Ammon was simply amazed. Frightened and nervous, but amazed all the same. She was so together.
Sara turned to Luke. “Get the three-day emergency kit. You know where it is. Check everything. Then run downstairs and get some food, get everything that is in cans—and don’t forget a can opener—and a knife, we might need that.”
Luke gritted his teeth in frustration, but did not move. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he grabbed his hair as he cried. “Why is the White House so stupid? I want to talk to my dad! Why can’t they let us talk to our father? I think it’s important we talk to him before we do something dumb!”
“Listen,” Sara said, her voice even and calm. “You’ve got to accept this, Luke, it’s the way it has always been. The military, the White House staff, they live in a world of their own. They have a far greater weight and responsibility than you and I could ever imagine. The future of our country, the entire future of the world may be hanging in the balance right now. They don’t do these things just to make it harder for us; this is the way they have to operate! You know that. You’ve seen it. You know how the military works. How many times have I had to do things without your father? How many times has he been forced to leave us? He was gone for a whole year during the Second Gulf War. I know you might feel abandoned, but there’s nothing we can do. And you know that your father would help us if there was any way that he could.
“Now get dressed and get the emergency kit. Come on! There’s no time.”
“No time, Mom! You’re kidding. What are you talking about? Why don’t we have time? We should wait to talk to Dad! We should take the time to think this through. Why do we need all that stuff, the emergency kit, all that water? What are you not telling us?”
Sara took a patient step toward him. “Listen to me, son. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I have no idea. None at all. I haven’t seen a vision. I had no revelation in the night. But something is telling me that we have to leave. It’s been telling me for days.” She glanced quickly toward his brother. “Ammon feels it too. I can see it by the look on his face.” She turned back to Luke. “Now that’s a bummer, and I know that! Your dad is locked away inside the White House. The world is going crazy at the door. But it is what it is, Luke, and that is all I can say. Now, are you going to trust me, or am I going to have to fight you? If I have to fight you, that’s fine, I’ll do what I have to do. But it sure would make it easier if you would trust me, at least for now.”
Luke looked at her, his face uncertain and grim. “You’re going to pack up and leave. Just like that, bang? We’re gone?”
Sara pressed her lips together. “If your father were here, would you listen to him?”
“If Dad was here, I don’t think we’d be packing up to leave! I mean, come on, Mom, where are we going to go? What are we running from? What is your plan?”
Sara took a breath and looked directly into his eyes. “My plan,” she said simply, “is to follow this feeling, this sense of warning that I have. I plan to follow where it leads us; that’s all that I know. I can recognize the voice of God; I have felt it in my life before. I have felt it! You have felt it! I know what it is telling me right now: Get out of the city. I am as certain of that as I am certain of anything. Now, if you can’t trust me, I understand that. It’s a pretty big leap. But I’m telling you, Luke, this is what we’re supposed to do.”
His face began to soften as a warmth filled the room. He felt it, a sudden burning from somewhere deep in his chest. “All right, Mom,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
She embraced him, and then held his shoulders. “Get us some food. I don’t know if we’ll need it, but it might come in handy somehow.”
Luke nodded and got dressed quickly, then disappeared down the hall.
Sara turned for her bedroom. “I’ve got to get dressed,” she said.
“Where are you going?” Ammon asked her.
“To the bank. I’ll have to go down to Main. There’s a branch that opens early. I’m going to go get some cash.”
“How much?”
“I think ten thousand is the most they will give me at any one time. Especially right now, the world going crazy, I’m sure I’m not the only one taking money out of the bank. If they’ll give me more, I’ll take it. I’ll get all that I can.
“How much do you have available?”
“We’ve got about forty thousand in our emergency fund.”
“Get it all if they’ll let you.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
“I’ll get the fuel and some extra containers. Then I’m going to E-mail Dad. I’ll also leave him a note on the counter and tell him where we’re going.”
Sara stopped suddenly. “Where are we going?” she asked Ammon.
He looked straight ahead. “West. We should go west.”
“All right, then West Virginia?”
“We could stay the night in Charleston,” Ammon suggested. “Remember our old friends from Germany—what were their names; I think they’re retired out there.”
Sara thought for a while. “No. Let’s just get out of the city, and then see how we feel. Maybe this whole thing will blow over. Who knows, in a couple of days we might feel like it’s safe to come home.”
“Yeah, Mom, OK. Now get down to the bank.”
Sara hurried to her bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. When she came out, Ammon was waiting. “I told Luke to pack some clothes.”
“Good,” Sara said as she passed him in the hall. Ammon touched her shoulder and she stopped. “Mom, I’m going to bring Dad’s pistol.”
Sara hesitated, a shiver running through her. “Get it,” she whispered, then turned and ran down the stairs.
EIGHTEEN
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Major General Neil Brighton got the phone call while working at his desk. The White House operator buzzed his personal line. Her voice was low and professional, but Brighton could sense a slight strain.
“General Brighton,” she said when he picked up the phone, “I’ve got King al-Rahman from Saudi Arabia on the line.”
