Monday, September 12, 1:00 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“Widen it out a bit,” Evie Cline commanded a grumpy Gooey.

Gooey always loved an audience, particularly when he was about to do something really cool. But he didn’t appreciate—or desire, or need—any help from the peanut gallery.

A brilliant analyst with satellite and surveillance, he was the oddest of the odd ducks that worked in the RoU (Room of Understanding—a name Evie had determined was less confrontational than War Room) of the counterterrorism division’s Special Operations Group Bravo. Crowded around his desk chair were the other analysts of SOG Bravo: Evie Cline, Joey Williamson, and Virgil Hernandez.

“A little bit more,” Evie continued, reaching her hand for his mouse. “Come on, just a little bit—”

“Would you shut up?” Gooey said, blocking her with his shoulder. “It’s not like this is my first rodeo.”

“Bzzzz,” Hernandez called out, giving Gooey two slugs in the arm. “Pay up!”

Recently, the team had put out a tired cliché jar, labeled with the phrase “Oh No You Di’int,” right next to their curse jar, which bore the label “You Kiss Your Mama with That Mouth?” The sanction for minor infractions like “keeping it real” and “staying on the cutting edge” was one dollar. However, if you stooped to uttering especially heinous phrases such as “noodling it out,” “don’t go there,” and “What up?” (particularly if combined with the word dog), the price started at two dollars and went up from there. So far the highest fine was four dollars paid by Scott Ross when he gratuitously added a delayed “Not!” to the end of a sentence.

“Dude, I’m busy,” Gooey said. He nodded toward a corner of his desk where sat a Velcro flip wallet that was possibly once yellow but was now some other sort of noncolor. “Just take it out.”

“I’m not touching that,” Hernandez countered as he poked at it with a pencil. “I don’t want my fingers smelling like gravy or pork rinds or some other rancid food item for the rest of the day.”

“Then shut up and let me work.”

Evie, Hernandez, and Williamson all shared a look.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sounds like somebody got up on the wrong side of the sty today,” Evie said disapprovingly.

Gooey spun around. “Listen, guys, I’m trying to get something done, something you three apparently aren’t capable of since you’re spending all this time over here! So if you’re going to hang out over my shoulder, breathing down my neck, I’d appreciate it if you’d maybe shut up so that I can get some work done! What do you think? Would that be okay with you?”

The three analysts stared at him—shock and anger on their faces. Gooey could certainly be temperamental at times. But very rarely did he stoop to this kind of disrespectful outburst.

Then Gooey’s face broke into a wide grin. “Aughhhh, I got you! What a bunch of suckers, making it that easy! Go on, pay up!”

Voicing their respect, the trio walked over to the last of the three jars—the gullible jar. On its label stood Bugs Bunny holding a carrot like a cigar. A voice bubble above his head read, “What a maroon!” They each dropped in a five-dollar bill. These infractions cost the most; being gullible was thought by the analysts to be the worst of all crimes.

Swiveling back around, Gooey seized the mouse and continued his work. The gang crowded around him.

“Okay, there he is,” Gooey said, zeroing the screen in. “He looks like he’s alone.”

“All the better to minimize the collateral damage. Don’t want more people mad at you than is necessary,” Williamson pointed out.

“Wor—exactly,” Gooey agreed, catching himself before he was out another two bucks.

“What are you using to take him out?” Evie asked. She was leaning in so she could better see their target.

“Come on, you know me. I’m going to drop the hammer on him.”

“The big hammer?”

“Is there another?” Gooey took a big breath, laced his fingers, popped his knuckles, and exhaled. “Okay, guys, here goes!”

From the right of the screen, an avatar that looked somewhat like Gooey—except he was thin, sported a neon green mohawk and warpaint, and was dressed only in a loincloth—dropped to the forest ground. In his right hand he held a war hammer that was twice his own size. Before the other avatar on the screen had a chance to react, the hammer came down with a deep thump, flattening it. A message came up: kissmedownunder has been destroyed by epluribusgoonum.

