Abraham had survived for ten years in the corporate world, and had had a fairly good career for a Ph.D. He had been headed for a slot as manager of his own product line, and he and Nellie had been living the good life. Jackson had been just a little tyke, no more than six or seven years old, when Abraham’s world collapsed.
Nellie got sick, and nobody could figure out what was wrong with her. What started abruptly transitioned into a long, lingering illness during which she gradually went downhill as one by one her bodily functions shut down. Finally, she was little more than a husk of flesh, barely aware of where she was or anybody around her. Abraham had been frantic for a diagnosis, anything. If they knew what it was, he had the feeling he could bring his analytical chemistry abilities to bear on the problem and single-handedly save her.
But the best the doctors could come up with was environmental poisoning. For some reason, her liver had stopped processing out the toxins she absorbed from food, water, and even the air she breathed. They accumulated, gradually destroying tissue in all her major organs. Finally, as her kidneys began shutting down, it was simply too much for her body.
When she died, Abraham was devastated, Jackson only slightly less so. Nellie had been the center of both of their worlds, and when she was gone they found they had little in common. Abraham began to suspect that part of the problem had been chemicals of the products that he himself was responsible for. How could he have been so blind, to look away from the consequences of what he was doing? Sure, he’d read the warning labels — even helped to write them. But he never, ever allowed himself to contemplate what the cumulative effect of all his chemicals on a susceptible body might be.
When the realization finally came, Abraham left his position at the company, cashed in his 401(k) plan, and headed for the mountains. He bought a stretch of land with a small cabin on it and began raising his own crops and animals. He hunted year-round, providing a steady stream of meat for the table, and he stored vegetables from the growing season in a root cellar. He lost himself in the mindless hard work required to keep his small spread going.
Jackson, at first, had had a harder time of it. Plucked from an upper-middle-class existence in the suburbs and transplanted into an alien world, he’d lashed out at his father. His mother was gone and nothing in his life made sense anymore. And, in his anger, he began looking for answers. Abraham struggled to keep the boy under control, but there were increasingly frequent incidents of vandalism, failing grades, and the beginnings of drug use.
It was Abraham’s quest for a program that could help him deal with Jackson that had led him to the Free America Now militia. At first, he thought they were primarily a social service agency with a good healthy dose of discipline and structure. Later on, as he found that their more privately held views reflected his own disillusionment with corporate American culture, he knew he’d found a home.
Jackson, too. He hooked up with boys tougher and stronger than he was who showed him the ropes. At first, Abraham was a bit uneasy about their influence on them, but when the destructive impulses and rages at first dwindled and then ceased, he could only be relieved.
In the last year, though, he’d come to understand that his reprieve from worrying about his son had been only temporary. Abraham was active in the organization — Jackson was a fanatic. His son embraced all of the values, and then extended his political opinions into what smacked of racism.
Over the years, Abraham had come to be a district commander for Free America Now. Jackson had risen to a leadership position as well, commanding a small company. They were everything that Kyle and Betsy Smart were not.
Jackson seemed frozen in place, his gaze locked on the TV. The flat, cold eyes betrayed nothing of his feelings. Finally, when the news anchor broke for a commercial, he turned to his father. “We don’t have much choice, do we?”
“No, we don’t,” his father answered heavily. “Not this time.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. The council will have to decide.”
“I have a list of targets. And contingency plans. All worked out, Dad. Just waiting for the word.”
And if anything, that was only the tip of the iceberg of things that disturbed Abraham about Jackson. His son was a violent man, seeming to take pleasure in the physical confrontations involved. But he was a thoughtful violent man, if such a thing existed. He sought out opportunities for violence and planned methodically and carefully for larger-scale operations. The one characteristic in all of his plans was that they were calculated to wreak maximum devastation among a civilian population.
Jackson’s cold eyes stayed locked on his father. “You know we can — I can — get away with it.” This time was the unspoken addition to the statement.
Abraham forced a commanding note into his voice. “You wait for orders. That clear?”
Jackson nodded. But as his enigmatic son turned his gaze back to the television, Abraham knew a moment of despair.
TEN
USS Jefferson
Thursday, Sept 13
1400 local (GMT +3)
Smith, Williams discovered, was a woman of meticulous habits. Indeed, everything about her was meticulous — her uniform, her hair, and even the way she ate. He felt like a big, bumbling oaf next to her, his own massive hands clumsy as he watched her delicate ones pick a few remaining grapes out of her fruit salad. Even her daily routine on board the ship was orderly. When he’d found out that she always ate lunch late, he made a point of being there just a few minutes before her whenever he could. At first, he tried to tell himself that she would just think he was as well organized as she was, but he soon realized that she was on to him.
Not that she seemed to mind. The experience they had in common of being on different ends of the fire had formed a bond between them. More and more, he found himself admiring her for how she’d reacted, what she had done, and the determination she brought to her new duties inside the engineering department. Not that he understood everything she talked about. A lot of the mechanical stuff was over his head. Still, she seemed to enjoy explaining the intricacies of pumps and engines to him, and never made him feel stupid.
