Marine One.
“Mr. President!” Marc Praeger whispered closely. “You were screaming!”
“Was I? Oh — simply imagining what those poor people in New York and Virginia must be going through —” Thank God we’re the hell out of D.C., Wall thought. I’ve got to talk to Jack!
They both peered forward through the dark amber glass. Neither the pilots nor the two Secret Service agents forward of the partition seemed to have noticed.
“I doubt they heard anything,” Praeger said, eyes rising as if to look through the ceiling at the growling engines, the blades overhead. “This thing is so damn loud —” The big chopper pounded out a steady beat across the low hills of Colorado’s Front Range. Marc Praeger’s eyes drifted to his boss’s face.
In the overstuffed armchair, the country’s first Mormon President, blue-eyed, sandy-haired Christopher Wall, took a long gulp from a heavy glass tumbler filled with copper-colored liquid. Praeger shook his head, His fourth scotch tonight. If his home constituents ever saw him drinking —
Shit, Praeger shrugged it off, the Catholics would probably feel more comfortable.
Right then Wall’s right cheek demonstrated another of the tics Praeger had first noticed on Air Force One — Tic!
Shit, Chris really is losing it, Praeger admitted. He didn’t even want to get off the damn plane. Now this crap!
Tic-Tic!
Goddammit! Look at him twitch. The stress is cutting into him. I hope he can handle the camera tonight. He’s got to have his shit together!
Praeger peered upward on an angle through the windows, into a sky lit by a full moon. Luna — lunatic — perfect fucking word tonight for the President of these United Fucking States!
“I was having a nightmare, Marc!” Wall confessed. “She was after me!”
“Who was after you, Chris?”
“I don’t know — a little girl!” Wall screamed softly.
Five minutes later, Marine One landed in the upper parking lot. Wall, Praeger and the Secret Service team took to the presidential limo. Moments later the massive mountain door slowly closed behind it.
Twitch
As they filed into the living room, the kitchen phone rang. Del snapped it up. “Hello?” Franklin could make out a tinny female voice: “Is Everon still there?”
“He just went to turn on the TV in the other room, Judy,” Del said.
Everon’s secretary, Franklin realized.
“I’m sure he’ll be over right after,” Del added. “ Are you going to watch the President?”
“We have it on,” he heard Judy say. “Tell him we need him over here as soon as he can. I saw Franklin get off the jet. Any word on Cynthia and Steve?”
Del’s hurt eyes shot to Franklin. Gently he took the phone from her hand. “Hello Judy, it’s Franklin. We lost Cynthia and Steve in New York . . .”
“Oh, no . . . ” In the background Franklin could hear Judy’s radio playing a news report gearing up for the President.
He took another minute to explain as much as he thought Del could stand — what he and Everon had been through on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Judy was relieved to hear they’d gotten Melissa out.
When he hung up, Del scooped up Melissa and they joined the others in the living room.
In the long, bare-beamed space, they crowded around the only television Del had ever allowed in the ranch house in Franklin’s thirty-three years. An old wood combination phonograph console floor model with a bulging rectangular tube. Franklin and Everon stood at opposite ends of a well-worn cowhide davenport. Everon was staring at an old picture above the fireplace mantel. The three of them. Everon, Cynthia and Franklin as kids, in the back of the old truck.
As the sound came up, the living room went quiet.
“ — and gentlemen, we’ve just learned the Whitehouse is empty tonight. In a few moments, President Wall will be broadcasting from an undisclosed location.”
“Judy called for you,” Del said softly to Everon.
Everon nodded, “Right after this.”
The announcer continued:
“The President may be viewed on all television stations wherever possible. In parts of the Northeast you may pick up his audio on local radio stations. This program is also being simulcast on CBS.com and the emergency ham radio frequency. We go now to President Wall . . .”
The President looked surprisingly well rested. Sandy hair neatly coifed, he wore a blue suit and red tie. He sat behind the same desk Franklin had seen many times before. The golden Presidential Seal behind the same tall black chair. It looked like the Oval Office.
“My fellow Americans. Over the last few days a precious part of our great nation has been stolen from us: some measure of our security and our comfort. Though the number of lives lost in New York, New Jersey, Maryland and Virginia reaches into the millions, make no mistake: We will recover.
“I believe it is essential that your government take decisive steps to ensure your family’s safety, to return this sense of comfort to you. Let me assure everyone, we are taking those steps. We will find those responsible for this act of villainy. I have directed all our intelligence agencies, foreign and domestic, to spare no resource in locating and bringing to justice the perpetrators of this vile crime against humanity.”
Franklin caught Mano wandering into the back of the room. The ranch hand’s black eyes were wet and shiny. He’s opened the body bag! He just had to see Cyn one more time.
Wall continued:
“Meanwhile, this type of attack will not be allowed to reoccur. All ports will be immediately subject to increased security. Since we believe this to be a waterborne attack, we’re deepening our dockside X-ray capability. Agents will begin searching and X-raying every single cubic foot of every single cargo container coming into our country.
