Flee The Darkness

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  “No thank you,” Daniel interrupted. “I’m flattered by the recognition, but I’m going to have to decline the honor. Thank the president for me, but give him my regrets.”

  He heard her quick intake of breath. “You won’t—well, perhaps you’d like a few days to think about this opportunity.”

  Daniel forced a smile into his voice. “That won’t be necessary. We are very busy with our own work, and I simply cannot take the time to leave my company. The year 2000 is bearing down on all of us, you know. But thank you for the call, Ms. Mitchell.”

  “Miss.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s Miss Mitchell. The president is a traditionalist; he doesn’t care for the Ms. designation.”

  “Fine. Thanks again for the call.”

  “Wait—we are prepared—I’m sure the president could authorize— some form of compensation.” Her voice strengthened. “I know we could make it worth your time, Mr. Prentice.”

  Despite his best intentions, Daniel found himself grinning at the phone. The woman was persistent, he’d give her that. “Miss Mitchell, let me reiterate my position. I have served my country. Now I’d like to step aside and let someone else receive the honors.”

  “We know about Desert Storm. You did a very brave thing and we’re grateful—”

  “Sure you are.”

  “—but this opportunity is not at all dangerous.” She cleared her throat. “We’re not asking you to risk your life this time, Mr. Prentice. We’re only asking for your intellect, which, I understand, is formidable.”

  Daniel looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. No wonder the ultratraditional Senator Stedman had won the election. He’d probably hired this little bulldog to collar voters and shake them until they agreed to vote Republican.

  “Miss Mitchell,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, “thank you very much for this high honor, but I must decline. I have already given my country more than enough.”

  “May I tell the president you’ll be in touch later?”

  “No.”

  “May I tell him that you’ll at least consider the offer?”

  “Good-bye, Miss Mitchell.”

  Daniel held the receiver over the phone base for a moment, then very deliberately dropped it into its cradle.

  Three hours later, Lauren picked up Daniel Prentice’s file and walked slowly toward the Oval Office. She’d spent all afternoon racking her brain, trying to come up with another angle that might snare Daniel Prentice, but she’d come up with nothing—nothing respectable, anyway. She figured she could always beg or threaten, but those tactics were beneath her principles. There remained intimidation, but Daniel Prentice didn’t seem the type to be easily intimidated.

  She gave Francine Johnson a distracted smile as she moved past the secretary’s desk, then rose on tiptoe to peer through the peephole into the Oval Office. “I think he’s in the dining room,” Francine called over her shoulder. “The first lady and General Archer are in there with him. You can go on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lauren pulled open the door, then padded across the plush blue carpeting. Another doorway off the Oval Office led into a private hallway, flanked by a private bathroom on one side and the president’s study on the other. Beyond that lay a cozy dining room, and Lauren could hear the clink of china as she approached.

  “Lauren, honey.” Victoria Stedman saw her first. “Come sit down and have a cup of tea. Sam and the general are jabbering in computer lingo; see if you can interpret it for me.”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news.” Lauren dropped Prentice’s dossier on the table and sank into the chair the president pulled out for her. “I spoke with Daniel Prentice on the phone earlier today. He’s not interested in helping us.”

  “Not interested?” Victoria lifted a brow.

  “Not even for money.” Lauren propped her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand. “He said he’d already served his country and it was someone else’s turn. His exact words were, ‘I have already given my country more than enough.’”

  “Arrogant fellow.” A cold flash lit General Archer’s eyes as he scowled at Lauren.

  “Would it help if I called him?” the president asked, folding his hands. “No offense, Lauren, but sometimes a call from the Oval Office can work wonders.” He gave her a bemused smile. “Even with Democrats.”

  “That’s the funny thing—Prentice is a registered Republican.” Lauren pushed the dossier toward him. “You can certainly try to convince him, but he sounded very definite. We know his own company is working on the Y2K, and he may be too busy to spare the time to be part of our committee.”

