by David Zeman
But in the six months since the attack, the combined efforts of the federal intelligence services had failed to identify the perpetrators. A state of fear unequaled since the Cuban missile crisis had set in among Americans.
A week after the attack a terrifying piece of video was sent to the major television networks and cable stations from an unknown source. It showed theCrescent Queen floating placidly in the Mediterranean, in such close focus that the name of the ship was visible on the bow. Then the nuclear explosion vaporized the vessel, and the camera pulled back to show the mushroom cloud rising majestically over the blue sea. The video had clearly been shot from a surface vessel at a safe distance from the blast.
“It gives you the creeps,” said the sister. “Just waiting to see where the next one is going to drop. I can’t sleep at night.”
“Gary thinks the Muslims are behind the whole thing,” said the mother. “He says the nuclear technology is being provided by Iraq or Libya or somebody, and the Muslim terrorists are pushing the button.”
“Maybe he’s right. But it doesn’t make much difference, since we don’t know what to do about it. I feel like a sitting duck. I’m scared for my kids.”
“Do you know what Rich says? He says kill all the Muslims and everything will fall into place.”
“Gary is exactly the same. He says nuke the Arabs and divide the oil resources among the developed countries, and our troubles will be over.”
Many American men had similar opinions. It was hard to avoid unreasoning anger when they saw news video of Muslims marching in the streets of Middle Eastern capitals to celebrate theCrescent Queen disaster. Shaking fists and holding up signs that read DEATH TO AMERICA, the Muslims considered the attack a victory over the United States. Islamic terrorism was on the upswing, spreading throughout developing countries like a cancer. Governments in the Middle East, South Asia, and North Africa, intimidated by the Muslim groundswell, did not dare to refuse safe haven to the terrorists, even though this brought economic reprisals from America.
Meanwhile the continuing oil crisis, fostered by hostile Arab states, aggravated the recession that had begun just before the president’s election. Unemployment was at its highest point in a generation.
Few Americans dared to remember the time, only a few years ago, when the worst problem the nation faced was what to do with the surplus. The old world was gone. A new one had taken its place, a world in which one held one’s breath and waited for disaster to strike.
“You know,” said the mother, “I believe Gary honestly thinks that’s what Goss will do if he gets into office.”
“You mean kill all the Muslims?”
“Yes. That, or something like that—crazy as it sounds.”
“I don’t know . . . It does sound insane, but I’m not sure I would completely put it past Goss. There’s something about those eyes of his . . . You know, Hitler never actually said he was going to kill people, either.”
“I can’t believe we’re actually sayingif he gets in ,” said the mother. “Ten years ago it would have been unthinkable.”
“Yeah, but that was before theCrescent Queen. People want revenge. Men especially.”
“The recession has a lot to do with it too. Being out of work for two years can do something to a man’s mind. I know it’s done something to Gary’s mind. He never used to be this way.”
The president’s popularity was at an all-time low. There was talk in Congress to the effect that he should resign. A constitutional amendment would permit a special election in which the American people could choose a new leader. Colin Goss was a visible spearhead of this movement. In the new climate of fear and anger, Goss was viewed as a viable candidate for president. His standing in the polls had been increasing steadily as public confidence in the administration declined.
“Rich says if Goss runs for president he’ll be the first one at the polls. He wants to vote for Goss that badly.”
“I just pray it never happens.”
The mother turned away from the TV. As she did so she saw the postman through the window, standing in the middle of the street. She frowned as she noticed his immobility. His shoulders and cap were now covered by a light layer of snow.
“Listen,” she said to her sister, “I’ve got to go. There seems to be something wrong with Mr. Kennedy. I’ll call you back, okay?”
She hung up the phone, quickly looked in on the children, and threw on her coat. She remembered at the front door to put on her boots. She made her way across the snow-covered lawn to the sidewalk, and then into the street.
An odd stillness hung over the block as she moved toward the silent mailman. There was not a car in sight, not a tire track the entire length of the street. Snowflakes swayed downward like pillows from the gray sky.
She was close enough now to see the snowflakes on the mailman’s nose and eyelashes. His face was rigid. He reminded her of the Tin Man inThe Wizard of Oz, who simply froze in one position when the rain caused him to rust.
“Mr. Kennedy?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
The postman’s eyes were a pale blue. They gave no sign that he had heard her. Something about them was strange, but it would not be until much later, telling her story to the health authorities, that she would put it into words by saying that his eyes were as though hypnotized from within.
She called to him several more times, and dared to touch his sleeve. But he was like a statue, completely oblivious of her.
She saw a couple of neighbor children coming toward her.
“Stay back, children,” she called. “Mr. Kennedy may be sick.”
The children moved reluctantly away. The mother hurried inside, told Chase and Annie to stay in the playroom, and then called 911. The operator got the street wrong, and it was not until about twenty-five minutes later that a police car rolled to a stop alongside the immobile mailman. By now some more children had emerged from the surrounding houses and were gawking from their front lawns.
