by Jason Elam
“Where’s Skeeter?” Scott asked.
“That’s ’splaining number one. Skeeter’s in Alaska, where these two little chatterboxes left him,” Riley answered, motioning to the FBI agents. “And I’m thinking he’s probably going to want to take his abandonment issues out on you because of it.”
Scott’s face reddened, but Riley wasn’t sure whether it was from anger or from fear of what Skeeter was going to do to him the next time they were together. “Devoe, didn’t I tell you to bring the big dude that was going to be with Riley?”
Devoe walked toward Scott and held out some papers. “Sir, our written orders were for Riley Covington to be transported to Andrews Air Force Base. Riley Covington is now at Andrews Air Force Base.”
Scott brushed the papers away. “But I specifically told you that Riley doesn’t go anywhere without Skeeter!”
With a quick nod to Riley, Devoe said, “I think I’d have to challenge you on that point, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” And the FBI agent turned to walk away.
“Sure, whatever,” Scott said, dismissing the agent with a wave of his hand. Riley could hear him mumbling, “Skeeter is going to freaking kill me” as he stared at the ground. Suddenly Scott’s head popped up. “Devoe, where are Riley’s bags?”
As Devoe turned around, Riley said to Scott, “That’s ’splaining number two.”
“What? You don’t have a bag?” Scott asked as the color drained from his face.
“He does have these,” Agent Benson said as he exited the plane. He tossed Riley’s waders to the hangar floor, sending chunks of dried mud skittering across the clean surface.
Devoe held out the papers a second time. “Sir, our orders were to expedite Riley Covington. Taking time to go to his house so that he could pick through his wardrobe would not have been expeditious.”
“Oh, brilliant! Way to think out of the box, Devoe,” Scott complained, rolling his eyes. “I guess if my orders had been to pick up Riley and run him back here, you guys would be on foot about seventy-five miles down the Alaskan Highway.”
Devoe clearly wanted to extricate himself from the situation and move on to bigger and better things than chauffeuring a football star from one end of the country to the other. “Sir, if you’re through, we’ve got—”
“Yeah, I know, places to go and wires to tap,” Scott interrupted. “Thanks, Devoe and Benson, you’ve been real gems. It’s good to know the domestic safety of our nation rests in creative minds like yours.”
Benson seemed about to say something, but Devoe stopped him. They walked to a waiting black sedan and drove away.
Scott turned to Riley. “I’m so sorry, Pach. If I had known . . .” Scott’s voice trailed off as he stepped back to take a good look at his friend’s apparel—a dirt-stained T-shirt, clean khaki shorts, and mud-caked rubber galoshes. Suddenly Scott began chuckling.
“What?” Riley asked self-consciously.
As his laughing grew, Scott tried to speak but couldn’t. Soon he was doubled over with his hands on his knees. Tears poured down his face.
“Come on, man, it’s not the best look, but it’s not that funny,” Riley protested.
Scott tried to speak. “If . . . if only . . . if you only knew where . . .” He couldn’t continue. Taking Riley by the arm, he stumbled over to the Suburban.
Wednesday, July 22, 6:30 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
“I’m going to see who?” Riley asked, panic quickly setting in.
Riley’s reaction to the information Scott had just given him sent his friend into another fit of hysterics.
“Scott, it’s not funny! There’s no way I can go there looking like this!” Riley’s voice was pleading now. He currently had a galosh on each hand and was slamming them together, futilely trying to knock the caked-on mud from the boots.
In the last row of the Suburban, Scott half stood from his seat so that he could tuck his dress shirt into his suit pants. Riley watched him in a mix of anger, horror, and envy.
“Couldn’t we just pull into a Target? I’d be in and out in like five minutes max!”
Stealing a quick glance at his watch, Scott answered, “Pach, dude, you know I’d love to, but we can’t. We’re already running late. If we miss our time, there’s no telling when we’ll get on the schedule again. Besides, I doubt anything’s open yet.”
