The Lance

by Alex Lukeman

  "Yes, but…"

  "No 'buts'. There is no 'but'. I should have ducked or shot sooner, that's all."

  "At least we got the son of a bitch."

  She smiled, looked away, back again. "You are with somebody."

  "Yes. But I haven't figured it out yet."

  Rivka laughed. "Figured it out? Oh, Nick." She laughed again. "Ow, that hurts," she said, still laughing.

  "Why are you laughing?"

  She laughed harder. After a minute she stopped, wiping tears off her face. Nick wasn't sure what was funny. He'd never understand women, how they thought.

  "Rivka, I have to go."

  "Nick, when you figure it out, make sure you let her know, will you?"

  "Goodbye, Rivka."

  "Come over here."

  He walked over to her bedside. She reached up with her good arm and pulled him down to her. Her kiss tasted like strawberries.

  "Shalom, Nick. Keep safe."

  He hoped Rivka would be safe. He hoped they all would.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Rice was leaving. The Secret Service took over escort duties. Rice and Nick boarded a helicopter on the hospital roof manned by a squad of Marines in full combat gear, detached from the Embassy. Flanked by hovering Apaches with Israeli markings, they lifted away from Hadassah's roof and headed for Tel Aviv and Air Force One.

  At Tel Aviv the helicopter set down at the far end of Ben Gurion Airport where the President's plane waited. Israeli armor and heavy machine guns mounted on tracked vehicles surrounded the plane.

  Air Force One was one of two Boeing 747-200B aircraft modified far beyond the civilian models. It was a beautiful plane, impressive, as it was meant to be. The white body was streamlined with blue. The American flag was painted on the tall tail section and the words United States of America on the sides of the fuselage left no confusion about who was on board.

  Nick followed Rice up the retractable stairway to the President's entrance near the front of the plane. They began rolling down the runway as the hatch closed.

  Rice sent Nick back to the cabin space reserved for senior staff, at the leading edge of the starboard wing. The aisle from the President's office and quarters ran along the port side of the plane. Heading aft, Nick passed a medical room that converted into a state of the art operating theater. He passed a gleaming galley.

  He nodded at the only other person seated in the senior staff area, an Army Colonel in pressed uniform with a black leather case beside him. Nick knew what it was. The football.

  It held the electronics that could launch America's nuclear arsenal. It was never far from the president's side, no matter where he traveled.

  The chairs in the senior staff area weren't like anything on a regular passenger airplane. The fittings were custom made of polished woods. The seats were of light brown fine grain leather. It was like being in someone's living room.

  Everything was clean and new looking, the carpet thick underfoot, the decor muted and soft, beiges and light greens, earth tones to soothe the nervous political mind. An Air Force Steward took Nick's order for a double Irish, which is what he wanted for personal soothing. His head hurt. His ribs ached and stabbed him every time he took a deep breath. His back was tight as a steel drum.

  Air Force One lifted into the air and climbed skyward. Off the starboard wing a flight of Israeli F-16s pulled alongside, armed escort until American planes could pick up the task.

  The explosion on the Mount had killed the Israeli Prime Minister. The Secretary of State and the National Security Advisor were both dead. Calloway was dead, with five other agents. More injured personnel had stayed behind at Hadassah. Two key Presidential Aides were dead. Nick supposed it could have been worse.

  Who was he kidding? There wasn't a doubt in his mind that war between Israel and all of Islam had begun. Someone had kicked the pot over into the fire and a lot of people were going to die. The more he thought about it, the angrier he felt.

  The whiskey was doing its work and he sank deeper into the chair. The stitches on his leg felt like hot cactus needles under his skin. He set the glass down and closed his eyes and thought about Selena and wondered what she was doing. He drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  He dreamed of Megan, his brown haired lover.

  His dead lover.

  Megan waited at the edge of the cliff, the sea wind blowing her long, brown hair out behind her.

  "Hey, Baby," she said.

