Bennett gritted his teeth and turned away.
* * *
The president was about to take the stage.
Jackie Sanchez paced the Secret Service command center, desperately hoping she and her
team hadn't missed a thing. All the data suggested a hit was coming. But how? From
where? And from whom?
As far as she could tell, they had every angle covered. She was confident that the only firearms in the convention center were those held by her special agents and counterassault teams and by the local police providing crowd control—all of whose credentials,
fingerprints, and retinal scans had been double- and triple-checked just hours before. And her bomb squads had scanned every inch of the premises and found nothing.
More than one hundred electronic air-quality monitors had been strategically positioned throughout the building and on the grounds, continuously checking for any whiff of a
dangerous radiological, biological, or chemical substance. Plainclothes agents with handheld monitors were roaming the crowds and the corridors. Thus far, nothing troublesome had
been detected, but the Energy Department's elite Nuclear Emergency Support Team was
on hand just in case, and members of the army's NBC fast-reaction team—specialists in
handling nuclear, biological, and chemical attacks—were on standby, as were all local
emergency first responders.
No food was being served on the premises, and the president wasn't going to be eating anything anyway. His bottled water had been specially flown in on Air Force One, tested by Secret Service technicians in Washington and again on-site. The president was not staying overnight, but a backup hotel twenty miles away had been fully secured, just in case. The president's blood type had been stocked at three local hospitals. All air traffic over the Los Angeles area had been shut down until a full hour after Air Force One lifted off later that evening, and F-16s fully armed with Sidewinder air-to-air missiles not only were flying combat air patrols over the city but would be escorting the president all the way back to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland.
Sanchez now carefully examined the images on each of the three dozen video monitors
in front of her, showing live feeds from surveillance cameras trained on every key
checkpoint in and around Staples Center and the surrounding parking lots, as well as from reconnaissance helicopters circling overhead. She reviewed the latest flash traffic reports from USSS headquarters in Washington and the latest threat condition intel from the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security.
Suddenly the convention stage manager reported in over his Nextel two-way phone.
"Sixty seconds, ma'am."
* * *
Bennett had been tempted.
He could still picture Erin and himself dining by candlelight back on January 14 in La
Regence, the five-star restaurant in the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. Their host was
E.U. foreign minister Salvador Lucente. They had already left their posts with the CIA and White House, respectively. Now Lucente was offering them both a chance to work for
him when he moved over to the U.N. They would not be junior players. They would be
senior advisors to the secretary-general, helping hammer out a treaty of historic
proportions. It would not, Lucente insisted, simply be an accord between the Israelis and Palestinians—that was almost finished already—but a full and comprehensive peace
agreement between Israel and Iraq.
Should he do it? Despite the danger, Bennett had loved his role as "point man for
peace" in the MacPherson administration. His favorite verse of Scripture was Matthew 5:9, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."
It was Erin who had insisted they stay off the political bullet train. She wanted to
serve in a refugee camp somewhere in the epicenter. As far away from Wall Street as
possible. As far away from the White House as possible. Far even from the horse country of rural Virginia that Erin loved so dearly, where they'd been married and hoped to settle down. It was she who had suggested that they spend the first year of their married life here in northern Jordan. To feed the hungry. To comfort the sick. To make a difference. To be a blessing in the time they had left, however brief that might be.
When that simple truth finally dawned on him, Bennett resolved in his heart to stop
second-guessing what they'd done. Erin had long ago decided she was willing to die for
what she believed in. It wasn't that she wanted to die, but she was willing to, if that's what God asked of her. That was what gave her the courage to join the CIA. It was what gave her the courage to serve the president in the line of fire. It was also what gave her the courage to come here, to this place, at this time. If she was willing to sacrifice everything to love
her neighbors, and her enemies, Bennett didn't want to do anything to get in her way. He just wished he'd had the spiritual maturity to come up with the idea in the first place.
Bennett's phone suddenly rang.
His heart leaped. Perhaps it was good news about Erin. But no one needed to call him.
He was standing less than ten feet from Erin's room. He pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
Odd, he thought. There was no name, no incoming number. Then again, his own
number was unlisted too. He'd given it out to only a handful of close friends and family members, so he wasn't worried. He should have been.
* * *
This was it, Sanchez thought as she readied her team.
She pressed her wrist-mounted microphone and relayed the word over secure
channels to every agent on the president's detail.
"Heads up, everyone. We're sixty seconds out. I want a final sector check. Recon
One?"
"Recon One, clear."
"Recon Two?"
"Recon Two is clear."
"NEST?"
"NEST is all clear."
"Snapshot One?"
"We're good."
"Sector Two?"
"Sector Two—we're good to go, Home Plate."
And so it went until Sanchez was satisfied that every i had been dotted and every t had been crossed. There was nothing more she could do but trust her team and her instincts and say a prayer that they all got through the night alive and in one piece.