Scott’s grin made Riley question the veracity of his friend’s claim. But he’s not really that cruel, Riley thought; is he? He turned in his seat and dropped the galoshes to the floor. He looked out the window; off in the distance he could see the Washington Monument standing strong against the July sunrise. It doesn’t matter how many times I see this city, it never gets old—the monuments, the Capitol, the White House . . . A sudden wave of dread washed over Riley. Ugh, the White House.
“Scott, there’s absolutely no way I can meet with the president looking like I just got out of—well, like I just came off of a muddy beach after a day of clamming,” Riley continued his protest.
“Sorry, buddy, but we don’t really have a choice. Besides, he’ll probably just think you’re an eccentric sports star. Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s easy for you to say! You’re wearing the suit,” Riley argued, watching Scott clip on his tie.
“Quit acting like such a diva. You look fine.”
Or at least Riley thought he said “fine.” Scott’s laughter made it difficult to fully decipher his final words.
With a sigh, Riley resigned himself to his fate. “Okay, can you at least tell me why I’m meeting with President Lloyd, or is that beyond my security clearance?”
Scott sobered up quickly. “Believe it or not, this all has to do with your senior thesis at the Air Force Academy.”
A fist clenched Riley’s stomach. What in the world could his thesis have to do with anything? Did they think that he stole someone else’s ideas or plagiarized someone’s quotes? Yeah, brilliant deduction. The president of the United States is now doubling as the academic dean for the Air Force Academy. Besides, you know you never did anything like that. “Go on,” he prodded Scott.
“You remember you wrote about strategic defense against EMP bombs?”
The fist that had clenched Riley’s stomach now gave it a twist. “Please tell me they’re just taking some of my advice and shoring up our infrastructure against potential electromagnetic pulse strikes?”
“Unfortunately, it may be a little too late for that,” Scott said as he finished wrestling his right foot into a dress shoe and sat up in the seat.
Riley’s heart sank. “What do you mean? Are we in danger of an EMP hit?”
Scott shrugged. “Unfortunately, we just don’t know for sure. MI6 got some information from . . . You know what? We really shouldn’t be having this conversation here. The White House has an SCIF where I could fill you in on the whole backstory.”
An SCIF, Riley knew, was a sensitive compartmented information facility. These rooms were built for privacy and secrecy. The walls were made of reinforced concrete at least eight inches thick, and it was regularly swept for bugs. If Scott or someone else at CTD had received intelligence from MI6, the British secret intelligence service, it would be highly classified and then some. Proper procedure would have any conversation of this clearance level taking place in one of these specialized rooms.
But Riley knew that time was short, and the last thing he wanted to do was go into a meeting with the president of the United States not only looking like a fool but sounding like one too.
“Scott, I need to know what’s going on. Do you really think we need to worry about a security breach in this Suburban?”
Scott looked around and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Okay. So MI6 got some info from a North Korean mole via a Chinese pipeline. Apparently, Pyongyang saw fit to sell two EMP devices to a terrorist group that is intent on bringing them here to the U.S.”
Fear stole into Riley’s heart. Depending on the type of device, this cou
ld mean the end of the United States as it currently existed. Even a small EMP weapon could knock a major city back to the Stone Age for months or years to come. “What’s the size of the device? What sort of delivery system was sold with it? How high in the atmosphere could it get?”
“Like I said, we just don’t know for sure. We don’t even know if it’s nuclear or nonnuclear. All we think we know is—” Scott held up a finger for each point—“two EMPs, headed for the U.S., North Korea to terrorists.”
“What kind of pressure are we putting on North Korea?”
“Come on, you know North Korea. It’s already the most sanctioned country on the face of the earth. Besides, right now this is still an intelligence rumor. It’s completely uncorroborated. Without more evidence, if we acted against the DPRK it would cause a firestorm of international protest.”
“But—”
“I know this MI6 analyst. I trust her. Her name’s Anna Zeller, and she and I have traded information for years. She’s not one to fly off the handle or run after cheap leads. Pach, she’s scared. Scared for us.”
