank Turner was as close to untouchable as anyone in the room.
    Gerald Buchanan detested him. Turner had almost as many advanced degrees as he, plus the general had a heroic reputation, could do more push-ups than a boot camp private, and had even penned a volume of poetry. Still, Buchanan enjoyed recalling that Turner had stood third when he graduated from Annapolis while Buchanan was first in his class at Yale the same year. And his poetry was not all that good.
    It was personally satisfying to Buchanan that the highest-ranking officer in all of the military services could speak only with permission in this room. He said, “Go ahead, General. Please. I grow weary of this silence.”
    “Sir, it is frankly too early for anyone to know much about what has happened to General Middleton. It will all be discovered, but it’s going to take some effort and some time. My point is that I really don’t care much about what happened before Middleton was snatched. I am confident that the intelligence agencies represented around this table will discover that. I want to focus on getting him back as soon as possible.”
    To Buchanan, the military mindset had always seemed very limiting. Good to have the uniforms around to carry out policy, but original thought was not their strong point. All those badges and ribbons meant little in the halls of real power. “And how is that going to happen? Do you have a plan?”
    “With all respect, sir, at the Pentagon, we plan for almost everything, all the time. As soon as we find out where Middleton is being held, we will pull out something suitable and adjust it according to present conditions, and when we receive the authority of our civilian leadership, we will execute it.”
    “So you don’t have a plan.”
    “Not a detailed one, no. Of course not. But preparations are in motion. The air force has offered its assets, the navy SEAL teams are on alert, the army is spooling up Delta, and the Joint Special Operations Command is on board. We all want the same thing.”
    “Well, at least that’s something that I can take into the Oval Office,” said Buchanan. “Thank you, General.” He inwardly recorded Turner’s condescending Of course not as a debt of rudeness to be repaid later.
    But Turner was not quite through. “Only this, sir. General Middleton is a Marine. He’s one of us. We welcome the support of all branches of service, but we will be the ones to bring him home. I have issued an alert to MARCOM, the Marine Forces Special Operations Command at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. They are passing the word to the Marine Expeditionary Units in both the Arabian Sea and the Mediterranean. The MEUs are always on a short leash, ready to go.”
    “You really believe you will be able to do it?” Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “Pull him out of hostile territory?”
    “We don’t just believe it. We know we can.” The chairman did not wilt before Buchanan’s stare.
    “Very well, then. We meet again at noon.” Buchanan rose and left the room, annoyed with the arrogance of the Marine. Once back in his office, he dialed the number of Samuel Shafer, his deputy, whose office was across the street in the Old Executive Office Building, and asked if everyone in their shop was present for this emergency. There must be no holes in his own operation that some rival might exploit. He was told that five staff members were absent, for reasons ranging from maternity leave to scheduled days off, but the only one who was really needed was their top Middle East analyst, Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne.
    “Then get her in here,” Buchanan ordered.
    “Sir, she’s vacationing on a boat somewhere! Greece, I think. Maybe Italy,” exclaimed Shafer.
    “I did not ask where she was! Just get her!” He slammed down the telephone, then exhaled slowly and rested both palms