Edge of Apocalypse (6 page)

He was older than most of the other agents in his unit and probably exceeded them in weight by at least fifty pounds. That was the price of riding a desk for most of the last ten years. They kept him on the unit for his local expertise. But the truth was--and deep down he knew it--he was little more than glorified set dressing. It looked good to have a bona fide hero on the team.

The recent missile attack wasn't his first experience with real terror in New York. On the morning of 9/11, he'd taken the PATH train into the World Trade Center, with the intention of walking the few blocks up to 26 Federal Plaza, to the New York field office of the FBI. But just as he came out of the Port Authority train station, the first plane hit the North Tower. He spent the next hour trying to get as many of the injured to safety as he could.

By 9:59 a.m., he was crossing the plaza in front of the towers, helping an injured office worker, when the South Tower came down. That's the last thing he remembered of that day. But he was lucky. He woke up in a hospital bed with a broken back, a broken arm, and several cracked ribs, not to mention all the toxic dust he ingested. But he was alive, more than could be said for over three thousand souls.

He received the FBI's Medal of Meritorious Achievement and an honorary Citation of Valor from the New York City Fire Department and the City of New York.

After 9/11, when the FBI was looking to beef up its Counterterrorism Unit in New York, he was the first on the list. But after a couple of years his injuries began to get the better of him, and he had to curtail his fieldwork. Out of necessity he'd become somewhat of an expert in using the Internet to track terrorist cells since it didn't require him to leave his desk.

But every so often he would be called out from behind his desk, usually for something unusual, like this Statue of Liberty threat. He was en route to Staten Island when the news broke about the incoming nukes. Though there was panic on the boat at first, a semblance of calm came over the passengers when the captain headed out to sea--away from Manhattan--at full speed. Gallagher spent the whole time staring at the skyline from the back rail of the ferry, unable to help this time, wondering whether this would be the last time he'd ever see his beloved skyline.

The fact that America hadn't immediately leveled the entire country of North Korea in retaliation surprised Gallagher. The 9/11 attack on American soil had launched two wars. But this time the leader of the Free World was playing things more cautiously. Back when he was a senator from Iowa, Virgil Corland had tacitly supported the War on Terror. But now, as president, he was weighed down by indecision and a devastated economy that became more indebted to foreign nations each year.

The U.S. could have wiped out the little dictator with the push of a button, but President Corland hesitated, fearing it would plunge the world into a global conflagration. The United Nations counseled restraint, and after Kim Jung-un's government indirectly seemed to admit that the attack may have been caused by a communications error, the U.S. backed away from any type of action against North Korea.

Gallagher thought they should have at least tossed a couple of nukes over there for good measure, but the country had bowed to cries of "One World, One Peace" emanating from the new power centers of Europe and Asia. The time to act had been the first seventy-two hours, yet an ailing and increasingly ineffectual President Corland had faltered. And America had taken yet another giant step backward in the eyes of much of the world.

Within an hour after the destruction of the North Korean vessel, rumors began to spring up like mushrooms on the Internet that the Korean ship hadn't actually launched the two nuclear missiles at all but had been on the receiving end of a first strike by the United States. Most of this web chatter was silly ranting from the alien-abduction conspiracy crowd, but it kept the media bloodsuckers yakking and had the potential to fuel extremists around the world, feeding their hatred toward America.

As soon as the nukes had been deflected, Gallagher, still on the ferry, got a call from the field office on his cell phone. There would be a new assignment...this one tailor-made for him. Dozens of people had been killed in the panic on the streets of New York that evening and nearly a thousand more injured. Someone high up in the government had leaked information to the media. That was tantamount to premeditated murder, or at the very least, reckless homicide--considering the resulting death and destruction it caused. One of the first rules everyone learns is you don't yell "fire!" in a crowded theater. Someone yelled fire, and now it was up to Gallagher to find out who.

