“This is bigger than any one man, Jackie,” Gray replied very calmly. “This is strictly a war of good versus evi
l, and we have to ensure that those two sides remain clearly defined. And to do so, sacrifices have to be made, for the good of all. Even the president is not above that. And to accomplish that the world has to believe that his kidnappers have killed him.” He paused and added, “I’m sure your father would have no problem with any of this.”
“Bullshit!” Simpson roared. “He’d be the first one to throw you in jail.”
“Step over here with me, Jackie,” Gray said with urgency. “Do it now.”
Simpson didn’t budge. “No. You’re going to just have to kill me too.”
“Please don’t force me to make that decision.”
Alex suddenly screamed out, “Gun!” He threw himself toward Brennan. But someone else was a little quicker.
The shot rang out, as people seemed to be moving in slow motion. There were screams and scuffling feet and the sound of metal hitting the floor. And then there was silence.
Jackie Simpson dropped first to her knees and then fell facedown on the cold cement floor. The bullet that would have hit Brennan was now embedded inside her heart. Gray screamed and stood over Captain Jack, who’d pulled a small pistol from his ankle holster and fired at the president. Yet Simpson had denied him his kill.
Alex knelt down and checked her pulse and then looked up and shook his head.
“Jackie!” Gray cried out as he looked at his dead goddaughter.
“Beth,” a stunned Oliver Stone whispered as he stared down at the woman.
Alex, who’d been the only one close enough to hear, looked at Stone. Beth?
Gray pointed his gun at Captain Jack, but Stone’s voice boomed out. “If you shoot him, you have no connection to the North Koreans’ plot to kill the president.”
Gray’s finger remained on the trigger, but he didn’t pull it.
Stone was visibly trembling and his eyes were tearing up as he said, “We’re going to take the president to Medina. To the place Mr. Hemingway tells us to.”
“That is not an option,” Gray barked.
“It is your only option, Carter,” Stone replied. “You can’t let millions of innocent people die for no reason.”
He whirled on Stone. “Innocent! Those devils took my family from me!” Gray shouted. “They took everything I ever cared about.”
“And my country did the same to me,” Stone answered.
Gray and Stone stared at each other while everyone looked on. Then Stone’s gaze went to Simpson’s body. “Just like you, I’ve now lost everything.” His voice trembled.
Gray’s gaze went from Simpson to Stone. “I can’t possibly take the president to Medina. There isn’t enough time.”
“I believe the Medina Mr. Hemingway has in mind is far closer,” Stone replied.
They all looked at Hemingway. “Do you have the chopper?” Hemingway asked Gray, who nodded. “Then you can make my Medina in less than two hours, well within the deadline.”
“If I agree why can’t I just call from the chopper and tell them I found him in whatever Medina you’re talking about?” Gray rejoined.
“Unless you actually go to the place, you won’t be able to answer all the questions about where he was found. The press and the country will want to know,” Hemingway answered. “In great detail.”
Stone looked at Gray. “You can even take credit for finding the president, Carter. You’ll be a national hero.”
“How exactly do I do that?” Gray retorted.
“You’re a smart man, you’ll figure it out on the chopper ride,” Stone replied.
Gray snapped, “This man stays with me.” He pointed at Captain Jack.
“I’m sure you’ll be successful in getting every last morsel of information from him,” Stone said confidently.
“And Hemingway too,” Gray added.
“Let’s go!” Alex barked.
As the others were heading out, Stone knelt down next to Simpson as Gray looked on. Stone touched the woman’s hair and then put her still-warm hand in his. He turned the hand over and looked at the crescent scar on the palm. It appeared remarkably the same as it had when she cut her hand all those years ago. He saw the scar when he picked up her change on the street that day. Tears slid down his cheeks. They were the tears of his nightmare, of losing his daughter in a dream. And now for real, which was immeasurably worse. He kissed her on the cheek.
Stone looked up at Gray, who just stood there, hands dangling uselessly at his sides. “You will make sure that her body is returned for proper burial,” Stone said firmly. Gray nodded dully. Then Stone walked past the man without another word.
Outside, they followed Gray’s men to a nearby clearing where the chopper sat.
The pilot leaned out. “Where are we headed?”
“To Medina,” Hemingway called out.
“What?” the pilot exclaimed.
“The address is in my shirt pocket,” Hemingway said.
One of the guards pulled out the piece of paper and read it. He shot Hemingway a glance. Stone had read the paper over the man’s shoulder. He’d been right.
Hemingway settled into his seat in the rear of the chopper. A split second later he head-butted the guard closest to him, shattering the man’s nose and right cheek. Then Hemingway kicked the seat in front of him with such force that it tore loose from its base and the guard sitting in it was thrown forward. In another instant Hemingway was running, wounded leg and all, toward the woods.
Alex raced after Hemingway as fast he could while tree limbs, bushes and vines ripped at him. The guy had been shot in the damn leg, and Alex couldn’t catch him? He heard a shout ahead and he increased his pace. He broke free of the trees and skidded to a stop just before he would have plummeted over the side. He was standing on the edge of a long fall. He couldn’t see what was at the bottom, but as he stood there listening, Alex thought he heard a splash. As other guards raced up to join him, he pointed down into the abyss and shook his head.
Tom Hemingway was gone.
CHAPTER
69
ACTING PRESIDENT BEN HAMILTON was watching the screen in the Oval Office as people hovered around. The film footage was grainy and jerky—all professional news-gathering services had already fled the country—yet clearly showed the complete chaos that now was Damascus. The roads were clogged with cars, the streets with desperate, terrified Syrians. It was reported that people were sprinting down the runway of the airport, trying to grab onto the last few planes that were taking off. Law and order had long since disappeared. People were merely trying to get away. And as the hours wound down and that hope vanished, things were turning very ugly.
Hamilton and his group watched the screen as parents ran down the streets carrying their children and screaming in terror while soldiers pushed through the panicked masses using bullhorns to tell the crowds to evacuate. Yet, with less than one hour left under the United States’ deadline, none of these people were going to survive. There was a jarring video segment of looters being beaten to death by angry citizens. Hamilton watched until he saw a group of small children become separated from their families and then being trampled underneath the fleeing crowds.
“Turn the damn thing off,” Hamilton ordered, and the screen instantly went dark.
Hamilton’s desk was covered with official pleas from all over the world begging him not to pull the trigger. Millions of Americans across the country were out in the streets, some in support of Hamilton’s decision, but most opposed. The White House switchboard had been overwhelmed.
Secretary of Defense Joe Decker sat down next to his commander in chief. Hamilton looked at him in desperation.
Perhaps sensing his boss’s wavering, Decker said, “Sir, I know that this is more pressure than a person should have to endure. And I know what the world is telling you. But if we back down now, we will lose all credibility with these people, and if that happens, then we’ve already lost.”
“I understand that, Joe,” Hamilton said slowly.
“There’s another developm
ent, sir.”
Hamilton stared wearily at him. “What?”
“There’re some very unusual atmospheric conditions occurring over the Atlantic right now. The navy reports that satellite communication with the Tennessee could well be compromised in a few minutes.”
“If that’s the case we shouldn’t launch the missile.”