The Mission

Hawke stood in a crowded line at the Commuter Hub. Teleportation provided the most efficient method to travel long distances, so time zones and commuting distances lost their relevance. Nearly an hour later, Hawke walked up and inserted his hand into the infrared scanner. The door slid open and he entered, turning just as it slid shut with an audible click. Inside, the portal was lit by a ring of harsh bluish-white light. The walls were completely devoid of any noticeable features, except for the thin seam which marked the location of the door.

"Please clearly state your destination," declared a masculine computerized voice.

"New Washington DC, Capitol Street."

"Thank you. Processing." Hawke looked up at the ceiling, only eight inches from the top of his head. There was nothing to see – just a funnel-shaped duct receding into blackness, though the way it darkened in the center gave it the ominous appearance of a black hole. "Destination validated. Please refrain from making sudden movements during teleportation. Thank you and have a nice day." There was a humming vibration followed by several high-pitched whines, but otherwise there had been no discernible change. The door opened and he exited the receiving portal. A few feet away stretched a long line of people, all wearing the same resigned expression.

Rows and rows of solid state LEDs glared down from the underground, cavernous chamber. Banks of wall-sized screens scrolled through advertisements for expensive merchandise, consumer financial services, realtors, travel agencies extolling exotic getaway packages, and more. A large sign hung prominently below the exit tunnel read "Welcome to Washington D.C. The Capitol of Democracy." Two smaller signs, discreetly situated off to the side, read "Please watch your belongings. District of Columbia TelePortal Authority is not responsible for lost or stolen articles. Please safeguard personal items" and "District of Columbia Teleportal Authority is not liable for mishaps that may result from teleportation. TeleCommuters use portals at their own risk."

Hawke walked as briskly as he could manage through the tunnel and took a lift to the surface. Moments later he looked out over the city, the top of the Washington Monument gleamed in the mid-day sun. Not the original, though – that was a popular underwater tourist attraction. In a rare instance of political unison following the melting of the polar ice, Congress voted to rebuild the historical buildings of Washington DC some thirty miles inland, including the White House and Capitol building. Museums and monuments were painstakingly recreated – at the taxpayers’ expense, of course.

Hawke opted to go on foot, as ESV’s swerved around him, and soon found himself in front of a nondescript, brick office building. The large, one-way glass windows did not open into luxurious office spaces, but concealed solid concrete walls. A careful observer making a circuit of the perimeter would find there were no doors leading into the building.

An oversized TelePortal conveniently situated like a spacious foyer was the only means to gain entry. Hawke placed his hand on the scanner. An embedded military ID chip in his finger provided the necessary clearance. The door slid open. Unlike the commuter TelePortal in Atlanta, this one was large enough for six people to stand comfortably. Also, this TelePortal was monitored twenty-four hours a day.

"Please state name and rank." The monotone rent-a-voice could not have sounded more bored. The Atlanta terminal had prerecorded, automated responses; this portal featured a live person.

"Nathan Hawke. Commander."

"Hold on please." Hawke waited patiently while they verified his voiceprint and biometrics. "ID confirmed. Please state office and level, sir."

"Department of Space Defense. Level G4."

"Thank you."

The portal opened into a spartan, yet tastefully decorated office. Panels on the walls provided a continuous slideshow of military aircraft and spacecraft, both modern and antique. An array of framed medals and a United States flag were on display in a showcase. A composite fiberglass desk, stained to look like teak, occupied the bulk of the reception area and an attractive, blonde woman sat behind the desk typing into a plasma screen. No photographs or personal items cluttered her work space.

"Hello, Commander. It’s nice to see you again," she said without looking up. The greeting was cold and mechanical, intended as no more than a mundane check-in-the-box.

"Hello, Betty. Same to you," Hawke replied with the same feeling.

Despite her comely appearance, Betty Graves had a personality better suited to her surname. When the Admiral first hired her, Hawke was certain it was because she was young and pretty, but as it turned out she was actually quite competent in her job.

Now fifteen years later, Betty was the senior secretary on G4 and wielded her authority over the junior employees with malicious vigor. She was a no-nonsense woman and became a veritable tyrant when rules were broken, particularly her rules. Needless to say, she and Hawke didn’t get along well, but over the years they had learned to develop a superficial working relationship. She endured his usual breeches of official conduct and he tried to stay the hell out of her way.

