My Father Laughed at My Uniform in Court — Then the Judge Whispered My Name and Everything Changed

The morning after Arthur Callahan’s arrest, the city of Chicago woke up to a seismic shockwave.

I stood in the corner of a sterile hotel room, sipping bitter black coffee from a styrofoam cup, watching the local news on a flat-screen TV.

Arthur’s mugshot was plastered across every major network.

The billionaire titan, previously known for cutting ribbons at children’s hospitals and hosting thousand-dollar-a-plate charity galas, looked hollow, disheveled, and small.

The chyrons scrolling beneath his face read like a litany of damnation: TREASON, ESPIONAGE, MILITARY FRAUD, BILLIONAIRE DENIED BAIL.

Federal agents had raided the Callahan Global Freight headquarters at dawn.

News helicopters broadcasted live footage of heavily armed FBI and DCIS personnel carrying out boxes of hard drives and financial ledgers.

The Callahan name, which had been bolted onto the side of that skyscraper in massive steel letters, suddenly looked like a tombstone.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It was Major David Lawson.

“Have you seen channel four?” Lawson asked, his voice crackling over the encrypted line.

“I’m watching it right now,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the footage of Preston being perp-walked out of a federal holding facility, his face hidden behind a tailored jacket.

“It feels surreal. I spent my whole life thinking Arthur was untouchable.”

“He was, until he touched the wrong family,” Lawson said, a hint of grim satisfaction in his voice.

“The grand jury convened an hour ago. The US Attorney is moving fast. With Preston’s testimony and the server data you unlocked, they’re projecting a watertight conviction. But Harper, we have a secondary objective now. You have to take control of O’Connor Manufacturing officially. If you don’t step in as the CEO, the SEC will freeze the company’s assets during the federal probe, and innocent people are going to lose their jobs.”

“I know,” I said, rubbing my temples.

“I’m heading to the corporate offices at noon.”

“Before you do,” Lawson paused, his tone shifting from professional to profoundly gentle.

“I made a call to Fort Bragg. I reached out to the casualty assistance officer who handled Staff Sergeant Miller’s file. I told them what we found.”

My chest tightened.

The air in the room suddenly felt entirely too thin.

“Has his wife been notified?”

“She knows,” Lawson said softly.

“I gave her your direct line. I hope that was alright.”

“It is. Thank you, David.”

I hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the muted television.

Ten minutes later, the burner phone on the desk vibrated.

The caller ID was a North Carolina area code.

I picked it up, my hands trembling slightly for the first time since this entire ordeal began.

“Hello?” I said.

“Captain Callahan?” The voice on the other end was fragile, strained by years of carrying an impossible weight.

It was Rachel Miller.

“Yes. It’s Harper, Rachel.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muffled sob.

“They told me,” Rachel whispered.

“For four years, the Army told me it was a freak accident. They said the armor just failed. They made it sound like it was nobody’s fault, just… bad luck.”

“It wasn’t bad luck, Rachel,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

“It was murder. And I am so, so sorry it took this long to prove it.”

“You got him,” she cried, the sound breaking my heart into a thousand jagged pieces.

“The man who did this. You got him.”

“He’s in a federal cell, Rachel. He will never see the sun as a free man again. I promise you that.”

“Thank you, Harper,” she sobbed, the closure washing over her in waves.

“David loved you. He always said you were the best officer he ever served with. He would be so proud.”

When the call ended, I sat in the silence for a long time.

The rage that had fueled me through the lawsuit and the investigation crystallized into something cold, hard, and permanent.

Putting Arthur behind bars wasn’t enough.

Arthur was just the supplier.

The man on the other end of the transaction—the Russian arms dealer, Ivan Volkov, who had purchased the stolen military-grade armor to kill American soldiers—was still out there.

And according to the intelligence briefings I had read that morning, Volkov was furious.

He had just lost his most lucrative American supply chain, and his fixers were already mobilizing.

The game was no longer being played in a courtroom.

It was bleeding out into the streets.

At precisely 12:00 PM, I walked through the revolving glass doors of the O’Connor Manufacturing tower.

This was my grandfather’s legacy.

Unlike Arthur’s gaudy, gold-plated skyscrapers, Sullivan’s building was practical, built with brushed steel and dark wood.

