Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (81 page)

 
          
Patrick
was bent over in two so far by her weight that he found he was able to grab her
head with his hands, tangling his fingers in her hair to help his grip. Using
all his strength, he pushed with his legs. Now both of their faces were hideous
contortions of pain. They both screamed in unison, loud, furious screams—until
suddenly there was a loud
snap!
Ivana
Vasilyeva’s eyes rolled sideways, her bloated dark red tongue unreeled itself
from her mouth, and her body went totally limp.

 
          
Patrick
lay on the floor for what seemed like a long time before untangling himself
from the dead Russian, then crawled over to his wife. He carefully removed the
knife from her chest, then held her lifeless body and wept.

 
          
He
didn’t even notice when strong armored mechanical arms lifted him and Wendy up,
carried them carefully outside, and placed them in a waiting tilt-rotor
aircraft to evacuate them out of
Tripoli
.

ALTERNATE NATIONAL MILITARY
COMMAND
 
AND
COMMUNICATIONS
CENTER
,

SIDI
SALIH
,
LIBYA
 
A SHORT TIME LATER

           
“My brothers and sisters, my fellow
Libyans, we have been shamelessly and cowardly attacked by the great Satan, the
United States of
America
,” Jadallah Zuwayy intoned. He was sitting in a small, cramped
communications center in an underground alternate command post thirty miles
south of
Tripoli
. ‘Tonight, while you slept peacefully in
your beds, the forces of the United States, with help from their stooges the
Zionists, launched a brazen sneak attack against the capital of the Kingdom of
Libya, attacking the royal palace itself and killing many scores of innocent
men, women, and children.”

 
          
Zuwayy
raised his hands as if praying, then slowly curled them into fists. “As Allah,
may His name be praised, is my witness, today the people of the Islamic world
declare war upon the infidels, the destroyers, the crusaders from across the
oceans who attacked our capital,” he went on. “May He deliver upon the faithful
the strength to crush the enemies of Islam.

 
          
“Thanks
to the brave efforts of the Republican Guards and the soldiers of the kingdom,
I am safe. I will return to the capital and immediately plan the destruction of
our enemies. Death to all who oppose us. Death to—”

           
There was the sound of shattering
glass, then the
BANG!
of a door
thrown open. Zuwayy half rose to his feet, looking scared and confused. Men in
military dress forced him to his seat again, and two unidentified soldiers stood
behind him. Gunshots were heard off-camera—Zuwayy jumped and closed his eyes at
each report, expecting it to hit him next. The television viewers then saw
Zuwayy’s eyes widen in astonishment as a chair was slid beside Zuwayy’s and a
young man sat down beside the king. He took off his red-lensed goggles,
unwrapped his scarf, and took off his helmet...

 
          
...
and Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, the true king of
Libya
, smiled at the camera.

 
          
“Es salaem alekum,
Captain Zuwayy,”
Sanusi said. He clasped Zuwayy on the shoulder. “Don’t you think you should
consult the
real
king of
Libya
before declaring war?”

 
          
“Muhammad?
Prince ... I mean ... King Muhammad ... You ... you are
alive?”
He forced himself to smile, then reached out to Sanusi to
embrace him. “My brother ... you are
alive!
”
He hugged Sanusi, then said to him under his breath, “Play along with me,
Sanusi, or we’re both dead. I’ll see to it that the Republican Guards spare
your life.”

 
          
Sanusi
pushed him away. “I am not a ghost, despite all your attempts to turn me into
one,” Sanusi said. “And you are not my brother. There is a nice prison cell
awaiting you, Jadallah. You shall stand trial for the murder of my family, the
desecration of my family tombs, for stealing millions from the treasury, and for
perpetuating a fraud upon the people of
Libya
.” He motioned toward the door, and Zuwayy
was dragged out of sight.

 
          
Sanusi
turned to the camera and folded his hands before him. “My brothers and sisters,
I am sorry for the pain and lies Jadallah Zuwayy has burdened you with for all
these years. But even more, I am sorry for the pain and isolation the world has
burdened you with since the revolution.
Libya
has endured much—not only because of the
actions of its leaders, but because of the people’s search for the truth: the truth
of our past, and of our future.

 
          
“I
am not here to steal your future, like Colonel Qadhafi and Captain Zuwayy have
done,” Sanusi went on. “I am here because I wanted to expose the fraud, present
my evidence of Zuwayy’s embezzlement, try to stop the fighting, and so I could
return home once more.

