Attack On Freedom

Chapter 1

August 2

3:45 P.M. Friday

The dark blue BMW whipped around Katharine Elgin like she was standing still instead of cruising at sixty miles an hour. She shrugged at the aggressive driver as she punched a button and flute music drifted from her CD player. As she drew closer to the Golden Gate Bridge, she could see the line of traffic forming and tapped her brakes. Hmm, Mr. Smarty Pants, you didn’t get very far, did you? The BMW, caught in snail-slow commuter traffic, had come to a crawl three cars ahead of her as they drove onto the bridge.

The sun burned hot in the cloudless sky. Horns blared impatiently and cars darted from lane to lane and slipped into the smallest open space, desperate to advance by one or two car lengths. A man in a new, jacked-up pick-up truck flipped off the driver of a black Lexus as he swerved around the slower vehicle. The relentless heat of the drought-ridden summer kept everyone’s temper at a slow boil.

Her cell phone beat out a happy tune, one her son had chosen for her. She tapped the Bluetooth ear piece. Hello?

Hey, honey, I got a bit worried when I looked at the time. Is everything all right?

It’s been a rough day, Ma. First thing this morning an eleven-year-old boy on a bike caught a bullet in his chest during a drive-by shooting. Not fifteen minutes later, an argument between friends wound up with another, unrelated shooting victim arriving in the emergency room. And so the day had gone from one emergency to another.

Aw, I'm so sorry about that little boy, honey. The gentleness in her mother’s voice brought quick tears to her eyes. Will he be all right?

Yes, he will be. Something in her voice alerted her mother. She could never hide her feelings from her mother.

What else happened, Kathy?

Only her mother called her Kathy. To everyone else, she remained Katharine, professional, calm under the most horrendous circumstances, quick thinking--the exact right kind of person for the busy emergency room of a big city hospital. A little girl, Kenny’s age, arrived just before I clocked out. She was with her teenage babysitter and when the babysitter wasn’t looking, she darted out into traffic. A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed several times before she could speak. She...she didn’t make it, Ma. Her heart ached for the young girl’s mother as she thought of her own son.

Oh, honey, that’s terrible! How awful for that young girl and for the little girl’s momma.

Katharine inhaled a shaky breath and tried to steady her voice. It made me so thankful that you were willing to quit work to take care of Kenny.

Well, pride leaked through her mother’s attempt at nonchalance. It simply makes more sense for an active little guy like that to spend time on Grammy’s goat farm rather than stuck in some daycare full of whiny children and over-worked preschool teachers.

I want you to know I appreciate it, Ma.

You’re welcome, my dear. Besides, you’re the one who got the rough end of that deal. The good Lord and I both know that driving from Petaluma into San Francisco every day isn’t a picnic. In a brisker voice, she asked, Even with all that, how come you’re heading home so late?

Lorie didn’t show up for her shift. She called in sick, so I helped out until the relief nurse arrived.

Her mother gave a ladylike harrumph. I swear that girl’s only sickness is that she’s sick of working for a living like a normal person. I know she has been your best friend since grade school, but I swear.

Some of the sadness lifted from her chest listening to her mother’s familiar rant about her BFF. Well, she doesn’t have any children, Ma. A child changes a woman. Then in an attempt to head off any further discussion about Lorie’s poor work habits, she asked, Where’s my little man?

Asleep. Betty Swanson called and asked to visit. She wanted to socialize a pup she’s fostering from the shelter. She needed to get it used to children and wanted to use Kenny because even at five he’s so good with animals. He’s never rough and he never makes them afraid.

Katharine smiled. Her mother’s best friend used the goat farm to help shelter dogs and pups become more adoptable. I’ll bet Kenny was thrilled. What kind of puppy, this time, Ma?

Cutest little fur ball of a German Shepherd. Her mother chuckled. Kenny and that pup must’ve romped around this backyard for three solid hours before they both conked out on the living room floor. You want me to wake him to say hi to his momma?

No, let him sleep. I’ll wake him when I get home. God, I am really looking forward to having the weekend off, finally.

I’m looking forward to having you home and.... her mother began.

The thunderous roar of an explosion shattered the idle chugging of vehicle engines and the occasional horn blast.

What the.... Katharine gasped, her eyes wide with shock. Several cars ahead of where she’d stalled out in the traffic jam, a section of the bridge shot up into the air like some prehistoric monster. Her gaze locked on the blue BMW that had passed her. It looked like a toy as it flipped, coin-like, through the air with a streamer of orange and blue flames.

Honey, what’s happening? Are you all right? her mother’s panicked voice filled her ears.

