by Norton, Doug
***
Flee or brazen it out? Fahim’s mind stuttered, then froze, marooning him behind the wheel.
As the cop strolled toward him, Fahim strained to identify the object he held. He gripped the wheel with both hands, tightened his arm muscles, and leaned forward, as if he could literally pull it into clear view. All he could determine was that it was book-sized.
Suddenly the officer was there, a couple of yards ahead and off to the left of the car. Holding the object in both hands, he made some keystrokes with his thumbs.
Sweat beaded along Fahim’s hairline and spread over his forehead. His eyes darted left and right.
Now the officer was at his door, looking down at him. Fahim observed the man register his Arabic appearance. Fahim stiffened in reaction but forced himself to calm. The officer bent over slightly and spoke. “Good afternoon, sir. Sorry that you’re being delayed, but you know how it is these days.”
Fahim looked up at the cop and put on his most patient, resigned smile.
“That’s quite alright, officer. It can’t be helped.” Fahim observed his British accent blunt the cop’s suspicion.
“I see you’re on the shoulder. Do you have car problems?”
Should I say yes? Can’t tell where that will lead. Better use the phone explanation.
“No, officer. Just before you shut down the highway my mobile sounded and I pulled over to see the message.” Fahim had deliberately said “mobile” instead of “cell phone,” careful to use his native British pronunciation of the word.
The officer smiled. “Wish more people would do that. I’ve cleaned up after more texting wrecks than you can imagine!
“Look, we’re going to reverse the flow back to the exit; it’s about a mile.” He pointed. “So just sit tight until the car behind you U-turns, then you do the same and you can get out of this parking lot.”
With a wave, the cop headed for the next car.
For a moment Fahim sat motionless, hardly believing he was out of danger. Then, in a torrent of softly spoken Arabic, he praised Allah for deliverance. Although wary of attracting attention, Fahim opened his door and stood on the pavement, stretching, restoring flexibility to muscles knotted by fear.
The Las Vegas bomb was easy; the second bomb will be harder. Before Las Vegas there was virtually no chance of the bomb being discovered as I drove it into position. Now, with radiation detectors many more places, there’s a chance, still low, but it’s there. And the danger is more than the discovery of the bomb. There’s also the chance, maybe the biggest chance, I will be discovered before I can complete my mission.
I will reconsider my plans to drive to the East Coast. Although an airport is very dangerous, my exposure will be short if I fly. But if I drive . . . these cursed round-ups are everywhere. I must think on it.
Chapter 27
Drawn together by the crisis like many other families, the four Martins gathered in Washington. Now, for the first time in ten years, the question of what next for Rick’s career didn’t surround them, wasn’t a companion at every family gathering and a factor in every decision. After Six-thirteen the danger everyone faced and the impact of the tens of thousands of deaths had become a shield between the family and their clamoring ambitions. In an unexpected closeness forged by the bombing, Rick and Ella were getting acquainted with the young adults who had replaced their children.
The family was finishing dinner when Mark, a senior hanging on by his fingernails at Yale, said tentatively that some of his friends thought the country had brought on the attack as a result of bad policies and brutal instruments for carrying them out.
Stifling her irritation that Mark was so typically unwilling to commit himself, Ella said, “Mark, let’s say your friends are right. Where do they go next with that train of thought? How do we stop the attacks? Or do we just accept them as well-deserved punishment?”
“Well, they don’t go there. They talk about how criminally wrong Bush and Rogers were and say that we must address the grievances we’ve created and only then will we be respected and able to live in peace.”
Rick said, “I agree with some of that, Mark. But what do we do in the meantime, while we’re addressing those grievances? That’s what I’m wrestling with, the here and now of tens of thousands killed and at least a quarter million homeless, and maybe more of Kim’s bombs headed our way.”
