(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  He had dreamed it again.

  A clear summer day. A billowing cluster of thunderstorms. The sky was so huge and he was so small. The storms turned black as lightning flashed from the sky to strike the ground around him. He felt a deep and sudden chill. Someone was walking toward him, but he couldn’t see who it was. The outline was familiar. Who was it? He couldn’t see! He lifted his eyes in time to see a white-hot burst from a nuclear explosion. The man was instantly swept away by the nuclear fireball.

  His breathing was labored, and yet Sara remained sleeping on her side of the bed, her face in her pillow, her hair spread across the white sheets. He sat there in the moonlight that illuminated the room, staring straight ahead, trying to focus his eyes. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. The terror had not gone away.

  The mushroom clouds. The young man.

  Who was he? Why so familiar? Why couldn’t he see his face?

  He had never suffered dreams. But now he had to wonder, am I being warned?

  For a long time he sat motionless, resting his face on his palms, staring at the dark floor. Finally Sara rolled over, and he looked at the clock. Almost four in the morning. Time to get up anyway. He had a meeting with the National Security Staff, and he had things to prepare.

  *******

  General Brighton got a call on his office desk phone a little after ten in the morning.

  “Neil,” a husky voice boomed through the nonclassified line. “Aaron Statskily. You got thirty seconds?”

  Aaron Statskily, chief of staff of the Army, thin, bespectacled, a marathon runner who was awarded more Purple Hearts out of the Gulf War than any other man. He and Neil had gotten to know each other at War College, the interservice advanced training school for up-and-coming officers, then lost touch for a few years before hooking up again in Washington, D.C. Not close, but professional, they respected each other and spoke frequently.

  Neil glanced at his watch. He had a 10:15 a.m. meeting at the Pentagon, and it would be tight, but the good news was that when General Statskily said thirty seconds, that’s about what he took. He, like General Brighton, was a man pressed for time, and he milked every second out of every minute he had.

  Outranked by two stars, Brighton was deferential to his friend. “General Statskily, I always have time for you,” he said in a friendly tone.

  “Cut the crap, Neil, I know how busy you are. You’re juggling more fur balls than a constipated cat.”

  Neil smiled. Aaron Statskily created more awkward metaphors than anyone he had ever known. “OK,” he answered with a light laugh. “We both are busy, general. So what’s going on?”

  Statskily coughed. “Professional courtesy.” His voice was not booming so much anymore.

  Neil hesitated. Professional courtesy. He knew what that meant. Off the record. General to general. A private conversation among close friends. “Gotcha,” Brighton answered, sitting on the edge of his desk.

  Statskily went on. “I got a call from Colonel Dentworth, an old friend who runs our manpower shop, you know, the flesh peddlers down at the Army’s Military Personnel Center. He told me something interesting. Seems some of the Cherokee guys have been looking at your kid. They’ve been watching him. They like him.” The general hesitated. “They like him a lot.”

  “Really,” Brighton answered, feeling a sudden jab at his gut.

  “Yeah. Sounds like they want to bring him into their group.”

  Brighton gritted his teeth. But he kept his voice even. “Well . . .” he started to say. “That’s very . . . cool. Not surprising. Sam’s a very good soldier.”

  “Apparently so. Now, I’m sure you know the reason I’m calling, but let me state the obvious. We want to know how you’d feel. You know the Cherokees. You know what they do. They fall directly under the National Command Authority, as you certainly know as well, since you’re the guy at the White House who tasks them. Which seems to raise a question: Is that going to be a problem for you? Would it make it more difficult for you to do your job, knowing your son is going to be assigned to the most aggressive and high-risk unit in the army?

  “So I’m asking straight up. Do you want me to kill this? If you do, everyone understands. One word from you, Neil, and we put this thing to bed. Your son will never be disappointed because he’ll never know. Not so much as a whisper. You have my word.”

