Protect and Defend

Our first work must be the annihilation of everything as it now exists.

Mikhail A. Bakunin

Dieu et l’État (1882)

OUTSIDE TOMSK, SIBERIA

August 15, 1030 GMT (2030 Local)

The only signs of man were the huge black pipes running undefended from horizon to horizon. The man atop the shaggy native horse turned his collar up against the chill. Nightfall came slowly in that northern clime, but the wind began to bite long before dark. He eyed the featureless, dark blue sky. It seemed to weigh down on the earth, pressing the horizons below their accustomed positions. He had never seen true wilderness before. The sky there seemed to assume a greater prominence in the order of things.

With a gentle prod of his heels the horse started forward. Its rider had been awkward at first. He’d dug his heels into the horse’s flanks then yanked back on the reins to slow the beast. Over the weeks of his trek to this remote spot, however, horse and rider had become one. He now sat comfortably in his saddle—his body attuned to the gentle sway of the animal’s motions. A slight tug on the reins pulled the horse to a stop, and he climbed down.

He paused beside the horse to listen. The jet-black cluster of pipes and a few others like it supplied the homes and factories of Western Europe with almost half their energy needs. The massive volumes of natural gas rushing across the Eurasian plain made no sound. But as he moved nearer to the pipe, he could feel the heat.

Friction, he thought. It’s in there. He untied the faded blue bedroll lying across his horse’s rump and laid it on the ground with a faint clanking sound. When the coarse blanket was unrolled, the tools of his new trade lay spread before him as if on a surgeon’s tray.

The emptiness swallowed the few sounds he made in the same way that it swallowed his thoughts. His mind wandered. The swiftly flowing stream he’d crossed a few kilometers back. The view of the night sky from a dozen camps in as many days. The perfect stillness of the deep woods on a windless evening.

The crisp, clean air of Siberia constantly bathed him with its ebb and flow. He breathed of it deeply, filling his lungs through his dry nose. The weather had cooperated. He’d never seen a more beautiful day than the one that was just ending.

The man forced himself to concentrate when he came to the delicate part of his long-practiced routine. Time passed—not quickly, but without notice of its passage. All the while memories made fleeting forays into the periphery of his consciousness. The bath he’d taken in a frigid stream. He had emerged to dry on the bank. The sun was hot on his bare skin. His horse had wandered out into the water, pausing to lap the cool liquid and then darting through the shallow stream every so often with surprising vigor, chasing and chased by the dragonflies. He would miss the horse, the summer nights.

As he had lain on the bank with the sun shining red through closed eyelids, other memories had come. Each roused him from his slumber with a start. That night they had come again. He had awoken in a full sweat—shivering from the cold. He had clutched his blanket to his chin—staring out with pounding pulse at the blackness that surrounded the small bubble of light from his campfire.

He took a deep breath and paused to look up at the sky. He felt drawn to the reddish hues of the setting sun. Maybe here, in the great nothingness, he could change. He would remain in the wild, live off the land, suffer the immense hardships of a winter, maybe two. When he emerged, he would be a new man. Maybe the harshness—the sheer dominion of Siberia over all creatures great and small—would kill the old human and give birth to a new one. A new man cleansed of all that had passed.

It was at that moment he realized the truth. That no matter where he was or how far his travels took him, he would carry with him the baggage of all he had done. It was the punishment of God or of nature; it made no difference which.

He mounted the horse—the effort made greater by the burden of his memories—and rode a short distance alongside the pipeline. He pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and wearily climbed down. He opened a small can of thick white paint with his knife. He held the paper in one hand and a brush in the other, carefully copying the words from the paper onto the pipe.

Rising again to his saddle, he spurred the horse and slowly ascended a low hill. There he waited. He caught himself looking on instinct to all corners of the horizon. A habit born of life in the other world. The world of humankind. He saw nothing, of course; nobody.

A chill passed over him as the last sliver of bloodred sun sank into the west, and he wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. The cold would come early that night.

Four small charges popped within milliseconds of one another. Natural gas gushed from the torn pipes in phenomenal volumes. The tiny explosions had depleted the nearby atmosphere of oxygen. But when the heated and compressed gas jetting from the pipes found air, a mammoth fireball erupted. Like a giant can opener, the burning gases expanded and split the pipe for a hundred meters in each direction.

The jarring boom rolled over the barren landscape and startled the horse.

Spokoyno, the man murmured. He patted the horse’s hard neck that lay just beneath the short bristles of its coat. There were no echoes on the tabletop flat terrain. After the first concussive shock wave had passed, the only sound was from the burning gas. It filled the normally quiet world with a sonorous roar like that of a speeding train. A pall of black smoke rose high above the conflagration and blotted out the darkening blue sky.

The man scanned the now devastated length of black pipe. For a hundred meters in each direction, it was twisted and split and broken. But the large block letters he’d scrawled lay undisturbed just beyond the limit of the explosion’s violence. The paint ran like white blood beneath the words. Destruction is the mother of all creation! he mumbled out loud as he read. A single ear of the agitated horse twitched to take in the sound of his voice.

He spurred the animal on. He was from nowhere, and it was to nowhere that he returned.

Part One

The first two laws of thermodynamics can be summarized thusly: the natural course of the universe is to go from a state of order to a state of disorder. Those laws also describe systems built by man.

Valentin Kartsev (posthumously)

The Laws of Human History

Moscow, Russia

1

RED SQUARE, MOSCOW

August 15, 2300 GMT (0100 Local)

Anarchy, anarchy, anarchy, Kate Dunn said into the brilliant lights of Woody’s Minicam. Just behind her, the sustained roar of a hundred thousand voices echoed across Red Square. Her night vision was spoiled by the camera’s lights, but she could see the demonstrators’ fists pumping in air. The throng fell silent to await the speaker’s next cue.

Sound is good, Woody said with his eye glued to the Minicam’s eyepiece. But the light ain’t worth shit. We won’t pick up more than the first few people in the crowd down there. He plugged his headphones in. Gimme some more sound, he directed.

