Graham ignored Bruce’s veiled sarcasm. “Not a voice,” he answered. “At least I’ve never heard a separate voice. But I think he does answer our prayers. I hear my own inner voice speaking, sometimes saying things that I couldn’t know or hadn’t focused on. And events happen, or don’t happen, that are clearly answers to our prayers. That’s how we’ve felt the response of God in our lives.” Graham smiled.
“Well, I can’t imagine that God sits and answers the prayers of individual men or women,” Bruce responded, looking to his left at both of the Prescotts. “How could he? Do you know how many people there are in the world? It’s impossible. I tried once, but he obviously didn’t hear my prayers for my brother—so I’m never going to make a fool of myself again! Whether some god made us originally, and we’re now running along on our own, or whether we’re all just some great cosmic mistake, the result is the same. We’ve got to work for ourselves, to make our lives and our world better. If there is a God, surely he wants us to do that.”
“He does want us to do the best we can,” Mary agreed, “but in submission to his will and his laws for our lives.”
“Submission? Come on! Submit to what? The stories in the Bible?” Bruce’s voice rose, and Rebecca turned from behind first base. “I don’t know how people like you can still believe that stuff. This is the twenty-first century, you know.”
“Bruce, if you haven’t felt God’s power in your life, it’s almost impossible for us to explain it to you; and it says that in the Bible, too. But we’d be happy to tell you more about what he’s done in our lives, as a way to start,” Mary offered. “We think it’s kind of interesting.”
“Thanks, but save your breath. Or go tell it to all the supposed Christians like you who deserted my brother once they found out he had AIDS. Where were all of you when he was dying? Off at a prayer meeting, probably, thinking how much better off than him you are. I’m real big on Christians and prayer. You’re a lot of help. Well, that’s the third out. Time to hit the field again.”
The Private Sector picked up their gloves and headed for their positions. The Public Sector’s leadoff batter that inning was Hugh’s wife, Jennifer. Soon they had the bases loaded with two outs, and William Harrison came to the plate.
Bruce, assuming the ready position at shortstop, thought, What a great thing it would be to tell my clients I personally threw out the president of the United States! To the plate he yelled, “Come on batter, try to hit it. Give him your floater, Courtney.”
On the second pitch the president hit a high fly ball to short left field, where Mary Prescott would only have to take a few steps to catch it. But Bruce came running back fast from his shortstop position. He was looking up, intent on catching the ball and putting the president out. Mary heard him coming, as she, too, focused on the ball and yelled, “Mine.” But Bruce kept coming.
Travelling backward Bruce tripped just as he caught the ball and then ran into Mary. Mary, her arms outstretched for the catch, took a heavy blow, and they fell down together. The ball flew from Bruce’s glove. Just before it hit the ground, Mary, on her back, made a lunge and caught it. The Private Sector cheered wildly. Rebecca ran over from second base to separate Mary and Bruce, who were tangled together on the ground. Mary got up, unhurt, and beaming. Bruce was smiling sheepishly and said, “Nice catch.”
The rest of the afternoon had turned out to be a lot of fun for everyone, including Bruce. He now stood at dinner and pulled out a chair for Mary. In a contrite voice he said, “I’m really sorry, again, about what happened this afternoon. I didn’t mean to clobber you. What a catch you made.”
Mary smiled as she moved in front of the chair. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. And miracles do happen.”
“I guess I’d have to admit in this case that you’re right,” Bruce replied.
“So!” William Harrison poured the Prescotts some champagne as they took their seats. “You missed the Public Sector’s victory celebration at cocktail hour, but we saved you some champagne. There’s already talk of a rematch next year, but I’m afraid you Private Sector people had better practice a bit.”
“It’s just that you government types with the nine-to-five jobs,” Rebecca added, tipping her glass at her older brother, “have plenty of time to practice. Those of us who really work for a living don’t have that luxury.”
“Well, invite us back to this wonderful place next year,” Graham suggested, “and we’ll arrive a day early to warm up.”
“If the House, Senate, and world crises permit, consider it done,” concluded the president, laughing with his family.
“And here’s hoping,” Bruce added, raising his glass, “that all of your campaign promises are enacted by then.”
“Thank you, Bruce,” William acknowledged. “But if all of them were enacted, I’m not sure that Mary or Graham would ever be seen with Carrie and me again.”
“Oh, we’d be here,” Mary continued the good-natured ribbing, “but we’d probably spend the whole time in our cabin, praying that God wouldn’t strike this place with lightning.”
Bruce started to say something, but a glance from Rebecca made him think better of it.
The conversation continued in a happy and upbeat mood throughout the dinner, with the Harrisons sharing stories about their years growing up together. Carrie was delighted. She hadn’t seen William so cheerful in - months. But then an aide approached and whispered in the president’s ear. He seemed to frown for an instant, then nodded. As the dinner plates were being cleared, William turned to Mary. “Tell us about the minister who’s coming tomorrow for the Easter service. He’s from Baltimore, isn’t he?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And is he a fire-and-brimstone preacher, like your Reverend Wilson when we were kids?” William asked teasingly.