  Archer slammed his hand on the table. “He has the answer—he’s just an arrogant, greedy little—”

  “That’s enough, General.” Victoria Stedman’s delicate mouth thinned in disapproval. The empty air between them vibrated, and a steward, his arms laden with a silver tea service, paused in the doorway as if afraid to disturb the absolute quiet.

  “There’s always a way to bring people around.” Changing his tactics, General Archer glanced at the president, his eyes bright with speculation. “We’ll just have to dig a little deeper on this Prentice fellow. Every man has his price and his motivation. We’ll just have to find out what sort of man Daniel Prentice really is.”

  “Please, whatever you do, take the moral high road.” Victoria Stedman’s hand flew to the string of pearls at her neck. “We made a promise to the American people when we took office—no more shenanigans from the White House. We promised to be trustworthy.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am.” The general’s mouth twisted in something not quite a smile. “We’ll be careful.”

  “You’ve got to be more than careful.” The president accepted a cup from the steward, then held it aloft while the man poured tea. “You’ve got to be downright circumspect, General, do you hear? No dirty tricks— nothing that’s going to jump up and bite us on the rear end when we least expect it.”

  The general lifted his own teacup to his broad mouth. “Mr. President, you can trust me. Depend upon it.”

  SEVEN

  10:45 A.M., Tuesday, November 10, 1998

  BRAD HUNTER SHOOK OPEN THE NEWSPAPER SOME CONSIDERATE SOUL HAD LEFT on the end table, but the newsprint blurred before his eyes. After a moment, he dropped the charade and folded the paper again, then tossed it back to the table. The secretary at the oak desk seemed not to notice him; she had scarcely lifted her eyes even when he announced his name and the fact that he had an appointment with General Archer.

  “Be seated,” she had said, her eyes glued to the computer screen at her desk.

  Brad blew out his cheeks, then leaned forward, his hands on his knees. He had a vague idea of why he’d been summoned to this office, but you could never tell with these Department of Defense guys.

  The door to the inner sanctum opened, and General Archer himself stood in the opening, as broad and impressive in person as in the framed photographs that decorated every office in the Pentagon and the NSA. The overhead light struck the stubble of gray hair on his shaved head, creating an impression of an almost saintly halo.

  “Colonel Hunter?” Archer turned with nonchalant grace and gestured toward his office. “Please, come in.”

  Brad walked toward the general, extending his hand even as he reminded himself that he was now a civilian and didn’t have to salute. “Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to see you again.”

  General Archer motioned toward a pair of chairs before his desk, then sank into one as Brad took the other. Brad found himself smiling—he admired a man who came out from behind his desk for an underling.

  The man wasted no time in coming to the point. “Colonel Hunter, I’m sure you have been kept abreast of the Y2K problem. I’m told by your superiors in the NSA that you have conducted a good deal of industrial surveillance in the field.”

  Brad felt heat begin to steal into his face. This had to be about Daniel.

&nbs
p; General Archer smiled in a way that only emphasized that he hadn’t been smiling before. “I understand that you have established a friendship with Daniel Prentice.”

  “Yes, sir.” Brad nodded perfunctorily and lowered his gaze. “Next month Daniel will be the best man at my wedding.”

  “That’s very nice.” The general cocked his head to one side and kept smiling. “Friendship among comrades in war is a unique and wonderful thing. Given what you two went through together in Baghdad, I would imagine that you will remain close for years.”

  “Yes, sir, I’d imagine so.”

  The general pressed his lips together, then tilted his head to the other side. Crossing his legs, he shifted his weight to one arm of the chair and looked directly at Brad. “I’ve read the reports, of course.” His smile vanished. “But I’d like you to tell me, moment by moment, what happened in Baghdad. Just tell the story, Colonel, and let me decide which details are important.”

  Unable to make sense of the request, Brad looked down at his hands. This was old news, ancient history, and there could be no harm in repeating the story. Perhaps it would even do Brad good, for still there were nights when he woke in a cold sweat, fearing that another bullet had caught him and spun him around.

