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"I think he can."
"I'd like to know how."
Pitt stood and stretched. "I'm going to take a little walk."
"You didn't answer my question." Gunn was anxious now, impatient.
Pitt swayed and balanced his body with the rock of the ship and looked down at Gunn with a half grin. "If I were him," he said as if talking about a man he knew well, "I'd make the ship disappear a second time."
Gunn's mouth dropped open as Giordino gave him an "I told you so" look.
But before he could probe further, Pitt had exited the dining room.
Pitt made his way aft and dropped down a ladder to the moon pool. He walked around the Deep Rover and stopped in front of the large roll of plastic sheeting they had pulled up from the bottom. It stood on end nearly as tall as Pitt and was secured by ropes against a stanchion.
He stared at it for nearly five minutes before he rose and patted it with one hand. Intuition, an intuition that grew into a certainty, put a look that could be best described as pure Machiavellian in his eyes.
He spoke a single word, uttered under his breath so softly that an engineer standing only a few meters away at a workbench didn't hear him.
"Gotcha!"
A flood of information on what became known as the Flamborough crisis poured through teletype and computer into the Pentagon's Military Command Center, the State Department's seventh floor Operations Center, and the War Games room in the old Executive Office Building.
from each of these strategy tanks, the data were assembled and analyzed with almost lightning speed. Then the condensed version, fused with recommendations, was rushed to the Situation Room located in the White House basement for final assessment.
The President, dressed casually in slacks and a woolen turtleneck, ent
ered the room and sat at one end of the long conference table. After being updated on the situation, he would ask for options from his advisers for appropriate action. Though final decisions were his alone, he was heavily reinforced by crisis-management veterans who labored in search of a policy consensus and stood ready to carry it out once he gave it his stamp of approval despite dissenting opinions.
The intelligence reports from Egypt were mostly all bad. A state of anarrhy was in full swing; the situation was deteriorating by the hour.
The police and military forces remained in their barracks while thousands of Akhmad Yazid's followers staged strikes and boycotts throughout the country. The only shred of good news was that the demonstrations were not marked by violence.
Secretary of State Douglas Oates briefly examined a report that was placed in front of him by an aide. "That's all we need," he muttered.
The President looked at him expectantly in silence.
"The Muslim rebels have just stormed and taken Cairo's major TV
station."
"A-ny appearance by Yazid?"
"Still a no-show." CIA chief Brogan walked over from one of the computer monitors. "The latest intelligence says he's still holed up in his villa outside Alexandria, waiting to form a new government by acclamation."
"Shouldn't be long now." The President sighed wearily. "What stance are the Israeli ministers taking?"
Oates neatly stacked some papers as he spoke. "Strictly a wait-and-see attitude. They don't picture Yazid as an immediate threat."
"They'll change their tune when he tears up the Camp David Peace Accord." The President turned and coldly stared into Brogan's eyes. "Can we take him out?"
"Yes."
Brogan's answer was flat, emphatic.
"How?"
"In the event it comes back to haunt your administration, Mr.
