Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  Mary wiped her eyes, angry at herself for being so weepy. “You sit here without a care in the world when we’re about to spend the rest of our lives in the gulag. I’m sorry, I just can’t do that.”

  The edges of Rip’s mouth turned up into the slightest hint of a smile. “That’s because I’m already dead.”

  “Is that more of your psychobabble?”

  Rip gave her a full grin. “Yeah, kinda. I mean, I’m a Christian now. I’m still learning all I can about it, but I know that one of the things Jesus said is that unless I’m willing to die, I can’t really live.”

  Mary was surprised at his words. They weren’t what she expected to hear from a tough-as-nails former gang member. She sniffed. “Did you say John and Sweeney are Christians too?”

  “John is—though he doesn’t make a big deal about it all the time. I don’t know about Sweeney.”

  Mary shook her head. It felt like it was half full of water. “Well, that’s fine for you and John, but—”

  “But what? If it’s fine for me, why wouldn’t it be fine for you?”

  The sound of footsteps in the hall kept her from answering. Mary looked up to see the enormous head of the Ukrainian officer appear in the window. She and Rip struggled to their feet as the door ground open on rusty hinges. Two soldiers, weapons ready, flanked the rotund man.

  “You will come with me,” the officer commanded. “We have an appointment with my superiors in Kiev.”

  In fifteen years as a broadcast journalist, Demi Rouseau had interviewed plenty of famous people. She had no expectation that this one would be any different.

  She gave herself a once-over in the mirrored elevator on the way up to retired Colonel Michael Lafontaine’s office in downtown Washington DC. She kept her coffee-colored hair cut to shoulder length to make it easier to manage. It offset an open, unblemished face the color of rice paper. But today her high cheeks were tinged a bit pink from covering the antiwar demonstration at the White House a day earlier—one of the few assignments she didn’t like that came with working in DC.

  Demi checked her purse, making sure the digital recorder was in its place. The cameramen would, of course, be recording audio during the interview, but she always liked to have a backup she could listen to in her car or at home as she mulled over angles for the stories she produced.

  In her current job as a reporter for the Christian Broadcasting Network, she had to constantly battle the perception that CBN wasn’t a “real” news network. As if having Christian in the name guaranteed the reporting would be biased. Which was a joke, since she’d hardly ever met a reporter for any of the major networks who didn’t have an agenda. She recalled the time when she’d sat next to two CNN hacks at a press conference and listened to them openly mock the vice president under their breath like a couple of junior high schoolers.

  If anything, her network was less biased simply because it didn’t insist on only reporting the bad news. In her mind, the one thing missing from most news reporting was context—the good as well as the bad. But since good news was rarely as sensational as bad, it usually got buried.

  And that was what kept Demi working at CBN, even when she could have gone elsewhere and made more money. But on days like today, finding a positive story in Washington DC was more difficult than finding a taxi at rush hour.

  The elevator slid open, and she stepped into a sumptuously decorated hallway. At the end of the corridor, she came to a solid wooden door with a brass nameplate that said simply, M. LAFONTAINE.

  Understated. Nice.

  She tried the door. Locked. Before she could knock, a buzzer sounded at the latch, so she pushed her way inside.

  The bright reception area had a blond hardwood floor with an expensive Oriental rug in the center. A matronly woman in a Burberry suit rose from behind a contemporary metal desk that was empty except for a flat-panel computer monitor on one corner. Her smile was graceful, but her blue eyes had a certain hardness that told Demi the woman was not the kind to cede access to her boss easily.

  “Welcome, Ms. Rouseau,” the woman said. “Your camera crew is in the colonel’s office setting up. Would you like something to drink? Chamomile tea, perhaps?”

  “I’ll pass, thank you. Is Mr. Lafontaine here yet?”

  The woman shook her head. “He is on his way. I’m afraid his testimony before the Senate Intelligence Committee took longer than expected.”