  The busy distant chorus of telephones and muffled voices faded as Brad submerged himself into memory. “We’d been anchored off the shores of Saudi for three months when I first met Daniel Prentice,” he began, keeping his eyes upon the dark blue carpet of the general’s office. “He was a civilian, and I couldn’t figure out why in the world they’d brought a rich computer wizard over to train with a group of SEALS. But then I got to know him, and I realized Daniel was brilliant. And when they chose me to go in as his partner and briefed us on the mission, I realized that our mission could guarantee the success or failure of the entire war.”

  His hands tightened on the armrests of the chair. “I had to admire Daniel Prentice for leaving his company, his entire life behind. He was a patriot back then, a soldier’s kid, raring to go in and defend those who were being tortured and trampled by Saddam Hussein.”

  “And the mission?” The general’s eyes were flat and dark in the fluorescent lights, unreadable.

  Brad shrugged. “We were dropped by helicopter in the desert. Dressed like Bedouins, we made it into Baghdad with the help of a couple of Mossad agents. The scariest part was breaking into the air defense headquarters, but Daniel had put together some gadget that scrambled their electronic locks, so we waltzed in like we belonged there.” He grinned. “By this time we were wearing Iraqi uniforms, and each of us wore heavy mustaches and beards. Our own mothers wouldn’t have been able to tell us from the Iraqis.”

  The general smiled faintly.

  Brad went on. “It’s late at night, of course, when we go inside, and there are still a handful of soldiers on the premises. But Daniel walks over to a printer, cool as a cucumber, and lifts the lid. I’m just standing behind him, looking bored, and suddenly this Iraqi captain starts jabbering at us. I’m thinking we’re toast, but then Daniel opens his mouth and starts to speak Arabic like a native. I hide my face, sure that the captain is going to see the sweat dripping from my brow, but Daniel places the device, lowers the printer lid, and dusts his hands like he’s some kind of Epson repairman. Next thing I know, he’s waving to the captain who accosted us, and I’m wondering if he’s nuts enough to invite the guy to join us for dinner or something.”

  “Prentice is a linguist?” A gleam of interest flickered in the general’s eyes.

  “Not really. I asked him about that, and he said that he’d learned the language from his roommate at MIT—he helped the guy with English, and in turn, Prentice learned Arabic. I suppose that’s another reason he was tapped for the mission. Anyway, we leave the headquarters, slip out into the desert where we’re supposed to meet with the Mossad agents, but there’s an Iraqi security detail there instead. They found the Bedouin garments we’d stashed there, and they’re all excited. So Daniel and I just turn to walk away, and when we think we’re at a safe distance, we begin to run.” Brad paused, his heart beating heavily in the memory. “We couldn’t help it; I guess the old fight or flight mechanism just kicked in. But our running caught someone’s attention, and a sniper fired his weapon. I tried to protect Prentice—after all, he was a civilian—and one bullet got us both.”

  He could feel each separate heartbeat now, like blows to the chest. Brad took a deep breath to slow his pounding heart.

  “How did you get away?”

  “The Mossad agents.” Brad looked up, suddenly grateful that he sat in a plush Pentagon office and not in the desert sands. “They were hiding out of sight, waiting for the Iraqis to leave. Fortunately for us, they were close enough to grab us before the Iraqi sharpshooter called in reinforcements. We made it to our rendezvous point and were picked up by a marine helicopter.”

  Brad transferred his gaze from the walls to the general. “That’s it. We were shipped to Walter Reed, and we spent a couple of months relaxing at Uncle Sam’s expense. After that, I retired from the SEALS and joined the NSA. Daniel went back to New York.”

  The general drew his lips in thoughtfully. “Your mission was a great success. Statistically we should have lost three thousand bombers and their pilots, and we lost only a dozen planes, largely due to you and your friend.”

  Not knowing how he should reply, Brad only nodded.

