Bennett had no idea where he was.
Or where he was going. Or how long he had been unconscious. Minutes? Hours? Days? He had no point of reference. His thoughts were scrambled and foggy. He couldn’t see a thing. A black hood had been pulled over his head and was tied tightly around his neck. Even if he had been able to see, his watch was gone. It had been stripped from him, as had his clothes, he now realized. What’s more, his hands and feet were shackled, and he was strapped to a cold metal chair.
His head throbbed. Every muscle in his body ached. Perspiration dripped down his face and neck and back. And someone was sitting very close to him.
A plane. He was on a plane, he realized as he became aware of the pressure difference in his ears. That much was certain. Whoever was near him was now dialing an air phone. Bennett could hear the touch-tone and someone mumbling something, though he couldn’t make out the words. And then, as quickly as he began, the man stopped talking, and everything grew quiet again.
Bennett strained to listen for any other sound that might give him a clue as to who was with him. Was it just one, or were there several of them? Were they armed? Were they going to beat him? kill him? If not, where were they taking him? But for now, he heard nothing save the roar of jet engines.
And then the fog began to lift. Like a flashback in a movie, he could suddenly see the cement truck bearing down on him. He could see himself scrambling through the front window of the ambulance. He could hear the impact and feel the concussion of both explosions. He could feel the heat of the flames and see the fire roaring and crackling and hissing in the storm.
Another tsunami of guilt and grief washed over him. It had been his job to protect this woman he loved so dearly, but he had failed. He desperately wanted to believe it had all been a terrible nightmare. He longed to believe that when he opened his eyes, Erin would be sitting with him, holding his hand, in first class on some British Airways flight from Amman to London and then on to the States. But in his heart he knew it wasn’t true.
She was gone. She was dead. And he was a prisoner. A hostage. A man drowning in sorrow. His stomach ached terribly, and so did his heart. Denial was useless. Daydreaming was pointless. He had lost her. He had failed her. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He began to weep, quietly at first, and then uncontrollably. No one stopped him. No one said anything. No one cared. And then someone jabbed a needle in his arm, and that was the last thing he remembered.
Caulfield’s cell phone finally rang.
He’d been pacing the hallways of NORAD for hours. He’d been waiting for this call. But now that it was here, he was too scared to answer it. His vision kept blurring. The intense cramps in his stomach nearly made him double over in pain. What if…?
The phone rang again. And again. And a fourth time. He finally picked up.
“Hello?”
“Is this Robert Caulfield?” said a man’s voice at the other end.
“Speaking.”
“This is Special Agent Karl Miller. I’m with the FBI field office in Dallas. I’m returning your call.”
Dallas? Caulfield had called several FBI field offices around the country in the past several hours, but he certainly didn’t remember calling Dallas or talking to a Karl Miller. Perhaps this wasn’t what he thought.
“Uh, I… I’m not sure that I did… call you,” he replied, his voice raspy, his thoughts sluggish and disjointed.
“You asked for Missing Persons,” Miller explained. “All that’s being run out of Dallas for the moment.”
“Oh,” Caulfield said, now even more worried than he’d been earlier. “Okay… right… well…”
His voice trailed off. He was sweating profusely and could barely stay on his feet. He staggered into a nearby men’s room, locked himself in a stall, and sat down, his head in his hands.
“Mr. Caulfield,” the agent continued, “I understand you work for the president.”
Caulfield didn’t respond.
“Hello? Hello? Sir?”
He finally snapped to. “Yes?… What?… How’s that?” he mumbled.
“Are you okay, Mr. Caulfield?” the agent asked.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “What about my family?”
“You were calling about your mother, Dorothy Caulfield, and your younger brothers, correct?”
“That’s right,” Caulfield said. “How are they? Are they okay?”
“Your brothers’ names are Kevin, James, Lawrence, and—”
“Christopher,” Caulfield nearly shouted. “His name is Christopher. He’s the baby. Now talk to me — what’s happening with them?”
The silence at the other end of the line was chilling.
“Mr. Caulfield,” the agent finally said, “I hate to say this…”
“No.”
“… especially over the phone. But I’m afraid…”
“No!”
“… I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
The voice of a colonel came over the speakerphone.
“Mr. President, we have the secretary-general on the line. You ready for it now?”
“One moment,” the president said, turning to Briggs and those on the videoconference. “Can you gentlemen hang on? This will only take a few minutes.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Briggs replied. “Take as much time as you need. We’ll be fine.”
The president thanked his team, then scanned the bank of phones in front of him, picked up a receiver, and hit the one blinking line. “Salvador, is that you?”
“Yes, Mr. President; thank you for taking my call.”
“Sorry I wasn’t able to call sooner,” Oaks replied.
“No, no, it is quite all right,” Lucente said. “I can’t fully imagine what you are going through, Mr. President. How are you and Marie doing?”
“We’re doing reasonably well, under the circumstances,” Oaks said, dodging the question about his wife. “Thanks for asking. I appreciate it very much.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Lucente said. “I wanted to tell you personally that I am doing everything I possibly can to build an international coalition to punish whoever is responsible for this. I know you’ve had your hands full just dealing with the immediate crisis, but I went ahead anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Actually, I am very grateful,” Oaks said. “My staff told me about your press conference. It was the first bit of good news we had in hours. But, Salvador, before we go any further, please accept my condolences for the loss of your staff in Manhattan. It was our duty to protect them. I cannot tell you how horrible I feel about our failure to do just that. Please forgive us. Please forgive me personally.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Lucente replied. “You are very thoughtful. But you have nothing for which you must apologize. We have all suffered in this tragedy. Indeed, in talking to leaders all over the world, I can tell you firsthand that the entire international community is grieving for the evil that has been unleashed. What’s more, I believe we are more united today than ever before, and perhaps that can be a positive legacy from all of this horror.”
“Perhaps it can,” Oaks said. “Where are you right now?”
“En route to Beijing, Mr. President,” Lucente explained. “I just left Babylon.”
“How is my friend Mustafa?” Oaks asked, choosing not to comment on the reference to China.
“Sickened by your losses,” Lucente replied. “He wants to know if there is anything he can possibly do to help.”
Oaks didn’t miss a beat. “He could stand down his 150,000 or so troops headed into Kurdistan.”