One of the policemen approached the mailman. He noticed a wet area on the man’s cheek. Looking down, he saw the remnants of a snowball on the ground at the mailman’s feet.
“Children, I want you all to go inside your houses now,” he said, motioning to his partner, who herded the children away.
The policeman tried to help the mailman into the cruiser, but the mailman seemed to resist, clinging to the spot where he stood. His jaws were clenched tightly, and he had a look of empty, meaningless stubbornness on his face.
After another few minutes of indecisive parley, an ambulance was called. When it arrived two paramedics discussed the situation with the police and finally lifted the mailman onto their gurney and slid him into the back of the ambulance.
“All right, children,” said one of the mothers who had ventured onto her frozen stoop. “It’s all over now. Let’s all get inside before we freeze our noses off.”
The children, bored now that the police car and ambulance were gone, went back into their houses.
————
THE EMERGENCY room physician who examined Wayne Kennedy that afternoon found all his vital signs essentially normal. Heart rate, blood pressure, even reflexes were well within normal limits. But the patient could not speak or perform simple commands. (“Wayne, can you lift your little finger for me?”) His eyes were seen to notice a flashlight beam as it was moved across his field of vision, but when asked to follow the light on command, he could not or would not obey.
By evening Kennedy had been moved to a semiprivate room adjacent to the intensive care ward. The doctors did not understand his condition, so they did not know what to expect. Emergency life support might become necessary if some unknown toxic or infectious agent was behind his illness. On the other hand, the silence and the stubborn immobility suggested a mental disturbance, and Kennedy would have to be watched for this as well.
By nine o’clock that night, most of the physicians and interns on duty had had a look at the patient, and none could
offer a constructive thought.
The nurses were told to keep a close watch on him, and he was put to bed for the night.
In all this time Wayne Kennedy, a fifteen-year veteran of the postal service with a large family of his own, had not uttered a single sound.
2
—————
Alexandria, Virginia
November 16
7A.M.
KAREN EMBRY was dreaming.
The fringes of a troubled sleep procured by nearly half a bottle of bourbon made her dream intense and disturbing.
She was applying for a job in a very tall building. The elevator thrust her upward with such force that the wind was knocked out of her. She thought she was going to wet her pants.
The personnel director greeted her when the elevator opened. Looking down at herself, she noticed with a shock that she had nothing on below the waist. Just the suit jacket and foulard she had worn for the job application, the large purse and the red leather shoes.
She opened the purse, which seemed inordinately huge, to search for the missing skirt and underwear. The purse was completely empty.
I’ve got to get to the ladies’ room. She saw the door marked “Ladies” and went through it. The personnel director smiled indulgently, as though to say, “Yes, go ahead, I’ll wait for you.” But at the last second he darted into the ladies’ room behind her.
There was something magical about that entry, for when they got inside he was no longer a man, he was a little girl. Karen looked at herself in the mirror and saw that she, too, had regressed through time and was small again, as she had been back home in Boston. She was still naked below the waist. So was the other girl.
“Let’s touch each other,” the girl said. Karen thought she recognized her as a childhood friend, Elise perhaps. The girls stretched out their hands to fondle each other.
A tremor shook the building.It’s an earthquake . The building tilted suddenly to one side. The doors to the toilet stalls swung open with a bang.
Karen tried to escape, but the little girl had hold of both her hands. The building was falling over with an enormous roar. Karen was tumbling through space, about to be buried by tons of concrete and steel.
Help! Help me!
With a scream in her throat, Karen woke up.
The alarm was ringing. She reached sleepily to turn it off, realizing with a smile that the roar of the crumbling building in her nightmare had actually been the buzz of the alarm clock.
The headache hit just as she was fumbling for the button. The empty glass beside the bed reminded her of how much bourbon it had taken to leave her in this shape. A throb in her bladder told her she had to pee. No wonder the dream had been about a bathroom, she thought.
With a groan she got out of the bed and stood up.
“Jesus,” she said. The headache was much worse. She staggered to the bathroom, flung open the medicine cabinet, and found the Advil bottle. She shook three of the brown tablets into her trembling hand and filled the dirty water glass from the tap. She moved to the kitchen. Mercifully, the coffeemaker was full and ready to perk. She had remembered last night, despite the booze, to fill it.
She turned the machine on and padded back to the bedroom. The churning sound of the coffeemaker was like a fist squeezing repeatedly at her throat.
“Jesus Christ,” she moaned. “Hurry.”
It took seven long minutes for the coffee to perk. The Advil still had not taken effect when she brought her first cup back to the bed. With her eyes half closed she turned on the little bedroom TV.
Washington Today,one of the most-watched political talk shows, was on. Dan Everhardt, the vice president, was being assailed by two right-wing senators who challenged him to defend the administration’s policy on terrorism.
“Just tell me how you can defend a policy that simply doesn’t work,” one of them demanded.
“The fact is that our policy on terrorismdoes work,” Everhardt said. “In cooperation with other governments around the world we have prevented countless terrorist attacks over the years.”
“Not as many as you could have prevented.”
“That’s not quite fair.”
“Not the World Trade. Not theCrescent Queen .”
