By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  A reaction company arrived to secure the area, and strong hands pulled Michael away from the debris. Within twenty minutes Colonel Mead arrived, and all available corpsmen were dispatched to treat the injured. Two surgical teams from the Sixth Fleet came ashore to assist the staff of American University Hospital. Michael paced in the midst of the destruction, and between each ragged breath he heard himself repeating Janis’s name as if he had been stricken by a terminal case of Tourette’s syndrome and would spend the rest of his life calling for her.

  They found Janis after four hours. From all indications she had been standing just inside the embassy lobby, less than twenty feet from the spot where the suicide bomber parked a van loaded with a ton of explosives. By the time the marines finished piecing the victims together, the count stood at sixty-three people dead, among them seventeen Americans. Eighteen, Michael thought, if they counted his unborn child.

  When he heard the final count, Michael shivered with revulsion, a spasm of hatred and disgust that rose from his soul. It was all for nothing. A single black box transmitter on the rooftop would have exploded the bomb in the street, away from his innocent wife and child.

  The navy offered Michael the opportunity to go home, but he refused. As a SEAL he had learned to play with pain, and every warrior knew that death was a necessary and inevitable part of war. Michael remained at his post, clung to his routine. Though his mind accepted Janis’s death, something inside him wasn’t sure how he would react if he went home and faced the apartment where every piece of furniture and every picture whispered of his wife. She had already begun to decorate the nursery, she’d said. How could the navy expect him to be comforted by confronting that?

  For security reasons, the navy recalled all personnel to the safety of the sea. Michael was onboard the Independence on October 23, when another suicide truck blew up the marine barracks at Beirut International Airport. Michael had been in a miserable mood all month, knowing that October was when his baby should have been born. The tragedy of so many senseless deaths only thickened the cocoon of anguish around him. During the memorial service, he stood with his comrades on the deck of the Independence, the brooding sorrow between them seeming to spawn and spread until it mingled with the million other sorrows borne by the people living in the ancient and war-torn land on the opposite shore.

  Now Samuel Stedman wanted him to revisit those shores. And while Israel wasn’t Lebanon, the warring factions hadn’t changed. The hostility between the Jews and Arabs had existed ever since Abraham favored Isaac over Ishmael.

  A dump truck rumbled by on the highway, spitting tiny pieces of gravel that pinged against his windshield. Michael frowned and pulled the Corvette to the right, wishing he could dodge the president’s request as easily. Since this upcoming trip would officially be routine, he supposed he could have refused, but no career officer would refuse any favor requested by the commander in chief. Besides, Michael respected Samuel Stedman, and the prospect of working with Daniel Prentice intrigued him.

  He had thought about leaving the military when the time came to raise a family, but after Janis died, the military became his home. Breast cancer had taken his mother when Michael was a teenager; by the time Michael enlisted, his father had married a woman half his age and settled down to raise another family.

  So he remained in the navy, moving steadily up through the ranks, performing his work with a recklessness that often won him praise. His fellow officers called him daring; his superiors decorated him with medals and commendations. The SEAL team he led in the Gulf War gave him the admiring nickname “Iceman,” for he kept his cool when Murphy’s Law kicked in and every possible aspect of an operation went wrong. Michael had been sorely tempted to explain that the quality they cataloged as bravery was really simple indifference.

  Surely that layer of indifference would protect him when he went back to the Middle East. He would speak to the Israelis on the president’s behalf, learn what they knew and what they needed, and promise more arms after the election. If all went well, he’d be in and out of Israel within a week, two at the most.

  He slanted the Corvette toward the Highway 198 exit and clicked on the radio, settling back against the car’s upholstery. As a Beatles tune began to play on the classic rock station, he told himself he was making too much of this assignment. Seventeen years had passed since that cursed operation in Beirut, and his heart had grown stronger. After all he had endured, one short trip to Israel would be a piece of cake.

  “Michael? I need to talk to you.”

  Michael stared into the darkness, trying to see whatever it was that had slashed his sleep like a knife. The air in his bedroom was heavy, warm, and still, filled with a gentle presence that painted his fear with frustration. He knew the voice, but it was not possible that Janis could be speaking to him.

  “Turn on the light, honey.”

  He sat up, clenching the blanket with one hand while the other fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table. He turned the switch and flinched when he saw Janis sitting on the edge of his bed.

  “I don’t believe this.” His voice came out whispery soft and tinged with terror. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  A golden glow rose in Janis’s face, as though she contained a candle that had just been lit. “I’m not a ghost, silly. This is a dream.” One delicate brow lifted in amusement. “Surely you believe in dreams?”

  Michael clenched the sheets tighter. “This doesn’t feel like a dream.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It is what it is, Michael, and I can’t help the way things are.” She smiled, and her eyes burned with the clear, deep blue in the heart of a flame. “I’d love to be with you, but Jody and I are happy here. We’re waiting for you, until the time is right.”

  “Jody?”

  “Our son.”

  Michael flushed as an inexplicable wave of pride rippled through him. A son! His child was not some unformed fetus, but a person, a boy named Jody.

