conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is 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: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: \nBut they didn't count on Philip Mercer-the one man who possesses the determination and daring to stop them cold..\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.\nYears ago, a secret Soviet strategy was created to strike a fatal blow to the US by destroying the Alaskan oil pipeline.\nIt is a move that threatens the oil-rich Middle East-and some will not tolerate such a course of action.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
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first paragraph 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.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Lying on the taxiway, he could hear the shouted protests from the crew of the aircraft. It meant nothing. He was free. He could call Bigelow, end this charade, and hopefully restabilize the Middle East. As he tried to stand, he realized he couldn't move. His legs lay quietly as his mind screamed orders for them to get moving, to lift him up and carry him away. In a sickening rush, he remembered hearing a dry cracking sound when he hit the ground, almost like a piece of timber snapping in a high wind. He was certain he'd broken his back on impact. The belly of the Boeing 767 curled above him like the abdomen of a pregnant whale, a solid swell reaching almost to the ground. He struggled to roll under the hull's curvature, but he simply couldn't move.
  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: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It meant nothing. He was free. He could call Bigelow, end this charade, and hopefully restabilize the Middle East. As he tried to stand, he realized he couldn't move. His legs lay quietly as his mind screamed orders for them to get moving, to lift him up and carry him away. In a sickening rush, he remembered hearing a dry cracking sound when he hit the ground, almost like a piece of timber snapping in a high wind. He was certain he'd broken his back on impact. The belly of the Boeing 767 curled above him like the abdomen of a pregnant whale, a solid swell reaching almost to the ground. He struggled to roll under the hull's curvature, but he simply couldn't move.
  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: What is 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.