I wasn’t wearing my uniform.

Today required a different kind of armor.

I wore a tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a pair of sensible, quiet heels.

Flanking me were Lieutenant Sarah Brennan, clutching a reinforced briefcase containing our forensic financial audits, and two plainclothes federal marshals.

I bypassed the chaotic lobby and took the private elevator straight to the executive floor.

The emergency board meeting had been called the moment Arthur was arrested.

The remaining executives of Callahan Global Freight—who had a parasitic stake in O’Connor Manufacturing—were scrambling to protect their golden parachutes and distance themselves from the blast radius of Arthur’s treason.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the boardroom without knocking.

Twelve men and women in expensive suits snapped their heads toward me.

The panic in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on.

At the head of the table sat Donovan Reed, the Chief Operating Officer of Callahan Global, a man who had served as Arthur’s ruthless right hand for a decade.

Reed was a corporate predator who viewed my grandfather’s company as a piggy bank.

“Captain Callahan,” Reed said, standing up, his tone dripping with condescension masked as politeness.

“We are in the middle of a closed-door crisis management session. You cannot just barge in here.”

“Actually, Donovan, I can,” I said smoothly, walking to the opposite end of the mahogany table.

I placed my hands flat on the wood, mirroring the dominant posture Arthur used to employ, but doing it with the icy calm of a soldier.

“As of 0800 hours this morning, the probate court officially ratified Sullivan O’Connor’s will. I am the sole controlling shareholder and the Chief Executive Officer of this company. You are in my boardroom.”

A murmur of outrage rippled across the table.

“Be reasonable, Harper,” Reed sneered, dropping the polite facade.

“We are dealing with a federal catastrophe. The stock is in freefall. You are a military grunt with zero corporate experience. You have no idea how to navigate an SEC investigation or manage a supply chain of this magnitude. Step aside, let the board appoint an interim CEO, and we will protect your grandfather’s assets.”

“Protect them?” I laughed—a sharp, humorless sound.

“You mean bleed them dry to cover your own legal fees?”

I nodded to Lieutenant Brennan.

She opened her briefcase and pulled out twelve thick, manila folders, tossing one in front of every board member.

“What is this?” one of the executives asked, looking at the folder like it was a live grenade.

“That is a heavily redacted summary of the forensic audit my federal team conducted over the last seventy-two hours,” I said, my voice projecting across the room like a drill sergeant’s.

“While Arthur and Preston were coordinating the sale of military armor to Russian paramilitaries, every single one of you signed off on the internal audits that hid the manufacturing discrepancies. You approved the shell company invoices. You authorized the shipping manifests to Riga.”

The color drained from Donovan Reed’s face.

He opened his folder.

Inside were copies of wire transfers bearing his digital signature, cross-referenced with Department of Defense casualty reports.

“This… this is fabricated,” Reed stammered, his eyes darting to the federal marshals standing silently by the door.

“We didn’t know what those shipments were. We were told it was industrial ceramics for civilian contractors! Arthur lied to us!”

“Ignorance is not a defense against federal conspiracy, Donovan,” I said coldly.

“But lucky for you, the Department of Justice is currently overwhelmed prosecuting my father. They don’t have the manpower to indict the entire board today. So, here is how this is going to work.”

I pulled a single sheet of paper from my inside jacket pocket and slid it down the length of the table.

“That is a mass letter of resignation,” I announced.

“Every executive from Callahan Global Freight who currently holds a seat on the O’Connor board will sign it. You will surrender all severance packages, forfeit your stock options, and walk out of this building with nothing but the clothes on your backs.”

“You can’t do this!” a woman near the middle of the table shrieked.

“We have contracts! We’ll sue you!”

“If you don’t sign it,” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register, “Agent Brennan will hand unredacted copies of those files to the US Attorney’s office at exactly 1:00 PM. By dinner time, there will be FBI tactical teams kicking down the doors of your suburban mansions while your children watch. You will be charged as co-conspirators in the deaths of American soldiers. You’ll spend the rest of your lives in federal prison.”

The silence in the boardroom was absolute.

The only sound was the distant hum of the city traffic below.

“You have five minutes,” I said, checking my watch.

