The Lazarus Moment

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He chuckled. “I’m reminded of an old joke I heard. A man’s boat sinks and he’s floating in the middle of the ocean, praying to God to help him. A man in a rowboat comes by and offers him help. Our man refuses, saying God will save him. Then a sailboat arrives, and again he refuses. God will save me, he says. Finally, a huge ocean liner shows up, and again he refuses help. God will save me. The boat leaves and the man eventually drowns. He goes to Heaven and he asks God why he didn’t save him? God says, I sent you a rowboat, a sailboat and an ocean liner, what more did you want me to do?”

  Nervous laughter rippled among those gathered, Dawson recalling the joke, told better years ago.

  “So what’s my point? God helps those who help themselves. We’re not going to just sit here and pray for Him to save us, we’re going to use the God given tools we have at our disposal to save ourselves. Help is on the way, of that you can be assured.” He leaned forward, placing the back of his hand up to the side of his mouth, cracking a smile. “I’m kind of a big deal, in case you didn’t know.”

  Genuine laughter this time, Dawson gaining a newfound respect for the man.

  “So, Agent White here is in charge until we are rescued. I happen to know his background and I can assure you we are in extremely capable hands.” He glanced over at his family. “Now, today, I’m just a man, just a husband, just a father.” He turned to Dawson. “Use me as you would anyone else.”

  Dawson nodded, shaking the man’s extended hand. “Mr. President, I appreciate that. The best thing you can do for us is to take care of your family.” Starling smiled, the appreciation clear by the glint in his eyes. Dawson turned to Jane. “Any satphones?”

  “No, none that are working at least.”

  “I was afraid of that.” He turned to the group. “Okay, first things first. Survival training. Raise your hand if you’ve ever made a fire.” A dozen hands went up including all the Airmen. He pointed at one of them. “You’re in charge of getting a fire going. Pick four people to help you. If anyone has matches or a lighter on them, hand them over to our fire chief. I want a good fire going to keep us warm but try to keep the smoke to a minimum.”

  He pointed at another one of the Airmen as the fire chief selected his team and got to work, lighters being handed over. “We need food. Pick ten people. Get a pile going with all the food anyone has on them. Power bars, gum, candy, anything, then scour the area, see if there’s anything we can eat, fruit, berries, mushrooms, anything. Don’t eat anything without letting one of my team see it first, it might be poisonous.” He selected another Airman. “You’re in charge of water. That river is fresh water, so we’re good, but I don’t want people going too close. Find anything that will hold water. There might be debris from the crash. Take six people and take care of it. I want everyone hydrated, especially the wounded.”

  “Anyone with medical experience?” asked Niner.

  “I was a nurse,” said one of the reporters, holding up her hand. “It’s been years, but I can help.”

  Another reporter stepped forward. “I took three years of med school then flunked out. Couldn’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “I’m ex-army, I’ve been trained in basic first aid.”

  “So was I.”

  Niner grinned. “You’re all my medical team. Start collecting anything that can be used for bandages, and make sure we get the first of that water and food.”

  “Okay, the rest of you I want trying to clear this area. We need to make room for the wounded so they can rest.” He smacked his hands together. “Let’s get to it!” Dawson stood back as the teams split off, almost everyone who was able to walk with something to do. A branch snapped in the jungle behind him and he spun to see Atlas and Spock walking into the area with two civilians. “Found them downstream.”

  Dawson smiled at the two men, both shivering, both appearing relieved at having been found. “You two okay?”

  “He’s got a sprained ankle,” said one of the new arrivals.

  Dawson pointed Niner out to them. “Bring him over there, he’s our doctor for now.”

  The injured one cleared his throat. “I’m the President’s physician.”

  Dawson smiled. “Doc, am I ever glad to see you. We’ve got a lot of wounded.” He pointed to where the First Family was. “Check on the First Lady. She’s been injured.” He pointed to the other man. “You’re his crutch.”

  The man smiled. “No problem.”

  The two shuffled toward the family and Dawson whistled. Niner looked up and Dawson pointed at the new arrivals. “President’s physician!” Niner gave a thumbs up and jogged over to the man, a consult quickly under way.

  “Any luck with comms?” asked Atlas.

  “Negative. None of the satphones are working, they’re all wet, broken, or still on board.” Dawson paused, his eyes narrowing.

  Spock smirked at Atlas. “Uh oh. I recognize that look.”

  “In a minute he’ll be looking for volunteers,” agreed Atlas.

  Dawson smiled. “Is the plane still there?”

  “Uh huh.” Atlas answered as if he were terrified to.

  Spock cleared his throat. “BD.” Dawson looked toward where the man was nodding and found President Starling walking toward them. Dawson closed the gap.

  “Mr. President, what can I do for you?”

  “Have you seen Major Simmons?”

  “Not that I know of, who’s he?”

  “He’s the officer who carries the nuclear football.”

  Atlas cursed.

  “That’s one hell of a piece of lost luggage.”

  Operations Center 2

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “I can’t believe he’d travel on his own passport.”