“Well, Reverend Wilson really wasn’t ‘fire and brimstone’ as you call him, and neither is Michael. But both of them do zero in on one’s relationship with God. I think you’ll like him. He’s intelligent and articulate. And he’s felt the hand of God on him from the beginning of his life.”
“Oh? How so?” William asked.
“His mother had five children and was getting older. She unexpectedly became pregnant again, and their doctor advised both her and her husband that it would be dangerous to go through childbirth. He told them— remember this was almost fifty years ago—that she should have an abortion because otherwise she might die giving birth. They reluctantly agreed, and the doctor wrote the necessary paperwork.
“Then, I think it was the night before the scheduled abortion, their minister was awakened at two in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. He kept hearing a message in his mind, and he couldn’t shake it. Finally, exhausted, at seven in the morning, he drove over to Michael’s parents’ home.
“They were obviously surprised to see him. I think he was still standing outside their door when he told them that God had awakened him with a message, that despite the possible risks, she was not supposed to have the abortion.
“They went inside and the three of them prayed for quite a while. When they finished, Michael’s mother said she was at peace and that she agreed with their minister. Her husband also felt the same. So they cancelled the abortion. Michael is the baby who was born seven months later, and there were no complications. One other thing: the minister had also told them that their baby was going to serve the Lord in a special way.
“So we’ve always felt that Michael approaches life and his ministry with an enthusiasm I think you’ll find to be infectious and refreshing. He knows from the bottom of his heart that he was singled out to do the Lord’s work.”
After a few moments of silence, Bruce looked around the table, pausing for an extra glance at Rebecca, and finally said, “Come on, Mary. You don’t believe that, do you? Were you there?”
“No, of course not.”
“He probably just made that story up to impress people.”
“Actually Michael has never ment
ioned it. I heard it from his mother, several years ago, when she visited us. There were tears in her eyes, all those years later. I can’t imagine why an eighty-year-old woman would make up a story and lie to me about her son. Can you?” Mary asked.
“Well, maybe the minister just had indigestion and couldn’t sleep. God doesn’t wake people up in the middle of the night and talk to them about abortions, or about anything else, for that matter. If there even is a God, he has too much else to worry about than one unborn child,” Bruce said, obviously flustered.
Graham smiled and said, “There most definitely is a God, because he’s wakened us up in the night and answered our prayers in other ways. And the incredible thing about God is that even though he holds the stars on their courses and causes the sun to shine, he also bends down and listens to each person, each sinner, who asks for forgiveness. He cares about each one of us that much.”
“I just can’t believe you two,” Bruce retorted. “You think God intervenes in people’s lives through prayer? That what is going to happen is changed by people praying? Come on. How did he miss my brother? If he is so powerful, surely he knows everything that’s going to happen, whether you pray or not.”
“That is a mystery, I admit,” Mary said. “But yes, he knows everything that will happen, yet he has told us to pray. Even his own Son, who was also God, prayed constantly to his Father. It’s sort of like he knows what will happen, good or bad, but he wants us to pray because of the important relationship it builds between us and him and because it is the prayer that causes the good to happen.”
“What circular reasoning,” Bruce said, leaning back in his chair, confident that he had scored a victory.
“Reasoning won’t usually get you to God,” Graham said, “although some people have found him by reasoning that there can be no other explanation for our universe than God Almighty. But most people come to him by faith, seeking forgiveness for their sins, or experiencing a particularly difficult time, or suddenly feeling his power in their lives, or seeing it in someone else’s life. Now faith is real, and it produces amazing results. Look at what Sasha told us last night about his family, for example. But you can’t ‘reason’ it, by definition. It’s faith, not reason. But once you’ve surrendered to it, the power of faith is incredible.”
“There you go again,” Bruce said, ignoring Rebecca’s warning glance. “Surrender. Submission. This isn’t the old days. We don’t have to submit to anyone! What about you, Mr. President? Do you think God wakes people up in the middle of the night and tells them what to do?”
The other five people at the table had listened quietly while Bruce, Mary, and Graham debated. Now they all turned to hear William’s answer. The president was obviously embarrassed to be put on the spot. He looked down at his bowl of ice cream, which had just been served.
“I...I honestly don’t know, Bruce. I haven’t thought much about God for the past thirty years or so. I think I had a faith as a child and a teenager. Not as strong as Mary’s, perhaps. But a faith. Then at college I decided, sort of like you’re saying, that God must want us to make the world better. So I decided I could do his will and help other people at the same time by trying to make the world a better place. That’s the philosophy I’ve been following for a long time now. And God certainly hasn’t awakened me in the night.” He grinned. Bruce nodded.
“But I have to say that God can and probably does do that,” William continued. Bruce frowned. “And he does intervene in lives, I also have to admit.” Carrie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I saw Mary changed while she was sitting next to me in church that day, as teenagers. She’s never been the same. And that, I have to admit, is the one thing my own philosophy of the last thirty years has not included: a personal relationship with God. I haven’t needed it, really. I feel that in my own way I’ve been doing what he’s wanted me to do anyway. I’ve been at peace. But I also realize now, as I’ve grown older, that I haven’t experienced the kind of personal relationship with God that Mary and Graham and Sasha have described. And I probably never will,” he concluded.
