Dead Heat

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The first question to Murray came from Andrea Morris of the Associated Press.

  "Chuck, neither you nor General Mutschler explained the state of the president's health and well-being."

  "The president will speak tonight at nine Eastern," Murray said. "But is he okay? Was he injured?" Morris pressed.

  "The president will address the nation at nine," Murray repeated. "He will explain what happened. He will then talk about the urgent crisis we face as a nation and how the federal government is going to respond both domestically and internationally. Laura."

  Laura Fisher of NBC News was next.

  "Is the president going to declare war?" she asked.

  James glanced at Ginny Harris, who nodded her approval. Murray was doing well.

  The press was taking the bait and shifting its focus off the president's health, for now.

  "We're clearly at war, Laura," Murray said.

  "Is the president going to declare war against a specific country?" Fisher clarified.

  "I'm not going to speculate," Murray said. "You'll just have to tune in. Marcus?"

  Marcus Jackson, the New York Times bureau chief in Brussels, rose in some

  nondescript hotel conference room and spoke directly into the camera. "Chuck, is it true that two U.S. aircraft carrier battle groups are now steaming toward the coast of

  Venezuela?"

  The question immediately sent a buzz through the entire European press corps.

  "Marcus, you know I can't comment on specific U.S. naval activity," Murray said.

  "But I can tell you that all U.S. military forces are on a heightened state of readiness. I would think that would go without saying."

  "Are you denying two battle groups are heading to Venezuela?" Jackson pressed.

  "I'm not commenting one way or the other, Marcus."

  "What about reports that U.S. special forces are presently using Guyana and Panama as staging areas?" Jackson asked. "Can you comment on that?"

  Murray looked uncomfortable. It wasn't that he was getting caught by a question for

  which he was unprepared. Rather, it seemed that he was squirming with a question he didn't want to even acknowledge, much less answer.

  "You're asking me to talk about possible combat operations, and I'm not going there, Marcus."

  The buzz intensified.

  "One more follow-up, if I may?" Jackson asked.

  "Go ahead, Marcus," Murray said. "And while we're at it, please let me extend my condolences and those of this administration on the loss of the New York Times staff in Manhattan, D.C., L.A., and Seattle. That goes for all the media outlets who lost

  colleagues. Our thoughts and prayers are with you guys tonight."

  "Thank you," Jackson said, clearly both surprised and even somewhat moved by

  Murray's comments. "One more question."

  "Sure."

  "Can you comment on the fact that all U.S. Embassy staff in Venezuela are being

  airlifted out of Caracas as we speak, and that the Organization of American States has been

  asked to convene an emergency meeting tomorrow via videoconference?"

  Where was Jackson getting this? his fellow reporters wanted to know. Who were his

  sources, and were they right? Had the military identified the attacks as coming from

  Venezuela, and were they preparing for a major war in South America?

  "No comment," Murray said.

  That was all it took. Murray's stiff, almost cagey response suddenly fueled a media

  frenzy that five minutes earlier hadn't even existed.

  General Stephens leaned over to the president. "It's working," he whispered.

  "The question is," James whispered back, "for how long?"

  "All we need is a few hours, Mr. President," the general said.

  James nodded and closed his eyes. He just hoped they had a few hours.

  6:57 P.M. EST-MOUNT WEATHER COMMAND CENTER

  The briefing ended and the general's phone rang immediately.

  Stephens answered it on the first ring, then handed the phone to the president. "Sir, it's Vice President Trainor."

  James stood, took the call, and began pacing the general's office. He urgently motioned for Ginny Harris to hang up with whatever reporter or producer she was talking to, nodding occasionally but saying little.

  "You're sure?" the president asked.

  There was a long silence. James kept pacing. Stephens and Harris looked on, waiting

  for some indication of what was being discussed.

  "Fine, talk to Admiral Arthurs and General Garrett," the president ordered. "Make sure everyone is ready. Then call me back in fifteen."

  He hung up the phone and turned to Stephens and Harris. "The data from the sniffer planes is in," he said somberly.

  "And?" the general asked.

  "The preliminary analysis suggests the warheads used in D.C. and L.A. almost

  certainly came from plutonium enriched in North Korea." Ginny Harris's hand shot to her mouth.

  "The New York and Seattle data, thus far, is inconclusive," the president continued.

  "More testing is being done. The air force is saying final results won't be available for several weeks. Obviously we don't have several weeks. What's more, the latest satellite imagery shows that heavy mechanized units based northeast of Pyongyang are on the move.

  They're heading south and setting up a staging area about fifty clicks north of the DMZ."

  He looked at Harris. "Is everything set with the network affiliates?" "Yes, sir," she replied.

  "The cable outlets?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "The overseas networks?"

  "It's all been taken care of, Mr. President," Harris confirmed. "Chuck even persuaded China Central Television, the state-run network, to air it.

  "Live?" James asked, surprised.

  "Live," Harris said. "In fact, all sixteen CCTV channels are going to preempt their regularly scheduled programming to air your address."

