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This novel is a fantasy of the future, a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Great effort has been made, especially regarding those individuals who have recognizable positions with government, or publicly known organizations, mentioned herein, to insure they are not mistaken for past or present individuals in those positions. What the future holds, what possible outside influences may be brought to bear on future participants in those organizations, no one can say.

Copyright © 2015 & 2020 Miles A. Maxwell FAB LLC
Owl photo Copyright 2015 John Gray, http://johngray-seacanoe.com
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2015941070

Certain locations
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No Hope

They were going down. There was no way around it.

Every system on the big jet was out — the overhead lights, computer screens, the gauges. Under normal circumstances, Franklin might have asked the man in the pilot’s seat next to him, “How can all these systems go out at once?” And under normal circumstances, busy as Franklin’s older brother was, Everon would have answered — a grunt perhaps, a shouted mumble. Except for one minor detail. The big plane was totally out of Everon’s control, and it was upside down. It was all Franklin could do to hang from his seat belt in the dark and hold onto the infant in his arms, his baby niece Melissa. He was frightened out of his mind.

The engines’ pitch was dropping, yet the wind whistling over the fuselage was rising in pitch and volume, the plane’s nose dropping straight down.

Franklin clutched Melissa to his chest, acid rising in his throat. He wanted to throw up. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! BAM! Screams came from the passenger compartment. The fuselage felt like it was twisting, about to tear itself into pieces that would, in the next few moments, be scattered all over New York State.

CREEEEK!

In a few seconds it will all be over, Franklin thought. Are we high enough that when the jet’s skin ruptures, the sudden lack of oxygen will knock us out? Or once the plane disintegrates, will it be simply the terror of falling through cold space that kills us?

CLUNK! “What was that?” Franklin shouted.

I Always Liked Him

The CLUNK made the fuselage vibrate. “Aux power unit?” Everon grunted, more surprised question than answer.

A moment later scattered lights blinked on across the control panel. Franklin could make out Everon’s hands in a death grip, fighting the white yoke. Everon twisted the yoke hard right, and Franklin felt his head roll to his left shoulder, his body sway — as his brother’s hand shot out to punch buttons, flip levers on the panel.

Another soft noise joined the whistling wind. A whining, behind and to the right. Everon flipped more switches. A similar noise grew from the left. “Go . . .” he urged, “GO!”

The whine grew louder and, in the moment Franklin recognized it for what it was, two things happened, more wonderful than he could imagine. Dim lights came on around the cockpit — and the windshield went from black, to being splattered with bright points of light. Stars. Overhead there were stars!

The wind-sound dropped away. A dim cloud-filled horizon righted below them. The turbulence dissipated. Franklin felt pressure from the seat on the backs of his legs, the weight of Melissa in his arms. They were on top of an ocean of moonlit cotton, flying between mountains of white.

He leaned forward and looked through the right side window. There was no black gunk on the wing, it was gone. The wing was clean. He found the radiation meter wedged behind his seat and moved its probe around the ceiling . . . the walls, the windshield.

“How is it, Bro?” Everon asked.

“A trace. That’s all.”

“You know what that was?” Everon said, not really a question.

Franklin waited, gently jiggling Melissa to calm her crying.

“There’s only one answer, another bomb. It had to be. I wonder where. Close enough to affect us, not close enough to do permanent damage.”

Franklin floated between worry, sadness, anger. “How is this happening?” he asked softly. Then louder, “Is the plane okay?”

“I don’t know. The few systems I’m using appear functional. We’ll find out about the rest when we get to the Valley.”

Franklin watched the plane’s lights play over Everon’s tired face. They’d both gone hours without sleep. Hopefully the autopilot was working and could do most of the flying.

Franklin’s eyes dropped to Melissa. He smoothed a hand over her fair hair so much like Cynthia’s, soothing her, then checked on Harry shaking softly on the floor and scooped the owl back into his soup box. A feather fell from his right wing.

People were sobbing in the back of the jet. “Okay to go back there?” he asked Everon.

“Go ahead. We should be stable for now, but don’t be too long out of your seat.”

Franklin released his seat belt and, carrying Melissa, stepped around Harry.

The passengers were pretty shaken up. Several had red seatbelt marks on their necks. Some were rubbing their stomachs. There were no obvious broken bones.

Franklin knelt along the seats, letting his voice drop around each person like a salve, first mirroring their nervous discomfort, then bringing them out of the shock they were feeling.

“You — You’re — You okay?” he suggested.

“I — I think so.”

He nodded and moved on.

“Is the plane okay?”

“We think it is. You’re all right? Beginning to . . . feel easier, now?” Tranquilizing the fast-beating heart, soothing the adults, pacifying the children. Some took only a few moments, others, longer before they were calm.

Back past the jet’s pantry, in the luggage compartment tied to the floor, was the black bag that held his sister and brother-and-law’s bodies. Franklin moved closer and knelt down. He wished he could just unzip it and say, “Cynthia! Wake up!” like she’d done for him on so many birthday and Christmas mornings. He thought of Cynthia and Steve, holding each other in their final moment, wrapped in his wedding gift, the charred Aztec blanket.

He gulped down a swallow of air, holding Melissa a little tighter. He stood and closed the luggage door. He didn’t want to say the words he would have to say to Everon. It wasn’t going to be a very pleasant ride back to Nevada.

“What was that we went through?” Someone asked as he returned to the front.

“We don’t know,” Franklin answered softly, moving forward.

“That had to be another bomb,” one of the men behind him said.

“Where do you think it went off?” a woman’s voice called out, “Boston? Washington? There’s no point sending another one to New York.”

Her only answer was the engines’ whine.

Franklin buckled his seat belt.

“This better not be like all the other damn things the government never figures out,” Everon spat. “Then again, how can they, unless someone comes right out and takes credit for it?”

“I hope Chuck’s okay,” Franklin said, dodging the inevitable.

“At least he’s inside the hospital. Higher ground,” Everon said, adjusting one of the jet’s controls.

Franklin remembered Cynthia’s face, her last words. He looked at his brother. “Uh —” He felt the pain rise up in his chest, behind his eyes, flowing through his wrists. “Cynthia was alive when I got to her.”

“What!” Everon shouted. “Wasn’t there anything —?”

“I tried,” Franklin whispered.

“Couldn’t you —”

“Jesus Christ!” Franklin said, shocking himself. Never in the last six years had he taken the Lord’s name in vain. “Her throat — there was a death rattle!”

Everon stared miserably out the jet’s front window.

“She told me Steve died an hour before I got there.” Franklin felt tears welling up. “Her last words were ‘I’ve had better nights out in New York.’ Then, ‘The cab . . .’ She was trying to tell me. That, and spotting Harry next to the file cabinet were how I found Melissa.”

He waited for Everon to scream something about the time they’d wasted in the subway, the extra time they’d taken on the bridge. But it didn’t come.

For the rest of Franklin’s life, today would come back as three days in one — pulling those people from the subway, freeing the thousands trapped on the upper deck of the GW Bridge, and finally, Cynthia dying in his arms and finding Melissa. It was the kind of day he hoped he would never have to live again. Unfortunately, his desires would not dictate his future. Today, he would come to know, was just the beginning of the pain to be borne by himself and many others. Who, Franklin wondered, could have done this to us?

“Steve —” Everon said. “I always liked him.”

Then there was only silence, but for the whisper of the engines as they headed west.

The Wave

As Norse Wind continued south, steady at eighteen knots, Pang Zhou returned to his engineer’s room to find the bunk vacant.

Good, he nodded to himself, Engineering Laboratory. Below the grim, thin-lipped smile, short dark hairs stood straight out, middle of the giant’s chin. Pang Zhou had no eyebrows, and his dead, wrinkleless, tiny coal-black eyes glanced into the bucket filled with red and green slop. There was half as much again on the floor. He shrugged and walked directly through it. He would check on the man’s progress. Sick or not, he’d given him ten minutes to get back to work on the third device.

But on Deck Two, except for tools and the disassembled long cylindrical cores of two more nuclear bombs, the lab was empty. Nothing had changed. No progress on the third device had been made.

Zhou considered the bloody vomit he’d seen on the cabin floor. Perhaps — Zhou went to check the head.

But the engineer was not in the bathroom either.

Zhou looked in the ship’s mess. The satellite television was, for the moment, working. But no engineer.

Several of Zhou’s crew were glued to the screen, changing between the three channels the ship could receive.

There was only one thing to watch: New York City.

Those of the crew without urgent duties sat far away from the Evil One as he fingered the bright hook-knife stuffed into the belt around his waist. Zhou seemed buoyed by the coverage though. Several times, when a particularly destructive scene flashed upon the screen, the briefest smile flickered across his face. Each time the men relaxed a little more. And why not? Their mission was a tremendous success. Relieved, almost happy, plates piled high with fish and potatoes. Soon there would be more. Much more.

Until a piercing scream filled the air: “TING!”

The Evil One stood in the middle of the room, legs rigid, face flushed red, arms lowered, fists clenched in rage, staring at the huge speckled head filling the television screen.

