The Doomsday Conspiracy

It was the sound of the telephone that fully awoke Robert Bellamy. He opened his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the dream. The telephone at his bedside was insistent. He looked at the clock. Four A.M. He snatched up the instrument, angry at having his dream interrupted. “Do you know what the hell time it is?”

“Commander Bellamy?” A deep, male voice.

“Yes—”

“I have a message for you, Commander. You are ordered to report to General Hilliard at National Security Agency headquarters at Fort Meade at oh six hundred this morning. Is the message understood, Commander?”

“Yes.” And no. Mostly no.

Commander Robert Bellamy slowly replaced the receiver, puzzled. What the devil could the NSA want with him? He was assigned to ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. And what could be urgent enough to call for a meeting at six o’clock in the morning? He lay down again and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dream. It had been so real. He knew, of course, what had triggered it. Susan had telephoned the evening before.

“Robert …”

The sound of her voice did to him what it always did. He took a shaky breath. “Hello, Susan.”

“Are you all right, Robert?”

“Sure. Fantastic. How’s Moneybags?”

“Please, don’t.”

“All right. How’s Monte Banks?”

He could not bring himself to say “your husband.” He was her husband.

“He’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to be away for a little while. I didn’t want you to worry.”

That was so like her, so Susan. He fought to keep his voice steady. “Where are you going this time?”

“We’re flying to Brazil.”

On Moneybags’s private 727.

“Monte has some business interests there.”

“Really? I thought he owned the country.”

“Stop it, Robert. Please.”

“Sorry.”

There was a pause. “I wish you sounded better.”

“If you were here, I would.”

“I want you to find someone wonderful and be happy.”

“I did find someone wonderful, Susan.” The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. “And do you know what happened? I lost her.”

“If you’re going to do this, I won’t call you again.”

He was filled with sudden panic. “Don’t say that. Please.” She was his lifeline. He could not bear the thought of never speaking to her again. He tried to sound cheerful. “I’m going to go out and find some luscious blonde and screw us both to death.”

“I want you to find someone.”

“I promise.”

“I’m concerned about you, darling.”

“No need. I’m really fine.” He almost gagged on his lie. If she only knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself to discuss with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the thought of her pity.

“I’ll telephone you from Brazil,” Susan said.

There was a long silence. They could not let go of each other because there was too much to say, too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to be left unsaid.

“I have to go now, Robert.”

“Susan?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, baby. I always will.”

“I know. I love you too, Robert.”

And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still loved each other so much.

You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used to say. What had gone wrong?

Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed and walked through the silent living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out Susan’s absence. There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself scattered around, frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the Highlands of Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a Thai klong, riding a carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome. And in each picture, they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly in love.

He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The kitchen clock read 4:15 A.M. He hesitated a moment, then dialed a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker’s voice at the other end of the line. “Hello.”

“Admiral—”

“Yes?”

“It’s Robert. I’m terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency.”

“The NSA? What did they want?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been ordered to report to General Hilliard at oh six hundred.”

There was a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps you’re being transferred there.”

“I can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they—?”

“It’s obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don’t you give me a call after the meeting?”