‘Great,’ answered Samantha Darnell, Elizabeth Gordon’s longtime videographer. She white balanced the Betacam for outdoor light and maneuvered for an opening shot of Gordon standing in the President’s Park with the Oval Office and the west wing of the White House in the background. It was a clear November day and the gentle breeze played with her hair, creating a soft and attractive effect. ‘The camera never lies,’ she told Gordon.
It was true. Liz Gordon still had a great body and unlined complexion. But her forty years were starting to show and soon the network would find another pretty face, equally articulate and fifteen years younger, to replace her. Then she would start the slow slide out the back door, first losing her White House assignment and then being assigned to cover events the higher-powered personalities considered beneath their status. The unfairness of it all ate at Sam, for Elizabeth Gordon was an excellent reporter.
‘Okay,’ she said, satisfied with the angle and light. ‘Go for sound.’ Gordon spoke a few words. ‘Sound is good. Go.’
Gordon fell into her reporter persona. ‘Today at the White House,’ she began, ‘the President broke his hectic schedule to confer with his unofficial advisor, the dean of American statesmen, Cyrus Piccard.’
Sam had pressed Gordon to report Piccard’s visit to the White House because he was like an ill omen, always appearing on the scene in advance of trouble. It amazed the photographer that the older, more experienced reporters who covered the White House had not made the same connection. Besides, Piccard fit the image of a statesman: tall, dignified, well-dressed in an immaculate, dark, pin-striped suit, and always carrying his trademark ebony cane.
‘The exact topic of discussion,’ Gordon continued, ‘was not mentioned, but a well-placed source in the White House revealed the President was seeking Piccard’s advice on appropriate responses to the escalating violence, starvation and mass migrations in the Third World.’ She rattled off the ideas Sam had given her, sounding like a knowledgeable observer of international affairs. She stopped in mid-sentence.
‘What’s the problem?’ Sam asked. ‘It sounded good.’
‘It won’t make the six o’clock news,’ Gordon said. ‘It’s a nothing, too intellectual for even a slow news day. I’m dying here.’ Sam Darnell nodded in agreement. They needed to find a hot topic that would stir the pot or Elizabeth Gordon was out.
*
Cyrus Piccard stood at the window of Bill Carroll’s office, overlooking the President’s Park. He watched in silence as Gordon and Darnell finished shooting. ‘I remember her as a charming young girl on her first assignment,’ Piccard said. ‘So inexperienced.’
‘Who’s that?’ Carroll asked.
‘Elizabeth Gordon,’ Piccard answered.
‘She’s experienced now,’ Carroll said, joining him at the window. ‘Liz slept her way to fame. But she got her act together and turned into a damn’ good reporter. Unfortunately, reputations die hard and she has to live with hers. Being teamed up with Sam Darnell, her photographer, has helped. Sam’s got a lot going for her.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Piccard said, studying the young woman carrying the camera beside Gordon. He gauged Samantha Darnell to be at least five feet eight inches tall. Her light-brown hair was cut short and she was wearing loose-fitting jeans, a flannel shirt, and a down vest. She walked with an easy stride and made Piccard think of a well-conditioned athlete. ‘She is very attractive,’ he allowed, ‘in a wholesome way.’
Carroll joined him at the window and glanced at the women. They fell silent, thinking of other things and the reason for Piccard’s visit to the White House. ‘I understand the President’s concern,’ Piccard said, ‘about the violence and massive population migrations that are plaguing Mexico and Central America.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘But I simply cannot understand his concern over South Africa.’
‘South Africa,’ Carroll replied, ‘shows every sign of destabilizing. The Pretoria government is talking to the UN Observer Mission about sending in a peacekeeping team in the near future ... probably around Christmas.’
‘It’s the route of Africa,’ Piccard said, falling into the sonorous tones of a statesman discoursing on world events. ‘We have seen it all before. The black liberation movement has replaced the white government ... the new government’s feet of clay are revealed ... it is hopelessly corrupt and inefficient ... the economy is looted ... there is no power sharing ... tribal warfare breaks out ... the UN is called in.’
