Should he do it? Despite the danger, Bennett had loved his role as “point man for peace” in the MacPherson administration. His favorite verse of Scripture was Matthew 5:9, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
It was Erin who had insisted they stay off the political bullet train. She wanted to serve in a refugee camp somewhere in the epicenter. As far away from Wall Street as possible. As far away from the White House as possible. Far even from the horse country of rural Virginia that Erin loved so dearly, where they’d been married and hoped to settle down. It was she who had suggested that they spend the first year of their married life here in northern Jordan. To feed the hungry. To comfort the sick. To make a difference. To be a blessing in the time they had left, however brief that might be.
When that simple truth finally dawned on him, Bennett resolved in his heart to stop second-guessing what they’d done. Erin had long ago decided she was willing to die for what she believed in. It wasn’t that she wanted to die, but she was willing to, if that’s what God asked of her. That was what gave her the courage to join the CIA. It was what gave her the courage to serve the president in the line of fire. It was also what gave her the courage to come here, to this place, at this time. If she was willing to sacrifice everything to love her neighbors, and her enemies, Bennett didn’t want to do anything to get in her way. He just wished he’d had the spiritual maturity to come up with the idea in the first place.
Bennett’s phone suddenly rang.
His heart leaped. Perhaps it was good news about Erin. But no one needed to call him. He was standing less than ten feet from Erin’s room. He pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
Odd, he thought. There was no name, no incoming number. Then again, his own number was unlisted too. He’d given it out to only a handful of close friends and family members, so he wasn’t worried. He should have been.
This was it, Sanchez thought as she readied her team.
She pressed her wrist-mounted microphone and relayed the word over secure channels to every agent on the president’s detail.
“Heads up, everyone. We’re sixty seconds out. I want a final sector check. Recon One?”
“Recon One, clear.”
“Recon Two?”
“Recon Two is clear.”
“NEST?”
“NEST is all clear.”
“Snapshot One?”
“We’re good.”
“Sector Two?”
“Sector Two — we’re good to go, Home Plate.”
And so it went until Sanchez was satisfied that every i had been dotted and every t had been crossed. There was nothing more she could do but trust her team and her instincts and say a prayer that they all got through the night alive and in one piece.
“Hello?” Bennett said, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Is this Jonathan Bennett?” said the electronically altered voice at the other end of the line.
“Who is this?” Bennett replied, refusing to confirm anything until the caller identified himself.
“Listen carefully,” the voice said. “Something terrible is about to happen. I had nothing to do with it. I cannot stop it. But I know it is coming, and I can assure you it is only the beginning. Much worse is coming as well. But those I can stop… if you’ll help me.”
Bennett knew instantly that this was not a game. Something in the voice convinced him this was deadly serious, though when he asked for details, he was refused.
“You will see what I am speaking about soon enough,” he was told. “I will call you back within twenty-four hours. Then you’ll have a decision to make. Help me stop what’s coming next, or suffer the consequences.”
Click.
That was it. The call went dead.
Just then, before Bennett could process any of it, he heard the door of the examining room open. He glanced up to see two doctors — both looking weary and war-torn — emerge from his wife’s room and catch his eye. One nodded, then quickly headed off down a side hallway. Bennett held his breath as the other physician, the older of the two, made his way over and sat down at his side.
“Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes, sir,” Bennett replied, his mind reeling. “How is she? Will she be okay?”
10
“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”
MacPherson stood just offstage and listened as “Hail to the Chief” began to play and the capacity crowd of 22,197 leaped to their feet and began cheering and applauding with a passion and intensity that brought a lump to his throat.
These had been the toughest eight years of his life. Growing up, he had never imagined running for president, much less winning not once but twice. He had certainly never imagined being president through such trying times. His decisions hadn’t always been right. He had often had to work with imperfect and incomplete information. But he had done his best. He had tried to protect the American people from a global jihadist threat his parents and grandparents could not have comprehended. He had second-guessed himself many times. He knew in the end he had no one to blame for his mistakes but himself. But now the atmosphere in this room was electric. The base of his party, at least, loved him, and MacPherson couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes for a moment and drank it all in.
The pause only heightened the drama, and with it the intensity of the crowd’s reaction. The longer he remained out of view, the more they wanted him. The more they wanted him, the longer he stayed out of view. He waited, and waited a bit longer, and paused still a bit longer until the roar built to a crescendo. And then, when he — and they — could stand it no longer, James “Mac” MacPherson stepped out from behind the presidential blue curtains into the glare of the TV lights and a roar more deafening than anything he had ever experienced before.
It was showtime. And for him, it was the last time. And he had something burning in his soul to tell his supporters, his nation, and the world.
Something that simply couldn’t wait.
“Mr. Bennett, my name is Dr. Kwamee. I’m from Ghana.”
Bennett nodded impatiently as the man reviewed a folder of notes and charts in his hands.
“I’ve been caring for your wife, as you know, for the past several hours,” the doctor continued. “We’ve been having a particularly difficult time getting her fever down. Even now, it’s still 103. She’s very dehydrated. I see from the nurse’s notes that you said she hadn’t been eating or drinking much over the past week or so. Is that right?”
“No — I mean, yes — that’s right,” Bennett stammered. “She’s had trouble keeping anything down.”
“You should have brought her in earlier,” the doctor admonished. “We’re always stressing around the camp the critical importance of drinking enough fluids. This is why. It’s difficult enough to fight off a disease when you’re otherwise perfectly healthy. But if your body doesn’t have the fluids and nutrients it needs, then I’m afraid everything becomes much more complicated.”