 
          
“But
I only return as a fellow Libyan, not as your monarch, unless that is what you
wish,” Sanusi said. “I have only a handful of fighters and not much money.
Zuwayy commands the Republican Guard, and their loyalty lies with him. I may
not live long after I sign off with you tonight. But before I leave, I want to
give you some promises. Under the eyes of God and guided by the spirits of my
beloved family, I tell you this is the truth:

 
          
“The
Americans did attack
Tripoli
tonight, but to liberate it, not to destroy it. Jadallah Zuwayy had
planned to destroy the Salimah oil fields, where many thousands of Libyans and
fellow Arabs live and work—this after he attacked and killed many thousands of
Egyptians with neutron weapons sold to him by Russian black-market arms
dealers. Jadallah Zuwayy conspired with Ulama Khalid al-Khan of
Egypt
to assassinate Kamal Ismail Salaam so that
the Muslim Brotherhood could set up a theocracy in
Egypt
; but then Zuwayy killed Khan and many other
innocent Egyptians at Mersa Matruh so that he could disrupt the Egyptian
government enough to take control of Salimah. I swear by the blood of my father
and the memory of my mother that this is true.

 
          
“I
will never again raise a hand against a fellow Libyan,” Sanusi went on. “My men
and I have attacked and harassed Zuwayy’s troops in the desert long enough. I
only want peace. I shall head toward the Great Mosque in
Tripoli
and pray at the former final resting place
of my mother, before Qadhafi removed her body from there and discarded it in
the desert. I will order my men not to fight. If you want me to return to
Tripoli
, if you want me to live, you must take back
the streets of the capital from the Republican Guard. Help me to return to our
capital, and I promise you, I will help restore our country to its former
greatness. If you wish me to do so, I will help bring peace to
Libya
. Otherwise, I wish to live in
Libya
as a teacher and engineer and help
Libya
rebuild. The choice, and the decision, is
up to you, my brothers and sisters.
Misae
el kher. Ma'as salaemaV

 
          
When
Sanusi rose from his seat, every man and woman in the room bowed—not only his
men, but the Republican Guards captured there as well. He exited the communications
facility and stepped outside into the growing dawn, Sidi Salih, on the
foothills of the Tarhuna Mountains of northwest Libya, was on a slight rise, so
Muhammad as-Sanusi could see north past the wide expanse of desert all the way
into Tripoli. The
Tripoli
International
Airport
, closed during the conflict, was slightly
to the west; but the city itself, and even the
Mediterranean Sea
, could clearly be seen. It was a beautiful,
awe-inspiring sight. He was about to put on his helmet, but he changed his
mind, unwrapped the turban from the helmet, then wrapped it around his head. He
had had enough of fighting.

 
          
But
there was a sight even more beautiful than the sunrise over Al-Khums to the
east or the view of the ancient city of
Tripoli
on the
Mediterranean
—the sight of thousands of cars, trucks,
bicycles, and buses roaring south down the highway toward Sidi Salih. At first
he thought it might be the Republican Guards; but before long he noticed that
none of the flags he saw were the
Socialist
Arab
Republic
flags or Zuwayy’s bastardized imperial
flag, but the old imperial flags with his family crest on them. Those flags had
been outlawed since the revolution.

 
          
Muhammad
Sanusi climbed into his desert vehicle and took his place in the gunner’s seat
in the back—but then he unbolted the big twenty-three-millimeter machine gun
from its pedestal and threw it to the ground. His driver then took him to meet
his people so they could welcome him back to his capital, his country—and his
true home.

OFF THE COAST NEAR
SAN
DIEGO
,
CALIFORNIA
 
SEVERAL DAYS LATER

 
          
Even
young Bradley realized right away that it wasn’t just another boat ride with
his “uncles” Hal, Chris, and Dave. They had no fishing poles, no scuba
gear—just the strange aluminum urn.

 
          
“Mommy
is really dead, Daddy?” Bradley asked.

 
          
“Yes,
son,” Patrick replied.

 
          
He
touched the urn. “Is she in there?” A lump formed in Patrick’s throat—he
couldn’t answer. “Those are Mommy’s ashes, aren’t they?” Patrick looked at the
deck of the boat— how in hell do you answer something like that? “I remember in
Star Wars
, when Qui-Gon Jinn was
killed by Darth Maul, they put him in a fire and prayed for him. Is that what
we did with Mommy?”

 
          
The
tears burst forth, despite every effort Patrick made to be strong. Through
tear-streaked eyes, he looked at his son. “Is ... is that okay, son?”

 
          
“I...
guess so.” He started to cry, and it tore into Patrick’s heart like a sword.