For his own part, he found she knew surprisingly little about aircraft, and he was delighted to share his passion for aviation and his growing technical expertise with her. She never seemed to be bored, although he could tell she failed to understand his fascination with flying.
“Maybe someday I’ll go to OCS and be a pilot,” he said, watching her as he did so. “Wouldn’t that be something?” It was a dream he often entertained, but had not shared with anyone. Aspiring to being an officer was like being the smart kid in high school — you took too much flack from everyone. The fact that he even cared what other people said about him bothered him. He had a feeling it would never bother her.
“I’ve thought the same thing,” she said, precisely spearing a grape in the middle. “Not flying, of course.” A dreamy look stole over her face. “I want to be like Captain Bethlehem over on Jeff. Maybe command an aircraft carrier.”
“Captain Bethlehem is an aviator,” he pointed out. “You have to be to command an aircraft carrier.”
Her eyes widened slightly at that, and he realized she had not known it. “A destroyer, then,” she said calmly. “A ship — I don’t care what kind. Any kind.”
“The other ships are just our escorts.”
She glared at him. “Escorts that the carrier can’t be deployed without. Besides, I think it’d be neat, being on a smaller ship. In here, you might as well be working in an office building. I still get lost when I have to go somewhere new.”
“I know what you mean.” They chowed down in silence for several minutes. Williams went over his plan again. “Hey, are you going to the movie tonight?” he asked, his voice determinedly casual.
“Maybe. What is it? One of those slasher films again?”
“No. Harry Potter. I saw it a long time ago but it was pretty good.”
“Oh, me,
too! I love that movie.” A smile spread across her face, then turned into a frown. “Except I have a mid-watch. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be dragging.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead,” he said, repeating what a chief had told him a few weeks ago when he yawned in his presence. That startled her, and he continued. “Meet me down here at nineteen hundred. I’ll even buy you a Coke. And we could get some popcorn out of the vending machine.”
She stared him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “You wouldn’t be asking me out on a date, would you? Because you know that’s not allowed on the ship.”
He flushed. “No, of course not. We’re friends, right?”
She didn’t answer, just continued to stare at him. Finally, when he was starting to feel like a complete idiot, she said, “Sure. Only make it a little before seven, OK? I hate to stand in line.”
The White House
1100 local (GMT -5)
The two Magruders waited in an office down the hallway from the Oval Office. Even though they’d both been here countless times, Tombstone always felt a stunning sense of humility at being summoned by the President. No matter that some individuals who had inhabited the historic building had shown themselves to be unworthy of the highest office in the land. No matter that party politics was never far from anyone’s mind. This was still the White House, the embodiment of every dream and vision of America, the seat of power in the most powerful nation in the world. To be a part of those decisions, to walk these halls and advise the President, remained a rare honor for both of them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Chief of Staff said as he stepped into the office. “The President would like to see you now.” No apology for the two-hour wait was tendered and none was expected. The Magruders stood and followed him down the hall. Ahead of them, they saw a lean figure hurrying away. “Senator Hamlin,” the COS confided. “The President will explain.”
The President stood and walked around the desk to meet them in the middle of the room. “Thank you for coming.” He motioned them to a comfortable seating arrangement away from the desk. A steward silently set a tray of coffee before them, then left, closing the door behind him. The Secret Service agents seemed to fade into the background.
“I have a serious problem,” the President began, “one I hope you can help me solve.” He outlined the events in Bull Run, pain in his voice as he mentioned the Smart children. “It’s a major tragedy, one that should never have happened.” The Magruders, still absorbing the details, murmured their agreements.
“My problem,” the President continued, “is that I’m not sure what went wrong. You’d think after the intelligence fiasco surrounding 9/11, we’d have sorted the information flow out. Homeland Security Defense was supposed to have been the answer, but I don’t think it’s working. Not yet, anyway. The CIA and the FBI…” He paused, studying their faces for a moment, then nodded, evidently pleased by what he saw there. “No. I don’t have to tell you about intelligence and territoriality, do I? Neither of those esteemed agencies has particularly liked joining a new team. I won’t say that they’re being actively obstructive — I’d have their asses if I could prove it — but I do think that’s part of the problem. Selective intelligence sharing — and it’s not working.”
“Fire both agency heads and start over,” the senior Magruder said bluntly.
“I wish it were that easy. But then I’m left with new leadership awaiting Senate confirmation, and I can’t have that right now.”
“Why not now?” Tombstone asked.
“The militias,” the President answered. “Something like this happens and they go on full alert. We show any weakness right now and we’re inviting another Wounded Knee or Waco.”
“Do you have any evidence that they’re planning something?”
“Enough to worry me,” the President answered. “Which brings me to the point. In the long run, HSD is going to be the answer. Jeremiah Horton is a decent fellow — he’ll do the right thing. But something like this, integrating forces that aren’t used to working together — well, frankly, the military has more experience at it than the civilian agencies do. That’s where you come in.”
