*******
The Rules of Engagement, or ROE, for a WhiteWolf were extensive and complicated but unequivocally clear. In part, the war directive read:
CONTINUITY OF OPERATIONS PLAN (COOP) WHITEWOLF
IN THE EVENT OF A:
—DELIBERATE AND HOSTILE NUCLEAR DETONATION OVER THE UNITED STATES, ITS TERRITORIES OR DESIGNATED “SAFE HOUSE ZONES” (see OPPLAN WILMA for definition of possible criteria of designated U.S. Safe House Zones)
AND,
—ONCE PRESIDENTIAL AUTHORITY HAS INITIATED WHITEWOLF, THEN
—ALL NECESSARY CIVILIAN AND MILITARY ASSETS WILL BE DESIGNATED/ASSIGNED TO DETERMINE, WITHOUT DELAY, THE SOURCE OF THE HOSTILE WEAPON (see OPPLAN OUTBACK for information regarding possible fissionable material tracking and nation coding).
NOTE: WHITEWOLF, by definition, assumes the hostile detonation of a nuclear device by an unknown and/or non-recognizable organization/government/nation-state. The initial thrust, and the most critical element, of WHITEWOLF is to aid in the identification of hostile parties by relying on the Nuclear Material Tracking Database (NMTD) so as to promptly and appropriately retaliate.
DURING THE IMPLEMENTATION OF WHITEWOLF, ALL INITIAL EFFORTS MUST BE DIRECTED TOWARD:
(1) PREVENTING FURTHER/SUBSEQUENT ATTACKS;
(2) SECURING NATIONAL BORDERS, TERRITORIES, OVERSEAS MILITARY INSTALLATIONS, LOCATIONS OF NATIONAL INTEREST, STRATEGIC RESOURCES (OVERSEAS FOSSIL FUEL FIELDS, PORT FACILITIES), ETC. (see Appendix 1A-3c for comprehensive list of known strategic assets); AND
(3) WORKING WITH ALLIED NATIONS TO ASSURE MUTUAL SECURITY.
WHILE WORKING WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE ABOVE, THE NEXT HIGHEST PRIORITY IS TO DETERMINE THE SOURCE OF THE NUCLEAR MATERIALS.
—ONCE THE SOURCE OF THE NUCLEAR MATERIALS USED AGAINST THE UNITED STATES HAS BEEN DETERMINED, WHITEWOLF WILL PROVIDE THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES (POTUS) OR THE PRESIDENT’S SUCCESSOR WITH TARGET OPTIONS IN ORDER TO RETALIATE.
NOTE: WHITEWOLF RECOGNIZES THAT, AT THIS POINT, POTUS HAS DETERMINED THAT NUCLEAR RETALIATION IS THE LAST REMAINING OPTION. UNDER THIS ASSUMPTION, THE ATTACK MATRICES (Appendix 1A-3e) WILL HELP TO DETERMINE WHICH MIX OF WEAPONS PLATFORMS AND FACILITIES WILL BE MOST EFFECTIVE. . . .
*******
The plan, options, directions, summaries, and appendices for WhiteWolf were more than four hundred-pages long, but Hewitt noted that some earlier officer, evidently figuring he could save a little time, had summarized the war plan on his own. Across the front page, he had written:
WAR PLAN WHITEWOLF SUMMARY:
Find out who did it.
Bring their world to an end.
And that was it, in essence. That was WhiteWolf at its core. Use every resource available to the United States to find out who had attacked them, and then retaliate in kind.
So it was that, two hours after the attack on Washington, D.C., as the rest of the nation stumbled through a mixture of hate, shock and dread, scrambling to deal with what appeared to be the loss of their national government, a group of men and women working deep within the underground complex in southern Pennsylvania began to put the pieces in place so that the United States could strike back.
Against whom they were going to retaliate, they didn’t know yet.
It would take them a few days to find out.
Then they would retaliate and kill them.
Because that was the plan.
THREE
Washington, D.C.