This is Kate Dunn, reporting to you for NBC News, Kate said. How’s that?

Fine. Woody’s fingers tapped at the camera’s controls. It was all automatic, but for some reason he always overrode the computer’s settings with his own manual tweaks. Kate looked out over the crowd. She felt a flutter in her chest at the excitement of the moment. From her vantage atop the abandoned police van she could see the mob’s leader in the distance bathed in harsh footlights from the speaker’s platform. The angry man spat out another stream of invective. The sound truck’s speakers were at maximum volume. It distorted the rabble-rouser’s voice. Again the crowd roared. Their clenched fists shook at the Kremlin walls, where shadows danced from the flickering light of bonfires and thousands of torches.

Kate felt goose bumps ripple across her skin. This is prime-time footage, Woody. I can feel it.

Uh-huh, he replied. He worked the knobs on top of the tripod. His face was glued to the eyepiece. The scene around her was awe-inspiring, but she forced herself to close her eyes and go over her report. Not the words—she knew those cold—but the mood, the inflection, the calm of the veteran reporter’s voice conveying in measured tones the excitement of dramatic events. She had watched foreign correspondents do it all her life. Her lips moved and she nodded her head in time with the crowd’s chanted slogans.

Show time! Woody said. Kate opened her eyes, totally calm.

Woody’s fingers counted down from five, but when he hit zero and pointed, she waited for the perfect moment. A thunderous shout rose from the hundred thousand angry Russians. They waved the black flags of the Anarchists in figure eights. In the quiet that followed the roar, she began.

Anarchy, she said—thinking, slowly, slowly—all current values are baseless. No political system known today works. Life as we have lived it is meaningless.

The roar rose up again, then the crowd fell silent. Kate was in rhythm with them. These Russian Anarchists want to improve their ‘spiritual condition’ through destruction of all existing social order. ‘From destruction, creation arises!’ This is the slogan of a new generation.

A sustained cheer erupted, and Kate half turned to witness the spectacle. It was one of history’s turning points, she could feel it. In the capital of a great power. Revolution sweeping the course of mankind down a hundred-year tributary. And she was there . . . reporting it all to a fascinated world.

Among the ideologies considered to be of continuing significance, she said into the blinding lights of the camera, anarchism alone has never been tried. That it still attracts fervent adherents such as those here tonight is testimony to its intellectual credibility. Single-minded obsession with individual liberty and skepticism of government, it seems, are as alive today as they were in the nineteenth century. Now, here, in this land of great social experimentation, we may soon learn whether anarchism is utopia, or leads down yet another detour through hell on earth.

A roar erupted just as she completed the sentence. This is it! she thought in the torrent of noise. Don’t screw it up now!

"But what sort of idea would you expect to flourish in a Russia that has lost all hope? Kate continued as fiery words were spat in Russian from distant loudspeakers. In a Russia that has tried everything, and failed? What sort of ideology would take root in the minds of a hundred million lost souls?"

Anarchi-i-i-a-a! the crowd roared in stirring unison. Kate was almost overcome by a wave of emotion as her mind’s eye viewed the scene from the camera’s perspective. Perfection, sheer perfection.

"Anarchy. A rejection of everything, every ideology. When you can’t create, destroy! ‘To think is to say no!’ A mean, uncompromising idea to vent the pent-up energy and frustration of a nation of the idle. An idea that captures the imagination and fires the empty bellies of a long-suffering people. The black flags, the feverish rhetoric—she paused—and the violence.

With the world’s attention focused on student protests in Beijing, the violence in Siberia earlier today came as a complete surprise. There, saboteurs launched concerted attacks on the system of natural gas pipelines that supply much of Western Europe’s energy needs. Spokesmen for Western oil companies said late today that the reports, if accurate, would cripple the entire supply system due to the remote locations of the damage. Another roar went up, and Kate raised her voice and shouted into the microphone. They further pointed out that no repair crews would be sent until the Russian government could guarantee their safety from terrorists. The crowd quieted in the repetitive pattern of exhortation and response. As the gas pressure in the system steadily falls, prices on world energy markets are going through the roof. North Sea crude and other alternate sources of European energy rose more than forty percent by market close with no sign that—

A stunning flash of light barely preceded a deafening boom that reverberated among the buildings enclosing Red Square. Kate ducked involuntarily at the stupendous sound. A hundred thousand people in Red Square flinched in unison. Over there, Kate shouted. She pointed for Woody to turn the camera. Smoke billowed into the air from the end of the square in front of St. Basil’s—from where army troops had gathered but stood idle. The chants quickly degenerated into random shouts from a multitude of shrill voices.

The crackle of machine-gun fire began the terror.

It was as if everyone panicked at once. It appears that the army has opened fire! Kate managed over the din. Woody moved to shoot the scene from close behind her shoulder. The heat of the bright lamp glowed warmly against her face. Objects hissed through the air all around, and Woody turned out the lights and lowered the camera.

"What are you doing? Kate shouted over the noise of the crowd, which had turned as one and was streaming away from the guns. Aren’t you getting this?"

The zzziiip of what Kate suddenly realized were bullets and the rocking of the van under their feet sent the first jolt of fear through her system. Woody pulled Kate down to the flat metal roof as the steady, deeper rattle of heavy guns settled into a rhythm of machinelike killing. We gotta split, Kate! he yelled, pushing her toward the edge of the van’s roof.

Kate tumbling through air into the dark sea of tightly packed bodies, barely managing to gain her feet at the last second. She looked up in horror to see the force of the horde topple the van onto its side. Woody leaped feet-first—camera in hand—into the human tide on the opposite side.

All around her was a crushing press of grunting, snorting panic. Growls and brief shouts burst forth. The men—much taller than her five feet three inches—elbowed and jostled their way toward the narrow exits a half step at a time.

Kate was terrified. The breath was pressed from her lungs in the crush. Her face was pinned between bodies and she couldn’t even turn her head. There were arms clutching at her legs as screaming people were being trampled underfoot.

The bullets splitting the air all around and the booming explosions were now just background noise; a secondary concern. Her life depended upon footing. Upon tiny patches of cobblestone on which to place her next step. For to fall, she knew, was to die.