“How?” Tombstone asked.
The President sighed. “This is a new war, Tombstone. We’re used to law-enforcement activities inside the U.S., not war. Everything is going to have to change — everything. Including posse commitatus.”
“Wow,” the senior Magruder said, abruptly setting down his coffee mug. “That’s a big step.”
“No kidding,” the President answered. “The concept of using military forces for law enforcement inside the U.S. is strictly prohibited. And I’m not going to get the law changed without proving that it’s the right thing to do. So, I’m going to back-door a demonstration. I’m going to use your civilian company as a coordinator, and I’m going to ask you to draft contingency plans for a multiforce mission using both civilian law-enforcement and military assets. Your mission is to be prepared to put down any militia actions taken in response to this tragedy. You have my full authority and the support of the entire government as needed.”
Both Magruders were silent for a moment, absorbing the radical idea. Then Tombstone asked, “Is there any precedent at all for this?”
The President shook his head. “You know the old saying. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If the militias are up to something and you do stop it, then there’ll be precedent.”
“And if we don’t?”
The President’s face was cold. “Then there’s always impeachment. And frankly, gentlemen, if that’s what it takes to get us through this, I’m prepared to risk it.”
USS United States
1800 local (GMT +3)
For the next few hours, Williams checked his watch every five minutes, wondering why time was moving so slowly. She always got to the chow line five minutes early — did that means she wanted to be five minutes early for the movie? Or earlier than that so they could make sure they got some popcorn? Finally, not wanting to leave it to chance, he slipped out and bought a box of microwavable popcorn at the ship store. Just in case she wanted more than one pack. Or in case there was another movie she wanted to see.
His aircraft was coming back from a routine surveillance patrol, and he had to be on deck after it landed, so he missed seeing her at the evening meal. He hurried through the post-flight checklist, made sure the bird was secure and all tie-downs were in place, then rushed down six decks to the vending machine. There was already a long line there.
He heard her call his name, and spotted her near the entrance to the galley. She held up two sodas. He slipped out of line to join her. He produced the popcorn.
She looked happy. “It looks like we’re set.” She led the way to the microwave, and they waited behind three other people to use it.
Finally, they were set. Again, he let her lead the way, and she selected a table about three quarters of the way back from the screen along a bulkhead. He slipped into the seat next to hers. The noise level in the galley was deafening, but abruptly died down as the lights dimmed and opening music started. “Just in time,” she whispered, grabbing a handful of popcorn out of the bag.
She just looks like a kid. For some reason, he found that particularly appealing. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, her lips slightly parted and moist, spellbound by the opening credits. He helped himself to some popcorn, and over the next two hours, found that he was watching her as much as the movie. And he was quite certain which one he enjoyed more.
USS United States
2100 local (GMT +3)
Lance Corporal Barry Griffin was barely conscious of his surroundings. Sometimes he was on field exercises in Alaska, because that was the last time he remembered being cold, so very cold. Other times, he knew he was on the ship, especially when the smell of food woke him. He came to recognize the few faces he saw — the corpsman, Evans, who he dimly remembered from the galley, one of the nurses. The doctors
stayed so briefly and were so heavily masked that he never formed a clear picture of their faces.
A fever, that’s what it was, he finally realized. That was the reason for the alternating hot and cold spells, the moments when it seemed certain he would suffocate in the overwhelming heat, those moments followed immediately by a bone-chilling sweat as he threw back the blankets. At one point he was caught in seaweed near the ocean floor, a recurrent dream during his dive training. He reached down for his knife, but it hadn’t been where it was supposed to be, strapped on his leg. He jerked hard enough that the treacherous vegetation let loose of him, and he floated up to the surface on a wave of morphine. The remnants of the seaweed ran down his arm, and he was dimly aware of white shapes moving around him. Fish? Or other divers? But why were they in white? The prick of the IV needle being reinserted in his arm went unnoticed. Later, when the morphine wore off, he woke in pain to discover his arms tied to the railings of his bed at the wrist and elbow.
“You were jerking around and pulled out your IV,” the corpsman said, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Standard procedure, just routine.”
“Man, I feel like shit,” Griffin murmured, exhausted by the tremendous effort to speak.
“You’ve got the flu or something,” the corpsman said quietly. “But they’re getting it under control.”
“The flu? Man, I feel like I’m dying.” He drifted back off into an unconsciousness that was not quite sleep.
The corpsman gazed down at him steadily, both pity and anger in his eyes. It wasn’t the jarhead’s fault, not really. He hadn’t meant to contract a virus while ashore. If anybody was really at fault, it was the first sergeant, the guy who told Griffin to take off his clothes and shower down. They should’ve left their gear on until they got back to a safe area to become decontaminated, but the first sergeant had been so freaked by the possibility of bio weapons, he’d ignored his training and obeyed the compulsion to wash.
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