  Demi wasn’t the least bit surprised. Important people never got anywhere on time. “That’s fine. We appreciate the colonel’s giving us an interview. I’ll just see how the crew is coming along.”

  The double doors to the left of the secretary’s desk were ajar. When she stepped through them, she spotted Robert Norman and Tim Tupper, cameraman and audio engineer, both from CBN’s Nashville bureau. They’d been on loan to DC since the bombs had started going off around the country. She smiled. Besides being experienced and efficient, Tupper and Norman were always fun to work with.

  “Hey, guys. How’s it going?”

  The two men looked up from adjusting a monitor. Tupper’s mustache and goatee split in a goofy grin. “Hi, Demi. You look nice today.”

  Norman groaned. “You’re such a suck-up, Tim.”

  Tim Tupper, the audio tech, feigned offense. “Easy for you to say. You’re already married!”

  Demi laughed. “Stop it, you two. We’ve only got half an hour to nail this interview. I want to be sure everything’s ready.”

  “Who is this guy, anyway?” Norman asked.

  Demi took a seat in one of two expensive Moroccan leather chairs the crew had moved to the center of the room to make way for their lights. “Michael Lafontaine is the billionaire son of a former North Carolina senator. He retired from the Army as a colonel and now spends his time lobbying politicians for various causes.”

  “Old southern money,” Tupper said.

  “Kind of. He inherited a large fortune, but from what I’ve been told, he’s doubled it through investments in pharmaceuticals and technology companies.”

  Tupper shook his head in amazement. “Some people make it look so easy.”

  “What I don’t get is why he lives in DC,” Norman said. “If I had that much money, I’d be scuba-diving in the Caymans for a living.”

  Demi shrugged. “I wanted to ask him that in the interview. “Officially he oversees the philanthropic arm of Lafontaine Enterprises.”

  Tupper’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey, great. Ask him if he wants to donate to the Starving Tupper Fund. The STF.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he’d jump at that.”

  Lafontaine’s secretary pushed the door open. “The colonel is on his way up.”

  “Thank you.” Demi stood and turned to her crew. “Are we ready?”

  Norman scoffed. “I was born ready.”

  “You weren’t born, you were hatched,” Tupper shot back.

  Two minutes later Michael Lafontaine strode through the door in a custom-tailored pinstriped suit that revealed an almost six-foot frame and a trim waistline. He was much younger than Demi had imagined, with just a touch of gray around his temples and eyes like polished blue granite.

  He extended a hand that gripped hers softly. “Ms. Rouseau, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. But please, call me Demi.”

  “Demi, yes. And I’m Michael. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “No problem. We’re happy to be here. And we’re ready to begin whenever you are.”

  Normally at this point, politicians would ask for a moment to freshen up. When Demi had first started in Washington, she’d been amazed at how image-conscious senators and congressmen could be. Some needed to don a fresh suit. Others even used makeup.

  Lafontaine simply looked her in the eye and gave a disarming smile. “Let’s do it.”

  She liked him already. After introducing the crew, who slid microphones onto both Lafontaine’s and Demi’s lapels, Demi removed the digital record
er from her purse and turned it on. She sat down and looked up at Norman. “Are we rolling?”

  Norman nodded without looking up from the camera monitor. Tupper, wearing his headphones, gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed the words “Starving Tupper Fund.”

  She ignored him and looked into the camera. “I’m here with retired Army Colonel Michael Lafontaine, now a philanthropist in Washington DC.” She turned to look at Lafontaine and continued. “Michael, until recently you’ve never granted interviews. But in the last few days, you’ve done at least a dozen on all the major networks. Why the sudden change?”

  The intensity of the billionaire’s gaze could have melted plastic. “Demi, I’ve stepped to the forefront because I’m concerned about the future of this country. I’ve been working behind the scenes for more than five years to get our politicians to understand the scope of the threat that radical Islamic terrorism poses to this nation. And for years, I’ve been saying that if we didn’t take a harder line against the terrorists, they would eventually be back on our shores, killing our people and crippling our freedoms.”