"Is he in?"

"Yes. He’s been expecting you. Nice to see you dressed for the occasion."

Hawke bit back a sarcastic retort; there was no point in antagonizing her. He still didn’t know why the Admiral had summoned him, so he didn’t know if he was in hot water or not, though nothing came to mind. But if Betty had some dirt on him she’d have relished the opportunity to wave it in his face. Can’t be all that bad then.

*****

"Why’re you asking me? There must be dozens of younger pilots who’d jump at this chance, sir." Hawke knew Admiral Langolier at a younger age. He’d been his Wing Commander when Hawke was a cadet just out of Flight School. Langolier had been slimmer then, and a real hard-nosed, tough leader, but he had always been straight with him – with none of the usual political jargon and double-speak that afflicted most men the closer they got to the top ranks.

The Admiral’s office was a stark contrast to the reception area. Garish ribbons and memorabilia crowded the walls and shelves. On the desk were vidgraphs of the Admiral’s children and grandchildren, though the majority were of his wife, Gertrude. She never smiled in any of them. Having met the woman during what few formal occasions had been unavoidable, Hawke suspected her intention was to make sure she was never ’out of sight, out of mind’ where her husband was concerned.

"I don’t want a younger pilot, Nathan. I want an experienced pilot. The best. Someone I can rely on to lead the team, not just drive them there."

Two white birds fluttered by the oversized windows. They were holographically-generated computer enhanced images as the Admiral’s office was eighty feet underground, a necessary security measure. The upper floors of the building were reserved for unclassified work only. The lower floors didn’t even run on the same computer networks or use the same electrical power supply as the rest of the structure.

Langolier continued, "The planning for this mission is being scrutinized at every level. Engineers from entire departments are already being taken off other projects to work on this. Nothing is being left to chance."

"Unlike the M83 mission?"

The Admiral didn’t take the bait. "This is a fantastic opportunity for you. Once in a lifetime."

"Is that what you told Andy?"

This time the Admiral’s eyes flashed. "Dammit, Nathan! You know as well as I do what happened to Tomlinson was an accident. It was a mistake, a software glitch, but we had no choice. The political situation demanded it. We were in a race. It was a huge gamble, I admit it. We were scrambling." The Admiral puttered loudly. "Look, Tomlinson knew the risks when he signed up for the Corps. Just like you. It was the first time we ever attempted anything like it – to go that far. Over a million light years, for Christ’s sake! Besides, that was years ago. The technology is dramatically improved now."

"Bullshit! How would you know?"

Langolier’s face screwed up, but he regained his composure. "Look, we may never know all the details. Andy was always impetuous, even more than you. Who knows? Maybe...no, I won’t say that. But you know full well if he were alive right now the two of you would be slugging it out on the floor of my office. Now look at you. You’re a wreck. You should’ve made Captain by now. When’s the last time you volunteered for something other than routine transport?"

Hawke’s jaw muscles bunched.

The Admiral wagged his finger at him, "I know you’ve still got some of that old fire. I think it’s why you frequent those fleabag-ridden garbage dumps you call ’vacation hot-spots’." He laughed. "Don’t look so surprised. I like to keep tabs on my best pilots. Especially ones from the old days. Hell, the satellite imagery’s so good I can zoom in close enough to see where your hair’s thinning in the back. Not that I need to. That blonde mop of yours is like a beacon mixed with all those dark-skinned Mexicanos and Caribbeaners."

Hawke folded his arms across his chest and stared across at his superior – actually, his superior’s superior. "If I agree to take this on, what kind of authority will I have to select my own crew?"

The Admiral smiled crookedly, sensing victory. He steepled his fingers and leaned forward on the desk. "I’m going to level with you, Nathan. I can pull some strings, allow you to hand-pick your flight crew – you know what that entails. But given the delicate international situation we’re in, and aside from the usual heavy-handed political pressuring, you can be certain my hands will be tied in most cases. Plus, there’s the expeditionary team, scientists and biologists and geologists and the like. They’ll be selected based on their own qualifications. That’s about the best I can offer you."

Hawke nodded, saying nothing.

"If you do this – and do it well, I might add, I’ll personally make sure your next promotion won’t get passed by."

"I don’t give a damn about any promotions." The Admiral smiled languidly and Hawke realized Langolier expected him to say that. Crafty old bastard.