Brighton almost gulped. “You’re kidding!” he said.
“No, General Brighton. He is demanding to speak with you.”
“Me! Are you certain?”
“Most certain, sir.”
“Has he said what he wants?”
“He has said nothing, sir.”
The general took a breath. “All right, get your voice recorders going. And call Grison. Tell him who I’m talking to and get him in here.”
“Yes, General Brighton. Are you ready for the king now, sir?”
“No, no, not yet. Where is the president? Where is he right now?”
“The president’s caravan left the White House just a few moments ago. He’s on his way to the State Department to meet with the NATO ministers.”
The general’s heart skipped a beat. “Get him on the line,” he commanded. “Tell him to stand by.” The general didn’t know why he had said it, there was no reason to, but something inside him was screaming. “And call the Secret Service,” he continued.
The operator hesitated. “What exactly shall I tell them, sir?” she asked in an uncertain tone.
Brighton shook his head. He didn’t know! “OK, hold before you do that, let me talk with the king first. But get Grison in here.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Now are you ready for the king?”
“Put him on,” Brighton answered.
The king’s voice came through the phone, gruff and proud. “General Brighton, you remember me, I hope,” the king of Saudi Arabia said.
“Of course, your Highness. My condolences regarding your father and your brother.” Brighton could not resist.
“Yes, thank you. You are gracious. Now, general, as you will soon see, time is of critical essence at this moment, and I must get immediately to the point. You know, I hope, that my brother held you in such high regard. I would even say that he loved you, cer
tainly respected you, which is why I’m calling you now.”
“What can I do for you?” Brighton replied. Undiplomatically, he didn’t try to hide the disdain that he felt.
“What time is it there, General Brighton?” the king replied in an equally sour voice.
Brighton hesitated while he looked at his watch. “Why do you ask, your Royal Highness?” He noted the time.
The king snorted, then said, “Isn’t it 4:45 P.M.?”
“Yes,” the general answered.
“And I’m guessing that you have already asked to have your president put on the other line?”
“Yes,” Brighton answered.
“Is he on with us right now?”
Brighton glanced at the telephone console. “No, he has not joined us yet.”
“That is fine,” Al-Rahman said. “Either way, it does not matter. Now, I want you to tell him something for me. He has seven minutes. That is all. Seven minutes from now. I hope that is enough time, but it might not be. Still, I hope they are able to evacuate him before it happens, for I want him to see the death and destruction that he has caused. That is the only reason I am calling. I genuinely want him to live. I want him to see the downfall of his nation, the great whore of the earth. I want him to see his great city after it has been turned to black ash. I want him to see the fireball like those in Gaza did.
“Now, as for you, my good general, I’m sure it is already too late. They may have time to evacuate the president, but they will not evacuate you. So please, give my regards to my brother. And my father as well.”
The telephone clicked. The phone line went dead.
The general didn’t move, staring straight ahead.
His hands started shaking. His mind filled with fear. He thought of Sara and his children. He thought of the president. He thought of the city and the nation he loved so much. He sensed a sudden trembling, as if the world shook right beneath his chair. His heart started racing; his palms were sweaty, his vision blurred.
Grison raced into his office. “What did the king want?” he cried.
The general thought again of Sara. He thought again of his sons.
He stared at the national security adviser, a single tear in his eye. Grison glared at him, his face pale. “What is it?” he demanded in a piercing yell.
“Flashdance!” the general breathed.
Grison staggered back.
The general shook his head, and then picked up a red phone on the corner of his desk.
PacEx 178
Five miles southeast of Ronald Reagan International Airport, Washington, D.C.
The 757 package carrier descended to five thousand feet. It was flying northwest toward the airport, having been diverted over the Chesapeake Bay. The runway at Washington’s Reagan International Airport stretched roughly north and south at the ten o’clock position, and the aircraft was in a gentle turn to line up for its final approach. In the distance, the pilots could see the National Mall, with the Capitol Building on the east side and the Lincoln Memorial on the west. Midway between them, the White House was hidden in a group of tall trees. The pilots knew that the airspace immediately around the White House was a strict no-fly zone. If they penetrated the airspace they would be shot down.
The air traffic controller gave the PacEx carrier his final landing instructions. “PacEx 178, continue left, heading three-three-zero. Intercept the glide slope. Call the runway in sight.”
“Left turn to three-three-zero. Tally on the runway,” the freighter pilot replied.
“PacEx 178, you are number three to follow American 168 and Delta 352 on final. Descend to one thousand five hundred. Contact tower now on one two four point five.”
“Tally on the Delta,” the pilot said. “Descending to one point five and switching to tower.”
“Roger, PacEx 178. Good day.”
The pilot pulled back his throttles, and the aircraft began to descend. With the flaps at twenty percent, the increase in drag brought the aircraft down very quickly.
Presidential Caravan, downtown Washington, D.C.
