Perhaps more importantly, Lt Marlow’s career depended on it. His other analytical pieces had been in endless loops of internal editing. Mostly this consisted of quibbling as to who discovered what, when and so forth — credit for new ideas, no matter how inconsequential, had to be shared upward from the Suitland trenches with the established doyennes of flag and senior civilian intelligence ranks. Drafts went back and forth — first in Suitland and then with the Director of Naval Intelligence’s staff in the Pentagon and then back to Suitland. Lather, rinse repeat for over eighteen months. Originally, his pieces had been fast-track projects meant to hit the streets quickly. Marlow laughed out loud whenever he recalled the endless happy-to-glad, value added sessions he was forced to endure with the Suitland and Pentagon grey heads. The last of those clusters was more than twelve months ago, and now he was no longer sure what exactly any of them said.

DILLIGAF had become his silent motto.

A JO’s SUitland motto

In the meantime whenever the mood struck him, he redrafted, added, subtracted, recast, refocused, re-graphic’d, re-bulleted. highlighted, and sent out for further coordination new versions. Some of them were exact replicas of what he had originally sent out years ago. He sent them out to see if anyone was paying attention. One of them nearly made it out unscathed before a certain Pentagon SES asked for more graphics and several happy-to-glad changes. BUSTED!! Despite no one recognizing what he had done, these requests forced this product back to the zero point.

Marlow burst into the office of his ROW&ON section chief, red hot for a new mission for the first time in almost two years. As he explained the significance of the launch of the “Red Death (he whispered for Dotard)” to his boss, he became giddy with the spin-offs. Pentagon JCS tank, White House Sit Room, and Congressional in person briefings. Hell, maybe even the DCI, DNI and President! The foreign travel possibilities were intoxicating. NATO countries, their capitols and the flesh pots of Asia. Perhaps a Red Tie luncheon award, an early promotion and a serious personal commendation award.

His civilian boss popped his dreamy Christmas Story thought bubbles. “Just how far along are you on your Brazilian destroyer article? The third and final rewrite is due two days from now on Friday.”

“Boss, this NORK sub is top shelf, Grade A cheese, a heck of a lot more important than my Brazilian. We ought to get something out today. If we don’t, DIA or CIA will get a hold of it and screw it up, and . . . ” Marlow gave his boss a moment to absorb the implication of that possibility.

“I want to see an abstract and a coordination timeline by COB today. Then early next week we’ll talk about express pre-coordination, one pager to the Commanding Officer.”

Marlow left the office shaking with delight. The fate of the free world’s Asian ballgame had been placed in his hands, and, God willing, it looked like he had a chance to score the game winning points. Unless he or those in charge fumbled the ball.

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