"We've heard from COMSUBFORATL," the admiral said, and handed him the message. After he had read it, the admiral continued: "You're going to see the President?"

"Just as soon as I finish the summary," Felter said.

"Then you can give him this," the admiral said.

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

The admiral walked away. Felter sat back down and resumed reading the sheath of Teletype messages in front of him. When he finished he got up from his stenographer's bench and went to a desk occupied by a navy chief officer. He smiled at him and made a gesture with his hand, asking for the chief's chair.

He sat down, pulled open a desk drawer and took from it a sheet of paper. The paper had three lines of type printed at the top.

TOP SECRET (Presidential) Eyes of the President Only Duplication Expressly Forbidden TOP SECRET (Presidential) was repeated at the bottom of the sheet.

Felter rolled the sheet of paper in the IBM electric typewriter and began to type very rapidly. At the top he wrote in the date and the hour and ONE PAGE ONLY. Then beneath that, in short paragraphs, he summarized the intelligence information that had come into the situation room since the last summary at noon. He stopped toward the end of the page in order to decide between an assassination of a Turkish lieutenant general and the recovery of the remains of Lieutenant Commander Edward B. Eaglebury.

The assassination went in. It was the more important of the two items. Then he ripped the sheet of paper from the typewriter and stood up.

"If there's no call for these by 0800, Chief," he said to the chief petty officer, handing him the sheath of Teletype messages, "will you have them shredded, please?"

"Yes, sir," the chief said.

Felter folded the summary in thirds, put it in an envelope, and walked out of the Situation Room. There was a marine guard at a small desk by the elevator. When he saw Felter he opened a drawer, took a Colt.45 pistol from it, and laid it on the desk.

"I'll have to come back for it,"- Felter said. "I'm going upstairs, not out."

"Yes, sir," the marine guard said, and put the pistol back in the drawer.

Felter got in the elevator and rode it to the Presidential Apartments.

"Are you expected, sir?" the Secret Service man in the foyer asked when he stepped off the elevator.

Felter shook his head no.

"Just a moment, sir," the Secret Service man said, and went to the double door at the end of the corridor. He knocked and then opened the door immediately.

"Mr. Felter is here, Mr. President," he said.

Then he turned to Felter and nodded his head to him.

"The President will see you, Mr. Felter."

Felter pushed the door open and went inside. The President was in his rocking chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand. The Attorney General was sitting in an upholstered chair, also with a drink in his hand. There were two nice-looking women sitting in other chairs, each with a drink.

"I hope this is a social call, Sandy," the President said.

"I have the summary, Mr. President," Felter said. "And this."

He handed the President the envelope with the summary. The President took it, read it, and handed it to his brother. Then he took the message from COMSUBFORATL and read that.

The Attorney General laid the summary face up on a table.

"Are you finished with that, Mr. Kennedy?" Felter asked, walking to the table with the evident purpose of reclaiming the summary.

"I will be, Colonel," the Attorney General snapped, "just as soon as I Xerox a copy for the Kremlin." Bobby did not like Colonel Felter probably, the President thought, because they were so much alike.

"Easy, Bobby," the President said almost sharply. He walked to the table and picked up the summary and held it out to Felter.

"Would you like to inform the Eagleburys, Sandy?" the President asked.

"No, sir."

"All right," the President said, noting that the pout had returned to his brother's face. He thought he had asked a simple question and gotten an immediate, direct answer. He understood Felter's directness and his brevity. Bobby thought Felter's brevity was insolent.

"Would you like to represent me at the funeral?" the President asked.

"If I can be spared here, I would be honored, sir."

"Well, you plan on it," the President said. "We'll see how things are going. I imagine Colonel Hanrahan and his people would like to participate."

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

"I'd like to go myself," the President said.

"Jack, you're not going to have the time," the Attorney General said.

"I probably won't," the President agreed. "But set it up anyway, would you, Felter? Very quietly. If I can find the time, I'll go."

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

"And check to see that the navy yard in Philadelphia knows what's going on. I'm sure they'll want to do things right."

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

"Tomorrow will be time enough," the President said. "First thing in the morning. Go home now, Sandy. You've been here all day."

"Yes, sir," Felter said.

"That is not a suggestion, Felter," the President said.

"Yes, sir."

"Good night, Colonel Felter," the President said. "I really don't want to hear myself saying that again."

Felter nodded at the President, turned around, and walked out of the room.

When the door had closed after him, the Attorney General said, "I don't know what you see in that creep, why you put up with him."

