Dead Heat

  You could see it on news shows and hear it in more and more comments on the radio. You

  could read it in the editorials, and occasionally you'd see or hear about an anti-American protest that broke out on some university campus, often in Beirut or Cairo but sometimes even in Amman and what was left of Istanbul.

  It made Bennett's blood boil, for it wasn't just their treasures that Americans were

  donating to care for millions of wounded and displaced families throughout the region. Tens of thousands of Americans had come to the region to volunteer their time and talents as well. They brought expertise as doctors, nurses, pilots, truck drivers, general contractors, and so forth to help where they could. Many who had come to help were young people,

  in their teens and twenties. They formed a rapidly growing team of evangelical Christians and Catholics known as the "Passion for Compassion" movement.

  It wasn't only Americans coming to help, of course. Thousands of South Korean and

  Australian believers had come as well, as had many Chinese, Indonesians, Filipinos,

  Indians, and others, many of whom had come to faith in Christ since Ezekiel's War. But

  thus far, the simple fact was that the vast majority of dollars and volunteers came from the U.S., and more often than not, Bennett couldn't resist getting into an argument with

  whoever thought his country wasn't doing enough.

  But not tonight. This was neither the time nor the place. Besides, he knew he hadn't the emotional bandwidth to argue with anyone, least of all a U.N. hospital administrator. All he wanted to know was, how soon could he go into the examination room? How soon could he

  see his wife? How soon could he touch her face and hold her hand? Nothing else mattered to Bennett. Certainly not this woman's political beliefs and prejudices.

  Yet rather than answers, all he got were more questions. The woman droned on and on.

  Bennett answered the best he could. Yes, he and Erin had gotten all their vaccinations before coming. No, they had no allergies they were aware of. Yes, Erin was on a

  prescription medication—Percocet, to manage the pain from a gunshot wound in her leg.

  No, Bennett wasn't going to explain further; it was all on their volunteer applications. Yes, they'd signed the releases upon arrival. Yes, they only ate food served in the camp's mess tents. No, they had not left the camp since they'd arrived. Well, one time, for the Fourth of July weekend. They'd visited friends at a church in Amman. No, he couldn't remember

  precisely how long they'd been in Jordan. "Six, seven months," Bennett said.

  "Something like that."

  "Well, which?" the administrator pressed, her voice thick with derision. "Six or seven?"

  Bennett told himself to stay calm. It was all he could do not to push this overweight

  monstrosity out of the way, kick in the door of the examination room, and demand to know what was going on with his wife. But the last thing he needed was to get tossed out by

  security. So he took a deep breath, looked her square in the eye, and said, "Actually, come to think of it, we've been here seven months. We came in February, soon after we got

  married. . . ." His voice trailed off.

  He was tempted to add, ". . . and discovered the Temple treasures and the Ark of the Covenant and received a medal of honor from the prime minister of Israel . . ." But again, he let it go. This woman didn't care. Why prolong the discussion?

  "So why did you come here?" the woman asked, matter-of-factly.

  Bennett looked up. That one surprised him. Was that an official question, or a

  personal one? he wondered. He noticed the woman was no longer staring at her clipboard.

  She was actually staring into his eyes. She seemed genuinely curious, even bewildered. For her, this was a job. He noticed that the ID hanging around her neck said she had worked for UNRWA—the United Nations Relief and Works Agency—since 1987.

  But why was he here?

  It was a good question. What had compelled him and Erin to come here of all places, and now of all times in their lives? What had compelled them to invest twenty-one of the twenty-two million dollars he'd made on Wall Street caring for those Syrian and Lebanese and Iranian refugees, many of whom had long been enemies of America and Israel and the

  West, certainly for as long as he could remember?

  The woman deserved an honest answer. Bennett knew he should say something. But the

  words would not come. He wasn't proud of it, but he simply had no desire to talk. Not here.

  Not now. All he wanted to do was be with Erin. That was it. That was all. And he was fast running out of patience.

  Instead of replying, he asked, "Are we done here?"

  The woman stared at him in disbelief, then got up quickly and left.

  A wave of guilt washed over Bennett. And then, all of a sudden, it was followed by a fresh wave of fear. Something terrible was about to happen. He could sense it. He could feel it.

  And there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

  5:58 P.M.-SECURE HOLDING ROOM, REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION

  It was almost time.

  The president had been reviewing the latest draft of his speech, but now Bob

  Corsetti slipped him a handwritten note that read, "Nine minutes."

  MacPherson nodded, scribbled down a few last changes, handed the speech to an aide,

  and asked her to make sure the corrections were quickly entered into the teleprompter. Then he took the phone Corsetti handed him and joined a hastily arranged conference call of his National Security Council. More troubling intel was coming in, and the NSC was insisting on a quick conversation with the president.

  As the president picked up, Corsetti slipped another sheet of White House stationery into his hands, listing the names of everyone on the call. These included Vice President William Oaks, from his summer home in Jacksonville, Florida; Homeland Security Secretary Lee

  James, from his hotel room in Boston; CIA Director Danny Tracker, from his office at

  Langley; FBI Director Scott Harris, from his car en route to Washington from Quantico;

  National Security Advisor Ken Costello, from the White House Situation Room; Secretary

  of State Marsha Kirkpatrick, from her office at Foggy Bottom; and Secret Service Director Jackie Sanchez, who was sitting with the president in the secure holding room underneath the main convention hall.