The Beemer nose-dived into the top of her Volvo. The vehicle exploded upon impact with Katharine’s. A brilliant yellow-orange-blue fireball engulfed the wreckage.

Katharine didn’t live long enough to see the other cars exploding or to hear the screams of the people trapped inside.

Below the bridge, a piece of steel girder crashed down on top of a yacht carrying a newlywed couple. The boat quickly sank as more debris tumbled from the disintegrating part of the bridge.

Five minutes later, sirens screamed as they wove through heavy commuter traffic toward the gaping hole in the Golden Gate Bridge. A news helicopter arrived on scene before the rescue squads. They hovered in the air, filming the tragedy.

Chapter 2

August 2

4:25 P.M. Friday

President Anne Marie Xavier paced the Oval Office, black-brown eyes flashing fire. Her tight, ebony curls looked more disheveled than normal. The usual easy-going openness of her plain face had hardened into angry lines. She whirled and faced the two men at rigid attention in front of the expanse of her dark wood desk. Gentlemen, has anyone--anyone--claimed responsibility?

Chairman of the Joints Chief of Staff, General Randall Anderson, shot a sideways glance at Secretary of Defense, William Easling. His neutral voice didn’t reflect the anger of his clenched jaw. No, Madam President.

The five-foot-two petite woman stormed to within a foot of Anderson. Bending her neck backward, hands propped on her hips, she glared up at the six-foot-four man. I need to know who blew up the Golden Gate Bridge, General. She glanced at her watch. And I needed that information thirty minutes ago. She whirled and stalked to her desk.

We’re trying.... General Anderson began.

She spun to face him and slammed her fist on the desktop. You’re going to have to do better than try! Her voice dropped low and deadly quiet. What am I supposed to tell the people? We’re trying?

Madam President, we need some time. Visibly uncomfortable with the confrontation, Secretary Easling shifted his feet in a nervous movement. The man hadn’t been the same since his wife died from ALS. Jeffrey’s death shortly afterward seemed to have pushed him over some edge. We have the top people from the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, NSA, and every jurisdiction involved....

She thrust her hand up in a stop motion and the man abruptly quit talking. Eyes narrowed, she shifted them between the two men. Palms flat on the desk, she leaned forward. Voice intense and overly controlled, she said, I don’t care if you have your grandmother involved. I want results. Do we even know if this is an isolated incident or a precursor of more attacks?

Easling’s eyes darted toward Anderson. We...

Sarcasm infused her words. Specifics, Easling. Exactly who is we; or are you using the royal we?

Fear flashed across his handsome features. His blue eyes focused over her left shoulder. My apologies, Madam President. When I said ‘we’, I meant General Anderson, Mark Waters from Homeland Security, and FBI Director George Farrow, as well as myself. It is…our opinion this incident is a precursor to an organized series of attacks against the United States.

She caught Easling’s hesitation and glowered at the man. Why had he hesitated? Where are the illustrious Mark Waters and George Farrow? Why aren’t they here?

General Anderson quickly spoke up. Mark and George are both en route to Ground Zero, ma’am.

That’s interesting. When did George and Mark become so hands-on? She immediately waved her hand as if to erase the question and turned back to face Easling. Why do you believe this is the first of several attacks, Secretary Easling? Exactly why shouldn’t I view this as a tragic, but isolated incident?

His avoidance of eye contact bothered the president. No time to worry about that, she pushed it aside. The man had never had trouble looking her in the eye until Jeffrey died. When things settled down, she’d call him in and insist on knowing what was wrong; but she didn’t have time for his issues right now.

She paced behind her desk, pulled her brown leather chair close and sat. Back straight, she clasped her hands loosely on the desk in front of her and stared up at the men.

Though the question had been directed to Easling, General Anderson bulled into the momentary conversational lapse. "The Golden Gate Bridge, Madam President, is much too large and too complex a target to be hit by a couple of crazies. Preliminary information indicates that the sheer number and the exact placement of the charges needed to do that type of damage required special expertise and specialized equipment.

This wasn’t done by some lone ranger with a grudge because someone pissed in his yogurt this morning. With this in mind, I fully expect another attack to be launched, and fairly soon in order to build on the panic caused by this attack. We have to be prepared to answer the projected attack and to contain the damage.

She lifted her brows. Do you know the target of this theorized attack, General?

No, Madam President.

Ah, I see. Undoubtedly, though, you have a plan. What is that plan, General? She had always sensed a hidden agenda behind everything General Anderson did. Not that he had ever done anything overtly to make her distrust him...just something about him. Her dad used to tell her to pay attention to her gut instinct.

