Sundays carry a little chaos at Socotra House. That is expected. We have to get a product out between Holy Services and what the Chairman calls “Brunch.” The Daily Grind — the only sanctioned early-afternoon indulgence — was already making the rounds.

Miles stood, attempting to herd the Boomers as Eggs Benedict were assembled somewhere in the Galley. The company SUV was being prepared to depart for services. Frank came through the side door, jacket over his arm. Religious Affairs Consultant. Non-denominational pastor up the road. Former USAF targeteer.

“I’ve had an interesting couple of days,” he said. “Tried to reverse-engineer the target list from the news crawl. That strike yesterday on the Supreme Leader surprised me.”

Melissa frowned. “They launched TLAMs. They hit what they aimed at.”

Frank smiled and gestured toward the glowing screen on the north wall. “There’s more to it than the flat-screen tells you.”

He pointed east, toward where the moon would rise.

“Ramadan began last week. Waxing gibbous now. Full on Tuesday. They call it the Worm Moon — spring waking up. But with the eclipse it turns Blood. Total, if the clouds cooperate.”

Miles sipped from his old squadron mug. “This has been a busy week for us all. is there an Islamic calendar overlay?”

“Of course. Friday for Muslims. Saturday for Jews. Sunday for us.” He nodded toward the Washington Monument visible through the window. “Timing matters.”

“War in Iran?” Miles asked. “You were there when the Shah fell.”

Frank paused, then sat again.

“Leadership strike. Israeli HUMINT, CIA analysis. All shared with CENTCOM. Participant list, meeting location, precise time. Just as the tea was poured…” He made a small downward motion with his hand. “Tomahawks through the walls. A thousand pounds of immediate clarity.”

Sage tapped her shoe near the door. The Air Force colonel keeps time better than a metronome.

Frank gathered his coat. “They thought they were planning enrichment. Turns out they were the enrichment.”

The church crowd drifted toward the elevator. Miles waved.

“Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”

They rode down. Lobby cleared. He pressed P3.

Concrete. Fluorescent light. Lanes L22 through 24.

“We can fit three per slot,” Miles said. “Safe under all that reinforced optimism. And they say we can launch from the roof.”

He let that sit.

Above them, Sunday continued.