Lieutenant Hankins, husband of the gorgeous Lisa and loving father of two adorable kids, knew secrets, lots of them, all representing in one way or another a grave danger to national security if ever divulged, revealed, or otherwise leaked to the press or, God forbid, WikiLeaks. He knew the location of targets, nuclear and conventional; he knew where the submarines were, and what their status was; he knew means and capabilities; he knew the status of current covert intelligence-gathering and kinetic operations; he knew names and addresses and key-codes.

None of that was unusual, though, the Navy trusts its lieutenants to keep loads of secrets. The FBI background checks are extensive, the clearances, precious and hard to get. The trouble with LT Hankins was he was missing. His absence was unauthorized; he wasn’t on leave and he wasn’t at work. He wasn’t at home or in his car or the shopping mall or the coffee shop or his kids’ school. He wasn’t at his parent’s house or any of his siblings’ houses or his girlfriend’s apartment or the racetrack or the casino or any of the numerous bars he frequented. No person of whom the FBI was aware was acquainted with LT Hankins knew where he was. They checked. He was gone and everybody was worried—each for different reasons.