  The four-star general fell quiet. Brighton stood and paced back and forth, pulling the extension cord with his hand.

  The truth was, he was proud. Terrified, but proud. The Cherokees were the absolute best of the best. The tip of the sword. One in ten thousand soldiers were good enough to be a Cherokee. But what they did was so dangerous and barely legal. They operated in a very different world.

  Could he deny Sam the opportunity at the most coveted assignment in the Army?

  Doing so would make his work that much more difficult. But he knew he couldn’t stand in his way.

  Then he had one final thought.

  Sara would have a fit if she knew that he had a chance to stop him and didn’t take it.

  SIX

  Washington, D.C.

  Ammon and Luke Brighton met for midmorning breakfast at one of the little fast-food places that lined the Student Center building on the campus at George Washington University. Ammon had just come from his first class and Luke had just come from the gym. They each bought a cinnamon roll, big as a saucer and with about a thousand grams of fat and sugar, then sat down at the one of the small tables in the hall. Hundreds of rushing students passed by them, but they concentrated on their food. Five minutes later, no longer hungry, they sat back and relaxed.

  “What you got going today?” Ammon asked.

  “Not a lot. Econ quiz. Biology lab. Some old, same old. You think Dad is still planning on meeting us down at the harbor for . . . .”

  “No. He called me earlier. Said he couldn’t make it. Said maybe sometime next week.”

  Luke scoffed. “Yeah, right. When pigs sprout wings and fly.”

  “Don’t be angry at him, Luke. He’s doing the best he can.”

  “I’m way more than angry, but I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at them. The ones who put him under so much pressure. They ride him like a bad horse. They keep whipping and whipping. One day he’s going to fall down. You can only ride a horse so long, spur it so many times, before it blows out its lungs.”

  “Pretty graphic,” Ammon smiled.

  “I feel graphic,” Luke replied.

  “Still, don’t be ticked off at Dad. And don’t worry about him either. You and Mom worry too much. I can see that something sustains him. Can’t you see it too? He’s doing something very important, and the Big Guy knows that. I think he’ll be OK.”

  Luke nodded, and then stood up quickly. “Got to go,” he said. “Econ quiz. I’m not ready.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “You need a ride this afternoon?”

  “No. I’ll take the Metro.”

  “OK. See you later, dude.”

  “Good luck on your test.”

  *******

  Luke had seen her before—many times, in fact. They were in the same freshman economics class, but then so were a couple hundred other kids. Sometimes he would see her at the gym where he lifted weights and she always ran. They passed each other in the hall, but they never spoke, for it seemed whenever he saw her she was never alone. He didn’t know where she was from, but it appeared that her entire high-school class had followed her to college. She was always surrounded by friends. But though they had never spoken, he had watched her. Icy blue eyes. Long, blond hair. Legs that didn’t quit. She was beautiful. And sophisticated. And where did she get that tan? She had a lot of money; he knew that from the way that she dressed. Those who had it, those who really had it—not just a few millions but much more than that—had a thing about them that was hard to hide. Assuming they wanted to hide it, which, of course, they never did. If money talks, then big money screams, and everything about her scre
amed like a high-pitched cry in the dark.

  Luke was sitting on a bench outside the university library when she walked up to him. It was a brisk fall day and a cool breeze blew, taking the humidity and smog of the district and flinging it east. He was reading—cramming, really—for the upcoming economics quiz when her shadow fell over his textbook. He didn’t look up. She waited for a while, then, apparently growing impatient, she took a step to the side, formed the silhouette of a pterodactyl with her fingers, and flew the shadow across his page. Luke looked up, his eyes growing large. “Hey there,” he said, keeping the book open in his hands.

  She smiled shyly. A pure act. “Hi. You look busy.”

  Luke flipped the book closed. “Not really,” he lied. “Well, kind of,” he admitted. “I’ve got a test in a couple minutes.”

  “Well, that’s very important. I’ll just leave you alone.” Her voice was soft and deliberate. She oozed confidence.