  "Guess you'd better say something reassuring about Beijing," Stephens said.

  James couldn't quite muster a smile under the circumstances.

  "They'll delay it by thirty seconds," Harris noted, "to censor anything political they don't like but also to provide simultaneous translation in every major language. And they're not the only ones, sir. It's looking like you'll have live audiences on every continent."

  The president began pacing again.

  "This could very well be the most watched presidential address in history," Harris said, matter-of-factly. There was no hint of excitement in her voice. She knew the stakes like everyone else. But she was, after all, the new director of communications for a White House that didn't even exist. "Chuck and I expect an audience of no fewer than two billion people, Mr.

  President," she added.

  "Then," James said, "I guess you'd better start drafting something for me to say."

  * * *

  Fear has a way of clarifying one's thoughts.

  Of reminding you what matters most. And Bennett was suddenly scared.

  The temperature in the cell had to be at least a hundred degrees

  Fahrenheit. The humidity made it even worse. But some kind of icy cold presence was

  moving through the room. It felt oppressive. It felt evil. And Bennett was now chilled to the bone. He was no longer arguing with God; he was clinging to Him with a renewed

  intensity. He no longer felt sorry for himself; he was asking for protection, for the courage to endure whatever was ahead, and for forgiveness for all his doubts and anger. As he prayed, a measure of spiritual vigor began to return to him.

  He prayed for the president to have wisdom and discernment in the midst of such

  chaos, and for his Father in heaven to comfort little Fareeda and draw her close to His heart. He prayed for the Galishnikovs, for Natasha Barak and her cousin Miriam, for

  everyone he could think of. Then he prayed for Erin
.

  He knew she was in a better place. He knew the Lord had promised to wipe away

  every tear from her eyes. But he asked his Father to pass a message on to Erin since she was there at His side—to tell her, simply, that he loved her and that he missed her very much.

  He didn't know if such a prayer was theologically sound. He couldn't think of a time in the Scriptures when anyone had prayed something like it. But he couldn't help himself, and could it really hurt to ask?

  He felt better. Not good, but better. The icy presence had passed. The room was boiling again, and somehow Bennett was glad. New thoughts began to flood his mind. Where was

  he, and why? Was anyone coming for him, and what would they want? Was he going to

  die here? And if so, why? What was God asking of him? He was doing nothing. He was

  chained to a chair at the end of days. Why? What was the point? What was his purpose?

  Moving from the horse country of Virginia to the epicenter to do humanitarian work had

  been an adventure, to be sure. Bennett had to admit that something had felt good and right about selling their house and cars, cashing out their portfolio, giving nearly all of their money to evangelical and messianic ministries operating in Israel and the Middle East, and

  rolling up their sleeves to care for those who couldn't care for themselves, and to do so in the name of Jesus. But Bennett had also struggled with being so far from the action, so removed from the centers of power and influence.

  When he'd worked for the president, he had longed to get off the political bullet

  train, as he called it. But what he had done for the White House felt important. It was real.

  It was measurable, and Bennett had always loved to measure. Stocks were either up or

  down. The same with polls. Oil reserves either were expanding or weren't. Deals either

  were signed or weren't. It was the same with treaties and executive orders and legislation.

  Caring for the poor wasn't measurable—not in a manner that satisfied Bennett, anyway.

  You could feed five thousand mouths for breakfast. Then they needed lunch. You had barely cleaned up and it was time to prepare dinner. It never ended.

  What's more, as time passed since the Day of Devastation, Bennett had noticed that

  fewer and fewer people seemed drawn by the gospel. There had been such a surge at

  first. He had preached every Sunday morning in the camp chapel he and Erin improvised,

  and hundreds had responded to the invitation to accept Christ. Many formed small group

  Bible studies. He and Erin had been training many of those small group leaders. But over the past several months, the response had dropped precipitously. Spiritual hunger was waning.

  Apostasy was growing. It had made Bennett restless. He desperately wanted to make an

  impact. He wanted to make a difference. He wasn't trying to reach a continent for Christ.

  Just a camp. A single, solitary refugee camp. And now that, too, had been taken from

  him.

  He wasn't mad. Not anymore. Just confused. The world was exploding. The clock was

  ticking. Christ was coming back. Maybe soon. He desperately wanted to finish well. He

  longed to hear Jesus say to him, "Well done, my good and faithful servant." But what good could he do here? He didn't even know where "here" was.

  7:42 P.M. EST-MOUNT WEATHER COMMAND CENTER

  Time was slipping away.

  There were less than ninety minutes until his televised address, and there was still so much to do. The president sat in General Stephens's office, signing a series of National Security Directives, executive orders, and letters to a Congress still weeks away from being fully reassembled, authorizing an array of emergency and administrative actions.