  Corsetti picked up a second line and moderated the call. "Ladies and gentlemen, we don't have much time, as you know. But over the past hour or so, we've had some fast-moving

  developments, and I know several of you wanted to brief the president before his speech—

  "

  "Excuse me, Bob," MacPherson cut in. "Where's Burt Trainor?"

  "The SecDef is flying back from Japan," Corsetti explained. "They're having some communications problems on his plane at the moment. The air force is certain they'll have the issue resolved shortly, and he'll join us as soon as he can."

  "Fine," the president said. "Let's just make this quick."

  "Yes, sir," Corsetti continued. "Ken, why don't you start—just keep it tight."

  "Thanks, Bob," Costello said. "Mr. President, at present we believe there are at least four, possibly five, high-value targets converging on the Los Angeles area. These are men suspected of being involved with terrorist organizations—some in Asia, some in Latin

  America. We believe each of them poses a clear and present danger to U.S. national

  security."

  "Do you have any idea what they're planning?" the president asked.

  "No, sir," Costello said. "Nor are we certain that their movements are necessarily connected, much less coordinated, but it seems likely that they are."

  "And you're certain they are in or near Los Angeles?"

  "It would appear that way, Mr. President," Costello confirmed, "though we don't have a specific location on any of them."


  "How solid is the intelligence?" MacPherson pressed. "Is it all from Yemen?"

  "No, sir," Costello explained. "In the last few hours, intelligence directors from three friendly countries—Canada, Mexico, and Great Britain— have contacted us to share

  specific, credible information gleaned from a variety of human sources and telephonic and electronic intercepts."

  "Mr. President, this is Scott Harris at FBI."

  "Yes, Scott?"

  "None of the intel directors knew the others were calling us. Yet all of their leads point to L.A., and all three calls came in today."

  "And you think someone's trying to take me out," MacPherson clarified.

  "That's a real possibility, sir," Harris confirmed. "You or Governor Jackson."

  "What else?" the president asked, glancing at his watch.

  "Mr. President, it's Marsha at State."

  "Go ahead, Marsha."

  "It's unrelated to this developing terrorist threat, but there's something else you need to know about," Kirkpatrick explained.

  "Make it quick."

  "Well, Mr. President," the secretary of state continued, "it appears, in the wake of all the devastation that has taken place in Turkey, Iran, and the Caucasus, that Kurdish

  leaders in southern Turkey are planning to declare independence tomorrow and announce

  the formation of their own sovereign state."

  MacPherson turned to Corsetti, who looked as shocked as he was. "Madame Secretary, please tell me you're kidding."

  "I'm afraid not, sir," Kirkpatrick explained. "I just got word a few minutes ago. What's more, we're also hearing that the Kurdish province in northern Iraq is apparently planning to secede and join the new Kurdish state."

  "What will that do to the upcoming state visit?" the president asked.

  "President Al-Hassani is absolutely livid, as you can imagine," the SecState replied. "I just got off the phone with Khalid Tariq, his chief of staff. He's threatening to call the whole trip off if we don't intervene. Tariq says Al-Hassani is mobilizing his military and threatening to send 150,000 troops into Kurdistan in the next forty-eight hours. What's more, he even hinted at a possible oil embargo against us if we were to recognize the new Kurdish state."

  MacPherson winced. That was all he needed in an election—oil prices spiking yet again,

  and gas and airline fuel prices with them.

  "So what does the esteemed leader of Iraq want from me?" he asked, realizing his whole night was about to be consumed with another Mideast crisis.

  "Tariq says they want you to send an unambiguous message to the Kurds that any

  attempt to create their own state or secede from Iraq will be met with an international economic embargo," Secretary Kirkpatrick explained. "They want you to vow not to

  recognize an independent Kurdistan in any way, shape, or form, and they want you to call Secretary- General Lucente personally and demand a U.N. Security Council resolution

  condemning any such move by the Kurds under the terms of Chapter Seven."

  MacPherson glanced at Corsetti again. "The Iraqi president wants the world to go to war to stop the Kurds from declaring independence?" "Either that or Iraq will,"

  Kirkpatrick said. "Tariq put it this way, sir:

  `Don't make us take matters into our own hands."

  The White House operator now beeped onto the line to announce the arrival of

  Defense Secretary Burt Trainor.

  "Welcome, Mr. Secretary," MacPherson said. "Please tell me you have some good news."

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. President," the SecDef replied. "As you know, I've been meeting with senior defense and intelligence officials in Tokyo and Seoul. They tell me in the past few weeks they've been picking up disturbing signs that the North Koreans might be

  preparing for an invasion of the south."

  "Has the DPRK begun moving troops?" MacPherson asked.

