The sound faded quickly as the pilot pulled his engines back to idle and the Secretary turned to Lieutenant Brighton again. “I don’t think it’s excessively dramatic or even an overstatement to say that, in many ways, the future of our world depends on what you and your team do now,” he said.
Sam kept his mouth shut, the creases on his forehead furrowing deeper with concentration.
“Sometime soon, if your mother is successful—and we both pray she will be—I hope to be sworn in as president of the United States. Once that happens—if that happens—do you have any idea the pressure I will come under to retaliate against King Abdullah for the EMP attack? I’ve got a dozen generals and a couple of dozen civilian advisers who are begging me to do it now, take whatever resources I can muster and launch a counterattack. Of course I can’t do that for several reasons, the most important of them being that I am not the president. But if that time comes, the pressure to retaliate will increase manyfold. And how can I blame them? It’s exactly what I want to do as well. More, it’s been the strategic doctrine of our country for more than eighty years that we would retaliate if we ever suffered from a nuclear hit. Same thing for the EMP attack, which, you can see, has proven much more deadly and difficult to survive than a simple nuclear strike. They got us. They almost have us. We know that King Abdullah funded, coordinated, and ordered both attacks. It’s going to be enormously difficult for me not to order retaliation once I become the president.”
A cool wind blew across the open runway and Brucius sucked in a breath of air.
“The only problem with the doctrine of retaliation is if you happen to be one of the fifty million innocent Arabs who are going to die. They didn’t choose their king. They certainly don’t control him. They have no more say in their national leadership or foreign policy than the poor old goatherds did over the most powerful caliphs a thousand years ago. It just seems, I don’t know, a little bit ineffective to order the death of fifty million innocent civilians. And a conventional attack is not an option, not right now, not with virtually all of our military forces required here at home—not to mention the lack of blood and treasure to fund such a massive land attack. But we have to do something. We can’t walk away from this fight, our tail between our legs.
“And let’s say I did order retaliation. Let’s consider the implications for future relationships between the Middle East and the West. It would take a dozen generations to get beyond this. In fact, I don’t think we ever would. I think that hundreds of years from now, such an action would still define our two worlds. I believe such a retaliatory strike would create the death match between our cultures, leading to both of our downfalls.
“But we know something about King Abdullah and his intentions that is proving incredibly valuable. We know where he’s going. We know when he’ll be there. Fool of fools, outside his own nation he’s going to be vulnerable. So desperate is he to kill the only son left living from his brother, he takes an enormous risk.
“We have this one chance. If you can get him, if you can locate and extricate King Abdullah, then we can punish him. Justice will be served. We could stop the final world war. I know that sounds like something out of a poorly written movie, but it really is the case: Find him. We will try him and hang him. Don’t, and we’ll have to retaliate.”
Sam felt his stomach muscles tighten, and he was already feeling sick. His mouth was so dry he didn’t know if he could talk. “I understand, sir,” he answered simply. “We’ll do the best we can.”
“Remember this, it is important: As long as the boy is alive, Abdullah has no legitimate claim upon the kingdom. Protect the boy and he will be king. But let Abdullah kill him, and it’s over. We have no chance for a legitimate or friendly government in Saudi. Worse, let Abdullah slip away, and we lose the only chance we have of averting a potentially world-ending war.”
Sam stared ahead and swallowed.
Marino eyed him carefully. “You have a good team?” he asked.
“The best, sir.”
He watched the young soldier. “I hope so. We need the best right now.”
Sam waited, expecting to be dismissed.
“A couple of other things you might want to consider,” Marino told him as the cold air blew his suit jacket, pressing it tight against his waist, exposing the outline of his gun. “We have to demonstrate to the rest of the world that, despite some of their great hopes and deep-seated desires, the United States hasn’t been rendered completely helpless. We have to demonstrate that we’re not neutered, that we have the will to fight. We’re not going to turn in on ourselves and abrogate our responsibilities to the world. We have to show that we are capable of and, much more importantly, still willing to mount a military operation in order to protect ourselves, that we are not a broken nation, that we can get up from our knees. Do you understand that, Lieutenant Brighton? I know I’m asking you to think much larger; I’m asking you to think on a much more strategic level than a junior officer is expected to have to think. This is political. This is perception. But many times, most times in geopolitical situations, perception is far more important than the reality. And that’s what we’re dealing with here.”
Sam nodded. The band of black-coated personal bodyguards drew nearer, hating the fact their charge was exposing himself like this, out in the open, unmoving, not under any cover. Might as well stand in the middle of the runway with a target on his coat. They moved closer, gathering in a loose
circle, all of them facing out. Marino looked at them, then turned back. “One more thing,” he said, biting his lower lip. “And this is perhaps the most important thing that I can tell you. If I’m sworn in as president, once we start to rebuild and resecure our nation, do you think King Abdullah is going to stand by? Do you think he came this far to watch us build again? He knows that once we set our minds to it, once we dedicate the people and the resources, we’ll be back in the fight. It won’t even take us very long, once his allies in the government have been destroyed. That being the case, do you really think he’ll let us? Or will he attack again?”
