The Bin Laden Plot

A private meeting with Wilson had been arranged, avoiding the sensitive nature of awarding the submarine’s Captain, but not each crew member whose support was vital, the CIA medal. For the Navy’s part, however, each member of Michigan’s BLUE crew was being recognized with a Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation. Wilson was unaware, however, of the pending CIA honor.

Wilson rose from his desk to greet Christine, then gestured to a small table as he closed his stateroom door.

They engaged in small talk, eventually segueing to Michigan’s mission in the Persian Gulf and the crew’s excellent performance. They had sunk the merchant while preventing the inadvertent attack against all four Russian surface warships, which would have compounded the problem created when Jimmy Carter sank the Russian submarine.

Now that the subject had turned to Michigan sinking the merchant ship, Christine reached into her satchel and retrieved a palm-sized medal case, which she placed on the table along with a certificate folder.

“I believe standing at attention during an award presentation is proper protocol.”

Wilson eyed the contents on the table, then smiled. “It is.”

Both rose from their seats, then Christine opened the folder and read the citation, handing it to Wilson afterward. The CIA Intelligence Star was one in a group of medals referred to within the agency as jock strap medals, since they were often awarded secretly due to the classified nature of the respective operation and subsequently couldn’t be displayed or even acknowledged publicly. In Wilson’s case, however, the medal could be worn proudly with his others, since his involvement in sinking the merchant ship carrying the gas centrifuges was public knowledge.

Christine opened the small case and retrieved the medal, then pinned it to Wilson’s uniform as was customary in the Navy. She congratulated Wilson, but instead of shaking his hand, she gave him a hug. They had been through a lot together, and Wilson had come through for her every time.

* * *

Christine bade Wilson farewell and was escorted from the submarine, climbing topside as twilight began creeping across the Pacific Northwest. As she approached her SUV, her thoughts turned to Khalila.

How to handle her would be a delicate matter. Part of that management involved Jake Harrison, whom she had arranged to meet later today at his house in Silverdale, not far away. Inside her satchel was another folder, this one containing a nondisclosure agreement involving Khalila’s true identity; Harrison’s agreement was the only one outstanding.

Mixell’s trail had gone cold, and Harrison had headed home for a week to spend time with Angie and Maddy. Although Christine sensed tension in Angie’s presence, she looked forward to seeing Maddy, checking up on how her back flips on the beam were going and how she had done at the gymnastics meet a few weeks earlier.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Harrison.

74 SILVERDALE, WASHINGTON

Harrison picked up his cell phone, answering the call he’d been expecting.

“Hi, Jake. This is Chris,” the voice said. “I’ve finished up at the naval base and I’m on my way over. Sorry about running late.”

“Not a problem,” Harrison replied. He glanced at his watch. Angie was about to start cooking. “What are your dinner plans?”

Angie must have heard him answer his phone and had joined him in the living room. When he asked Christine about dinner plans, Angie caught his attention, mouthing the word no as she waved him off with her arms.

“Just a second,” Harrison said before Christine replied.

After he put the call on mute, Angie spoke first. “I thought she was just bringing some paperwork for you to sign.”

“She’s running late, and it’s almost dinnertime. She could join us.”

Angie frowned. “We’ve only got two sirloin steaks in the fridge.”

“I could run out and pick up another one.”

Angie had her hands on her hips, unmoved by his offer.

“She’s my boss,” Harrison said. “Plus, the time together will help you realize that we’re just friends now, nothing more.”

Angie hesitated a moment, then acquiesced. “All right. But pick up better steaks. New York Strip. Make it filet mignon. And a bottle of wine. Whatever kind she likes best.”

He took the phone off mute. “Hey, Chris. We’d like you to join us for dinner if you have time.”

There was a short silence on the line before she replied, “Thanks for the invitation, and I accept. I’ll arrive a few minutes later, though. I’ll need to stop somewhere to pick up food for my protective agents.”

“Sounds good,” Harrison replied. “See you in a bit.”

Harrison hung up as he grabbed his car keys from the foyer table.

“I should be back in thirty minutes.”

* * *