I have pinpointed a number of strategic locations to which we should deploy military units, Madam President. These locations will allow us to move those units quickly in any direction in order to respond to attacks and to contain the aftermath resulting from another attack.

President Xavier leaned back in her chair and linked her hands across her stomach as she studied the man in front of her. With his broad shoulders, trim waist and rugged features he presented a good looking package. Turn on the charm, or conversely the air of authority--both of which he was quite capable--and not many people resisted him. Secretary Easling, do you agree with General Anderson’s suggestion?

Easling’s eyes darted away from hers. The general has years of experience in these matters, ma’am.

She noted his evasion of her actual question, but let it slide and turned back to Anderson. Even crazies, as you call them, sometimes recruit talented fanatics to their cause. With only those points of argument, General, I do not see a compelling reason to deploy troops on United States soil. Even if another attack occurs, the military’s time is best spent assisting other agencies in apprehending those responsible. The National Guard is quite capable of assisting local law enforcement in dealing with any resulting chaos from an attack. If a compelling need to deploy military personnel to an area arises, then we will respond in the most appropriate manner, at that time.

Anderson lifted his chin and glared down his patrician nose. With all due respect, Madam President, National Guardsmen are weekend warriors. They are not equipped to deal with widespread civilian panic.

She pursed her lips and studied him for a long moment. Until I see a more compelling reason than you have articulated, General, this discussion is closed. Now, I want you gentlemen to get your asses out there and find out what happened, who did it, and I want the answers yesterday. Do you understand?

Easling spun on his heel and made for the door.

Anderson’s nostrils flared. He had never liked taking orders from her even when she held the chair as Jeffrey’s Vice-President.

With a stiff forefinger she pointed at the door. Out! Now!

He glared at her then pivoted and left.

As soon as the door closed, President Xavier slumped in her chair and dropped her head in her hands. Goddess help us all, but I have a bad feeling about this, Robert.

During the meeting, Vice-President Robert O’Brian had sat silently in an antique wingback chair set slightly behind and off to one side of the President’s desk. In anyone, except Robert, Anne Marie may have read that choice of seating as almost subservient. Robert’s thinly disguised ambition precluded such an assessment. With him, it simply felt creepy.

The shush of the legs of his sharply creased slacks rubbing together grated on her taut nerves as he walked over and picked up the coffee carafe on the far counter. The glass carafe clinked against the rims of the cups as he poured. You look like you could use a hit of caffeine, Anne.

She accepted the cup and sipped. Thanks, Robert. I think I need a pot of this stuff.

He snagged one of the lighter weight chairs from the side of the room and dragged it over to the desk. Carefully setting his cup on a coaster, he sat down, hitching one leg over the opposite knee. We shouldn’t, without due consideration, dismiss the idea of stationing troops at strategic points around the country. If the general is correct in his assumption that the terrorists will strike again, the National Guard may not be sufficient to deal with the ensuing public panic. There is precedent since we frequently send in troops to aid during certain disasters. We sent them to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina hit to stop the looters and the escalating violence.

She sighed and set her cup aside. You’re right, Robert, we have sent the military in to help out, but that was to help out, to assist. I get the feeling that Anderson’s intent is more along the lines of subduing the population, and that does not sit well with me.

Riots cost the government money and result in property destruction. Just recall the history of the 1960s. If we need to control the population for a short period of time, as the government should have done immediately back then... He let his thought drift into silence. With a slight lift of his shoulders, he shrugged off her concern about the appropriateness of stationing troops on United States soil.

Distaste filled her mouth. She took a gulp of coffee to wash it away. Goddess help America if Robert ever becomes president. Too bad she hadn’t been able to choose a different Vice-President. She silently sighed. The same protocol that placed her in Jeffrey’s presidency after his sudden death placed Robert in the vice-presidency.

First of all, Robert, they failed to present any evidence that we potentially face another attack as devastating as this one. Furthermore, neither General Anderson nor Secretary Easling presented any evidence that, in the face of another attack, the populace would riot or there would be widespread panic among the citizenry.

The urge to lecture him about history gripped her, but she reined it in. Really, Robert, if you recall the riots of the 1960s were instigated by widespread systemic injustice; they were not triggered by someone firebombing a building.

With a flip of his wrist, he dismissed her argument. You believe in the goodness of people, Anne, but people don’t always measure up.

Anger at his cavalier and condescending response flashed through her. I’ve seen them measure up, Robert, time and time again. Look how the public responded to the tragedy of 9/11.