Riley paused to let the information sink in. Writing that thesis had been one of the first eye-openers he’d had as a young cadet as to how dangerous a place the world was. EMPs could mean millions dead, America gone, the world changed. The scenario was so extreme that he had never been able to shake it from his mind. Back home in Parker, he had a shelf on his bookcase devoted completely to books, reports, and videos discussing the EMP threat.
He stretched his arm across the back of the seat, but the smell from his armpit caused him to drop it again. Then a thought struck him. “But what am I doing here in D.C., going to see the president?”
Scott’s crafty smile spread across his face as he reached into his shaving kit and tossed Riley a stick of Right Guard Xtreme Power Gel. “I need someone to fill President Lloyd in on worst-case EMP scenarios.”
With a nod of thanks, Riley popped the cap, twisted up the gel, and glided it under his arms. Then, taking one more whiff of himself, he rubbed it over his chest and stomach and put a little on the outside of the shirt, too. As he rubbed, he said, “But, Scott, I wrote that thesis years ago, and since then I could hardly be described as an EMP expert. Shouldn’t you find some egghead PhD who’s made the study of electromagnetic pulse weapons his life’s work?”
“No, I need you in there. First of all, EMPs are still an understudied and underappreciated technology. So, sure, there are a handful of eggheads out there who are experts in this. However, between your thesis and your continued research, you’re probably barely behind the curve. But, more importantly, an egghead is not going to help me with what I have planned,” Scott said firmly. Then his resolve faltered a bit, and he added, “And this is where things could get a little bit dicey between us.”
“Dicey how?” Riley asked suspiciously. He recognized the tone in Scott’s voice. It often accompanied major changes that Scott had planned for Riley’s life.
“Oh, Pach,” Scott began with a little chuckle, “you are seriously gonna laugh. At least I hope you’re going to laugh.” Scott looked at Riley with a big grin, apparently hoping that his humorous demeanor would at least get a smile out of his friend. Riley tossed the deodorant stick back to Scott and continued to stare.
“Okay, man, it’s like this. I need you in there because I need to establish you as an expert on EMP weapons. So while you’re in with the president, if you don’t know something, fake it.”
Riley was about to protest, but Scott pushed on. “The reason I need to establish you as an expert is because I need you. You’re the only one I trust to lead the operations side of the team. I can’t put some dude with a pocket protector in with the guys. If the terrorists didn’t rip him to shreds, the ops team would. You, however, have proven your leadership, and the guys on the team already practically worship you. So you’ve got the ops cred. However, I also need someone leading my team who understands EMP weapons inside and out and can recognize one when he sees one. I know enough about EMPs to be dangerous to our team; you know enough to be dangerous to the terrorists.”
“Scott, you forget one thing,” Riley said. “I’m a football player with the Colorado Mustangs. You’ve been to the games. You’ve seen me out on the field, remember? I was the guy with the number 50 on his back and a big Covington written across his shoulders. I am not, nor do I have any current desire to be, a member of the counterterrorism division. I play football, Scott. That’s what I do!” But even as Riley was saying the words, he knew they were going nowhere.
“Yeah, right . . . well, you see . . . ,” Scott hemmed and hawed.
Exasperated, Riley ordered, “Just say it!”
“Okay, Pach, don’t hate me for this. I kind of asked Stanley Porter to pull a few strings. And he kind of got Homeland Security involved. And they kind of got the FBI involved.”
“Scott! Just tell me what you’ve done to screw up my life!”
“Okay, so it’s like this. You know you don’t still play for the Colorado Mustangs—and I’ll be more than happy to forgive you that little lie. And in return, I hope you’ll be willing to extend me some forgiveness when I tell you that . . . well . . . you know the little football trade that you haven’t mentioned to me because I’m not supposed to know about it?”
Riley didn’t answer.
“Well, believe it or not, that was sort of my idea.”
“What?” Riley was in shock. Scott had done things in the past to mess with Riley’s life, but this far surpassed them all—this was beyond the pale. This was just plain wrong!
