SAY THAT AGAIN, SAM

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I am on my way to other things, this morning, and am going to leave you with the sixth installment of the Nick Danger saga from the Indian Ocean. Of note, the thing that got me sidetracked was an earnest discussion of the nature of the imperative driving Israel’s options in dealing with the rising threat from Iran, the one that our leaders tell us has been forestalled for years and years.

I reflect back to the “chickenshit” days and remember thinking the Israelis were going to go for it that year. Maybe they should have- but resupply of weapons from a peeved Washington is clearly a major factor in the IDF military planning cycle. The vision of the Administration was about an entirely new paradigm with the Iranians, not that this approach is anything new. Even Mr. Reagan tried it, in the form of a cake shaped like a key. That attempt was widely ridiculed (if memory serves) by the same media outlets who are waxing so optimistic about this “breakthrough” with an implacable regime. Which they keep reminding us is committed to the return of the 12th Imam and willing to do anything to destroy infidel and apostate Sunni alike.

But never mind, always worth a try, and history begins anew. As part of something else, I checked the ages of some of the key players. Susan Rice is 50, so she was fourteen when the hostages were taken in Tehran. Samantha powers is 44, and so was eight when this episode was penned off the coast of the Iranian Islamic State:

“THE ADVENTURES OF NICK DANGER, PRIVATE DICK”
TODAY’S EPISODE: “SAY THAT AGAIN, SAM”

I HAD SEEN SOME TOUGH COOKIES IN MY YEARS ON THE MEAN STREETS OF L.A. but that fella with the round silver doo-dads just about turned me inside out. Apparently this guy was higher up in the Organization than ENS Dracman. A pall as thick as death fell over the dining room at his words.

I suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere and grabbed a pork chop and bolted for the door. I had to get somewhere quiet to think this thing out.

I raced down the long, narrow hallway and smashed my knee on a piece of steel somebody had cunningly welded to the floor. As I was getting up, I noticed a little steel tag on the wall that said “Fan Room.” I undid the clips and slipped inside.

It was as dark as the bottom of Big Tujunga Canyon at midnight. I closed the hatch behind me and collapsed on the floor. I lit up a Lucky Strike from one of the eight packs in my pockets and gnawed on my pork chop. Somewhere in this mess had to be the clue that would take me to the Fat Man.

I knotted up my brain muscles and got down to some serious pondering.

Point one: This thing was a whole lot bigger than I had thought. I had seen hundreds and hundreds of men walking around with tools and driving those little yellow taxicabs. Either they were planning a convention or something bigger was afoot.

Point two: It seemed like there was an underlying method in all the confusion.

Once, while I was watching some fellows working on one of the dozens of airplanes, a guy walked up and told me to put out my smoke.

A hard case.

Point three: This pork chop was greasy. Wait a minute, I thought…big organization…giant steel boat…plenty of airplanes…
Suddenly it came to me like the wet kiss at the end of a hot fist.

The Fat Man was going to hi-jack the L.A. International Airport! It had to be!!

All the pieces fit!!!

Just as I was lighting up another Lucky and congratulating myself on another stroke of detecting genius, I heard something move over in the comer. I was not alone.

A low voice said, “Hi there, big fella. Want to play?”

I went for the door, and in my rush I hit my head on the steel portal. I was down for the count.

TOMORROW: “MEETING WITH THE FAT MAN”

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