The head was not human, and every man present knew it well. The dark-patterned right eye. The long brown streaks upon the feathers. It was the head of the Evil One’s sacred fish owl, Ting.

The men struggled to beat each other out the door.

Zhou’s knife flashed. Conspirators all, he thought. It was them — had cost him his spirit guide!

In less than a minute three of his crew lay dead on the floor. And Zhou stood alone, making little slicing motions with the knife.

But as the television camera pulled back, Zhou froze. Still more shocking was the tall dark-haired man with the cobalt-blue eyes exiting the helicopter — an infant in his arms, Ting’s head protruding from the middle of his white button-down shirt.

“Who is he?” Zhou whispered.

As if in answer a caption appeared below the man’s chest:

Zhou responded softly: “A man who will soon be dead!”

Pang Zhou swallowed down his pain and left the ship’s mess to look for his missing engineer. The man must require some tool found only in the engine room. Head bowed, he was pulled from his reverie in the hallway, where a frightened crewman ran up and halted just out of reach.

“A lifeboat is missing!” the man said fearfully.

Zhou squinted back. The man ran away. A single-minded rage poured through Zhou. He knew. The engineer!

He took stairs up to the bridge two at a time. Grabbed up a pair of binoculars. Scanned the horizon.

An empty sea? He should have checked on the engineer sooner. It had been more than an hour. “Radar!” he rasped out. He will likely be dead by the time we find him.

But no one answered. An all-encompassing quiet seemed to fill the ship. Zhou could feel the engines, but there was no clang of closing hatches. No voice called out. Something was wrong.

He looked over to find his bridge crew of three kneeling on the deck. They eyed him with disdain, no longer concerned with what he might do. Unafraid of him, speaking in that filthy tongue. Arabic.

They were praying.

The Norse Wind bridge offered a 360-degree view around the ship. Zhou scanned the gently rolling sea ahead.

Nothing.

What is it? What has happened? It is as if they sense their imminent doom!

As he turned back to the men, his eyes were pulled to the rear bridge windows. There, way back behind the ship’s stern. Big and dark and overwhelming. Huge, monstrous, moving at terrifying speed. A black wall that would take the ship.

In a moment the wave was upon them.

The bow dropped catastrophically. They were going under.

All due to his loss of Ting.

In his tiny lifeboat, Zhou’s engineer froze at the sight of the black wall of water coming for him. There was no chance. Nothing could save him. And worse yet, Ahmad Hashim knew absolutely, for the thing he had done, his heinous crime against humanity, he deserved to die.

Yet, rare is the organism that can find nothing to live for. Self-preservation always takes over. Ahmad thought of what was coming to the people of America. He thought of his hatred for Zhou, the Evil One. He thought somehow he must live. To try to give warning to Zhou’s next victims. Perhaps achieve some tiny modicum of redemption.

He ducked beneath the tarp. Hurried its cord back under the rim hooks. Knotted the cord tight as he could pull it. Wedged his legs beneath the seat ahead.

And hung on.

Evening Arrival Home

“There!” Franklin pointed out the cockpit window.

“I’ve got it,” Everon nodded from the controls. He dropped the jet’s nose ten degrees and rapidly clicked the mic button on his yoke seven times. Two long rows of runway lights burst the darkness.

The two brothers looked nothing alike and were in fact not even directly related. Nine years older, Everon’s green eyes and wavy blond hair lent him the look of a well-groomed surfer. A bit heavier built than Franklin, he was by no means stocky. A strand of Franklin’s long dark hair fell over the baby against his shoulder.

His niece’s eyes were closed. Calm. Peaceful. Asleep. How could I have found Melissa and Harry so close together, he asked himself. One apparently sick — the other unaffected?

It was Harry, the owl Franklin had rescued, that softly voiced the question in all their minds: “Hup-hup-hup-hup-Whoooo!” Who has done this to us? The owl, shaking in his cardboard soup box on the floor. Short trails of brown color streaked down the fluffy white of Harry’s chest.

Franklin frowned at the shaking bird. Is it radiation? Two million. How many more will die? How many of the refugees and hospital workers we left behind in that black rain at Teterboro?

Franklin and Everon had seen through the smoke and flame for themselves. Two million souls lost. The number being passed around. A giant’s hand had pushed flat the buildings of Lower Manhattan — Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island hadn’t fared much better. Worse, probably. Not so tall. Less resistance.

But of the two million dead, Franklin only really cared about two. In the dim cabin lights, his cobalt-blue eyes moved to the rear cabin door.

The big jet’s engines slowed. In the moonlight out the right side windows, red cliffs appeared. “Tell them to buckle up,” Everon said.

I doubt any of them ever unbuckled, Franklin thought, rising from his seat. He only recalled one or two of them using the bathroom the whole way out.

Most of the survivors in the plane’s passenger compartment had been crying. A woman had her head on a man’s shoulder. There were tracks down her face but her eyes were dry. The four-hour flight west had tired most of them. A child’s eyes stared forward into nothing.

He had them check their belts then quickly returned to his own seat next to Everon.

Off the end of the runway more lights glowed around a wide single-story ranch house. Standing bent as ancient palace guards along a quarter-mile drive, spotlights highlighted two long rows of trees — the hanging branches of wide wind-blown willows, interspersed by tall eucalyptus. Car and truck lights moving way over the speed limit ran past the drive’s entrance where it bisected the two-lane Route 160, the road between Las Vegas and Pahrump.

On the opposite side of the airstrip sat a brick and metal industrial building, its flat roof projecting here and there. The building had been added on to a dozen times. In the broad space beyond the building, hundreds of slanted objects reflected Nevada moonlight. Solar panels. Nearby, a dozen huge wind turbines turned slowly in the evening air.

Franklin watched his brother turn at the far end of the strip, leaving extra room for the dark cliffs he knew were off the right wing. He could feel Everon crabbing the jet against the wind.

Everon straightened the wings and put the big jet down smoothly on the runway. They slowed. Rolled to a halt. Fifty feet behind the white ranch house.

Before Everon’s hand had left the throttle, Franklin stood, Melissa in his arms. It would be the first time their grandmother had seen her great-granddaughter. Cynthia and Steven had planned to make it out here soon. This was the worst possible way it could have happened.

Franklin said, “I’ll go talk to Del.”

Revenge

Norse Wind’s bow sliced beneath the surface. On the ship’s bridge black water smashed out every window. As the dark liquid rushed in, the men drowned.

Less than eighty feet of stern was still above the surface when the big ship slowed . . . and halted. Propeller spinning high in the empty air, the massive tail hung suspended.

And the wave pushed on.

Gradually, slowly, as if being driven in reverse, Norse Wind backed out of the water. Higher . . . higher, until far overbalanced, her keel rotated . . . and slammed down with a tremendous SPLASH!

Water drained from the wheelhouse. Three corpses, the ship’s bridge crew, lay scattered on the deck. Everyone on the bridge had drowned — with one exception:

Struggling to his feet, Pang Zhou thundered, “TING!”

He knew something had gone wrong. No wave of such magnitude should have escaped the harbor where the second bomb was supposed to detonate. Some error in programming, the fish must have detonated short. Without Ting he had failed to take down the White City.

Face contorted in anger, Zhou shouted violently, “The dark-haired man will pay!”

With a deep and shuddering breath screamed again: “T-I-I-I-I-ING . . . !”

Minutes after the giant wave sailed through, the dark sea flattened. Gentle rollers, but for a trail of bubbles in the moonlight.

With the BOOF! of a torpedo launch, and a splash, a small white tarpaulin-covered lifeboat broke the ocean’s surface.

Water drained away. On one end the tarp loosened, folded back. A man raised his head.

Ahmad Hashim was doubtful Allah would ever forgive him. But he would tell his story.

To anyone who would listen.

Del Meets Melissa

On the back porch of the white ranch house stood a very old dame elegánt. Though her shoulders had taken on a slight hunch, her short hair gone gray, her face more than a few wrinkles — any eye could see she’d once been a beautiful woman. She was still beautiful in her way.

She hurried out to meet Franklin.

“You’re here,” she sighed with relief. “You’re okay.” She put an arm around him, looking down to smile at Melissa. “Oh, she’s beautiful.”

Del watched the people coming up the walkway toward them. “Who are they?”

“We picked them up at the airport, just over the river in New Jersey,” Franklin explained.

She frowned, looking suddenly back at the big jet. Everon was still highlighted in the cockpit’s window. Adults and children were following Franklin along the narrow asphalt walkway to the house. None of them looked familiar to her.

“Where’s Cynthia? Where’s Steve?” she asked, her face a mixture of worry and confusion.

Franklin shook his head, mouth grim. Warm tears formed along his lower eyelids.

“What? What!” He stood there as she gripped his leather jacket, shaking him violently, head turning back and forth, eyes closed in denial.

The old woman fell against him, her arms around him, head pressed against his soiled white shirt. Her pain began to overtake him. He fought against its pull.

“I’m so sorry, Grandmother. They were both taken by the blast.”

Two million, he thought. Only a number. Meaningless until it’s someone you care about. “Everon and I found them. We brought their bodies back. We thought Steve would want to be laid down here too. They’re inside the plane.”

