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programs have pointed out enough facial landmarks to identify at least two of these people,” she told him. Her manner remained stiff and edgy, which was consistent with her usual demeanor.
    “The first image--the one at the main guardhouse--is that of Naji Mihran.”
    The president looked up. “Arab?”
    She gave a shrug. “Yes and no."
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Mr. Mihran is of Arab heritage, although American-born with strong fundamentalist beliefs. But he was also a member of our military, serving as an Army Ranger prior to his going AWOL sixteen months ago.”
    He held up the photo. “Are you telling me that he’s one of ours ?”
    “Was, Mr. President. Was.”
    “So now we’re unwittingly training terrorists within our own military system, is that it?”
    Carmichael's Chief Advisor spoke up for the first time since the meeting began. “As you know, Mr. President, our armed forces currently employ somewhere between fifteen to twenty thousand self-reported Muslims. We have long speculated that al-Qaeda and other groups may have patiently infiltrated the various military branches in order to fight the enemy from within. If that's true in this case, then unfortunately this action may be the tip of the spear for what’s to come.”
    The president shot his Advisor a withering stare. “Am I to understand that this is some kind of internal military insurrection?”
    “Right now, Mr. President, we’re simply saying that these men have been trained by our own military, which gives them some level of sophistication.”
    “But it appears that Mihran is a secondary player in this.” Rimaldi crossed one leg over the other, subtly showing off her fine contours. “He was left to secure the front gate while the man in the subsequent photo—” The president lay down the black-and-white of Naji Mihran and focused on the lean and angular face of a man presumably in charge “—seems to be the one captaining his team from start to finish.”
    “He’s the one we have to worry about,” said the attorney general. Steven Cayne was a diminutive man, small and slender at the shoulders, someone with a Napoleon complex who exhibited the weight of his authority as if it was Thor’s hammer. To cross him invited a scorn so relentless that it would break a man down to his husk, his opponent eventually waving the white flag of defeat while Cayne puffed his chest in glorious victory. Even Carmichael knew his limits against his attorney general, as small as he was. To love him as a god, however, garnered his loyalty.
    The president stared at the photo. “Who is this?”
    Cayne's voice dripped with disdain. “His name is Aasif Shazad."
    Rimaldi nodded, running with the ball. “Sixteen years of impeccable service, highly decorated and respected soldier, until he disappeared just over two years ago from the JBAB.”
    “He was stationed there?”
    “He was. So when he did this thing he knew exactly what to expect. He led his team directly to Hanger 17 and commandeered the drones. He knew what he wanted, where they were-- knew the layout of the facility and the locations of the responding teams. He secured the front gates with Naji Mihran and his unit, breached the hanger, and sent forward a truck with an undetermined amount of explosives--probably plastic explosives-- to neutralize the threat of the first response team located at the barracks.”
    “Casualties?”
    “Twenty-two dead from the barracks.”
    The president shook his head in abject disgust.
    “The explosion at the barracks, Mr. President,” stated Cayne, “created a diversion for all responding units to gravitate to that particular point. A second unit of eight soldiers from the Motor Pool responded, but they were intercepted by a second attack truck that killed everyone involved.” There was a pause as the attorney general allowed this to sink in. Then: “By the time additional support arrived, Mr. President, Shazad and his team were gone. They