Mounting Fears

by Stuart Woods

  “Thirty seconds,” a voice at Kate’s end said.

  “God help them,” Kitty said, then was shushed.

  “Ten seconds, Striker,” a male voice said.

  “Take cover!” Striker shouted, abandoning caution.

  A whoomp sound came from the other end. “Missile fired,” a voice yelled, followed a second later by a large explosion.

  “Three, two, one,” Kate said. There was a noise, then another explosion, followed a fraction of a second later by a shrieking noise, followed by silence.

  “Their radios are fried,” a voice from Kate’s end said somberly.

  “What does that mean, Kate?”

  “Charlie, call downstairs!” Kate yelled. “I want a tremor report instantly!” She came back on the line. “This is not good, Will.”

  Will could hear a telephone ringing at her end. “What’s happening?”

  A male voice replied. “Detonation confirmed.”

  “Will,” she said, “the warhead detonated. The team on site is dead, along with everybody else in the village, and maybe some of the other villages and other teams, too.”

  Other voices were shouting information at her.

  “Will, I’m told that a chopper was in the air between ten and twenty miles from the village. That will be gone, too.”

  “How soon will you have a casualty and damage estimate?”

  “Everybody here is on that,” she said. “I’ll have to call you back, and I don’t know when.”

  “I understand,” Will said. “I’ll be here. I’m sorry about your team, Kate. I’ll want to call their families myself.”

  “I know you will. Good-bye for now.”

  Will hung up and looked around the room at the shocked faces. “You know everything I know,” he said. “You’d better all get some sleep.”

  “Mr. President,” Kitty said, “you’re going to have to throw me out of here.” There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the people present.

  “All right,” Will said, “Somebody send out for some coffee and sandwiches. It’s going to be a long night.”

  WILL WAS DOZING in an armchair, his jacket off and his tie loose. Daylight was filtering through the blinds, and the clock read a little after seven a.m. The phone rang. He jerked awake and pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Mr. President, I have a preliminary report,” Kate said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The base in Afghanistan has made contact with all but two of the teams. The first we know about, the second was in a village four miles away. Both teams, one Navy SEAL, one Agency, comprising a total of nine men and two women, are presumed dead. All the other teams witnessed the detonation from a greater distance and from cover and have reported no casualties. They have all withdrawn to their base camps in Afghanistan and will be choppered out during the next twelve hours or so. An estimated one hundred to one hundred fifty villagers are presumed dead.”

  “I’ve heard nothing from Pakistan,” Will said. “Has their government been in contact with anybody there?”

  “Our station in Islamabad has canvassed its sources, and their estimate is that the Pakistani government believes that the people in possession of the warhead inadvertently set it off. It appears that we can, if you wish, deny involvement.”

  “No. I won’t do that,” Will said.

  “There is one other report that you may find interesting,” Kate said. “One of our sources has reported a gathering of more than a dozen top Al Qaeda and Taliban leaders in the region. There is some reason to believe that they may have been meeting in the village where the warhead detonated.”

  “I want every effort made to confirm that, and I want names as soon as possible,” Will said.

  “We’re working on it, Mr. President.”

  “Call me back when you have more details,” Will said. “I’m going to ask for network time at eight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Will hung up and turned to Kitty. “I want five minutes on all the networks at eight o’clock,” he said.

  “I’m on it,” Kitty replied.

  AT SEVEN-THIRTY A . M . , Will spoke to President Khan of Pakistan. It was a tense conversation, but Khan seemed to grasp that what had occurred may have solved more problems for him than it created. He told Will that he had already dispatched troops. At eight a.m., Will broadcast from a conference room at the hotel. In a somber voice, he divulged every detail at his disposal, except the names of the dead, pending notification of their families.

  At noon, as he was returning to Washington to pick up Kate, Will received another call from President Khan, confirming half a dozen names of those leaders killed in the detonation, and Will released them to the press on Air Force One.

  He spent the remainder of the flight speaking to the families of the American dead.

  63

  THAT AFTERNOON, LANCE CABOT GOT INTO THE ELEVATOR AND PRESSED THE basement button. As the doors were closing, Katharine Rule Lee stopped them and got on board.

  “Good afternoon, Director.”

  “Good afternoon, Lance.”

  Lance glanced at his watch. “I haven’t often seen you leaving this early.”

  “My husband and I are flying down to Georgia, so we can vote bright and early for the TV cameras tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, yes. From what I hear, his prospects have recently improved.”

  “That’s what I hear, too,” Kate replied.

  “I wish you both the very best of luck,” Lance said.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “Lance, would you tell me something, please?”

  “Of course, Director.”

  “Is Teddy Fay still dead?”

  Lance blinked. “Oh, yes, Director,” he managed to say.

  Then the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and Kate got off. Lance continued toward the basement. He pressed his forehead against the cool doors and heaved a great sigh.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

  However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

  If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

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  Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

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  A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.