41
ONE NIGHT'S SLEEP
NSA Headquarters.
The next morning Bill called the NSA team meeting to order. This was not business as usual. There were no jokesters around the coffee machine. No young woman recapping her date from the previous weekend, much less whether the young suitor was likely to call today. No uproarious laughter and high fives between the guys over how their alma mater’s football team, the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets, had narrowly edged the virtually unheard of Georgia Southern Eagles in the remaining three seconds of play the previous day. No, no one on this team had so much as left the building, nor would they. They would not leave until the broken arrow was secured, or worse—a terrorist had detonated the nuclear device.
Sleep was a rare commodity. “The Box,” the square-