  “Are you—” Michael swallowed hard as he met the apparition’s gaze— “in heaven?”

  A dimple appeared in Janis’s cheek. “Of course. To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. You shouldn’t worry about us, not at all. But sometimes I think I should worry about you.”

  This had to be a dream. This was a guilt-induced figment of his imagination, some part of his subconscious rising to chide him for his reluctance to return to the Middle East. It made sense that his unwillingness would be personified as Janis, whose death had forever soured him on the place. Michael slowly relaxed his fingers. While he was a little disappointed to think the news about his son was nothing more than a gift served up from his subconscious longings, it was reassuring to know this was no supernatural visitation.

  “Don’t worry about me.” He waved the vision away. “I’m fine. Life is great, the career is going well, and I even met the president today.”

  “I know.” A faint line appeared between Janis’s brows. “That’s why I’m here, Michael. This trip the president wants you to take—it’s very important. More than you know is at stake.”

  Disconcerted, Michael crossed his arms and pointedly looked away. He had already agreed to go, so why was his subconscious still nagging at him?

  “Do you think it was mere chance that you were spared in Beirut and the Gulf War?” Janis asked, her voice echoing in the emptiness of his bedroom. The curtain fluttered at the cracked window, and Michael stared at it, confused by these touches of reality. If this were really a dream, he and Janis should have been sitting on a deserted island beach, kissing in some tropical paradise. They should not be in his bedroom, with a real lamp shining and the scent of his neighbor’s burning fireplace creeping through the open window.

  “God spared you, Michael.” A secretive smile softened Janis’s lips. She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he felt a strange lurch of recognition in the gesture. “That’s why you didn’t go with me to the embassy that morning. Th
at’s why you were safely out of harm’s way that day in October when terrorists attacked the marine barracks. And that’s why the shell that landed only yards from your unit in Kuwait didn’t explode.”

  “What?” The word burst from him in a gasp. He knew of no shell nearly hitting his unit. His SEAL team had been used for reconnaissance, and they were far behind enemy lines when the brief fighting broke out.

  “Friendly fire.” Janis lowered her gaze and idly ran her hand over the quilt. “God had a hand in that, too. One of the infantry tank units misread the coordinates and fired a shell at your position. It fell harmlessly into the sand. Freeman saw it but didn’t tell anyone because he didn’t want to cause a panic.”

  “Freeman?”

  A smile nudged itself into a corner of her mouth. “I think you know him as Shark.”

  Michael gave her a sidelong glance of utter disbelief. Janis wouldn’t know the nicknames of the guys in the platoon, but he did, and he was scripting this dream. But there was no way she was telling the truth about the shell because characters in a dream couldn’t know what the dreamer didn’t know.

  He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, then raked his hand through his hair. He either possessed a far more creative imagination than he had ever guessed, or there was something extremely eerie about all this.

  He threw the figment a frown. “So God saved me and my men—for what?”

  “He saved you because he loves you, Michael.” She spoke in a tone filled with awe and respect. “Though sometimes you grieve the Father’s heart, you are still one of his children. He’s always had a plan for you, and the greatest part of it is yet to come.”

  Surprised to feel the sting of tears, he glanced away, his voice breaking with huskiness. “He loved you, too, Janis. So why did he let you die?”

  “Oh, Michael.” She gave him an indulgent smile, like a parent amused by the questions of a child. “Trust him. Today and tomorrow, for the rest of your life. Just trust him. Understanding comes with time.”

  A soft beep sounded from the computer on the desk, and Janis turned toward it, the lamplight painting her hair with a shimmery golden glow. “You should read that,” she said, pointing toward the monitor. “Daniel Prentice will help you.”

  Michael leaned sideways and peered at the computer, but the monitor was dark, in hibernation mode. The machine shouldn’t have even beeped, for after an hour of inactivity the system shut down until he woke it with a command.

  When he turned again, Janis was gone. The lamp still burned, the wind still blew the curtains, but he was quite alone.

  He switched off the lamp, lay down and pulled the quilt to his shoulders, but sleep would not come. Finally, when the glowing numerals 5:45 shone from the clock across the room, he got out of bed, switched off the alarm, and shivered in the chill. Wrapping the quilt around his shoulders, he walked to the computer, typed in his password, and waited while the disk drive whirred and the monitor crackled to life.

  He had one message in his mailbox, from GWJ@prenticetech.com:

  Michael:

  I’m glad to know there’s a good man on the job.

  Daniel

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fort Meade

  1100 hours

  Tuesday, October 10

  BACK IN HIS OFFICE, MICHAEL SIPPED FROM HIS COFFEE MUG AND TRIED TO pretend nothing unusual had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday, after returning from the White House, he had typed up a report about the Echelon information, mentioned the supporting data from NPIC, and handed the report to Gloria. Now it was probably sitting on the NSA deputy director’s desk. Perhaps she had read it and realized its significance; perhaps she had even passed it on to the director. But given the political climate in Washington, Michael doubted the information would ever leave the DOD.