She was shaking, her old fingers clutching his shoulders, her grip softening until he could only feel her shudder and sob. Like the wind had gone out of her. The pain in her face when she let go. She suddenly had never looked so old. Without a word, before she could react, he handed her Melissa and led the way inside.

Failure Mode

It was twenty-five hours since detonation of the first nuclear attack on U.S. soil. In the cavernous basement Operations Room, completely sealed against outside listening devices, operatives ran frantic around desks and dividers. Echoes of swear words bounced across the broad space — half the time phones didn’t work — trying to pump sources for information, staring into computer screens, pounding keyboards, sorting through emails and old intelligence reports. If 9/11 had been their most colossal failure, this was the total destruction of their universe. A sense of vulnerability, of standing naked to a world of unstoppable bombs and unleashed terror which held them now.

The highly-efficient spy organization was in disaster mode.

Massive power and communications failures up and down the Eastern Seaboard, bumper-to-bumper traffic, had made The Agency slow to react. Slow to make their way through snowy surface streets into headquarters. Slow to gather data. But the elephant had rumbled to its feet, its unstoppable mass gathering speed. Central was the first word in The Agency’s title for a reason.

If you focused only on the United States, connections were obscured. Homeland Security had actually been created to confuse the public. For the world as a whole — the U.S. as one of many — The Agency was the center. FBI, NSA — truth was, CIA still ran them all. Always has. Always will.

The huge glass-enclosed conference chamber took up the Op Room’s center. All deputy, associate and assistant directors, and their senior staffs, were gathered around a hundred feet of sparkling glass table.

“How did we fail to see this coming?” Director William Sloat glared from one end. “Goddamn it, where exactly were they centered?” Grayish mottled skin in his flappy old suit, Sloat, it was often remarked, looked quite similar to a very fat toad, an opinion never verbalized inside. Electronic ears were everywhere.

Sloat’s body remained stationary. His head pivoted to the Deputy Director. But the DD remained silent. The Assistant Deputy of Digital Innovation answered instead. “New York Harbor — just off Wall Street.”

The back wall opaqued — white. An image appeared.

“This is the latest flyover, sir.” Infrared digital from seventeen minutes ago. Fifteen thousand feet.”

The color spectrum was unnaturally dominated by reds, oranges, yellows. Darkest red at screen’s bottom in what looked like a hole cut halfway into a ragged shoreline.

“Notice what used to be the Manhattan Financial District — the deep crater here in the right corner. This color deviation corresponds to an estimated 450 kilotons.”

Intakes of breath hissed across the chamber.

A similar colored map appeared on the right, this one of the Virginia-Maryland coast. Another darkened hole had been cut into the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.

“The dark red there is where the Bridge-Tunnel used to be,” said the Associate Deputy Director of Operations. “Norfolk and Virginia Beach on the left. We suspect that whatever the device was, it missed the bridge and hit one of the tunnel islands, that it was designed to continue up the bay to Washington.”

“Shit! There’s nothing there!”

“Goddamn!”

“What do we know about these devices?” Sloat demanded.

“The size seems to dictate Russia,” replied the Assistant Director of Analysis. “Devices of Russian origin. But analysis of the nuclear residue actually points to a reactor outside Rawalpindi.”

“Pakistan?” Sloat frowned, “They’ve never had bombs this big.”

“No, sir, they haven’t.”

“In the next twelve hours, I want to know where the fuck,” Sloat croaked, “Pakistan got atomic bombs this big, how the fuck they got them into New York Harbor and the Chesapeake Bay. And how many more of these fuckers are on the way!”

No one said anything.

“Move!”

The room broke up quickly. Chairs scuffling, the sound of ruffling pages, someone’s cough.

Sloat scanned their faces, looking for one in particular. “Where the hell is Greg Claus?” he called out.

“Uh, on special assignment,” answered the Deputy Director, speaking for the first time. “In Saudi Arabia.”

Golden Tablet Of The Glorious Qur’an

The burning afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on Imran’s pudgy body. His small sandaled feet were sore and blistered. Like the thousands of pilgrims in the ribbon of white that surrounded him.

Each year, the season during which was held the great journey each Muslim must make once in a lifetime — the Hajj — changed by about a week. If the Hajj took place in fall, a few years later it would happen in summer. Eventually it would shift to spring. Why Allah saw fit to move a month around the way he did year after year, Imran would never know.

Though this year’s Hajj took place in winter, it was still hot as hell. Despite the white garments they wore, sweat dripped down his neck. He shook his head.

Why ever did I agree to walk?

Already the five-day journey seemed like ten. Imran still couldn’t understand how he and Mustapha had let Nasir persuade them to go on foot while thousands in buses passed them by.

Imran’s mind drifted to the delicious handfuls of camel meat he would stuff into his mouth at the End-of-Hajj celebration tonight. He grinned to liven the ponderous mood, “Baby camel tonight, my friends! One hump or two?”

Slim and goofy, Imran’s friend Mustapha laughed along infectiously, always ready to join in one of Imran’s jokes, or to tell one of his own.

Dark and brooding, their third friend, Nasir, only grimaced. “You would do better to set your minds on Allah,” he admonished them both. Privately, Imran admitted he would be glad to be done with the entire boring journey.

Twelve long and tiring miles out to the Plain of Arafat — to stare at the tall white obelisk upon the Mountain of Mercy. What excitement — not! Then back to camp on the ground at Muzdalifah. Not exactly a fun-filled location. Scorpions, snakes, camel spiders? Who knows what else?

Three more days of throwing stones at what — Satan? At least when they’d been stone pillars — before the Saudi king had them turned into wide walls for the masses — it would have been possible to imagine them as devils. But how can a wall be like a devil?

Now, finally, they were nearing the end. In a few hours they would arrive once more at the Grand Mosque and walk seven times counterclockwise around the Ka’aba; try to touch Abraham’s shiny black stone. At least something to brag about, anyway, when they got back home to London.

As Imran and his friends walked along the densely crowded road’s west edge, voices were growing louder. People were excited. He heard the word “qunbala!” — bomb — several times. “Infijul!” — Explosion! “Mufajjir?” — Suicide bomber? — others asked.

“What’s going on?” Imran asked two men walking on their right.

“The Americans! Someone has bombed New York City! An atom bomb!”

“It is a sign. The Great Satan brought low!” the man’s friend shouted.

“Even more to celebrate tonight, eh Nasir?” Mustapha suggested.

“Na’am — yes!” agreed Nasir, smiling for the first time in days. “A gift from Allah!”

“Imran?” Mustapha asked.

But Imran’s attention had been diverted elsewhere.

From the sand fifty yards left, a blinding glint of desert sun flashed into Imran’s eyes. What is that? he squinted. It stopped and then — there! flashed again.

Imran glanced at the faces of his friends. Did Mustapha see it? Nasir? They looked blankly back at him. No.

Imran turned to his left again, caught the flash a third time and detoured out onto the sand for a closer look.

“Where are you going?” Mustapha called.

A moment later Mustapha was next to him, passing on his right to arrive at the object first.

At the spot of reflection, Mustapha fell immediately to his knees and began digging. Imran knelt down next to him and scooped handfuls of hot sand away from the object too.

Nasir was last to arrive. He did no digging but simply stood above, watching.

Rapidly a bright corner became the top of a large object buried in the sand — faintly carved with symbols.

“Gold!” Mustapha exclaimed.

“I know!” Imran added. “Dig!”

Nasir frowned and said nothing.

As the hole around the object grew, it became clear the flat metal tablet was quite large.

Mustapha grabbed the top and pulled back and forth trying to break it free of the sand. Imran continued digging. Slowly it worked loose.

With a tremendous tug, Mustapha tore it from the sand. He moved the plate’s bottom edge tightly against his stomach. “Heavy!” he said. “It must weigh twenty-five mahnd — fifty pounds!”

“I was first to see it,” Imran said. “Allah has given it to me.”

“I reached it first,” Mustapha cried.

The two men began to wrestle. The heavy tablet pulled the men back down to the sand.

“Shame upon you both!” Nasir yelled severely. “Look where you are! On Hajj, nearing the holy city! First the bomb in New York, now this golden tablet? This gift is from Allah to all of Al-Islam!”

“Yes!” shouted voices around them. “To Al-Islam!”

Imran and Mustapha stopped pulling against each other and looked up. A crowd of more than fifty had circled around them.

A sudden forceful wind rose up, surrounding them all, silencing every voice. The wind increased, blowing, whirling, wiping the tablet’s deep letters clear of sand and dirt, until, as the wind died off, the golden tablet gleamed bright like the day it was carved by some ancient hand.

“Look!” Nasir said in a hushed voice, pointing to the symbols on its surface. “These are as the words of the Prophet! It must be taken to Mecca and turned over to someone at the Mosque,” he stated flatly.

More voices joined in murmured agreement.

Imran and Mustapha looked at each other, nodded, then joined together in gently lifting its sides, holding the heavy tablet aloft.

“For Al-Islam!” they said together.

A cheer from the crowd went up.