  “But if your mission was a success,” the general’s eyes narrowed in speculation,“why does Mr. Prentice seem so bitter about it now? The president approached him to help with the Y2K Crisis, and Daniel Prentice refused to offer his assistance.”

  Brad blinked in surprise. “Daniel refused?”

  The general nodded with a taut jerk of his head. “Lauren Mitchell spoke to him. She seemed to think that his reasons for refusing had something to do with Desert Storm. He implied that he had already done his duty. I believe his words were, ‘I have already given more than enough.’”

  A spasm of panic shot across Brad’s body like the trilling of an alarm bell. Even coming from the general’s lips, Daniel’s words had the power to wound.

  “What did he mean by that, Colonel?” The general’s voice was low, conversational. “As you put it, two months of relaxation at the taxpayers’ expense is not so much to give for one’s country, particularly when the effort was so successful. So why would Daniel Prentice be reluctant to help us now? Is he intimidated by the enormity of the problem?”

  “No.” Struggling to mask his anxiety, Brad shifted his eyes to the broad desk at his right hand. “Daniel Prentice would never be intimidated by a computer.”

  “Afraid of failure, perhaps?”

  “I don’t recall that he has ever failed at anything he chose to do.”

  “Then why won’t he help us?”

  With an effort, Brad met the general’s gaze. “I can give you part of the truth,” he said, resigned to face the inevitable. “But if you want the entire story, I’ll have to plead the Fifth Amendment.”

  “Ah.” The general leaned back in his chair, his eyes like shrewd little chips of quartz. “All right, then. Tell me what you can.”

  Brad took a deep breath, then plunged into the story. “Daniel Prentice probably—no, definitely—feels that he has given enough to his country because when he was seven he lost his father. John Prentice was a navy pilot, and his jet was shot down in Vietnam.”

  “MIA?”

  “No.” Brad swallowed. “They found the body and sent it home. Daniel knows his father died.”

  The general’s eyes closed as he considered this new information. “That is certainly understandable,” he said, absently fingering one of the gold buttons of his uniform, “but it begs the question of why his father’s death would trouble him now when it didn’t bother him in Desert Storm.” Archer’s eyes opened and focused directly on Brad. “What happened between 1991 and yesterday?”

  Brad wiped his damp palms on his trousers. “I’m a
fraid I must refuse to reply on the grounds that my answer might incriminate me.”

  “Come now, Brad.” The general’s eyes softened. “Desert Storm is over, Vietnam is ancient history. No one cares about the past, but I care immensely about the fact that the entire nation might crumble around our ears if we don’t solve this computer crisis.”

  Archer leaned forward. “You and I both know that Prentice has come up with the answer that we need, and we’re going to get it. So tell me what you know. I give you my word of honor that any part you might have played in Daniel Prentice’s life will not leave this room.”

  Shifting in his chair, Brad found himself wishing that he’d stayed in bed that morning. He had never dreamed he’d be sitting before the most powerful general in the country, forced to reveal a secret he had buried years ago, but he had no choice. Better to tell the truth than to leave the powers that be in the dark and force them to come up with alternative means to harass Daniel. They wouldn’t give up because they knew Daniel had their answer . . . and Brad himself had given them that information.

  “As I said,” Brad began, “Daniel and I became good friends. Naturally, we talked about our parents, and he told me about his father. He had so many unanswered questions—and I promised to help him discover the answers.”

  “I see.” The general leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. “What did you do?”

  Brad shrugged. “I went through the files. Once I came to the NSA and the Department of Defense, I had clearance to many of the old records. I found a record of the bombing mission in which Daniel’s father died, and I sent a copy of the file to him. That was in the summer of ’91.”

  The general lifted his head like a dog scenting the breeze. “What was in the file?”

  “A notation stating that the bombing raid was staged to impress a visiting congressman.” Brad shot the general a cold look. “So if Daniel Prentice has lost his taste for serving his country, that might be the reason why. I can’t say that I blame him.”