Piccard sat down. ‘It is a quagmire we have avoided in the past and there is no reason for us to become involved. We have no national interests there.’
‘We may have some very important interests there,’ Carroll told him.
Piccard’s bushy eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Have they discovered large oil deposits in the Kalahari?’ He was a realist who understood the importance of oil to the world economy. It was the only reason he could think of for the United States to become involved in any part of Africa.
‘No,’ Carroll answered. ‘The whites, specifically the Afrikaners, may have discovered cold nuclear fusion. They call it Prime.’ He handed Piccard a folder labeled ZENITH PRIME. The old gentleman propped his cane beside his chair and leafed through the pages. He snorted twice.
‘Ridiculous,’ he said, closing the folder. ‘The Afrikaners are little more than a small white tribe and even with the help of Israeli scientists, have not made the scientific breakthrough of the millennium.’ He snorted again. ‘There is no cheap, unlimited, non-polluting source of nuclear energy. There is no salvation in a test tube from the tyranny of petroleum. Cold nuclear fusion simply does not exist. That was proven in 1989 — those two scientists at the University of Utah, if I remember correctly. What a fiasco that was.’
‘I’d like to agree with you,’ Carroll said. ‘But there is too much evidence ...’
‘Which can all be manufactured for our benefit,’ Piccard interrupted. He held up a hand. ‘Please don’t go into the technical details. It’s all beyond me. The question is, how reliable are your sources?’
Carroll pulled a set of photos out of another folder. ‘We have the normal satellite and reconnaissance photos.’ He handed them to Piccard. ‘Excellent coverage. Our most recent information indicates that three accidental explosions have occurred, each one smaller than the preceding. All three were thermonuclear.’
‘Which could indicate the Afrikaners are developing a nuclear arsenal,’ Piccard replied.
Carroll shook his head. ‘We have an agent inside Prime.’
‘A CIA agent?’ Piccard asked, his words heavy with doubt. He had been burned many times by the CIA when he was Secretary of State and carried a healthy skepticism about the agency’s ability to engage in old-fashioned spying.
‘Not this time,’ Carroll answered. ‘The Intelligence Support Agency made the penetration.’ He could tell Piccard was impressed as he handed him another photo. ‘This is a picture of the cold fusion cell that is producing heat.’ In the center of the photo was a pile of lead bricks about six feet square. A series of wires and pipes stuck out of the pile at odd angles.
‘Not very tidy,’ Piccard observed.
‘Good science doesn’t have to be neat,’ Carroll replied. ‘It only has to work. Our source also provided us with some numbers and according to our physicists, it all tracks.’
‘Numbers,’ Piccard humphed, ‘can be created.’ He lowered his head, thinking. ‘If what you say is true, other intelligence services will be interested in Prime.’
Carroll nodded. ‘We have identified two and are seeing footprints of a third.’
‘And the two are?’ Piccard asked.
‘OPEC and the Japanese,’ Carroll answered.
Piccard’s head came erect at the mention of the Japanese. ‘This is a new departure for the Japanese.’
‘As to the third group,’ Carroll continued, ‘we have nothing concrete but suspect a European connection.’ Carroll had returned to the window, slowly squeezin
g then relaxing his right fist.
Piccard studied the National Security Advisor for a moment and decided he did not look well. ‘Other than the ISA, what resources have we committed?’
‘The CIA has an operation going, fairly large, official cover, working out of Cape Town.’
‘We do not need,’ the old man growled, ‘the CIA mounting a large-scale covert operation.’ The steel was back in his voice. ‘Let them concentrate on intelligence gathering. If we must become involved, we need a legitimate presence.’
‘Such as?’ Carroll asked.
‘I personally favor the traditional approach of more humanitarian aid and’ — Piccard paused — ‘being part of the United Nations peacekeeping team if it is activated.’
‘Impossible,’ Carroll replied. ‘Congress has shut that door with the National Security Revitalization Act.’
‘My dear boy,’ Piccard said, ‘Congress is too astute to tie the hands of our commander in chief if our national interests are truly at stake.’
The Act is quite specific,’ Carroll said. ‘It forbids us to participate in a UN command without the approval of Congress, which, given the current political climate, will never happen.’
