conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a plot for a book about Charon's, Landing, President entitled Charon's Landing
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Charon's Landing: In a bold decision, the President of the United States has decided to free America from its dependence on foreign oil by using Alaska's oil deposits and developing alternative energy sources.\nIt is a move that threatens the oil-rich Middle East-and some will not tolerate such a course of action.\nYears ago, a secret Soviet strategy was created to strike a fatal blow to the US by destroying the Alaskan oil pipeline.\nNow those plans have been stolen by the brilliant and treacherous former KGB agent Ivan Kerikov, who joins forces with a powerful Arab oil minister to unleash Charon's Landing.\nBut they didn't count on Philip Mercer-the one man who possesses the determination and daring to stop them cold.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Charon's Landing
  He pitched the cigarette butt onto the tarmac, grinding it to a shredded pulp under his heel before turning back to the aircraft. The pilot saw him approach and kicked the engines back to life, their knife-edge blades cutting into the cool air so quickly they disappeared into silvered disks.
  Mercer grabbed a heavy shirt from his garment bag, buttoning it on the way to the bathroom. As he peed, he licked a dollop of toothpaste from the tube he'd left on the vanity top. Swishing it around his mouth, he zipped up his jeans, washed his hands, then rinsed with a palmful of water. In the mirror, his eyes were equal shades of red and gray.
  Fielding and his men waited as Mercer slipped on a pair of socks and laced up his heavy boots. They were out of the room only two minutes after the knock. It was just before 6:00 A.M.
  The harbor was only a couple of blocks from the hotel. As they walked to the water's edge, Mercer wished fervently for a cup of coffee, but it was obvious by the tension in Fielding's stride that he was eager for the raid. The morning held the unmistakable expectancy of trouble. The holstered pistol under Fielding's windbreaker wrinkled the material of his jacket.
  At the harbor, a forty-foot Coast Guard vessel burbled softly at idle, its gleaming white hull and superstructure slashed by the distinctive orange stripe of the service. Twin fifty-caliber machine guns were mounted in a cupola midway along her foredeck while a half dozen armed sailors cluttered the aft cockpit, their M-16s held tightly, fingers never far from the triggers. There wasn't another soul at the docks; the big fishing trawlers sat quietly at anchor. The charter and pleasure boats were equally forlorn and abandoned. Mercer had no doubt that fishermen heading for their vessels had been told to take the morning off and bill the lost time to the FBI.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A tanker truck, its drumlike sides emblazoned with the logo of a septic company, pulled up to the 767, stopping under the sewer outlet of the big Boeing. With practiced competence, three men leaped from the truck and hooked a heavy rubber hose to the plane's underbelly, while secretly four other men dodged from under the diesel truck and raced to Khalid. After one look, it was clear to these members of the SAS, Special Air Squadron, Britain's most elite fighting force, that moving Khalid could kill him. However, they were under specific orders to check every aircraft on the apron for anything suspicious and report back to the terminal.
  Every second the airport was shut down cost tens of thousands of pounds, and the quicker they could secure the area, the quicker that debt meter would stop spinning. Two men grasped Khalid under the shoulders and dragged him back to the septic truck they were using as cover. They had orders to vet four other aircraft before returning to the terminal, but with Khalid as a possible suspect, the non-com in charge decided to return to base immediately.
  Fourteen minutes later, a near-dead Khalid Khuddari was dumped into a spartan office within the terminal, two commandos taking up position just inside the office door. Another ten minutes passed before Geoff Wilberforce strode into the room, his heavy eyelids hanging so low they almost obscured his eyes. His face, florid in the best of situations, was livid, red blotches raised on his throat, cheeks, and forehead. In twenty-eight years of airport management, he was facing the worst day of his life, and he was looking for someone to blame. Rightly or wrongly, it didn't matter. He was not taking the fall for this situation.
  His body pummeled far beyond human endurance, his mind stretched so tautly it resonated with internal tension, Khalid ratcheted open his eyes and craned his head to regard Wilberforce. His expression was dulled and lifeless, arranged like a mask by the pain, yet he still managed to capture Wilberforce with the power of his eyes, obsidian-sharp and focused.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A shadow of annoyance flashed behind Aggie's impossibly green eyes at Mercer for asking when she was trying to seduce him, but she knew he asked out of concern. "I'm all right. It's been a few days so I've had time to adjust."
  Aggie smiled, the expression radiating from her mouth to encompass her eyes and her entire character. "That was my thinking as well."
  She swayed toward him until her body was pressed against his, her small breasts flattened against his chest, one thigh snuggling between his legs. "You take me to bed and make love to me until neither of us can walk," Aggie replied. "The lawyers will eventually track me here, so we've got only a couple of days. After that, Philip? I don't know. You've got your world and I've got mine. Maybe they're the same — only time will tell."
  Later that night, much later, in fact, Mercer and Aggie lay on top of the sheets of Mercer's bed in a damp tangle of limbs, their breathing just now returning to a normal rhythm. Seeing the repair work around the skylight over the bed, Aggie asked him who had been responsible for the attack on his home.
  He explained his theory about Max's suicide, and that seemed to make Aggie feel a little better about her father. There was one detail he would not relate to her, something he didn't even want to believe himself. It was something Dick Henna had told Mercer while he was recuperating in Abu Dhabi with Wayne Bigelow.