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would make, Anna thought, her hand automatically reaching for her absent camera case. But every time she took photos now, all she could see in the lens was the black shape of the submarine, the brilliant flash of the missile. Unbidden, her father's voice echoed in her mind, intoning the text from Ecclesiastes 3:15, admonishing her not to rail against fate: "That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been; and God requireth that which is past." |
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Avery Peters leaned back against the cushions of the pilot's chair and lit a cigarette. "I was a kid in Laos when we bugged out on the Meo. Johnson Administration. I was in Saigon when we scrambled on the helicopters and left the South Viets to the Communists. Nixon Administration. Iweleft the Gulf without a backward look. To whomever can hold it. Bush Administration. What's a few hundred thousand Kurds, right? That's the way it has to be, Morgan. Get involvedbut when it's time to bug out, don't look back." He made a small adjustment to the autopilot and throttles. The altimeter stood at 20,000 feet, the gyrocompass at 73 degrees. The radar distance indicator showed that the 310 had already covered 300 of the 2,400 miles between Half Moon Bay and Washington National. |
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Morgan, in the right-hand seat, stretched out his legs and looked at the darkness beyond the windshield. Ave was doing something few would attempt. He was offering Morgan advice. And he was talking about Anna Neville. |
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"You may work for Kellner," Peters said, "but you're in the spook business. It's safest to keep personal relations to a minimum. That way if the Caidin Administration says we walk away from this, you can follow orders." |
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"I don't think so, Ave," Morgan said quietly. "Not this time." |
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Morgan grinned. "It wouldn't be the first time." |
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"How much does Ryerson know?" |
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