Sam’s eyes opened wider. He had thought that it was over, that the worst of it had passed. It had never really occurred to him that the battle would continue or that King Abdullah might attack again.
Marino watched his face and read his mind. “He’s prepared. He has other weapons. Biological agents. The most dreaded diseases. If he uses them, it’ll make the plagues of Egypt look like a weekend cold. He’s got at least another twenty nuclear warheads, we know that. He’s got . . .” The Secretary stopped. No sense going on.
The two men stood in silence for a long moment. The cold wind cut through Sam’s military jacket, sending a shiver up his spine.
“We have to stop him,” Marino muttered almost to himself.
Sam waited. The Secretary didn’t speak again. “Yes, sir,” he finally said.
Marino took a final breath, then placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. The beefy flesh was strong and heavy. “No pressure, okay?” He cracked a smile.
Sam smiled back. “Not feeling any, sir.”
“It’s only the entire freaking future of the entire freaking world, that’s all that’s on your shoulders. Ain’t no big thing.” He smiled again, but his eyes were serious.
Sam brushed a piece of blowing sand out of the corner of his mouth.
“Just wanted you to know what you were fighting for.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
The Secretary slapped him on the shoulder. “I know how good you guys are.” His eyes were smiling now, his face brightening with sudden confidence. “I know how incredibly difficult the process of being selected for the Cherokee program is. You guys have been culled and strapped and trained to an infinite degree. You’re the best warfighters in the world. I think you’re probably the best warfighters the world has ever seen. There is no one like you, and frankly, Lieutenant Brighton, this is exactly the kind of thing the Cherokees were created for. Now go. Do this miss
ion. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
The Secretary turned and nodded to his people. One of the black SUVs roared to life and sped across the tarmac to pick him up, saving the short walk.
Sam watched the Secretary climb inside, then turned to the waiting helicopter and started running as the low whine of the electric motors began to spin the jet turbine engines up.
Three minutes later, he was in the air.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Four Miles West of Chatfield
Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee
He lay with his eyes open, listening to Caelyn breathing, wanting to reach out and touch her but not wanting to wake her up. Through the bedroom window, the stars formed a huge, bright saucer that stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, a hundred million points of light. The moon had waned to hardly more than a sliver on the southwestern horizon, but there was just enough light to allow him to see as he slipped out of bed and moved quietly toward the bedroom door.
The first thing he wanted was to get clean. After years in the ickiest of the Ickistans, it had become an obsession, and he was always aware of dangers of bacteria and disease now. The old farm was blessed with several springs that had been used to water the small herd of cattle, and over the past couple of days his father-in-law had rigged a holding tank, curtain, and showerhead in some trees out past the hay field. He grabbed a towel and slipped down the stairs, out the back door, and across the porch, where he stopped and took a deep breath, drawing the cold air into his lungs. Soon it would be morning and it was chilly, maybe only 40 degrees, but dry and clear. As he sniffed, he smelled smoke, its acidic fragrance tinging the air. Campfires. The people from the cities were getting closer. Hordes of them, some of them camped together, some of them trying to make it on their own, some in families, some with others, some forming larger groups with guns, some with money trying to buy their way with paper bills nobody valued anymore. They had abandoned the cities and were moving through the country now, searching for food and water.
What would a good man do to save his children once he realized they were going to starve to death? What would a mother do to help her infant while holding her baby’s weakening body in her arms? He sniffed the smoky air and wondered, then headed across the grass.
The water from the spring was ice-cold but invigorating, sending the adrenaline surging through his blood. He lathered up, rubbing the cake of soap against his body, rinsed in the icy water, sputtered from the cold, then lathered and rinsed again. Feeling better, he dressed in his military fatigues and headed back to the house.
The sun was just breaking across the horizon when he got back, the eastern sky having turned from deep purple to pink. He’d already positioned his gear on the back porch; now he pulled his heavy pack over to him and sat down on the steps. Opening the pack, he extracted its contents and laid the
equipment out to check and organize it. He started with the clothes: two sets of camouflage fatigues; a heavy jacket; thick socks, reinforced in the toes and heels; three sets of gloves, one insulated, one heavy leather, one a pair of fire-resistant Nomex that an air force pilot had traded him for a set of Iraqi playing cards; a rain poncho; a knit hat that covered his ears; another with a hood that snapped onto his military jacket. The clothes were clean, having been thoroughly hand-washed the day before. He folded them carefully, then rolled them into tight bundles and packed them into the zippered compartments on both sides of the pack. His leather boots were drying on the porch from the waterproofing he’d applied the night before. He checked them, satisfied, then pulled them on. Next he extracted his military gear: knee and elbow pads (considered by many soldiers to be the most important pieces of gear they had), a GPS receiver (with encryption to prevent the user’s location from being triangulated by enemy forces), emergency satellite locator, protective eyewear, first aid kit, sunglasses, whistle, firestarter, space blanket, pencil and tiny notebook, two heavy-duty trash bags, chem sticks, wire saw, fifty feet of nylon webbing, Ensolite pad, signal mirror. On top of the pile of gear was a six-inch knife, razor-sharp, along with his own custom-built M1911 .45 pistol as well as a military-issued 9mm Glock. Already strapped to his leg was the tiny pearl-and-plastic .22 that he’d been given by a buddy in New York City the day before his first deployment to Afghanistan. The weapon wouldn’t kill anything unless shot at short range, but it had great sentimental value and, like many soldiers, he was superstitious enough to believe the Saturday Night Special had become one of his good-luck charms.