  Leroux had to agree with his boss. It was ballsy, though it did make sense. No one was looking for the man. If he travelled on a fake passport he ran the risk of being caught, but travel on a perfectly legitimate passport, and there was no reason for him to be flagged.

  Though Leroux doubted the man would be using it to travel home.

  “I think we have a very limited window of opportunity here,” said Leroux. “If I were him I’d be bugging out now if I hadn’t already.”

  “Agreed,” said Morrison. “What do you recommend?”

  Leroux pointed at Therrien. “See if you can trace his cellphone.”

  Therrien nodded, quickly entering the number provided by Moscow, one of the monitors on the wall flipping over to a map. “Pinging it now.” A red circle appeared and the map zoomed in as the system narrowed down the cellphone towers in use. “It’s on.”

  “Idiot,” muttered Child, watching the map quickly coalesce into buildings and streets. “It’s like this guy doesn’t care if he’s caught.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  Leroux looked at Morrison. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dying of cancer. He’s got months, maybe weeks, to live. He’s succeeded in getting his revenge, he’s got nothing left to live for.”

  Leroux pursed his lips, thinking. It made sense, yet something still nagged at him. Something didn’t feel right. He tapped his chin. “If I were dying, I wouldn’t want to die in a foreign land. I’d want to die at home, with those I loved.”

  “His family’s dead,” said Child.

  “They’re dead, but they’re buried somewhere.” Leroux snapped his fingers at Sonya Tong. “Find out where the family is buried. That’s where he’ll be heading.”

  She smiled. “Your gut?”

  He nodded, then pointed at Child. “Find out if he has a return booking.”

  Child shook his head. “Sorry, boss, I already checked. He doesn’t.”

  Leroux smiled. “Then he’s not as dumb as he looks.”

  Morrison’s eyebrows narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “It means he knew we’d trace him there, but didn’t care, because he already has a way out.”

  “Which means if we don’t catch him now, we may never.”
<
br />   Leroux stared at the neighborhood highlighted by the cellphone towers.

  “Find every hotel, motel, hostel or apartment rental in that area. I want that bastard found before he flies the coop.”

  Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Dawson felt his chest tighten for a moment as he realized the most important briefcase on the planet was missing in hostile territory, and the man who could operate it stood next to him, unsecured.

  “Where did you see him last?”

  “He was with us when the plane crashed.”

  “In the same room as you?”

  “Yes.”

  Dawson flashed back to that moment, trying to remember what he had seen.

  Two dead personnel. Was one a Major?

  “The only people alive in that room were you, your family and one staffer. I think I remember seeing a Major in there, dead. If that’s him, then the football must still be in there.”

  “Do you think it will be safe there until the rescue team gets here?”

  Dawson thought for a moment. They were in the middle of Mozambique, a country with a rebel problem. If the rebels were to find them, they could be in for a hell of a problem, the football the least of their worries. If it was still on the plane, it was probably secure for the moment, it taking a lot of balls for anyone to board it where it was now. Though if they were at all informed, the rebels might know the President travelled with it and would make every effort to recover it.

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s the SOP in this situation?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Standard Operating Procedure. If you were to crash and they lost all communications with you, what would they do?”

  Starling smiled. “They’d probably presume I’m dead and deactivate all the codes.” He sighed. “I was worried there for a moment, but you’re right. If they lose contact with me in a situation like this they assume the codes might be compromised and deactivate them.” He frowned. “In fact, they’ve probably already sworn Jack in.” He smirked at Dawson. “Huh. Dead man walking.”

  “We’re not dead yet, Mr. President.”

  “Not sure if you can still call me that.”

  Dawson chuckled. “Let’s err on the side of caution.”

  Starling patted him on the back. “Good idea.” He turned to walk away then stopped. “Has anybody thought about the emergency satellite gear?”

  Dawson shook his head. “When the virus infected the system it wiped out all our comms. The two specialists only had time to reinstall what was needed to try and get the plane flying again.” He paused, realizing he hadn’t seen Lennox or Cornel since the crash.

  “Not the hardwired stuff, the portable gear.”

  Dawson’s jaw dropped as he realized what the President was talking about, kicking himself for not remembering. The President—in fact, most senior members of the White House—travelled with portable secure satellite gear almost everywhere they went. It allowed them to set up secure comms wherever they might be staying, whether an embassy or a hotel.

  And that gear would be stowed on board.

  “Any idea where it is?”

  Starling shook his head. “Sorry, son, that’s on you.”

  Dawson nodded, the President returning to his family.

  “We need to get that gear,” said Atlas.

  Dawson grinned at him. “You volunteering?”

  Spock smacked the big man on the back. “Told you he’d be looking for volunteers.”

  “I was thinking of going on board to find a dry satphone, but this would be even better. It’s hardened, waterproof, bulletproof. If we can get our hands on that case, we’re pretty much guaranteed it’s going to work.”

  “And the football?”

  Dawson shook his head. “Like the President said, it’s just a piece of pigskin now.” He waved Jane over. “Did you see Airmen Lennox or Cornel?”

  She nodded. “Yes, they’re on the other side of the river.”

  “Want me to get over there, Sarge, put some cuffs on him?”