"Well, at least think about taking the job, would you?"

"Alright, I’ll think about it," Hawke answered and turned to go.

The Admiral called after him. "Don’t take too long. You have until o’eight hundred tomorrow. I’ve got the President and half the Pentagon breathing down my neck."

*****

Hawke intended to catch up on backlogged work, but after thirty minutes he gave up. Since he was still technically on leave, he could have gone home to unpack. But where’s the fun in that? He locked up his backpack, changed into the spare uniform he kept in his office, and took the G4 teleporter to Miller Space Base. The Manned Vehicle Launch Deck resembled an enormous, open-roofed sports stadium. Spacecraft lifted off vertically from the flight hangar using a combination of high-powered turbo lifts and synthetic combustible fuels. Once clear of the atmosphere, the ships then employed a teleportation field to propel them, guided by a computer-controlled navigation system.

It was originally hoped the same magnetic fields that powered ESV’s could be adapted and modified for quickly and easily bringing large objects into and out of planetary orbit. Unfortunately, the technology was never able to mature further despite extensive research and development efforts. Additional battery power did not significantly increase its levitating capability. In fact, the magnetic field maxed out a few feet off the ground, depending on payload and elevation.

Hawke strolled along one of the several mezzanine levels and looked down on rows of spacecraft neatly assembled on the ground. Teams of engineers, techs, and maintainers scurried about. A few pilots stood to one side, helmets resting on their hips, joking with one another, all the while listening with half an ear to the crew chiefs barking orders to their men. A good pilot liked to know everything that was being done to his ship. There were a number of SF-109 Quasars, a couple of trainer SFTC-88/C Comets, a Class II transport SC-10A, nicknamed "Space Mule," and a EC-14/B Space Jammer. None of them appeared to be leaving dock any time soon, so Hawke turned away from the railing.

"Hey, Hawke! You’re back early."

The man coming to greet him was his co-pilot and best friend, Lieutenant Commander James Starling. Jim’s lips pulled back in a smile that bore a remarkable resemblance to the infamous cat from the story "Alice in Wonderland." But unlike the often puzzling and patronizing feline of the fairy tale, Jim’s smile was genuine. Starling was as tall as Hawke, but he was slender next to Hawke’s rugged physique. Hawke often joked that Jim was skinnier now than in their days as cadets when they used to go out drinking after flying.

"From the look of you, I’d say you’ve been hanging out in that dive Tiki bar in the Caribbean again." Hawke grinned in reply. "Cause any trouble?"

"Some, but that’s what makes it recreational."

"You’re the only man I know who considers a barroom brawl relaxing. I can’t believe I let you drag me down there...what? Three years ago? I can still feel the lumps on my head." He looked at his chrono-ring. "Hey, come on. I’m not on duty for another two hours. Let’s go grab a bite to eat or something."

The cafeteria was nearly empty. Only a handful of people occupied tables, most likely between shifts. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. A sultry, computerized voice said, "Welcome back, Commander. Did you enjoy your vacation?"

"Yes, Rhonda, thank you very much."

"What may I get for you today?"

Hawke was only going to get a drink, but all he’d had to eat since morning had been the two tamales. "The usual. Cheeseburger and fries with tomato and onions. No condiments. And a cold beer."

"That will be seventeen credits charged to your account. Have a nice day."

"Thanks."

They sat at one of the tables near the window so they could watch the activity on the flight deck. Hawke devoured his cheeseburger, even though the burger and cheese were not actually meat and dairy products – both were made from soy with artificial fillers. The FDA claimed the vegetable-based food products were far healthier than the meat-based ones they replaced, but everyone knew it was just a lie concocted to reconcile guilty consciences over the extinction of yet another of Earth’s indigenous species.

His appetite alleviated, Hawke idly took a few swigs as he recounted his confrontation from the morning. Soon the conversation turned to more serious matters and Hawke let it slip that Admiral Langolier had called him into his office to discuss a mission of extreme importance.

Jim’s face lit up. "The M51 find? You mean we’re being considered for it? Hot damn!"

"You mean you know about it? I got the impression it was top secret."

"Sheesh! Where’ve you been, man? Mars? Don’t they have vidfeeds on that piece of rock you call an island?"