Kate began to claw and scratch for small openings in the mob. She grabbed onto lapels and sleeves and eventually hair as the crowd lurched this way and that. She maintained her balance as much by the grip of her hands as the placement of her feet. Suddenly the sea of humanity surged in an unexpected direction. Kate had guessed wrong. She fought for a toehold amid a tangle of legs. She was falling. She fought to grab onto something. An elbow smacked her squarely in the nose—blinding her with a white flash of pain.

Kate screamed as she slipped beyond the point of no return into the darkness of churning knees. The sea swallowed her up in slow motion, and the sounds of the explosions and the gunfire grew distant. There were different sounds down there, underneath the surface. The wails of the dying who lay on the stone pavement echoed amid the forest of stamping boots.

I’m going to die. The thought hit her with the physical effect of a body blow as her knees landed on cold paving stones and the flow of the bodies threatened to press her flat. All her senses abandoned her in that moment, the prickly grip of fear consuming her. She pounded her fists against the headless bodies that kicked her ever lower toward the oblivion of the earth. Pain shot unexpectedly through her ribs and she screamed long and loud—her eyes forced shut by the effort.

The pain in her ribs came from a tight grip. Fresh air bathed her face as she twisted and shouted and scratched her way up, up to the surface. To the air. Kate had been pulled from the depths. Someone had lifted her up from the grave. She couldn’t see who it was. She didn’t care. She fought viciously now. She would not fall again. Her jaw was clenched in a sneer. Everybody around her was an enemy to be pushed and slapped and scratched if advantage could be gained. Everybody but the man behind her. His two hands remained fixed on her ribs.

Slowly, the crushing force of bodies began to wane. As the pressure of the packed crowd fell, the pace of the crowd’s flight picked up. The crackle of gunfire could still be heard in the distance as the demonstrators streamed toward the exits. Kate was swept along. The fighting and jostling of the crowd fell with the lessening crush. Still, however, the hands held her.

Kate stopped and turned. A tall man, in his late thirties or early forties, looked down at her in the semidarkness. He had tired eyes set in a handsome, pale face. His hair was pitch-black. He said nothing, turned, and disappeared into the masses before Kate could say a word. He wore the black garb of the Russian Anarchists.

Huge red flames boiled into the air over their heads as another stunning boom caused all to duck and turn. A second ball of fire shot skyward, and another boom rolled over the square.

The flames from the explosions rose into the air from behind the Kremlin walls—from inside the Kremlin! And then so did a helicopter. In the light from the blazing fires Kate could see the white, blue, and red tricolors of the Russian republic painted on its sides. It was the Russian president’s helicopter. As it wheeled onto its side and hurtled away through the caverns of downtown Moscow, the night was lit by hundreds of burning tracer rounds fired past the fleeing aircraft at tremendous velocities.

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

August 16, 0000 GMT (1900 Local)

It’s anarchy, Elaine, Gordon Davis said to his wife. The local news reported the downtown killings as a crime. But the appropriate words were anarchist atrocity. "They have no rules. They’re incapable of feeling empathy for their victims. They’re totally unsocialized. We’ll never go back to the way we were. We’re just going to have to live our lives in a country with wild animals running loose on the streets."

"I know you don’t believe that, Elaine Davis said into her mirror. I know what you really believe, Gordon. You’re a totally hopeless idealist."

We interrupt this program to bring you this ABC News bulletin.

They both turned to the small television in their large bathroom. This just in to ABC News, the deep-voiced anchor said. A major riot is reported to have taken place in Red Square in central Moscow.

Gordon saw his wife return to her makeup. Another food riot, he thought, knotting his tie.

Western journalists on the scene report that anarchist demonstrators defied Russian Army orders to vacate the square by nightfall. Although it is unknown who fired the first shots, regular army troops had begun taking over barricades from Interior Ministry riot police earlier in the day, and by sunset were massed in the thousands. Estimates vary as to the number of demonstrators present, with some sources putting the turnout as high as two hundred thousand.

Those poor people, Elaine said as she carefully drew a faint line under her eye with a pencil. Gordon had to look away. That process always made him nervous.

At this hour the violence appears to be spreading outward from Red Square, and now seems to have consumed most of Moscow’s center. Those words drew Gordon and Elaine’s attention, not to the television but to each other. "Experts have kept a close eye on the situation in the Russian capital in recent days amid rumors of impending upheaval and worsening political instability. There are numerous unconfirmed reports from Moscow tonight of widespread fighting between security troops and Russian anarchists, but ABC News must reiterate that those reports remain as yet unconfirmed. Please stay tuned to ABC for further word on this breaking story as it develops. We now return to your local programming, already in progress."

As the Special Bulletin screen replaced the picture of the ABC anchorman, Elaine said, You think Greer will call the Armed Services Committee back into session?

No-o-o. Everything these days is China, China, China. Plus, everybody’s down at the convention.

Are you guys decent? their older daughter, Celeste, interrupted from the bedroom door.

Come on in, Elaine said as she powdered her nose at her vanity.

Ta-da! Celeste announced, smiling and holding her hands up to present her younger sister—Janet—who wore her new cheerleader uniform. Janet shook the pom-poms and kicked. Doesn’t she look like a complete dweeb? Celeste asked. Janet shook a pom-pom in her sister’s face.

"You were a cheerleader once too, Celeste, Elaine noted. Just because you’re ‘way cool’ now that you’re going off to college doesn’t mean you should spoil your sister’s fun."

That’s right! Janet shouted, again shaking the pom-pom in her older sister’s face as she headed out. Celeste slapped it away and followed, an argument breaking out.

The victim, the local news anchorwoman read, age eleven, had a record of minor criminal activity and school suspensions. Eyewitnesses said that the boy pulled a knife in the stairwell of the school and was shot to death by the accused, also age eleven. School officials deny there is a security problem in the building’s stairwells, although students claim assaults are common in the cramped and windowless space, where lights are repeatedly broken by gangs seeking to cloak their planned attacks in the darkness.