* * *
"Hello?" Bennett said, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Is this Jonathan Bennett?" said the electronically altered voice at the other end of the line.
"Who is this?" Bennett replied, refusing to confirm anything until the caller identified himself.
"Listen carefully," the voice said. "Something terrible is about to happen. I had nothing to do with it. I cannot stop it. But I know it is coming, and I can assure you it is only the beginning. Much worse is coming as well. But those I can stop . . . if you'll help me."
Bennett knew instantly that this was not a game. Something in the voice convinced
him this was deadly serious, though when he asked for details, he was refused.
"You will see what I am speaking about soon enough," he was told. "I will call you back within twenty-four hours. Then you'll have a decision to make. Help me stop what's coming next, or suffer the consequences."
Click.
That was it. The call went dead.
Just then, before Bennett could process any of it, he heard the door of the examining room open. He glanced up to see two doctors—both looking weary and war-torn—emerge
from his wife's room and catch his eye. One nodded, then quickly headed off down a side hallway. Bennett held his breath as the other physician, the older of the two, made his way over and sat down at his side.
"Mr. Bennett?"
"Yes, sir," Bennett replied, his mind reeling. "How is she? Will she be okay?"
6:07 P.M. PST-THE REPUBLICAN N
ATIONAL CONVENTION, LOS ANGELES
"Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States."
MacPherson stood just offstage and listened as "Hail to the Chief" began to play and the capacity crowd of 22,197 leaped to their feet and began cheering and applauding with a passion and intensity that brought a lump to his throat.
These had been the toughest eight years of his life. Growing up, he had never
imagined running for president, much less winning not once but twice. He had certainly
never imagined being president through such trying times. His decisions hadn't always been right. He had often had to work with imperfect and incomplete information. But he had
done his best. He had tried to protect the American people from a global jihadist threat his parents and grandparents could not have comprehended. He had second-guessed
himself many times. He knew in the end he had no one to blame for his mistakes but
himself. But now the atmosphere in this room was electric. The base of his party, at least, loved him, and MacPherson couldn't help himself. He closed his eyes for a moment and
drank it all in.
The pause only heightened the drama, and with it the intensity of the crowd's
reaction. The longer he remained out of view, the more they wanted him. The more they
wanted him, the longer he stayed out of view. He waited, and waited a bit longer, and
paused still a bit longer until the roar built to a crescendo. And then, when he—and they—
could stand it no longer, James "Mac" MacPherson stepped out from behind the presidential blue curtains into the glare of the TV lights and a roar more deafening than anything he had ever experienced before.
It was showtime. And for him, it was the last time. And he had something burning
in his soul to tell his supporters, his nation, and the world.
Something that simply couldn't wait.
* * *
"Mr. Bennett, my name is Dr. Kwamee. I'm from Ghana."
Bennett nodded impatiently as the man reviewed a folder of notes and charts in his hands.
"I've been caring for your wife, as you know, for the past several hours," the doctor continued. "We've been having a particularly difficult time getting her fever down. Even now, it's still 103. She's very dehydrated. I see from the nurse's notes that you said she
hadn't been eating or drinking much over the past week or so. Is that right?"
"No—I mean, yes—that's right," Bennett stammered. "She's had trouble keeping anything down."
"You should have brought her in earlier," the doctor admonished. "We're always stressing around the camp the critical importance of drinking enough fluids. This is why.
It's difficult enough to fight off a disease when you're otherwise perfectly healthy. But if your body doesn't have the fluids and nutrients it needs, then I'm afraid everything becomes much more complicated."
Was this his fault? He had urged Erin to visit the clinic several days ago. She'd waved him off. Should he have insisted?
"We've got her on an IV at the moment," the doctor continued. "We've given her various medications to combat pain and fight off infection."
Bennett couldn't take it any longer. He had to know. "Dr. Kwamee, what exactly does my wife have? Do you know for sure?"
"Not entirely," the doctor replied. "We're still running blood tests. For the moment, we've identified two issues, and one is compounding and complicating the other. But I
want to be clear with you, Mr. Bennett. We're living in a petri dish here in this camp and in this region. We're dealing with challenges we've never seen before, on a scale never before imagined by the medical community. All I'm saying is that there could be more
issues than what we've identified so far. We won't know for certain for another few days, until all the blood work is completed."
For crying out loud, Bennett screamed inwardly, get on with it. It was all he could do not to grab Dr. Kwamee by the lapels and shake him until he cut to the chase.
The man now took a deep breath and set down his notes. "To begin with, your wife has a severe case of bacterial meningitis," he said quietly. "The truth is, she's lucky to be alive."
Bennett tried to stay calm. He had a flood of questions but no idea where to start. His expression apparently conveyed as much, and Dr. Kwamee continued.