“I’m sorry, Pach, but I had to do it!”
Riley leaned way over the back of his seat, and Scott sank back into his. “You had to do it? Okay, you tell me why you had to do it! You tell me why you had to uproot my life and pull me away from the team I love and the teammates I love! Go ahead, friend, tell me!”
Scott was angry now too. He sat up right in Riley’s face. “Because your country needs you! Because I need you! And even if you aren’t feeling it right now, I know you well enough to believe that you would much rather be here saving lives than in Denver playing games!”
Riley leaned back into his own space. “Well, I sure appreciate having someone in my life who can force the big decisions on me, because heaven knows I couldn’t handle them myself! I mean, don’t you think you could have at least asked me? Couldn’t you have given me at least that much respect?”
Scott’s anger deflated. “You’re right, Riley; you’re right. I’m sorry about that. Things just got going so quickly that I’ve just been in action mode. I should have asked.”
Riley looked into Scott’s eyes and could see the sincerity of his apology. But he also got the sense that there was more that Scott was hiding from him.
But before he had a chance to pry deeper, Scott said, “If all goes well with the meeting with the president, he’s prepared to give you full security clearance. You’ll be living a very busy life. In the hours you’re not with the Warriors, you’ll be working with us preparing the ops boys.”
Riley sat there letting the information sink in. At least he had an answer to why such an illogical trade had happened. And, he had to admit, spending time with his buddies on the CTD ops team again did hold a definite appeal. Then a thought struck him.
“And Khadi? Is she on board with this?”
Scott gave a soft laugh. “You know, it was all I could do to keep her from telling you. I finally had to threaten her security clearance. But, yeah, Khadi’s on board.
“Like I said earlier, you’re the only one we—that’s both Khadi and me—can fully trust with the special ops. You have our respect and the respect of the men. If this EMP thing is for real, I want somebody leading the team who fully understands what’s happening and knows the full ramifications if it actually goes down. Nobody else I know has that knowledge base. Remember your words to me: ‘Anything, anytime, anywhere’? Well, this is the thing, now is the time, and here is the where.�
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Riley shook his head, angry at the way Scott had thrown his words back at him. How? How in the world did this happen again? Lord, this is getting too much for me. For once, can’t my life follow my plan?
Riley sighed, resigned. It was a fait accompli. Fighting it was going to get him nowhere. Quietly, he said, “But I’m just a football player. I’m just a dumb football player.”
“First of all, Pach, you’re not dumb,” Scott said, giving Riley’s shoulder a shake, then leaning back in his seat. “You know that already. And second, if these two bombs are big enough and have a high enough atmospheric detonation, not just professional football but American civilization as we know it will, in the blink of an eye, totally cease to exist. Doesn’t really matter who you’re playing for then.”
Wednesday, July 22, 7:20 a.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Any self-consciousness Riley had felt in the Suburban was multiplied exponentially as he and Scott walked through the White House. He could hear people all around him whispering and snickering. One staffer made a crack about Riley being a “Gitmo reject” a little too loudly, drawing an admonishing look from their escort, a woman in her midfifties who walked with the authority of someone who had been ushering people through these sacred halls for years.
It was becoming more and more obvious that Riley’s deodorant bath was only partially working, and his right galosh had developed a bit of a sucking, popping sound as he walked, which only added to the nightmare.
As he passed the portraits on the walls and the curios set on small tables, he could feel the history of the place. It was like walking into the past—all the events that he had read about for years in dry textbooks were coming alive all around him. A visit into the inner sanctums of this building was a dream come true for Riley. And here he was experiencing it while looking way too much like Tom Hanks’s castaway, albeit only four days into the bushy beard.
Riley tried to put the situation out of his mind by concentrating on what Scott had told him about the people they were about to meet. President Lloyd was a liberal, antimilitary Democrat elected based on his promise to bring peace to the country and harmony with the world. However, Riley had heard that Lloyd’s “Give Peace a Chance” bubble had burst during his first presidential intelligence briefing, during which he learned what was really happening throughout the world.