Everyone was silent again. Bruce sensed that he had just heard a bit of the president’s innermost thoughts and it would not be wise to argue. After a moment the president smiled again and said, “Anyway, we got off on all of this as the result of a simple question about tomorrow’s service. Mary, when is it?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Mary said. “Michael and Elizabeth are joining us for breakfast and then the service will be in the chapel at ten. Obviously everyone is invited, including the staff.”
“Great. Thanks again for setting it up. Now everyone, let’s finish up our dessert so we can have that awards ceremony that Carrie’s organized.” William reached for his wife’s hand and squeezed it affectionately.
As coffee was served, Carrie announced the various winners. Amid much clapping and cheering, Mary and Bruce jointly won the award for the best play of the game.
Ninety minutes later, while the family was enjoying a movie, William heard the distant sound of a helicopter and excused himself. Carrie frowned, but he whispered to her, “This is what the note at dinner was about. I’ll just be a few minutes.” He left and walked quickly over to Aspen Lodge.
The single helicopter landed in the brightly lit field. Shortly thereafter the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Vince Harley, and two of his aides were escorted to the president’s cabin.
“Vince, it’s good to see you.” William extended his hand as the two men and one woman, all in impeccable uniform, came in from the porch.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” the older man replied. “I’m sorry to bother you on this special weekend, but we received something late this afternoon that I believe you need to see.”
“Fine. Here, please sit down.”
“Thanks. We don’t plan to stay long. I just wanted you to be aware of this message, which is addressed to you through me, and arrived on the special coded fax machine just outside my private office this afternoon.” He handed his commander in chief two sheets of paper.
As William looked at the written message and the picture, he asked, “How could anyone do that?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but you can believe we’re checking.”
The message was short and read:
Greetings. We have an operational .6 megaton Soviet warhead. We are modifying it for our own use and will detonate it in a major American city within eighteen months unless you change your policies. We send you this message so that you can die a little every day before it happens, as we have died every day at your hands over so many years. We will communicate again shortly.
The Council
On the second page was a picture, slightly distorted by the faxing process but clearly showing what appeared to be the exterior of a nuclear warhead and the crate that had presumably housed it. The serial numbers had been obliterated.
William looked up at General Harley. “Is this real?”
“It appears that it may be, sir. We believe it may be the warhead the Russians feared was lost several years ago. The one the CIA agent was investigating in Odessa when he was murdered. But we’re not sure. We’ve sent a copy of the picture to our counterparts in Moscow and Kiev, but for now we’ve got to assume that it’s real.”
“And can they detonate it?”
“With the right expertise to modify it and the right equipment to initiate the firing sequence, I’m afraid so. A whole lot of Americans and Russians know how to do it.”
“Americans?”
“Yes, sir. Since Oklahoma City in ‘95 and the three copycat bombings since then, we can’t discount any possibility. The fax even came from Omaha. The FBI is checking right now and the police are questioning the staff at the copy shop it was sent from.”
William was silent for a long time, studying the pages. He was suddenly very warm and felt his hands growing moist. The visual image was burned into his memory of the the federal office building in Oklahoma City. Th
at was one truck with some fuel and fertilizer. What would a nuclear warhead do if exploded without warning?
“Do you have any idea who this ‘Council’ is or even what policies they’re talking about?” he finally asked.
“Right now we have no idea. They could be a renegade militia group or terrorists from the Middle East, Bosnia, Ireland—we just don’t know.”
William was again silent. “What do you suggest we do, general?”
Vince Harley moved to the edge of his chair. He looked first at his aides, then spoke. “Offensively, our military intelligence and CIA assets will be alerted to the threat and will redouble their efforts to turn up a lead or an association, with the emphasis being on Russia, Ukraine, U. S. militia cells, and the Middle East. Defensively, we’ll assign a special team to update earlier studies done on a nuclear threat to our twenty largest metropolitan areas. Here are summaries of those studies for you to review. We’ll war-game how to neutralize the threat, reviewing various scenarios in each city. Assuming, of course, that we’re even told where it’s located before it’s detonated.”
The general’s professional but sterile manner sent a chill down William’s spine. He was again silent.
Finally he spoke, almost in a whisper. “It must be more than revenge, or they’d just detonate it and claim responsibility later. The note sounds more like blackmail. But we don’t know what they want.”
One of the aides spoke. “No, sir. But we imagine they’ll be communicating their demands pretty soon.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they’ll just wait and give us a very short time to react. General, please do get your offense and your defense cracking. Coordinate the military effort closely with the FBI, ATF, and CIA. Given the military nature of the warhead, I’d like you to set up a special task force under your command. Give the other agencies free rein in their own areas of expertise, but for now ask them to report and coordinate through you. The main thing right now is results, not who gets credit. It’s hard to imagine how we’ll handle this if we’re not prepared. Can you give me an update at least every week?”
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