Their daughter Gabriella, a sophomore at Columbia, entered the conversation while Ella sipped her coffee in silence. “Dad, isn’t protecting ourselves what we have to do? And don’t we have the power to destroy Kim and his country, just blow it off the map?”
“Gabby, we do have that power. I control it. What would you think of me if I ordered the Pentagon to blow North Korea off the map? It’s not only Kim; there’re about twenty million people who’d die with him. It may well be that their only connection to Las Vegas is that their ruler made a terrible mistake; he sold bombs to terrorists. Should they all die for that? What would you think of me if I ordered their deaths and General MacAdoo killed them in a single afternoon? He could, you know!”
Gabriella didn’t respond and Ella broke the silence. “Gabby, what would you think of your father if he declined to use that power and Kim destroyed San Francisco? Or Chicago? Or Washington? Or all three of them? Is it OK for tens of thousands more Americans to die because Kim is allowed to use his people as a shield?”
Mark looked at his father. “God, Dad, you’re really between a rock and a hard place, aren’t you!”
Overcome, Rick nodded mutely, throat tight and mind churning.
And how would I feel if, like Steve Nguyen, I found my kids’ bloody bodies and Ella was gone forever, not even her corpse left on this earth?
He recalled Ella’s words the day it began. ‘I think I’d become a relentless killing machine.’ Is that what I would do if Kim killed my family? Am I bound to become that because he has killed others’ families? Or am I bound to find a way that doesn’t take more lives, as that woman at Las Vegas said?
Mark’s voice brought him back. “Dad, don’t we have ways to get Kim without using nuclear weapons, without killing so many people?”
“Yes, we do have other ways. I could order an invasion of North Korea to push Kim from power—maybe even capture him for trial—and take away the country’s nukes and the means to build more.”
“That sounds better to me,” said Gabriella.
“Well, but the last war in Korea killed millions and didn’t change the North Korean leader,” said Rick. “Chinese and North Korean soldiers battled South Korean and UN soldiers. Most of Korea’s cities were destroyed. The result of all that blood and violence was stalemate, ending up right back where the war began. Kim Jong-il’s father, Kim Il-sung, became even stronger, and here we are facing his son and grandson. About thirty-six thousand American soldiers were killed in Korea.”
“And on Six-thirteen the same regime killed many more American civilians, right in their homes,” Ella said coldly. “What’s the count now? Sixty, eighty thousand?”
“Did we have nukes back then?” asked Gabriella, with the historic cluelessness of the young, even those well educated.
“We did,” said Rick.
“Did the president think of using them?”
Rick drank some coffee and replied: “Yes, he did. But he chose not to and actually fired his top general partly because the man, Douglas MacArthur, kept pushing it.
“That president was Harry Truman. In World War Two he allowed the military to A-bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In Korea he made the opposite call. In his memoirs he wrote that he feared a full-scale war with China had he agreed to nukes. But I have to wonder if he was so sickened by the earlier bombings that he couldn’t do it again. He said not, but we’ll never know.”
“So is that how you feel, Dad, that you just couldn’t do it?”
Rick stole a glance at Ella. Her expression cut him like a knife.
“Before I answer that, there’s more to consider
. Kim has between three and ten nukes, as best we know. He has missiles that could explode over South Korean and Japanese cities—maybe even reach Hawaii. If we were to invade, Kim might launch those nuclear missiles. Japan, Korea, and America have defensive missiles that could probably shoot down some of those North Korean missiles. But we don’t have many of them and we haven’t tested them much—so, who knows?
“So, could I do it, could I order a big nuclear attack on North Korea? I could, but only if I was sure it was the only option to protect us. I’m not sure yet.”
Ella thought that ‘only’ option might not be the same as ‘best’ option, but didn’t say so. Instead she said, “When will you decide, Rick? When will you know enough?”
“I can’t say, Ella. But I will know!” Rick’s face flushed, and Mark and Gabby traded knowing glances.
