“No, ma’am, there is not.”
“Could I send him a message?”
“If it’s an emergency, ma’am.”
“You already know that it isn’t.”
“Then I’m sorry, Mrs. Brighton.”
Sara started to say something, then simply gave up. “All right, then, thank you very much.”
The phone line went dead.
Sara stared at the floor, the uneasiness building inside. She felt so alone, so helpless, so frustrated and scared. But she was no longer uncertain. She knew what she had to do.
Having finally made a decision, she started to relax now for the first time in days. Turning, she almost ran. The boys’ bedroom was at the top of the stairs. She pushed their door open and pulled up the shades. Luke and Ammon groaned together.
“Hey!” Luke protested sleepily, his head shoved between his pillow and the wall.
Ammon lifted his head from his pillow and saw the look on her face. “What’s wrong, Mom?” he asked as he rolled out of bed. Luke turned and looked at her, then swung his feet onto the floor.
“We’ve got to go,” she told them, her voice trembling now.
“Go!” Ammon stuttered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we are leaving. We’re going to get out of the city!”
Ammon stood up and started pulling on his pants. Luke rubbed his eyes wearily, but he didn’t move. He didn’t understand yet, and his face was confused. “That’s crazy talk, Mom. What are you planning to do!”
“We’re getting out of the city—”
“Have you talked to Dad?” Ammon interrupted anxiously. “Did he tell us to leave?”
Sara shook her head. “They still won’t let me through.”
“Does he know what we’re doing?”
“No, he does not.”
Ammon hesitated. “Are you certain then, Mom?”
She stopped, her face pale as a gray paper. She took a step toward him and her shoulders slumped. Moving her hand to her mouth, she tried to stifle a sob, and Ammon walked toward her and pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right, Mom. It’s all right. I’ve been feeling the same way. I know we should do this, and I know that Dad would agree.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, then suddenly pulled away. “Listen to me, boys, I don’t think that we have a lot of time. We’ve got to leave right now. Every minute we stay here, I get a bigger knot in my chest.
“Ammon, take the Honda. It won’t hold as much stuff, but it’s much better on gas. Go down, fill it up. Take those red gas cans your dad has in the back of the garage and fill them too. If you can find something else to carry gas in, take it as well. Fill up the gas containers, then run to the grocery store and buy all the bottled water you can.”
Ammon stared at her. He was simply amazed. Frightened and nervous, but amazed all the same. She was so together.
Sara turned to Luke. “Get the three-day emergency kit. You know where it is. Check everything. Then run downstairs and get some food, get everything that is in cans . . . and don’t forget a can opener . . . and a knife, we might need that . . . ”
Luke gritted his teeth in frustration. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he grabbed his hair as he cried. “Why is the White House so stupid! I want to talk to my dad! Why can’t they let us talk to our father! I think it’s important we talk to him before we do something dumb!”
“Listen,” Sara said, her voice even and calm. “You’ve got to accept this, Luke, it’s the way it has always been. The military, the White House staff, they live in a world of their own. They have a far greater weight and responsibility than you and I could ever imagine. The future of our country, the entire future of the world may be hanging in the balance right now. They don’t do these things just to make it harder for us; this is the way they have to operate! You know that. You’ve seen it. You know how the military works. How many times have I had to do things without your father? How many times has he been forced to leave us? He was gone for a whole year during the second Gulf War. I know you might feel abandoned, but there’s nothing we can do. And you know that your father would help us if there was any way that he could.
“Now get dressed and get the emergency kit. Come on! There’s no time.”
“No time, Mom! You’re kidding. What are you talking about! Why do we need all that stuff, the emergency kit, all that water? Do you know some kind of secret? What’s going on in your head!”
Sara took a patient step toward him. “Listen to me, son. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I have no idea. None at all. I haven’t seen a vision. I had no revelation in the night. But the Spirit has been warning me that we have to leave. It’s been telling me for days.” She glanced quickly toward his brother. “Ammon feels it too. It is what it is, Luke, and that is all I can say. Now, are you going to trust me, or am I going to have to fight you? If I have to fight you, that’s fine, I’ll do what I have to do. But it sure would make it easier if you would trust me for now.”
Luke stared at her, his face uncertain and grim. “You’re going to pack up and leave. Just like that, bang! we’re gone! This isn’t ancient Jerusalem, Mother. You’re not Lehi. I’m not Nephi.”
Sara pressed her lips together. “If your father were here, would you listen to him?”
“If Dad was here, I don’t think we’d be packing up to leave. I mean, come on, Mom, where are we going to go? What are we running from? What is your plan!”
Sara took a breath and looked directly into his eyes. “My plan,” she said simply, “is to follow the Spirit. I plan to follow where it leads us; that’s all that I know. I can recognize the Spirit and I know what it is telling me now: Get out of the city. I am as certain of that as I am certain of anything. Now, if you can’t trust me, I understand that. It’s a pretty big leap, I know, but I’m telling you, Luke, this is what we’re supposed to do.”
Her youngest son stared at her. His face began to soften as a warmth filled the room. He felt it, a sudden burning from somewhere deep in his chest. “All right, Mom,” he said. “Let’s do it. Now, what do you want me to do?”
