Sara had already heard the rumors. “It seems to me, that being the case, there is little need for me to go to Raven,” she said.
“I wish that were true. In fact, it’s just the opposite. It’s even more important now. I’m almost afraid to tell you because I realize the added pressure doesn’t help, but here’s the situation. Right now, one of the justices is for us. The other one’s against. In fact, Justice Gainsborough was at first uncommitted, but now is demanding we take her directly to Raven Rock. She doesn’t even want to come here. It’s making it, umm . . . awkward, as you can imagine, forcing her to come out here.”
It took Sara less than half a second to understand what Brucius was really saying. “You’ve got a split decision then. With Justice Jefferson in Raven Rock teamed up with Justice Gainsborough, that would be two against.”
“But Jefferson doesn’t understand the situation. He has no idea what’s going on out here. Remember that, Sara, he doesn’t know. I’m certain he will side with us once he understands the facts.”
“Which means it’s even more important.”
“Yes. It’s even more important that you get to him. Without him, we are through. It’s one for us, two against us. This is the only chance we have.”
Sara thought again, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can,
Brucius. I’ll do anything you ask me to. I’d give my life for my country. Millions of us would. But you’ve got to remember, I’m not a soldier, I’m not a spy. I’m nothing. I don’t have any skills or background that would lead any of us to believe I’m going to be successful. I wonder if we’re all crazy. Are we storming the castle walls with the only thing we have left, a middle-aged mother like myself?”
Brucius shook his head. Very little about Sara came across as middle-aged. And she was far more capable, far more intelligent and resourceful than she was giving herself credit for.
“I’m the last choice, the least likely person to be successful in this thing,” she concluded with a worried look.
“No, Sara, that’s completely wrong. Completely wrong. Yes, we’re sending you into the lion’s den; there’s no sense pretending this is anything else. It would be stupid and patronizing to minimize the danger. But if you can get in there, if you can just talk to him, then you’re not the only choice, you’re the best choice. You have no dog in this fight, not a thing to gain. You’re just a friend. Someone he can trust. Someone who was willing to risk her life just to talk to him. You won’t be asking any favors. You’ll want nothing in return. He’ll listen to you, Sara. He’s a good man. He respects you and Neil. Once you talk to him, I believe he’ll do the right thing. I think it’s going to work.”
Sara drew a long breath. “Is there anything else?” she asked as she stepped toward the door.
Brucius hesitated. “They’re giving you a weapon. A small handgun. It’s light and simple to use. I know you don’t want to take it, but Sara, you can’t be foolish or compassionate or whatever you might want to call it, not right now. If you have to use it, then you do it, you understand? If you need to use it to protect yourself or to protect others, don’t you hesitate. You have an obligation to see this through. There’s too much
riding on this.” He swallowed awkwardly and took a step toward her. “I know how difficult this must be for you, Sara, but this is war. You can’t hesitate to act. If you do, you’ll be dead—and if not you, then maybe Jefferson or someone else. You’ve got to make a commitment. You’ve got to make the right decision now. Put aside your normal motherly instincts, close your eyes, and make the decision that you’ll do anything necessary to make this work.”
“I’m not taking the gun,” she said. Her voice was firm with determination. “There’s no reason I should take it. I couldn’t use it anyway. I couldn’t shoot a sparrow; there’s no way in this world I could shoot another human being.”
“You would if you had to. If the mission depended on it, I think you’d do what you had to do.”
“If it’s likely to come down to that, you’d better send someone else.”
He looked at her and waited, unsure of what to say. “Please take it with you, Sara.”
She only shook her head. “Is there anything else?”
“Think about your children.”
“I think about them every day. Every moment. They’re the only thing I think about.”
“Then do what it takes to protect yourself.”
“I’m not going to take the gun.”
They stared at each other angrily. She was so stubborn. He was so determined. She didn’t understand how it might help her in a desperate situation. He didn’t understand the sense of kindness in her heart.
“Please,” he tried a final time.
She headed for the door. “My flight is waiting.”
He reached out and touched her arm, turning her around. She looked at him, her eyes hard. His voice was soft and
pleading now. “Please be careful, Sara. Please go and get him out of there.”
She glanced down at his hand then took another long breath. “Things will be okay.” She patted his arm and turned around.
He watched her go, the glass door closing behind her softly. For a long time he stood there, considering the last thing she had said.
“Things will be okay.”
He wondered what that meant.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Closing their eyes, the three of them slipped away, drifting into agitated and restless sleep.
Half a world apart, two of them dreamed in the darkness while one dreamed in the light. One of the dreams was a dream of warning; while two were dreams of peace.
All were premonitions of the future.
And all would change their lives.
* * *
She slept inside the moving aircraft as it cruised at nearly supersonic speed across the vast emptiness of the North Atlantic Ocean. They were high, above 43,000 feet. It was early evening and because they were heading east, the day was short, the sun setting behind them in a third of the time it normally took for darkness to come on.