Donovan Reed glared at me, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might shatter.

He looked at the federal marshals, then at the damning evidence in the folder.

His hands shook as he picked up a silver Montblanc pen.

One by one, the titans of corporate greed broke.

They signed the paper.

Within ten minutes, the room was empty.

I stood alone at the head of the table, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Chicago skyline.

Grandpa Sullivan’s company was finally clean.

The parasite had been excised.

But as I looked down at the street level, I noticed a black SUV idling illegally in the loading zone across the street.

The windows were heavily tinted.

It sat there for a long moment, motionless, before slowly pulling into the traffic.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

My military instincts, honed through years in hostile territories, flared instantly.

The boardroom was secure, but the war wasn’t over.

Three nights later, a relentless, freezing rain battered the streets of Chicago.

The media frenzy surrounding Arthur’s arrest had evolved into a steady, droning background noise.

I had spent the last three days working eighteen-hour shifts, officially transferring O’Connor Manufacturing’s clean defense contracts back to the Pentagon and liquidating the corrupted subsidiaries.

I was exhausted, running on adrenaline and caffeine.

Around 11:00 PM, I slipped out of the federal building and walked three blocks to a quiet, dimly lit diner that catered to night-shift nurses and insomniacs.

I needed a moment of silence.

I needed to just be Harper for twenty minutes.

I sat in a corner booth facing the door—a habit I had picked up in Afghanistan and never put down.

I ordered a black coffee and a slice of cherry pie.

Ten minutes later, the bell above the diner door jingled.

A man walked in.

He didn’t look like a local.

He was tall, built like a cinderblock, wearing a high-end charcoal trench coat that repelled the rain.

His face was entirely forgettable, except for his eyes, which were cold, dead, and scanning the room with predatory precision.

He didn’t look at the menu.

He walked straight toward my booth and slid into the vinyl seat across from me.

I didn’t flinch.

I slowly put down my fork and took a sip of my coffee, keeping my eyes locked on his.

Beneath the table, my right hand quietly unclasped the holster of my concealed carry Glock 19.

“Captain Callahan,” the man said.

His accent was thick, distinctly Eastern European.

“You are a very difficult woman to track down. You move like a ghost.”

“And you look like a cliché,” I replied evenly, my finger resting lightly just outside the trigger guard of my weapon.

“I’m assuming you don’t work for the Better Business Bureau. Let me guess. Volkov sent you.”

The man gave a thin, humorless smile.

“Ivan Volkov is a businessman. He had a very profitable, very stable arrangement with your father. Your father was greedy, yes, but predictable. You, on the other hand, have disrupted a multi-million-dollar supply chain. You cost my employer a great deal of money and resources.”

“Your employer buys defective armor to equip paramilitaries in active war zones,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Forgive me if I don’t feel bad about disrupting his cash flow.”

The fixer leaned forward, resting his massive hands on the Formica table.

“Volkov does not care about your father’s arrest. The old man was becoming a liability anyway. But Volkov requires his merchandise. The shipments of military communications modules that are currently sitting in the O’Connor warehouses were paid for. We expect delivery by Friday.”

“Those assets have been seized by the Department of Defense,” I countered, staring him down.

“They’re federal evidence now. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t give them to you.”

“Then you will compensate us,” the man said, his tone shifting from conversational to a thinly veiled threat.

“Twenty million dollars. Transferred to a Cayman account by tomorrow night. If the money is not there, Volkov will consider it a debt unpaid. And Volkov collects his debts in blood. It would be a tragedy if the new CEO of O’Connor Manufacturing were to suffer a fatal car accident so soon after her father’s imprisonment.”

He reached into his trench coat.

Instantly, my right hand cleared the holster.

I didn’t draw the weapon above the table—that would cause a panic in the diner.

Instead, I leveled the barrel directly at his abdomen beneath the table, driving the muzzle hard into the fabric of his coat so he could feel the cold steel against his stomach.

The man froze.

“Keep your hands exactly where they are,” I ordered, my eyes dead and hollow.

“You made a critical miscalculation tonight. You thought you were threatening a civilian CEO. You thought I was Arthur. I’m not. I’m a federal agent, and I’m a soldier. And right now, you have a hollow-point round aimed directly at your liver.”