  “Are you kidding?” Luke jumped up. “I mean . . .” he stammered. “It’s OK. I’ll do fine. In fact, it’s my economics class. We have it together.”

  “Really?” she answered.

  Luke slumped just a little. Hadn’t she ever noticed me?

  He nodded to the bench beside him. She dropped her backpack and sat down. “Luke Brighton,” he said.

  “Alicia Debonei. Yes, it’s French, which is a coincidence, because so is my father, but please don’t ask.”

  An introduction like that raised a lot of questions, which was her point, of course, but Luke didn’t bite. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s cool,” he said.

  Alicia crossed her arms in front of herself. Her forearms were slender, but her legs were long and strong. She wore a light blue halter top and a white skirt that was just a few inches too high and revealed distracting legs. She had on leather shoes with an insignia he had never seen before, though he recognized it as Italian; a diamond ankle bracelet that was obviously real; no earrings, but a couple of diamond and sapphire rings on her fingers; and a soft fabric headband made out of something . . . shiny, he had no idea what it was. Turning toward him, she flipped a strand of blond hair from in front of her eye. Her hair was a soft color, fine and silky. He stared at the movement, mesmerized just a moment too long. She met his eyes and smiled. He looked away.

  “Are you ready for the econ quiz?” he asked, the only thing he could think of to say.

  “Are you kidding? I was completely lost in that class about five minutes after the professor introduced himself.”

  “It can be kind of tough.”

  “How are you doing?”

  Luke hunched his shoulders. He had a ninety-seven percent average, but if she had been struggling, that might not help him right now. “I’m doing all right,” he answered carefully. “But I have to work really hard.”

  “All work and no play make Jack a very bad boy,” she teased.

  Luke laughed. “I don’t work that hard.”

  She crossed her legs and seemed about to say something when her cell phone rang. She was holding the silver phone inside her palm, and she glanced at it discreetly as she silenced the cell phone.

  “You want to get that?” he asked her.

  “No. It can wait.”

  “No big deal if you want to get it . . . .”

  “Really, it can wait.”

  She tucked the cell phone in her purse. Luke heard it ring again, but she ignored it and focused on him. Then a different ringtone emanated from the purse. Embarrassed, she opened it and silenced a black cell phone.

  “You’re a busy girl,” he said.

  “So sorry,” she sighed. There she went, tossing that pesky strand of hair once again. He really wished she wouldn’t do that. It was completely distracting. But then, so was her smile. So was everything about her. He had trouble thinking of the most basic thing to say to her.

  “So, Miss Debonei-whose-father-is-French-but-let’s-not-talk-about-that-right-now, where you from?” he finally asked her.

  “OK, an average question. Not original, but safe. A casual ice breaker, good enough to get things started, but certainly not going to break any rules.”

  “OK,” Luke laughed, “I’ll try again. So . . . tell me about your father. Is it true he’s an American-hating French industrialist whose grandfather helped the Nazis during World War II?”

  She stared at him, and then started laughing.

  He only smiled in return. But it was a good smile. His face was dark, his eyes bright and friendly.

  She bit on her lip. “I guess I’m a little bit like you. I come from all over, not from only one place.”

  Luke hesitated. “Your father was in the military?”

  “Hardly!” she laughed.

  “Then, I guess . . . .”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” she cut in. “What I want to know is, how many times you have met the president?”

  He hesitated again, surprised. “A couple. How did you know?”

  “Oh, I know about you, Luke Brighton. I guess lots of people do.”

  Luke was dumbfounded. “I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

  “Of course I do,” she laughed. “I did a little asking around. It wasn’t hard to find out. In a school with a lot of famous people’s kids, especially from the government and the international diplomatic corps, how many of their fathers had direct access to. . . . . . the. . . . . . president.” It was clear from her emphasis that she understood.

