"We're laying an operation on.  Ryan is flying out to the Kennedy with Charlie Davenport to brief the fleet commanders on this October business.  The president bought it."

"Guess so.  Greer left for Andrews just before you pulled in.  Ryan gets to fly out, eh?"

"Yes.  Jack, the rule is this:  you can brief the fleet commander and Davenport, that's all.  Same for the Brits, just the boss-sailor.  If Bob can confirm WILLOW, the data can be spread out, but only as much as is absolutely necessary.  Clear?"

"Yes, sir.  I suppose somebody has told the president that it's hard to accomplish anything if nobody knows what the hell is going on.  Especially the guys who're doing the work."

"I know what you're saying, Jack.  We have to change the president's mind on that.  We will, but until we do, remember—he is the boss.  Bob, we'll need to rustle something up so he'll fit in."

"Naval officer's uniform?  Let's make him a commander, three stripes, usual ribbons."  Ritter looked Ryan over.  "Say a forty-two long.  We can have him outfitted in an hour, I expect.  This operation have a name?"

"That's next."  Moore lifted his phone again and tapped in five numbers.  "I need two words—Uh-huh, thank you."  He wrote a few things down.  "Okay, gentlemen, you're calling this Operation MANDOLIN.  You, Ryan, are Magi.  Ought to be easy to remember, given the time of year.  We'll work up a series of code words based on those while you're being fitted.  Bob, take him down there yourself.  I'll call Davenport and have him arrange the flight."

Ryan followed Ritter to the elevator.  It was going too fast, everyone was being too clever, he thought.  This Operation MANDOLIN was racing forward before they knew what the hell they were going to do, much less how.  And the choice of his code name struck Ryan as singularly inappropriate.  He wasn't anyone's wise man.  The name should have been something more like "Halloween."

THE SEVENTH DAY

THURSDAY 9, DECEMBER

The North Atlantic