Azadeh sat near the back of the high-performance military executive transport. Sam and the other soldiers huddled near the front. The aircraft was too small for them to stand and the seats were close together, the aisle narrow, so they bunched up behind the cockpit door, which was open, allowing them to see the rows of multicolored panels and other cockpit instrument displays.
Azadeh watched and listened for as long as she could force herself to stay awake, but sheer exhaustion eventually overcame her and she drifted off to sleep.
* * *
It was a dark world, filled with noise and rubble and filth and smoke. It was hard to breathe, the air tart and acidic with the burning fuel and rubber from the line of destroyed cars that littered the dark and empty streets. Behind her, she could hear the muffled but heartbreaking sobbing of a mother who’d lost her child. Azadeh pressed her scarf to her face, holding her palm against her nose to filter the dirty air. There was something else in the odor, heavier, more powerful, and it made her stomach turn. The smell of decaying flesh. A hot wind blew up from the south, swirling pieces of paper and tattered garbage at her feet.
Without warning, there was a terrible roar behind her; she didn’t even have time to turn before the fighter aircraft—dark with heavy bombs hanging from its canted wingtips, its two engines spouting blue flames—screamed over her head. It was so low she could actually feel the heat from its engines, the roar so powerful she could feel it in her chest, the passing air so piercing she had to slap her hands against her ears.
The fighter disappeared as quickly as it had screamed up from behind her, leaving her with the emptiness again. The crying mother was silent now. There was not another soul around.
She stood there a long moment. She felt so desperate and alone. The empty street stretched on before her, straight, without any intersections or cross streets, an unending canyon of buildings on both sides. Everywhere she looked it was t
he same hopeless devastation, the same fatal sense of despair. Moving to a
smoldering car beside her, she stepped up on its crooked bumper and looked down the street for as far as she could see. It grew darker in the distance, the details swallowed up in the dying light.
She took a breath and squared her shoulders.
She had no choice but to walk it.
She shivered, stepped down from the car, and started walking. The street continued stretching out before her. She moved faster now, feeling a sense of urgency she hadn’t felt before.
Farther.
Faster.
She almost broke into a run.
Something was up before her. Something important. Something good.
She saw a flash of movement and slowed her pace. A thick darkness had gathered all around her but she didn’t feel afraid anymore.
Realizing the peace inside her, she stopped.
For the first time since the day on the mountain when her father had been killed, it was true: She realized she wasn’t afraid any longer. She felt sure and peaceful. She felt warm and full of joy.
A little boy emerged from the shadows and walked into the street. She didn’t move, her heart beating in her chest, her eyes wide in awe, her hands brought together in surprise. He was so beautiful. Flowing hair. Wide, almond eyes. Dark skin. Beautiful teeth behind a flashing smile. A little girl followed him. Azadeh sucked in her breath again. A brother and his little sister. She was as beautiful as he. The little girl walked toward her older brother and he turned to help her to navigate the cluttered street.
Looking up, the little boy finally caught sight of Azadeh. Seeing her, he stopped.
He was close now, so close she could read every expression in his eyes.
He looked back and pulled his sister to him, then turned to her and smiled.
She felt so beautiful and peaceful. The smoke and death and darkness and fear were gone now. It was just her and the children and she almost wept with joy.
She knelt down and extended her hands, beckoning to them carefully, but the children didn’t move. She moved forward slowly, afraid that they might flee. They stood their ground as if waiting, and she beckoned to them again.
Suddenly she stopped.
She couldn’t get any closer to them. It was as if she had hit a wall. Some unseen barrier lay between her and the children and it wouldn’t let her pass.
She cried in desperation, gesturing for them to come.
“Not yet,” the little boy whispered to her.
Turning to his sister, he led her away down the street.
“Please don’t go!” Azadeh called out to them.
Their forms started merging with the darkness and they almost disappeared.
“No, no,” Azadeh cried. “Please, do not go. Tell me your names. Tell me who you are! Tell me why I’m here alone.”
The little boy stopped and turned toward her.
“Who are you?” Azadeh cried.
“We are Tomorrow,” he whispered to her, then waved good-bye and turned around.
* * *
The king of the House of Saud—perhaps the most powerful mortal in the world, for the moment at least—slept restlessly, always turning, sometimes snoring, his eyelids fluttering. Though the thermostat was set at 58 degrees, the line of
powerful, industrial-sized air conditioners that cooled the ancient castle churning out a constant stream of cold air, he was sweating from head to toe. Rolling and mumbling constantly, he never woke, leaving his sheets damp and clammy with drying sweat.
As he tossed and moaned, he dreamed.
* * *
He was sitting on a throne of gold. Twice the size of a man, it was tall and noble and adorned with precious metals and all the jewels of the Nile. Jagged eagles’ talons were fashioned at the four legs and stone jaguar heads sat below the armrests where he placed his hands. A cavernous hall lay before him, narrow and full of light. Two rows of enormous marble pillars stretched into the distance, but there was no ceiling overhead. A deep, maroon carpet lay between the marble pillars, extending from the foot of the throne as far as he could see.