When he opened his mouth to continue the argument she held up both hands, palms outward. Enough of this useless debate. The fact is General Anderson might be right. With that in mind, I want you in the Bunker immediately.

Robert jerked to his feet. What! No, Anne. Agitated, he paced away from the desk and then returned. If anyone should go to the Bunker, it’s you. You’re the president.

She lifted one brow. Yes, Robert, I am the president. That is exactly why I'm not going to the Bunker. A leader is only worthy of that title if she leads. I can’t bury myself in safety when the citizens of my country might be at risk, but we do need to keep one of us safe. That one is you. I’ve already dispatched the others in the shadow government. They’re being evacuated to their designated safe houses even as we speak.

When he opened his mouth to protest, she waved him to silence. No arguments. Go prepare yourself. The arrangements are already made. I want you out of here tonight; preferably, within the next two hours.

He threw up his hands then whirled and stomped across the floor. After he closed the door, she let her shoulders slump. She pulled the only two photos on her desk closer. Staring into the dark gaze of the deceased and beloved President Jeffrey Ahmed--the first Muslim ever to hold the highest office of the United States--she acknowledged the doubts that assailed her. Am I wrong, Jeffrey? Am I setting this country up for bloody chaos?

The kind eyes seemed to encourage her, but she’d lost her close friend and confidant to a massive heart attack six months after he had been swept into the presidential office by a landslide vote, carrying her along as his vice-president. How she longed to be able to sit up until all hours and debate policy with him as they had done so many times. They had had such big dreams for their term in office. All those dreams--gone.

Gone--just like Rebekkah was gone. Her head shattered by an assassin’s misplaced shot.

She picked up the only other photo on her desk in the Oval Office. Without Jeffrey and you to talk things out with, Rebekkah, I feel so lost. I feel like a dark shadow is stalking me.

With Rebekkah’s photo in one hand and her coffee cup in the other, she walked over to the counter where the coffee carafe sat. As she poured, she continued the quiet monologue almost as if her deceased wife listened, prepared to offer advice. Too many things have occurred, and it started with Jeffrey’s heart attack. How can a man in his mid-thirties, as health conscious and fit as Jeffrey, have a heart attack? She sipped the coffee and stared at Rebekkah’s smiling face.

Propped against the counter’s edge, she mused, Then eighteen months later an assassin has really lousy skills and shoots you instead of me. He almost got a two-fer. Goddess knows I had to pour those damn sleeping pills the doctor insisted on giving to me down the toilet before temptation overwhelmed me.

She wandered back and settled in her desk chair. Five weeks after your death, the Commander of Northcom goes for a walk in the wrong neighborhood and ends up dead. Why do I find George Farrow’s assertion that it was simply a mugging gone wrong, suspicious?

Rolling her head around on her shoulders, she tried to loosen the knots in her neck. Raymond, bludgeoned to death with his wallet and his watch missing does reek of a mugging gone bad, but what was he doing in that part of town? Even the commander of Northcom wouldn’t simply go for a stroll in that part of town. What reason could have pulled him there in the middle of the night?

It’s so hard, Rebekkah. I couldn’t have made it after...after you died if Raymond and Kendra hadn’t been right beside me. It feels like some malevolent force is picking off the people I trust. Now, isn’t that narcissistic and paranoid thinking? Like these tragedies are all about me. She gently set the photos back in place. I need someone I can hash this out with; someone I can trust not to have a hidden agenda. But that’s going to have to wait. She sipped her coffee and when the cup was empty, she heaved a weary sigh.

Palms on the desk, she shoved to her feet. This is where I really need you, Rebekkah. A tremulous smile touched the corners of her mouth as her finger traced along the photographed curve of Rebekkah’s cheek. You always had a word or two that helped me to face the jackals, especially during those difficult days right after Jeffrey died and I had to assume the presidency. Goddess knows I hate reporters.

A strangled laugh escaped. If they heard me talking to a photograph, they’d be the first to have me committed. I really have to get a dog. That way I can always claim I’m talking to my dog.

Chapter 3

August 3

3:00 A.M. Saturday

Kendra Richards’ hadn’t slept much since the attack on the Golden Gate Bridge on Friday even though San Francisco, California was a long way away from Heller’s Field, Kansas. It wasn’t just the attack that had her worried.

During her call to Anne a few hours after the attack she could tell how stressed the president felt. How could her longtime friend hold up under such tremendous pressure? Anne hadn’t even had time to properly grieve Jeffrey’s death before Rebekkah was murdered.

