by Jack Mars
Suddenly, yet another sound came—a sound so loud, so high-pitched that the woman thought her eardrums would burst. She looked up and a missile streaked across the sky, coming from the north. It slammed into the upper floors of her building.
The earth beneath her feet shook from the impact. The world seemed to spin around her, even as the top of the building blew apart in a massive explosion, concrete masonry flying through the air. How many people in those rooms? How many dead?
She lost her balance and fell, spilling her two children onto the ground. She crawled on top of them, covering them with her body just before the shockwave came. Then a hail of debris from the explosion rained down, tiny biting pebbles and shards, choking dust, the remains of the old and infirm who could not leave their apartments in time.
The sirens did not stop. The deafening shriek of another missile came, flying just overhead, followed by the blast and rumble as it found its target not far away.
On and on and on raged the sirens.
Another missile shriek began to grow. It whistled in her ears. The skin on her body popped out in gooseflesh. She pulled her children closer, closer. The sound was too loud. It no longer made sense. It was beyond hearing, monstrous beyond all human comprehension—her systems shut down in the face of it.
The woman screamed in tandem with the missile, but she seemed to make no sound at all. She could not look up. She could not move. She felt its shadow above her, blotting out the light of day.
Then a new light took her, a blinding light.
And after that, the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
6:50 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
The White House Residence
Washington, DC
The morning light was streaming through the blinds, but Luke did not want to get up. He lay flat on his back in the big bed, his head propped up on pillows.
Susan lay next to him under the sheets, the President of the United States, her head resting on his chest, her short blonde hair hanging loose against his bare skin. He noticed a few flecks of gray that her stylist had missed. Or perhaps that was on purpose—on a man, a little bit of gray would indicate experience, seriousness, gravitas.
She was breathing deeply.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
He felt her smile against his body. “Of course I am, silly. I’ve been awake for over an hour.”
“What are you thinking about?” he said.
“What are you thinking about? That’s the important question.”
“Well, I’m worried.”
She pressed herself onto her elbows, turned, and looked at him. As always, he was astonished by her beauty. Her eyes were pale blue, and in her face he could see the woman who had appeared on magazine covers more than twenty years before. She was aging backward, moving in reverse toward that time. He would almost swear to it—in the short time they had been together, she appeared to grow a little bit younger nearly every day.
Her mouth made a half smile and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Luke Stone is worried? The man who takes down terrorist networks with a wave of his hand? The man who topples despotic rulers and stops mass killers alike, all before breakfast? What could Luke Stone possibly be worried about?”
He shook his head and smiled, despite himself. “Enough of that.”
Truth be told, he was more than worried. Things were getting complicated. He was committed to putting his relationship back together with Gunner. It was going well—better than he could have hoped—but Gunner’s grandparents still had custody of him. Luke was beginning to think that was for the best. A protracted custody battle with Becca’s wealthy and hateful parents—it would be long, drawn-out, and ugly. And what would he win? Luke was still in the spy game. If he moved in with Luke, Gunner would end up spending a lot of time on his own. No guidance, no supervision—it sounded like a lousy arrangement.
Then there was the Susan situation. She was the President of the United States. She had her own family, and technically speaking, she was still married. Her husband, Pierre, knew about Luke, and apparently he was happy for them. But they were keeping this a secret from everyone else.
Who was he kidding? They weren’t keeping anything a secret.
Her close security team knew about him—it was their job to know. And that meant it was already a widespread and growing rumor within the Secret Service. He passed through security to get in here late at night, two, sometimes three nights a week. Or he signed in as a guest in the afternoon, but never signed out again. The people who monitored the video surveillance saw him entering and leaving the Residence, and took note of when he did so. The chef knew he was cooking for two, and the servers who brought the food out were two heavyset older ladies who smiled at him, and bantered with him, and called him “Mr. Luke.”
Susan’s chief-of-staff knew, which meant that Kurt Kimball also probably knew, and God only knew where it went from there.
Every single person who already knew about him had family, friends, and acquaintances. They had favorite early morning breakfast joints, or lunch counters, or bars where they regaled the regulars with tales of life inside the White House.
The reporter’s question yesterday suggested that the rumor had already broken out of the box. They were one leak, one disgruntled staffer’s call to the Washington Post or CNN, from a full-blown, twenty-four/seven media circus.
Luke didn’t want that. He didn’t want Gunner subjected to that glare. He didn’t want the boy in the custody of the Secret Service everywhere he went. He didn’t want the media following him or staking out his school.
Luke also didn’t want the attention for himself. It was better for his work if he could remain in obscurity. He needed the freedom to operate, both for himself and for his team.
And he didn’t want the attention for Susan. He didn’t want it for their relationship. Things were hot and heavy right now, but he couldn’t imagine this thing lasting under constant scrutiny from the media.
It was impossible to raise these issues with her. She was an irrepressible optimist, she was already under the glare of the media anyway, and she was riding high on endorphins. Her answer was always some variation of, “Oh, we’ll work it out.”
