CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
7:30 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time
Headquarters of the Special Response Team
McLean, Virginia
“Ah, hell,” Don Morris said.
The phone hadn’t stopped ringing in the past hour. The front desk receptionist wasn’t in yet, and they were taking more phone calls in one morning than they normally took in a week.
For some reason known only to the office telephone system, the calls were ringing here to Don’s office.
He picked up the latest call on the first go.
“Don Morris,” he said.
“Don, you made a mess in your pants this time,” a male voice said.
“Oh?” Don said. “How so?”
“You’re a cowboy, everybody knows that. And that has its place. But this isn’t the rodeo, old man. This is a team sport. You don’t invade Russia one day, and then two days later stick your knife in the