Ella held Rick’s stare and wondered when he would accept that the only way to deal with Kim was kill him or imprison him. Like the drug lord who murdered her father, Kim was a law unto himself, more a force of nature than a man.
“Dad,” said Gabby, “would a big nuclear attack on North Korea keep Kim from shooting those missiles at us and the Koreans and the Japanese?”
“General MacAdoo says so and I think he’s right.”
“Then tell Kim that’s what you’re going to do unless he gives it up.”
“If I confront him, give him a deadline—that may provoke him to launch his missiles. And he certainly will make threats that cause riots in South Korea and scare the Japanese half to death, not to mention Americans, who are already spooked!”
“OK, but isn’t that better than killing twenty million people without a clear warning?” said Mark.
“Do you have any reason to think Kim would heed your father’s warning, Mark? I don’t know how much you know about North Korea under Kim and his father, but that man allowed tens of thousands of his people to starve to death by insisting upon his own harebrained schemes for farming and then diverting international food supplies to his huge army. You can’t sway Kim by threatening harm to his so-called dear people!”
“Yeah, Mom, but even Kim needs a country to rule. If his country is blown up, he’s out of a job!”
“Do you think that hasn’t occurred to him, Mark?” Ella shot back. “Does Kim seem stupid to you?”
“Well, no, but I just think we should go the extra mile for peace and spell out exactly what’s going to happen to him if he doesn’t step down.”
“Go the extra mile? Mark, don’t you think your father has already done that? Kim destroyed an American city and killed tens of thousands. Since Six-thirteen your father has given everything he has to negotiate a solution to this threat to our very existence and hasn’t ordered a single shot fired. I’d say he’s already gone the extra mile!”
“So, Dad, do you think Kim can be pressured into giving up his nukes or going into exile?”
“I can’t say for sure, Mark, and I’m still trying that, but I’m certain the problems I’d create by making an or-else demand and starting my stopwatch would be huge.”
“Rick, you’ve done all anyone could possibly do to solve this crisis in a humane manner! You’re giving everything, you can’t sleep, you exist on caffeine and cigarettes—yes, I know you’re sneaking a pack a day—and you’re getting an ulcer. . . .” She ran out of words, but her angry eyes continued to speak: ‘diplomacy won’t work.’
Ignoring her message, Rick smiled at Ella and took her hand. “As usual, your mom has summed up something complicated in a few well-chosen words.
“Come on, get ready—we’ll be leaving for Aberdeen in five minutes. The wind forecast is perfect, and I don’t want to miss a minute of sailing!”
As he watched his family bustle off, Rick thought that Kim wanted to kill them or, for a price, enable terrorists do it. This time he didn’t scold himself for getting personal.
Chapter 28
Vice President Griffith exploded into the conference room at Creech Air Force Base, his energy and impatience flung outward like shrapnel as he entered.
“OK, let’s get started! Harry, what the hell is the problem with shelter for the survivors? People are still jammed together in tents like sardines—those lucky enough to be in tents, which most are not! Where are the trailers?”
Harry Fisher, the FEMA onsite leader, reminded himself that the VP was willing to hear the truth, however unpalatable it might be. If you pushed back at Griffith, he listened. He would rip your head off if you didn’t have your facts straight, but if you did, he faced them. So, he leaned into it. “Sir, we learned all over again after Katrina: when you want it bad you get it bad. Thousands of trailers turned out to be unfit for habitation. We ain’t goin’ there this time! We’re not sole-sourcing or short-cutting. We’ve got a competitive bid process with all the oversight needed to prevent another fiasco. Until that’s done, tents are the best we can do. And, by the way, sir, we have every damn tent in North America out here now!”
“So why settle for that? They’ve got tents all over the world! Go get ’em!” Fisher and his colleagues understood that Griffith’s tone and eyes added, ‘Thanks for busting your butt. I’ve got your back.’
Now humorless, the VP said, “OK, Harry, let’s take that apart. Where are you guys in the trailer process?”