Together Imran, Mustapha and Nasir looked upon the words, their eyes found each other’s and they smiled.

Two hundred yards south, tire tracks trailed into the desert. A mile farther, the tracks stopped where a short man with fair, razor-cut hair and a thick bulldog neck watched through a pair of high-powered binoculars from the top of a small hill. The man smiled. About time! “The rest is up to Al-lah!” he said softly, sarcastically.

He climbed aboard his Hummer and drove away.

Twelve Tired Refugees

Del carried Melissa back to the house. Her great-grandmother’s presence seemed to soothe and settle the child — easily as well as Harry’s had. Del pulled the blanket away from Melissa’s face. “She’s so beautiful!” Del cried, not to anyone in particular, Del’s face still dark. “At least she’s okay. And you two boys.”

Franklin could see she was fighting a total breakdown.

“I suppose I can rustle up something for these people to eat,” Del told him as they reached the back door. “Sandwiches or something.”

Voices drifted from the kitchen:

“A blast from outer space!”

“I see,” someone answered.

“White supremacists did it. The second one was supposed to be Washington — but the capital’s too well guarded. They still took out all the Jews in New York.”

“Uh-huh. Thank you, sir.”

“Technically it’s a miss. Except for a few power outages, Washington is pretty much undamaged.”

“A miss? You call it a miss? Over half a million more dead? Norfolk and Virginia Beach completely destroyed?”

“People, there’s never been anything like this in the U.S. The government estimates three million dead in the greater New York City and Norfolk areas. Black rain in New Jersey. Radiation poisoning, starvation, freezing temperatures — medicine shortages will easily double that number.”

The voice of the radio host vacillated between outrage and sadness. “What are you listening to?” Franklin asked.

“Nothing —” Del looked at the radio. “Oh that —” She turned it down. “He’s that local nutcase. National broadcast from over in Pahrump out of his house.” Her voice was hoarse. “You know — that slogan, The Strange and the Unusual. Takes calls from all over the U.S. I listen to him in the evenings sometimes.” She wiped her right eye.

Del frowned, her eyes dropping to Melissa. “I can’t stand the things those TV news people say. He doesn’t know what’s going on either but at least he admits it. Real story gets out just as soon anyway.” She shook her head. “You have to give him credit though. He balances out what they say with his own comments. Some of them that call in make him sound sane.”

“And us sane for listening to it,” Franklin muttered.

People from the jet drifted in cautiously through the kitchen’s back door. A slim, dark-haired man had his arm around a middle-aged woman with auburn hair. They introduced themselves to Del. “Thanks for having us here.” He nodded toward the wall phone mounted above the counter. “Mind if I call our relatives in Henderson? They should be able pick us up.”

“Go ahead, but it’s been cutting out since yesterday,” Del said as she carried Melissa from the room.”

Franklin opened a door on the far side of the kitchen. “One bathroom through here. Another that way,” he pointed.

“Thank you,” the first woman said and closed the bathroom door behind her. Another woman hurried down the hall.

Del returned with Melissa and a large shiny maroon pillow. She pushed it back on the counter, then set Melissa on top.

The shrill voice of a radio caller said:

“The Martian guy wasn’t too far off, except it’s a hoax, like that radio show back in the fifties about the Martians landing — all for ratings! That’s —”

“Thank you for the call, sir.”

The host took a series of bizarre callers rapid-fire, one after another:

“It was done by the Chinese.”

“Afghans.”

“Could be some disgruntled nuclear employees, couldn’t it?”

“The Russians did it. Who else has nuclear bombs?”

“Armageddon begins! The ultimate act of Jehovah!”

“I’m telling you, it’s the Israelis — they just want to make us hate the Arabs more.”

A voice warbled nervously compared to some of the others; one of the talk host’s few female callers:

“What about that new short-term disaster tax they’re talking about, to pay for cleaning up New York? This whole thing might have been caused by the government — just to get more money out of us!”

The host disconnected her.

“All right. Thank you for your call, madam, but that sort of thing is really not appropriate. We’ll be right back after we pay a few bills and check in with the national news update.”

Franklin reached for the OFF switch.

“Leave it, boy!” Del grabbed his wrist. “I need to hear.” She sighed and let go of him. “Turn it down a little if you want.”

With a forefinger, Franklin rolled the knob backward until the voices were barely audible, watching his grandmother’s face until he saw a twinge of pain, then increased it just a little.

Knowing Cynthia is gone, hearing about the place she used to live is maintaining a kind of connection for her. Odd, she hasn’t expressed any desire to hear about it from us. He didn’t understand. She hasn’t even asked to see their bodies.

The Mormon Plates

What a crazy couple of days, Neil Bandish thought as he locked the door behind him. The property was closed and he had the run of the place. Who’d’ve thought? He’d actually felt the ground shake yesterday at the time the gift shop radio said the bomb went off down in New York City. Thank God I don’t know anybody in that modern-day Gomorrah!

The power was still out. He hoped the shop would reopen in the morning. He gazed upward. Clear night sky. Bright stars. A full moon had risen over his shoulder.

The several-mile trip home began on a concrete walkway, up a long set of white concrete stairs, past the golden statue of Angel Moroni. Neil usually worked late Mondays, doing weekly inventory for the Palmyra, New York, gift shop. Because of the bomb, they’d told him he could go home early. So he came in today to catch up. Just as well. He’d had nothing better to do. No wife, no girlfriend — his time walking at night was the high point of his week. The welcome rest allowed time to be by himself, just to think, maybe pray a little.

Neil yawned comfortably as he crested the top of Hill Cumorah and started down to his favorite spot on the back side. He liked to stand there a few moments before continuing on home. It should be particularly beautiful in the snow and moonlight —

He froze, teetering on the edge of a cliff that hadn’t been there last night.

Neil pulled out the tiny pocket flashlight on his key ring and examined the earth around the drop-off. It was a clean cut that appeared to go down quite a ways, as if the earth had been split from within.

What would cause the ground to do this? he wondered. Shock waves? That explosion — all the way over in New York City?

Neil swept his light around the edge. He wished it were brighter. He realized he was looking at an optical illusion partly created by darkness and shadow. The rip began only about five feet deep, but at the end he thought he could make out the opening of a tunnel, descending into Hill Cumorah.

He tried to see farther inside. The moonlight didn’t penetrate. His pocket light wasn’t strong enough.

He looked down at his overcoat, his blue suit, white shirt, his polished shoes. I can take a look tomorrow when I can see better. Then Neil noticed three small indentations descending like handholds along the dirt wall.

He put the light in his mouth, crouched down on the side of the cliff and swung his left leg over. The snow-covered grass was slippery, tougher to grip than he expected. He felt a foot around the wall until he found the first indentation, then the next.

As he reached out his toe for the third, his forearms leaned across the edge, frozen dry grass against his fingertips. He was slipping. His foot found a flat surface. He played the faint beam around his feet. Stairs?

He peered into the gloom. The bottom was difficult to make out. A musty smell permeated the air. He took the steps slowly downward, counting each one without meaning to . . . nineteen . . . twenty . . .

They stopped at a smooth dirt floor. The flat hardpacked earth moved off into what looked like a tunnel framed by square wood head and side beams. He put his left hand on one and shined the light along the rough surface, nervously frowning in concentration. These look really old! His heart was racing.

He had to duck to get his six-foot frame beneath the first one. He edged farther inside and turned his light toward the tunnel’s end, suddenly realizing he was in a long room.

Neil knew the history of this hill. It was the reason he worked here, the reason he had gone on a mission to Argentina three years earlier. The reason for the existence of his entire faith. The Book of Mormon was translated from plates loaned to the Prophet Joseph Smith by Angel Moroni in 1827, those same ancient plates secreted somewhere on the property.

Forty yards farther on, his beam froze on what looked like a squared-off pile of loose stones. He played his dim light around its sides, slapped the penlight against his palm, trying to get more out of it.

No, they aren’t random at all, he realized. The stones make up a crudely constructed chest of sorts. Irregular, slightly larger than house bricks, held together by crumbling mortar, all topped by this large, flat, slightly curved stone. It looks heavy — four inches thick, maybe. A foot and half back by two feet wide. The body of the chest seemed to spring from the earth floor that was tightly sealed around its base.

There was nothing else, just dry earthen walls, an earth floor, the beamed ceiling. And this crude chest.

He knelt down and ran his hands across the rough, curved top, around the sides of its sharp lip. Perhaps he should wait. Find one of the museum’s proctors — the local stake president? But his thumbs ignored his inner voice and he pushed against the front sides of the top-stone.

Stuck! Heavier than he expected.

He tried his palms against it. The stone’s cold sharp edge dug into his skin. He pushed harder. With a faint grinding, the right side slid backward about an inch.

He still couldn’t see in!

This time, ignoring the fierce cutting pressure in his hands, Neil put his shoulders into it. And the stone reluctantly gave way. Another inch, another . . . heart thumping in his ears, he played the tiny light down inside.

Eyes large, the glint of gold shined back at him. The corner of a flat, gold plate, engraved with symbols in a language he’d never seen before.