There is a loophole for the President to use if he deems it necessary,’ Piccard told him. ‘Congress did not repeal the Emergency War Powers Act of 1965 which allows the President to commit our forces for up to ninety days without consulting Congress if Congress is not in session.’
‘Are you suggesting that ...’
‘You do nothing until Congress goes home for Christmas,’ Piccard said. ‘Should my suspicions prove correct that Prime is a fabrication by the Afrikaners to gain international support for their cause, you have the option of gracefully withdrawing at the end of ninety days and blaming Congress. But if the Afrikaners have discovered cold fusion, it allows us the presence to gain access to the process and prevent it from being stolen.’ He looked up at Carroll. ‘It will take military force, you know.’
Carroll had the advice he was seeking. It was not what he wanted, but he knew it would work. Piccard was an old gentleman of the Virginia Tidewater tradition, refined and gracious, a living anachronism of a bygone age. But underneath the courtly exterior, he was a practitioner of power politics — brutal and ruthless if his country’s national interests were at stake.
Piccard rose from the couch. ‘I have taken more than enough of your time. I know you have a full schedule.’
Carroll escorted him into the outer office where a waiting military aide would escort him to his limousine. ‘May I suggest,’ Piccard said, ‘that you appoint Matt as the commander of our contingent?’
‘I’ll be damned.’ Carroll grinned. ‘You’re maneuvering Matt right into the thick of things.’
‘Of course,’ Piccard allowed, taking his leave.
Carroll walked back into his office. ‘Midge,’ he said to his secretary, ‘change Captain Smithson’s appointment to four this afternoon. I’m going for a run.’
‘This is the second time you’ve changed Smithson,’ she reminded him. ‘He has the results of the tests they’ve been running and wants to see you.’
‘I can’t stand the pompous bastard,’ Carroll replied.
‘He’s the best doctor at Bethesda,’ Midge said to his back as he pushed through the door into his office. ‘You shouldn’t waste his time.’ She sighed and made the necessary phone calls. Whatever was wrong with the National Security Advisor had to be serious if Smithson was making the equivalent of a house call.
Within minutes, the two Secret Service agents who ran with Carroll were waiting outside the White House, doing light warm-ups. ‘He’s lost the edge,’ the taller of the two, Wayne Adams, said.
‘Yeah,’ Chuck Stanford replied. ‘Thank God. He used to really do some killers. For a while, I thought we had the heart attack detail.’
‘Something’s wrong,’ Adams said. ‘You see how he favors his right leg since he fell?’
Stanford nodded. He saw Carroll come out of the west wing of the White House and studied his moves. ‘I hope he’s okay. I like the man.’
‘You two ready to do this?’ Carroll asked as he joined them. The two agents nodded and fell in beside him, easily matching his pace. They exchanged glances, for the burning pace that Carroll once set was gone. A mile later, the National Security Advisor to the President of the United States collapsed on the Mall.
Within seconds, Wayne Adams had made a radio call and the security net protecting the White House was fully mobilized, reaching out to help the National Security Advisor. Exactly sixteen minutes later, the helicopter carrying Carroll touched down on the helipad at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Doctor Smithson was waiting and Carroll was rushed into a fully staffed and activated emergency room.
Ten minutes later, Elizabeth Gordon and Sam Darnell were at the hospital, the first of the Washington press corps to react to the breaking story. Gordon ended her report with the line Sam had given her. She turned away from camera and looked at the entrance to the hospital, giving the lens a beautiful profile shot of her face. ‘As so often in the past, we can only wait, hoping the miracle of modern medicine can save a man in the prime of his life. A man who is a husband, a father of two young children, and the chief advisor to the President of the United States. And waiting with us, is the President.’
‘It’s a good one,’ Sam said. Liz Gordon smiled. They had the scoop she needed.
*
Carroll was standing, fully dressed, when Smithson walked into his hospital suite. ‘You should be in bed, Mr Carroll,’ the doctor said, nodding to Mary Carroll.
‘I’ve got work to do,’ he said.