The fixer’s confident smile vanished.

He realized, with sudden clarity, that I wasn’t bluffing.

“I’m going to reach into your coat,” I said, keeping my left hand visible on the table while my right hand held the weapon steady.

“If you twitch, I will pull this trigger, and I will sleep like a baby tonight. Do we understand each other?”

He gave a barely perceptible nod.

I reached across the table, my left hand sliding into the interior pocket of his trench coat.

I pulled out a sleek, encrypted burner phone.

“Here is what’s going to happen,” I said, placing the phone on the table.

“You’re going to stand up, walk out of this diner, and get on a plane back to whichever miserable hole Volkov operates out of. You tell him that the Callahan pipeline is dead. If he sends another threat, if he even looks in the direction of my family or my company, I won’t send the FBI. I will use every federal and military resource at my disposal to hunt him down, and I will put him in a cell right next to my father.”

I pressed the muzzle of my gun slightly harder into his ribs for emphasis.

“Tell him Captain Callahan said the contract is terminated.”

I pulled the gun back slightly.

The fixer exhaled a shaky breath, slowly pulling his hands out of his pockets and placing them flat on the table.

He stood up, his eyes filled with a new, profound respect—and fear.

Without a word, he turned and walked out of the diner, disappearing into the freezing Chicago rain.

I exhaled slowly, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I holstered my weapon and picked up the burner phone I had taken from him.

I dialed Lawson’s number.

“David,” I said the moment he picked up.

“I need a DCIS cyber unit to track the GPS and call logs on a burner phone I just acquired. We have a direct line to Volkov’s network.”

“You made contact?” Lawson asked, alarm ringing in his voice.

“Harper, are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said, looking out the diner window at the empty street.

“The corporate war is over, David. But the real fight just started. Tell the team to gear up. We’re going hunting.”

The burner phone sat in the center of the metal table inside the Fort Meade SCIF, looking like an unexploded ordnance.

It was 0300 hours.

The air conditioning hummed, but the room felt suffocatingly tight.

Special Agent Wyatt had the phone hardwired into his forensic extraction terminal.

His fingers danced across the keyboard, bypassing the commercial operating system to dig into the device’s root directory.

Lieutenant Sarah Brennan and Major David Lawson stood behind him, staring at the cascading lines of green code reflecting in Wyatt’s glasses.

I leaned against the wall, drinking my fourth cup of black coffee, still wearing the tactical trousers and boots I had changed into after the diner.

“The guy you held at gunpoint—his name is Anton Kuznetsov,” Lawson said, reading from a tablet.

“Interpol has him flagged as a high-tier logistics facilitator for Ivan Volkov. He’s a ghost. The fact that you managed to lift his comms without him putting a bullet in you is a miracle, Harper.”

“He underestimated me,” I said, staring at the phone.

“Men who work for Volkov are used to dealing with white-collar criminals like Arthur. They think everyone in a suit is afraid of violence. They don’t expect the suit to shoot back.”

“Got it!” Wyatt suddenly shouted, slamming the enter key.

The monitor flashed blue.

“I bypassed the kill-switch protocol. I have his encrypted call logs, GPS pings, and short-burst text transmissions from the last seventy-two hours.”

I pushed off the wall and stepped up to the monitor.

“Talk to me, Wyatt. Where was Kuznetsov operating from?”

“He flew into O’Hare three days ago, right after Arthur was arrested,” Wyatt said, highlighting a string of data points.

“But he didn’t stay in Chicago. He’s been pinging off cell towers in Gary, Indiana. Specifically, an abandoned industrial port on the edge of Lake Michigan.”

Brennan frowned, pulling up a satellite map on her secondary screen.

“Gary? Why there? It’s a rust belt wasteland.”

“Because it has deep-water access,” I realized, the tactical picture suddenly snapping into focus.

“Arthur’s logistics network wasn’t just domestic. If Volkov had stolen military comms and counterfeit plates sitting in the States, he needed a way to get them out without going through the heavily monitored ports in New York or Baltimore.”

“Exactly,” Lawson agreed, leaning over the map.