The king waited.
He fidgeted.
He swore and cursed.
But still he waited. And he didn’t even know why.
Hours later, he checked the time again. His golden watch was broken. He didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting, but it felt like days. He was hungry and thirsty, exhausted and angry. Whatever he was waiting for, he wanted it over. He was ready to have it done. He tried standing up to leave, but a great weight kept pushing him down and he fell back, exhausted, knowing he couldn’t go.
Suddenly, far in the distance, he heard an unseen door open on mighty hinges. Footsteps. The click of metal. He squinted into the distance, his heart racing, sweat pouring down his sides.
The American warrior emerged from the last pillar to his right and started walking down the heavy carpet toward him. Young and proud, broad-shouldered and strong-armed, the young man walking toward him was wearing modern battle gear. Twenty paces before the king, he stopped, lifted his assault rifle, and aimed at him.
Abdullah tried to scream. No sound came out. He tried to flee but couldn’t move.
Uncertain, the young man moved his eye away from the scope atop his weapon, looked at the king, cocked his head as if listening to some unheard voice, hesitated as if resisting, then angrily lowered his weapon and walked a few steps closer. The king felt a growing surge of fear as the young man drew near. It sank into him, deep and penetrating and far more powerful than any emotion he’d ever felt before. Black and consuming, the fear made him sick inside. He felt his stomach rising. He swallowed to keep it down. “Stop! STOP!” he cried in horror.
At the sound of his voice, the young warrior was instantly gone.
The king’s dead brother stood before him now, his face rotted with death and maggot-eaten flesh. He smiled harshly as he spoke, his teeth protruding through split lips. “My son will be the cause of your destruction,” his brother said.
The king tried to cry out but the breath was frozen inside him.
His dead brother’s eyes were vacant as he spoke. “My son will cause your death.”
The king felt his heart quake again. He tried to cry out. He tried to run. He tried to turn away. But all he could muster was the smallest movement of his head. “Not if I kill him first,” he finally had the strength to answer in defiance.
“Especially if you try to kill him.”
The king forced himself to sit up straight upon his throne. Raising his fist, he cried out to the corpse, “This is my world. You are gone now. There’s nothing you can do to stop me!”
“Beware, my little brother, or you’re going to stop yourself!”
The dead brother glared at him, howled like a banshee, then lowered his eyes and disappeared.
* * *
Sara’s dream was short and intense and she wakened with a start.
Her eyes shooting open, she looked around anxiously, taking in her surroundings: the bright sun to her right, the dry leaves on the passing trees, a long line of brown grass below a razor-topped fence. They were riding in a military van, heading southeast along the main aircraft parking ramp at Offutt Air Force Base. She turned her head against the back of the seat and glanced toward Ammon and Luke, who were sitting at her side. Ammon looked at her and forced a smile. “You doing okay, Mom?” he asked.
She had dreamed. It was important. But it was fading . . .
It wasn’t until then that she remembered where she was going. Her heart leapt inside her chest.
The military vehicle sped along the airport taxiway. The driver kept his eyes ahead, taking in the sentries who were posted at the entrance to the aircraft parking ramp. The major in the passenger’s seat turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Just about there, Mrs. Brighton.”
She nodded but didn’t answer.
“Have you got everything?” he as
ked her for the second time.
She nodded again.
Ammon shifted in the seat and looked ahead. “The aircraft is waiting for you.”
Sara followed his eyes. The military jet was blue and white and had no markings other than a small USAF emblem and U.S. flag on the tail. Her personal ride to Raven Rock. A fresh surge of adrenaline rushed through her and she took a deep breath to keep her heart from racing.
She turned to her sons and whispered so the men in the front seat couldn’t hear. “I had a dream,” she told them.
They looked at her. Something in her voice told them it was important, and they waited for her to go on.
“A young man came to me. He was white and beautiful.”
Ammon cocked his head, his eyes solemn, his face expectant. “Who was it, Mom?”
She looked away and thought for a moment before she turned back. Her two sons waited. A reverent feeling filled the car.
“I don’t know, I don’t remember. It’s right there, so close, sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite remember. If I just had time to think about it . . .”
The major turned around again. “This is it,” he announced. The van was slowing down. “They radioed ahead and the flight crew is waiting for you.”
The vehicle came to a stop and a waiting guard slid the rear door open. “Mrs. Brighton,” he said as he extended a hand to help her out.
She glanced anxiously toward her sons. The door on the other side of the van was opening as well, and another guard was standing there.
There wasn’t time to think about the dream now. It would have to wait.
She shrugged and stepped out of the van and into the light of the bright sun reflecting off twenty acres of white cement.
Her sons came around the car to talk to her. There were a lot of men around so Ammon pulled them all aside.
“You don’t have to do this, Mom,” he said again.
She patted his arm reassuringly. “I know that, son.”
“You could come back to the hangar . . .”
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