  Few people recognized what it really meant to work for the president, to actually have access to him, to talk to him every day. Few people really understood what kind of power that could bring. Very few had the rush of adrenaline that came from being near the man.

  Alicia understood it. He didn’t know how, but somehow she understood.

  She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My father hates the president, I must tell you. I mean, he has such a deep-seated, visceral hatred for him, it almost makes him sick. Now, don’t get me wrong, he’s never met the man, so it’s not personal. He’s met the last three presidents, but he has never met this one. He’s from the wrong circles, you understand, the wrong pack and all, but he would pay a million dollars to spend an evening with him. Not just to share a photograph opportunity at a fund-raiser; that’s not how my father operates. He is much more intimate, much more . . . you know . . . friendly than that. But if he were to ever spend an evening with the president, heaven knows what he might say! He thinks the president is deranged. Thinks he’s damaged the world. He considers the president as evil as anything since Hitler, and on a bad day, maybe worse than even him.”

  Luke’s defenses shot up. His shoulders squared and his jaw set. Then he looked at her smile, her blue eyes and soft hair. She watched, and then leaned toward him. “Don’t worry, Luke Brighton, I’m not like my father,” she whispered.

  Luke pulled his head away from the soft whisper that touched his ear. “Who is your father?” he asked.

  She punched him on the shoulder. “Why does he keep coming up?”

  “Because you keep bringing him up,” Luke answered with a grin.

  “Well, yes, I suppose I did . . . .”

  “Debonei . . . Debonei,” Luke thought out loud. “Duh! I know your father. He owns Capital Media Group. How could I be so stupid! It’s only, what, the second largest—no, the largest media empire in the world.”

  Alicia nodded weakly, again, all an act.

  Luke shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should have recognized you,” he apologized.

  “You’re kidding!” she answered. “Like you should apologize for that?”

  “Well, you know, I just suppose that you couldn’t go many places in the world and not have people recognize your name.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, uninterested. “Enough about me,” she said. “Unless you have a fascination with money, and I’m hoping you don’t, then who my father is isn’t any big deal.”

  Luke glanced at his watch. Class in three minutes. “Our econ quiz,”
he said.

  Alicia didn’t move. “We can make it up tomorrow. I’ve already talked to the professor. He said sure, no big deal.”

  Luke nodded happily. He figured Alicia asked a lot of favors and wasn’t disappointed very often. But that was fine by him. He could use another day to study anyway.

  “So, are you going to be a hotshot pilot like your father?” Alicia asked. “Isn’t that what he was before he became a hotshot presidential aide.”

  “Don’t know. Maybe. I love flying, but I haven’t decided. I’ve got a little time to think about it, I figure.”

  “You act like a fighter pilot, did you know that? A little bit arrogant, but in a nice sort of way.”

  Luke faked a hurt expression. She kept on smiling at him.

  “So,” she nodded to his textbook, “do you like our econ class?”

  “Yeah, I actually like it a lot.”

  “I hate it. And I’m not stupid either. I’m not your typical empty-headed blonde, but there’s just something about it that I don’t understand. All the numbers. All the theories. I like things that are more tangible, you know, something I can really think about.”

  “Have you declared a major yet?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  “Political science.”

  “Really!” Luke answered. “Why poli-sci?”

  “Because I love politics. All kinds of politics. And I’m good at it.”

  Luke laughed out loud. With her father’s money and that smile, she could dazzle her way anywhere. “I can see that,” he answered.

  “Bet on it, baby, I am.”

  This time they both laughed.

  The campus was quiet now. Most of the classes had started, so the sidewalks were almost empty; a couple of guys throwing Frisbees® to their dogs on the quad were about all that was left. “You taking Econ II next semester?” Alicia asked as they watched the dogs jump in the air.

  “I won’t be here next semester.”

  She cocked her head. “Had enough of school? Going to drop out and join the Army? Be like your dad? Heading off to hike around Europe for a while?”