Lucifer looked out on the devastation that he had created in Washington, D.C.
He stood alone, his callous face dull and lifeless. Even here, in the nonmortal world, the eyes were still the windows that looked into the soul—and his eyes, once so bright and full of joy, had narrowed to angry slits that boiled from the filth in his being.
The problem was, he knew. He knew, more than anyone, what he had given up.
He would never have a family. He would never hold a child. He would never have the joy of knowing that, despite all the trials of mortal living, he had done the right thing.
He would never feel the peace of knowing that Christ was at his side.
There was no hope. No optimism. No light or sun in his life.
There was nothing left for him but emptiness, pain, misery and hopelessness.
Yet he was alive. Like every other creature, he had no choice but to live.
So he stood alone, always angry, looking out on the putrid world he had made into what it was now.
The smell of smoke from the nuclear explosion over Washington, D.C. hit his nostrils: burning trees, melting steel, scalded flesh, and smoldered clothes. The scent of destruction. His lips turned up at the smell. But there was more, something else, another scent in the air. Like a hyena smelling fear, he sensed the despair that filled the world.
He shuddered with delight.
How he cherished that smell.
The fires were still burning, the smoke thick and black as it billowed in the air. The very land seemed to wail. Portable hospital units had been put up everywhere. Washington, D.C., wasn’t a city any longer, just a collection of hospitals and morgues. Lucifer cracked another smile. What horrible scenes did the men and women inside those hospital rooms endure! Bodies were being piled on the streets, waiting for disposal. And there was more to come. Much more.
Lucifer, the father of pain and lies, looked upon it all and growled. Lifting his hand, he raised his dark chain, swinging it easily. Flashing like a bullwhip, the last link snapped a clap of thunder through the air.
A dark murmur of expectation rose behind him and his angels crowded near. A few of them cowered, having felt the sting of the chain before, but most wanted to be closer to the smell.
He snapped the great chain again and the darkness grew more dense, the sun more distant, the day more dim. The horde of dark angels froze, anticipating another snap of the chain.
Lucifer turned toward his servants, the great chain curling to his feet.
Silence.
Deadly silence.
No one breathed. No one spoke. No one moved.
The tendons in his neck pulled tight as he screeched. Shrill, cold, and piercing, the noise rolled toward the crowd.
To some it sounded like a scream. To some it sounded like a growl. But those few who knew him best recognized it as a laugh.
The bitter angels snorted around him, then added their jeers to the ugly sound.
Royal Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
The king lay on top of his bed. The sun was setting now, and the enormous bedroom fell dim as the light faded against the desert sky, the failing sunlight that filtered through the forty-foot windows washing from yellow tint to dark orange to deep red.
Lying there, he shuddered, then sat up suddenly.
He didn’t hear it, but he felt it.
He didn’t see it, but he knew.
He felt the darkness laugh around him. He felt his master’s cry.
Pushing himself from his bed, he reached out for his robe.
His master was in the battle.
So much work yet to do.
FOUR
“And it shall come to pass after this, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophecy: your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions.”
Joel 2:28
Front Royal, Virginia, Fifty-Three Miles West of Washington, D.C.
Tucked between the rolling mountains, Front Royal was on the north end of the Shenandoah Valley, which was green and fertile, and now full of people as tens of thousands of citizens had fled west, seeking the protection of the mountains, though none of them knew what the valley really had to offer or why they were there. The Appalachian Mountains ran south and west of the small southern town, providing an emotional wall if not any real protection from the devastation in Washington, D.C.
The Shenandoah River ran on the outskirts of the town. From where Sara Brighton stood, she could hear the croaking frogs in
the lowlands that fed into the river. It was a beautiful night, and from the balcony of the old hotel she could see the outline of the mountain peaks: dark, tree-filled mounds rising up to meet the light of the moon. Gentle and rolling, not like the Rockies, certainly not like the Alps, the rising shadows around her were still a comforting sight.