"My God, Elaine said, stroking her eyelashes delicately with her mascara brush. I don’t know what I’d do if the girls had to go to public school. I’d never get a moment’s rest I’d be so worried."

It’s horrible, Gordon agreed. The story of yet another murder played on their television, complete with a bloody sheet covering the corpse being loaded into an ambulance. The crowd gathering in the lights around the crime scene was entirely black, as was, Gordon felt sure, the victim. This crime was simply a garden-variety drug killing, not one of the more sensational reports.

What are you going to talk about tonight? Elaine asked.

Gordon straightened the top edge of his crisply starched collar. Take a wild guess.

Oh, Gordon! Elaine said, turning to look at him. "Not at your daughter’s pep rally, for goodness’ sake!"

Well, crime and violence is what’s on everybody’s mind! he said, holding his hand out to the television. Somebody’s got to talk about it. We’ve got to get those people off the streets. I don’t care how many cops, how many courts, how many prisons, how many electric chairs it takes, or whatever the cost. This country is in a major state of decline, and it’s primarily due to crime and violence.

Just who are ‘those people,’ Gordon?

Jesus Christ, Elaine! he snapped, and she shushed him—looking at the door where the girls had been. You and I both know who I’m talking about, he said in a lowered but still urgent voice. "People are leaving this country, Elaine! Native-born citizens just up and checking out of Hotel America. You saw that Newsweek article about Vancouver and Toronto. If the trends continue, half the damn urban population of Canada will be former Americans by the middle of the next century."

I thought you said we’d all just have to get used to things. What can you possibly say? What can anybody do about the problem? Gordon slumped and frowned. Plus, I don’t think now’s the time to launch any bold new initiatives, Elaine said, nodding at the news coverage of the Republican Convention. The Republican National Committee had asked that Gordon delay his arrival at the convention until the last day. The entire Davis family was scheduled to catch a flight for Atlanta at six o’clock in the morning. And, Elaine continued, are you so sure that it’s crime and violence that are the problem? Maybe they’re just symptoms of something else that’s wrong.

Oh, now you sound like Daryl! It’s just ‘the situation’? Gordon said sarcastically. They both let the subject drop, and Gordon checked his watch. Let’s not stay too late tonight, okay?

Did you give them the school’s telephone number? Elaine asked, clearly trying to act nonchalant.

Yeah, Gordon replied, not needing to ask who they were. And Daryl has it too. He promised to call if he heard anything—even rumors—from the convention hall.

Elaine stood, and Gordon wrapped his arms around her. He could see her smile in the bathroom mirrors. Just relax, he said. We’ll know soon enough.

You know, what if . . . she began, and Gordon’s mind bolted ahead. He felt a rush of excitement at the wild speculation he had denied himself. What if nobody calls? she finished. His mood crashed. We’ve really built this up, and if—

They’re going to call, Gordon said with more certainty than he felt and a note of irritation in his voice. The signs were all there. They’d done a full-blown background check. Gordon had had good talks with all the right people.

You know what I think? Elaine said, pulling back and smiling up at him. I think there’s a cabinet post with your name on it. She shook him playfully from side to side.

Shhh! Don’t jinx it, he shot back, kissing her to hide the grin that forced its way onto his face. Besides, the president is still way up in the polls. Bristol has a lot of ground to make up by November before he can offer me anything.

There’s plenty of time for something to happen, Elaine said, sinking to Gordon’s chest. Life’s a funny thing. I mean really, sweetie. Who ever thought you’d be a senator? You never know what’s going to happen next. You just never know.

We all think we’re safe behind these walls, Senator Gordon Davis said, spreading his hands to encompass the ivy-covered gymnasium of his daughter’s private school. The bleary-eyed parents sat impassively, waiting, Gordon imagined, for the blowhard politician to finish his spiel. But we’re not. We fool ourselves into thinking we can insulate. Isolate. Escape the violence out there that is eating away at the fabric of our country.

The silence was deafening. "It is a delusion. Like a cancer, anarchy is a disease attacking the cells of America—its citizens. Most of us here, the parents whose children attend this fine school, think ourselves immune from the disease. But let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that we live in a society. A collection of citizens. A nation. And if that host nation grows sick, then all the cells that make that nation up are at risk, the healthy as well as the diseased. Thank you."

Polite applause filled the gym. Gordon was an appointee who’d filled an unexpired term of a senator who had been driven to resign from office by a scandal. He’d never been an inspiring speaker. He left the podium to rejoin Elaine. It was the prep school’s first gathering of the year—a pep rally to introduce the athletes and cheerleaders. Elaine cast her husband a forced and, he knew, disapproving smile. Worse yet was the scowl Janet aimed at him from the front rank of the cheerleading squad.

Senator Davis, you have a telephone call, a school administrator whispered to him as the headmaster stepped up to the microphone to introduce the football team.

Maybe this is it, Elaine said through her smile and gentle squeeze of his arm. The band struck up a march, the sounds of their blaring and discordant instruments painfully loud in the enclosed space, as Gordon followed the woman off the stage to a tunnel leading through the bleachers. Only Daryl Shavers, the chief of his senate staff, and the Republican National Committee staffers knew of his plans to be at the school that night. Only they had been given the phone number.

His heart began to pound. He tried for the hundredth time to deflate his expectations, not wanting to be disappointed. The Republicans were trailing President Marshall’s Democratic ticket by eighteen points in the preconvention polls. The economy was humming along. Governor Bristol, the Republican nominee, was making no headway with his neoconservative, social activist platform. NBD, Gordon thought to calm himself—using one of Janet’s many acronyms. No Big Deal.

The woman led Gordon into an office. He swallowed the lump in his throat. But a cabinet post, he thought. He was a born appointee.

Hello? he said.

Senator Davis? came the breaking voice of a kid.

Who is this? Gordon demanded, deeply disappointed.

You gotta get out of that gym right now, sir. I’m sorry! I think I really screwed up. I’ve . . . I’ve already called the police.

What are you talking about? Gordon asked as another phone chirped and the woman picked it up.