“What are you worried about, Mr. Luke?” Susan said now.
“I’m worried…” he began. He shook his head again. “I’m worried that I’m falling in love.”
Her thousand-watt smile lit up the room. “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it great?”
She kissed him deeply, then leapt out of bed like a teenager. He watched her as she padded across the room, nude, to her closet. She still had the body of a teenager.
Almost.
“I want you to meet my daughters,” she said. “They’re coming to town next week to spend Christmas.”
“Terrific,” he said. The thought of it made his stomach do a lazy barrel roll. “Who should we tell them I am?”
“They knew who you are. You’re that superhero. James Bond without the clean shave or the fancy suit. I mean, you rescued Michaela’s life just a few years ago.”
“We were never properly introduced.”
“Still. You’re like an uncle to them.”
Just then, the phone on the bedside table began to ring. It made a funny sound, not so much a ring as a buzz, or a hum. It sounded like a monk with a bad cold chanting in meditation. Also, it lit up in blue on each ring. Luke hated that phone.
“You want me to get it?” he said.
She smiled and shook her head. Now he watched her come back across the room, moving faster this time. For a brief moment, he imagined another world, one where they didn’t have their jobs. Hell, maybe even a world where they were both unemployed. In that world, she could climb right back into bed with him.
She picked up the phone. “Good morning.”
Her face changed as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. All of the fun went out of it. The light in her eyes faded, and her smile dropped away.
She took a deep breath and let out a long exhale.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”
She hung up.
“Trouble?” Luke said.
She looked at him, her eyes showing something—a vulnerability perhaps—that the masses never saw on TV.
“When isn’t there trouble?” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
7:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Situation Room
The White House, Washington, DC
The elevator opened and Luke stepped into the egg-shaped Situation Room.
Big Kurt Kimball stood at the far end of the room, his bald head gleaming, and he spotted Luke right away. Kurt usually ran these meetings with an iron hand. He had such a deep, effortless, and encyclopedic command of world affairs that people tended to follow his lead.
“Agent Stone,” he said. “Glad you could join us this early.”
Was there a hint of hidden meaning, even sarcasm, in that statement? Luke decided not to touch it.
He shrugged. “The President called me. I got here as soon as I could.”
He glanced around the room.
Ultra-modern, the place was much more than a conference room—it was set up for maximum use of the space, with large screens embedded in the walls every couple of feet, and a giant projection screen on the far wall at the end of the table. Tablet computers and slim microphones rose from slots out of the conference table—they could be dropped back into the table if the attendee wanted to use their own device.
Every plush leather chair at the table was occupied—a few military uniforms, several business suits. Most of the people were middle-aged and overweight—career government types who spent a lot of time sitting down in comfortable chairs and eating lunch. These chairs all looked like the captain’s chair on the command module of a spaceship crossing the galaxy. Big arms, deep leather, high backs, ergonomically correct with lumbar spine support.
The seats along the walls—smaller, red linen chairs with lower backs—were filled with young aides and even younger assistants, most of them slurping from Styrofoam coffee cups, tapping messages into tablets, or murmuring into telephones.
Susan sat in a leather chair at the closest end of the oblong table. She wore a blue pinstriped pantsuit. Her right leg was crossed over her left, and she leaned in close to hear what a young aide was telling her. Luke tried not to stare at her.
After a moment, she glanced up and nodded to him.
“Agent Stone,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”
Luke nodded. “Madam President. Of course.”
Kurt clapped his big hands, as if Luke entering was the cue he had been waiting for. The clap made a sound like a heavy book dropping to a stone floor. “Order, everybody! Come to order, please.”
The place went silent. Almost. A couple of military men at the conference table continued to talk with each other, heads leaned in close.
Kurt clapped his hands again.
CLAP. CLAP.
They both looked at him. He raised his hands as if to say, “Are you done?”
The room finally went dead quiet.
Kurt gestured to a young woman sitting in a chair to his left. Luke had seen her before, many times. She was Kurt’s indispensable aide, practically an extra appendage. She wore her auburn hair in a short bob cut like Susan’s—short bob cuts like Susan’s were all the rage with young women these days. Magazine editors and fluff news shows hadn’t exactly overlooked this fact. Critics called it the Hopkins Bob if they liked it, the Hopkins Helmet if they didn’t. They all seemed to be in agreement about what to call the women who styled their hair that way, however.
Susan’s Army.
Luke enjoyed that one. He didn’t wear a bob, but he supposed he was also in Susan’s Army.
“Amy, let’s see it,” Kurt said. “Israel and Lebanon, please.”
On the screen, blue and yellow icons that represented explosions began to appear across southern Lebanon, reaching as far north as the southern edge of Beirut, the explosions becoming sparser the further north they went.
“Hours ago, the Israeli air force began a bombing campaign, attacking the Hezbollah tunnel systems and fortifications along the Blue Line, as well as the Hezbollah-dominated neighborhoods of south Beirut. This is not a surprise, and in fact was telegraphed to us by Yonatan Stern’s government last night.”