She embraced him, then held his shoulders. “Get us some food. I don’t know if we’ll need it, but it might come in handy somehow.”
Luke nodded and got dressed quickly, then disappeared down the hall.
Sara turned for her bedroom. “I’ve got to get dressed,” she said.
“Where are you going?” Ammon asked her.
“To the bank. I’ll have to go down to Main. There’s a branch that opens early. I’m going to go get some cash.”
“How much?”
“I think ten thousand is the most they will give me at any one time. If they’ll give me more, I’ll take it. I’ll get all that I can.”
“How much do you have available?”
“We’ve got about forty thousand in our emergency fund.”
“Get it all if they’ll let you.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
“I’ll get the fuel and some extra containers. Then I’m going to email Dad. I’ll also leave him a note on the counter and tell him where we are.”
Sara started walking but then stopped suddenly. “Where are we going?” she asked Ammon.
He stared straight ahead. “West. We should go west.”
“All right, then . . . West Virginia.”
“We could stay the night in Charleston,” Ammon suggested. “Remember our old friends from Germany . . . what were their names, I think he retired out there.”
Sara thought for a while. “No. Let’s just get out of the city, then see how we feel. Maybe this whole thing will blow over. Who knows, in a couple of days we might feel like it’s safe to come home.”
“Yeah, Mom, okay. Now get down to the bank.”
Sara hurried to her bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. When she came out, Ammon was waiting. “I told Luke to pack us some clothes.”
“Good,” Sara said as she passed him in the hall. Ammon t
ouched her shoulder and she stopped. “Mom, you know Dad has some gold coins hidden in the basement. I’m going to get them. And I’m going to bring his gun.”
Sara hesitated, a shiver running through her. “Get them,” she whispered, then turned and ran down the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Major General Neil Brighton got the phone call while working at his desk. The White House operator buzzed his personal line. Her voice was low and professional, but Brighton could sense a slight strain.
“General Brighton,” she said when he picked up the phone, “I’ve got King Abdullah al-Rahman from Saudi Arabia on the line.”
Brighton almost gulped. “You’re kidding!” he said.
“No, General Brighton. He is demanding to speak with you.”
“Me! Are you certain?”
“Most certain, sir.”
“Has he said what he wants?”
“He has said nothing, sir.”
The general took a breath. “All right, get your voice recorders going. And call the NSA. Tell him who I’m talking to and get him in here.”
“Yes, General Brighton. Are you ready for the king now, sir?”
“No, no, not yet. Where is the president? Where is he right now?”
“The president’s caravan left the White House just a few moments ago. He’s on his way to the State Department to meet with the NATO ministers.”
The general’s heart skipped a beat. “Get him on the other line,” he commanded. “Tell him to stand by.” The general didn’t know why he had said it, there was no reason to, but something inside him was screaming. “And call the Secret Service,” he continued. “Tell them to stand by.”
The operator hesitated. “What exactly shall I tell them, sir?” she asked in an uncertain tone.
Brighton shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. “Okay, hold before you do that, let me talk with King Abdullah first. But get the National Security Advisor in here.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Now are you ready for the king?”
“Put him on,” Brighton answered.
The king’s voice came through the phone, gruff and proud. “General Brighton, you remember me, I hope,” the king of Saudi Arabia said.
“Of course, your Highness. My condolences regarding your father and your brother.” Brighton could not resist.
“Yes, thank you. You are gracious. Now, General, as you will soon see, time is of critical essence at this moment, and I must get immediately to the point. You know, I hope, that my brother held you in such high regard. I would even say that he loved you, certainly respected you, which is why I’m calling you now.”
The general only listened. “What can I do for you?” he replied. Undiplomatically, he didn’t try to hide the disdain that he felt.
“What time is it there, General Brighton?” the king replied sourly. He spoke English well enough that Brighton heard the bitterness in his voice.
Brighton hesitated while he looked at his watch. “Why do you ask, your Royal Highness?” He noted the time.
The king snorted, then said, “Isn’t it 4:45?”
“Yes,” the general answered.
“And I’m guessing that you have already asked to have your president put on the other line?”
“Yes,” Brighton answered.
“That is fine,” Abdullah said. “Now, I want you to tell him something for me. He has seven minutes. That is all. Seven minutes to live. I hope that is enough time, but it might not be. Still, I hope they are able to evacuate him in time, for I want him to see the death and destruction that he has caused. That is the only reason I am calling. I genuinely want him to live. I want him to see the downfall of his nation, the great whore of the earth. I want him to see his great city after it has been turned to black ash. I want him to see the fireball like those in Gaza did.
“Now, as for you, my good general, I’m sure it is already too late? They may have time to evacuate the president, but they will not evacuate you. So please, give my regards to my brother. And my father as well.”
The telephone clicked. The dial tone sounded. The general stared straight ahead.
His hands started shaking. His mind filled with fear. He thought of Sara and his children. He thought of the president. He thought of the city and the nation he loved so much. He sensed a sudden trembling, as if the world shook. His heart started racing; his palms were sweaty, his vision blurred.