  At 7:42 p.m. Eastern, he signed a letter officially informing the Senate majority leader that he was naming Judge Sharon Summers as chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court. At 7:45

  p.m., he signed a letter officially informing the Speaker of the House and the Senate

  majority leader that he was naming General Michael B. Stephens as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. At 7:47 p.m., he signed a letter naming the head of the Chicago Federal Reserve as the new chairman of the Fed, and a separate executive order requiring the Fed to shift all administrative functions from D.C. to Chicago until further notice. Another two dozen documents were waiting to be signed, but suddenly General Stephens had Admiral

  Arthurs from CINCPAC on the line.

  "Mr. President, the targeting packages are being loaded into the cruise missiles and should be ready soon," the general relayed. "Every bomber in Asia is fueled, on the runways, and ready to move on your command, sir."

  "Good," James said. "Anything else?"

  "President Woo has just arrived at Command Post Tango. He and General Garrett are

  reviewing final preparations. They would like to do a conference call as soon as

  possible."

  "Very well," James said. "Get them on the line; then get me a number where I can reach Salvador Lucente before I go on the air."

  * * *

  David Doron was fast asleep.

  So was his wife. She'd drifted off hours ago, but the prime minister hadn't come to bed until well after midnight, consumed as he was with the latest intel from the U.S., Asia, and Kurdistan, not to mention Salvador Lucente's stunning call and surprising offer. Groggy and

  disoriented, he rolled over, fumbled for the receiver, and found his military secretary on the line.

  "What is it?" he groaned, putting on his glasses and checking the clock.

  "Sorry to wake you, sir, but Avi Zadok is on the line—says it's urgent."

  It was never a good sign when the head of the Mossad was on the phone at 3:09 in the

  morning.

  "Give me a moment," Doron said, putting on his slippers and robe, "then put him through to my office."

  "Very good, sir."

  Doron breathed deeply, forced himself to his feet, and stumbled to his private study, just off the master bedroom. There he flipped on a small desk lamp, fired up his computer,

  slumped into his chair, and took the call.

  "Avi?"

  "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, it's me."

  "What have you got?"

  "Several things, sir. Word is President Oaks is going to address the nation at 9 p.m.

  Eastern."

  "He's going to talk about the shooting?" Doron asked, wondering why he'd bother to make a formal address on the topic.

  "I'm sure he'll touch on it—he has to," Zadok said, "but rumors are he's going to declare war on Venezuela."

  "What? Avi, come on; that has to be wrong."

  "That's my reaction," Zadok said, "but the U.S. apparently is positioning two carrier battle groups off the eastern coast of Venezuela and is beginning an airlift of men and supplies to Panama and Guyana."

  "What do they know that we don't?" Doron asked.

  "Chuck Murray is hinting Caracas may be behind these attacks." "Have you talked to Trainor?"

  "Just did."

  "And?"

  "He's being pretty tight-lipped," Zadok said. "Off the record he agreed that something is cooking. They've got good intel. They're getting ready to hit someone. But when I pushed him on Venezuela, he said he would call me back as soon as he had clearance to do so."

  "Where are they on China?" Doron asked.

  "They've ruled China out," Zadok confirmed. "Trainor said Lee James spoke to Premier Zhao less than an hour ago. He assured Zhao that the U.S. does not consider Beijing a

  suspect, and he urged the Chinese to stand down their forces."

  "Do you buy it?" Doron asked, fully awake now.

  "You mean Venezuela?" Zadok clarified.

  "Right."

  "No, sir, I don't."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know," Zadok said. "The China thing I can buy. I don't think Beijing did it, a
nd I don't think Bill Oaks wants to start a nuclear war with someone who can shoot back all

  the way to Colorado Springs, especially when he doesn't have to. But something about this Venezuela thing doesn't seem right."

  "You think it's a head fake?"

  "Probably, sir."

  "So who's the real target?"

  "I'd have to think it's Pyongyang."

  "Any word from the South Koreans?"

  "They're mobilizing as fast as they can," Zadok said.

  "But it's purely defensive. I don't see any scenario in which they launch a preemptive strike."

  "But you still think the North is about to move?"

  "I do, sir."

  "How soon?"

  "If the invasion of the South doesn't begin in forty-eight hours, I'd be stunned, Mr. Prime Minister."

  "What about our mole?"

  "That's the other thing I needed to talk to you about."

  "Why?"

  "A communiqué just came in," Zadok noted. "He thinks the Americans are about to strike Pyongyang, wants us to get him out now." "Do you agree with him?" Doron asked.

  "I'm leaning that way, yes, sir," Zadok said. "But there's something else."

  "What?"

  "Our source says Jon Bennett is in North Korea."

  Doron was stunned. "Bennett? Why? Where?"

  "We're not sure why. Our man's still working on that. But he says Bennett was flown from Jordan to Beijing, taken by truck into North Korea, then flown by helicopter to

  Yodok."

  "Camp 15?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How is that possible?"

  "It doesn't make sense, I know," Zadok replied. "But our man says he's sure."

  "How does he know?"

  "You won't believe it," Zadok said.

  "Try me," Doron said.

  "Remember we sent him a message, asking him to get us more on Indira Rajiv?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, guess who called his boss?"

  "Indira Rajiv called the minister of public security?"

  "That's what he said, sir."