  Lafontaine crossed his legs. “That’s exactly what we see happening now. As you’re probably aware, another explosive device went off this morning in New Mexico, severing an important gas pipeline and causing havoc in the energy markets. Last night in Nevada a major explosion at the Hoover Dam knocked out electricity to over two million Americans, and California is predicting more rolling brownouts today.

  “My sources indicate that these attacks are a concerted effort by radical Islamic groups to disrupt our economy. Some believe that the explosives being used were smuggled across our very porous border with Mexico, and that South American gangs may even be working with the jihadis in coordinating these attacks.”

  Demi was furiously taking notes on her legal pad without actually looking at it. It was a skill she’d perfected years ago. She was uncomfortable with his use of terms like “some believe.” She made a note to ask him to confirm his sources but knew enough to save those kinds of questions until the end of the interview.

  She looked up at him. “So you believe these attacks are all being perpetrated by the same group of people? If that’s the case, what can our government do to stop the attacks?”

  Lafontaine spread his hands. “Do you remember General Jerry Boykin?”

  Demi nodded. “The Special Forces commander who got in trouble for speaking to church groups a few years ago. We interviewed him on our show.”

  “Right. Boykin got flambéed in the press for telling it like it is. He said this war is against radical Islam, and the press tried to crucify him for it. The point I’ve been making all along is that you can’t fight a war without calling your enemy the enemy. And you can’t win if you hobble your military and make them try to defeat the enemy without actually offending him.”

  Lafontaine sat forward, punctuating his points with a knife-edged hand. “Listen, Americans are peaceful people. But when that peace is threatened, we must have the guts to send in our forces to root out the evil and destroy it. The jihadis are a cancer on the planet, and unless our limp-wristed politicians can grow backbones and do something substantive about it, I believe the American people have a duty to throw them out and vote in folks who will get the job done.

  “And I think we would do that, except that our people are so divided over things like the environment and the economy that we fail to see the freight train bearing down on us.”

  Demi shifted uncomfortably. Though it was hard to deny what Lafontaine was saying, she wasn’t used to anyone in Washington being so direct. Enough of the softball questions. Now for the good stuff. She cleared her throat. “What about the peaceful Muslims in this country? Aren’t you painting with too broad a brush?”

  Lafontaine sat back. “If the Muslims in this country truly are peace loving, shouldn’t they be leading the call to hunt down and rid the world of those who kill and destroy in the name of Allah? So where are they? Let me make something crystal clear—and please promise me this will be in the interview, Demi—I am not condemning Islam. I’m condemning our government for a half-baked response to the threat against us.

  “I’m calling on Americans to demand that our military forces be given the latitude and resources to do the job right. Not only that, but Homeland Security needs to stop wasting its time frisking elderly nuns at the airport. We need to throw our weight behind border enforcement like never before. And I’m going to keep yelling about it until something gets done.”

  Demi tapped her pen on the edge of her legal pad. “So tell me this, Michael: what if you fail?”

  He looked genuinely surprised by the question, and for the first time, a flicker of some darker emotion passed across his face like a cloud. Demi couldn’t tell if it was fear, sadness, or something else, but it was surprising from this man who had been all over town in the last week, captivating rooms full of people with his very presence.

  “If I fail?” He hesitated. “It’s not about me. I didn’t quit defending this country when I took off my uniform twelve years ago, Ms. Rouseau. I love America, but the country I swore to defend years ago is being lost. Lost through cowardice, inaction, and self-centeredness.” When he looked back up at her, his stare was back, so laser focused that it almost made her shiver. “And now, Ms. Rouseau, I’m going to do something about that.”

  South of Chernobyl, Leaving the Dead Zone

  Captain Mykola Kirichenko was happier than a sailor on shore leave as he stood watching the two surviving terrorists, in handcuffs and oversized white jumpsuits, climbing awkwardly into the canvas-covered bed of the two-and-a-half-ton army truck.