The president was in his limousine with two other men, members of the national press who had been invited to join him for a quick interview as he was driven to an emergency meeting with NATO ministers at the Department of State. The presidential motorcade proceeded down E Street and drove quickly west, then turned south on Virginia Avenue before pulling a U-turn into the parking area outside of Department of State. The president’s closest bodyguard, a senior Secret Service agent code-named Bull, was sitting in the seat opposite him. As always, a small ear plug was stuffed in the Secret Service agent’s ear. He was tense and alert, but intensely fatigued. Being assigned to the president’s detail, he worked sixteen-hour days. Since the nuclear explosion over Gaza, he had hardly slept.
As the motorcade proceeded to the north side of the State building, the president was finishing his interview with the members of the press. Unexpectedly, he heard a sudden chime from the telephone in his armrest. At exactly that moment, an alarm sounded in Bull’s ear. “FLASHDANCE. FLASHDANCE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”
For just a fraction of a second, the bodyguard didn’t move, a terrified look in his eye. He leaned into his lapel. “Confirm Flashdance!” he said.
“Roger that! Flashdance. This is not a drill!”
Bull frowned. It couldn’t be! “FLASHDANCE. SEVEN MINUTES!” his radio cried.
The Secret Service agent swallowed.
Flashdance in seven minutes.
It was not enough time.
It took at least eleven minutes to get the president out of Washington, D.C. They had drilled it and practiced it at least a thousand times.
Seven minutes was impossible.
Which meant that the president was going to die.
More than two hundred protective agents slipped into gear.
Peeling away from the building, the motorcade began to accelerate, moving past the entrance to the State Department’s secure parking area. The chime continued from the speaker in the armrest, then fell suddenly mute. Three, then six police motorcycles moved in on the limousine, their sirens blaring, their lights flashing bright. The bulletproof window separating the front seat from the presidential cabin rolled up.
The president frowned and looked over. “What’s going on, Bull?”
The Secret Service agent didn’t answer because he was speaking into his lapel. But the president had picked up the code word, and he knew what it meant.
Flashdance. Code for an impending nuclear attack.
The limousine moved fifty feet down the road, and then came to a sudden stop, its wheels screeching on the asphalt, nearly causing several collisions behind it. Bull opened the back door. “GET OUT!” he yelled at the two members of the press. The frazzled men were pushed out the door and onto the street. Three additional Secret Service agents then jumped into the automobile, their handguns drawn, and their eyes wild and darting. They pushed the president into the center of the limo and held his head near the floor. Four other agents wielding Uzi machine guns with collapsible stocks jumped onto metal running boards that had been extended from the lower carriage of the black limousine. They gripped the handholds with one hand and held their machine guns with the other. The limousine moved forward onto 23rd Street, screeching through the intersection, surrounded now by more than a dozen police escorts. Ahead of them there was a sudden squeal of automobile tires, then a solid crunch as a D.C. police car intentionally rammed into the side of a Metro taxi that had proceeded into the intersection in front of the presidential limousine. Jamming his gas pedal, the policeman pushed the taxi out of the way, smashing it into the side of another car. Two Marine Apache attack helicopters swooped down from overhead, sweeping over the motorcade from their security perch. Higher up, an F-16 pilot hit his afterburner until he fell into position over the presidential caravan, his air-to-air missiles armed and ready to go.
*******
The suburbs outside the Beltway passed undernea
th PacEx 178’s nose. To the pilot’s right, the waters of the Chesapeake Bay sparkled in the afternoon light, the slanting rays creating brilliant, flashing diamonds at the crest of each wave. The sun was low now, but the skies were clear and bright. The pilot passed over Interstate 495, which was jammed with stop-and-go traffic, as always, the fourteen lanes of traffic hardly seeming to move. Rush hour was just getting under way, and the city was packed from one end to the other. To their left, in the distance, the Pentagon parking lot was a madhouse of traffic; same for Bolling Air Force Base that was across the Potomac River from the airport. Directly ahead now, Reagan International Airport’s main runway, eight thousand feet of white concrete, shone brightly against the backdrop of downtown Washington, D.C. The copilot directed his attention below their flight path, keeping the proceeding aircraft in sight while the pilot adjusted his throttles, further decreasing his power. The aircraft continued to descend.
* * *
As part of the Flashdance alert, all airline traffic at Reagan International Airport was commanded to hold. Seconds before, a single Delta airliner had taken to the air, too far down the runway to abort without ending up in the Potomac River. The F-16 pilot saw the Delta climb as it tucked in its landing gear. He slammed his throttle forward and was pushed back in his seat. He lowered the fighter’s nose and moved a small piper on his head’s-up display, targeting the Delta airliner with two of his air-to-air missiles. The earpiece in his helmet growled. The airliner was locked up. The Delta airliner continued flying north, taking a path that would place it less than two miles from the presidential motorcade. A small course correction and ten seconds were all it would take to turn the airliner into a missile targeting the president. The F-16 pilot tensed up, his gut in a knot. But he had his orders, and he would not hesitate. He switched his radio to National Guard frequency and cried, “Delta aircraft taking off from Reagan, break left right now! Turn left now, Delta, or I will fire!”
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