Admiral Turner, New York’s director of Naval Intelligence, sat at his desk holding a dice cup in his hand. The portable radio on the windowsill was tuned to the “All Lawrence Welk” station, and soothing popular favorites tinkled in the air like floating soap bubbles.
The old admiral slammed the cup down to roll the six poker dice again and stared at the results. “Oh, blast and damn!”
As he moved, his gold braid, campaign ribbons and polished medals jingled above his stiff uniform. His steel-gray hair poked up, close cropped and bristly; his skin had the worn, old-leather look of a man who had spent his life facing the salt air of the sea … or just from using too harsh a brand of after-shave.
After knocking briskly, Tom Smith marched in and stood at the side of the desk, waiting until hi
