21
TWENTY-THREE FEET OF SIGNIFICANCE
NSA Headquarters. October 16, 9:21 a.m. EST.
Inside the NSA, the minutes turned to hours.
“Team two,” Uncle Bill said, rubbing his neck, “you have the crew manifest from the Simbirsk yet? Come on guys, I know you’re exhausted and this is a wild goose chase, but we’ve got to track down every angle, no matter how unlikely. I want that crew roster, and I want background information on all Pakistani naval personnel on board. If an explosion happened inside that boat, we’ve got to find out if there’s any reason to believe it was intentional.”
“I’m trying to access the roster now, sir,” a female analyst with bloodshot eyes said.
Bill again rubbed the tightening ropes building in his neck.
“Sir?” Knuckles said. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s something