Front Royal was a typical western Virginia town, with beautiful old homes; narrow, tree-lined roads; and acres of farms surrounded by spreading hardwood trees. Sara loved reading military history, something she had picked up from her husband, and she knew that at one time the infamous Stonewall Jackson had rolled through Front Royal, completely destroying the village as well as most of the countryside around it. Every town, every building, every farm had been burned to the ground, all to capture and secure the Manassas Gap Railroad and two stone bridges over the Shenandoah River.
Sara looked out on the countryside the general had fought so hard to capture.
Half an hour before, as the sun was just beginning to set, she and Ammon and Luke had lucked upon the rundown hotel at an intersection on Skyline Drive and checked in for the night, paying four times the normal rate for a single room. Ammon and Luke had showered, wolfed some sandwiches from the café across the street, and fallen asleep on the floor, their sleeping bags rolled out against the far wall. Now she stood alone on the hotel balcony, her face bathed in moonlight. Behind her, the hotel door was open and she could hear the twins breathing in their sleep. She listened, finding comfort in the sound, then wrapped her arms around herself.
It was impossible to imagine what had brought them to this place, impossible to understand how much their world had changed. Inside her chest, she moaned, thinking of her husband’s death.
It tore her apart, the fact that there hadn’t been a funeral to note the passing of Neil Brighton’s life. Their pastor back in Washington, D.C. had wanted to hold a special service for him, but Sara wouldn’t allow it. Hundreds of thousands had been lost in the attack; she wasn’t the only widow, her sons the only children who had lost their fathers, and to have a special service for one person simply didn’t seem right.
But the pastor understood the extraordinary role her husband had played. “Sara, I think people appreciate how important Neil was to our nation. I think they understand how vital he was to the president, to our security. I think they understand how hard he worked, the sacrifices he made, the sacrifices of your family. We all know how much you missed him even before . . . . ” The pastor’s voice trailed off.
“How much I missed him even before he was killed,” Sara completed his sentence for him, her eyes sad and tired.
“I mean that in the most respectful way, Sara. Neil sacrificed his entire life, while he was living and literally at the end, in order to serve his country. But he wasn’t the only one in your family who sacrificed. You, your children, you paid the price, too. I know how often he was gone, the hours that he worked, the burden that he carried. I think I understand.”
Sara watched him, her eyes brimming. “Pastor Willow, I love you, you know that, but I just don’t think you do.”
The pastor hesitated. “May I tell you something?” he asked her.
She thought for a moment, then nodded.
The pastor cleared his throat. “You remember a few years ago, Neil came to me for counsel. He was feeling overwhelmed with his responsibilities, his duty, the time it took, the time he couldn’t be at home. Do you remember that, Sara? Do you remember when he came to see me?”
She raised her eyes and looked at him intently. “Of course,” she said.
The pastor walked toward her and took her trembling hands in his own. “During that time we spent together, the Lord showed me—I think He showed us both—a glimpse of what lay ahead. For a moment I felt the responsibility your husband carried. I don’t know if I can describe it, but for the one brief moment, I shared the burden that Neil felt. I think I had to have that experience so I could give him the counsel that he needed to go forward. So yes, Sara, I think I understand just a little the burden and sacrifices you and your family have endured, which is one of the reasons I would like to have some kind of memorial service for Neil.”
“But we don’t have a,” her voice grew slow here, “a body. Any remains. How can we provide a service without—”
“We can do it, Sara.”
She seemed to think a moment, but the truth was, she had already made up her mind. “No, thank you, Pastor Willow. Thank you for your offer, for your consideration, but I am not the only one who lost a loved one in this tragedy. I couldn’t feel good about it. It just wouldn’t be right.”
So they had joined in a general service at the church for all those who’d been killed.
It was to be the only memorial she would ever have for her husband and the father of her sons.
“Think about how many of the pilgrims left their children or their spouses in watery graves out on the ocean,” she said to Luke and Ammon later that night. “Think about all those settlers to this great nation who lost family members on the plains. They didn’t love their lost ones any less than you or I, yet they didn’t have a funeral service for them. We’re not the first to have to go through this. I guess we’ll be OK.”