"Sure, but I don’t watch when I’m on vacation. That’s why it’s called a vacation. I go there to ignore all the shit that’s happening in the world." The last headlines he’d seen had been about two new sub-sea cities under contract off the coast of Australia and several near South America, an insurgent food riot which had to be put down in West Berlin, and an emergency supply run of inoculations for the latest strain of superflu raging across the moon colonies.

"Everyone knows about it. It’s been splashed over every news channel for the last twenty-four hours. They’re crediting it with temporarily easing global tensions along the sub-African border. Heck, they even broadcasted it to the moon this morning, and you know they only get last week’s news. They’re calling it Eden M51."

"Seems awfully optimistic."

"Yeah, well, call it optimism mixed with desperation. There hasn’t been a discovery of a planet with prospects this good since...," Jim caught himself and reddened. "Well, you know what I mean."

"I don’t think you should get too carried away."

"Carried away? Hawke, have you seen the data? Didn’t Langolier show you any of it? Why, my grandmother could tell this is a life-sustaining planet...before her optic lens replacement."

"That good, huh?" He munched down a couple of fries.

"Hey, don’t take my word for it. Turn on the tube."

Hawke smiled. "Good one. Anyway, I don’t need to. The Admiral’s pretty convinced. He wants me to lead the mission. Gave me until eight o’clock tomorrow to give him an answer."

Starling slapped the table. "Well, I’m with you all the way, Nathan. Birds of a feather." Their inside joke. "Besides, it’ll be a blast getting out of the solar system for a change – just like the old days."

Hawke looked down, unable to meet Jim’s eyes. "If I take this, I’m going to request a new crew. I’m not going to risk your life, or Ben’s, on some stargazer’s crazy notion."

Jim’s jaw dropped. Then his puzzled expression turned to indignation. "Screw that! We’ve been together too long. Heck, we go all the way back to the Academy. You, me, Tomlinson, Parker, and Johnson."

"Yeah, well, look what happened to Tomlinson and Parker and the rest of the crew aboard the Galileo."

"That’s not your fault. It’s a risky business we’re in. It’s why we signed up in the first place, remember? Would you rather be a hovercraft driver for the rest of your life? Or be armpit-to-asshole doing oceanographic studies in some cramped, smelly MicroSub? The only reason I keep going on these boring cargo jumps is because of you. Me and Ben would follow you anywhere. I know Andy’s death hit you hard, Nate, but you can’t let it ruin the rest of your life. You’ve gotta move on. It’s been over seven years..."

"Look, spare me your psycho-babble crap. Alright? I’ve heard it all before from the psychiatrists and other counselors the military sent my way to ’help me deal with the trauma,’ as they put it. I don’t need to hear it from you, too."

"Okay, fine, but you listen to me: I’ve stuck by you for a long time now, but frankly, shuttling vegetables and office supplies to the moon and back is getting old. I didn’t sign up for this outfit to be an inter-planetary delivery boy. If you turn this down, I’ll head over to the Admiral’s office and volunteer for the job myself."

Hawke said nothing.

Jim shoved his chair away from the table and walked out, leaving Hawke to absently stare at the listless fries wilting in grease on his plate.

*****

Hawke sifted through heaps of electronic data that had been collected by the long-range probe and compiled by the astrophysicists. A banner continually flashed the words ’TOP SECRET’ at the top of the screen. He analyzed the spectragraphs, the infrared and visible light deep space images, though these last were pretty grainy. When something was too technical, he scanned the short synopsis that put it into layman’s terms.

Jim was right. The data looked promising, but Hawke refused to be swayed by charts and tables and fuzzy images. Yet doubtful as he was, he was forced to agree it looked too good not to venture out for a closer look.

Three weeks had passed since Hawke officially accepted the mission. He reiterated his demand for authority to appoint his own flight crew, which the Admiral emphatically assured him he would have. Since then, Hawke had talked to his close friends: Jim Starling, Frank Giordano, the Chief Maintenance Engineer of his squadron, and Ben Johnson, his Senior Teleportation Engineer. They’d all voiced their approval enthusiastically. The spat between him and Jim was long forgotten. They were friends. Nothing more needed to be said.

Hawke turned away from the screen and read, for a third time, the thick folder which had been rushed over by a breathless cadet. Inside was a dossier on each of the proposed field experts for the expedition. The dossiers contained background information including physical characteristics, education and current research, published works, awards and honors by distinguished peers, letters of recommendation, and patents. He studied the photographs within each file, scrutinizing facial features to glean some insight into their minds and personalities.