“You load the contraband onto a mid-sized freighter on Lake Michigan. It travels through the Great Lakes, up the St. Lawrence Seaway, and dumps right into the Atlantic Ocean. International waters. From there, it’s a straight shot to Europe or the Middle East.”

Wyatt clicked open a decrypted text file.

“Captain, you’re going to want to see this. Kuznetsov wasn’t just texting Volkov. He was coordinating with a local domestic partner. Someone who owns the shipping terminal in Gary.”

“Name?” I asked.

“Vincent Adler,” Wyatt read.

I recognized the name immediately.

Vincent Adler was a notorious, bottom-feeding maritime magnate based out of the Midwest.

He owned a fleet of aging cargo ships and had a reputation for turning a blind eye to customs regulations.

He had attended several of Arthur’s lavish galas.

“Adler is the proxy,” I said, my voice hardening.

“Arthur was the supplier, but Adler is the smuggler. And based on Kuznetsov’s desperation tonight, Volkov’s shipment is already sitting at that terminal, waiting to be loaded.”

“We have a problem,” Brennan interjected, her eyes widening as she read the port registry data.

“Adler has a freighter, the Iron Wraith, docked at that exact terminal right now. It’s scheduled to depart at 0600 hours under a civilian iron ore manifest.”

I checked my watch.

It was 0315.

We had less than three hours before millions of dollars of stolen military technology, and the evidence needed to bury Volkov’s network, sailed right out of United States jurisdiction.

“Lawson,” I said, turning to the Major.

“Call the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team field office in Chicago. I want a joint DCIS-FBI tactical strike force spun up immediately. We don’t have time for a subpoena.”

“On what grounds are we raiding a civilian port without a judge’s signature?” Lawson asked, playing devil’s advocate.

“Under the Patriot Act and the National Defense Authorization Act,” I fired back.

“We have credible, actionable intelligence that stolen military weapons components are actively being smuggled out of the country. That makes it an immediate threat to national security.”

Lawson grinned, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“I’ll make the call. Get your gear, Captain. We’re going to Indiana.”

The night sky over Gary, Indiana, was a bruised, heavy purple, bleeding freezing rain down onto the rusted hulks of abandoned steel mills.

The air smells of wet rust, diesel fuel, and decaying fish.

I sat in the back of an armored BearCat tactical vehicle, my night-vision goggles resting on the helmet of my Kevlar vest.

I was fully kitted out in my tactical gear, an M4 carbine resting across my chest.

Surrounding me were eight operators from the FBI’s elite regional SWAT team, their faces painted in the green glow of the vehicle’s interior lights.

Over the encrypted comms, the voice of the FBI team leader, Agent Miller (no relation to David, but the name always made my heart clench), crackled into my earpiece.

“Captain Callahan, perimeter is set. We have snipers on the old crane towers. Thermal imaging shows twelve hostiles patrolling the loading docks. They are heavily armed. AK-47s and body armor. These aren’t regular dock workers.”

“Copy that, Miller,” I replied, pressing my radio transmitter.

“Those are Volkov’s mercenaries. They won’t hesitate to fire on federal agents. Rules of engagement are weapons free if you are engaged. But I need Vincent Adler alive. And I need those shipping containers intact.”

“Understood. Breaching in three… two… one.”

The heavy steel gates of the Adler Maritime Terminal didn’t just open; they were blown entirely off their hinges by explosive breaching charges.

The deafening BOOM echoed across the black water of Lake Michigan.

Our BearCat surged forward, tires screaming against the wet concrete, smashing through the smoke and debris.

Instantly, the docks erupted into chaos.

Volkov’s mercenaries, caught completely off guard by the sheer violence of the breach, scrambled for cover behind stacks of rusted shipping containers.

I kicked the rear doors of the BearCat open and spilled out into the freezing rain, my rifle shouldered, my sights up.

“Federal agents! Drop your weapons!” an FBI operator roared through a bullhorn.

A burst of automatic gunfire shattered the windshield of an adjacent police cruiser in response.

The negotiations were officially over.

The air was ripped apart by the deafening staccato of return fire.

I moved dynamically, communicating with the team through hand signals, clearing corners with ruthless precision.

My heart rate was steady.

This wasn’t a boardroom.

This wasn’t a courtroom.