Karen smiled. Dan Everhardt was not a good debater. A quiet family man, a former defensive lineman at Rutgers, he projected honesty and integrity rather than glib eloquence. The president had chosen him as his running mate for precisely that reason.
Everhardt was very popular. He stood six feet five inches tall and was, in his ruddy way, quite handsome. Unfortunately, his slowness on the uptake was hurting him in this debate against two strident pro-Goss spokesmen.
“Those were terrible tragedies,” he said. “But we learned valuable lessons from them. I—”
“Not the lessons we needed to learn,” said one of the senators. “The World Trade should have taught us to destroy these fanaticsbefore they attack us. TheCrescent Queen tragedy took place precisely because we had not learned that lesson. Nine hundred innocent people slaughtered, most of them children. And we still don’t know who is responsible. We sit here like sheep waiting for the slaughter. The next hydrogen bomb could land on New York or Washington. Don’t you people in the White House have any conception of what we’re up against?”
Unfortunately for the vice president, the show’s director took this opportunity to cut to an image of the mushroom cloud rising above the blue Mediterranean where theCrescent Queen had been.
Even more unfortunately, the moderator now interrupted the proceedings to bring in Colin Goss himself, via split screen from his corporate headquarters in Atlanta.
“Mr. Goss, can you bring some perspective to the debate going on here?”
“Well, I hope I can.” Goss leaned forward, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the camera. “I honor my distinguished colleagues, and I think they speak out of a sincere regard for our nation at this perilous time. However, I don’t agree with Vice President Everhardt’s logic. I don’t think our policy on terrorism works. Let me put the analogy to the vice president in a different way. Suppose a farmer has a sheep ranch, and wolves are breaking through his fences and killing his sheep. He has consulted the best experts about the fences, and has learned that no fence can be built that will completely protect his sheep. He now has two choices. He can either close down his ranch, sell his sheep, and give up—or he can shoot the wolves that are killing his sheep.”
He joined his hands in a gesture of resolve. “The American people seem to feel, as I do, that it is time to fight back against the mad dogs who are massacring our children.”
Karen smiled.Time to fight back . That was one of Goss’s favorite campaign slogans.Mad dogs was his code word for terrorists. “You can’t negotiate with a mad dog,” he liked to say.
Goss had leaned back, but his eyes still seemed to glare into the camera. Those eyes had made him a national figure, for they expressed a powerful will and great intelligence. But some observers said they were also the reason he had lost the three presidential elections in which he had run. There was something dangerous in Goss’s look. Some saw it as strength, others as ruthlessness. He had the look of a leader, but perhaps of a bad man.
Dan Everhardt was caught off guard by Goss’s analogy.
“For one thing,” he said, “we have fought back. We fought back with great success in Afghanistan . . .”
“Our campaign in Afghanistan only provoked the terrorists,” Goss retorted. “And did it prevent theCrescent Queen disaster? We knew for years that the terrorists were developing weapons of mass destruction. The handwriting was on the wall. Yet we did nothing, and look where it has gotten us.” He smiled patronizingly. “In sports there is an old saying, ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ I wonder if the vice president and his administration have ever really understood this.”
“There’s something about your analogy I don’t like,” Everhardt said tentatively. “For one thing, in this civilized world we
don’t solve our problems by taking out guns and shooting people.”
“On the contrary,” said Goss. “We use force to defend ourselves when the adversary doesn’t understand reason. Perhaps the vice president doesn’t remember how we defeated Hitler and Saddam Hussein.”
He leaned forward again, his eyes darkening. “But the situation is even simpler now. This is not a territorial struggle, as it was with Hitler or Saddam. These terrorists have only one aim. They want to kill Americans. They’ve said it over and over, they don’t make any bones about it. Tokill Americans . And our response has been to sit here waiting for them to attack. That response is worse than cowardice. It is insanity.”
At this point Dan Everhardt made a crucial error.
“But how would we know who to attack?” he asked. “We don’t know who was behind theCrescent Queen. ”
There was an audible intake of breath among those present. Everhardt had admitted his administration’s weakness, both intelligence gathering and in retaliation.
Colin Goss’s lips curled in disdain. “If we had the right leadership in Washington,” he said, “we would know who to attack.”
The silence that followed this remark was deeply embarrassing for Everhardt and those who supported the administration.
“Well, I . . .” Dan Everhardt stammered.
The moderator came to his rescue. “We have another special guest via satellite. The junior senator from Maryland, Michael Campbell, has accepted our invitation to join in this debate. Senator Campbell, how would you respond to Mr. Goss’s analogy?”
Karen smiled again as she sipped at her coffee. The Goss camp must be pissed off to see Campbell come to Everhardt’s rescue. Campbell was a good speaker and a good debater.
“I agree with Dan Everhardt,” Campbell said. “I think Mr. Goss’s analogy is faulty.” The contrast between Campbell’s handsome face and Goss’s jowly middle-aged countenance was immediate. So was the contrast between Goss’s angry gaze and the reflective, almost tender eyes of the young senator.