Just trust me, sir. Please! Go! Right now! There was a click as the boy hung up.

The woman held up the other phone. They said it’s urgent.

Gordon raised the other receiver to his ear. Gordon Davis.

Sir, my name is Carl Jaffe. I’m deputy director of the Secret Service. We’d like you to get your family and head to the school’s security office. We have some agents en route and they’ll meet you—

Long rips of automatic weapons fire erupted inside the gymnasium. The woman next to him jumped with a start then stared at the glass door, her mouth agape. The first screams rose but were drowned out by still more shooting. Gordon dropped the phone and rushed for the door. A torrent of booming gunfire assaulted his ears as he headed out of the office into a full-blown war.

Well-dressed parents, wild-eyed with panic, streamed out of the gymnasium with young children in their arms or being pushed along by firm grips on their shoulders. Some had lost all control and screamed wildly as Gordon waded into the flood of people fleeing the terror inside. The going was slow against the human tide. The rapid-fire bursts of the guns were brief and selective now. Shoulders and elbows pummeled Gordon in mindless flight from the terrible noise, some people bent over to run in a stoop. When Gordon reached the tunnel that led into the gym, he saw the first blood. It streamed down the face of a stunned middle-aged woman from beneath neatly groomed blond hair, coating her white silk blouse in remarkably brilliant crimson. Another long tear of fire—closer and much louder than before—caused people to throw themselves to the ground all around, clearing the tunnel momentarily.

Gordon slammed into a man in a calf-length black overcoat who dashed out of the gym looking over his shoulder. The man turned, and he and Gordon stared at each other for a moment—each stunned. The man stepped back and raised a smoking machine pistol. The muzzle of the ugly black gun traced a line up Gordon’s body that he could almost feel as a prickly itch along his flesh. A shiver that began as a tingle in his groin rippled across his body as the man’s blue eyes smiled and the gun steadied on Gordon’s chest.

No! Gordon yelled just as a bullet smashed into the metal stands right beside the gunman. The blond man flinched and twisted, the muzzle of his gun spitting flame. Gordon felt the weapon’s hot breath, but the sting of bullets did not follow. He darted under the sloping bleachers to his right, the blazing gun swinging to follow him but the bullets miraculously striking a thick concrete pillar in between. Stooped over and hurling himself into the darkness beneath the stands as fast as his feet would carry him, Gordon felt jabs of pain in his ears from the sounds of the machine pistol’s fire. When the shooting stopped a second or two later, he looked back through the maze of supports and columns. A school security guard lay in the tunnel in a pool of blood. In his hand he still clutched his pistol.

A stunning blow struck the side of Gordon’s head. He reached out into the semidarkness and felt his way around the concrete support with which he’d collided. His head was throbbing in pain, but his attention returned to the blue-eyed gunman who peered after him from the well-lit tunnel. He was slapping another long magazine into his weapon.

Flame erupted from the gun, and Gordon slid around the thick pillar to the opposite side. Bullets cut through the air all around and thumped into the concrete at his back. The trusses and girders and concrete pillars under the stands were lit in the strobe of the flaming muzzle.

The gun fell silent, but Gordon’s ears still rang. Come out, come out, wherever you are, the man’s lilting voice came. It had a strangely resonant quality to it in the steel hollows under the stands. He had trilled his Rs deep in the back of his throat. He was foreign. Another long rip of fire clanged off the girders ahead of Gordon, sending great showers of sparks through the air.

Gordon took off running, heading deeper and deeper under the stands. He dodged the increasingly thick forest of obstacles visible in the blazing light from the killer’s gun. Sparks rained down on him from clanging ricochets, and fierce spitting sounds tore open the air just inches from his body. Sprays of splattered concrete stung his face and hands as he ran dodging and weaving through the Erector set maze.

The gun fell silent again, and Gordon slowed and stooped over low to the ground in a crouch. His breath came in shallow pants and his heart thumped against his chest so hard he added it to his list of worries. Darkness descended on the ever-lower stands around the curved end of the basketball arena. Gordon felt his way into the deepest, darkest regions—his face covered with a thin gauze of spiderwebs. The clacking sounds of another magazine being popped into the machine pistol presaged another storm of lead.

You can run, but you cannot hide, the thickly accented voice tormented Gordon, who probed now through the near-total darkness. He held his hands in front like antennae, his fingers jamming into the hard obstacles just ahead of his body.

A burst lit the way ahead for just an instant, and Gordon dropped to his knees to crawl into the recesses of the stone-and-steel cavern.

Gordon dragged himself through the heavy coating of dust still covering the floor from the gym’s construction. He squeezed his body as far as it would go into the wedge formed by the lowest row in the stands and pressed his back between two heavy girders that rose at an angle to the sides. Inside the gym above him, the shooting had stopped. But the shrieks and shouts and the vibrations of stamping feet against the steel at Gordon’s back told a story of unspeakable horror. His wife. His two precious daughters. Tears welled up in his eyes, which he jammed closed to shut out the picture that flashed through his head. Oh, God, no!

"Sounds like some sort of distu-u-urbance up there, ja?" the man asked coolly—trilling his Rs deep in his throat in a thickly Germanic accent. Maybe you are worried about Mrs. Davis, eh? He knew Gordon’s name! "Maybe your delicious young daughters, ja?"

He was close. In the hard, enclosed space, every sound was sharp. It focused Gordon’s mind, shutting out the background commotion from the bleachers above.

"Maybe you and I, ve could go find out, ja? Find out if your family is safe?" The man was cool, his manner almost serene. Gordon saw him now, creeping forward in the darkness—the dim profile of his pistol leading the way. He was moving slowly past Gordon, who lay totally still—curled in a fetal position and breathing slowly, quietly, through his parched mouth.

The gunman stopped, not ten feet in front of Gordon. He was fumbling with something. There was a sound like the tearing of paper. Then a snapping sound.

A brilliant flare seared the darkness with bright light, leaving an orange spot on Gordon’s eyelids as his eyes shut involuntarily. When he opened them, the man was looking down at him—the flare in one hand, the machine pistol in the other. The light from below his chin cast long shadows up his face, forming dark crevices in the creases of flesh around his smiling mouth.

