The Hammer of God

by Tom Avitabile

  Bill laughed. “Sympathy from the offspring? That’s gotta smart?”

  “Wanna feel your age? Have kids.”

  “Thanks, I am.”

  “No kidding. First one?”

  “Better late than…”

  “Best move you ever made, and I’ve seen you make some great moves slipping out of the pocket.”

  “Yeah, but what do I do when he starts letting up on his old man out of respect for the old geezer?”

  “Make peace with it now, my friend. Actually, start praying for it now, so then, when it happens, it’ll be the answer to your prayers. That way it won’t gall you so much then.”

  “Oh God, what if she starts easing up on me.”

  “Daughters? Then I would suggest considering heavy drinking. Never had a girl, but I hear horror stories.”

  “What was that old song? ‘When you’re the father of boys you worry…’”

  “‘When you’re the father of daughters…you pray!’”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Bill took out one of his White House cards. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Hank, Hank Stemmis.”

  “Junior?”

  “Yes, but we don’t go there.” The Major watched as Bill jotted down his son’s name. “You know, out of all the big wigs and notables I’ve flown over the years, this is the first time I’ve ever asked for something like this.”

  Bill wrote, “Hank, always trust your front line. Take your time. See the whole field. Aim for the numbers.” Then he signed it neatly and legibly. “Major, what’s your address?”

  “My address? Why?”

  “I can’t give you this right now. Hush-hush mission and all. But when I get back, I’ll have it mailed to you.”

  Idling on the La Guardia tarmac was a New York State Police helicopter, wet and wild and ready to zip Hiccock into Manhattan. From the cabin, Bill looked down at the cluster of buildings huddled in the middle of Manhattan Island. Below 34th Street, the skyline receded, owing to the fact that the bedrock under that part of the island couldn’t support the weight of skyscrapers the way the midtown area could.

  At the 34th Street heliport, a Secret Service war wagon and two N.Y.P.D. chase cars had their lights flashing. Hiccock walked from the copter to the wagon and they were off.

  Inside was Secret Service Agent Henry Barnes. “Welcome to New York, Mr. Hiccock. We will be going right into the Federal Depository. There we’ll switch to my personal vehicle and meet up with Tom and Jerry quietly in the park.”

  Made sense, Hiccock thought. Secret Service was part of Treasury; they ran the Fed Dep in Lower Manhattan. The switch was necessary not to bring attention and flashing lights to B amp;R, who the Secret Service code-named Tom and Jerry. They didn’t even know who these guys were.

  It turned out agent Barnes’ personal car was a tricked-out Scion TC. It made Bill look at the agent one more time. Without the suit, dark glasses, service weapon, and earpiece, he was probably just a 28 year-old kid. “Nice ride.”

  “Thanks. I customized it on the web, picked it up two weeks later. Listen to this.” He punched the satellite radio; it was like thunder and lightning. Heavy bass filled the car and the dashboard lights pulsed. Suddenly Bill was in a disco, a very loud disco. After a few seconds, Barnes turned down the music, probably out of deference to the blood that was surely trickling from Bill’s ears.

  “Cool. Does it go slower when you are draining all that power?”

  “Fuel injection.”

  “Very cool.” Bill never felt so old.

  The Soldiers and Sailors monument down at Battery Park was an open space with 12-inch walls of granite, which meant no clear shot for a would-be assassin. Two agents had watched the area for two hours prior to Bill’s arrival. There was a police boat 200 yards off the lower Manhattan seawall just in case somebody was snooping with a speedboat or raft. In all, 23 agents, police officers, and sailors were making sure this Washington VIP could visit this sight, and pray or look up his father’s name or whatever he was doing, undisturbed.

  Barnes talked into his sleeve mic. “Quarterback has arrived!”

  Bill couldn’t hear the “all clear” that followed, but Barnes got out and came around, opening the door for him.