“We have valid bids from five firms. There’s one six hundred pound gorilla in the business, Horizons, and all the rest fight over the crumbs. So, it’s kinda like Paul Bunyan competing with four of the Seven Dwarfs.”
“How long ’til the trailers arrive if you play out the bid process?”
“Well, I’d say it will take another ninety days to award the contract, then after award—if there’s no protest from any of the losers—another forty-five until trailers begin arriving, and six months until the full production run is delivered.”
“Harry, do you trust the Horizons guys? I know they have stockholders and a profit imperative and all that b.s., but do you trust them not to screw us?”
Fisher’s mind cranked: OK, what’s going on here? Is he setting me up? He’s getting ready to tell me to go sole-source if I say I trust ’em. Then he can say I assured him and duck the shit if it goes south. Would he do that? You know, I don’t think so, and besides, he’s right: it’s just unacceptable that these people, after all they’ve suffered, don’t have decent shelter yet!
“Yes sir, I do. They’ll take their profit, but they’re not assholes. They want to help. They can’t do it for free, but at the end of the day, they want to help the country. Yeah, I trust them.”
“Then sole-source it. You get any flak from Les Moore or anyone else, you tell ’em that’s my decision and call me if they want to argue the point.”
Griffith looked to his right.
“OK, Arnie, now tell me how you Feebies are earning your keep! I know, The Book says FBI will be in charge on-scene after any terrorist-related event, but damned if I can figure what evidence is left. It all vaporized, didn’t it?”
FBI Assistant Deputy Director Arnold Cantwell grinned at Griffith. “Well, the physical evidence did, but that’s not all we’re working on. We interviewed around fifteen thousand survivors, the most seriously injured and irradiated first. About ten thousand died from radiation in the first two weeks, and we got statements from nearly all of them.”
“And?”
“And, nothing yet. But that doesn’t mean nothing ever! This has to be done, if for no other reason than to cover our asses, sir. But I’m here to tell you we could come up with some gold dust; it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen the bureau crack a case by just plain ball-busting, mind-numbing persistence. It’s what we do, boss.”
“So I’ve been told. Keep at it!”
Griffith turned to Major General Stanley Karnow, the Pentagon’s on-scene commander.
“So, Stan, how are your troops handling burial duty? I know they’d rather be jumping out of perfectly fine airplanes, like good little paratroopers.”
&
nbsp; “Yes sir, you got that right. This really sucks! But despite their bitching, my soldiers realize that with this many dead, only the military has the people to handle it the right way.”
Karnow’s blue eyes went cold. “I’ll tell you what: if my troopers ever come up against the guys who did this, we won’t need Guantánamo to hold the prisoners.”
The vice president grunted, then snapped, “What about security? Any looters?”
“A few, but the radiation scare has done more than my airborne division to keep ’em away. Radiation poisoning is such a shitty way to go, and because so many of the dying have been on TV and the Internet, the scumbags have stayed away, by and large.”
“Yeah, that’s certainly safer. What about your soldiers—any radiation problems?”
“No sir, because they stay clear of the no-go zone and wear protective gear near it.”
Griffith stood. “OK, flight time! Let’s go have our look around.”
The vice president strode from the Creech Air Force Base commander’s conference room with gusto, glad to be handling his recovery duties far from Washington. First, it gets me out of Martin’s shadow, he thought. Second, it gives me my own press pool: I’m not covered by those prima donna White House correspondents; I’ve got younger, hungrier reporters, still trying to make it. And I can sit in the same room with the players; when my ass is on the line, I don’t want to be deciding from some big-screen shot of a guy expounding from two thousand miles away. I want to be close enough to see the lines around his eyes, to smell sweat—or bullshit.
After forty-five minutes above the ruined city, during which Griffith kept up a steady fire of questions and instructions, the group parted and Griffith headed for another “town hall” with survivors.