Ah, there you are, he said, carefully placing the flare on the ground in front of him and rising to near full height just under the sloping ceiling of their world. Behold, Senator Davis, ze end of your vorld.

He raised the gun with both hands. A swastika was carved sloppily onto his knuckles.

The stunning booms of automatic weapons in the cavelike environs threw Gordon into shock. His whole body clenched in a grip of fear so great that he could feel nothing. He opened his eyes to see the blond man lying on the ground next to the flare. Gordon stared at him, waiting for him to move. More shots rang out—these in a series of single but still-rapid booms. His pursuer jerked with each flash and boom of a gun. Gordon watched black blood fill a small depression beside his body.

Gordon’s throat was pinched so tight with terror that he gagged, unable to draw a breath. Three men in dark suits appeared, stubby Uzis barely larger than a pistol held extended in two hands. They fanned out, combat style, ready. One crawled up to the coughing Gordon.

Are you hit, sir? the tense man asked. Gordon managed to shake his head, but then turned and vomited into the dust beside him. He felt hands poke and press his body, lifting his jacket and patting him down as if for a weapon. He’s good, Gordon heard. He watched smoke from the man’s gun barrel rise in the dying light from the flare. Are there any more of them down here? Gordon’s savior asked. Gordon was transfixed by the darkening, reddish hue. The man shook his arm gently. Sir? Can you answer me?

No, Gordon croaked, wiping his mouth and twisting his way through the dust toward open space. Toward the air that he suddenly craved. I mean, no, there aren’t any more. Just . . . that one. He coughed on the choking stench of gun smoke.

The three men each produced a small flashlight. The one next to Gordon pulled the lapel of his suit to his lips. Big Top, Big Top, this is Red Leader, he said. The package is secure. I say again. The package is secure. Gordon’s head was still swimming as he looked up at the man. A wire ran into an earphone like a hearing aid. The man’s pin-striped suit was immaculate. He wore a pin, an American flag, on his lapel—the universal badge of the Secret Service.

Copy that, he said, then motioned toward one of the other two agents. Skinner. You go. The agent took off for the tunnel without further instructions. He too had an earphone. The third agent turned the body of the terrorist onto his back.

It was then that Gordon’s pounding heart and paralyzed mind calmed just enough to admit the background sounds from above. The flare burned itself out, leaving only the two agents’ flashlights to light their world in narrow beams. They discussed the body. That one got him, one said—the harsh white glow from his flashlight pointing under the dead man’s overcoat.

Jesus, the other said. Look at that. Must be ten mags sewn in there.

Gordon’s mind drifted off, away from the dark world filled with the acrid smell of smoke.

Oh, God! a woman wailed. Why? The words were barely audible over the ringing in Gordon’s ears. But the woman’s cries rose in anguish above the shouts of pain and despair of others in the gym above. Tearful, shattered sounds. There were families in the gym, nothing but families. Like Gordon’s family.

I’ve got to go, he said, rising to his knees.

The agents and their flashlights turned his way. You’d better stay here, sir.

I’m sorry, but I’ve got to—

Somebody is checking, sir. On your family.

They didn’t know. They had to check. Alive or dead. Gordon sank back down into the dirt. Alive or dead. The weight that held him there was heavier than the steel and concrete above his head. Sounds of commotion. Sirens. The two agents both grew still, listening. Something was coming over their earphones. Gordon was focused so completely on the agent nearest him that the sensation was almost physical. Red Leader copies. Gordon gasped for air. Which way was his life headed? They’re all right, sir, the man said, then lifted his lapel again in the dim light. Copy that. We’re coming out.

You mean, my wife and daughters . . . I have two . . . they’re all safe?

Yes, sir. They weren’t harmed. We’ve got them under our protection. The two Secret Service agents stood. One helped Gordon to his feet, saying, Watch your head, just as Gordon smashed it into the stands above. He was so drained, so exhausted, that he stumbled along in their grasp. The two agents swept cobwebs from his path with their Uzis.

Gordon stopped and turned to the head agent. Were they after me? he asked. He could see in the growing light from the tunnel the nodding head of the agent. Why? Why me?

You don’t know? he asked quietly, almost whispering. Gordon shook his head. The agent explained. Some kid—a computer whiz who hacked into a server and intercepted E-mailed orders—phoned in a tip about an assassination attempt to the Bethesda police. They contacted the Secret Service. The deputy director called the RNC and the kid’s story checked out. You were lucky, sir. We’d just rotated off duty at Camp David and were heading back to D.C. We were on the Beltway about six miles from here when we got the call.

What . . . what story? What was the kid’s story that you checked out?

There was a pause. The man considered not answering, Gordon guessed. The two agents exchanged glances. He hacked his way into the Republican National Committee’s computer and then blabbed what he found to whoever was behind this. Senator Davis, sir . . . you’re about to become the Republican nominee for vice-president of the United States.

Gordon’s head swam on hearing the words. Vice-president, he thought. The two agents grabbed his elbows and ushered him on like a prisoner. Through the dizziness, the sirens, the shouting—the news somehow managed to sink in. Gordon once again halted the men, this time on the very edge of darkness which he knew would cloak the look on his face. Vice-president of the United States, he thought, holding onto a steel girder. The first African-American nominee for vice-president in American history.

CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

August 16, 0423 GMT (2323 Local)

Thomas Marshall—president of the United States—awoke in a sweat to thoughts of war. In the confused moment before alertness came, he felt a sickening guilt over the awful tragedy of it all. In his nightmare there had unfolded a relentless march of errors.

There was a shout from outside his window. He opened his eyes, fully conscious now in a room lit only by a digital alarm clock. Not yet eleven-thirty. He and the first lady had only just fallen asleep.

