The Fury and the Terror Read online

  The entire floor below the Presidential Suite was occupied by staffers and security personnel. Standard practice when the First Lady was in residence anywhere in the world with or, as had been the case during the last three months, without her husband.

  Rona got unsteadily out of the bed. The skin of her face was dry; she hadn't creamed it before tumbling to the pillows. Hadn't expected to sleep after the night's excitement, the fire still smoldering in her belly. And she'd killed a man. But she seemed to make an instant transition from nervy wakefulness to a state dinner at the White House, where she appeared wearing only her father's old fisherman's waders and a diamond choker. Lately the more stressed she was the more her dreams had a comical aspect. She sometimes awakened herself with laughter.

  While she sat peeing Rona examined her hands in the too-bright bathroom, finding traces of dried blood in the knuckle creases. She'd split a nail on the decocking lever while handling the Sig Sauer. She felt a drenching coldness and almost passed out on the toilet. Rona despised weakness. So she'd killed him. So what? Frank Romanzo was an influence the Avatar didn't need. Gasping and trembling, she prepared her own bath instead of calling for Rochelle to do it and scrubbed until both hands were pure again. Then she put on couturiere lounging pajamas and a robe she had borrowed at Barbra Streisand's Malibu digs (because the blue of the robe matched her eyes so well, she had neglected to return it) and filed smooth the ragged nail. It was 6:21 Hawaiian time, past noon in Washington, when she signaled her staffers that their day had begun.

  Rona reckoned that the plane carrying Kelane Cheng to Montana should be somewhere near San Francisco by now. She booted up her laptop. No coded message from Portia Darkfeather. So everything was going smoothly.

  Sorting through her E-mail, she found a one-word message from the Director of Multiphasic Operations and Research Group.

  Congratulations.

  It meant more to her than the accolades she was about to receive as the two-day world conference on the eradication of childhood diseases came to a conclusion.

  Rona keyed up music on the ten-thousand-dollar sound system, gift of the King and Queen of Sweden, that traveled everywhere with her. She wanted something rhythmic and spirited to put some zip in her blood before breakfast arrived. Her old favorites David and Michael Doucet and Beausoleil from the Louisiana bayous. David's version of "Zydeco Sont Pas Salés," with Josh Graves sitting in on dobro, really cooked.

  At home or away, Rona had her first cup of coffee alone while she read either her husband's copy of The President's Daily Briefing or a summary of the world's worst headaches prepared by Melissa McConnell, the First Lady's communications director. Then Rona looked over her schedule for the day while Rochelle, the housekeeper who had been with her for eighteen years, supervised table settings in the dining room of the suite.

  Rona made adjustments on her schedule, allotting time for phone calls. Three minutes to her son Joshua, studying at Cambridge. A minute and a half to her husband at Camp David, another two minutes to Clint Harvester's personal physician concerning the President's recovery and rehab. At Rona's insistence Clint had been all over the TV news last night, photographed while strolling the grounds with his Big Bertha driver, taking some practice swings to show how great he was feeling. Reassuring the nation that, as the White House spin-control corps tirelessly maintained, he was still in charge. Rona herself, interviewed at the conference yesterday: "Yes, he's made amazing progress. Of course the President has always had a wonderful constitution. Dr. Daufuskie and his team believe it is best that he limit himself for now to two hours of work a day." Lowering her eyes momentarily, blinking as if resisting a sun shower of tears, then looking at the cameras with a softer, more vulnerable expression, preparing to give them one from the heart. "Clint and I want everyone to know that God has truly been good to us. The prayers of the American people have been answered, and their President is only a couple of weeks away from resuming his full duties as the leader of the free world."

  And, finally, five minutes—no, make it ten—for her morning briefing with Allen Dunbar, the Vice President. Rona would be in touch with her husband's stand-in (she would not utter, privately or publicly, the words President pro tempore) at least two more times during the course of their busy day, never letting "Dumbo" forget for a moment that, because of Clint Harvester's unfortunate impairment, it was Rona herself who was firmly in charge of the affairs of state. End of story.