Cheers went up all around Gooey, as he muttered, “Take that, you Australian wallaby lover. I hope a dingo eats your baby.”

A chant of “USA, USA, USA” echoed through the small room.

Scott, hearing the celebration, came walking out of his office. “Who was it this time?”

“Kissmedownunder,” Gooey answered proudly.

Scott stopped. A look of appreciation spread across his face. “You’ve been after him for weeks. Congratulations, Gooster. Now, how about you all join me around the table. Break time’s over.”

Sounding an obligatory “Awwww,” they all quickly obeyed. Even though they looked and acted like a bunch of National Mall buskers, they were still some of the best counterterrorism analysts in the country. They loved to mess around, but they took their jobs seriously. The knowledge that their successes and failures meant the saving or losing of people’s lives constantly weighed on them. Thus the hard work and long hours to get the job done and the regular bouts of obnoxious stupidity to keep themselves sane.

Scott looked around the table at his team and wondered where to begin. This was his first time back into the office since the shooting on Saturday. His desk was piled with paperwork that needed to be filled out and reports that needed to be filed regarding the incident. However, even with all the muckety-mucks wanting fast answers, he still had managed to buy himself a day at home with a quick call to Secretary Porter.

But now he was back. It was game time again.

“Anything I need to know before we begin?” Scott asked, as he titled a yellow legal pad sheet Staff Meeting: September 12—SR, EC, JW, VH, G.

“Just that we’re glad you’re okay,” Evie said, getting up and opening her arms to give Scott a hug.

Okay, this is a little weird, Scott, who had never been much of a hugger, thought, but how do you say, “No, please don’t hug me”? He put his pen down, stood up, and put his arms out for Evie. But just before they connected, she leaned back and punched him hard on his chest, right on top of the bruise.

“Evie! Holy mother of St. Lucius!” he cried out, doubling over, then falling back into his chair. Times were tight for the Ross family now that James had been born and Tara wasn’t working. Every dollar of fine he paid was a dollar of food snatched from his baby’s mouth, a fact Scott tried to keep in mind even as he rode the tide of pain that flowed through his body. “Ohhhh, tie me kangaroo down, sport! Crap biscuit, crap biscuit, crap biscuit!”

Evie showed no pity while she watched Scott try to ease back to normalcy. Meanwhile, the other three guys were in a debate as to whether crap biscuit, though not an actual swear word, was still worth fifty cents in the jar per usage.

“What was that for?” Scott finally croaked out.

“For getting yourself shot, Señor Stupido,” Evie said, the rest of the gang drawn back in now. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got Tara to think of now. And even more than that, you’ve got James. I’m not going to let my godson go through life without his dad!”

“You’re not his godmother,” Scott pointed out.

“Yeah, whatever—maybe not in your eyes.”

“Whose else’s eyes count?”

“‘Whose else’s’?” Hernandez asked, looking at Williamson, who just shrugged in return.

“Listen,” Evie said, refusing to let go of her point. “All we’re saying is that it’s not just all about you anymore. You’ve got to start thinking about your family.”

Scott tested his chest with a light touch, then quickly pulled his hand away. “I appreciate what you all are saying. I got the same speech from Tara last night. Trust me, I don’t have a death wish. It’s just that sometimes out on the field, things happen.”

Evie started to say something, but Scott cut her off. “However, that being said, I do promise to try my best to avoid all rapidly flying lead if I can help it. Deal?”

They all nodded their heads skeptically.

“Good. Now, barring any other unnecessary acts of violence, update me on Oklahoma City.”

Hernandez answered. “Looks like sixteen casualties with nine dead, including four cops and the shooter.”

“And a Good Sam,” Evie added. “Guy was lunging for the bad guy when he got in the way of a round from a plainclothes officer behind him. Let’s see how the media blows that out of proportion.”

“So that’s four attacks in less than two weeks. What are we missing?”