"Streptococcus pneumoniae—or pneumococcus—is a bacteria that can cause
meningitis, a very serious medical condition," he explained. "If not treated quickly and properly, the condition can be fatal. I will be frank with you, Mr. Bennett. For the first few hours, I had my doubts. It was touch and go for quite a while. It would have made all the difference in the world if you had brought her in a day or two earlier, but even so we may have caught this thing in time."
Another wave of guilt washed over Bennett. Could he have done more? Should he
have rushed her to the clinic right from the beginning? Erin had begged him not to. She'd insisted she'd be fine. Should he have forced her to see a doctor?
"We have your wife on some aggressive antibiotics right now," the doctor went on. "I feel fairly confident we're going to see her fever come down over the next twenty-four hours, especially as we get her fluid levels back up. We'll know more then, but she will probably be fine, barring some unforeseen complication."
Bennett didn't like what he was hearing. Fairly confident? Probably be fine?
Unforeseen complications? Those were hedges, not ringing votes of confidence.
"But you're sure she's going to be okay?" he pressed.
"I think so," Dr. Kwamee replied. "Almost definitely."
Bennett's stomach tightened. Language like that wasn't helping. "How long until she's
back on her feet?" he asked.
"Assuming all goes well, I'd say the symptoms should last for about seven to ten days,"
Dr. Kwamee explained. "She's going to need a lot of bed rest. A lot of fluids. I'll give her something to manage the headaches and fight off the fever. But I'd say within two weeks she should pull out of this."
Two weeks? Bennett felt a lump forming in his throat. "What's the second issue?"
he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.
"I have to be honest with you, Mr. Bennett," the doctor explained. "Given your wife's medical condition, it's not what I would have suspected." "What?" Bennett asked. "Is it serious?"
"Yes, I'd have to say it is pretty serious," Dr. Kwamee replied. "Just say it," Bennett insisted. "I have a right to know."
"That is true," the doctor said. "You do."
There was another long, unbearable pause, and then the doctor said, "Mr. Bennett, you and your wife are going to be parents."
Bennett froze. What? Had he heard the man right?
"You mean, Erin's . . ."
He was so stunned he couldn't finish the sentence, but Dr. Kwamee nodded anyway.
"She and I . . ."
The doctor nodded again.
"You're sure?" Bennett asked, incredulous.
"Positive," Dr. Kwamee assured him.
"But how? . . . When?"
"The how I'll leave to your own imagination," the doctor laughed. "As for when, sometime next May, it would seem."
Bennett did the math. Eight months. He and Erin were going to have a baby in eight
months. He stared at the man in utter disbelief.
What he wanted to ask was, "Does the world even have eight months?"
What he actually asked was, "What about the meningitis?"
"I'm not sure about that quite yet. I suspect everything will be fine. I have no evidence that your baby won't be completely healthy. But I don't know for certain at the moment.
We're going to have to monitor that, run some more tests. Like I said, I think we caught the problem in time.
But the first trimester of any pregnancy, as I'm sure you are aware, is a very sensitive time, and the fact is we just won't know the impact that your w
ife's illness has had—or is going to have—on the baby for some time." "Are we talking days or weeks?"
"One day at a time, Mr. Bennett," Dr. Kwamee said, looking him straight in the eye.
"But we might not really know for certain until next spring when she delivers."
"Does she know yet?" Bennett asked.
"No, not yet," Dr. Kwamee said. "She's still sleeping."
Bennett took a deep breath. "May I see her?"
"Soon," the doctor replied, glancing at his watch. "Let's give her a few more hours.
She's had a rough night."
Bennett thanked the doctor and then stepped away to collect his thoughts. His hands
suddenly felt cold. His entire body began to shake. A torrent of emotions was forcing its way to the surface, and now a dam burst within him. He backed into a corner and in the
shadows began to sob. He pleaded with God to forgive his lack of faith. He pleaded with Him to forgive his cynicism and fear. And he kept saying thank you, overwhelmed by grace he didn't deserve, favor he didn't merit, blessings he hadn't earned, love he had no idea how to reciprocate.
He felt so deeply unworthy. Why him? Why now? Why had he been blessed with such
an amazing woman of God? Why had they been chosen to serve together; in the eye of the storm, in history's last days? None of it made any sense. It was too much, too fast, and Bennett suddenly found himself petrified at the thought of doing something or thinking
something or saying something that would somehow bring shame and dishonor to the
holy and precious name of Jesus, to the God who had rescued him from the small and
worthless dreams he had once held so dear.
7:09 P.M. MST-NORAD OPERATIONS CENTER
Lieutenant General Charlie Briggs was winding up a very long day.
A three-star with nearly three decades of service defending his country, Briggs had been the commander of NORAD—the North American Aerospace Defense Command—and U.S.
Northern Command—more commonly known as USNORTHCOM—at Peterson Air Force