           
“Mommy ... Mommy was just like
Qui-Gon Jinn," Patrick said. “She was a warrior. She was gentle and she
loved us very much, and she was so smart and built wonderful things, but when
the bad guys attacked, she fought like a Jedi Knight.”

 
          
“She
sure did,” Chris Wohl said. “She was as brave as a Jedi Knight. Even as brave
as a U.S. Marine.”

 
          
Bradley
smiled, then looked at the urn. “So we can keep this?”

 
          
Patrick
tapped Bradley’s chest, then his head. “Mommy’s here, in your heart; and she’s
here, in your memory. And she’ll always be there. Forever. She’s not in there.”

 
          
“Then
why do we have Mommy’s ashes in there?”

 
          
Patrick
had thought about this moment since he left
Libya
: how to explain death to his young son. The
only thing he could decide is to try to not explain too much at once. He was
young; he would eventually understand.

 
          
“Brad,
I told you about the soul, remember?”

 
          
“Yes,”
Bradley said proudly. “The soul is the tiny bit of magic that makes a person.”

 
          
“Right.
And what did I tell you about the soul?” Bradley looked a little confused. “Can
the soul ever die?”

 
          
“You
said ‘no.’ ”

 
          
“Right.
The soul can never die. Everything that we loved about Mommy was in her soul,
and that can never die. Right?” The little boy nodded. “But our bodies can die.
They wear out, get old, and get hurt. Doctors can fix our bodies, but our
bodies will eventually die anyway. Like trees and flowers and all living
things, they die.”

 
          
“Like
Mufasa in
The Lion King?”
Patrick
smiled and nodded—thank God for kids’ movies. “Are you going to die too, Dad?”

 
          
Patrick
hugged his son, then looked him straight in the eyes. “Someday I will, son—but
right now, I’m here with you, and so are Uncle David and Uncle Hal and Uncle
Chris. We’ll always be here for you.

 
          
“But
do you know what happens when you die, Bradley? Your soul is ready for a
journey. Mommy’s soul gets to go into another body. We don’t know who, or
where, or when, but it does.”

           
“Cool,” Bradley said. “She’s dead,
but she’s not
really
dead.” He looked
up into the blue-gray sky and squinted, searching until his eyes hurt. “Is that
what heaven is?”

 
          
“A
soul can go to heaven too. There are lots of worlds and things to see and do
for the soul. But you know what we have to do before the soul can go on its
journey?”

           
“What?”

           
“We have to tell Mommy’s soul that
it’s okay for her to go,” Patrick said. “You see, Mommy doesn’t want to leave
you and me. She’d rather stay here. She knows how sad you are, and that makes
her feel bad.”

 
          
“Then
she can stay here with me?”

 
          
“If
you really want her to, yes, she can,” Patrick said carefully. “But remember:
Mommy’s soul can also go into another body. Once it’s inside someone else, the
things that made us love Mommy, the magic that was inside her soul, will be
alive again.”

 
          
“So
... so someone else is waiting to love Mommy?”

           
“Exactly, son.” Damn, Patrick
thought, thank God his son was smart and open-minded enough to think on his
own—he was making this whole ordeal much easier.

           
“But I still don’t want Mommy to
go.”

 
          
“You
know that Mommy will never be far away from us—we just have to think about her,
and her soul will return,” Patrick said. “Sometimes when you’re sleeping, Mommy
will visit you in your dreams—other times, you’ll be doing something else, or
maybe be having a problem, and then poof! All of a sudden, Mommy will be there.
But we can share the magic in Mommy’s soul with the rest of the world. That
way, maybe other little boys and girls can enjoy some of Mommy’s soul too and
love her just like we do.”

 
          
“But
how do we do that, if she’s ... dead?”

 
          
“We
have to tell her that it’s okay to go on her journey to find those other people
that need her,” Patrick said. “Remember, her soul will never die—but we have to
say goodbye. So what do you say? Is it okay?”

           
“I... I guess so.” He looked
fearfully at the urn. “What do we do?”

 
          
Patrick
nodded to David Luger, and he cut the engine. Patrick led his son back to the
built-in swim platform on the stem, and they knelt at the very edge. He
unscrewed the cap on the um. Bradley at first couldn’t look, but eventually his
curiosity took over. He peered into the um, and his eyes grew wide with fear.
The tears started to flow again, and his lower lip quivered.

 
          
“Bradley,
listen to me,” Patrick said, holding his son tightly. “This is a pretty
grown-up thing we have to do. Most little boys can’t do it. I’m a grown man,
and it’s hard for me to do.” Bradley looked at his father, now curious to see
what his father looked like when he was afraid—and he was comforted to see that
he looked pretty much the same, just very sad. “You have to help me do this,
son. I can’t do it by myself. You have to say it’s okay first, and you have to
help me. Please.”