Marshall thought he heard another shout, and he propped himself up on his elbows. He’d had briefing after briefing on the student sit-ins at Beijing University. Several had come on the golf course as the Chinese government threatened the use of force. His muscles were sore from the thirty-six holes he’d gotten in that day. The Camp David relaxation was just part of the ritual. Disappear during the Republican Convention. Let them have their day in the sun before kicking their butts up and down the campaign trail.

His mind was leaden. The wine he’d drunk to relax himself for sleep had done the trick.

An engine—deep and heavy like that of a truck—groaned to life outside. There was another shout before the engine revved and tires squealed. Deep, male voices shouted urgently to one another. A string of firecrackers went off, then another, and another, punctuated by a sharp explosion. Marshall spun his feet to the floor and groped in the plush carpet for his slippers. His wife stirred and mumbled, What?

Marshall padded over to the window and pulled the heavy curtain aside. There was a fire of some sort in the distance. From the direction of the main road. From the main guardhouse. The firecrackers were gunfire, he realized, and they came from there also.

A sharp boom rattled the windows and rocked him back a step in surprise. Flame boiled into the sky from along the road between the gate and the president’s lodge.

What was that? his wife muttered from the bed. The door to his bedroom burst open. He turned in time to see a dark figure rushing at him—profiled in the light from the sitting room. The large man tackled Marshall in a jarring collision. The curtains were still clutched in the president’s hand, and the curtain rods fell onto the two men in a heap.

"Tom?" the first lady shouted from bed.

Stay out of the window, sir! the man on top of the president said. Marshall watched as the ceiling was bathed in the flash from yet another explosion. The popping guns of a firelight were slowly being drowned out by the whine of a helicopter’s engines.

Let’s go! another Secret Service agent shouted from the door. The president was amazed to see a man appear wearing a dark suit and carrying an M-16 rifle.

Marshall crawled beneath the window alongside the agent who had tackled him. He heard the first lady grunt. An agent had forcibly bent her over and draped a bulletproof vest over her nightgown.

At the door, a third agent helped Marshall slip his pajama-clad arms through his own body armor. Strong hands pushed him down the darkened hallway toward the service stairs. Let’s go! Go! Go! an agent shouted. At the end of the hall, two Marines with shaved heads wearing only T-shirts, boxer shorts, and combat boots were setting up a machine gun in the window amid the draperies the first lady had picked out. A long belt of bullets was being pulled from a metal box.

Down the stairway they ran. The president joined the first lady just inside the door to the rear lawn. A blacked-out Marine One helicopter sat on the pad forty yards from the house. Its engines drowned out all sounds of the fighting. The stairs behind them were crowded with Secret Service agents talking excitedly into their radios. An explosion lit the dozen or so Marines crowded around the door just outside.

Hit it! someone yelled, and out they rushed. The agents and Marines formed a human shield, around the president and first lady.

What’s going on? the president shouted as they rushed across the lawn.

No one answered. In seconds they were aboard, and the aircraft took off with the door still open. The president was buckled into a seat by helping hands. Through the window he saw brilliant white flares dropped from the helicopter’s belly illuminating the scattering group of escorts below. Fires rose into the air from the guardhouse and in a string along the main road. Marshall caught sight of tracer rounds flying in both directions in the dark woods by the gate. The thin treetops of the Maryland countryside scraped against the belly of the twisting, turning Marine One.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

August 16, 0455 GMT (2355 Local)

Hey, Dad! Nate Clark’s sixteen-year-old son appeared at the door of his study. Come take a look at this on TV. Jeffrey Clark disappeared just as quickly as he’d appeared.

What are you doing up, Jeff? Nate barked. It’s almost midnight! Nate rose from his desk and asked his wife, What about the American Express?

Paid it, Lydia answered. Her legs were slung over the side of a padded leather sofa. She was gently kicking her feet while reading a catalog. What do you think about this? she asked, holding the catalog up to him just as Jeffrey shouted "Da-ad!"

Pretty, Nate mumbled mechanically before joining the boys in the family room. Look! said fourteen-year-old Paul—pointing at the announcer on television. It was CNN. THIS JUST IN read a graphic in the background. We have no independent confirmation of any of this just yet, the anchorwoman said. If something like this were to be true, it would be absolutely unprecedented. She hesitated, distracted, then said, I’m being told we have Elizabeth Crane on the line from the Maryland Highway Patrol. Ms. Crane, can you hear me?

Yes.

You’re on the air.

The woman cleared her throat. Well, about fifteen minutes ago we received a call from the presidential compound at Camp David requesting backup units and stating that there was a ‘firefight’—that was the word he used—under way. Two units responded and reported that there were flames at the main guardhouse and at various places inside the compound, and that gunfire could be heard from the surrounding woods.

Wait, let me get this straight, the anchorwoman interrupted. Are you saying that there was some sort of battle at Camp David? That there was gunfire and . . . and a ‘firefight,’ as you said?

The units reported casualties at the gate, and the initial call to dispatch was from a Marine guard on a cellular phone. The dispatcher also reported that the sounds of gunfire could be heard over the phone.

Do you know whether the president was still there at the time of the attack? My producer is telling me that President Marshall was reported there as late as this afternoon.

We don’t know anything more. We’re advising all motorists who don’t have to be out to avoid the area, and we’re cordoning off all roads into and out of Camp David with roadblocks.

Nate headed for the telephone in the study. It began ringing before he got there.

It’s a Captain Fairs? Lydia said, shrugging at the unfamiliar name.

Hello, Nate said as he powered the television up.

General Clark?

Speaking.

Sir, this is Captain Fairs. I work for the chief of staff’s office. We’re sending men from the protective service by a few homes, and yours is on the list. And I’ve also got a message that General Dekker has requested you be in his office at zero six thirty.

All right, I’ll be there. What’s the security for, Captain?

Lydia shot him a look of concern.

Just a precaution, sir. We’re calling in extra security personnel here at the Pentagon. And there was some trouble at the SecDef’s home—an alarm went off—but there was nobody there.

Lydia was already up and staring at the television. Nate couldn’t hear the anchorwoman, but the pictures were from Chicago. Flashing police lights filled a city street slick with an evening rain. In the distance several cars burned. The street was strewn with sparkling debris.