  The two walked through the park under the watchful eyes of the other agents. Bill then separated from Barnes, went to one of the walls, and looked at the names. On the first wall facing the water, next to the name Ross, Charles E. Fireman 2C Maryland, was a Post-it note. It read, “The Fort. Come alone.”

  Bill was momentarily thrown. What was this, a hostage situation? He steeled himself. These are my guys. They are just being super-cautious.

  He yelled over to Barnes. “Stay here; don’t follow.”

  Adjacent to the monument about a half-mile away was Castle Clinton, actually a fort during the War of 1812, now a national monument. Clinton was a big name in New York history even before Bill and Hill. DeWitt Clinton was the first governor of the state. As he walked past a giant eagle statue, Bill saw that the castle was still open and U.S. Park Service officers in their Smokey the Bear hats were standing guard.

  He entered the castle and was immediately flanked by two men.

  “Professor?”

  “Bill.”

  “Bill, Sergeants Bridgestone and Ross at your service,” Bridge said.

  They brought him to a dark place, out of the view of a security camera. “How are you guys doing?”

  “This is a cakewalk for us, sir,” Ross said. “We are usually in some godforsaken shithole eating things you’d usually step on. Last night we actually had a beer and corned beef down here.”

  “New York, a city of anonymity.”

  “Sorry for the spy crap sir, but whoever is running your security here might be popping some pictures. We don’t take much to being photographed.”

  “I totally understand.”

  “We both want to thank you for going to bat for us; we owe you.”

  “You got it all wrong,” Bill said. “We owe you. You guys get to do the dirty work so the rest of us can keep our hands clean. Here are your orders and background, 50 thousand in cash to get around with, and a few different I.D’s. There is also a digital camera and laminator so you can pop your own photos for ID. Also in there is a secure phone directly to me.”

  “Who outfitted this?”

  “My best friend and a former FBI agent now working for me. You met him at Desert Tango 1.”

  “Palumbo! Yeah, good man. No bullshit.”

  “There’s a lot of good men and women on this, guys. You two are ‘on-point’ for all of them. You have two weeks, if the bomb doesn’t go off before then. After that, you will have no Presidential coverage and your mission will be called off. Any questions?”

  “No. Any communications from us will include the code word ‘bling.’”

  “Bling?”

  “We overheard some kid say it. It has no connection to us, so nobody could ever infer it.”

  “Not if you’re eating bugs it doesn’t. Be safe, you guys. And good luck — for you and all of us.”

  “God bless America, sir,” Bridgestone said.

  “God bless and keep her,” Ross added.

  Bill was once again thrown. Then clarity washed over him. Of course; these are the men who risk their lives for something greater than themselves, for their country. It isn’t just a phrase to them. It is their creed. “God bless America, men.”

  They disappeared into the dark recesses of the castle’s dimly lit exhibits as Hiccock made for the door.

  The ride home was just as quick and uneventful. He was home by 9:30 and rolling out the garbage cans to the end of the driveway for tomorrow morning’s pickup. On the kitchen table was a casserole with a note that read, I’m beat. Microwave this. See you in bed.

  In the den, Bill sat on his Barcalounger and shoveled in Chicken ala King ala Janice while watching ESPN. He thought of B amp;R and their corned beef feast last night. Then he thought of a
ll the men and women stationed all over the world, some chowing down on MREs, others eating without their families or loved ones near. All doing what B amp;R was doing, believing in something greater than themselves and willing to suffer hardship and, if necessary, die for it. It made Bill wonder if he was worthy of being in a position over such people. Not that he didn’t do his part. On his right hand was the scar from the propellant burns he got aboard the Aegis cruiser when he stopped a nuclear-tipped rocket from launching on a Southern California nuclear plant. That was all top secret, the only public trace being the leathery patch of skin on the back of his hand. Even though he was currently serving his country, it was a cushy D.C. posting.

  He rinsed the plates and slid them into the dishwasher, then headed up to the bedroom.

