Burning the Apostle

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Who stayed for all these adventures.

Lori.

It was another bad morning in the Pentagon. A sudden power surge in the electrical subbasement had shut down every computer in this part of the building, which was a series of wood-paneled corridors leading off C ring. It had rained hard during the night and the roof had leaked again and a storeroom full of computer printouts that contained analysis of the Mediterranean terrorist threat for the coming fiscal year was ruined when the ceiling collapsed.

At least G2 hadn’t screwed up. There was that.

Brig. Gen. Robert E. Lee was very angry as usual, and if G2 had not sent down the videotape cartridge when it did, he would have gone up there and chewed ass, and it would not have been about the videotape but the problem of trying to direct an intelligence operation in a building that should have been condemned thirty years ago.

General Lee wore no insignia of rank on his black pullover sweater. The empty satin epaulets attested to his power. He didn’t have to prove a damned thing.

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