He took a breath and spoke rapidly. “And the Europeans will shut their mouths for a change, and then it will be Cuba’s turn, then North Korea. And the Russians will keep their mouths shut as well. Because after we go nuclear once, everyone will understand that we will do it again. And when the time is right, we will smother the China problem in its cradle before it grows up to challenge us.”
Harry Muller watched the other men as Madox continued his tirade. It seemed to Harry that the other guys were a little uncomfortable now that Madox had taken off from the Islamic terrorist problem and was finding new enemies to kill. And then there was the oil thing, which Harry thought was at least as important to Bain Madox and Global Oil Corporation as getting rid of terrorists. Harry already knew this guy was nuts, but now he was seeing how nuts—and so were Madox’s buddies.
Madox stood, and his voice became strident. “And as a Vietnam veteran, I tell you, we will also redeem our lost honor when American troops march into Saigon and Hanoi without a peep from China or anyone.”
He looked at his four colleagues and concluded, “For us not to go nuclear—for us to continue this fight against our enemies by conventional and diplomatic means, to waste lives and treasure in this battle, to prolong it without a clear victory in sight—is morally wrong. We have the means to end this quickly, decisively, and cheaply through the use of nuclear weapons that we already possess. To not use these weapons against people who would use them against us if they could would be national suicide, a strategic blunder, an affront to common sense, and an insult to God.”
Bain Madox sat down.
The room was still.
Harry Muller studied the faces in the dim light and said to himself, Yeah, they know he’s nuts. But they don’t care because he’s just saying what they’re thinking.
Bain Madox lit a cigarette and said matter-of-factly, “Okay, let’s talk now about which American cities need to be sacrificed, and how and when we’re going to do that.”
PART V
Saturday
NORTH FORK, LONG ISLAND
Nassau Point, Long Island, August 2, 1939
F. D. Roosevelt, President of the United States,
White House, Washington, D.C.
Sir . . . it may become possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction in a large mass of uranium, by which vast amounts of power and large quantities of new radium-like elements would be generated . . . by which, my dear Mr. President, it might be possible to unleash an immense destructive force.
—Albert Einstein
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After dinner at the barge restaurant, Kate and I drove out toward Orient Point on the eastern tip of the North Fork of Long Island.
The sky was partly cloudy, but I could see stars, which I rarely see in Manhattan.
The North Fork is a windswept spit of land, quite beautiful in a stark sort of way, surrounded by the Long Island Sound to the north, Gardiner’s Bay to the south, and the Atlantic Ocean to the east.
Because the surrounding water holds its summer heat, the autumns are unusually warm for this latitude. In fact, this microclimate, plus maybe global warming in general, was the reason for the newly planted vineyards, and the resulting explosion of tourism, which has changed the feel of the land.
As a kid, I summered out here with my parents along with other hardy and less affluent families who could not afford the Hamptons, or who specifically wanted to avoid the Hampton crowd.
One such hardy soul was Albert Einstein, who summered here at a place called Nassau Point in 1939; and since there wasn’t much to do, he probably had a lot of time to think. So one day, at the urging of other physicists, he wrote a letter to Franklin Roosevelt—now called the Nassau Point Letter—in which he strongly advised the president to get moving on the atomic bomb before the Nazis built one of their own. The rest, as they say, is history.
Regarding microclimates and the warming weather, I said to Kate, “Let’s go for a skinny-dip.”
She glanced at me and replied, “It’s October, John.”
“We should take advantage of global warming before everyone else does. In ten years, this place will have palm trees instead of vineyards, and thousands of people will be coming here in October to soak up the sun.”
“Then let’s come back in ten years for a swim.”
I continued east on Route 25, an old colonial-era road, formerly known as King’s Highway when the British were in charge here before the Revolution. Along the road, in the bluffs to the north, I could see old white clapboard houses and recently built summer houses of cedar and glass. I never really wanted to be rich, but now and then I think about starting a new revolution so I can appropriate some stockbroker’s summer house on the water. I mean, I’d give it back after a few years, and everyone would benefit from the experience.
We were close to Orient Point now, and up ahead was the terminal for the ferry to New London, Connecticut, and beyond that, the restricted area where the government ferry went to the top secret Animal Disease Center on Plum Island.
This, of course, made me think back to that summer when I was recuperating from my gunshot wounds out here, and I got involved with a bizarre double homicide when I was supposed to be watching my bullet holes closing up. I also got involved with a lady named Emma Whitestone, whom I still think about too often.
Subsequent to the case, I also became involved with a lady named Beth Penrose, who was the county homicide detective assigned to that case—Beth preceded Kate, or perhaps they overlapped a bit—so the Plum Island case and the name Beth Penrose didn’t come up too often when Kate and I were talking about old cases.
Also while working that case, I first met Mr. Ted Nash of the Central Intelligence Agency, and this meeting was to have a profound influence on my life, and as it turned out, on his as well. His life ended before mine, so he doesn’t think about me much anymore, though I still think about him now and then.