“Guess so,” Ammon answered, “but I have to tell you, Mom, I didn’t think it would end up this way.”
Standing on the second-floor balcony of the Front Royal Inn, her arms growing cold, Sara considered the final service. That had been two days ago now. Seemed like two years. Two lifetimes. Too long.
She took a deep breath and held it, smelling the trees and farms, then turned and walked into her hotel room. She knelt, said a short prayer—she had been praying all day and had very little more to say—and climbed into bed, staying on the right side, leaving the other pillow and the left side of the bed for Neil, just as she had done for more than twenty years.
Lying on her back, she stared up at the dark. The blinds were thin and bled some of the lights from the streets, casting distorted squares of yellow against the ceiling and walls. Sara could hear the frogs and swamp sounds through the old windows and thin walls.
She was tired. So tired. She felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She closed her eyes. They were so heavy. It felt so good just to lie there, not to have to move, not to have to think. She didn’t have to make a decision, she didn’t have to pretend. For this moment, for right now, she didn’t have to do anything.
Her mind started drifting, thinking of her husband. Funny—she couldn’t quite picture his face. She thought of his smell: soap, shaving cream, Old Spice—there, she had it now, his face, his deep laugh and teasing smile. . . .
Her eyelids were so heavy. . . .
All she wanted was to sleep. . . .
She heard his voice just as clearly as she had ever heard anything in her life.
“Sara, it isn’t over.”
She sat up on the bed.
“Sara, it isn’t over,” she heard him say again.
“Neil,” she whispered softly, her voice catching in her throat.
“Listen to me, Sara.” The voice was low but strong. “I want you to stay right here. Stay here for two more days. Then get up and drive west. You will be shown what to do when it happens.”
“Neil,” Sara called again.
“Stay here, then move west.”
And then the voice was gone.
She sat up on the side of bed, staring at the darkness, then leaned back against the pillow, feeling full and warm. “Neil?” she repeated slowly before drifting off to sleep.
*******
The sun was up and the room was bright when she opened her eyes. She had slept through the night without waking, and she felt fresh and strong. Looking at her covers, which lay almost undisturbed across the bed, she realized she had hardly moved as she slept.
Glancing at the floor, she saw Ammon peering up at her.
“I had a dream, Mom,” he told her.
Sara nodded slowly. “Your father?”
“But why?” Sara answered. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Ammon sat up on his sleeping bag and ran his hands through his hair. “Nothing makes sense anymore, Mom. Nothing at all. The only thing that makes any sense is what we know in our hearts. That’s the only way we’ll be led. We can’t look to anyone else right now, not our bishop, not other members. We’re on our own for a while. But remember what the Scriptures say about this day: Some pretty cool things are going to happen to those who will listen to the Spirit. Children will see visions and have dreams.”
Sara swallowed and looked away. “We will stay here, then.” She paused. “Although I have no idea why.”
“There has to be a reason.”
“We will stay here two days.”
“Two days,” Ammon said, then lay back on his sleeping bag again.
*******
Two days later, they paid their bill—Luke was furious at the outrageous cost—packed their bags in the car, and were ready to go.
They waited until the sun was barely visible, its dull light shining down the narrow Shenandoah Valley, the sky blister red from high-altitude smoke and dust. Then they started the car, said a prayer, and turned west.
Ammon drove, the oldest brother, if only by a few minutes. Sara sat in the passenger seat, Luke in the back.
Ammon stole a sideways look toward his mother as he drove. She had been forcing a sense of optimism ever since the attack, straining to make herself smile while reassuringly patting their legs. But he knew. He could see it in her eyes, her body language, the sadness of her mouth. She was hurting, dying with grief, pain and fear. She was so fearful. She felt weighted down with the responsibility of her children in this upside-down world.
Ammon glanced at her again, then reached over for her hand. He took her fingers and squeezed them gently. “Mom, you are strong enough to do this.”
Sara didn’t answer.
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