  He padded lightly into the room not to disturb Janice. He slipped off his watch, put it on the nightstand, checked the alarm, and rolled over to give his wife a peck on the cheek. His right hand came down on something hard when it was expecting a soft protruding belly to rub gently along with the kiss.

  “What the hell?”

  Janice shifted and awoke. “Hi, baby.”

  “What is this?” Bill rapped on her midsection with his knuckles.

  “I bought it today. It’s to keep our baby safe from radiation.”

  “Huh? Are you drunk?”

  “No, I am certainly not drunk. I heard about the pulse of intense radiation that could reach out from an A-bomb detonation. Even if you are far away, the radioactive spike can create miscarriages or genealogic damage.”

  “Where did you get this from?”

  “I heard it today.”

  “Where?”

  “That doesn’t matter. The point is I don’t want to take any chances.”

  Bill had to force his face back from his “are you screwy” expression to something more rational and non-judgmental. “Darling, what is this thing?”

  “It’s an x-ray apron, I bought three.”

  “Three?”

  “Home, car, office. Since we don’t know when or where the bomb will explode.”

  “If. We also don’t know if it is going off.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?”

  “That’s what I forgot today. It was bugging me all day.”

  “No need for sarcasm.” Janice kissed him and resumed her nuclear-safe position.

  Bill reached up and shut the light. He lay there looking at the moonlight coming through the window. His own wife had succumbed to the public paranoia over this nuke. Janice was a smart woman. Intellectually, she had to know that she was acting irrational. Yet she was pregnant and her protective instincts were in full force, a force apparently even stronger than her intellect. Nature was an amazing thing. He set his mind that tomorrow he’d check on the radioactive pulse and see if there was anything to it. His last thought before he slipped under the haze of REM was the realization that nature was working on him as well.

  The next morning, Bill got to his desk at 7:25. At 7:26, Press Secretary Margaret Lloyds entered and ruined his day. She threw the early bird edition of the Washington Post down on his desk.

  “What’s the matter, Marg…” was as far as Bill got when he saw the subhead, under the headline, WHITE HOUSE PLANNING FOR D.C. NUKE. In smaller type below was the line, “Wife of Science Advisor dons lead-lined fashion.” The article went on to be the first-hand account of a woman who witnessed Janice buying x-ray aprons and Janice’s logic that the bomb was going off within 20 miles of the White House.

  Bill picked up the phone and hit the Home button. It was busy. He tried again. Busy. He then hit Jan Cell. She answered.

  “Bill, the phones haven’t stopped ringing. ABC, NBC, they all want to interview me. I am so sorry. The woman who was in the store with me must have been a reporter.”

  “Ya think? Listen; sit tight. Don’t answer the phone. Margaret’s here and I’m sure she’ll have some ideas of how to handle this.”

  “Okay. Sorry this happened, Bill.”

  “It’s okay; don’t worry.”

  Bill hung up and said to Margaret, “I’m worried.”

  “So it’s true? Oh, dear God, this isn’t going to be pretty, Bill.”

  “Look, she’s expecting and it’s scary out there right now.”

  “It’s scary for everybody and they look to the White House for assurance. A story like this means we are running scared as well.”

  ?§?

  Dariush’s hunch played out and the Cray found 17 words in 149 languages that fit the footprint. As he scanned the list, an English word popped out at him: Roosevelt. Another word in Eastern Arabic that the Cray spit out from the data string was “maghra.”

  It was an unusual and hastily called meeting: a “by invitation only” press briefing in Margaret’s office. Five reporters, three from TV and two from print, were in attendance. The subject was lead-lined underwear.

  “Is your wife privy to intelligence that points to the intended target for the nukes being the White House?”

  “Neither my wife nor myself are privy to any information or speculation that the White House, or Washington for that matter, is a target.”

  “Why did your wife buy these aprons?”

