The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “Forty-three thousand, Mr. President,” the chief of staff said.

  “Homeless—no place to live. Two hundred and forty-three thousand we can’t help?”

  Waldron’s face erupted; a blood vessel that stretched the length of his forehead puffed out in his anger. “We are the American government, gentlemen! We are here to serve the people, not ourselves. I don’t want to hear that so many of our citizens are homeless. Let alone since February!”

  “But, Mr. President,” the leader of the Senate said. “It could’ve been worse.”

  “Are you kidding me? Worse? Why don’t we take away your home and throw your scrawny ass into the street? Then you can tell me it could be worse. These people lost everything they had.” He picked up the document again. “Maybe you’d have liked to be one of the forty-odd thousand who lost their lives?” He threw the binder at the senator.

  Senator Schwartz scrambled to retrieve it. “You’ve got me all wrong.”

  Waldron ignored him. “The devastation caused by Mother Nature—five earthquakes, a hurricane, a blizzard, and ninety-eight freakin’ tornadoes in two days. February, a disaster for our country. Our infrastructure attacked. Our economy almost destroyed, and you come here because Congress wants funds to repair the Washington Monument while our people are homeless? Not on my watch, gentlemen! Don’t think for a moment I’m going to agree to move our dollar to the euro standard. Also, Mr. Leader, I want on my desk by this afternoon a list of funds we can stop allocating to other countries. We’re finally going to provide for our own. We’ll use that money to rebuild the houses that were lost.” Waldron wagged his index finger as he continued his admonishment. “If you fail me, I will be on the airwaves tonight explaining your reckless actions to the American people. Rio DeLaurentis was right; you should resign. She does far more . . .” He was about to say “for the poor than we do” but instead blurted out, “God rest her soul.”

  When he’d mentioned the name of DeLaurentis, both leaders cringed.

  “Now leave my—” Waldron was interrupted as the northeast door of the Oval Office opened and the secretary of defense hurried into the room.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, Jim. What’s the problem?”

  “For your ears only, sir.”

  “Go ahead, James.”

  “Yes, sir. Um . . . we’ve gotten word that Israel launched an airstrike against Iran.”

  “What? Are you kidding me?”

  “Sir . . . we need you downstairs.”

  “Let’s go. Lou, get me the Israeli prime minister on the phone. And track down General DeLaurentis.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  * * *

  Waldron paced around a twenty-five-foot-long conference table in the Situation Room where the chief of staff, SECDEF, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, NSA director, CIA director, and Colonel Jason Vandercliff, commander of BOET, were seated. On one wall hung a series of large-screen monitors; one displayed a satellite view of two fighter-bombers as they entered Iraqi airspace. Their afterburners blazed as they swept across the land.

  “How long before they strike?” Waldron demanded.

  “We estimate within the next fifteen minutes, they’ll initiate the bombing run, Mr. President,” SECDEF replied.

  “No luck reaching the prime minister or DeLaurentis, sir.”

  “Damn it, Holtz—I want a conference call with the president of Russia and the Chinese premier. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Less than thirty seconds passed.

  “They’re on speaker, sir.”

  “Hello, gentlemen. I’m sure you’re aware of the impending attack on Iran by Israeli air forces. I wish to make it clear the United States had no advance knowledge of this aggressive act. Our attempts to contact the Israeli government have been unsuccessful.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Mr. President,” Mao Chin, the new Chinese premier, said as he ended the conversation.

  “Arthur?”

  Waldron leaned forward and picked up the phone. “Vladimir, how are you? I saw the pictures of the earthquake’s aftermath. How’re your people?”

  “Many, many deaths, my friend,” the Russian said in his deep baritone voice. “What do you think the Israelis are up to?”

  The president of Russia—Vladimir Polotny—and Waldron had met thirteen years earlier; they had represented their respective governments during the investigation of Dr. Colin Payne. After the inquiry concluded, the two stayed in contact. They had a unique bond of trust and camaraderie.

  “No clue, Vladimir, other than they were dissatisfied with the UN inspection of Iran’s nuclear facilities.”

  “God help us, Arthur.”

  “God? I hope He’s still with us.”

  “The Israeli fighters have begun their bombing runs.”

  “Vladimir, are you seeing this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, they launched their missiles.”

  Waldron checked the clock on the wall as the white contrail of the missiles could be seen on the monitor. “Any idea of the targets, General?”

  “Tehran and Shiraz.”

  “Mr. President, Iran retaliated with two rockets—we believe armed with nuclear warheads—both aimed at Israel.”

  Arthur put the Russian president on speaker. “General, any assets in the air?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are they capable of intercepting Iran’s missiles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Knock them out of the sky. Vladimir, any problems with that?”

  “None, Arthur. Our planes are in flight, ready to back you up if needed.”

  “General, inform command the Russians are with us. Any chance our planes can knock out the Israelis?”

  “No, sir . . . oh my God, Arthur! A nuclear detonation over Tehran!”

  “Son of a bitch.” Waldron banged his fist. “What have they done? Vladimir, I’ll talk with you later.”

