The President dug the palm of his free hand into his left eye. "What is it?" he asked as he rubbed his palm into the other eye and looked at the clock beside the phone.
"Sir, seven minutes ago there was an explosion in Seoul, outside the Palace."
"The celebration," he said knowingly. "How bad?"
"I just took a quick look at the video. There appears to have been hundreds of casualties, possibly several dozen deaths."
"Any of our people?"
"I don't know."
"Terrorism?"
"It appears to be. A sound truck was obliterated."
"Has anyone called to claim responsibility?"
"Kalt is on the phone with the KCIA right now. So far, no one."
The President was already on his feet. "Call Av, Mel, Greg, Ernie, and Paul and have them meet us in the Situation Room at five-fifteen. Was Libby there?"
"Not yet. She was en route from the Embassy— wanted to be late for Duk's speech."
"Good girl. Get her on the phone; I'll take it downstairs. And call the Vice President in Pakistan and ask him to come back this afternoon."
Hanging up, the President tapped the intercom beside the phone and asked his valet to take out a black suit, red tie. Power clothes, in case he had to talk to the media and didn't have time to change.
As he hurried across the soft carpet to the bathroom, Megan Lawrence stirred; he heard her call his name softly, but he ignored her as he shut the bathroom door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The three men walked calmly down the alley. When they reached the window of the old hotel, the two men slid in while Eyepatch watched the street. When they were inside, he followed quickly.
Eyepatch hurried to the duffel bag he had left behind and pulled three bundles from inside. He kept the South Korean captain's uniform for himself, and tossed the noncom uniforms to the others. They removed their boots, stuffed them in the bag with their clothes, and quickly donned the uniforms.
When they were finished, Eyepatch went back to the window, climbed through, and motioned for the others to join him. Bags in hand, they quickly crossed the alley and walked away from the Palace, toward the side street where a fourth man waited in an idling jeep. As soon as they were seated, the jeep pulled onto Chonggyechonno and headed away from the explosion, toward the north.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Quietly shutting the bedroom door, Paul Hood walked over to his son's bed, lay a hand over his eyes, and switched on the lamp beside his bed.
"Dad—" the boy wheezed.
"I know," Hood said softly. He cracked his fingers to admit the light slowly, then reached under the night-stand and took out the Pulmo Aide. Flipping the lid of the lunchbox-sized unit, Hood uncoiled the tube and handed it to Alexander. The boy put one end in his mouth while his father eyedropped the Ventolin solution into the slot on top.
"I suppose you'll want to kick my butt while you do this?"
The boy nodded gravely.
"I'm going to teach you chess, you know."
Alexander shrugged.
"It's a game where you can kick mental butt. That's a lot more satisfying."
Alexander made a face.
After switching on the unit, Hood walked over to the small Trinitron in the corner of the room, turned on the Genesis unit, then returned with a pair of joysticks as the Mortal Kombat logo blazed onto the screen.
"And don't put in the password for the bloody version," Hood said before handing one to the boy. "I don't want my heart being torn out tonight."
His son's eyes went wide.
"That's right. I know all about the A, B, A, C, A, B, B sequence on the Code of Honor screen. I watched you do it last time, and I had Matt Stoll tell me what it was all about."
The boy's eyes were still saucers as his father sat on the edge of the bed.
"Yeah you don't mess with Op-Center techno-weenies, kid. Or their boss."
With the nebulizer mouthpiece held firmly between his lips, Alexander made a point of pressing just the Start button. Soon, the room was filled with grunts and sharp slaps as Liu Kang and Johnny Cage battled for supremacy on the video screen.
For the first time, the elder Hood was beginning to hold his own when the phone rang. At this hour, it could only be a wrong number or a crisis.
He heard the floorboards creak, and a moment later Sharon poked her head in.
"It's Steve Burkow."
Hood was instantly energized. At this hour, it had to be something big.
Alexander had used the distraction to hit his father's proxy with two quick flying kicks, and as Hood rose Johnny Cage fell backward, dead.
"At least you don't get to rip out my heart," Hood said as he set the joystick down and headed toward the door.
Now his wife's eyes were wide.
"Guy talk." Hood said as he hurried past her, giving her a loving pat on the behind when he was behind the door.
The bedroom phone was a secure line, not a portable. Hood was on it for only as long as it took for the National Security Adviser to tell him about the explosion and to come to the meeting in the Situation Room.
Sharon sauntered in. From the bedroom, Hood heard the sounds of combat as Alexander battled the computer.
"Sorry I didn't hear him," she said.
Hood stepped from his pajama bottoms and pulled on his pants. "It's okay. I was up anyway."
She cocked her head toward the phone. "Is it big?"
"Terrorism in Seoul, a bomb blast. That's all I know."
She rubbed her bare arms. "By any chance, were you touching me in bed?"
Hood snatched a white shirt from the closet doorknob and half smiled. "I was thinking about it."
"Mmmm must've come through in my dream. I could swear you did."
Sitting on the bed, Hood slid into his Thorn McCanns.
Sharon sat down beside him and stroked his back as he tied his shoes. "Paul, do you know what we need?"
"A vacation," he said.
"Not just a vacation. Time away— alone."
He stood and grabbed his watch, wallet, keys, and security pass from the nightstand. "I was just lying here, thinking that."
Sharon didn't say anything; her twisted mouth said it all.
"I promise, we'll have it," he said, gently kissing her on the head. "I love you, and as soon as I save the world, we'll go and explore some part of it."
"Call me?" Sharon said, following him out the door.
"I will," he said as he jogged down the hall, took the stairs two at a time, and flew out the front door.
As he backed the Volvo from the driveway, Hood punched in Mike Rodgers's number and put him on speaker.
The phone barely rang once. There was silence on the other end.
"Mike?"
"Yeah, Paul," Rodgers said. "I heard."
He heard? Hood scowled. He liked Rodgers, he admired him a great deal, and he depended on him even more. But Hood promised himself that if the day ever came that he caught the two-star General off-guard, he would retire. Because his professional life just wouldn't get any better than that.
"Who told you?" Hood asked. "Someone at the base in Seoul?"
"No," said Rodgers. "I saw it on CNN."
The scowl deepened. Hood himself couldn't sleep, but he was beginning to think Rodgers didn't require sleep. Maybe bachelors had more energy, or maybe he'd made a deal with the devil. He'd have his answer if one of his twenty-year-old girlfriends ever landed him, or when another six and a half years passed, whichever came first.
Since the car phone wasn't secure, Hood had to couch his instructions with care.
"Mike, I'm on my way to see the boss. I don't know what he's going to say, but I want you to get a Striker team on the field."
"Good idea. Any reason to think he'll finally let us play abroad?"