by Ted Dekker
Orear scratched his underarm. The rash that had appeared over a week earlier had subsided, but now it was making a comeback. Odd how so few had the rash. Assuming it was connected to the virus, he’d have thought the rash would be widespread. His mother had it. Maybe it was a genetic thing. Maybe a few of them showed symptoms earlier than what the medical community was predicting.
He shoved the thoughts aside and walked to the tent where the CNN cameras awaited his hourly live update. The tent was set on a stage roughly five feet off the ground, enough to give him a clear view of the crowd. Marcy Rawlins was in a heated discussion with one of the cameramen about the mess they were making with the equipment, and he was pointing out that cleanliness was no longer next to godliness.
A tall bald man with a handlebar mustache paced along the wooden barricade, glaring at Mike. He wore a beige robe with arms that flared at the cuffs. Take him, for instance. This man looked capable of eating the barricade with only a little encouragement. The armed soldiers would be forced to fire their tear gas. They were nearly half a mile from the White House, which rose stately behind them, but the only way the guards could stop a marching army of angry protesters was to kill a few.
Those deaths would be on Mike’s head. He knew that as well as he knew Marcy needed a Valium. But the death of a few might bring hope and possibly life for millions. Not to mention the 543 souls in Finley, North Dakota, where his mother waited for him to do whatever was humanly possible to stop this mess.
“Two minutes, Mike,” Nancy Rodriguez said, taking her seat next to him.
“Gotcha.”
He’d dispensed with the tie long ago—he was of the people, for the people. And tonight he would push the people.
Sally applied a quick brush of base to soften the glaze on his cheeks, picked at his hair, then moved away without a word. There wasn’t that much for a makeup artist to say these days.
His coanchor leaned toward him. “You might as well know,” Nancy said. “I just talked to Marcy. This is my last broadcast.”
“What?”
“I’ve got family in Montana, Mike.”
“And I have family in North Dakota. What about what we’re doing here for those families?”
“I’m not sure what we’re doing here. Other than dying with the rest of them.”
Mike understood. He felt the same way at times. But he had no choice in the matter. The people had become his family, and his obligations were now to them as well.
“Stick around for a few minutes, and I promise you’ll see what we’re doing here.”
“Let’s go, people,” Marcy barked. “You ready, Mike?”
He started the report by running though an update on reports from around the world, mostly riots and the like. Nothing about the anti-virus, as he normally did. Just the problems.
The crowd was over a million, he told them. The traffic into Washington, D.C., had been forced to a halt, and the police were turning people away.
They’d set up loudspeakers every fifty yards for as far as he could see and around the corner all along Constitution Boulevard. His voice rang out to the people. Mike Orear, their savior on the air. At this moment his worldwide audience was nearly a billion people, they estimated. They’d sold the updates sponsorship to Microsoft for a hundred million a pop. If they came through this alive, Microsoft would shine. If not, they would die with the rest. Smart thinking.
Mike took a deep breath. “That’s the news, my friends. That’s what they want you to know. That’s what the whole world now knows. But I’ve learned something else, and I want you to listen to every word I’m about to speak, because your life may very well hinge on what I say next.”
He glanced at Marcy. She was past being surprised by anything he might say. Her eyes watched him expectantly—she was more audience than producer now.
“The hope for discovering an antivirus, despite what we’ve all been told by the White House these last couple of weeks, is now almost nonexistent.”
A blanket of silence settled over Washington as he spoke the words. Every television, every radio, every speaker carried his announcement. He envisioned the living rooms of America stilled except for the beating of hearts. This was the news they had been waiting for. Hoping against.
“In a matter of days, every living man, woman, and child on this planet will begin to display the symptoms of the Raison Strain. Within days, maybe hours, of that, the world as we know it will . . .”
A terrible sound drifted over the crowd, and at first Mike thought that one of the speakers was overloaded with feedback. But it wasn’t the loudspeakers. It was the people.
A terrible wail, probably from one of the end-of-the-world groups, now spread like fire.
“Quiet! Please, there’s more.”
They didn’t stop.
“Please!” he shouted, suddenly as furious at them as he was at the White House. “Just shut up! Please!”
The wail fell off. Marcy was staring at him.
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t a game we’re playing. You have to hear me out!”
“You tell them, Mikie!” someone shouted. A general barrage of approvals.
He lifted his hand. “Hear me out. The fact is, we’re all going to die.” He paused. Let the noise settle. “Unless . . .”
Now he let them hang on that one word. In moments like these he was most acutely aware of his power. Like the director of the CIA had said, like it or not, he was one of the most powerful people in the country at the moment. He didn’t relish the fact, but he couldn’t ignore it either.
“Unless we find a way to get the antivirus that already exists into our hands. That’s the killer here: an antivirus that already exists could end all of this in two days. Not a single one of us would have to die. But that’s not going to happen. It’s not going to happen because Robert Blair has refused a deal that would exchange our nuclear arsenal for the antivirus.”
Again he paused for effect. They already knew of the terrorists’ ultimatum, but it had never been put to them so bluntly, and never in hand with the world health community’s failure.