Nate hung up.

What is it? Lydia asked.

I don’t know. Terrorists. Get the boys and let’s go.

Lost in thought he heard, Nate?

He turned to her. It’s just a precaution, he said. Someone may have broken into the secretary of defense’s home. That’s all.

Lydia headed for the family room in a daze. Oh, Nate called out to her, and send Jeff back.

Jeffrey appeared just as Nate pulled a nine-millimeter Beretta from the locked drawer. The sixteen-year-old’s eyes widened. Nate slapped a magazine into the butt and pulled the slide, chambering a bullet. He carefully lowered the hammer and slipped the pistol into his waistband, but Jeffrey’s eyes followed his father’s hands. Nate put three full magazines into his blue jeans pockets.

Come on, son, he said as he headed for the hall closet. He reached up and took the dark green canvas bag from the top shelf. He extracted the engraved silver shotgun in two pieces. In seconds he had it together and loaded two shells into the side-by-side double-barrel twelve-gauge. He handed it to his firstborn. Be careful with this, he said. They joined Lydia and Paul at the garage door. Lydia, you drive. Jeff, in the front seat. Nate grabbed a cordless phone and headed for the back door.

What about me? Paul asked, his voice breaking.

Get in the back and keep your head down. He turned to Lydia. I’m gonna go around the side of the house to check out the drive. I’ll call if the coast is clear and climb in with you out on the driveway. Don’t open the garage until I say so.

Nate slipped out the side door. It was dark and hot outside. The sound of the pistol’s hammer locking back seemed overly loud. He felt an unpleasant surge of alertness. A flutter in his chest left him drawing shallow breaths. The pistol was at eye level, the butt of the gun and heel of his right hand supported by the palm of his left. He forced himself to blink. Calm down, he told himself. It had been a long time, but he remembered the physical sensations all too well. The sickening anxiety just when you most needed calm.

With his heart pounding, Nate headed up the walk—the pistol leading the way. Pebbles crunched under his first step, and he suddenly felt exposed. He stepped off the gravel walk onto the grass and fought the urge to drop and crawl. He swallowed and forced himself to stand more erect. His shoulder muscles ached. There were too many dark places. The bushes, the garbage cans, the tree line. The tree line worried him most. He checked his rear, turning his entire body to keep his right eye in line with the pistol’s sights.

He shouldn’t be doing this blind. He should be covered. Riflemen on the bushes and behind trash cans. A machine gun on the tree line. He inched his way down to the quiet street and back to the side of the garage—checking for wires across the narrow drive. He pulled the cordless phone from his pocket and dialed the Range Rover.

When he heard the faint hiss of static, he felt a jab of pain in his left side. The sensation was so sharp he probed the spot. There was no wound . . . at least not a new wound. In the decades since he’d been shot there in Vietnam he had felt the pain return in random jolts as if the nerve endings retained some memory of the agony they’d transmitted that day. As he was lying in the dirt amid high weeds that were his only cover, the pain had been so great that all he felt after the tug of the suture was varying degrees of it from icy cold to searing heat. And all he heard was the steady hiss of white noise on the radio. Clark had clung to the sound of the static on which his life had depended.

The car phone in the garage rang. Lydia picked it up immediately. Come on out, Nate said, surprised at how much effort it took. He sagged against the wall. The garage door opened slowly, noisily.

On the flight back to the aid station, Nate had held his hand out to the bare chest of Chuck Reed—his best friend from the Point and fellow platoon leader. Sky-high on morphine by then, Nate had felt him slowly grow cold as air whipped through the open doors of the helicopter and life bled from him more quickly than the IV could replenish it. Chuck Reed had saved Nate’s life, but lost his own in the bargain soldiers made with each other.

The car appeared. Nate carefully lowered the hammer on the pistol and climbed in the back with Paul. Lydia wasted no time backing down the driveway. Jeffrey manually searched the radio for the fast-breaking news stories.

You’re sweating, Dad, Paul said in a quiet voice.

Lydia looked at Nate through the rearview mirror. Leave your dad alone, Paul, she said softly.

It’s okay, Dad, Paul said. He laid his hand on Nate’s back awkwardly.

Lieutenant General Nate Clark reached out and pulled the boy into his arms, hugging him. Hiding his face in the boy’s hair. Why me? he thought for the thousandth time. Why did I live when so many others died so young?

2

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

August 16, 0455 GMT (0655 Local)

Colonel Pyotr Andreev, commander of the Russian Presidential Guard, climbed the last metal rungs of the bomb shelter’s air shaft. His dozen surviving security troops trailed just behind. Andreev’s arms, shoulders, back, and lungs burned from the thirty minutes of strenuous ascent. But the broad, slatted vents that would close on the flash of a nuclear burst were now within reach. Andreev and two of his men began to pry open with bayonets the screen that prevented birds from entering the shaft. It was painstaking effort, for any noise would mean certain death.

Andreev squeezed out of the vent into the dim light of dawn and crouched amid the hedges that concealed the air shaft from view. He breathed heavily. Sweat soaked the dark trousers and white dress shirt that he wore under the ballistic vest and bandoliers full of ammunition. He peered through the bushes. Russian Army troops were forming into ranks in the headlights of armored fighting vehicles whose hatches were thrown wide open. The lick of flame from a doorway and from the wrecks of a couple of cars were the only evidence of the fierce fighting that had raged across the old fortress’s grounds.

The sound of gunfire beyond the Kremlin walls, however, could be heard from all directions. The commander of the motorized rifle regiment sent to relieve the beleaguered Kremlin defenders had radioed that they had been ambushed by antitank missiles on Gorky Street. Andreev’s men all looked at each other in silence—jaws agape as the ferocious, ripping sounds of firefights filled the fresh early-morning air. The Kremlin was roughly in the center of Moscow, and it seemed as if the entire city was engulfed in war. It was a sound that meant only one thing—the end of the Republic of Russia.

Andreev found their best route through the darkness to the ancient stone wall and the relative safety that lay beyond. The wall there appeared to be lightly defended. The dark forms of only