And, in another weird twist of fate, Ted Nash knew Kate before I did, and I really think they had something going before I came along.
Therefore, I sometimes have this fantasy that Nash actually survived the World Trade Center, and that he and I meet again. Then, the fantasy continues with a verbal confrontation that I win, of course, followed by a physical confrontation—no guns—in which I throw him off a cliff, or a skyscraper, or sometimes I just snap his neck and watch him twitch.
Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”
I came out of my happy reverie and replied, “About what a beautiful place this world is.”
She asked, “What did you say your name was?”
“Be nice. I’m trying to get in the mood of . . . whatever.”
“Good.” She suggested, “Let’s go back to the B and B and make love.”
I made an immediate two-wheeled U-turn on the deserted road and hit the accelerator.
“Slow down.”
I eased off on the gas pedal. As the old expression goes, “Women need a reason to have sex; men need only a place.” So, in that spirit, I hung a quick left at a sign that said: ORIENT BEACH STATE PARK.
“Where are you going?”
“A romantic spot.”
“John, let’s go back to the B and—”
“This is closer.”
“Come on, John. I don’t like to do it outdoors.”
I didn’t care where I did it as long as I did it. And my pocket rocket had clearly pointed to this road.
I continued on the dark, narrow road that ran through bulrushes and sea grass along a narrow peninsula. The land widened, and I saw an opening in the vegetation to the left and turned onto a path that went down to the water. I put the Jeep in four-wheel drive, continuing through some boggy ground until we reached a small sand beach on Gardiner’s Bay.
I shut off the ignition, and we got out of the Jeep, took off our shoes and socks, and walked to the edge of the water.
To the east, we could see the mysterious shore of Plum Island, and to the sou
th was Gardiner’s Island, which had been in the Gardiner family since the 1600s, and where Captain Kidd had supposedly buried his treasure, which may be true, but the Gardiners weren’t talking about it.
Further south across the bay were the lights of the Hamptons, whose summer residents had more treasure than any pirate could hope to steal in a lifetime of pillaging and plundering.
But, I digress from the subject at hand, which was my extreme horniness. I said, “Let’s skinny-dip.” I took off my jacket and flung it back on the sand.
Kate put her toe in the water. “It’s cold.”
“It’s warmer than the air.” I took off my shirt and pants. “Come on.” I slipped off my boxer shorts and stepped into the water. Jeez. My stiffy dropped like a cold noodle.
Kate noticed and said, “Maybe you do need to cool down.” She pushed me. “Go ahead, Tarzan.”
Well, this was my idea, so, remembering the Polar Bear Club’s annual January dip into the Atlantic Ocean at Coney Island, I let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged into the water, then dove under.
I thought my heart stopped, and for sure my testicles headed straight up into my groin, while my formerly stiff member shrunk to the size of a comma in a telephone book.
I stayed under as long as I could, then popped my head up and treaded water. I called to Kate, “It’s okay once you’re in!”
“Good. Stay in. I’m going back to the B and B. Bye!”
I shouted back, “I thought FBI agents were tough! You’re a pussy!”
“You’re an idiot. Get out of there before you freeze to death.”
“Okay . . . oh . . . jeez . . . I’m getting cramps . . .” I went under, then came up again, spit water, and yelled, “Help!”
“Are you joking?”
“Help!”
I heard her say, “Damn,” or maybe she said, “Drown.” She pulled off her clothes, took a deep breath, and ran into the water up to her waist, then dove in and began swimming toward me.
I filled my lungs with air and floated on my back, looking up at the magnificent night sky. I think I saw Pegasus through the skimming clouds.
Kate reached me and treaded water a few feet away. “You asshole.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re not drowning now, you will be in a fucking minute from now.”
“I didn’t say I was drowning.” I suggested, “Float on your back. I’ll show you Pegasus.”
“I cannot fucking believe you did that. I’m freezing.”
“The water’s warmer than—”
She put her hand over my face and pushed my head underwater. And held it there. For a long time.
I swam away underwater and came around her from behind. Her beautiful naked butt was right in front of me—so how could I resist giving her right cheek a little love bite?
She shot straight up, and when I surfaced, she was swimming in a circle, trying to see into the black water.
I called out, “I just bit a white-butt shark.”
She turned toward me and screamed a lot of words that didn’t sound nice. I did, however, catch the words “Fucking idiot.”
Well, enough foreplay. I said, “I’m going back. Are you staying in?”
She didn’t reply and headed for shore using a strong overhand stroke.
She was fast, but I caught up, and we raced each other to the shore. I think we’re both very competitive, and this is what keeps our relationship so interesting. Also, one of us is an immature idiot, and the other is not, so we sort of complement each other, like an alpha male baboon and his female trainer.
Anyway, I think Kate was a little angry with me, so I let her beat me to the shore, and when I walked onto the beach, she was drying herself with my pants and sports jacket.