"He's bright brighter than you, Bobby." The President chuckled. "You never like people who are brighter than you and who let you know it."

(Three) Headquarters The U.S. Army Special Warfare School Fort Bragg, North Carolina 1000 Hours, 29 November 1961 The sergeant major of the Special Warfare School was a tall, crew cutted muscular master sergeant named E. B. Taylor. The office phone was ringing.

His chief clerk, a younger version of Taylor, a staff sergeant, took the call, then rapped his desk with his knuckles twice, the signal the call was for the sergeant major.

"Sergeant Major," Taylor said.

"I have a collect call for anyone from Lieutenant Thomas Ellis," the operator said. "Will you accept the charges?"

"Put him through, Operator," Taylor said with a smile and a gesture that the clerk should listen in. When Ellis came on the line, Taylor's voice became oily with mock humility: "Yes, sir, Lieutenant Ellis, sir. How may I be of service to the lieutenant this morning, sir?"

"I'm in Philadelphia," Ellis said.

"Good for you, sir!" Taylor said. "I'm sure the colonel will be thrilled to hear that, sir! How nice of you to call and tell us, sir!"

"You better ask the colonel if he'll talk to me," Ellis said.

"Oh, I'm sure the colonel will be delighted to talk to you, Lieutenant, sir," Taylor said. "Just one moment, please, sir."

He took the telephone from his ear with his right hand. covering the mouthpiece as he did so. He pushed the intercom switch with his left.

I.

"Colonel, Ellis is on the horn, collect. He sounds like a lost soul."

"From Philadelphia?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ellis," Colonel Paul T. Hanrahan demanded, falling easily into Taylor's game, "who told you you could go to Philadelphia?"

There was no reply, and disappointing Sergeant Major Taylor, Colonel Hanrahan took pity on his young lieutenant. "It's okay, Ellis," Hanrahan said, changing his tone. "Colonel Felter called last night and explained the situation. Everything going all right so far?"

"The navy's taken over," Ellis said. "They put him in a casket on the sub, and then they had a little ceremony when they took him off. His father and his sister were on the dock. That was a little rough. Anyway, they're going to bury him tomorrow. I'd really like to stick around for that, and the sister asked me if I could, but I don't have any clothes or uniforms, and "

"If someone Sergeant Major Taylor, for example were to go to your room in the BOQ, do you think he could find enough clothes for you to wear? Or is it the garbage dump rumor has it?"

"Yes, sir," Ellis said. "There's greens and blues in the closet. But how would you get it here, sir?"

"We're coming up there this afternoon. Colonel MacMillan, Major MacMillan, Major Parker, Mr. Wojinski, and me. We'll bring it with us. You go get us hotel rooms."

"What hotel, sir?" Ellis asked.

Good question, Colonel Hanrahan thought. One he hadn't thought of. He needed an answer right now too.

"The Bellevue Stratford," he said. It was the only Phihdelphia hotel whose name he could call to mind. It was famous and therefore probably expensive as hell, but it was an answer. "If you can't get us put up there, leave word there where you are. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Ellis said. "The Bellevue Stratford."

"We'll see you later today," Hanrahan said. "Try to stay out of poker games." He hung up and pursed his mouth as if to whistle. He didn't have to. Sergeant Major Taylor was standing in the office door.

"You were on the horn?" Hanrahan asked.

"The lieutenant's luggage, containing a green uniform and a dress blue uniform, complete to his medal, the Good Conduct Medal, is in my office, Colonel."

(Four) Skeet and Trap Range Fort Rucker, Alabama 1130 Hours, 29 November 1961 Colonel Jack Martinelli was a good shot, and he took his skeet shooting seriously. He had a matched set of Diana Grade Browning over-and-under shotguns, the stocks of which had been fitted for him at the Fabrique Nationale des Ames de Ia Guerre at Liege, Belgium. The set consisted of two actions and stocks, and four barrels and forearms. The 12and 20bores fitted one action and stock, and the 28-bore and.410 gauge the second.

Today, Colonel Martinelli was shooting the 28-bore against an opponent worthy of the effort. He would have preferred to be shooting the.410 gauge, the expert's weapon, but his opponent, Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell, did not own a4 10. Lowell was firing a side-by-side 28-bore Hans Schroeder shotgun, which had been made for him in the small Austrian village of Ferlach.

Colonel Martinelli, who knew about guns, was aware that the Schroeder was worth more than his entire matched set of Diana Grade Brownings. He was also aware that it was not really a skeet gun. In his skilled judgment, not only were side by-sides less suitable for skeet shooting than over-and-unders, but Lowell had had the gun bored modified and improved modified, because it was a hunting gun. A skeet gun is supposed to be bored skeet and skeet.