“My friends, I say, give them the weapons. Give us the antivirus. Give us a chance to live. Give our children another day, another week, another month, another year, and let them live to fight!” He shoved his fist into the air.
Immediately a roar broke from the crowd.
“The rules have changed!” he shouted, feeding on the crowd’s growing cries. “We are in a fight for our very lives! We can’t allow one man to sacrifice our survival over his own inflated notions of principle!”
Mike was breathing hard. Adrenaline coursed through his veins.
He shoved his finger back at the White House. “This travesty must not stand! In a few days you will all die unless they change their minds! I say, fight for your lives! I say, storm the White House! I say, if we’re going to die, we die fighting for our right to live!”
His hand was trembling. He had run out of words.
An ominous silence had smothered the crowd. It was one thing to shout protests. It was another to incite a riot. This talk of death was sinking in.
The scream started in the back somewhere, as far as ten blocks back for all he knew.
The crowd moved as if the straps that held them back had been cut. They swelled forward, screaming bloody murder. The bald man with the handlebar mustache was one among a thousand who breached the barricades first.
Then they were running.
The cameraman spun and took in the mob. He stepped back, nearly fell over a cord, but quickly adjusted and kept the feed live.
Mike didn’t know what to do. As far as he could see, the crowd was moving. Forward. Toward him.
A machine gun rattled—tracers streaked over the crowd.
The army troops were already on their feet. Warnings squealed over their bullhorns, but they were lost in the crowd’s roar.
The first line rushed past the stage.
Marcy was screaming someth
ing, but Mike couldn’t understand her. They were going to run right through these defenses and overtake the White House. No one could stop this. He had no clue . . .
Whomp!
Screams of terror.
Whomp, whomp!
“Stand back or we will be forced to fire!”
Whomp!
A cloud billowed from a canister that landed twenty feet from the stage.
“Tear gas!” someone cried. As soon as he said it, the sting hit Mike’s eyes.
Whomp, whomp, whomp, whomp!
Chopper blades beat hard nearby, close enough to do whatever damage they were ordered to do.
The crowd surged through the clouds of gas. Another machine gun roared. A momentary silence followed.
When the screaming resumed, it sounded very different, and Mike knew that someone had been shot.
“Get up there!” he shouted, spinning.
But the cameraman was already running through the crowd.
The war had started. Gooseflesh ran up his arms.
Mike’s War.
“The answer is no,” President Blair snapped. “I stay here, end of story. Find Mike Orear and his crew and bring them in. I want to go on the air as soon as possible.”
Phil Grant frowned. “Sir, I strongly urge you to consider the implications—”
“The implications are that unless we tread very carefully over these next two days, none of us has a prayer. I’ve known that for over two weeks; now the people are understanding that as well. I’m surprised it took them this long to break down the barricades.”
By his hesitancy, the director of the CIA wasn’t sure about Blair’s evenhanded response to the riots. “I’m not sure they’re wrong on this, sir,” he finally said.
The possibility that Phil Grant might be working with Armand Fortier crossed Blair’s mind for the first time. Who better? His mind flashed over the last few years, searching for inconsistencies in the man’s performance. To the best of Blair’s recollection there had been none. He was seeing ghosts behind everyone who entered his office these days.
Grant pushed his point. “The riots are only an hour old, and there are already six dead bodies out on the lawn, for goodness’ sake. The perimeter around the White House may be reestablished, but they’re tearing the city apart. The people of this nation want one thing, sir, and that’s survival. Give Fortier his weapons. Take the antivirus. Live to fight another day.”
Blair turned away deliberately. This was the same argument, nearly word for word, that Dwight Olsen had made fifteen minutes earlier. Dwight’s motivations were transparent, but Phil Grant was a different animal. This wasn’t like him. He knew the chances of Fortier coming through with the antivirus were next to nil. To show the Frenchman their military teeth and then beg for an antivirus was simply unacceptable. As long as the United States had some leverage, they were in the game. As soon as they gave up that leverage, the game was over.
Grant knew all of this. Blair decided not to remind him.
“I don’t trust the French.”
“I’m not sure you have a choice anymore,” Grant said. “By tomorrow you could have a full-scale civil war on your hands. You represent the people. The people want this trade.”
Blair swiveled around. “The people don’t know what I know.”
Grant blinked. “Which is?”
Easy.
Thomas’s insistence that he trust no one, not a soul, ran through his mind. Gains, Thomas had said. Maybe Gains, that’s it.
“Which is what you know. Fortier has no acceptable motive for handing over the antivirus when our ships meet his in”—he glanced at his watch—“thirty-six hours now.”
Grant studied him, then set the folder in his hands on the coffee table. “I understand your reluctance. I accept it, naturally. Never could trust the French in a pinch.” He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “This time I don’t think we have a choice. Not with these riots spreading. New York and Los Angeles are starting up already. The country will be burning by noon tomorrow.”
“That’s better than dead in four days.”
The intercom chirped. “Sir, I have a private call for you.”
