By Dawn's Early Light Page 4

  Sam lifted his coffee mug and stared at the television. People who couldn’t identify their congressman would know the names of Electra Zane’s four Chihuahuas: Chiquita, Rosita, Perdita, and Joe.

  Sam sipped from his coffee and watched the wind ruffle Blackstone’s thick, wavy hair. Electra stood with her husband today, posed behind him in some sort of gauzy dress that revealed the thin shape of her legs every time the wind freshened.

  Sam set his coffee cup on his desk and frowned as he wiped a smudge away with his fingertip. Compared to Blackstone’s youthful attractiveness, he must look like a tired old man. The voters might not remember his dedication to keeping America out of Adrian Romulus’s hands, but they’d remember the coma that forced him to turn the government over to his gullible vice president. They wouldn’t remember the implementation of the revolutionary national identification system, but they would remember his drawn face and trembling voice in the days following Victoria’s murder. They would not remember—few would even know—that he had kept America safe and strong when Romulus insisted upon a complete military stand down on the so-called International Day of Peace. Some of the more politically astute might recall the Millennium Treaty, in which the United States almost became yoked with the European Union and that infernal Adrian Romulus—

  “America is tired of being big brother to the rest of the world!” Blackstone was saying now. “We have our own problems! We have our own helpless, homeless, and hungry. Let us be true to ourselves before we attempt to shoulder the burdens of the world. Have the responsibilities of world power made us happier? No! We have replaced the idea of self-dependence with the illusion of superpower omnipotence, and that is a dangerous falsehood, my friends. The lesson of Vietnam, of Iraq, of Bosnia, is that we must throw off the cumbersome mantle of world policeman, for we cannot eradicate our enemies. We cannot establish justice throughout the world until we establish it within our own borders. We cannot ensure the world’s domestic tranquillity until we make certain each American family is prosperous and free from worry. We cannot provide for the world’s defense, or promote its general welfare, or secure the blessings of liberty to the world’s posterity until we have done all these things for ourselves.”

  The audience erupted into cheers, the applause lifting in great waves as the camera panned over the sea of faces. The camera lingered a moment upon a prominent television star, then focused upon the tear-streaked face of a California talk-show hostess who wept in heartfelt agreement.

  “He sounds like a selfish brat,” Jack remarked, crossing his arms as he frowned at the television. “We, we, we—it’s not a very compassionate platform, is it?”

  “He’s just responding to the latest polls.” Sam shrugged slightly. “This morning I read that 89 percent of the American people feel our administration has placed too much emphasis on foreign policy.”

  Jack’s mouth curled and rolled like he wanted to spit. “Fools, all 89 percent of them. Isolationism is a pipe dream, and anyone with half a brain knows it. In this day and age, no nation can afford to ignore the rest of the world.”

  “Isolationism is just wishful thinking . . . and I think most people realize that.” Sam smiled, knowing Jack didn’t share the profound but peaceful weariness that had settled on him like a blanket. “If I’d been able to ignore the rest of the world, I’d still have Victoria . . . and Lauren. I miss them both.”

  The grim line of Jack’s mouth softened. “Don’t you hear from Lauren now and then? I thought Prentice kept in touch with you.”

  Sam brought his hand to his temple. “I know she’s well and happy, though they don’t stay long in any one place. And Daniel’s capable; I’d trust him with my life.” He pressed on the side of his head, at the tender spot where the headache usually began. “Daniel doesn’t think he’ll be running much longer.”

  Jack’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “Is he coming back?”

  Sam rubbed his temple and smiled, not knowing how to explain Daniel’s conviction that all Christians would soon leave the earth. In the coming resurrection, Daniel had once explained, the Lord Jesus himself would appear in the clouds and call his followers to heaven. Every single believer, dead or alive, would be instantly given a supernatural body and snatched up, literally disappearing from the face of the earth.

  Victoria had believed in the resurrection of the saints, but she called it the Rapture. So did Charlie Marvin, the young preacher Sam had come to think of as his pastor. And Daniel Prentice, who never believed anything that could not be logically and absolutely proven, believed in the Rapture with a passion. But Jack Powell, who trusted no one, would find the idea ludicrous.

  Sam met Jack’s gaze without flinching. “Prentice is planning an extended trip—and he says he’ll be out of range for a few years. Lauren will go with him.”

  And so would Victoria. And so would Jessica, their daughter. According to Daniel, all of Sam’s loved ones would wait in heaven for seven years, readying themselves for the moment when Jesus Christ would return to earth as the triumphant King, eager to set up his millennial kingdom.

  Sam sighed, his mind thick with fatigue and crowded with memories. As much as he admired Daniel Prentice and loved Victoria, he couldn’t bring himself to embrace their philosophies. Too many people counted on him to be levelheaded, solid, and centered. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by a theological theory, no matter how much the idea of joining his dead wife and daughter appealed to him.

  A light knock sounded on the curved door that led to his secretary’s office, then Francine opened the door and thrust her head through the opening. “Sir, I’ve just received a phone call from Capt. Michael Reed’s office. His secretary says he needs to see you right away. If you agree, I can move your eleven o’clock appointment to tomorrow afternoon.”

