Sky Hammer

The President went still at the coded phrase. Any sentence that started and ended with the same word meant all hell had just broken loose somewhere.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” the President said, wearily standing. “This is a matter of national security.”

The gruff men in expensive suits murmured their understanding as the President left the room.

Moving along the corridor, a dozen Secret Service agents closed around the President and more joined him from every doorway they passed. Soon, he was surrounded, and could no longer see where they were going. The leader of the United States had to simply follow wherever his bodyguards were leading.

Upon reaching the driveway, the Secret Service agents parted to reveal a line of identical black limousines, all of them with the exact same license plates. There were five of the vehicles, and the President was directed to the fourth in line. As he approached, the rear door opened and his personal assistant, Kevin Molendy, stepped out.

“This way, sir,” he said, moving out of the way.

The man was wearing a bulletproof vest under his suit jacket, which was odd, but the President said nothing as he stepped into the limo and took a seat. Several people were waiting for him, four of them Secret Service agents. The rest were members of his Executive Council: Oswaldo “Oz” Fontecchio, his national policy adviser, as well as Hillary Hertzoff, his national security adviser, and Matthew Mingle, the current head of the CIA.

Thank goodness, Hal Brognola wasn’t here, the President observed with a sigh. That would have meant real trouble.

As Molendy climbed inside, a Secret Service agent closed the door and the limo started to roll. The President knew that the vehicles wouldn’t maintain formation, but rotate positions randomly, making it impossible for a sniper to know in which vehicle he was riding. An assassin would have to strike all of the limousines to even have a chance of success, and the plain black limos were all million-dollar cars, containing more armor than most light tanks, including the tires. Even if hit with a grenade, the rubber would blow off, but the limo would continue moving smoothly on the wide steel plates hidden inside.

“Okay, what happened?” the President asked as the limo took a corner.

“Sir, there has been an attack on the wall in Israel,” Hertzoff said in clipped tones. It was as if every word was precious and she didn’t want to waste any. “Hundreds are dead, perhaps more, with collateral damage in the millions.”

“Missiles or car bombs?” the President queried.

Leaving his seat, Molendy opened a small wall panel and started making fresh coffee.

“Neither, sir. It was a meteor shower,” Hertzoff replied.

“A what?” the President demanded as the smell of Jamaican Blue Mountain filled the air of the limousine. “A meteor shower?”

“Yes, sir. About a mile of the wall has been completely flattened in the border town of Abu Dis.”

“A meteor shower,” the President repeated slowly, leaning back in the seat. “How sure are you about that?”

“No confirmation as of yet, sir.”

“And what does this have to do with the CIA?” he asked, accepting a steaming cup from the aide.

“We got a tip about the attack from an agent in Paris about ten minutes before it happened,” Mingle answered with a frown. “The report said something about an attack on Abacus, or so we thought. It seemed like garbled data. Until Israel.”

“And?” the President prompted. Then he frowned. “Wait a minute, wasn’t the dedication ceremony supposed to be held today?”

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

No way in hell that was a coincidence. “Get the agent on the phone,” the President commanded. “I want to talk to him direct.”

Mingle shook his head. “Impossible, sir. He appears to have been terminated in what might have been enemy action.”

“Appears? Might have been?” Fontecchio said, leaning forward in his seat. “Sir, the café was hit with flamethrowers and grenades! Twenty civilians are dead and the French government is furious!”

“We’re checking further into the matter,” Mingle replied smoothly.

“Did this meteor shower hit during the brick-laying ceremony, by any chance?” the President ventured as a guess.

Hertzoff nodded. “Yes, sir. Just as it began.”

“Is the prime minister dead?”

“No, sir,” Fontecchio answered. “Not a scratch. But the town is in shambles. The people are rioting and running back and forth across the border.”

“The Israelis will stop that nonsense soon enough with some concertina wire,” Fontecchio stated resolutely. “Not a problem.”

“Good. I want a full report on the matter within the hour,” the President snapped. “And contact the Joint Chiefs, I want our status raised to DefCon Three.”

Fontecchio balked at that, but said nothing. DefCon One was peacetime, DefCon Five was war. After 9/11, the United States hadn’t dropped below DefCon Two. Peace seemed to be a thing of the past, merely a notation on the war board, but nothing to do with the real world.

“Yes, sir,” Fontecchio replied uncomfortably.

The passengers in the limo swayed slightly as the vehicle took a corner, the rear limo moving ahead of them as they dropped to a new position in the convoy.

Turning to his aide, the president asked, “Isn’t there a ship christening tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir,” Molendy answered without glancing at the personal computer sticking out of his pocket. “A new aircraft carrier will be launched from the San Diego naval shipyard.”

“Don’t cancel the ceremony,” the President ordered. “Have the Secretary of Defense christen the ship.”

“Yes, sir. And what should I tell the secretary?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, sir. And the press?”

“Same thing.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Then contact Space Defense, I want to know what’s happening up there.”

“NASA reports no unusual activity in space,” Hertzoff reported. “If there was a meteor shower, it’s over by now.”

There came a soft buzzing and Molendy pulled out a cell phone. The device was huge, almost the size of a paperback book; it cost more than most small airplanes and contained some of the most sophisticated electronics in existence.

“White House,” the aide said. Then he hit the mute button. “Sir, you have a call from a General Stone.”

“Who?” Mingle muttered, his annoyance clearly discernable.

Placing down his empty coffee mug, the President took the phone. “Hello, General…yes, I…well, no…damn.” Then the President was silent for a long time. “Okay, see you on the plane.” As the line went dead, the President closed the lid on the cell phone, automatically scrambling the memory and sending a false signal to the White House library. There was no redial function on this cell phone. Especially not to Hal Brognola, head of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm.

Molendy accepted the phone and tucked it away opposite his bulky journal.