  “A courier from the State Department is asking for you, sir.” Startled by the sound of Gloria’s voice, Michael jerked and splashed coffee over a stack of papers on his desk. “I’m so sorry,” the secretary called, leaning in through the partially opened door. “I would have signed for the delivery, but it’s close-hold information. I’m afraid you’ll have to come out and sign for it.”

  “No problem, Gloria.” Michael pushed his chair away from the mess, grateful that the coffee had only spilled on a stack of papers—last year he learned the hard way that computers and coffee don’t mix.

  A uniformed marine stood in Gloria’s small office, his manner authoritative and formal. After saluting, he asked for identification, which Michael readily produced. After checking to see that Michael’s face matched his ID photo, the courier took a key from his pocket and unlocked the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. From the attaché case he withdrew a manila envelope, then tucked it under his arm, and asked for Michael’s signature in a small black book. Michael signed, the book disappeared into a pocket, the locks on the attaché snapped shut. Finally, with grave and solemn dignity the marine presented the manila envelope to Michael.

  Michael thanked the man with a smile, went into his office, and closed the door.

  Sinking into the guest chair in front of his desk, he pulled out the contents of the envelope. Inside was a commercial airline ticket to Tel Aviv, a stamped document that would serve as a visa, and two letters. The first was an official letter of introduction to Maj. Gen. Doron Yanai, director of the IDF Liaison Unit. The second letter, issued by the Israeli ambassador, formally invited Capt. Michael Reed to participate in a goodwill mission to Israel. Nothing about the envelope or its contents indicated that President Stedman had anything to do with the proposed trip.

  Beneath the letters, Michael found a preprinted form: Requirements for All Military Personnel Traveling Overseas. Before leaving the United States, all military personnel were to do three things: be certain their inoculations were up to date, see the base legal officer to review their last will and testaments, then check with BUPERS—the Bureau of Personnel Services—to learn about supplemental life insurance and the convenience of direct deposit.

  Michael tossed the list of regulations onto the stagnant coffee spill. His paycheck was already directly deposited, and he saw no reason to change his will—after Janis’s death he had decided to leave what little he had to his father, who had a quartet of young children to support. The warning about inoculations, however, gave him pause. He had endured the entire six-injection series of anthrax vaccinations back in Desert Storm, with annual boosters every fall. It hardly seemed possible that he might be due for another booster, but time could fly when you were having fun.

  He glanced at his watch, then checked the time of departure on the airline ticket. He was scheduled to leave Ronald Reagan Airport at 1600 hours, which gave him less than five hours to prepare for the trip. In that amount of time, he’d be lucky to get his background materials assembled and run home to pack a suitcase.

  A musical chime announced an incoming e-mail. Michael carefully slid the documents back into the envelope, then stood and tucked it into a drawer. He moved to his desk chair and turned to face the computer. The coffee still covered his desk, but it could wait.

  He typed in his password, impatiently worked through the security measures, and found himself staring at another message from Daniel Prentice.

  Michael:

  Everything should be arranged. Have you had a chance to read Ez. 38–39? Consider carefully 39:6. Before you take wing, better ask your friends in the Moscow sector for data on the “dead hand.” It could be useful in the days ahead.

  BTW, friend, you’re probably wondering why I referred you to SS. Brad always spoke highly of you, and he knew you were a believer. You’re going to need faith for what lies ahead . . . but I pray you’ll be back home before the prophet’s vision is fulfilled.

  Be careful. keep your eyes open. And keep the faith.

  Daniel

  Michael sat back, mystified. Daniel seemed to take a perverse joy in speaking in riddles.

  Reaching carefully over the coffee
and ruined papers, he punched the button on his intercom. “Gloria! Can you come in here, please?”

  She opened the door a moment later, an apologetic look on her face and a wad of paper towels in her hands. “I’m so sorry, sir, about the spill. I’ll have it cleaned right up.”

  “I’ll do that.” Michael stood and reached for the paper towels. “What I really need is a Bible. Do you have one at your desk?”

  Her penciled brows shot nearly up to her hairline. “A Bible?”

  Michael dabbed at the river of coffee. “Someone around here has to have one. See if you can borrow it for a while, OK? And—” He closed his eyes, trying to remember Daniel’s other riddle. “Call John Howard in the Moscow section, and ask him for information on the ‘dead hand’ and the Russian military, particularly any alliances or treaties with Arab leaders. I’ll also need a copy of his dossier on a General Vladimir Gogol. Anything John has, if I’m cleared for it, I want it. And I need everything—the Bible, the dead hand, the general—by fourteen hundred hours. I’ve been ordered to Tel Aviv.”

  Gloria froze in a stunned posture. “You’re leaving today?”

  Michael felt his mouth twist in something not quite a smile. “Funny how things change, isn’t it? But I shouldn’t be gone long. A week, maybe two, tops.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I need that information ASAP. The sooner I get going, the sooner I can come back and make your life miserable again.”

  Her expression melted into one of maternal affection, then she nodded. “I’ll hurry, sir. Things just aren’t the same around here without you.”