The Feeling

More of the refugees drifted in and introduced themselves. A grizzled old Mexican followed them through the back door wearing a happy smile. He was maybe ten years junior to Del. He had short white hair and a stocky build.

“Good to see you here, Señor Franklin. Y tú hermano y hermana? Everon? Cynthía? They are at the factory?”

“Hi, Mano. Everon is outside. He’ll be in, in a few minutes.”

“And Cynthía?”

Franklin looked at Mano uncomfortably. “Cynthia died in New York.”

“No!” The old man’s face crumpled. “Not Cynthi?”

“We brought her body home to be buried,” Franklin said.

Mano’s fierce eyes began to water. His gaze dropped. “Y Estéban?”

“Yes, Steve too. We’ll go into town tomorrow and purchase something to bury them in —”

“No!” Mano said. “I do it. I make two —”

“One coffin,” Franklin interrupted softly.

“One, Meester Frank? One?”

“You’ll see.” Franklin whispered, moving closer to Mano. “Physically separating them would not be the best idea. They’re out in the jet. Everon could use your help bringing them in.”

In Franklin’s peripheral vision Del’s nostrils flared, mouth open as she spread mayonnaise on a piece of bread. Through the back windows he let his eyes follow Mano’s hunched shoulders.

Everon and the Mexican loaded the fat black body bag onto a makeshift stretcher — poles wrapped with a blanket, it looked like. Taking Cynthia and Steve out of that rubberized bag wouldn’t be wise after so long on the jet. They have to bring their bodies somewhere cool for the night and safe from coyotes.

A minute later he knew where they were going. They’re taking Cynthia and Steve to the workshop.

Franklin kept one eye on his grandmother. Del looked seconds from bolting out the door. Yet she remained focused on the same piece of bread she coated three times before moving to another.

Franklin knew his grandmother. She’s going to wait ’til we’re all asleep. Then go look at them.

Everon carried Harry’s soup box into the house.

“Hello, boy,” Del said darkly, throwing an arm around his shoulder. She jerked back. “What the hell’s that?” she nodded into the box.

“It’s your great-granddaughter’s pet bird, I guess. Whenever she’s away from it she goes into a kind of frenzy.”

Del looked down at Melissa who smiled back. “Haven’t seen any frenzy out of her so far, boy.” There were tears in Del’s eyes.

“There was a second bomb,” Franklin said. “Virginia Beach. And Norfolk. That had to be what hit the plane. The shock wave.”

Everon nodded, “Not Washington?”

“Apparently not.”

“They’re calling it a miss,” Del shook her head. “Radio said five hundred thousand more are dead in Virginia Beach, Norfolk and such. Those people paid quite a price for that second bomb missing Washington.”

“People are already dying from radiation poisoning. There was black rain at Teterboro,” Everon said. “Nowhere’s a miss. Wherever the radiation goes, even if it gets blown out to sea fast enough not to bother anybody here, it’ll end up in Europe.”

“Vegas may be next,” said one of the women, holding onto her two children, a boy and a girl.

“I doubt it,” her husband said. “Whoever’s doing it, they seem to be targeting the East Coast.”

“We don’t know that!” she shot back.

“It’s a gamble anywhere,” another man said. “Might as well gamble on Vegas.”

Five hours of shell-shocked plane ride had pretty much cried them all out. The growing horror was penetrating. People were pushing buttons on cellphones. None of them were working. The man on Del’s kitchen wall phone was talking to relatives in Henderson.

He turned to Everon. “Is there any way to get into Las Vegas?”

Everon squinted, looked around, counting. “Well, we’ve got an old school bus we take some of our crew down to Phoenix in from time to time.” Everon looked at Del. “Think Jack could drive them?”

Del nodded.

The others made calls.

There were a lot of tears, and mutual relief with those contacted. Finally everyone’s transportation was arranged. Some staying in Vegas, others traveling onward by bus, car or train. The comfort they’d taken for granted for so long was gone. It wasn’t safe anywhere.

Del set out a big stack of chicken sandwiches on a white porcelain platter. Pitchers of milk, lemonade, green bottles of Moosehead beer. She fed Melissa from an old-looking baby bottle.

One little blond girl walked shyly over from the kitchen table carrying two sandwiches. “Who’s Katelynn?” she asked.

“Me,” a dark-haired girl replied dully. She looked to be inches away from catalepsy.

The blond girl offered her a sandwich. “My name’s Kate. Our names are almost the same. I bet we’re almost the same age too. How old are you?”

Taking the sandwich, Katelynn took a bite and answered, “Sometimes my muvver calls me Kate.”

Little girls who must know some of their friends are dead, Franklin thought as he poured a glass of lemonade. Trying to find anything to draw themselves together. Anything to get away from the fear and death, the terror of their neighborhood in New York.

“Did you hear that?” one woman pointed at the radio.

“The President’s going to be on television,” one of the little boys said.

Franklin turned up the volume. The host’s voice came up, “— what the President has to say in about ten minutes. Let’s go quickly to commercial.”

“Isn’t it too soon for him to know anything?” said one of the Vegas-bound gamblers.

“We can watch in the living room,” Everon said.

“Should we let the children come?” one woman asked her husband.

“It would be worse to leave them wondering.”

Fifteen people followed Everon through the kitchen door.

NORAD

The short blue curtain parted. A voting booth. A young girl stood prettily, smiling before him, all dimples and cuteness.

“We are all you!” she said.

“You might think you are me,” Chris told her. “We politicians get that a lot.”

Christopher Wall began to turn away but the girl grabbed his left elbow, the hand not that of a child but big and strong and hairy — holding his arm with such force that he could not rotate. With the power of unstoppable will, the hand began to turn him back. Her mouth widened. Huge white shark’s teeth.

Another hand clamped above his right elbow. A third shot forward, grabbed his balls, gradually increasing pressure — a fourth behind his head, gripping his neck, forcing his face to see, to look at — at WHAT? He could no longer see the female child — only the big rough hairy hands — the HANDS! — squeezing his kneecaps, pressure on his temples — he began to scream, high, piercing, not of a full-grown man but of a young girl — the HANDS! “Yeeeeaaaaaaah . . .”

Hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him gently. “Chris! Chris!”

“Wha — Jack?”

“It’s me, Marc! Marc Praeger, your Chief of Staff.”

What is a staff? Wall looked around the dim compartment, “Marc?” Shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it. Windows. Dark metal. Soft sandalwood calf-leather seats. Whump-whump overhead.

Marine One.

“Mr. President!” Marc Praeger whispered closely. “You were screaming!”

“Was I? Oh — simply imagining what those poor people in New York and Virginia must be going through —” Thank God we’re the hell out of D.C., Wall thought. I’ve got to talk to Jack!

They both peered forward through the dark amber glass. Neither the pilots nor the two Secret Service agents forward of the partition seemed to have noticed.

“I doubt they heard anything,” Praeger said, eyes rising as if to look through the ceiling at the growling engines, the blades overhead. “This thing is so damn loud —” The big chopper pounded out a steady beat across the low hills of Colorado’s Front Range. Marc Praeger’s eyes drifted to his boss’s face.

In the overstuffed armchair, the country’s first Mormon President, blue-eyed, sandy-haired Christopher Wall, took a long gulp from a heavy glass tumbler filled with copper-colored liquid. Praeger shook his head, His fourth scotch tonight. If his home constituents ever saw him drinking —

Shit, Praeger shrugged it off, the Catholics would probably feel more comfortable.

Right then Wall’s right cheek demonstrated another of the tics Praeger had first noticed on Air Force One — Tic!

Shit, Chris really is losing it, Praeger admitted. He didn’t even want to get off the damn plane. Now this crap!

Tic-Tic!

Goddammit! Look at him twitch. The stress is cutting into him. I hope he can handle the camera tonight. He’s got to have his shit together!

Praeger peered upward on an angle through the windows, into a sky lit by a full moon. Luna — lunatic — perfect fucking word tonight for the President of these United Fucking States!

“I was having a nightmare, Marc!” Wall confessed. “She was after me!”

“Who was after you, Chris?”

“I don’t know — a little girl!” Wall screamed softly.

Five minutes later, Marine One landed in the upper parking lot. Wall, Praeger and the Secret Service team took to the presidential limo. Moments later the massive mountain door slowly closed behind it.

Twitch

As they filed into the living room, the kitchen phone rang. Del snapped it up. “Hello?” Franklin could make out a tinny female voice: “Is Everon still there?”

“He just went to turn on the TV in the other room, Judy,” Del said.

Everon’s secretary, Franklin realized.

“I’m sure he’ll be over right after,” Del added. “Are you going to watch the President?”

“We have it on,” he heard Judy say. “Tell him we need him over here as soon as he can. I saw Franklin get off the jet. Any word on Cynthia and Steve?”

Del’s hurt eyes shot to Franklin. Gently he took the phone from her hand. “Hello Judy, it’s Franklin. We lost Cynthia and Steve in New York . . .”

“Oh, no . . .” In the background Franklin could hear Judy’s radio playing a news report gearing up for the President.