The NSA raced into his office. “What did the king want!” he cried.
The general thought again of Sara. He thought again of his sons.
He stared at the National Security Advisor, a single tear in his eye. The NSA glared at him, his face too turning white. “What is it!” he demanded in a high, piercing cry.
“FLASHDANCE!” the general breathed.
The NSA staggered back.
The general shook his head, then picked up a red phone on the corner of his desk.
Presidential Caravan
Downtown Washington, D.C.
The president was in his limousine with two other men, members of the national press who had been invited to join him for a quick interview as he was driven to an emergency meeting with NATO ministers at the Department of State. The presidential motorcade proceeded down E street and drove quickly west, then turned south on Virginia Avenue before pulling a U-turn into the parking area outside of State. The president’s closest bodyguard, a senior Secret Service agent code-named Bull, was sitting in the seat opposite him. As always, a tiny receiver was stuffed in the Secret Service agent’s ear. He was tense and alert, but intensely fatigued. Being assigned to the president’s detail, he worked sixteen-hour days. Since the nuclear explosion over Gaza, he had literally not slept.
As the motorcade proceeded to the north side of the State building, the president was finishing his interview with the members of the press. Unexpectedly, he heard a sudden chime from the telephone in his armrest. At exactly that moment, a code sounded in Bull’s ear. “FLASHDANCE. FLASHDANCE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”
For just a fraction of a second, the bodyguard didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, a terrified look in his eye. He leaned into his lapel. “Confirm FLASHDANCE!” he said.
“Roger that! FLASHDANCE. This is not a drill!”
Bull frowned. It couldn’t be! “FLASHDANCE. SEVEN MINUTES!” his radio cried.
The Secret Service agent swallowed.
FLASHDANCE in seven minutes. That was not enough time. It took at least eleven minutes to get the president out of D.C. They had drilled it forever.
Seven minutes was not enough time.
PacEx 178
Five miles southeast of Ronald Reagan International Airport
Washington, D.C.
The 757 package carrier descended out of five thousand feet. It was flying northwest toward the airport, having been diverted over the Chesapeake Bay. The runway at Washington’s Reagan International Airport stretched roughly north and south at the ten o’clock position, and the aircraft was in a gentle turn to line up for its final approach. In the distance, the pilots could see the Mall, with the Capitol on the east side and the Lincoln Memorial on the west. Midway between them, the White House was hidden in a group of tall trees. The pilots knew that the airspace immediately around the White House was a strict No-fly Zone. Penetrate the airspace and they would be shot down.
The air traffic controller gave the PacEx carrier his final landing instructions. “PacEx 178, continue left, heading three-three-zero. Intercept the glideslope. Call the runway in sight.”
“Left turn to three-three-zero. Tally on the runway,” the freighter pilot replied.
“PacEx 178, you are number three to follow American 168 and Delta 352 on final. Descend to one thousand five hundred. Contact Tower now on 124.5.”
“Tally on the Delta,” the pilot said. “Descending to one point five and switching to Tower.”
“Roger, PacEx 178. Goo
d day.”
The pilot pulled back his throttles, and the aircraft began to descend. With the flaps at 20 percent, the increase in drag brought the aircraft down very quickly.
The suburbs outside the Beltway passed underneath the aircraft’s nose. To the pilot’s right, the waters of the Chesapeake sparkled in the afternoon light, the slanting rays creating brilliant, flashing diamonds at the crest of each wave. The sun was low in the sky but bright, the skies clean and
clear. The pilot passed over the 495 freeway, which was stop-and-go, as always, the fourteen lanes of traffic hardly seeming to move. Rush hour was just getting under way, and the city was packed from one end to the other. To their left, in the distance, the Pentagon parking lot was a madhouse of traffic; same for Bolling Air Force Base, across the Potomac River from the airport. Directly ahead now, Reagan’s main runway, eight thousand feet of white concrete, shone brightly against the backdrop of downtown D.C. The copilot stared below his flight path, keeping the preceeding aircraft in sight while the pilot adjusted his throttles, further decreasing his power.
The aircraft continued to descend.
Inside the aircraft’s cargo compartment, a series of valves opened up, allowing outside air to begin to cycle through.
The cabin pressure inside the aircraft was equal to the outside pressure now.
At 4:49 local time, PacEx Express Flight 178 passed through 3000 feet. Inside the crate with the warhead, the barometric sensor detected the appropriate altitude.
The final countdown began. Two minutes to go.
Presidential Motorcade
Downtown Washington, D.C.
Around the motorcade, more than two hundred protective agents slipped into gear.
The motorcade began to accelerate, moving past the entrance to the State Department’s secure parking area. The chime continued from the speaker in the armrest, then fell suddenly mute. Three, then six police motorcycles moved in on the limousine, their sirens now blaring, their lights flashing bright. The bulletproof window separating the front seat from the presidential cabin rolled up.
The president frowned and looked over. “What’s going on, Bull?”
The Secret Service agent didn’t answer, for he was speaking into his lapel. But the president picked up the code word, and he knew what it meant.
The Great and Terrible Page 85