Lieutenant Colonel Lowell was thus firing the wrong type of shotgun with inappropriate tubes, a double handicap. Despite that, he was beating Colonel Martinelli, and rather badly. Colonel Martinelli was a large, stocky man with dark hair and a somewhat swarthy complexion, which darkened even more every time he missed. Lieutenant Colonel Lowell was a large man, lithe, blond, and mustachioed. His friends called him the Duke.

Over their civilian clothing, brightly colored slacks and knit sports shirts (the sort of clothing normally worn on golf courses), both officers wore sleeveless skeet vests. Colonel Martinelli's was festooned with insignia testifying to his membership in the National Skeet Shooting Association, his life membership in the National Rifle Association, his certification as a shotgun instructor, as a Distinguished Shotgun Marksman, and as someone who had broken without a miss 25, 50, 75, 100, 150, and 200 clay targets in a row.

Lowell's vest bore only his NRA Life Member Patch and a small embroidered Combat Infantry Badge. It was technically against regulations to wear an issue qualification badge like that, and as he stepped to Station 1, beneath the High House, Colonel Martinelli remembered with some annoyance that Lowell had once said that the Combat Infantry Badge was the only marksmanship badge that meant anything. marksmanship against targets that were shooting back being inarguably more difficult than shooting at defenseless clay pigeons.

Colonel Martinelli was Artillery, and he had heard more than his fair share of rounds fired in anger, but unlike Infantry, Armor, and the Medics, artillerymen had no badge that announced that fact to the world. Colonel Martinelli did not know exactly why that was, but it bothered him.

"Concentrate, Jack," Lieutenant Colonel Lowell offered helpfully. "Keep your cheek on the stock."

The sonofabitch is doing that to psych me, Colonel Martinelli decided with absolute accuracy. He glowered at Lowell.

"Your shooting is a little off," Lieutenant Colonel Lowell said understandingly, sympathetically. "Maybe you're trying too hard, Jack. Think of flowing water or something."

"Thank you," Colonel Martinelli said, forcing a smile onto his face.

He pretended to examine the action of the Browning, to give his temper a moment or so to cool down.

"Something wrong with the gun?" Lieutenant Colonel Lowell asked with concern.

"I think there's a pellet in there somewhere," Martinelli said.

"Need some helpr Lowell asked.

"I think it's all right now, thank you," Martinelli said. You're a wise-ass, Lowell. You antagonize people. Your fucking everything in a skirt isn't the only reason you were a major so long.

Lieutenant Colonel Lowell had been both one of the youngest majors in the army and, until he had finally been promoted, one of the most senior. He was, Martinelli thought, one of the brightest officers he had ever known, and if Major General Paul Jiggs, the post commander, was to be believed an absolutely superb combat commander. But his career had alternated periods of outstanding service with episodes of outstanding stupidity. Perhaps he was so rich that consistency did not matter to him. At any rate, he had been teetering at the edge of involuntary separation, having been twice passed over for promotion, when his promotion to light bird came through. And it was the White House, not the Pentagon, that sent that promotion to the Senate for confirmation, the Pentagon then being more than indifferent to the continuation of then Major Lowell's army career.

After Lowell's admittedly gallant and courageous rescue of Felter and a number of others during the Bay of Pigs catastrophe, General E. Z. Black, Commander in Chief, Pacific, had written the President, personally urging that Lowell be promoted and retained. The President, who had a soft spot in his heart for brave and brilliant eccentrics, complied, and Lowell's career was saved yet one more time. Lowell had his defenders, such as generals Black and Jiggs and even Jack Martinelli, as well as his detractors.

But at times like this, Craig Lowell, Jack Martinelli fumed, was a flaming pain in the ass.

Martinelli seated two shells in his Browning, snapped the action shut, and checked to see the safety was off. He loaded his own ammunition, since he was convinced that he made better shot shells than he could buy; but today that was doing him no good. And yet, why everything was going wrong was beyond him. Maybe he had gotten oil on the primers, or the powder had absorbed moisture, or some other disaster, like the safety being on, had caused him to miss. Breaking these targets, with Lowell on his back, was very important, bat they just were not breaking.

He touched the butt of his shotgun to his hip.

"Pull!"

Behind him the referee, the master sergeant in charge of the range, pressed a button on a handheld control. An electrical impulse was sent to both houses, and solenoids on the target throwers in the high house and low house were simultaneously activated, releasing powerful springs that threw the targets into the air.