The first person to go live with the news was a shock jock named Ivan Teretsky at WFQL Radio. "Esteemed" for his bombastic political pronouncements and on-air stunts, which once included the playing of a tape-recording of a prominent governor and a prostitute while they were going at it, he was best known to New Yorkers as "Ivan the Terrible."

Gallagher was now winding his way through miserable traffic to interview the radio host at his station on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He steered through Columbus Circle and drove along the park to 66
^th
, then pulled into an underground parking garage a block before the street turned onto Riverside Drive.

In the elevator, Gallagher steeled himself for the interview. He was well aware of the kind of stunts this nutcase could pull. Teretsky might try to put him on the air, turn the whole thing into one big joke. But Gallagher wasn't laughing. People had died, and somebody was responsible.

He gave his name to a pretty receptionist at the front desk and was told to wait. "Mr. Teretsky is just finishing up his show."

Good,
thought Gallagher.
At least I know this interview won't be going out over the airwaves.
He sat down on the couch to wait. A television hanging from the ceiling played silently overhead. It was flashing images from Washington, D.C., with a heading underneath that read, "Joint Congressional Committee Probes Return-to-Sender Weapon."

The camera landed briefly on Joshua Jordan and his wife, Abigail, as they made their way up the Capitol steps flanked by a swarming army of reporters. Gallagher was hit with a sudden wave of anger.

This guy was an American hero, and now these idiots on Capitol Hill were going to barbecue him for their own selfish political agendas. Why? Because he'd single-handedly saved New York with a weapons system they hadn't approved. Were they crazy? They should be giving him the Congressional Medal of Honor, a Nobel Peace Prize, an Academy Award, maybe even the Heisman Trophy--anything he wants.

Yes, Gallagher was ticked off. The receptionist told him to go in; Mr. Teretsky was ready for him.
No, he isn't,
thought Gallagher,
not even close.
He was in no mood for Teretsky now; in fact, he almost felt sorry for him. "Ivan the Terrible" was about to have a very bad day.

NINE

As Joshua Jordan strode through the halls of Congress on his way to the hearing, Abigail held tightly to his arm. For over twenty years she had been by his side, whether stationed at a military base in Europe, teaching at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, working while he studied at MIT in Boston, or moving their young family to New York City to start a new life. Even when he was away flying missions in the Middle East during the war, she'd always been there after every flight, waiting for his call. Jordan knew she didn't have to choose this life. She'd been a highly successful attorney at a prestigious Washington law firm when they first met. He had been immediately taken by her beauty, dark hair, green eyes, and athlete's tall tanned body, but he was ultimately knocked out by her brains. She never forgot a face or a fact, could cite football stats, particularly for the Denver Broncos, her favorite team, with the same ease as citing Constitutional law cases or federal statutes. She never made a bet she didn't win and was an absolute killer at Scrabble.

Today, though, she wasn't going to be by his side the whole time. He was going into a closed-door hearing with only his wits and his attorney to help him take on the full power of the U.S. Congress. He'd wanted Abby to be there, but she convinced him it was better to have an objective advocate instead of a loving and biased spouse to counsel him. Besides, she added, she hadn't been in a courtroom, let alone a congressional hearing room, in years.

The lawyer she'd recommended was Harry Smythe, a mentor and colleague of hers from her Washington days. He was a legal fixture in D.C. and had made quite a name for himself advising a former president and arguing, and winning, several cases before the Supreme Court. Jordan glanced over at the balding, sixty-year-old man walking next to him. Impeccably dressed, with small round glasses, sporting his famous bowtie, he was vaguely reminiscent of the old silent screen comic Harold Lloyd, yet he had a reputation as a cobra. He wasn't Abby, but he'd have to do.

As they approached the final security checkpoint, only those going into the classified hearing could pass any farther. Joshua pulled Abby aside and gave her a hug. It was amazing, even after all this time, the charge he got just being near her.

"I wish you were going in with me."

"I know," she smiled, "you'll do fine, you always do." She gave his hand one last squeeze. "I'll be praying for you; don't forget that."

