stealth. We are six hundred feet in length and eighty feet across the beam, but on radar we look like a small fishing vessel. Also, being electric, we can reallocate our energy to fit our needs—like our rail gun."
"What's a rail gun?" Shaq asked.
Crispin answered before the captain could speak. "It's a gun that launches its projectile by magnetism. The projectile is conductive so it rides the rails at great speed."
"I take it you read a book or something," Shaq said.
"I do that from time to time."
"You're right, soldier. That and many things I can't describe come to you for a mere three billion of taxpayers' dollars. It's one reason I was not happy to reduce speed in rough seas."
"With all due respect, sir," Moyer said, "we don't especially like boarding a ship in heavy seas."
"I can respect that. Okay, enough chitchat. I've got you for six hours. After that I'll hand you off to your next ride. Is there anything you need?"
"Some chow would be good, sir." Moyer studied his men for a moment. "And maybe a place to stretch out."
"XO, get them what they need."
"Sir?" J. J. raised a finger. "I have to ask. I've heard a lot of ship names, but not the Michael Monsoor . Who was he?"
The captain's face darkened. "Master-at-Arms Second Class Michael A. Monsoor was a Navy SEAL, Delta Platoon, SEAL Team Three. He enlisted in the Navy in 2001. Five years later he was dead. On September 29, 2006, he and his team were engaged against insurgents in Ramadi, Iraq. One of the enemy tossed a grenade onto the roof where he and his comrades were positioned. Monsoor smothered the grenade with his body, saving the others from injury and death. He was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor. The ship is named after him."
The air in the room grew heavy, then Moyer rose from his chair. The others followed. They stood in silence until Captain Glencoe said, "I wish you better luck in whatever it is you're about to do."
TESS AND COLONEL MAC moved around a small group of tourists and down the corridor. Ivory walls and a light brown carpet made the hallway seem larger than it was. Overhead lights pushed the darkness of evening away. In front of them walked a woman with the bearing of an Abrams M1 tank. Helen Brown was more than the president's chief of staff; she was the engine that kept the administration running. Her no-nonsense demeanor was legendary. One Washington insider said the COS had the personality of a meat grinder. Tess had no desire to test that assessment.
Tess had been to the White House before. In fact, she was here just a few months earlier. Because of J. J.'s heroics at the G-20 meeting in Italy that saved the life of not only the president but a dozen heads-of-state and their spouses, the president made the Rose Garden available for their wedding. Now her new husband was on another mission and Tess was meeting the president again—this time on official business.
The corridor emptied into a small waiting area just outside the Oval Office. A marble bust of George Washington sat on a short Greek-style column. A similar bust of Thomas Jefferson rested on the opposite side of the alcove, as if scrutinizing all who passed by.
"One moment, please." Helen Brown slipped into the outer office and spoke to the president's personal secretary.
Tess couldn't hear the exchange, but the body language indicated Brown was informing not requesting. A few seconds later she turned and motioned for Tess and Colonel Mac to follow. Butterflies zoomed through Tess's stomach like jet fighters. Colonel Mac looked unfazed.
Brown opened the door between the outer office and the Oval Office, then closed it behind her as they entered.
President Ted Huffington was seated on one of the sofas at the center of the room. A matching sofa framed a wide, sturdy coffee table. On the table rested a pitcher of water and a carafe of what, based on the cups next to it, Tess assumed was coffee. The president looked unchanged since she last saw him. However, his
"What's a rail gun?" Shaq asked.
Crispin answered before the captain could speak. "It's a gun that launches its projectile by magnetism. The projectile is conductive so it rides the rails at great speed."
"I take it you read a book or something," Shaq said.
"I do that from time to time."
"You're right, soldier. That and many things I can't describe come to you for a mere three billion of taxpayers' dollars. It's one reason I was not happy to reduce speed in rough seas."
"With all due respect, sir," Moyer said, "we don't especially like boarding a ship in heavy seas."
"I can respect that. Okay, enough chitchat. I've got you for six hours. After that I'll hand you off to your next ride. Is there anything you need?"
"Some chow would be good, sir." Moyer studied his men for a moment. "And maybe a place to stretch out."
"XO, get them what they need."
"Sir?" J. J. raised a finger. "I have to ask. I've heard a lot of ship names, but not the Michael Monsoor . Who was he?"
The captain's face darkened. "Master-at-Arms Second Class Michael A. Monsoor was a Navy SEAL, Delta Platoon, SEAL Team Three. He enlisted in the Navy in 2001. Five years later he was dead. On September 29, 2006, he and his team were engaged against insurgents in Ramadi, Iraq. One of the enemy tossed a grenade onto the roof where he and his comrades were positioned. Monsoor smothered the grenade with his body, saving the others from injury and death. He was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor. The ship is named after him."
The air in the room grew heavy, then Moyer rose from his chair. The others followed. They stood in silence until Captain Glencoe said, "I wish you better luck in whatever it is you're about to do."
TESS AND COLONEL MAC moved around a small group of tourists and down the corridor. Ivory walls and a light brown carpet made the hallway seem larger than it was. Overhead lights pushed the darkness of evening away. In front of them walked a woman with the bearing of an Abrams M1 tank. Helen Brown was more than the president's chief of staff; she was the engine that kept the administration running. Her no-nonsense demeanor was legendary. One Washington insider said the COS had the personality of a meat grinder. Tess had no desire to test that assessment.
Tess had been to the White House before. In fact, she was here just a few months earlier. Because of J. J.'s heroics at the G-20 meeting in Italy that saved the life of not only the president but a dozen heads-of-state and their spouses, the president made the Rose Garden available for their wedding. Now her new husband was on another mission and Tess was meeting the president again—this time on official business.
The corridor emptied into a small waiting area just outside the Oval Office. A marble bust of George Washington sat on a short Greek-style column. A similar bust of Thomas Jefferson rested on the opposite side of the alcove, as if scrutinizing all who passed by.
"One moment, please." Helen Brown slipped into the outer office and spoke to the president's personal secretary.
Tess couldn't hear the exchange, but the body language indicated Brown was informing not requesting. A few seconds later she turned and motioned for Tess and Colonel Mac to follow. Butterflies zoomed through Tess's stomach like jet fighters. Colonel Mac looked unfazed.
Brown opened the door between the outer office and the Oval Office, then closed it behind her as they entered.
President Ted Huffington was seated on one of the sofas at the center of the room. A matching sofa framed a wide, sturdy coffee table. On the table rested a pitcher of water and a carafe of what, based on the cups next to it, Tess assumed was coffee. The president looked unchanged since she last saw him. However, his
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