“Unfortunately this type of safety does not come without a price. By Executive Order 16-176, I have ordered, for the foreseeable future, the shutdown of all nuclear power plants across the nation. Let me assure you this is absolutely necessary to ensure the safety of hundreds of thousands of Americans across this great land of ours.
“During this period of temporary rolling blackouts, many of you in the West, the South and the Midwest may well ask, ‘Why should our power be shut down too? We’ve not been attacked. The attacks were way over there in New York City and Virginia Beach.’ But until we find the perpetrators of this unspeakable crime, we must reduce the risk to all . . .”
“Yeah, right!” Everon threw back at the set. “Where are you at? You’re way the hell out of Dodge, baby!”
“Quiet, boy!” Del whispered.
But Franklin wondered, Why shut down the nuclear plants if the attacks are waterborne?
Deep inside Colorado Springs’ NORAD Mountain, Chief of Staff Marc Praeger jumped as if shocked by electricity. ‘This unspeakable crime’? That was supposed to be cut! He’s reading the old stuff. He watched his boss’s left eye twitch.
He’s okay. It’s nothing, Praeger assured himself. No one will notice.
Twitch.
Praeger grimaced. Hold it together, Chris. Ten more minutes . . .
President Wall blinked rapidly several times in succession. His left eye twitched again.
Franklin leaned in toward the television set. “Did you see that?” he whispered.
“What?” Everon asked.
“Mmmm . . . there,” Franklin pointed at the television, speaking softly. “Did you see that? Like — like a nervous twitch.”
Everon shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. The man’s an idiot though. He’s just going to —”
“Shhhhh,” Del admonished. “Wait — un — til — he’s — done!”
“From all over our wonderful country, firemen, policemen, construction and sanitation workers, HAZMAT and Red Cross personnel — more than 180 thousand strong — today arriving on the East Coast.
“Though massive electrical disturbances have caused many Eastern cities to l
ose power, resulting in disruption in gasoline distribution and interruption of some local water supplies, let me assure you, these problems, though serious, are temporary in nature and will be resolved as quickly as possible . . .”
“Mommy,” said one of the kids, “is the President going to fix our house?”
“Shhhh!”
“Because so many of the local people — engineers, technicians, those we need to solve these problems — were victims of the New York bombing themselves, specialized assistance is required. So I have today asked for and received commitments from power companies all across our nation, to locate the personnel necessary to make our recovery as smooth and efficient as possible.”
Del shot a worried look at Everon.
“Let me assure you, though the second cowardly attack was a near miss, Washington is fine. Your government is functioning normally. There will be little interruption in essential services.”
“Yeah,” Everon muttered, “I’ll bet Virginia Beach and Norfolk aren’t so fine tonight.”
Del said nothing.
“Though there are those who have taken this opportunity to engage in criminal activity, I am at this time instituting martial law only in certain affected local areas. And I ask you, citizens of our great country, please help us by not adding to the present difficulties by taking advantage of this difficult situation.
“Before I sign off tonight, let me mention one of the heroes in all of this. You may have seen the video of that Pennsylvania minister who rescued his niece from New York. If a simple minister can rescue one child, think what we can do if we all pull together. Together we will make it through this.
“Thank you. And may God be with you tonight.”
Fame And Infamy
In Del’s living room, a television commentator started up. Del turned down the sound. Sixteen people, all of them staring at Franklin.
He shrugged, embarrassed. “It was Everon and me. Together . . .”
It was a long minute. Everon said nothing.
And then all at once: “Where was your niece?”
“How did you get in there?”
“It must have been terrible.”
“X-rays? Container ships? How do we even know if they’re coming in that way? Why does Wall think that? Spin, that’s all this is! The President didn’t say one word about who’s responsible for the bombs!”
“You heard him! He doesn’t know!”
“Whoever’s behind these bombs has to be some huge organization!”
“One of the terrorist groups.”
“Keep your fingers crossed the next one isn’t around here!”
“I want to go home,” said one of the kids.
“They’re not going to find anybody! They never do.”
“It’ll be different this time, George! This is too big. Too important!”
“She’s right!”
“Bullshit!” Everon’s voice rose above the others. “Executive Order 16-176? Doesn’t he realize what’s going to happen without the nuke plants? Rolling blackouts! Power shortages coast-to-coast!”
Del’s other ranch hand, Jack, came in the front door. “Got the bus ready outside,” he said to Del.
Parents gathered children. One of the women hugged Del impulsively. “Thank you so much!” That was all it took. The other women all wanted to hug Del too, kiss Franklin and Everon’s cheeks. The men shook their hands. The door closed behind them. The bus revved and drove them away.
Del holding Melissa, Everon and Franklin looking awkwardly at each other. Mano had already drifted back through the kitchen. The house felt empty.
“How did Wall know about what we did in New York?” Franklin muttered.
“Must have been on the news,” Everon said. “I never did ask you. On the G.W. Bridge, how’d you think of that, switching to the aluminum truck?”
“Some woman threw her keys at me.”
“You’re kidding!”
“They hit me right in the neck. She was pointing at the silver semi-trailer.”