On the screen, large red icons in the same shape as the earlier ones began to appear across Israel. There were maybe fifteen of them in total. A moment later, smaller red icons, tiny starbursts, began to appear in northern Israel. There were dozens of these.
“Soon after Israel began its air strikes, Hezbollah started to launch missile attacks into Israel. This is not unusual, especially when there is exchange of fire between the two forces. The 2006 war followed more or less this same trajectory. But a problem has arisen. In the intervening years, Hezbollah has obtained better firepower.”
A photograph of a large missile on a mobile launch pad appeared.
“This is the Fateh-200 missile. It is an Iranian-built weapon system, long-range missiles with multiple warheads that pack a powerful punch. Launched from inside Lebanon, it can reach nearly anywhere in Israel, except perhaps the sparsely populated Negev Desert in the south. It has sophisticated control and guidance features that for the first time give Hezbollah precision-strike capability.”
Kurt paused. “From what we can gather, it now appears that Hezbollah has obtained the Fateh-200. We believe they have launched anywhere from twenty to thirty of these missiles so far, each with as many as a dozen warheads. They targeted civilian and military infrastructure in population centers across Israel, including Tel Aviv, the western edge of Jerusalem, and the center of Haifa, among others. Israel’s medium-range missile defense system, known as David’s Sling, knocked perhaps half to two-thirds of these from the sky. But that wasn’t good enough.
“Several civilian neighborhoods were hit and numerous buildings destroyed. A warhead landed within half a mile of the Knesset, the Israeli congress, while it was in session.”
“What are the current casualties?” Haley Lawrence, the Secretary of Defense, said.
“Thus far, all we have are the official figures that have been released. More than four hundred civilians killed, thousands wounded, amid widespread destruction and panic. No figures on military casualties have been released, but the Israelis have mobilized for total war, calling for duty all reservists and able-bodied veterans of previous wars. They have intensified the bombing campaign in Lebanon dramatically, probably in an attempt to destroy any more Fateh-200s before they’re launched.”
“Has it worked?” Luke said, already knowing the answer.
Kurt shook his head. “We don’t know. We doubt it. As we speak, Hezbollah is still launching small, unguided missiles and rockets into northern Israel, demonstrating that their response capability still exists. We believe they are holding back the Fateh-200s for the time being, but will resume those launches on a timetable of their choosing.
“Israel has publicly blamed the Iranians for providing Hezbollah with the new missiles. In all likelihood, this is an accurate assessment. Hezbollah is a cat’s paw for Iran. Thirty minutes ago, Israel threatened to attack Iran if another Fateh-200 or similar missile is launched into Israeli territory.”
Kurt paused. “Ten minutes later, Iran informed the Israelis that they will counter any Israeli attack by launching nuclear weapons. In the same statement, they indicated that any Israeli attack will be grounds for Iran to launch nuclear weapons at the American air base in Doha, Qatar, as well as the large American embassy complex in Baghdad.”
The room went dead quite for several seconds. Luke, standing in a corner, watched the looks on the faces. Several people blushed, as if they were embarrassed. Others stared with wide eyes and mouths hanging slightly open.
“Iran doesn’t have nuclear weapons,” someone said. “They can’t.”
; Kurt shook his head. “Every international agreement and accord states that Iran is not a nuclear-armed state, and is forbidden from becoming one. But that doesn’t mean they haven’t acquired nuclear weapons. Amy, give us Iran, please.”
A new map appeared on the screen—Iran. The map gave Luke a sinking feeling. He had been to Iran. It wasn’t his favorite place in the world.
“The Islamic State of Iran is a Shiite Muslim theocracy. We know that they have harbored an ambition to acquire nuclear weapons since at least the 1979 Islamic Revolution.”
“But if they ever tested a nuclear weapon,” Susan said, “we would know about it.” It was the first time she had spoken since the meeting started.
“It would be nice if that were true,” Kurt said. “Deep underground testing facilities are proliferating everywhere in the world—they are very difficult to find and map. Advanced radiation detection systems can account for, down to very small amounts, radiation released into the atmosphere. We can combine that with our ability to measure the force and direction of prevailing winds, and determine with a fair amount of accuracy where the radiation is coming from. But when I say a fair amount of accuracy, what I mean is to within several hundred miles. Given Iran’s proximity to Pakistan—which is a known and accepted nuclear-armed state—it’s hard to pinpoint a radiation source and say for sure it’s in Iran.”
“But those tests have seismic signatures,” Susan said. “They’re practically like earthquakes.”
Kurt nodded. “And that’s what makes Iran doubly challenging. It is one of the most seismically active places on the planet. Earthquakes are common there, and frequently devastating. The most recent disaster was in 2003, when a 6.6 magnitude earthquake killed at least twenty-three thousand people in the city of Bam. But disasters aside, seismic activity in Iran is nearly constant. We monitor it on a daily basis. Listening for an underground rumble in Iran is like listening for waves to crash at the beach. It happens all the time.”
“What are you saying, Kurt?” Susan said. “Just say it.”