  A medley of tunes from Andrew Lloyd Webber shows replaced the energizing Louisiana French music. The R Team, as they were known in Washington, trooped in for breakfast. Always fresh fruit to start, the rest of the menu changing on a daily basis. Breakfast was prepared by an assistant White House chef who had his own team, including a nutritionist. The rest of Rona's support group consisted of two maids, known as housekeeping assistants; a wardrobe consultant; two makeup artists, one for daytime and one for evening; a hairdresser; a masseuse; a personal trainer; a holistic physician; and Rona's personal photographer.

  Rona's Chief of Staff was Peach Boondecker. Melissa, the R Team communications director, had her own staff: a deputy CD who was Rona's senior speech writer, and the First Lady's press secretary. Two secretaries remained in Washington when Rona was traveling.

  Rona only nibbled at breakfast, keeping the business of the day in focus with rapid-fire queries and objections. She had a short attention span. Her most frequent comment was "Next." She praised one staffer, toasted another for her failure to include a fifteen-minute audience with a trio of Asian businessmen who had been generous in their support of a respected international charity that laundered contributions to the campaigns of Clint and Rona's pet congresspersons. All photo ops were approved. Rona then had half an hour to rehearse her closing remarks for the luncheon and review the videotape of herself. Chin up, shoulders relaxed, minimize the gestures. She dictated changes in the speech while she was having her hair done. Rondorf, the First Lady's wardrobe guru, brought out three tailored suits from three different designers. She chose the dark blue Armani with a subtle herringbone pattern. Rona went to makeup eating the ass off anyone within range because Allen Dunbar was not returning her calls.

  The VP was going to address the United Nations General Assembly in prime time, his second grab of prime TV time this week. Ostensibly it was because of what Dunbar had described in solemn tones as "the grave crisis" resulting from a terrorist attack on the U.S. air base at Incirik. Truck bomb. Big enough to damage aircraft parked two hundred yards away. Four hundred forty-two casualties. Rona had Casey, her press secretary, call the networks to see how much coverage they were planning to give the First Lady on the nightly news. But as Rona well knew, childhood diseases couldn't compete with U.S. bombers smoldering on a runway in Turkey.

  She was still in a simmering bad mood when it was time for makeup. Then she had what she thought was a wonderful idea. Anyone could do bombs.

  Ten minutes to eight in the morning where she was. Ten minutes to two EDT in Washington. That gave her a little over six hours until the scheduled press conference, which she had decided to preempt. Workable, Rona decided, smiling suddenly and surprising Daisy, who was about to apply lip gloss with a brush. Daisy accidentally dabbed a little paint at the root of Rona's nose, but Rona was staring past her at the coffered ceiling in the Akohe'kohe Salon of the Presidential Suite, too absorbed in her newly hatched scheme to be annoyed. Her schedule called for her to depart the luncheon at exactly two o'clock. The motorcade would proceed from the grand ballroom of whatever-hotel-it-was (not the hotel in which she was staying) to the air base, where Air Force One waited to fly her home.

  Rona knew Portia Darkfeather was the one to pull this off, but Dark-feather was unavailable. And it wasn't something Rona wanted to discuss with her, even in unbreakable code. But Portia, Rona decided, undoubtedly would recommend what's-his-face, the team leader of Designated Hitter. Portia had a lot of confidence in him—Brad, wasn't it?—butch haircut, and one of those faces that was
total military hard-on. An ex–Navy SEAL with post-graduate degrees in all types of explosive devices. Thread a needle with an RPG, God she loved those guys!

  Brad should still be available, right there in Honolulu. Rona sent for the chief of MORG security on the day shift, then relaxed in the makeup chair with outrigger mirrors that traveled with her and let Daisy finish giving her the transforming works. The portrait of herself she showed the public. Portia would have said she was in default mode again, but screw that. This was going to be fun. And her approval rating in the polls, which had not budged lately after she'd wrung all the sympathy possible from her husband's situation, would probably go through the roof. Even better: she'd have the cover of every newsmagazine in the free world next week. So top that, Dumbo.

  CHAPTER 5

  INNISFALL, CALIFORNIA • MAY 28 • 11:27 A.M. PDT

  The 922 members of the spring graduating class, University of California at Shasta, had filed into Red Wolves Stadium and were seated in semicircular rows of metal folding chairs on the playing field, mortarboards like a half acre of uncemented blue tiles. They faced the temporary stage erected at the fifty-yard line. Behind them, in the north stands, about five thousand parents, relatives, wives, husbands, siblings, and friends of the graduates had assembled, half filling the concrete arc on bench seats.