Joshua was going to say something back, but squeezed her hand in return and headed toward the hearing room door.

As Joshua disappeared beyond the door with his attorney, Abigail couldn't help but let a few doubts creep in. After the euphoria of that day when the missiles were turned back, questions had started to pop up. First it was just a low murmur in the background, but now that murmur had turned into a steady stream of acrimonious questions. Who authorized the use of an untested system like the RTS-RGS? Why were the bombs retargeted to a live target? Why weren't they destroyed harmlessly in midair over the Atlantic? Why weren't the intelligence and defense committees of Congress even aware of this system? Who did Joshua Jordan think he was to make these decisions? As a private military contractor, was he making national defense policy for the whole country?

Abigail had lived in this town long enough to know that it wasn't going to be a cakewalk for her husband today. Careers were made out of crushing the bones of honorable men like him. It was a zero-sum game. Any advantage you could take, any weakness you could find, any crack you could pry open and exploit was counted as a political notch on your belt. She'd tried to prepare her husband for what he might expect, but he seemed confident he had right on his side. And Harry Smythe. Thank goodness for Harry. He was an old hand who knew his way around the political cloakrooms and brass-railed bars where most of the work in Washington really gets done. He wouldn't let Joshua step on any landmines these senators and congressmen might strew in his path.

But the real question was whether he could save Joshua from himself. When Joshua got an idea in his head, he was like a dog with a bone; there was no getting it away from him. It's what made him so brilliant, so successful, but it could also make him infuriating. Joshua knew no compromise. It was the biggest problem between father and son. Joshua had expectations that Cal would never be able to meet.

Abigail hadn't told Joshua what really happened to Cal on the evening of the attack. She found out herself a few days later when Cal confided his terror to her. Joshua had assumed Cal was on a train, well out of New York City, when the panic hit; but he was right in the middle of it. She didn't like holding things back from her husband, but he was so preoccupied with the hearing in Washington. Besides, things had been touchy between him and Cal before he'd left for college. Now everything seemed better. The near tragedy had brought the family together. Debbie had been like a rock for her younger brother, and Joshua seemed at least to be trying to understand Cal's decision to study art at Liberty. She didn't want to take that away from them. Not now. Not yet.

But as she walked down the hall, she promised herself, after this was all over and things had died down, she'd tell her husband the truth. He deserved it and so did Cal.

TEN

The public was barred from the closed-door, high-level security hearing, but the press was allowed in to take photos for a few minutes before the session started. Joshua was seated at a long, green clothdraped table, looking uncomfortable while cameras clicked and strobes flashed in his face. He didn't like having his picture taken, and he didn't try to hide it as he leaned over to his lawyer seated next to him.

"I'd take any amount of grilling from a senator over this form of torture."

With a wry smile the lawyer shot back, "I hope you still feel that way after the hearing."

Then, as if on some hidden cue, the photographers stopped, packed up their cameras, and walked out. Joshua wondered, chuckling to himself, if there had been some sort of high-pitched dog whistle calling them off that only the news hounds could hear. Whatever it was, he was happy to be spared any more embarrassing attention from the press.

He looked around the room. Even though the public wasn't allowed in, some pretty heavyweight bystanders sat in the mostly vacant audience section behind him: the president's national security advisor, the chief of staff to the vice president, an aide to the Joint Chiefs of Staff he'd met once but whose name he couldn't remember, and various other high-level advisors and military personnel. It was a pretty heady peanut gallery.

The senators and representatives began to file into the chamber in ones and twos, taking their places at the raised dais at the front. A few came over to shake Joshua's hand enthusiastically, but most just took their seats and looked over their notes or conferred with their aides. They were a select group of experienced lawmakers, the so-called gang-of-eight, as they were commonly referred to in Washington political parlance: those members of Congress with whom the president traditionally conferred in times of grave national security, the Democratic and Republican leaders in the House and Senate, and the chairs and ranking members of their respective intelligence committees.