  “All I can say is that she reasoned and decided to do this on her own and for her own reasons. As you know, my wife is pregnant with our first child. She is acting in a manner prescribed by instinct, nature, and evolution. But not by any connection to me, the government, or this administration.”

  “How far along is she?”

  “Seven months.”

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “No; we decided to be surprised.”

  “Is Mrs. Hiccock protecting her…your baby from the suitcase nuke due to anything you might have said to her?”

  “Again, I have no information to share with her on that topic.”

  “I mean, about radiation in general.”

  “I never discussed it with my wife. As far as I know, she overheard other women discussing it.”

  “Women here at the White House?”

  “No, at a beauty salon.”

  “Professor Hiccock, your wife is a doctor, an educated woman. Are you asking us to believe that she did this because of gossip and not some top-secret report on the intentions of the terrorists?”

  “I don’t know where you are going with that, but I am going to guess. Yes, my wife is a very accomplished and intelligent person. She is actually also a professor. She does hold a White House ID, but she does not hold any security clearance at the present time…”

  The room erupted. Bill put up his hands. “Hold it. Before you ask, she did have a clearance at one time but it was on a project totally unrelated and predating any of this suitcase nuke affair.”

  “Why does she have White House access?”

  “She is pretty much in private practice now, but still acts as consultant to the administration from time to time.”

  “What is the nature…?”

  “Thank you folks; that will be all,” Margaret said, and began to usher everyone out. Once the room was empty, she said, “I don’t know why everyone, including me, says you can’t handle the media. You did very well right now.”

  “Thanks. Wow, what a bunch of lunkheads.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I answered the same question five times. Aren’t they listening?”

  “Yes, they are. They were hoping that you weren’t and that you would slip up when the question came at you in a different way. But you stuck to the script and gave them no wiggle room. It was good.”

  “So does this end it?”

  “Hopefully it will get only one more cycle of airplay and then fade.”

  “I hope so. Janice is really upset by all this.”

  “Look, I don’t blame her. Hell, if I were pregnant, I’d build a house out of lead these days. It’s just your position here at the White House that….”

  “Yeah, I kn
ow; I got it. Thank you. I’m going back to my office. Let me know if you need anything else from me.”

  “You and Janice should take some time off. Maybe go to a lake house or the beach?”

  “Lead aprons and all, I suppose.”

  Bill had shaken off “Apron-gate” and an hour later was back at his desk focusing on his speech and three other briefing papers he was falling behind on. There is an almost imperceptible swoosh of air, and an energy wave that pours through any open door when the President, on the move, walks by any West Wing office. Most political appointees used it as an early warning system of sorts to kind of perk up and look busy. Bill however, slinked down a little deeper in his chair hoping that the entourage of aides, Secret Service, cabinet officers, congressmen, senators or who ever else was constantly around the leader of the free world whenever he left the Oval, would pass by without the Boss noticing the husband of the “apron lady.” His heart dropped when he heard the most famous voice in American politics say, “Bill, got a minute?”

  Bill immediately stood as the President left the parade in the hall, and shut the door.

  Oh Boy here it comes, Bill thought, stiffening as if a 300-pound defensive lineman had locked onto him in the pocket. “Of course, Sir.”

  “During the campaign, my wife was quoted as having said she wasn’t fond of pennies; they cluttered up her purse so she always said ‘keep the change’ or she put them in the little ‘take a penny, give a penny’ thing….”

  Bill listened as intently as he could. The moment hung. The president just looked off four years in the past. Bill finally figured he was finished and started to say, “Sounds innocuous enough a statement…”

  “We were campaigning in Illinois, Bill!”

  Okay this is a pop quiz, Bill thought, Illinois…pennies…. Got it! “Oooo, not such a kiss to the land of Lincoln was it?”

  “Exactly, Bill. So don’t let this thing with Janice rattle you too much. Remember, the words of the divorced poet: ‘For better or worse is a blessing and a curse.’ You may not quote me.”

  “What happens in my office, stays…”