“…nobody ever, ever… calls an auditor weak again.”
*CLICK-CLACK.*
The two federal marshals hauled Daniel Whitaker and Patricia Whitaker to their feet by their armpits, marching them down the center aisle of Courtroom 4B in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored transport BearCats waiting on Farnam Street:
*SCREEECH.*
The heavy double oak doors of the courtroom closed behind them with an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic *THUD*.
The room returned to silence.
The only sound left was the hum of the air-scrubbers and the steady, rhythmic *tack… tack… tack* of my father’s chronometer watch on Colonel Carter’s wrist.
CHAPTER 6: PROLOGUE TO PART 3: THE SECRET IN CONDUIT TEN
`14:45:12 CST.`
The high-dependency VIP suite inside the Ehrling Bergquist Strategic Hospital at Offutt Air Force Base was completely quiet.
Outside, through the reinforced, triple-paned ballistic acrylic windows, the sweeping, snow-dusted concrete aprons of the SAC runway stretched toward the horizon, where two **Boeing E-4B “Nightwatch” National Airborne Operations Center** aircraft sat on alert, their four turbofan engines idling in a low, continuous sixty-cycle growl: *whirrr-clank… whirrr-clank.*