Williamson jumped in to answer. “Part of our problem is that they’re not using traditional lines of communication. Since all of our perps are American, none of the noise is coming from outside the country. Everything is in-house, so to speak.”

“Plus, they’ve created their own language, almost,” Hernandez added. “There’s a terrorist-speak that is very Americanized. They understand it, but to us, it just blends in with everything else.”

“You’re saying there’s nothing that our COMINT resources are programmed to intercept,” Scott asked.

“Bingo. Now the one thing that we have going for us is Malik Abdul-Tawwab. Out of his interrogations, we’ve been getting some trigger words. Unfortunately, they’re fairly common phrases.”

“Phrases that tie in perfectly with their new preferred methods of communications—texting and social networking sites,” Evie said, completing Hernandez’s thought. She slid a paper she had been writing on to Scott. “These guys are smart and they’re savvy. Take a look at that message.”

Scott read it over: rofl! ur such a sweet<3! ilu bff! He slid the paper back. “Text speak! Can’t stand the stuff. What does it say?”

Without looking at the message, Evie translated, “‘Rolling on floor laughing! You are such a sweetheart! I love you, best friends forever!’ This was the last message Abdur-Razzaq received on his cell phone prior to his attempt on the National Mall. Abdul-Tawwab has already confirmed that the ‘ilu bff’ was the final go-ahead for the mission. He thinks the middle part may have something to do with the problem with the vest, but he wasn’t in the communications side that deeply.”

“All that to say, you can see our problem,” Williamson said. “This text could be sent from one twelve-year-old girl to another twelve-year-old girl a thousand times a day across the country. There’s no way for us to filter them out. And as far as social networking sites, they’re potentially on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Classmates, even MySpace—although they may be the last people in America actually using that particular forum.”

“Okay, you’ve given me the problems,” Scott said, scribbling some more notes on his legal pad. “How about some solutions before we have another punk bin Laden wannabe blow up the St. Louis Arch?”

“Abdul-live and Abdur-dead are the keys,” Gooey said. He scratched something off his front tooth, looked at it, then sucked it off his finger before continuing. “They’re linked. I’ve got the hard drive from the stoolie’s computer here in-house. I was able to hack and upload sniper-bait’s hard drive before those donks in the FBI snagged it out of his apartment.”

“Sniper-bait?” Evie asked. Williamson pretended to take two shots at Hernandez, who in turn lifted his hand off the back of his head.

“Ahhh,” Evie said with a nod.

Gooey plowed on. “What we’re doing is tracking down every connection they’ve got on their networking sites, then, in turn, following those relationships out. Any ‘friend’ or ‘buddy’ or ‘classmate’ where the networking profiles don’t match the rest of the computer’s activity will be flagged for us to check out.”

“Do you realize how deep that could get?” Scott asked, tossing his pen down. “Think how many computers are out there with teenage girls spending their afternoons on them messaging their friends, while the girls’ dads spend their nights surfing for pictures of naked cat jugglers. It’s just not practical.”

A big grin spread across Gooey’s fleshy face. “Have faith, my friend. As my confirmation teacher used to say, ‘With Goo, all things are practical.’”

“Confirmation? You?” Hernandez said, giving voice to the surprise that was on everyone’s faces.

“You betcha! Signed, sealed, and just waiting to be delivered! Can I get a witness?”

“Why do I have a feeling St. Peter isn’t going to be signing for that delivery at the pearly gates?” Williamson said.

“Okay, guys, reel it back in,” Scott said, knowing he had about ninety more seconds of their attention span before all was lost. “If this is what we’ve got, then this is what we’ve got.”

“Profound,” Evie said. The others nodded appreciatively.

Scott stood. “What I mean is, keep running this lead. Right now, it’s the best we have. But don’t get locked in. This is a whole new paradigm we’re operating in. The rules are different, and the only thing we know is that we don’t know what we don’t know.”

Two Evie Cline punches on the arm later, Scott pulled out his wallet, dropped two dollars into the “Oh No, You Di’int” jar, and grumbled his way back to his office.