  Sam drummed his fingers on the desk as he searched his memory and came up with nothing. “Who in tarnation is Michael Reed?”

  Francine consulted her notepad. “The Middle East section chief at the NSA. His secretary said to tell you that Daniel Prentice would want you to see him.”

  Sam felt a shock run through him as he looked at Jack. Except for Prentice’s mother, no one outside this room knew Daniel still lived.

  “Alert the guards, and have an agent bring Reed in immediately,” Sam said, managing no more than a hoarse whisper.

  After Francine disappeared to make the arrangements, Jack cleared his throat uneasily. “I thought Prentice was officially dead.”

  “So did I.” Sam swiveled his leather chair toward the door, then threw off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew Daniel Prentice kept a watchful eye on Adrian Romulus and other leaders of the European Union, but he had no idea the man had contacts within the NSA. Who was this Michael Reed, and what did he know?

  Sam let out a long sigh, then clasped his hands and looked at Jack. “I want you to stay.” He nodded for emphasis. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I may need your support and analysis.”

  “Mr. President, I’d be delighted.” Jack switched off the television, then crossed his legs and folded his arms, settling back on the sofa to wait.

  Sam leaned back in his chair, then glanced at his watch. He had absolutely no idea what to expect, but if Daniel Prentice really had sent this man . . .

  His uneasiness shifted into a deeper and much more immediate fear. Prentice wouldn’t risk revealing his relationship with the president of the United States unless some critical situation had rendered it absolutely necessary. What had he discovered, and what would it mean for the country?

  Sam picked up his pen and drummed the desk top. Daniel Prentice had a sense for calamity, and Sam had never known him to be wrong.

  CHAPTER SIX

  District of Columbia

  1103 hours

  MICHAEL WALKED SLOWLY TO THE NORTHWEST APPOINTMENT GATE, HIS BRAIN filled with competing thoughts that scraped against each other as his heels ground against the asphalt path. He clutched an envelope marked
with the distinctive diagonal violet stripe of a code-word-secret folder he should have been delivering to his superior at the NSA. In his entire twenty-four-year navy career, he had never read one rule or principle that endorsed the action he was about to take. The navy was a by-the-book operation, and what Michael had in mind was so far removed from the book the chief of naval operations would suffer an apoplectic fit if he knew what one of his captains was about to do.

  Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the bulletproof window of the guard shack, he hesitated for a moment. Not only was he under-authorized, he was underdressed. He wore a blue coat over his regular workday naval uniform, a tan short-sleeved shirt and matching trousers. Not exactly what he would have chosen for a meeting with the president.

  He nodded as one of the marine guards caught his eye. The sentries were better dressed than he was.

  Using the thick window for a mirror, Michael lifted his hat, raked his fingers through his windblown hair, and settled the cover back on his head. If Gloria hadn’t gotten through to the president’s secretary, he’d feel pretty foolish trying to muscle his way into the White House. But Daniel Prentice had made a request, and Michael respected the man enough to make this attempt. He’d know in a moment whether his mysterious e-mail correspondent was a clever hacker or the real McCoy.

  Michael straightened his posture, then approached the security checkpoint and pulled out his military ID. “Captain Michael Reed, NSA,” he said, trying to keep the note of uncertainty from his voice. “I believe I have an appointment with the president.”

  “One minute, sir.” The first marine checked his roster, then stepped into the booth and picked up a telephone. Michael shifted his weight and crossed his arms around the folder, trying to look relaxed under the second sentry’s steely gaze. A pair of pigeons fluttered and cooed from the top of the guard shack, their ambient noise covering the sound of the guard murmuring into the phone.

  A moment later the marine stepped out and gave Michael a bright-eyed glance, full of shrewdness. “An agent is coming to escort you, Captain Reed.”

  “Thank you.” Michael transferred his gaze to the pigeons as he waited. Frank curiosity shone from the guard’s eyes, but Michael knew military discipline would prevent him from asking how an unscheduled and unapproved NSA chief had managed to command an instant audience with the president of the United States.

  A moment later an unsmiling Secret Service agent appeared inside the tall iron bars. He nodded at Michael, unlocked the gate, and led the way over the asphalt path without so much as glancing at Michael’s uniform for any telltale bumps or bulges. Michael shook his head in wonder as he climbed the hill leading to the West Wing of the White House. Daniel Prentice’s name carried more weight than he had realized.

  He passed through the metal detector at another security checkpoint, signed in as an official representative from the NSA, then followed the agent through a warren of tiny offices until he reached Stedman’s secretary’s desk. The woman sitting there—Francine O’Connell, according to her nameplate—sprang up out of her chair like a jack-in-the-box.

  “Captain Reed.” She smiled, a quick curve of thin, pink lips, then stepped toward the door leading into the Oval Office. “The president is expecting you.”

  A cold knot formed in Michael’s stomach as he followed her. What was he doing? He had placed his faith in a single e-mail from an unconfirmed source and was about to interrupt Samuel Stedman’s busy schedule one month before the election. If Stedman didn’t like the news Michael was about to deliver, or, worse yet, if he didn’t care, Michael’s career could be on the line. Stedman could complain to Michael’s superiors, who’d be well within their rights to haul him on the carpet for a major disciplinary action.