This was the environment I had trained in.

This was my element.

“Moving up the left flank!” I shouted, sprinting toward a stack of blue containers where two mercenaries were pinning down our advance element.

I slid behind a concrete pylon, the wet ground soaking through my tactical pants.

I leaned out, identified the muzzle flashes, and squeezed the trigger.

Pop-pop.

Pop-pop.

Double taps.

Accurate.

Lethal.

The suppressing fire stopped immediately.

“Clear!” I yelled.

We pushed deeper into the terminal, closing in on the massive, rusted hull of the Iron Wraith.

The loading cranes had stopped moving.

Sitting on the concrete pier, halfway between the warehouse and the ship, were four heavily secured, unmarked shipping containers.

Suddenly, a massive spotlight flicked on from the bridge of the freighter, blinding us.

“They’re trying to scuttle the containers!” Miller shouted over the radio.

“Someone is pouring an accelerant on the cargo manifests!”

I squinted through the blinding light and saw a panicked, overweight man in an expensive raincoat frantically dousing a metal barrel of documents with gasoline.

Vincent Adler.

He was trying to destroy the paper trail connecting him to Volkov.

“Covering fire on the bridge!” I commanded.

The FBI snipers took out the spotlight in a shower of glass and sparks.

Darkness returned, aided only by the strobe of tactical flashlights.

I broke cover and sprinted across the open tarmac directly toward Adler.

One of his bodyguards stepped into my path, raising a sidearm.

I didn’t break stride.

I dropped my shoulder, slammed into his chest, and drove him into the concrete before he could pull the trigger.

I kicked his weapon away and kept moving.

Adler panicked.

He fumbled with a silver Zippo lighter, his hands shaking so violently he dropped it into the puddle of rainwater at his feet.

Before he could retrieve it, I was on him.

I grabbed Adler by the collar of his expensive coat, slammed him against the cold steel of the shipping container, and pressed the hot barrel of my M4 directly under his chin.

“Drop it!” I roared over the sound of the dying firefight.

Adler whimpered, raising his hands in absolute terror.

“Don’t shoot! I surrender! I’m an American citizen!”

“You’re a traitor,” I spat, yanking him forward and throwing him to the ground.

“Cuff him!”

Two federal agents swarmed Adler, securing his wrists with heavy zip-ties.

I turned my attention to the four unmarked containers on the pier.

I grabbed heavy bolt cutters from a breaching kit and snapped the padlock off the first container.

I hauled the heavy metal doors open.

Inside, stacked floor to ceiling, were wooden crates stamped with the United States Department of Defense seal.

I pried open the top crate with a crowbar.

Nestled in protective foam were dozens of advanced, encrypted tactical communication relays—the exact hardware my unit had been denied in Afghanistan because Arthur had reported them “lost in transit.”

The evidence was secured.

The domestic pipeline was dead.

But as I looked down at Vincent Adler, groveling in the wet concrete, I knew we were missing the head of the snake.

“Where is he?” I demanded, crouching down so I was eye-level with the shivering magnate.

“Where is Ivan Volkov?”

“I don’t know!” Adler cried, rain streaming down his face.

“He never comes to the States! He’s too careful!”

“You were about to ship fifty million dollars of stolen tech to him,” I said, my voice cold.

“He wouldn’t trust a rat like you without collateral. Where were these containers going?”

Adler swallowed hard, looking at the grim faces of the operators surrounding him.

“He… he’s waiting for them. He didn’t want to wait for the freighter to cross the Atlantic.”

My eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s in the Atlantic,” Adler whispered.

“He’s sitting on his private yacht, The Leviathan. He anchored in international waters, just outside the US Exclusive Economic Zone, off the coast of Maine. The Iron Wraith was supposed to rendezvous with him there and transfer the cargo at sea. He wanted to inspect the tech personally before moving it to Russia.”

I stood up, the adrenaline surging into a sharp, icy focus.

Volkov wasn’t hiding in a bunker in Moscow.

He was arrogant enough to sit right on our doorstep, believing the imaginary lines on a map could protect him.

I keyed my radio.

“Lawson. Get the Coast Guard on the horn. And tell the Navy to warm up a Seahawk helicopter. I’m going to the East Coast.”