By the time Kendra finally sank into a fitful sleep, the clock by her bed read 1:05 A.M.

****

Angel’s powerful front toes—a hallmark of the German Shepherd breed—curled into Kendra’s forearm and pulled hard. Ow! Take it easy on the arm, Angel. I might need it later today. She tucked her arm beneath the lightweight duvet and rolled over.

Angel whined. Eyes still closed, she rolled back over and reached blindly for the dog. Her hand touched the big black-and-tan’s ears, but the dog ducked out of reach. Kendra tucked her hand beneath the covers and her eyes began to drift closed.

A deep-throated bark close to her ear jarred her fully awake. All right, I'm getting up. She flipped the cover off and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Feet on the soft beige carpet, she felt around with her toes to locate slippers that were never far from the side of the bed. The dog danced in front of her, whining. Give me a minute, okay? Sheesh. As she wiggled her toes into her house shoes, she glanced at the red digits of the bedside alarm: 3:00 A.M.

She swung her attention back to the dog. Do you really have to go, or do you just want to check out the night smells?

The dog gave a demanding bark and dashed to the bedroom door. She bounced and twirled in place as if enough frantic energy would hurry her owner.

With a resigned sigh, Kendra grumbled, Okay, I get it. You never bounce like that in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency. I need to hurry or you’re going to make me sorry for being a slow poke. She stood up and snagged the light cotton housecoat from the bedpost and pulled it on over her flimsy pajamas as she moved across the room.

The hot, dry Kansas day had slid into an equally hot night and, being averse to the dryness of artificially refrigerated air, she had left her bedroom window open. As she headed toward the bedroom door, a light breeze ruffled the curtains. You must really need to go... The rest of the thought drifted away as she listened and sniffed. For the moment, she forgot about Angel and turned toward the window.

The house creaked and groaned, but there wasn’t anything unusual about that. Hundred-and-fifty-year-old houses often grumbled. Another wayward breeze slipped through the open window, and the fresh air...stung her nostrils.

Rubber-soled slippers shushed as she raced to the window and pushed the old multi-paned sash all the way up. Leaning the upper half of her body outside, she drew in a deep breath. The scent of smoke wafted to her.

She spun around and raced for her cell phone on the bedside table. Phone in hand, she dashed down the stairs and flung herself out the front door. Angel trotted close behind.

There! Off to the west, on the side of the house where the only windows were in the guest bedroom and the recreation room, a fire blazed across the wheat field that had been ready for harvesting. The dry stalks would melt like ice cream on a hot day beneath the blue and orange flames that raced across the fields. Fingers trembling, she punched 9-1-1.

9-1-1, what is your emergency? Jenny White’s monotone voice asked.

Jenny, this is Kendra Richards out on Pole Cat Road. My wheat field’s on fire, honey. Could you ring up the boys and have them come on out here?

Oh my God, Mrs. Richards! Not your place, too! Jenny squeaked over the line.

Kendra’s fist tightened around the phone. What do you mean, not my place, too? she asked over the pounding of her heart.

Jed Smith over on Bow Hill and Max Fry over on Mudflat Road, they phoned in a couple of minutes ago. Their farms are on fire, too, and we ain’t had no dry lightnin’.

I see. She stared across the back field. Fire danced along the dry stalks and painted a gruesome red cast on the moonless night. Well, honey, you tell the boys to come on out here when they can.

She didn’t wait to hear Jenny’s response before she pressed the end button and dropped the phone into her housecoat pocket.

Shoulders bowed, she walked into the house with the weary step of a woman watching her dreams burn up. The big dog shadowed her, whining low in her throat. She stopped long enough to reach down and pull the dog’s head against her thigh. Her fingers stroked the thick fur. Thanks for waking me up, Angel. She leaned down and gave the dog a hug then straightened up and glanced around the familiar and well-loved house.

She’d grown up within these walls. Now in a very short time, it would all be gone; all the hopes and dreams and laughter and love that these walls had witnessed through generations. Her eyes dropped and met Angel’s steady gaze. This isn’t the time to be moaning and groaning, is it, Angel? Chin lifted, she hurried over to the antique dresser. She allowed herself to stroke the satiny wood of the heirloom her mother had given her then shook off the melancholy memories.

Yanking open drawers, she grabbed underwear and whatever else she thought she might need. She dropped an armload of clothes on the bed then hustled to the walk-in closet that her wife had built when they remodeled the old place. It still felt funny to think of Suzanna as her wife; she’d been ecstatic when, before Suzanna died, the Supreme Court ruled that lesbians could marry. Though it mattered little to her, it