Gains. He’d left very specific instructions. Not even the operator knew that it was Gains on the line.
“Thank you, Miriam. Tell her I’ll call right back. Hold all my calls for a few minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
Blair sighed. “Nothing like a mother to love you.” He nodded at the door. “Don’t worry, Phil, I’m not going to let this country burn by noon. Get some sleep—you look like you could use it.”
“Thank you. I just might.”
The director left.
Ghosts, Robert. You’re seeing ghosts.
He withdrew the small satellite phone from his desk drawer, locked the door to his office, and stepped gingerly into the closet. Full-scale riots were raging throughout the city, the first signs of the Raison virus had visited them early with this rash, the bulk of the world’s nuclear arsenal was about to land in the hands of a man likely to use it, and the brave Robert Blair, president of the most powerful country on earth, was huddled in his closet, punching in a number by the green translucent glow of a secure satellite phone.
The call took nearly a full minute to connect.
“Sir?”
“Quickly.”
“We have a go. The Israelis have already directed their fleet as demanded by the French.”
Blair let out a long, slow breath. Other than Thomas, who’d first suggested this plan, only four others on this side of the ocean knew the details.
“How many of them are in on it?”
“General Ben-Gurion. The prime minister. That’s it.”
“Where are their ships now?”
“Approaching the Strait of Gibraltar. They’ll round Portugal and reach their coordinates in just over thirty hours, as requested by the French.”
“Good. I want you on the USS Nimitz as soon as possible.”
“I land in Spain in three hours and will be chopped tomorrow.” Static filled the receiver. “What about Thomas?”
“He’s sleeping,” Blair said. “Depending on what happens in his dreams . . .” He caught himself, struck by the sound of his words. They were banking on dreams?
Yes, the dreams of the same man who uncovered the Raison Strain.
“If all goes well, he’ll join you.”
No one other than Kara and Monique de Raison understood Thomas as well as Merton Gains. He sensed Blair’s awkwardness.
“It’s the right thing, sir. Even if Thomas gave us nothing more, what he’s given us to this point has been invaluable.”
“I’m not sure whether to agree or disagree,” Blair said. “He brought this upon us, didn’t he?”
“Svensson did.”
“Of course. I’m going on air as soon as they can bring in this character Orear, and I’m going to tell the American people that I’m going to work with the French.”
“I understand.”
“God help us, Merton.”
“Yes sir. God help us.”
30
JOHAN WATCHED the three horses galloping into the canyon toward them. Suzan had found them from the cliff above and waved. Now she led, dark hair flowing in the wind. Born to ride. He remembered her repu-tation as the commander of scouts who could find a single grain of desert wheat in any canyon. As Martyn, he’d feared her nearly as much as he feared Thomas. Intelligence was the key to many battles, and Suzan had matched him at every turn.
He’d never imagined he would ever have the pleasure of riding with her. Seeing her approach with such grace, such beauty, made his pulse quicken. Perhaps it was time to express his feelings for her.
Thomas rode behind her. Odd to think of it, but if he was awake here, it meant he was asleep in his other reality.
Beside Thomas, the woman. The daughter of Qurong.
“He actually did it,” Mikil said beside him. “Look at her ride.”<
br />
“Thomas must have taken her by force. The Chelise I knew would never agree to come on her own.”
“Love will compel the strongest woman,” Jamous said with a wink at Mikil.
Johan chuckled. “Love? I doubt love compels the daughter of Qurong.”
“Either way, you’re getting what you argued for,” Mikil said. “We’re about to see just how friendly albinos and Scabs can be together.”
“I didn’t have this in mind. I was speaking of the drowning. And the more I think about it, the more I think I was wrong.”
“Be careful what you hope for.”
Suzan slid from her horse, took two quick steps toward them, and then slowed her pace. Or was it two quick steps toward him? Her eyes were certainly on him. Johan wondered if the others noticed.
Thomas and Chelise had slowed to a trot. Suzan veered toward Mikil and grasped her arms. “Elyon’s strength. It’s good to see you. William?”
“He went on to the tribe with Cain and Stephen.”
Thomas rode in beaming from ear to ear. Chelise stopped beside him, peering tentatively from her hood, face white with morst. She’d placed tuhan blossoms in her hair. This, along with the smooth texture of the morst, was new for the Horde.
Thomas swept his arm toward her. “I would like you to meet the princess. My friends, I present Chelise, daughter of Qurong, delight of Thomas.”
Mikil’s eyes went wide with amusement. Delight? She was a Scab. And did Chelise agree with his sentiment?
Suzan put her hand on Johan’s shoulder. “And this, Princess Chelise, is Johan,” she announced. Had they spoken about him?
Johan stepped out and bowed his head. “It’s good to see you again.”
Chelise was speechless. She’d never seen him as an albino. The poor child was frightened.
Thomas dropped to the sand and reached for her hand. She took it and dismounted gracefully. Thomas held her hand and Chelise made no attempt to discourage him. Had any of them ever seen such a sight? An albino man—Thomas, commander of the Guard—tenderly holding the hand of a diseased woman.