George got up from the console and made his way through the crowded control van to the door. “I’m stepping outside for a minute,” he called to the lieutenant.
George found himself alone outside, where the air was warmer but fresher than the conditioned air inside the stuffy, crowded van. George took a deep, long breath, exhaling slowly to calm himself. The control van was positioned next to the base operations building at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. It was a beautiful area, with lots of tall trees and lush green vegetation. Birds sang nearby, and cars quietly made their way past the base operations building on their way to and from hangars and various administration buildings.
It all seems so peaceful. But in the back of George’s mind, he knew why Langley had been chosen as their operations site. Its proximity to Washington meant the Predator drones could quickly reach the target area surrounding ground zero. On the other hand, it was far enough away to have escaped any damage and was out of the fallout area, which tended to extend east and west from the most radioactive area.
Thoughts of the hundreds of thousands of dead and injured and the loss of the nation’s beautiful capital flooded through George’s mind. Leaning against a tree for support, overcome with grief and sorrow, he cried uncontrollably. He knelt to the ground to pray, but knew it was also to keep himself from falling over as he suddenly lost all his strength.
“Lord, give me strength. Give us all strength. And give us wisdom… wisdom to react to this crisis responsibly… wisdom to prevent more killing.”
As he prayed, an inkling of a thought began to form in the deep recesses of his mind. It seeped in from somewhere — from God — from his soul — or from his subconscious mind. George couldn’t tell where it came from; it was just there. It was an answer to his prayer. He rose to his feet with renewed energy and looked up through the tree branches to the clear blue sky. He raised a clenched fist and made a vow: “As long as I have a breath of life in me, this will never happen again.”
The ranking surviving member of Congress, Senator Jonathon Thornton of Vermont, took charge as acting president in the days following the attack under the Emergency Powers Act, appointing a new cabinet and setting up temporary government offices in Philadelphia. Senator Thornton, a Democrat, had been home in Burlington recovering from a prostate operation when the attack on Washington took place. Acting President Thornton called upon all the states to hold elections for new senators and representatives as quickly as possible and to send them to a newly formed Congress in Philadelphia, convening in one month.
The newly elected senators and congressmen demanded to know how our government had let this happen. In typical Washington fashion, people pointed fingers — someone had to be blamed. The only difference now was that the blame game was being played in Philadelphia.
The investigation showed the attack had been completely unexpected. Prior to the blast, the Homeland Security Department had not declared any heightened state of alertness for more than six months. Intelligence agencies, hampered by recent laws passed by Congress to limit the president’s power to authorize wiretaps, had not picked up any unusual telephone communications indicating a terrorist operation was imminent.
There was, of course, much talk of retaliation and bringing the terrorists responsible for this horrible act to justice. But everyone knew there could be no justice for this act. No counter-targets could be identified for our nuclear forces to strike. There was no country responsible for this attack. Al-Qaeda was still the shadowy, secret organization it had always been. Sure, a few individuals at various levels of the terrorist organization would be caught and tried for the crime, but there would be no justice for the hundreds of thousands of dead and injured. Al-Qaeda operated as usual, proclaiming the bombing as a great victory for Islam and stating this was not the end.
Chapter 4
It was deathly quiet. Nothing could be heard except the soft whirring of a myriad of small electric cooling fans in the banks of electronic equipment surrounding the small, cramped room. Commander George Adams looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dim red lights. He had ordered the white lights in the submarine’s control room turned off, indicating to the crew it was nighttime on the surface above. Suddenly, the piercing wail of the flooding alarm broke the silence. George called out, “Officer of the deck, report!”
Lieutenant Commander William “Pappy” Boyington casually turned to George and whispered, “The sensors are down.”
George was taken aback and momentarily confused. He wondered: What sensors? Why is Pappy being so casual, and why is he whispering?
The wail of the alarm accelerated — but the crew just continued about their normal duties.
They’re not responding! Taking charge of the situation, George grabbed the arm of an officer whose back was turned to him and spun him around. “Where’s the rupture?” he demanded.
Commander Robert “Buffalo” Sewell glared at him. “We don’t know, George, but we’re severely listing to port. There’s nothing we can do. We’re going down!”
Now George was totally confused. What is this? I’ve never served on the same boat with Pappy and Buffalo! If we’re in serious trouble, why aren’t people doing anything? And why is that alarm so persistent? Why can’t anyone turn it off? And why does it sound like that? That’s not the way the flooding alarm sounds!
An acrid smell filled his nostrils. What is that? Smoke? An electrical fire? No, the smell isn’t quite right.
Slowly, as his confusion continued, his vision grew dim. George panicked. I’m losing consciousness! I can’t — I’m the only one who can save us now! Everyone else seems to be drugged or helpless!
The control room was pitch-black now, but George could still hear the flooding alarm and smell the smoke. Sweat was running down the sides of his face and dripping off his nose and chin.
Then he opened his eyes and saw the curtains next to his bed, dimly lit by the light from his alarm clock. Dazed and confused, he raised his head from his soaking wet pillow. The smell of aromatic chicory coffee emanated from his automatic coffee maker in the kitchen. Groggily he reached over and slapped off the wailing alarm. Mixed feelings of relief and frustration flooded over him.
0430 hours.
Thus begins another useless day. A nightmare. What an appropriate start.
It had been five years since the terrorist attack on Washington DC. Although George had not been in Washington during the attack, many of his friends at the Pentagon and in nearby suburbs died from either the blast or radiation poisoning. He had wanted to do something, anything, to retaliate, but was in no position to do so. These hopeless disaster dreams had become a recurring theme. George attempted to make light of them, calling them his “daily double.”
“I live a life of frustration and disaster while I’m awake, and then I do it again in my sleep!”
George was divorced and lived alone outside Norfolk in suburban Hampton, Virginia. Years before, fresh out of submarine school and fresh into a new marriage, he had bought a house in Hampton and started planning a family. Navy life is tough on marriages, though, and his young wife had decided rather quickly that this life of separation and stress was not the life for her. They mutually agreed on a divorce, and she subsequently moved back to her family in Connecticut. All she wanted was out — and most of George’s life savings. Fortunately, that wasn’t much at the time. George kept the house, though, and during the time periods he was stationed outside the Tidewater Area, he rented it out to other naval officers. This arrangement had worked well over the years, and the house had appreciated considerably in value.