  Betts and Geoff McTyer were in the tenth row near an aisle. Riley Waring finally arrived, shortly before eleven-thirty, as the Chancellor was concluding his welcoming remarks.

  "Did you bring the extra tape for the camcorder?" Betts asked Riley, a little out of sorts because he'd missed the processional.

  Riley was a man with heft, homely but pleasing textures. A large animal vet by trade, he had the weathered fortitude of someone who earns a hard and precarious living outdoors. Grand Banks fisherman. Lumberjack.

  Riley shook hands, a touch formally, with Geoff, settled himself between them, and unzipped his fanny pack. Opera glasses came out first, then the requested tape that he handed to Betts.

  "What've you got there?" he asked Geoff, who was holding his camera in his lap.

  "My old Nikon. Bought a new three hundred-mil lens for it. Have a look."

  Riley took the camera from him and focused on his daughter, near the end of the first row of academics, clergy, and the Congresswoman from their district, the principal commencement speaker. Eden was seated between the salutatorian, a sixteen-year-old boy of Vietnamese extraction, whom Eden had edged for top honors by .025 of a grade point, and a television actor from a long-running sitcom who was to receive an honorary degree.

  She turned her head from listening to a comment of the actor's and glanced up at the crowd. Seemed to be looking their way, a little near-sighted—not enough for glasses, she insisted—probably wondering if Riley was going to show up at all. Riley lowered the camera and thrust a fist above his head, thought he saw her smile, and looked through the camera's lens again to confirm. But the smile had been brief. Eden was poised (it seemed to Riley as he studied her through the telephoto lens) on the edge of her seat; her hands were folded, but tautly, in her lap beneath the golden ropes and tassels that signified her academic achievements.

  "Well, she looks"—Riley faltered and glanced at Betts, smiling tentatively—"distracted. Nothing wrong, is there?"

  "That we know of," Betts replied, curtly, which made Riley feel as if he'd been left out of something. He handed Geoff's Nikon back to him and made himself as comfortable as possible on the slab of aluminum bolted to concrete. The cheap way to do stadium construction. Only two years old and already lawsuits had been filed, because one side of the stands was sinking, eight inches so far. He'd left the house in a hurry after whipping on a tie, forgetting the stadium cushion that might prevent his hemorrhoids from flaring before they even began to hand out diplomas.

  Restless, he glanced at Betts and saw that not only had she remembered her own cushion, she had brought the back rest, like half of a director's chair, that clamped on to the bench seat. Riley sighed. Betts looked at him, already knowing what it was about. The dialogue of a slightly raised eyebrow, a hapless tuck to the mouth, a penitential shuffling of his feet. Betts relented and raised her broad beam, turning her attention back to the field as she did so. Riley reached out and slid the cushion from under her, let his hand rest on her thigh when she sat down again. She caressed his knuckles with her thumb.

  The Chancellor, a short tanned man with a vain pompadour like the crest of a Roman general's helmet, introduced the Dean of Students, a man of wit and, thank the Lord, brevity. In turn he introduced the Vietnamese boy, who spoke to the students of learning to steer themselves in journeys to great places. The actor got his honorary degree, cracked a couple of jokes that everyone laughed at because they knew he was a funny man, he had the Emmys and the bankroll to prove it.

  Then it was Eden's turn.

  CHAPTER 6

  2110 HOURS ZULU

  "What do you mean, you can't fly the plane anymore?" Darkfeather said to the captain of the TRANSPAC DC-10. "Did your retirement kick in when we changed time zones?"

  Neither of the two pilots nor the engineer on the flight deck were amused. Darkfeather remembered the captain's name, or nickname. "Dutch." Captain Dutch van der Veek.

  "TRANSPAC 1850 heavy, this is L.A. Center. Verify flight level and confirm destination."

  The aircraft was descending slowly, Darkfeather was aware of that much. They were just under thirty-five thousand feet over the Pacific, 220 miles northwest of the San Francisco Bay Area. Sun glazed the flight deck windows. Outside, in a world of blue, it was fifty-seven degrees below zero.