  He knew he was dreaming, knew Megan was dead. Sadness overwhelmed him, an abiding sense of loss. When he was awake he could put it away where he didn't have to think about it. That wasn't possible here. But he'd rather see her here than not at all.

  "I miss you. I miss you so much." He held her tight.

  "I know."

  The dreamscape changed. A gaping chasm opened at his feet. At the bottom red and orange flames flared. Dark shapes danced in demented time with the flames. A sound like cold wind whistling through razor wire came and went at the edge of hearing.

  "You've got to find it, Nick."

  "I don't understand. Find what? Where is it?"

  The cold wind was getting stronger and Megan started shredding, bits of her flying away. He reached out to touch her, touched air.

  "You have to stop it." Megan put a transparent hand on his shoulder. She gestured at the chasm. "Find it, Nick."

  "Major Carter."

  He jolted awake. The hand on his shoulder belonged to the steward, an Air Force Sergeant. "Sir, the President would like you to come forward."

  Carter felt the dream fading. Find what? The chasm in the dream looked like someone's vision of hell. Maybe his own.

  Now and then he had a dream that warned of things to come. It was called the "sight" in Ireland. It had skipped a generation and passed to him from his Irish Grandmother. Sometimes that kind of dream gave advice. Dreams like that always had a weird, intense quality and he always remembered them. This was one of those.

  Megan, he understood dreaming about her. It happened a lot. But the dream made no sense.

  He looked out the window. The Israeli fighter escort had been replaced with the smooth, futuristic shapes of American F-22 Raptors. He'd been asleep for a while. He got up and went forward.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  President Rice watched a television monitor on the bulkhead. A neat white bandage covered the cut on his forehead. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt with the Presidential Seal on it. His face was drawn. Dark shadows circled his eyes. He looked ten years older than he had the night before.

  "Take a seat, Carter."

  Nick took a seat on the couch. Sitting in the President's plane as the world slipped out of control felt like another one of his dreams, but a glance at the fighters keeping pace outside told him it was real enough.

  Whatever Rice did in the next few days might make the difference between peace and world war. Mao had said that power came from the barrel of a gun. The briefcase sitting with the army colonel aft meant Rice had his finger on the trigger of a very big gun and wielded a lot of power. But there were a few other big guns out there. It might not take much to precipitate a shootout. Then everyone would lose.

  "Take a look." Rice gestured at the screen.

  The picture was sharp, high definition living color. Thick smoke drifted over Jerusalem. The sun shone blood-red over the shattered ruins of the Mosque. Parts of the old city were on fire. The scene switched to a live shot of Israeli armor moving in columns. Trucks full of soldiers armed with assault rifles and encased in body armor were going somewhere. At reserve call up centers all over the country, Israel's armed and trained citizen army was showing up for work.

  Rice clicked his remote. Protests and riots all across the Middle East. In Tehran a mob of a hundred thousand people screamed in rage, chanting in carefully orchestrated responses. Green and white banners in Arabic and misspelled slogans in English proclaimed death to America, Israel, Zionists, Jews and Rice himself. Israeli and American flags burne
d in every Islamic country.

  Rice turned off the set.

  "That's only the beginning. Pakistan went to full alert and India followed. They're snarling at each other. North Korea has pledged its undying support for the 'victims of American and Jewish aggression'. Saudi Arabia recalled its ambassador. Syria and Jordan have announced a joint military effort. Egypt is mobilizing. We've detected movement of Iran's mobile missile forces. They're trying to hide them."

  Rice paused.

  "The Gulf States withdrew their ambassadors. Yemen is calling for a regional conference and a mutual military pact against the enemies of Islam. That means us, Israel and the West in general. China and Russia have called an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council. All of this in less than six hours since the bombing."

  "What about the Iraqis, sir?"

  "There are indications the Shias and Sunnis are setting aside their differences for the moment and forming an alliance. That's a good one. They hate each other, but they hate us and Israel more. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that." Rice sounded bitter.