The core of the team consisted of four members. The first held a dual doctoral degree in biology and anthropology. Claudia Miller graduated from the University of Auckland with high honors. She grew up in Taupo, New Zealand, though now she was a faculty member at her alma mater. She was forty-three with a wide face and a pleasant smile. Bits of premature gray streaked her otherwise sandy-colored hair. She was smiling in every photograph. Jeans and a button-down blouse with rolled up sleeves seemed to be her everyday attire.

Dr. Miller’s thesis involved the study of ancient peoples and cultures, particularly in the southern Pacific region of the globe, although she had several on-going archeological digs in other parts of the world. She’d received a number of awards of recognition for her research and theories in adaptive evolution of ancient isolated societies. The only other interesting thing Hawke found was a news article about the death of a prominent professor on an excavation in Indonesia. There was even a quote in the story from Dr. Miller, who had been an undergraduate student at the time. Investigative authorities ruled the incident an accident. Setting the folder aside, he picked up the next one.

The second scientist was a woman from the Republic of China named Yu Jie Chiang. She graduated valedictorian from the University of Beijing with an undergraduate degree in biotechnology. Her masters and doctoral degrees were in biomedical engineering and biochemistry. She held several patents, the titles of which were thoroughly beyond him, but had something to do with the targeted delivery of synthetic hormones and pharmaceuticals in the body. She received several awards and honors, including the Nobel Prize for physiology and medicine, all before her thirty-fifth birthday.

Hawke picked up her photos and whistled softly. Dr. Chiang was petite and extremely pretty. She stood at only five feet three inches and one hundred sixteen pounds, but despite her diminutive size, she had incredible poise and charisma. In all but one of the pictures, she wore a serious expression, yet in that one her eyes sparkled with mischief. He carefully studied those eyes, imagining the immense drive and determination she possessed to have accomplished all she had at such a young age. With considerable reluctance, he moved on to the next folder.

The third scientist also held dual doctoral degrees, one in geological science and the other in civil engineering. Vishvajit Bhattacharya was a graduate of the Jadavpur University in Calcutta. Like Dr. Miller, he transitioned from post-doctorate research into a teaching position at his university. He was world renowned for his work in terraforming, creating habitable spaces out of the most extreme and formidable geographic locales. The buildings Hawke observed from the hoverboat carved into the mountains of Puerto Rico were possible as a direct result of his research.

Dr. Bhattacharya was a stern looking man, with a heavy black beard peppered with gray. He appeared tall, if his height could be gauged by his towering over other people in several of the photos. He dressed immaculately, though his suits draped over his gaunt frame. Hawke got the impression he took his work very seriously.

The fourth and final member of the team was an American, David Anthony Lehman. Dr. Lehman had a doctorate in Ocean Engineering from the Florida Atlantic University in New Orlando. His thesis work was in climatology and studying geo-rhythms. He completed his undergraduate work in marine ecosystems at MIT where he also earned a second degree in psychology. His climate-based computer models had set the bar for weather prediction. Employed by NOAA, he was currently conducting studies of the movements of deep, warm water currents in the Pacific and off the coast of Africa to better predict their impacts on the numerous sub-sea cities.

Dr. Lehman was forty-seven years old and sported a mop of curly, auburn hair and a thick, tangled beard. His skin was tan and weathered; there were deep creases around his eyes and the corners of his mouth when he smiled. He looked like the stereotypical scientist you’d see in televised nature documentaries.

Hawke put the dossiers back into the folder and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. This was a lot more studying than he was used to. Normally, he need only review his spaceflight manuals and make sure he was up-to-date on routine and emergency procedures. He decided to pay an impromptu visit to Langolier’s office.

"So what do you think?"

The question hung in the air.

"I’ll know better when I meet them," Hawke answered evasively. "Right now, they’re just words and pictures on cello-paper."

The Admiral guffawed behind his desk. "They’re the best of the best. All of them hand-picked by their peers."

"Well, if you’re so thrilled, why do you care about my opinion?"

"Still pessimistic, eh? You still think there’s some faceless governmental machine operating behind the scenes? I’m giving you my word, Nathan. I was given complete authority from the top office – the President, himself. The last thing they want is for this to turn into another political fiasco. That’s why the research team had to be independently chosen by the academic and scientific sectors."