  “Iran’s rockets are destroyed. We got one. The Russians got the other.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  POTUS turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General, execute Paolo’s Return. Lou, I will address the nation in fifteen minutes.”

  Chapter 29

  The headquarters of the Agency for Internal Information and Security—AISI—was housed in a nondescript building in the center of Rome. The agency’s role was to defend against any subversive, criminal, or terrorist act that would adversely affect the status of the government of Italy. Alessio—Sergio’s son—was director of the organization and reported to the Italian minister of defense.

  Giacomo and Sergio were escorted to a conference room on the seventh floor.

  “Alessio.”

  Giacomo smiled and held out his arms. The two men hugged, patting each other on the back. The family friends had become colleagues when they sat together on a NATO summit conference in Rome ten years ago. Alessio greeted the American with the customary European kiss on both cheeks.

  “Giacomo.” The five-foot-nine Italian was dressed impeccably. He wore a dark gray, handmade, matte satin suit and a white shirt, unbuttoned below the neckline, a gold chain showing through. His sleeves were adorned with eighteen-karat gold cufflinks.

  “Retirement suits you well.” Alessio cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, my friend. Retirement? We’ll see.”

  Although the men hadn’t seen each other in two years, they’d kept in contact. The AISI and its American CIA counterpart were primary users of Giacomo’s drones.

  “Papa.” Alessio kissed his father and then turned as he spoke. “Giacomo, our government is concerned about your safety. The attack is unprecedented. Our country will bring to justice those involved. And if Rio should die . . . well, I can assure you the perpetrators will never reach t
he courts.”

  “Thanks, Alessio.”

  “In a few minutes, we’ll begin the interrogation. You can view the video feed.”

  Alessio picked up the remote and turned on the TV. A test pattern popped up on the display, followed by the image of a room outfitted with overhead lights and emergency medical equipment. The interrogator viewed an image on the computer monitor, her right hand pointed to a mark on the screen.

  Alessio glanced at the time on his gold watch. “I need to meet with the minister of defense. I’ll be back soon.”

  Giacomo and Sergio watched the two helicopter pilots who were shackled to gurneys. Intravenous bags hung on poles above them. One prisoner rubbed the back of his head and right temple. The examiner sat on a rolling stool. She had short chestnut-brown hair and appeared a bit overweight. Black-rimmed glasses rested on the tip of her nose. She wore a white lab coat with blue lettering sewn above the pocket. A stethoscope hung from her neck. Her nametag read “Dr. B.”

  Giacomo cringed at the sight. Memories of when he was tortured years ago flooded his mind.

  “Giacomo, are you . . .”

  “Yeah—bad memory.”

  “Those two . . . they’ll feel no pain. The truth serum affects only their memories.”

  “Interesting. Why is she studying the computer screen?”

  “No idea.”

  “Probably a monitoring system for the heart.” Giacomo poured water from a pitcher on the table into a glass. He removed the seeds from a lemon wedge and squeezed the rind. The juice from the fruit clouded the clear liquid. “She’s concerned. Hand me the remote, Sergio. Maybe we can change the camera angle—get a close-up?”

  Dr. B used her feet to glide her chair between the two detainees. She examined the head of the prisoner to her left. She then turned to the other and did the same.

  “She’s going back to the monitor.”

  Giacomo pushed various keys on the control pad. He zoomed in on the computer screen.

  “Sergio, why an MRI image of their brains?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “No idea.”

  A female voice came through the speakers. Giacomo manipulated the keys, and the lens panned out to show the room and the inhabitants.

  “I like her voice—soothing,” Giacomo said.

  “Yes, the drug will confuse the brain. Her voice will merge with their subconscious.”

  “No pain?” Giacomo rubbed his shoulder.

  “No pain.”

  The doctor’s calm tone interrupted their conversation. “Who ordered you to shoot down the airplane?”

  “The one with the prophecy.”

  “Is that your leader?”

  “No.”

  “Who is?”

  “The one who knows.”

  She turned to the other prisoner and asked the same questions. The responses were repeated.

  “What prophecy?”

  In unison, both prisoners said, “Prophecy of old. The Gemini.”

  “Gemini?”

  Again, they responded in unison. “The two must not meet. Family must be destroyed. One true world order.”

  “They sound like preprogrammed robots. What the hell is going on, Sergio?” Giacomo queried.

  Dr. B strutted to the door and called an orderly. A man dressed in blue scrubs entered the room and removed the second prisoner. The doctor approached the remaining man. She again examined his skull and then folded her arms across her chest as she reexamined the images. Dr. B shook her head as she plopped back on the stool. With a push of her feet, she scooted over to the prisoner.

  “Will we be able to speak with her?”

  “I’m sure, Giacomo. Alessio will arrange it.”

  Giacomo manipulated the controls and zoomed in on the MRI. “Sergio, both men have the same image of a white line in their brain. I want a copy of those MRIs.”

  “Who has the journal?”

  The screen went black.

  “What the hell?”