  A steward appeared with a silver tray and coffee pot. There were two cups. The steward poured for the President, then brought the tray around to Carter. He poured. When he was gone, Rice continued.

  "Turkey and the Saudis sent expressions of gratitude that I was not killed in the explosion, but at the same time they're going to war status. All of Islam thinks a Jewish group is behind this. For all I know that's true, in which case there isn't a lot I can do to head this off. It's even possible the primary target was Prime Minister Ascher, not me. There are radical elements in Israel that don't want peace unless it comes with total control of what they consider to be the biblical homeland.

  "Ascher was the only one in Israel who might have gained support for a semblance of peace. Now that he's dead the right wing will take control. It's a scenario that's happened before. If someone wanted to guarantee a war, they couldn't have done anything more provocative than blow up that mosque."

  Rice sipped his coffee. "Russia and China have raised their alert status and everybody is nervous as hell. Whoever did this has brought the world to the edge. There's going to be a war. I don't know yet if it can be confined to the Middle East, or how big it will get. NATO is on full alert. I've ordered our military to DEFCON3. The Navy is at DEFCON2."

  The Defense Condition system could be set at different levels for different units within the armed forces. The Navy had the broadest global reach in position, with plenty of nukes and enough air and sea power to thwart most aggressive measures or initiate them if needed. DEFCON2 was one step short of war. The jump to full war status would only come under threat of imminent attack and would take few minutes to achieve. If Rice went to DEFCON1, the bombers would lift off, the silos would go hot and things would go south in a hurry. DEFCON1 would mean World War III. No wonder Rice looked stressed. Nick wasn't feeling too relaxed himself.

  "Carter. Like it or not, you and Director Harker have become players in the big game. Someone tried to kill me today. They failed because of your actions and because Director Harker smelled a rat. I haven't said thank you yet. Thank you."

  "Yes, sir. You're welcome."

  "I'd like your advice on Dysart."

  "Sir, I don't think I'm qualified to do that. I don't know what's going on or what's happened since the last time I talked with the Director."

  "Then let's call her up." Rice pressed a button and spoke to the communications center on the flight deck above.

  Nick heard the signal tone. Harker picked up.

  "Yes." Wary, strained, ready to disconnect. Who was calling?

  "Director Harker, this is the President."

  "Yes, sir." Her voice became energized. "I recognize your voice. I'm glad you're all right, Mr. President."

  "Director, Carter is here with me. I've put you on the speaker. This is a secure transmission. I want to talk about Dysart."

  A brief pause. "Yes, sir."

  "Have you established proof General Dysart is involved in these events?"

  "No real proof yet, but very strong suspicions. We have emails between him and an unknown party, referring to at least two covert operations and a meeting. They don't sound right. Someone is telling Dysart what to do. Literally what to do, as in 'command'. One of those operations was coded 'Valkyrie'. I think it referred to the events of this morning, the bombing and the attempted assassination. I'm wondering who it is that commands a three star general, if it isn't you? Sir."

  "In your opinion, General Dysart is part of a plot?"

  "Yes, sir, I am sure he is. He was told by whoever is directing him to 'prepare for transition'. That sounds ominous to me. I think someone is trying to get you out of the way and provoke a crisis in the Middle East. They seem to have succeeded with part of their plan."

  "What is your recommendation regarding Dysart?"

  "You mean what do I think you should do?"

  "Yes, Director."

  "Sir, he can't possibly have set this up by himself. I think he should be left in place and watched. He may lead us to other conspirators. If he does anything to threaten national security you could move in and stop him. Perhaps set up an alternate command to take over NSA if needed, without his knowledge."

  "Give him enough rope?"

  "Yes, sir. If I'm wrong, then no harm done. If I'm right, sooner or later he'll do something that proves it. Then we'd get a chance to find out who else is involved. I'm working on that now."

  "I want you to get to the bottom of this. Carter will be our direct liaison. After today, no one will think it unusual if he is seen with me on occasion. I take it you have a secure location to work from?"