He took another minute to explain as much as he thought Del could stand — what he and Everon had been through on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Judy was relieved to hear they’d gotten Melissa out.

When he hung up, Del scooped up Melissa and they joined the others in the living room.

In the long, bare-beamed space, they crowded around the only television Del had ever allowed in the ranch house in Franklin’s thirty-three years. An old wood combination phonograph console floor model with a bulging rectangular tube. Franklin and Everon stood at opposite ends of a well-worn cowhide davenport. Everon was staring at an old picture above the fireplace mantel. The three of them. Everon, Cynthia and Franklin as kids, in the back of the old truck.

As the sound came up, the living room went quiet.

“— and gentlemen, we’ve just learned the White House is empty tonight. In a few moments, President Wall will be broadcasting from an undisclosed location.”

“Judy called for you,” Del said softly to Everon.

Everon nodded, “Right after this.”

The announcer continued:

“The President may be viewed on all television stations wherever possible. In parts of the Northeast you may pick up his audio on local radio stations. This program is also being simulcast on CBS.com and the emergency ham radio frequency. We go now to President Wall . . .”

The President looked surprisingly well rested. Sandy hair neatly coifed, he wore a blue suit and red tie. He sat behind the same desk Franklin had seen many times before. The golden Presidential Seal behind the same tall black chair. It looked like the Oval Office.

“My fellow Americans. Over the last few days a precious part of our great nation has been stolen from us: some measure of our security and our comfort. Though the number of lives lost in New York, New Jersey, Maryland and Virginia reaches into the millions, make no mistake: We will recover.

“I believe it is essential that your government take decisive steps to ensure your family’s safety, to return this sense of comfort to you. Let me assure everyone, we are taking those steps. We will find those responsible for this act of villainy. I have directed all our intelligence agencies, foreign and domestic, to spare no resource in locating and bringing to justice the perpetrators of this vile crime against humanity.”

Franklin caught Mano wandering into the back of the room. The ranch hand’s black eyes were wet and shiny. He’s opened the body bag! He just had to see Cyn one more time.

Wall continued:

“Meanwhile, this type of attack will not be allowed to reoccur. All ports will be immediately subject to increased security. Since we believe this to be a waterborne attack, we’re deepening our dockside X-ray capability. Agents will begin searching and X-raying every single cubic foot of every single cargo container coming into our country.

“Unfortunately this type of safety does not come without a price. By Executive Order 16-176, I have ordered, for the foreseeable future, the shutdown of all nuclear power plants across the nation. Let me assure you this is absolutely necessary to ensure the safety of hundreds of thousands of Americans across this great land of ours.

“During this period of temporary rolling blackouts, many of you in the West, the South and the Midwest may well ask, ‘Why should our power be shut down too? We’ve not been attacked. The attacks were way over there in New York City and Virginia Beach.’ But until we find the perpetrators of this unspeakable crime, we must reduce the risk to all . . .”

“Yeah, right!” Everon threw back at the set. “Where are you at? You’re way the hell out of Dodge, baby!”

“Quiet, boy!” Del whispered.

But Franklin wondered, Why shut down the nuclear plants if the attacks are waterborne?

Deep inside NORAD Mountain, Chief of Staff Marc Praeger jumped as if shocked by electricity. ‘This unspeakable crime’? That was supposed to be cut! He’s reading the old stuff. He watched his boss’s left eye twitch.

He’s okay. It’s nothing, Praeger assured himself. No one will notice.

Twitch.

Praeger grimaced. Hold it together, Chris. Ten more minutes . . .

President Wall blinked rapidly several times in succession. His left eye twitched again.

Franklin leaned in toward the television set. “Did you see that?” he whispered.

“What?” Everon asked.

“Mmmm . . . there,” Franklin pointed at the television. “Did you see that? Like — like a nervous twitch.”

Everon shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. The man’s an idiot though. He’s just going to —”

“Shhhhh,” Del admonished. “Wait — un — til — he’s — done!”

“From all over our wonderful country, firemen, policemen, construction and sanitation workers, HAZMAT and Red Cross personnel — more than 180 thousand strong — are today arriving on the East Coast.

“Though massive electrical disturbances have caused many Eastern cities to lose power, resulting in disruption in gasoline distribution and interruption of some local water supplies, let me assure you, these problems, though serious, are temporary and will be resolved as quickly as possible . . .”

“Mommy,” said one of the kids, “is the President going to fix our house?”

“Shhhh!”

“Because so many of the local people — engineers, technicians, those we need to solve these problems — were victims of the New York bombing themselves, specialized assistance is required. So I have today asked for and received commitments from power companies all across our nation, to locate the personnel necessary to make our recovery as smooth and efficient as possible.”

Del shot a worried look at Everon.

“Let me assure you, though the second cowardly attack was a near miss, Washington is fine. Your government is functioning normally. There will be little interruption in essential services.”

“Yeah,” Everon muttered, “I’ll bet Virginia Beach and Norfolk aren’t so fine tonight.”

Del said nothing.

“Though there are those who have taken this opportunity to engage in criminal activity, I am at this time instituting martial law only in certain affected local areas. And I ask you, citizens of our great country, please help us by not adding to the present difficulties by taking advantage of this difficult situation.

“Before I sign off tonight, let me mention one of the heroes in all of this. You may have seen the video of that Pennsylvania minister who rescued his niece from New York. If a simple minister can rescue one child, think what we can do if we all pull together. Together we will make it through this.

“Thank you. And may God be with you tonight.”

Fame And Infamy

In Del’s living room, a television commentator started up. Del turned down the sound. Sixteen people, all of them staring at Franklin.

He shrugged, embarrassed. “It was Everon and me. Together . . .”

It was a long minute. Everon said nothing.

And then all at once: “Where was your niece?”

“How did you get in there?”

“It must have been terrible.”

“X-rays? Container ships? How do we even know if they’re coming in that way? Why does Wall think that? Spin, that’s all this is! The President didn’t say one word about who’s responsible for the bombs!”

“You heard him! He doesn’t know!”

“Whoever’s behind these bombs has to be some huge organization!”

“One of the terrorist groups.”

“Keep your fingers crossed the next one isn’t around here!”

“I want to go home,” said one of the kids.

“They’re not going to find anybody! They never do.”

“It’ll be different this time, George! This is too big. Too important!”

“She’s right!”

“Bullshit!” Everon’s voice rose above the others. “Executive Order 16-176? Doesn’t he realize what’s going to happen without the nuke plants? Rolling blackouts! Power shortages coast-to-coast!”

Del’s other ranch hand, Jack, came in the front door. “Got the bus ready outside,” he said to Del.

Parents gathered children. One of the women hugged Del impulsively. “Thank you so much!” That was all it took. The other women all wanted to hug Del too, kiss Franklin and Everon’s cheeks. The men shook their hands. The door closed behind them. The bus revved and drove them away.

Del holding Melissa, Everon and Franklin looking awkwardly at each other. Mano had already drifted back through the kitchen. The house felt empty.

“How did Wall know about what we did in New York?” Franklin muttered.

“Must have been on the news,” Everon said. “I never did ask you. On the GW Bridge, how’d you think of that, switching to the aluminum truck?”

“Some woman threw her keys at me.”

“You’re kidding!”

“They hit me right in the neck. She was pointing at the silver semi-trailer.”

Everon huffed out a tired sigh. “I’m going over to the shop. Judy and the guys are waiting. Goodnight, Gran,” he said kissing her cheek. He went out the kitchen door.

Franklin felt exhausted. “I guess I’m going to bed too. Unless you’d like me to stay up with you?” Her face looks so old tonight.

“No, I’m going to put Melissa to bed — then do a little thinking by myself, boy.”

He gave his grandmother a kiss goodnight. She’s still planning to go out back alone, he realized. To see their bodies for herself.

But as he turned the corner in the hall, he heard the voices again, drifting faintly from the kitchen radio, each a specter of his own thought:

Who killed Cynthia? Who blew up New York?

Faith And Force

There is only one way to see action in a still photograph — the image of an object defying gravity. Ghazi al Hussein had never used a camera but his mind took a snapshot:

An orange, in mid air.

The white-bearded, barrel-chested man was completing his twenty-fifth Hajj — for many a once-in-a-lifetime experience — and he could not believe what he was seeing.

He had just passed the MUSLIMS ONLY checkpoint, still two miles south of Mecca — skyscrapers and minarets of the holy city up ahead. Out of the millions of brothers and sisters dressed in white, a crowd of hundreds had become a circle of brutality.

“How can it be?” he whispered. An actual fight, in the middle of Hajj — He remembered the four hundred Shi’as killed in 1987. This would be the same. Violence will make their Hajj invalid! How can they!

An apple — another orange — sailed through the air.

Hussein worked his way in to the center. Things felt strange this year. People were afraid. Everyone was talking about New York. The bomb.

On the street of worn two-story buildings, three young men — foreigners, apparently from London, he quickly learned — were surrounded. The young men were holding an object larger than a road sign. That appeared to be made of solid gold!

More fruit went flying.

“Stop! What is this!” Hussein shouted, deep crevices lining the forehead of his old skin.