  "No, no, not yet," Trainor was quick to clarify. "But they have canceled all military leaves. They're pre-positioning additional fuel, food, medicine, and other supplies to

  forward areas. We're seeing increased activity around missile sites and air bases. I'm

  transmitting a memo to Air Force One, laying out many of the specifics and suggesting several possible reasons for all this heightened activity."

  "Does Pyongyang have any planned military exercises coming up?" the president wondered aloud.

  "Nothing official, not until early next year," Trainor responded. "But two days ago NSA intercepted a telephone call from a North Korean general to the Chinese ministry of defense saying there might be 'new activity' soon near the DMZ."

  "'New activity'?" the president asked. "As in war?"

  "War games, we're hoping, but honestly, sir, we don't really know." "What's your best guess, Mr. Secretary?"

  Trainor paused for a moment. Corsetti, meanwhile, slipped the president another note:

  "Two minutes."

  "To be perfectly candid, Mr. President," Trainor now answered, "I'm worried because the Japanese and South Koreans are worried. And make no mistake, Mr. President, these

  guys are very worried."

  "What do they want?"

  "They want you to order a carrier battle group to steam through the Sea of Japan

  immediately—this week, tomorrow, if you can," Trainor replied. "They want more Patriot missile batteries. They want you, or Secretary Kirkpatrick, to make a strong public

  statement in the next twenty-four hours reaffirming the U.S.'s commitment to a free and secure Pacific Rim. And during your summit with Al-Hassani next week—if there is still a summit, if the Kurds haven't just blown up that summit—they want you to press the Iraqi leader to get oil prices under $100 a barrel as quickly as possible, even if that means putting pressure on Israel to slow down on the Temple. They say their economies simply can't survive for long the way we're going, and they're looking for you to bail them out."

  MacPherson took a deep breath. He wasn't going to miss this job. He really had no idea

  who was going to replace him—California governor Paul Jackson, the Republican whom

  he had recently and enthusiastically endorsed, or Illinois senator Elena Martinez, who

  seemed to hate his guts and loved to say essentially as much as often as she had the chance.

  The race couldn't be tighter. Both desperately wanted the job and were pulling no punches to get it. But on days like this he wondered if Jackson and Martinez really had any idea what they were getting themselves into.

  A new terror threat in Los Angeles. The rapidly rising China threat in the Pacific.

  Rumors of another war brewing in the Middle East. A possible nuclear showdown on the

  Korean peninsula. A global economic recession teetering on the brink of an outright

  depression. A world still trying to recover from the Day of Devastation. The Jews rebuilding their Temple. The Arabs rebuilding Babylon. And an American people deeply divided over

  how to handle all of it. MacPherson found himself glad he was constitutionally barred

  from running again. He had done his job. He was proud of what he had accomplished. But

  now he was exhausted and ready to hand over the baton.

  "Look, I need to go," he said, standing up and preparing to head to the convention floor. "Let's reconvene at 9 p.m., my time. I'll be back on Air Force One by then. We'll do a videoconference. I want a briefing from each of you, including specific recommendations for handling Al-Hassani and the North Koreans. And, Bill, you still there?"

  "Yes, sir," Vice President Oaks said. "How can I help?"

  "When are you speaking here?" MacPherson asked.

  "Wednesday night, Mr. President."

  "Doing the network morning shows on Thursday, as well?"

  "Yes, sir, and some radio, too."

  "Fine," MacPherson said, "then make plans to meet me at Camp David Thursday night. We should have some more solid intel on all this by then. We ca
n watch

  Governor Jackson's speech together and review the polls. And we can talk about Al-

  Hassani's upcoming visit and where Salvador Lucente fits into this whole picture. I don't have a good feeling about where this is headed, and I'd like your input."

  "Absolutely, Mr. President," the VP agreed. "I'll see you then."

  MacPherson thanked everyone, signed off the call, stood slowly, moved to the door,

  and then paused. He tried to shake off the gloom of the call, but it wasn't going to be easy.

  Twenty thousand delegates on the floor above screamed, "Four more years! Four more years! Four more years!"

  They had no idea what even the next four weeks held. Neither did MacPherson, and it

  chilled him to his core.

  9

  4:05 A.M.-A REFUGEE CAMP IN NORTHERN JORDAN

  The desert sun wouldn't rise for another hour.

  Yet somehow it remained unseasonably hot. The air was unusually thick with

  humidity. Storm clouds were rolling in, and Bennett could hear thunder rumbling in the

  distance. He could feel his shirt drenched in sweat. He could smell his fear, rising by the minute. He half assumed the nurse or guard could hear his heart, pounding relentlessly in his chest. One thing was for sure: he couldn't take much more of this.

  In less than four hours he was supposed to be back at his post, unloading newly arrived U.N. trucks filled with food supplies and then helping to make, serve, and clean up after breakfast for five thousand desperate souls. Would he have any answers by then? He had

  to. But what if they were not the answers he wanted?

  Bennett walked over to the head nurse on duty.

  "Sorry to bother you again," he said as politely as he could. "I'm just wondering if you could check with the doctor and see how much longer it's going to be?"

  He could see a bit of empathy in her eyes this time, but the answer was the same.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Bennett. I really am. But there's nothing I can do right now."