  * * *

  A petite, dark-haired woman lingered in the corridor on the third floor of the AISI building. She glimpsed up at the security camera and waved. The guard monitoring the feed smiled at the display. She walked into the women’s bathroom as she always did at this time of day. The guard’s eyes focused, he waited for her to return and acknowledge him again. His love framed in front of the camera, opened her blouse, blew him a kiss, waved, and fell to the floor. His hand slammed the red alarm button . . .

  * * *

  Giacomo’s face betrayed the disappointment he felt. “What the hell happened to the video?” He took the remote and pushed the buttons as he tried to make the screen come alive. “What the—” The sound of an explosion silenced his words. An alarm rang. The concussion of the blast knocked Sergio off his seat.

  Pandemonium ensued. Dazed, Giacomo reached for his friend. “Sergio, are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” Sergio touched his head. Blood dribbled from a cut where he had hit the table.

  Giacomo lifted him up off the floor and placed him back on his chair. He reached for the tissues to clean the head wound. The door to the conference room opened with a bang as Alessio, accompanied by two armed men, ran into the room. The alarm ceased.

  “Papa?”

  “Just a little scratch, son.”

  “I have to move you two out of here.”

  “Alessio, what the hell happened?” Giacomo asked as he helped Sergio stand.

  “The interrogation room was blown up.”

  Chapter 30

  In a secure area fenced off by police barricades, Giacomo watched the EMT clean Sergio’s wounded forehead. His white shirt was spotted with blood, and his now-wrinkled sports jacket served as a pillow while the technician finished. Dark black smoke escaped from the fourteenth floor of the seventeen-story building. The cloud obscured the afternoon sun. Burned debris and body parts were scattered along the narrow street. Two hundred government employees had been evacuated and moved a safe distance away. The news media interviewed eyewitnesses as their telephoto lenses captured the scene. Alessio approached his father.

  “Papa, are you sure?” He touched the now-bandaged wound.

  “Other than a headache, I’m fine. Help me sit up.”

  The EMT nodded as he discarded his bloodied latex gloves.

  “This is my fault.”

  “No, Giacomo, our world is crazy. I reviewed the security footage.” Alessio turned his head. “One of our own—an office clerk with a bomb strapped to her stomach.”

  “Suicide bomber?” Giacomo shook his head in disbelief. “How?”

  “No idea.”

  “Did she target the interrogation room?”

  “Yes. The explosive force swept downward into the room, killing the interrogator as well as the prisoner.” He described the events in the video.

  “She waved at the camera?”

  “Yes, she was the girlfriend of one of our security people.”

  “Is he involved?”

  “No. He set off the alarm. He is, um—how do you say—devastated.”

  “The other prisoner?”

  “Dead.”

  “How many civilians?”

  “Twenty-seven. I need to get both of you out of here. I’ve arranged an armed security detail—”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Giacomo, you have no choice. As far as the ministry is concerned, you’re an Italian national.”

  Giacomo’s cell phone rang.

  “What? Yes, Mr. President. Are we prepared? Good luck, sir.” Giacomo silenced the call as he lowered his head in disgust.

  Alessio’s cell phone chimed next. Giacomo saw the color drain from his face. He guessed Alessio was being briefed on the Israeli attack. The Italian moved to the other side of the street as he li
stened to his earpiece.

  “What’s going on?” Sergio asked Giacomo.

  “Israel nuked Iran.”

  “Just like your father said.”

  “Yeah, but who knew it would be a nuclear strike? A shame we couldn’t stop Israel.”

  “Yes, it is. What’ll happen next?”

  Giacomo’s eyes were distant as he said, “The United States will be attacked—but it will end quickly.”

  “How do you . . .”

  “I just do.” He didn’t feel the need to explain or justify his inner belief.

  Alessio returned with a well-dressed man. “I have a meeting with the defense minister. He wants answers. This is Luciano. He’ll be your driver and bodyguard.”

  The men exchanged pleasantries. Alessio hugged his father longer than usual. Both had tears in their eyes as they kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “Be careful, Alessio.”

  “You too, Papa.”

  “What do you say, Sergio? Let’s make our way out of here.”

  Giacomo’s cell phone rang again as they entered the black Mercedes. He gazed at the caller ID.

  “Yes, dear. I’m fine. I happened to be nearby—nothing more than that, honey. No, I’m not lying. I love you. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

  “Happened to be nearby?” Sergio said.

  “I stretched the truth a little.”

  * * *

  Luciano drove Sergio and Giacomo to the office building. Two more bodyguards met them upon their arrival. Both similar in size, they had square jaws and broad shoulders. The nozzles of their Uzi machine guns hung below their black leather jackets. The men stationed themselves on either side of the car as Giacomo and Sergio exited the vehicle and were escorted to the secured floor of Remote, LLC. Their protectors stayed stationed by the entrance—their automatic weapons exposed for all to view.

  Giacomo pulled his sleeve back, revealing a Tissot watch—a gift from Emily. “Six o’clock, and I’m exhausted.”

  Sergio rubbed his head. “At least we’re not dead. I’m too old for this. Do you think the world will be brought into the conflict between Israel and Iran?”

  “No. This is an isolated issue. Nobody wants a war.”