  Attached to a hitch on its rear bumper was an old flatbed trailer they had rushed over from the motor pool, upon which were loaded the two small four-wheeled motorcycles that had been captured. As the detailed report in his hand explained, his men had responded with characteristic speed and discipline, clearing the entire area in a matter of minutes, and had bravely fought and killed the remaining three terrorists on the roof of the apartment complex.

  He grinned. The failure of their diabolical plan to blow up the reactor would become his finest hour when this truck arrived in Kiev.

  Already headquarters was in an uproar over the event and was mobilizing an entire army brigade to form a defensive perimeter around the reactor and to search the dead zone for any more signs of terrorist activity. They might even ask him to command the effort.

  It was an offer he looked forward to refusing. Captain Kirichenko—or, more likely, Colonel Kirichenko—would be far too busy attending parties with the power elite and giving speaking engagements all over Europe once he received his decorations and retired. Perhaps he could even run for elected office. Who wouldn’t vote for the man who had literally saved the world?

  A burly sergeant wearing a green bandanna on his head hustled over to him. “The prisoners are loaded and ready, Capitan.”

  “Thank you, Yuri. Did you remember their gear as well? Our intelligence people will want to examine it.”

  “Tak,” Yuri said.

  “Very well. You and Private Os will guard the criminals in the rear of the truck. I trust the two of you can handle a woman and a skinny, wounded man?”

  Yuri gave a sideways sneer. “Yes, Capitan.”

  “Good.”

  Mykola sauntered over to the vehicle and made a show of kicking tires and checking tie-downs. When he was satisfied that all was in order, he stepped to the cab of the truck and hefted his oversized body into the passenger seat. He was too large to reach the seat belt, so he slammed the door and turned to the fresh-faced private who was driving. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Stepan, sir.”

  Mykola was pleased to see his men had once again remembered military courtesy. “Stepan, I want to get to Kiev as quickly as possible. We have very important cargo to deliver to headquarters. So do not delay. Understand?”

  The young man nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing as he put the truck
in gear and pulled away from the barracks.

  Once they passed the sign announcing that they had left the town of Chernobyl, the truck picked up speed on the empty road—the only one still in use that led toward Kiev. Mykola found it hard to contain his excitement, humming quietly to himself and enjoying the breeze on his face with his arm out the window.

  Stepan interrupted his thoughts, shouting over the roar of the truck’s motor. “They call it the dead zone, but really, it’s not, you know?”

  Mykola looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  The young man indicated where the road disappeared around the bend into a forested area up ahead. “Those pine trees have all grown up since the accident. See how thick they are? They don’t look dead.”

  Mykola nodded. The boy had a point. If anything, the nature they were speeding past was fuller and greener than ever, despite the invisible radiation in the soil. As the truck sped around a bend in the road, he dreamed of returning to Crimea, where—

  “Hold on!”

  The driver slammed on the brakes, sending Mykola headfirst into the windshield. The glass spidered out from the point where his head collided, leaving him stunned.

  He cried out as the truck skidded to a halt. His vision swam, but he could make out what appeared to be a horse and cart stopped in the middle of the road. Groaning, he put one hand to his head, feeling warm, sticky blood between his fingers. He turned to look at the driver. “How did—”

  But Stepan was staring past him out the open window, eyes wide with horror. “Capitan! We’re—”

  Mykola jerked his head around just in time to see the butt of a rifle coming toward his face.

  Pain exploded like a grenade inside his head. But one fleeting thought invaded just before unconsciousness came.

  Retirement was going to be nothing like he had hoped.

  17

  SWEENEY WAS SPRINTING for the back of the truck even before it and the trailer slewed to a stop at awkward angles in the road. Every muscle strained to go faster, harder, because something in him knew that he had only seconds before it was too late to rescue Rip and Mary.