 
          
To
Patrick’s amazement, Bradley took the urn in his hands. He looked as if he was
going to simply pour the contents into the water—but instead, he stopped, then
turned toward David Luger. “Uncle David?”

 
          
“Yeah,
Brad?”

 
          
“Go
fast,” he said. “Go real fast.” He turned to his father. “Mommy liked going
fast, didn’t she? She liked flying.”

 
          
“She
sure did, big guy,” Patrick said with a tearful smile. How in hell did I get so
lucky to have a son like this? he thought. “She sure did.” He reached out,
kissed the urn, and said, “Good-bye, sweetheart. I love you. Have a nice
journey.” He then stepped back into the cockpit and held tightly on to
Bradley’s life jacket as Luger gradually eased in the throttle. The big
MerCruiser stem drive leapt to life. The speedometer topped sixty miles an
hour, close to sixty- five—the Cobalt was fast, but it had never gone this fast
ever before. Suddenly the ocean was as smooth as glass— there wasn’t a ripple
as far as they could see, when moments before there was a light chop.

 
          
Bradley
held the um tightly, tears flowing down his cheeks. He kissed the um,
whispered, “Good-bye, Mommy. I love you. Come see me anytime,” over the loud
hum of the engine, then held the um up over his head and tipped it slightly. In
the blink of an eye, the um was empty, and he let it fly out of his hands.

 
          
The
silvery ash never seemed to fall to the surface of the ocean, but gently
floated upward into the sky until, several long moments later, it disappeared
inside a sunbeam that had appeared through the clouds.

 
         
It
seemed as if Patrick never let his son leave his arms for the next eighteen
hours as they traveled from
San Diego
to
Washington
,
D.C.
They arrived and checked into the Hay-Adams Hotel, across the street
from the White House, in a suite of rooms reserved for them by former president
Kevin Martindale.

 
          
Patrick’s
sisters Nancy and Margaret came in a short time later; they were going to be
Bradley’s baby-sitters during the Night Stalkers’ post-action debriefing on the
Libyan conflict and their role in it. The first of several meetings was
scheduled for eight a.m. the next morning in the Old Executive Office Building
with the senior White House staff, followed by more briefings at the Pentagon
and the State Department—and then the congressional committees and
subcommittees were going to hold hearings, both classified and unclassified.
There was no telling how long the debriefings were going to last—and there was
no indication yet on what the final outcome might be. They were all betting on
confinement—Patrick had already had custody documents drawn up so his sisters
could legally take Bradley with them, just in case.

 
          
Bradley
was still on West Coast time and so wasn’t tired, so he, his father, and Hal
Briggs walked around the White House and the Capitol Mall until after
ten p.m.
On their return, it was Hal who noticed the
first one: a plainclothed agent standing inside the lobby across from the hotel
entrance. Several members of the hotel staff looked apprehensively at them as
they went past, then smiled and nodded nervously. As Patrick walked by, the
first agent spoke into his sleeve. Another agent was at the top of the stairs;
another was standing at the door to Patrick’s suite of rooms. The Secret
Service agent nodded to Patrick and opened the door for him; he stopped Hal
long enough to take his .45-caliber automatic from him before he stepped into
the room.

 
          
“I
should have known you weren’t going to be tired,” President Thomas Thom said,
rising from the chair as Patrick entered. “How are you, General McLanahan?”

 
          
“Fine,
sir,” Patrick replied stonily. He looked at his son. “Bradley, this is the
President of the
United States
, Thomas Thom. Mr. President, my son,
Bradley James.”

 
          
“How
do you do, Bradley?” Thom asked. He extended his hand, and Bradley shook it,
then stepped back to be beside his father.

 
          
“Who
are those guys?” Bradley asked, pointing to the Secret Service agents inside
the room.

 
          
“Those
are Secret Service agents,” Thom replied. “They’re called the Presidential
Protection Detail. They watch out for me.”

 
          
Bradley
pointed to Hal Briggs, David Luger, and Chris Wohl. “Those are my uncles,” he
said, “and they watch out over my dad.”

 
          
“I
know they do—and they do a very good job,” Thom agreed. Patrick’s sisters came
and took Bradley into their room, closing the door behind them.

 
          
“I’m
sorry about Wendy,” Thom said. “I wish I had gotten to know her like President
Martindale did. She sounded like an extraordinary woman.”