  "L.A. Center, this is TRANSPAC 1850 heavy. We are descending from our assigned flight level at three hundred feet per minute and are deviating from programmed coordinates by zero five degrees right. We are checking GPS and a possible malfunction of R-NAV."

  "Roger, TRANSPAC 1850. Keep us informed."

  The autopilot was a box of instrumentation by the pilot's right knee. Darkfeather glanced at it; saw that the level-change button wasn't armed. Clearly the autopilot wasn't flying the plane. The yokes were moving, slightly, although neither the captain nor the first officer was in manual control. That raised goose bumps on Darkfeather's forearms.

  "Can you reprogram the autopilot?" she asked.

  The first officer was thumbing through a thick tab-indexed manual. "It's not taking commands," he said.

  "Shut it down, then. I mean, pull the fuckin' fuse."

  "Dutch" van der Veek held up the fuse in question, smiling tautly. He resumed contact with L.A. Center.

  "L.A., this is Captain van der Veek. Can you confirm location of our new waypoints?"

  "Doing that now, Captain. What is your status?"

  "Unable to correct malfunctioning mode control at this time. Also we have been unable to reacquire the controls. We'll try to decouple R-NAV. Meantime, ah, you might want to effect coordination with Seattle Center to divert traffic around us until we rectify our situation."

  "Roger, TRANSPAC 1850. New waypoints indicate Innisfall, California, as your revised destination. Do you want to declare an emergency?"

  "Negative, L.A. Center," the captain said as the first officer reached into a locker for the map book. Darkfeather glanced at the altimeter. They had lost another two thousand feet.

  "Hey, Dutch?" Darkfeather said. "What the hell do you call an emergency? Get some expert advice on this glitch. The autopilot's just another computer. Computers don't have minds of their own." The words barely out of her mouth, and she knew. This one had acquired a mind. Kelane Cheng's.

  Eden Waring stood silently at the podium on the fifty-yard line. Her head was turned to the west. She watched, for several seconds, a rising airplane, single engine,that had taken off from the runway of the college airport and was turning north a mile from the stadium. She'd had her first flying lessons in that very same plane. She gave the Piper Lance all of her attention.

  Someone in the rows of folding chairs titt
ered. It brought Eden back to earth; she remembered where she was and what she was supposed to be doing there. She smiled edgily and addressed them.

  "Chancellor Luzaro, Dean Bettendorf, distinguished guests, faculty, friends, fellow students. Four years have gone by so quickly. And as I was thinking about what I wanted to say to you today—"

  Betts, who had let out a long-held breath while Eden was sky-gazing, tensed again when Eden's second hesitation became a stall. The nails of her right hand bit into the back of Riley's hand, and she breathed, "Come on, baby. Get through it."

  Eden touched her forehead as if she was distracted and dismayed by something that had occurred deep in her brain. Behind her, administrators and distinguished guests were looking at each other, concerned that they might have a major embarrassment brewing. But her head came up, and Eden smiled bravely.

  "I guess what I really want to say is, we do have something to look forward to, friends and f-fellow students, we can make things better for ourselves. For all humankind. What we must not do is just give up now and go, oh, well, that's the end, America is done for. Nice while it lasted. But they've got us. No way to fight back, the bomb in the baby carriage and so forth. No way to fight the terror that's trying to take us over, slowly squeeze us until we've surrendered our birthright. How many square miles around Portland had to be evacuated? Two hundred? Two thousand? I don't know. What does low yield mean, in practical terms? I don't know that either. I'm a chem major. If the prevailing winds had been from the north, would we be sitting here today? Lucky us. But we're still frightened. Aren't we? The images burn in our dreams. Portland, Portland, Portland. Oh, my God. The firestorm. Kids screaming in evacuation shelters, too charred to touch. You saw it, night after night. I saw it. Too much. We back away. We're Land of the Free,;we haven't been schooled since birth in Balkan-style horrors. Who does this to us? Who dares to believe we will accept it? Better not to think about the bastards. And hope they won't come to us again, with their surface-to-air missiles, backpack nukes, bubonic aerosols in the school air-conditioning ducts, da da, da da, da da whatever. But to pretend is to be afraid. To give in to fear is to lose all hope. I had a quote here somewhere. From Emerson. Can't seem to—but there's no time anyway. We—Excuse me. There's no time. Now please just do what I tell you."