Everon huffed out a tired sigh. “I’m going over to the shop. Judy and the guys are waiting. Goodnight, Gran,” he said kissing her cheek. He went out the kitchen door.
Franklin felt exhausted. “I guess I’m going to bed too. Unless you’d like me to stay up with you?” Her face looks so old tonight.
“No, I’m going to put Melissa to bed — then do a little thinking by myself, boy.”
He gave his grandmother a kiss goodnight. She’s still planning to go out back alone, he realized. To see their bodies for herself.
But as he turned the corner in the hall, he heard the voices again, drifting faintly from the kitchen radio, each a specter of his own thought:
Who killed Cynthia? Who blew up New York?
Faith And Force
There is only one way to see action in a still photograph — the image of an object defying gravity. Ghazi al Hussein had never used a camera but his mind took a snapshot:
An orange, in mid air.
The white-bearded, barrel-chested man was completing his twenty-fifth Hajj — for many a once-in-a-lifetime experience — and he could not believe what he was seeing.
He had just passed the MUSLIMS ONLY checkpoint, still two miles south of Mecca — skyscrapers and minarets of the holy city up ahead. Out of the millions of brothers and sisters dressed in white, a crowd of hundreds had become a circle of brutality.
“How can it be?” he whispered. An actual fight, in the middle of Hajj — He remembered the four hundred Shi’as killed in 1987. This would be the same. Violence will make their Hajj invalid! How can they!
An apple — another orange — sailed through the air.
Hussein worked his way in to the center. Things felt strange this year. People were afraid. Everyone was talking about New York. The bomb.
On the street of worn two-story buildings, three young men — foreigners, apparently from London, he quickly learned — were surrounded. The young men were holding an object larger than a road sign. That appeared to be made of solid gold!
More fruit went flying.
“Stop! What is this!” Hussein shouted, deep crevices lining the forehead of his old skin.
They all stopped to look at him, hundreds of eyes saying, What should we do? As one of the most popular and highly respected Sunni Imams, when Ghazi Ibn Abdullah Al Hussein interpreted the words of the Prophet, the verses of Allah’s Qur’an, the faithful listened.
“These cannot be the Prophet’s words!” one man shouted, thin but old as Ghazi, probably more than seventy years of age. “Fourteen centuries have we Sunni fought the Shi’a — over who would wield our prophet’s power. Now we are commanded by Allah to find he who will once again join us as one? There is but one final Prophet — Muhammad is his name!”
A dark and brooding younger man, one of the three within the center, pointed to the golden tablet, its gleaming surface fractured by Arabic symbols. “Look — they are his words! Is it not how our Prophet wrote — his voice?”
Taunts were shouted. “No! I do not believe!” “Blasphemy!”
Imam Hussein pushed his fingers deep into the words cut into its brilliant sand-worn surface. His mosque, his madrasa school, were not far distant. There he could study this strange gold tablet.
“Doubtful it could be from Allah,” he said softly, fingers tracing out the ancient characters. “But we will take it to my office for study.” He looked at the three men. “You will accompany me.”
Ghazi nodded to the smiles of those who recognized him in the busy Souq Gaza Market, carrying the heavy golden tablet between the vendors of hanging prayer rugs, bowls of dates and coffee.
Faces completely hidden beneath their flowing baggy black burqas, a group of women moved in close. They quickly surrounded him, separated him from the three young men. And then he felt the women’s hands. Gripping him, forcing him. Strong and brutal, herding him.
Before he knew what was happening, he was tightly
closed off. The tablet of gold swept easily from his grip. Out of the yards of black cloth, hidden from the world, something snaked across his face. An irresistible cloth covered his mouth and nose with a sweet odor.
As consciousness left him and they dragged him away, a final shock went through his brain: They’re men!
I have been taken by women who are men!
An Accident Of Faith
“’Twas an act of God Almighty, it was, I wasn’t there last night!” Cardinal Bruce O’Shaughnessy wept.
The stocky, dark-haired, typically jolly priest was heartsick. His Irish red cheeks blazed with booze and pity, a process begun the moment his friend Bishop Tom O’Day had tuned in his little portable radio. The Cardinal had driven out to Middletown, Connecticut, Monday evening to visit his friend and protégé, just three hours before the first bomb went off.
Despite a sad, steady diet of sacrificial wine, Irish whiskey and finally Guinness, in nearly thirty hours Cardinal Bruce hadn’t had a bit of sleep. The phones were down. He couldn’t contact anyone. He kept imagining the horror on the radio.
“I’m going back,” he said finally.
The work of Cardinal Bruce O’Shaughnessy was legend. He’d been written up by the New York Times too often to count, well-known for his personal support of homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Especially the one around the side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
“You haven’t slept!” O’Day protested as the Cardinal staggered down the driveway. “With all due respect, Your Eminence,” he added as the Cardinal tried to climb back behind the wheel of his parish automobile, “you’ve had too much to drink! We’ll go back in a few hours after you’ve had some rest.”
“I’ll be fine, lad,” Cardinal Bruce disagreed. “I’ll drive slow. Take it easy. Traffic’ll prob’ly be goin’ the other way.”
Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2) Page 4