They all stopped to look at him, hundreds of eyes saying, What should we do? As one of the most popular and highly respected Sunni Imams, when Ghazi Ibn Abdullah Al Hussein interpreted the words of the Prophet, the verses of Allah’s Qur’an, the faithful listened.

“These cannot be the Prophet’s words!” one man shouted, thin but old as Ghazi, probably more than seventy years of age. “Fourteen centuries have we Sunni fought the Shi’a — over who would wield our prophet’s power. Now we are commanded by Allah to find he who will once again join us as one? There is but one final Prophet — Muhammad is his name!”

A dark and brooding younger man, one of the three within the center, pointed to the golden tablet, its gleaming surface fractured by Arabic symbols. “Look — they are his words! Is it not how our Prophet wrote — his voice?”

Taunts were shouted. “No! I do not believe!” “Blasphemy!”

Imam Hussein pushed his fingers deep into the words cut into its brilliant sand-worn surface. His mosque, his madrasa school, were not far distant. There he could study this strange gold tablet.

“Doubtful it could be from Allah,” he said softly, fingers tracing out the ancient characters. “But we will take it to my office for study.” He looked at the three men. “You will accompany me.”

Ghazi nodded to the smiles of those who recognized him in the busy Souq Gaza Market, carrying the heavy golden tablet between the vendors of hanging prayer rugs, bowls of dates and coffee.

Faces completely hidden beneath their flowing baggy black burqas, a group of women moved in close. They quickly surrounded him, separated him from the three young men. And then he felt the women’s hands. Gripping him, forcing him. Strong and brutal, herding him.

Before he knew what was happening, he was tightly closed off. The tablet of gold swept easily from his grip. Out of the yards of black cloth, hidden from the world, something snaked across his face. An irresistible cloth covered his mouth and nose with a sweet odor.

As consciousness left him and they dragged him away, a final shock went through his brain: They’re men!

I have been taken by women who are men!

An Accident Of Faith

“’Twas an act of God Almighty, it was, I wasn’t there last night!” Cardinal Bruce O’Shaughnessy wept.

The stocky, dark-haired, typically jolly priest was heartsick. His Irish red cheeks blazed with booze and pity, a process begun the moment his friend Bishop Tom O’Day had tuned in his little portable radio. The Cardinal had driven out to Middletown, Connecticut, Monday evening to visit his friend and protégé, just three hours before the first bomb went off.

Despite a sad, steady diet of sacrificial wine, Irish whiskey and finally Guinness, in nearly thirty hours Cardinal Bruce hadn’t had a bit of sleep. The phones were down. He couldn’t contact anyone. He kept imagining the horror on the radio.

“I’m going back,” he said finally.

The work of Cardinal Bruce O’Shaughnessy was legend. He’d been written up by the New York Times too often to count, well-known for his personal support of homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Especially the one around the side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

“You haven’t slept!” O’Day protested as the Cardinal staggered down the driveway. “With all due respect, Your Eminence,” he added as the Cardinal tried to climb back behind the wheel of his parish automobile, “you’ve had too much to drink! We’ll go back in a few hours after you’ve had some rest.”

“I’ll be fine, lad,” Cardinal Bruce disagreed. “I’ll drive slow. Take it easy. Traffic’ll prob’ly be goin’ the other way.”

“Listen, if you’re determined to go, let me drive you. Certainly there’s something I can do to help in there too.”

An hour later, Cardinal Bruce and Bishop Tom were on the Hutchinson River Parkway and getting close. They could see smoke up ahead in the car lights. This side of the freeway was empty; the other side, jammed.

WHOOSH!

Someone in the lane next to us going the opposite direction? “Can you believe — ?” the Cardinal started.

BAM!

Their heads knocked back against the headrests. The car twisted on an icy patch. Someone had hit their rear bumper!

By some miracle O’Day cut the wheels into the skid and got the car straightened out again.

The two clerics tried to see who had hit them — O’Day in the rearview, O’Shaughnessy twisting in his seat — as a second SLAM! — a much harder one this time — took them completely out of control. Spinning them around, right across all four lanes — straight at the guardrail.

They were wearing their seat belts, snuggly fastened, and when the rear bumper hit going backwards, the airbags went off just like they were supposed to.

“Are you okay?” Bishop Tom coughed to his mentor in a voice muffled by airbag plastic.

Before O’Shaughnessy could answer, the doors were wrenched open.

“Ahhh — somebody to help us,” mumbled the Cardinal.

Still disoriented by the shock of the collision it was a total surprise when something stabbed him in the neck. It was a thing he would not remember later.

Judy’s Missing Visitors

From the kitchen door back of the house, Everon followed the winding concrete walkway in the moonlight. A decent breeze was blowing. Good, he thought. We’ll need it.

Even so, the blades of a dozen huge wind turbines whipping overhead couldn’t produce as much power as the panels did during the day. At night they ran half the line off a giant bank of batteries, sometimes even a diesel generator. The night crew was necessarily smaller.

Not tonight.

Forty yards out from the east side of the runway, the flat-topped red-brick building began, running hundreds of feet into the distance. Wide flood beams chased darkness from its outside walls. A sign along the top of the building’s corner in tall dark-green letters said:

Everon caught a “Yip! Yip!” A dark shape wiggled its butt. He reached down to pet the Australian shepherd. Everyone loved Happy, Two-State’s shop dog. Happy followed Everon inside.

The small dimly lit reception area was empty. But in the brightly lit offices behind, Everon saw the slim, auburn-haired woman in her fifties peering into a desktop monitor. Her tired eyes shot to him as he walked over.

“Ohh, E!”

“Thanks for staying so late, Jude! I should have married you ten years ago.”

“Yes, you should have, but Jed got me first.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Franklin told me — I feel horrible about Cynthia and Steve.”

He gave her a brief nod. “I’d like to kill somebody. But I don’t know who.” He forced the terrible feeling down and away. “Couldn’t get out here any sooner. We brought a bunch of people back with us. Getting them settled, then the President was on. Did you lose anyone, Judy?”

She shook her head. “Fortunately I don’t know anybody in New York or Virginia Beach. Some of our line people weren’t so lucky.”

Everon let out a blast of air. “So what’s going on?”

“That ridiculous speech of Wall’s,” she began. “Shutting down the nuclear power plants seem strange to you, E?”

“Hell yes. But I was asking about our system.”

“Oh — uh — 2 p.m. output was 88 percent. Nick’s handling some adjustments. He and Right want to talk with you about demand shortages caused by the domino effect across the country.”

“Hmm. And the new panel line?”

“A few issues, Right says he’s got it under control.”

Everon frowned. “Where is Right?”

“Out by the laminators. But look, E, we have to do something about our cash problem quick. The bank isn’t clearing our checks.”

“What!”

“They say the whole interbank system is down. It’s caused by the East Coast banks. Our guy says they’re worried they’re going to be stuck holding a bunch of uncleared wire transfers. They have too much risk. I told him we’ve got payroll in three days!”

“Well, I’ve got some cash stashed in my office safe. We should make it through this week.”

“That’ll help but they better get it sorted out after that or we’re in trouble.”

Having actual cash available to pay employees or suppliers in an emergency had always been a long-term policy of his stepfather at the mine. Everon had learned to follow the same policy in his own company.

“Don’t worry about it, Jude. Let me go talk to Nick and Right. Call up any of our day people who’ll come in tonight. Tell them to see Right. Then go home. I’ll see you tomorrow early. We’re starting the new line.”

“Tonight?”

“Have to.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly, shaking her head. “Glad you’re back, boss. Really sorry about Cyn.” She moved to pick up the phone. “Oh! Those two guys out front have been waiting half an hour.”

“What two guys?”

“In reception. Aren’t they?”

He followed her up front. “They said it was urgent!” She said. “They said they weren’t going anywhere until —”

The reception area was empty. “That’s odd.”

She pushed through the front door. Stuck her head outside.

“Their car’s still here — I think. That white Taurus. The only one I didn’t recognize last time I went out for a smoke.” An habitual near chain smoker, Judy knew Everon didn’t like it and stubbornly took every opportunity to remind him. “I think they’ve got something to do with one of our casino customers.”

Everon gave her a smile. “Probably wanted to take a look around while they waited. Just like all our other looky-loos. I’ll handle it.”

He took the hallway through double doors sporting a sign in bold green letters: PRODUCTION.

The Line

As he made his way between two huge rolls of plastic, two voices argued in Everon’s head: Hunt’s counting on you — you have to go — you gave your word — thousands of people have no power!

And: How the hell did I let Hunt talk me into this?

He slid his hands along the sides of the elevated metal boxes. The right side was quiet but his left hand picked up a familiar vibration. That line was running.

He passed a window in one of the boxes and glanced in at the continuous web of plastic sheet feeding into the deposition chamber.

The panel lines were long elevated tubes, a series of bolted-together four-foot-square box sections. The tubes reached out into the distance, half a football field long. Down the alley in between, Judy’s two visitors were not in sight.

What the hell am I doing, traipsing back to Pennsylvania? When the new line’s ready to go?