"What about other international players, like the Chinese and the Republic of India? How about the Europeans? They’re not even represented."

"Well, certainly there’re going to be winners and losers. You can’t please everyone. But let’s face it, the discovery of the M51 planet was made by us, after all."

"So you think the other governments will be content just to sit and wait?"

"Well, I’m sure they’re not happy about it. Probably they’re mad as hell, actually. But at least publicly, they’re taking it pretty well. Why, just this morning I received a class 1-A memo that the Chinese are donating a brand new, state-of-the-art StarCruiser VX-90, Echelon Class, solely for the mission."

"The Echelon Class? That’s not military. It’s a private passenger ship."

The Admiral smiled smugly, pleased he had pushed the right button. "To be more precise, she’s a luxury passenger ship, the kind they reserve for corporate CEOs. The State Department determined the usual military wrecks weren’t suitable considering the high visibility of the mission. She’s a real beauty, too. Have you seen the specs on her? All the bells and whistles you could ask for. Frankly, I’m a little jealous. You’ll be traveling in style. Not like the junk you’re used to flying."

"That seems awfully gracious. And you’re trying to tell me it’s not part of some bilateral agreement to place their own people aboardship?"

The Admiral shook his head adamantly. "Not at all. In fact, they conceded this should be a U.S.-led mission." Hawke didn’t reply, but he accepted the Admiral’s word. "Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like to introduce you to someone." He pressed a button on his desk. "Betty, send her in please."

"Yes, sir," came the receptionist’s laconic reply. The miniature speaker amplified the treble tenor of her already cold voice.

A second later, the door opened and a woman in a neatly pressed uniform entered the office. She had dark hair and dark, penetrating eyes. She stepped in front of the Admiral’s desk and gave a curt salute. Hawke noticed her jaw set very squarely across her face; though not unattractive, it gave her a more masculine appearance.

"Sir." Her voice was deep, almost baritone.

"Major, I want to introduce you to the best pilot I’ve ever trained – Commander Nathaniel Hawke. Commander, meet the Chief of Security for the M51 mission – Major Cameron Bishop."

The two officers shook hands.

"A pleasure, Commander. I’ve read about you, aside from what the Admiral has told me. I look forward to serving with you."

"Likewise, Major. I’m tickled pink."

Major Bishop arched an eyebrow, lips pressed in a firm line that further enhanced the squareness of her jaw.

"Major Bishop’s team was responsible for apprehending the men implicated in the black market military surplus ring."

Hawke whistled. "I caught that story on the news a few weeks ago. Pretty clever the way they covered their tracks, physically and electronically."

"Of course, the media almost caught wind of our operation and ruined the whole investigation."

"Isn’t that what they always do?"

"True. It took us nearly nine months to catch them. We still have a few outstanding international warrants. At least one of the suspects is in hiding on the moon, but I’m confident we’ll get them all. The other governments mixed up in the scandal are cooperating nicely. They’d like nothing more than to sweep the whole thing under the rug."

"I’ll bet. Congratulations on a good piece of detective work."

"Thank you. Since we’re going to be working in very close quarters for the better part of a year, I want to make sure we’re in complete agreement on security protocol. Anything out of the norm should be reported immediately to me or one of my team."

"No sweat."

"Are you always this glib, Commander?"

"Insufferably so," put in Langolier before Hawke could answer.

"I’ve always been particularly fond of clichés, antiquated catch-phrases, that sort of thing," he replied with a grin.

"I’m afraid I don’t share that enthusiasm." She turned to the Admiral. "By your leave, sir, if there is nothing else, I’d like to get back to my duties." The Admiral dismissed her. When she reached the door, however, she looked back over her shoulder. "By the way, Commander, your chrono-ring is almost four minutes slow. You might want to adjust it."

The Admiral chuckled. "She’s quite a piece of work, isn’t she? Doesn’t miss a trick. Can you believe she’s been married for fourteen years? Her husband must be a saint."

"What’s hard to believe? After all, you’ve been married what – thirty-one, thirty-two? In all that time, I’ve never heard you refer to your wife as a saint." The stern multimedia faces on the Admiral’s desk glared at him.

Langolier burst out laughing. "Touché!"

Next Chapter: Chapter 4: Accidents