  The secretary announced him, then turned silently and disappeared through the doorway through which they’d come. Stedman rose as Michael entered the room, and so did another man sitting on a sofa near the fireplace. Michael barely glanced at the other man, for Stedman commanded his attention.

  “Captain Reed.” The president stepped out from behind his desk and extended his hand, his mouth tipping in a faint smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Taking his cue from the president’s informality, Michael pulled his cover from his head, then accepted the president’s hand instead of saluting. “A very great honor to meet you, sir. I only wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

  The president’s brows knitted in a frown, then he gestured toward the other man. “I don’t know if you’ve met Jack Powell, my chief of staff. I’ve asked him to sit in on this meeting, if you don’t mind.”

  Michael hesitated. “I’m not certain if—”

  The president cut him off with a quieting hand. “Jack knows Daniel Prentice is alive and well. And I trust both men completely.”

  Michael exhaled in relief. “Very good, sir.”

  Stedman gestured to a wing chair next to the sofa. “Won’t you have a seat? Jack and I are very curious about what brings you here today.”

  “It’s very simple,” Michael said, taking the proffered chair, “but I’m stepping out on a limb here, all the same.” He sat down with the others and took a moment to gather his thoughts as he tucked his cover and the classified folder under his arm. “Six months ago, sir, I received an e-mail from Daniel Prentice. I knew him, though only slightly, through Brad Hunter, who served with me in a SEAL platoon. In his message, Daniel asked me to keep my eyes and ears open for any unusual situations in the Middle East. If I noticed anything unusual, he said I should report directly to you.”

  Stedman leaned forward on the sofa, his brows flickering a little. “Has something happened?”

  “Well, unusual is to be expected in a place as volatile as the Middle East, but this morning I discovered something . . . unexpected.” Michael hesitated, glancing at Powell. The chief of staff was a civilian and not a part of the military chain of command.

  Stedman raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance. “Speak freely, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Michael swallowed, then plunged ahead. “This morning we received information from an Echelon outpost in London that led us to believe the Russians are inviting Arab fighters to Russian military bases for training and arms supply. Last month a large group of Arabs from Sudan visited Pushkina, a Russian base not far from Moscow. This month the Russians are training Arab guerillas from Lebanon and Afghanistan.”

  He pulled the classified folder from under his arm and pulled out the photos, then spread them on the coffee table before the sofa. “These are NPIC recon photos, taken this morning, of the deserted PLO camps in Lebanon and Afghanistan. And this—” he tapped the shot of Pushkina— “is the Russian camp. It used to be closed, but you can see that it is quite active now.”

  Staring at the photographs, the president tented his hands and brought his fingertips to his lips, but said nothing.

  Michael rubbed his hands together. “I wish I could tell you that an active Pushkina and deserted Arab camps are a coincidence, but these photos, combined with what we picked up through Echelon, confirm the link. The road to Pushkina looks like a freeway at rush hour—and as you can see, the soldiers in training there are wearing kaffiyehs.”

  Powell groaned, but still the president said nothing. He closed his eyes for a long minute, then lowered his hands and looked at Powell. “I’m going to have to ask you to step outside, Jack. Nothing personal.”

  “I understand, sir.” With a surprised glance at Michael that belied his words, the chief of staff rose and left the room.

  Stedman placed his hand on the polished coffee table, then pushed himself up from the sofa. “Come into my study, Captain Reed,” he said, crossing the thick carpet with a noiseless tread. “That’s where I keep my computer.”

  Michael rose and followed the president through a doorway opposite the one he had entered. A short hallway appeared behind this door; to his right hand he spied a small bathroom, to his left lay a crowded office scarcely
large enough for a desk, a set of bookshelves, and a guest chair. Unlike the stately desk in the Oval office, papers and files cluttered this desk top. A small laptop sat in the corner, an American flag screen saver fluttering across its screen.

  “Now you know my guilty secret—I’m personally disorganized and a pack rat, too,” Stedman said, moving to the battered leather chair that sat like a rock in the midst of a wind-whipped sea. He gestured to the worn chair crowded between the wall and the front of the desk. “Have a seat and make yourself comfortable. This might take a few minutes.”

  Suppressing a smile, Michael took the empty chair. Carefully, he pushed at a pile of papers and cleared a space large enough for him to rest his elbow on the desk while the president tapped at his computer. The screen saver vanished.

  “It’s a secure line,” Stedman called over his shoulder, moving the cursor to launch an e-mail program. “And everything’s encrypted. I don’t understand half of it, but Daniel set it all up for me. If he says it’s safe, I don’t worry.”

  The corners of Michael’s mouth lifted in a bemused smile as the president typed in an e-mail address he recognized: GWJ@prenticetech.com.

  “That’s the same address I used to contact Daniel,” he said. “We tried to trace it but couldn’t.”

  Stedman chuckled. “Of course you couldn’t. If Daniel could outfox Adrian Romulus, I don’t think he’d have any trouble outsmarting you NSA boys.”