Smithson gave in to the inevitability of it all. He had treated Carroll long enough to experience the iron will that characterized the man and instinctively knew what he had to say. It was one of the traits that made him a good doctor. ‘Mrs Carroll, may I speak to your husband alone?’ The tone of his voice had changed and he was the professional doing what had to be done. Mary turned and left the room. ‘Please sit down, Mr Carroll. This won’t take long.’
‘I feel much better,’ said Carroll, sitting down.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Smithson cut to the heart of the matter, the only way Carroll would want it. ‘That’s the way the early stages of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis works.’
Carroll stared at him. ‘How sure are you?’
‘I can’t be one hundred percent certain at this point. We ran a CAT scan and an EMG to measure your muscle electrical activity. The results were not encouraging. We need to X-ray your spinal cord and monitor your progress.’
‘But you’re certain enough to tell me now,’ Carroll said. Smithson nodded. Carroll stood and walked to the door. ‘I appreciate your frankness,’ he murmured, meaning it. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. Smithson saw him touch his wife’s cheek.
Smithson looked at his own hands. He was ninety-nine percent certain that William Gibbons Carroll had ALS, better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Although there were a few outstanding exceptions, the average life span after diagnosis was thirty-seven months.
He wondered if he could take a death sentence so well.
Chapter 3
Friday, November 14
Owambo, Northern Namibia
*
The man had been in the bush for three days and he was tired of the hunt. But out of stubborn pride he was going to end it the way he had chosen and not take an easier path. His skin itched and he rubbed at the dirt, exposing his fair skin. He dismissed any thoughts of a hot shower and concentrated on the kraal he had staked out.
It was larger than a normal Ovambo kraal and its wall of crooked tree trunks driven into the ground was in good condition. Inside, he could see the roofs of six thatched and wattle huts. Definitely a chiefs kraal, he decided. He came alert when he saw the chief, a dignified and frail old man, emerge through the fence.
The man moved out of his hide and into a shooting position. Slowly, he p
ulled the Lee-Enfield .303 sniper rifle out of its case and laid the crosshairs of the telescopic sight on the old man’s chest. He liked the old British weapon for its balance and smooth action. He chambered a round and waited.
He saw the dust first. Perhaps today, the man thought. A truck came into view, stopped in front of the kraal, and the driver got out. The man shifted the cross hairs to the newcomer. An Ovambo, he decided; high cheek bones, slender build, high forehead, hooked nose with a well-defined bridge. Then he saw the passenger. A European in a sleeveless T-shirt, dirty shorts, and worn hiking boots. It was the priest.
The chief and the priest greeted each other and walked to the back of the truck. The eager villagers crowded around to help uncrate a new electrical generator and a gas-powered water pump. Now the man understood why he was here. That hadn’t been explained to him, just the target. He removed the balloon from the muzzle that kept the barrel free of dust and carefully sighted. No wind, he thought, range 800 meters. He relaxed and picked up the beat of his heart. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger and between heart beats, the rifle fired.
The priest’s head exploded.
*
Tuesday, November 18
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
The battered and dirty bakkie that drove up to the main gate of the base looked like any other pickup truck that had seen hard use on the veld. The gate was a massive, ornate structure of granite and iron at the northern, open end of a valley formed by two steep ridges on the east and west. The valley ran for six miles and the ridgelines were dotted with surface-to-air missile sites and antiaircraft artillery batteries. The southern end of the valley was blocked by a huge rock outcropping that rose 500 feet above the valley floor and was capped with a radome. The top of the rock was named ‘Eagle’s Nest’ after Hitler’s aerie high above Berchtesgaden, Germany. The base itself was nestled in the valley between the gate and the Eagle’s Nest.
The corporal on guard duty waved the truck to a stop and motioned to an inspection stall. Without being asked, the man handed over his ID card and a Lee-Enfield .303 sniper rifle to the two young privates inspecting the pickup. ‘A nice weapon,’ the private said, handing him a receipt for the rifle. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’ He ran the man’s ID card through a magnetic reader and frowned. ‘Sir,’ the private said, returning his ID, ‘you do not have an exit permit.’
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