Other gear would follow once he got back to his unit: an HK416 Delta-issued assault rifle, lighter and smaller than the older M-4s and M-16s, more reliable and easier to shoot, especially in close quarters. When he got in-country again, he’d pick up another AK-47, partly to blend in with the locals, but mostly to take advantage of the plentiful supply of ammunition. Before leaving his unit he would also take up his Interceptor Body Armor (IBA); a Laser Target Location System, which would provide both day and night capability to locate targets; miniature binoculars; and an Improved Spotting Scope with a tripod and a monocle lens that would attach to his helmet and fit over his right eye, allowing him to see a digital image of his own men superimposed over a satellite-powered map. The same monocle could also be attached to his weapon, allowing him, in effect, to shoot around corners without exposing himself.
It was a boatload of equipment, all in all. And though it was designed to be as light as possible, allowing the soldier to fight and move more quickly, taken together it weighed more than sixty pounds.
He had just finished checking, cleaning, and packing his combat gear when the back door opened and Caelyn looked out. He glanced over his shoulder at her, the Glock in one hand, a velvet-soft cleaning pad in the other. She looked out at him, saw the backpack and guns, then frowned and stepped onto the porch.
“You’re getting ready to go?” she said.
“Not really, honey. I’m just keeping things in shape.”
“No, babe, you don’t have to try to hide it. You’re getting ready.”
“Not getting ready. Just making sure that I’ll be ready. There’s a difference.”
If there was a difference, she didn’t see it. She looked away. The sun was just above the tree line and the morning was growing warmer.
Bono slipped the gun into the backpack, knowing it made her uncomfortable. “Ellie still asleep?” he asked.
Caelyn nodded, then knelt on the wooden porch and cuddled up behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest. “You smell fine,” she whispered.
He leaned back against her. “It was a little nippy, but the shower sure felt good.”
She breathed, her nose pressed against his hair. “I’m going to go and take a shower too.”
He turned and smiled at her. “If you wait a couple of hours the water in the holding tank will heat up to thirty-six degrees or so.”
Caelyn shivered. “That bad?”
“Wait until you feel it.”
“Okay, don’t come running if you hear me scream.”
“I’ll know you just turned the water on.”
She laughed, then put her lips to his hair and pulled it
gently. It was long and black and smelled like soap. “I don’t know about you Special Forces guys. What do they call you now? Last I heard, it was Cherokees. Look at you, baby. Long hair. Never clean-shaven. Dark sunglasses and lots of ugly gear. If I’d wanted to marry a Hell’s Angel, I would have stayed in California.”
Bono lifted his jaw. “You should see me on my Hog. It makes me sexy, baby.”
She laughed and pulled his hair again.
They heard it at the same time, the rotors first, then the whine of the twin jet turbine engines. It came in low, barely over the tree line, the scream of the engines beating on their ears, the massive black rotors sending miniature shockwaves that thumped against their chests. It swooped over the house, then rolled quickly onto its side while slowing, completed the 180-degree turn, and
came to a hover over the grass in the backyard. Bono was already standing. Caelyn struggled to his side and grasped his arm, her other hand shielding her eyes against blowing leaves and sand. The army Blackhawk settled to the grass, the thick, black tires bouncing lightly. Then the cabin door shot open.
Caelyn gripped her husband’s arm more tightly. “No, baby, no,” she called above the roar of the blades and engines. “Not yet! Not now! You’re supposed to have more time!”
Bono felt her fingernails digging into his arm. He kept his eyes on the chopper. The pilots didn’t roll the engines back, though they’d taken the pitch out of the blades, and the sand and blowing debris weren’t biting their eyes anymore. A soldier jumped out of the rear cabin and started running toward him. Bono recognized the face and long strides. Sam Brighton ran up and stopped before him.
Caelyn was panicked. She leaned toward her husband, almost falling into his arms. “No, no, not yet,” she cried as she beat her fists lightly against his chest. “Not now.” She put her arms around him and held him closer. “You can’t leave me here. I don’t know what I’ll do. How am I going to protect Ellie? What are we going to do!”
The back door to the house swung open and Greta was standing there, holding her fingers in her ears. Ellie hid behind her grandma’s knees, then ran out and jumped off the porch into her father’s arms. He barely caught her with Caelyn holding him so tight.
The Great and Terrible Page 155