He quickly pulled his hand away as his fingertips became hot. There was no window into this chamber. Inside at 400 degrees Celsius, the high-temperature plastic was coated with a thin layer of metal only a third the thickness of a red blood cell — what Everon and his two confidants called the secret chicken recipe. He’d applied for no patents. Only two other living people completely understood the chemical beam part of the secret they’d never shared with anybody.

Much of what he’d accomplished owed a lot to his family. The raw material was leftover zinc and other waste bought and processed from the family’s gypsum mine. And the process of building the company had begun only when his mother, Seane, gave him his father’s notebook.

In a hobby shack, a tiny R&D lab he’d built right here on his stepfather’s land, Everon hired a physical chemist he’d met fifteen years earlier flying helicopters out to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. Four years of intense experimentation. This system — and the secret chicken recipe — was the result.

As he walked, he trailed the flat of a hand along the metal side of the box tunnel on his right. Still cold. But ready to start! Dammit, Everon swallowed. You’re not backing out on your word! You’ve got to go back there! Hunt’s counting on you! You’ll just have to move things up!

A quarter of Two-State’s profits he still put back into R&D, to make the panels more efficient: this year they’d reached 24 percent — best in the market — for every 1,000 watts of sunlight that hit the earth, the panels pumped out 240 watts of electricity. And the existing line was way faster these days too. Nine years ago they’d produced only twelve thousand panels. This year Everon hoped to reach a million!

Each year they cut production costs, and each year he dropped his selling price. No one outside Everon’s inner core knew that producing a single solar panel now cost less than a car’s oil change.

And tonight Two-State Solar would have two lines!

Dammit!

He walked by another window, where the machines covered the metalized plastic with its protective top layer.

Flying back East is a crackpot idea. Fill Hunt’s big Gulfstream — who knows what shape its in after all that turbulence — with some of our best guys? Fly them all to Pennsylvania? For how long? How am I supposed to keep things here going like that? And where the hell am I going to pull the people?

Though they were making a ton of money on the panels they sold, soon he wouldn’t sell them at all. Two-State was now its own best customer.

They’d begun three years ago, running the factory’s lights as they transferred more panels into their own solar farm out back. Pretty soon they’d been able to power the electric forklift chargers. Then the motors that drove the line belts. Eventually even the tunnel’s deposition furnace was run off power the solar farm generated.

Whatever electricity was left over he sold to four big casinos on the Vegas strip, and a few old personal friends.

A couple years after they’d got the first line running, Right Deters, his shop foreman, began to worry they were putting all their panels in one basket. Everon looked toward Arizona and bought a bunch of desert southeast of Phoenix at a ridiculous price. He began sending panels to a second solar farm down there. What power they made in Arizona they sold directly onto the U.S. electric grid.

Everon changed the company name from Spring Valley Solar to Two-State. Nobody but Right and his chief engineer Nick Zavel knew the new name was actually a play on words related to the secret chicken recipe.

Two years later they began erecting the big wind units so they could produce power at night. Now a third of their power came from the wind turbines. If only we could find a decent battery somewhere.

He brushed fingers along the silent boxes on his right. Ready to roll!

But the pain came back. He could see Cynthia getting into that cab when she left him at Kennedy. Imagine her arriving at their apartment on Lexington. Kissing Melissa. Getting into bed with Steve. Flames blasting through their apartment . . . Who the fuck could have set off a thing like this? If only . . . if only you could have taken them on the jet with you!

Everon couldn’t think about it.

Unless he set it aside, for now, he wouldn’t be able to function. Tomorrow morning, Cynthia’s funeral will have to be enough. He could hear loud voices up ahead. He walked faster. Something’s wrong!

The sounds of anger grew louder. Arguing?

One of the voices belonged to Right. He broke into a run.

Yelling? Right never yells at anybody!

Exiting the machine, the blade chopped strips of holographic color into four-foot rectangles of nearly finished panels. The robotic arm welded on wiring harnesses. And angry voices, shouting off to the left somewhere! Another arm stacking panels onto pallets. The conveyor belt moving pallets into shipping. Another voice still louder — someone yelling at Right!

Everon ran full out.

Irrational Power

Everon ran out from between the stacks of solar panels to find Nick Zavel and Right Deters faced off against a stout guy with a bulbous, twisted mass of red-veined nose, and a man who wore a brown suit as if his entire body had been pressed in a cleaner’s steamer. No chest. No butt. Just brown fabric that hung straight down, completely flat from shoulders to the exposed tips of his shoes.

Right had a trickle of blood at the left corner of his mouth.

“What’s going on here?” the soft voice, Everon’s only hint of anger. A few of the night-shift guys were gathering. The factory’s night security guard appeared to be missing. “Where’s Charlie?” Everon asked.

“Are you Student?” the fat man answered back. His hand reached into the pocket of his shiny black jacket, pulled out a short-barreled revolver and held it down along his right side.

His thin associate put out a restraining hand. “No need for that, Manny.”

“We’ll see.” Fat Manny slid the gun out of sight around back of his leg but didn’t put it away.

Brown Suit slid a document from a manila folder. “Mr. Student? We’ll be needing your signature on this.” The thin man was very smooth — perhaps because he was so still. Almost as if he didn’t breathe. He held out a single white sheet of paper and a pen.

Everon glanced at the blood in the corner of Right’s mouth. “Who hit my plant manager?”

“He was mouthing off,” Manny tossed back, twitching the revolver.

“Right? Mouthing off?” Everon threw a doubtful frown in Right’s direction. Right’s saggy hound dog eyes stared back. Right would be sixty this year — not exactly a paragon of fitness, his slouchy posture and slight paunch, his excessively cautious nature, were about as offensive as a bowl of cherry Jell-O. Right Deters was the mildest man Everon had ever known.

Right said, “I was just trying to explain that we couldn’t halt anything until I talked to you, that we have to maintain constant temperatures on the stainless steel deposition chambers, E.”

“See, there he goes again,” Manny said, becoming irritated. “Talking down to us.”

Everon, in his own way, was pretty good at reading people and situations, almost as good as Franklin . . . Right may be the one with the bloody lip, but the big guy with the gun looks more nervous than anybody.

More of Everon’s night crew filtered into the area.

“Based on a letta received from you,” Brown Suit said in a smooth r-less Boston accent, “the transmission company has informed some of the casinos they have to reduce their electricity usage.”

Everon gritted his teeth and studied the man. “So you represent these casino customers of mine?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Everon huffed doubtfully.

“You ain’t cuttin’ nothin’,” the fat man said.

“We’ve already got some of our exterior light banks shut off,” Brown Suit explained. “And too many of our slot machines shut off as it is. The casino business is surging. Gamblers are coming in from all over the country. President Wall’s nuke shutdown thing isn’t helping, but the local power company is saying they have to cut us back,” he waved a hand at the factory. “Ultimately because of you.”

Like the two guys Everon had brought back on the plane who planned to stay in Las Vegas, apparently the bomb made gambling even more attractive. Why not? It’s the end of the world, why not go out with a bang? What better place than Vegas?

Now he understood. Three thousand miles away, this is being caused by Hunt’s company and the other East-Coast generators that are down. One big domino effect. Short on power, East Coast goes after Midwest who pass the shortage onward — ’til it hits us. Las Vegas hasn’t got what it needs, so the casinos send out these guys.

“Our power cutback is only for sixty days,” Everon said. “That’s how long it will take us to assemble, erect and connect enough additional panels, and to put up new wind turbines to produce the electricity we require to power the new line. Once we’ve made up the deficit, we’ll have even more power available for you.”

Brown Suit suddenly wasn’t still or smooth anymore — his brown trousers began to rock below the knees. His shoulders dodged around in tiny circles. “You expect us to turn off lights? The slot machines —”

“Unless you can find another source, some other power producer willing to sell what you need, or until the casinos can put up their own solar panels somewhere, if they can buy some. Bottom line, it’s in our contract.”

“See —” Fat Manny started.

Brown Suit interrupted, “Just like you, the main power company’s production’s booked out a year in advance.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Or I would be, if your goon hadn’t hit my factory manager in the mouth.”

Fat Manny’s gun hand tightened.

“This is simply not acceptable,” Brown Suit said.

“Just shut down those ovens or whatever they are,” the fat man said. “Until this juice thing is over with.”

“And how about next month when you want even more juice?” Everon asked. “Without the lines running I can’t build any more panels. Our power output would be frozen right where it is now.”

Before Everon could react, the fat man reached over and slapped a palm against the big red EMERGENCY button on the end of the production line. A crunching sound echoed from somewhere. A screeching sound pierced the air, cutting through the vast building. The robotic arms froze in place, the main belt skidded to a halt.

“Shit!” Nick said. “Emergency shutdown! That’s going to cost us hours! Dozens of damaged panels we’ll have to pull, cleaning out the machines —”

“Well, now I guess we got power to spare!” grinned Manny.

Every worker looked in shock at the thug. Even Brown Suit was surprised. “Real smart!” Everon said.

“So what!” Manny shot back. “You won’t be needin’ ’em for a while.”

Everon had to put an end to this. And he had to do it right now.

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