It was really cold out of the water, with a little breeze blowing, and my teeth were chattering. I said to her, “That was refreshing.”
No response.
I tried another approach. “Hey, you’re a hell of a swimmer. Do you want to have sex?”
She was gathering her clothes from the sand and didn’t seem to hear me.
“Kate? Hello?”
She turned toward me. “I have never in my life been with a grown man who is so infantile, so stupid, so moronic, so harebrained, so reckless, so—”
I interrupted, “So I guess a blow job is out of the question.”
“A what? Are you kidding?”
“Well . . . I thought you said—”
“Don’t speak to me.”
“Okay.”
So we both stood there on the little beach, naked, and I mean, she really looked good, not withstanding her wet hair and blue lips. She has this incredibly athletic yet voluptuous body, with breasts that defy the laws of gravity, and a tummy as flat and firm as a bar top, long legs that are as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen, including my own, and a patch of blond pubic hair that drives me crazy. Plus, she has a butt that is so firm I could barely get a good bite out of it.
She was looking at me, too, and I knew she was getting a little steamy despite the air temperature. We’re really physically attracted, and we click sexually, so even when she’s not speaking to me, which is about twice a week, we can still make love. To tell the truth, I sometimes like it that way.
Anyway, I made the first move toward her, and she hesitated, then dropped her clothes and took a step toward me.
I felt some warm blood making its way back into my shriveled weenie.
We stood a few feet apart, face-to-face, then our hands reached out, and we caressed each other. Big John perked up a little more, then she took it in her hand and said, “That’s hot.”
I put my fingers between her legs. “It’s hot in there, too.”
By now, we were both hot as pistols, proving once again that when you’re having a disagreement with your partner, just skip the conversation and get down to the sex.
We came closer, and I could feel her breasts on my chest, and her thighs against mine, and her hands on my butt, pulling me closer.
I dropped to my knees and kissed her blond bush, and I was about to drop onto my back so she could get on top, but she suddenly turned and said, “Kiss it where you bit me.”
Okay. I didn’t remember where I bit her, so I covered the whole field.
Then she turned around and demanded, “Tell me you’re sorry.”
So, still on my knees, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“Kiss my toes.”
Well, all right. I kissed her sandy toes.
“Lie on your back.”
I rolled back and lay on the sand.
Kate knelt between my legs and took Big John in her hand, commenting, “This guy needs some work.” She put her other hand on my scrotum. “Where did they go?”
“Someplace warm.”
She put her head down between my legs, and within a few minutes, testicles A and B had dropped into their proper position, and Big John was standing straight up, pointing to Pegasus.
Kate lowered herself on me, stretched out, and moved her hips at her own pace until she had one of her quietly intense orgasms.
She rolled off, stood, and began getting dressed.
I felt a little used. “I think you forgot me.”
She shook the sand out of her bra. “You’re much nicer to me when you’re horny.”
“Actually, I get real mean when I’m horny.”
She smiled. “No, you’re a total puppy dog.”
I sat up. “I’m really close. I just need a minute of your time.”
She slipped on her skirt and sweater and said, “If you can wait until we get into a nice warm shower, I’ll make it worth the wait.”
“Deal.” I stood quickly and got dressed in my damp clothes.
We got back into the Jeep, and Kate turned the heater up full blast.
We drove out of the state park, then headed west back toward the B&B.
Kate said, “If I get pneumonia, it’s your fault.”
“I know. I’m sorry
.”
“I really thought a shark bit me.”
“I know. That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“And you should never, ever pretend you’re drowning.”
“I know that was unforgivable. I’m sorry.”
“You’re a total jerk.”
“I know. Wanna fuck?”
She laughed.
So we drove along the lonely highway, holding hands and listening to some Connecticut station that was playing Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald.
We got back to the B&B, and the stupid key didn’t seem to work, and I almost kicked the door down, but Kate got it unlocked, and we charged up the stairs like two teenagers who’d just discovered sex an hour ago.
Bottom line, the hot shower was better than the cold bay, and Kate, true to her word, made the wait worth it.
PART VI
Saturday
UPSTATE NEW YORK
America, with the collaboration of the Jews, is the leader of corruption and the breakdown of values, whether moral, ideological, political, or economic corruption. It disseminates abomination and licentiousness among people by way of the cheap media.
—Suleiman Abu Ghaith
Spokesman for Osama bin Laden
CHAPTER TWELVE
The members of the Executive Board and Harry Muller remained silent as Bain Madox gathered his thoughts. Then, Madox began, “First, we need to establish a time frame for Project Green. Suitcase nukes”—he motioned toward the upright suitcase—“need periodic maintenance to ensure detonation and maximum design yield. It’s all very complex, having to do with the plutonium core, but the good news is that I have a nuclear physicist in my employ who has been performing this function. The gentleman’s name is Mikhail, a Russian working in America. I’ve contacted him, and he will be here sometime tomorrow. By tomorrow night, if there are no problems, the devices will be hot.”