Distant gunfire erupted from over their hill. She grabbed her pack, and they ran out of the parking lot and down the short road with their rations rattling loudly. They cached their packs at the bottom of the hill and ascended the rear slope with weapons in hand. It sounded as if the entire company was engaged in the fight. At the crest of the ridge, the noise was stupendous. A hundred and fifty automatic weapons blazed.
Television cameras, generals and reporters all stood in a semicircle around Stephie’s fighting hole. Animal’s grinning face and smoking machine gun were bathed in camera lights. When they saw Stephie, someone said, “There she is!” and cameramen came running. John fended them off, and they parted to reveal a major general. “Private Roberts!” he boomed. “It’s a pleasure!” They shook hands instead of exchanging salutes.
Bill clicked the mouse and hit play for the third time. The picture of his daughter — sitting somewhere in the Alabama woods — came to life in the V-mail on his desktop screen.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, waving and grinning. She looked as beautiful as he’d ever seen her. Her white teeth shone from a tanned and dirty face. But her smile, which before had seemed so effortless, now looked unnatural. Forced. “Hope you’re doing well. We’re, well, I can’t say where we are, I guess, but you probably already know. Anyway, I’m fine. We’re all fine. And I’m well taken care of, thank you.” She laughed. Bill wasn’t sure what she was saying. “The weather’s been okay. A little hot, actually. We get three meals a day. A lot of our food comes from local stores, and we cook it near our positions. It’s really kind of like a camp out, only with weapons,” she said, giggling at her joke. “We’re all just, you know, waiting,” she said with her inflection rising on the last word. She chuckled and shrugged, maintaining an artificially cheerful demeanor. “Nobody knows, you know, exactly, when they’re going to come, except maybe you, I guess.” She shrugged again and made an uncertain face. “So, that’s about it from Camp Stephie. If you receive this, just reply, and I’ll get the platoon commo to pass it on. Love you,” she said more seriously. Her eyes dropped to the ground, then rose again to the camera. “I love you very much, Dad, and I miss you.” She blew him a kiss.
She reached down. The picture shook. The video came to an end.
Bill reached for the mouse and clicked play again.
Clarissa leaned back from her desk, propped her feet up, and began thumbing the cursor through her accumulated E-mails. “What time is it?” asked one sender, who declined to identify himself. Frowning, she traced it. A slender finger — a tiny sleuth of a program — scurried across the network, and came back to report that the E-mail came from a “Secure Government Server.” A solid wall. You could go no further.
Everybody in national security used the same anonymous router. It guaranteed destruction of all traces of the data that passes through the Internet courtesy of the Department of Defense. You don’t want the Chinese being alerted, Clarissa had been told, to an unusual surge in late-night pizza orders at the Department of the Navy or the Air Force when something big is up.
“What time is it?” asked the empty dialogue box. She typed several entries, but to no avail.
She moved on. Memo, memo, invoice, memo, memo, confirmation, memo, memo, memo. What time is it? She concentrated, trying to force the answer from her brain through sheer mental effort. What kind of answer do they want? Is it some kind of inside joke about time?
Suddenly, she remembered. “Now is the time,” she thought, and nodded. She typed the four words as she mumbled them in the subvocal range reserved for monologues. When she hit “Enter” and nothing happened, she hissed, “shi-,” which was sufficient when communicating with herself. She tried again. “‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.’”
Before she could hit “Enter,” the document unscrambled before her eyes. Her mouth hung open in surprise. Letter, she mentally catalogued the E-mail.
She smiled. It must be Dad with a newfound penchant for cloak and dagger.
A clock counted down from ninety seconds in the upper right-hand corner as she read. What’s that for? she wondered.
We both want to save America. You by assisting us in what I dare say is a noble cause. Your father by being the right man at the right time to lead this country.
The clock was down to one minute and counting.
We are leaders at the very highest levels of the American government establishment. I am a high-ranking official whose identity will, for the time being, remain undisclosed. But I was in the Situation Room with you today.
Was it her boss the secretary of state? Or perhaps the secretary of defense? Or the national security advisor? Or a military officer? Or who?
Would you give away Southern Florida? Or would you fight? Every way that you can? With all your might and resources? We choose the latter. We choose the way which is, dare I say, the way of the immortal greats. We need your help. Your country needs you, Clissa.
“Clissa?” she read and reread, then wondered. Only her father called her that! He had for as long as she could remember. The clock was down to forty seconds.
Any agreement Baker makes with Han Zhemin could lead to the ruin of our beleaguered nation. We must know what Baker’s intentions are with respect to his deal before he betrays America. If you do not wish to join us, do nothing. This message erases itself ninety seconds after you open it. But if you want to save America, click on the button below immediately. Regardless, I must warn you, never, ever discuss this E-mail. I feel that I must be quite clear on this point. We patriots are at great risk in this endeavor. There can be no exceptions made for anyone.
What? she thought in alarm. The clock read fifteen seconds. Her cursor hovered over the lone button on which were printed the words “I Accept.” I can always change my mind later, she reasoned. Almost reluctantly, as if giving in to curiosity, she clicked. A new window popped open.
Installing anonymous router. Done. Reply to our E-mails by typing the password on the address line. ERASING ALL MEDIA.
The computer binged. Her E-mail reader appeared as before. The treasonous invitation that she had accepted was gone.
I’m in, she thought, and then she grinned in excitement. Jesus. I’m really in!
A grim-faced President Baker waited alone while Han Zhemin — also alone — crossed the large, carpeted, high-ceilinged room. Baker didn’t rise or otherwise greet Han, and he wore what Han took for a surly expression. Before sitting, Han extracted a small black device. He waved it around the room, then returned it — satisfied — to his jacket pocket.
Han sat on a sofa directly across from Bill’s chair, separated by a well-appointed coffee table. Han poured himself coffee and held the urn up to Bill, who didn’t bat an eye. Han shrugged and said, “It would have been better to meet again after all these years under more pleasant circumstances.”
Bill’s right eyelid fluttered, Han noted. A nervous tick. That’s new.