  Dawson looked at Atlas then across the river at the small group gathered by the shore, Lennox and Cornel suddenly recognizable. “Negative, I don’t think he’s a problem anymore.” He headed for McNeely, the doctor and Niner still tending to him.

  McNeely looked up at him. “Status?”

  “I’ve got everyone busy,” said Dawson. “It’ll keep their minds off things until the rescue teams arrive. In the meantime, I want to reestablish comms. There’s a rebel situation in the area and I want to make sure they’re nowhere near us. Besides, I think the folks back home would like to know they’ve still got a President.”

  “The portable comm gear, it’s still on the plane.”

  Dawson smiled. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you. Where is it?”

  “Aft of the President’s office, locked in a secure cabinet. There’s also weapons and ammo, body armor, you name it, it’s there.”

  “What kind of security?”

  “Keypad. Code of the day is seven-six-four-nine-six-enter.”

  Dawson repeated the code, as did the rest of his team. Three times in his head and it was committed, memorization techniques one of the things taught to Special Forces the world over. In this case, he simplified it by reducing it to three numbers—76-49-6, then associated each number with something that would twig a memory. Carter elected in 76, San Francisco 49ers and 6 sides of the dice. Now he didn’t need to remember the numbers, just Carter, San Francisco and dice.

  Much easier.

  “Okay, we’re going for the comm gear. Hopefully back in less than an hour.”

  “Good luck.”

  Dawson smiled. “Thanks, I think we’ll need it.”

  Top of the falls, Lugenda River, Mozambique

  The tail section was still wedged against the riverbank, the front of the fuselage slowly tearing through the rock Dawson and Jane had taken refuge on earlier. It was now a good halfway down the body, the plane jerking forward several inches every few seconds.

  There wasn’t much time.

  And this was stupid.

  He nodded at Atlas. “You’re our lifeline. You hang onto that rope like our lives depend on it.”

  “Cuz’ they do.”

  Niner gave Atlas a sideways glance. “Thanks for reminding me, jackhole.”

  “Hey, I’d go, but you need a real man on the other end of this rope. Your dainty little frame would just be pulled right in.”

  Niner smacked Atlas on the cheek then darted back. “This dainty little frame makes me wily, lets me float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”

  “Don’t you be channeling my man Ali. He’s like my brotha from anotha motha. Yous talkin’ family, boyee.”

  Niner grinned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Atlas. “Look at my man, goin’ all street on us.” He quickly spun his head around, giving the stink-eye to Atlas. “You know I’m the only one from the hood in this unit, so you best be watchin’ yourself.”

  Atlas eyed him. “You’re from Florida for Christ’s sake. Don’t be makin’ like you’re from the Bronx.”

  “Hey, the streets of Tallahassee were rough for a handsome Asian kid.”

  Spock held up the lengthened line. “Ready when you are, BD.” He nodded toward Niner. “Any objections if we just leave him on board?”

  Dawson grabbed the rope and stepped into the water. “We’ll take a vote once we get there.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair,” whined Niner as he took hold of the intertwined vines. “It’ll be two against one.”

  Atlas’ deep voice rolled over the roaring water. “Then you better start kissing ass now, sweetheart.”

  Dawson heard Niner do an ass-smack behind him as he made his way along the fuselage toward the open emergency exit where the wing used to be. Once inside, depending on conditions, it should be a straight shot down the aisle running the port side of the plane to the security room.

  Please God, no surprises.

 
; His foot slipped and he went under. He felt a pull on the rope and the others stopped his slide allowing him to recover quickly, the water still shallow but quickly getting deeper. He pushed off the river bottom, letting the current carry him as he gently kicked, the water actually not too rough, the massive fuselage providing a break.

  I can just imagine the pressure on the other side.

  As if in response, he heard a terrific shriek of metal tearing ahead of him, the plane jerking a good foot.

  We’re running out of time!

  He grabbed hold of the inflated slide dangling out the emergency exit and pulled himself up, rolling onto the floor of the main deck, taking a brief moment to catch his breath before hauling Niner then Spock in. He untied the rope and headed for the security room, Niner following him as Spock tied off the vines.

  He ignored the bodies of those left behind and instead sloshed through the water, it getting deeper the farther they went, up to his knees by the time he reached the door.

  He pulled.

  It barely budged.

  “Shit. Something’s wrong.”

  Niner joined him. “What?”

  Dawson pulled at the door as hard as he could, it still refusing to open. He looked at the frame then cursed, pointing at the floor. “The floor’s bent. The whole fuselage must be buckling.”

  The entire plane jerked forward, sending them all scrambling for handholds.

  “Okay, no time to waste. Spock, check the door on the other side.” Spock nodded and left, Dawson pointing at the hinges of the outward swinging door. “Let’s pry the pins out.”

  Niner pulled his knife and dropped to his knees as Dawson pulled his own, tapping at the bottom of the hinge, the pin popping up slightly, enough for him to wedge the blade in.

  Niner stood, holding his pin, grinning. “I win again.”

  Dawson ignored him, pulling his bolt free then wedging the knife between the doorframe. He pried, pulling it out slightly, when the door suddenly pushed open from the inside.