  "Yes, Mr. President. Sir, please don't misunderstand me. Dysart is bound to be observing everything. You must be very careful about the people you choose to confide in. I recommend no contact with Langley regarding our suspicions."

  Nick kept his face neutral. Not many people tell the President of the United States to be careful about what he does or who he should talk to, much less tell him to stay away from the CIA. Harker had balls.

  "You believe CIA is involved?"

  "I don't know, sir. But Langley has leaks. Any involvement with them about Dysart will give everything away."

  "I'll take that under advisement, Director. I appreciate your candor. Keep me informed of any progress, any new information."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you for your trust, Mr. President."

  "You've earned it. One more thing."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Whoever did this must be revealed for who they are and shown to the world. It is the only thing that can stop what has begun. Work quickly, Director."

  Rice ended the call.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Elizabeth, Stephanie and Selena returned to the Project building and cleaned out everything relating to Dysart and Nick's mission. They found the bug on Selena's car and moved it to another vehicle parked nearby, then both cars headed toward Virginia. In Harker's rear view mirror, the gray building housing the Project receded behind them.

  Elizabeth kept checking the mirrors, looking for tails. Nothing stood out. That didn't mean there wasn't someone there. She knew how easy it was to switch cars behind you, follow from in front or from the air, change the look of surveillance in an eye blink, track from the sky, but her intuition was calm.

  They turned onto the rural state highway that led toward the safe house. There was still no sign of a tail. Traffic was light. Elizabeth allowed herself a small measure of relaxation.

  "Dysart might make a mistake," Stephanie said.

  "This has to go way beyond Dysart." Elizabeth swerved to avoid a pothole in the road. "War between the Muslims and Israel could go nuclear. Who would want to see that happen?"

  Stephanie mused out loud. "Qui Bene? Who benefits? Not Israel. Not the Muslims either."

  "No one in the Middle East benefits, except the ones who don't want peace," Elizabeth said. "The Islamic fundamental
ists would never destroy al-Aqsa. It can't be them."

  "Profit? War is going to disrupt the financial markets. There could be big profit in that."

  "That's an idea. We could look at the markets in the last six months and see if someone is about to get rich if a war starts up. We can ignore little trades, just look at the big ones. If we see a pattern, perhaps we can track it back to whoever it is that 'commands' Dysart."

  "Yes. 'At your command'. Dysart doesn't strike me as the kind of man who'd take orders from just anyone."

  "Israel could be destroyed, and half of the Middle East with it. That's bigger than money. The Iranians, perhaps? The Syrians? But they're Muslim, too. No way they'd blow up the Mosque."

  They turned into the drive leading up to the house. A minute later they were inside the garage, the door closing behind them.

  Safe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  In one of the windowless detention cells below Shin Bet Headquarters, Khalid recited his prayers. Even here, imprisoned by the Jewish occupiers, he could still face Mecca and find the strength that had deserted him earlier. He shuddered, remembering the look in the eyes of the Jew as he whispered the things he would do to Khalid's family. Surely the Jew was a demon, a jinn sent to test him. Allah, the All Compassionate and All Merciful, would forgive Khalid for his cowardice. He rose from his prayers. A metal view slot opened in the steel door of his cell.

  Someone peered in. The slot shut. Khalid heard bolts being drawn, a murmured conversation. He sat down on the bare metal ledge bolted to the wall that served as table, chair and bunk and waited. Khalid was passive. He knew it was futile to think of physical resistance. He swallowed and thought of his family, and prepared to be interrogated.

  Ín'sh'allah. As God wills.

  The man who entered the cell wore an army uniform. He closed the door behind him. His face was bland, almost featureless, almost kind. He held a covered box in his left hand.

  "You are hungry?" the man said.

  Khalid shrugged, ready for a blow, a lie, a trick. There was no trusting these Israeli dogs. The man's Arabic was fluent, with a hint of an accent.