“All we need is a few hours, Mr. President,” the general said.
James nodded and closed his eyes. He just hoped they had a few hours.
65
The briefing ended and the general’s phone rang immediately.
Stephens answered it on the first ring, then handed the phone to the president. “Sir, it’s Vice President Trainor.”
James stood, took the call, and began pacing the general’s office. He urgently motioned for Ginny Harris to hang up with whatever reporter or producer she was talking to, nodding occasionally but saying little.
“You’re sure?” the president asked.
There was a long silence. James kept pacing. Stephens and Harris looked on, waiting for some indication of what was being discussed.
“Fine, talk to Admiral Arthurs and General Garrett,” the president ordered. “Make sure everyone is ready. Then call me back in fifteen.”
He hung up the phone and turned to Stephens and Harris. “The data from the sniffer planes is in,” he said somberly.
“And?” the general asked.
“The preliminary analysis suggests the warheads used in D.C. and L.A. almost certainly came from plutonium enriched in North Korea.”
Ginny Harris’s hand shot to her mouth.
“The New York and Seattle data, thus far, is inconclusive,” the president continued. “More testing is being done. The air force is saying final results won’t be available for several weeks. Obviously we don’t have several weeks. What’s more, the latest satellite imagery shows that heavy mechanized units based northeast of Pyongyang are on the move. They’re heading south and setting up a staging area about fifty clicks north of the DMZ.”
He looked at Harris. “Is everything set with the network affiliates?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“The cable outlets?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The overseas networks?”
“It’s all been taken care of, Mr. President,” Harris confirmed. “Chuck even persuaded China Central Television, the state-run network, to air it.”
“Live?” James asked, surprised.
“Live,” Harris said. “In fact, all sixteen CCTV channels are going to preempt their regularly scheduled programming to air your address.”
“Guess you’d better say something reassuring about Beijing,” Stephens said.
James couldn’t quite muster a smile under the circumstances.
“They’ll delay it by thirty seconds,” Harris noted, “to censor anything political they don’t like but also to provide simultaneous translation in every major language. And they’re not the only ones, sir. It’s looking like you’ll have live audiences on every continent.”
The president began pacing again.
“This could very well be the most watched presidential address in history,” Harris said, matter-of-factly. There was no hint of excitement in her voice. She knew the stakes like everyone else. But she was, after all, the new director of communications for a White House that didn’t even exist. “Chuck and I expect an audience of no fewer than two billion people, Mr. President,” she added.
“Then,” James said, “I guess you’d better start drafting something for me to say.”
Fear has a way of clarifying one’s thoughts.
Of reminding you what matters most. And Bennett was suddenly scared.
The temperature in the cell had to be at least a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The humidity made it even worse. But some kind of icy cold presence was moving through the room. It felt oppressive. It felt evil. And Bennett was now chilled to the bone. He was no longer arguing with God; he was clinging to Him with a renewed intensity. He no longer felt sorry for himself; he was asking for protection, for the courage to endure whatever was ahead, and for forgiveness for all his doubts and anger. As he prayed, a measure of spiritual vigor began to return to him.
He prayed for the president to have wisdom and discernment in the midst of such chaos, and for his Father in heaven to comfort little Fareeda and draw her close to His heart. He prayed for the Galishnikovs, for Natasha Barak and her cousin Miriam, for everyone he could think of. Then he prayed for Erin.
He knew she was in a better place. He knew the Lord had promised to wipe away every tear from her eyes. But he asked his Father to pass a message on to Erin since she was there at His side — to tell her, simply, that he loved her and that he missed her very much. He didn’t know if such a prayer was theologically sound. He couldn’t think of a time in the Scriptures when anyone had prayed something like it. But he couldn’t help himself, and could it really hurt to ask?
He felt better. Not good, but better. The icy presence had passed. The room was boiling again, and somehow Bennett was glad. New thoughts began to flood his mind. Where was he, and why? Was anyone coming for him, and what would they want? Was he going to die here? And if so, why? What was God asking of him? He was doing nothing. He was chained to a chair at the end of days. Why? What was the point? What was his purpose?
Moving from the horse country of Virginia to the epicenter to do humanitarian work had been an adventure, to be sure. Bennett had to admit that something had felt good and right about selling their house and cars, cashing out their portfolio, giving nearly all of their money to evangelical and messianic ministries operating in Israel and the Middle East, and rolling up their sleeves to care for those who couldn’t care for themselves, and to do so in the name of Jesus. But Bennett had also struggled with being so far from the action, so removed from the centers of power and influence.
When he’d worked for the president, he had longed to get off the political bullet train, as he called it. But what he had done for the White House felt important. It was real. It was measurable, and Bennett had always loved to measure. Stocks were either up or down. The same with polls. Oil reserves either were expanding or weren’t. Deals either were signed or weren’t. It was the same with treaties and executive orders and legislation.
Caring for the poor wasn’t measurable — not in a manner that satisfied Bennett, anyway. You could feed five thousand mouths for breakfast. Then they needed lunch. You had barely cleaned up and it was time to prepare dinner. It never ended.
What’s more, as time passed since the Day of Devastation, Bennett had noticed that fewer and fewer people seemed drawn by the gospel. There had been such a surge at first. He had preached every Sunday morning in the camp chapel he and Erin improvised, and hundreds had responded to the invitation to accept Christ. Many formed small group Bible studies. He and Erin had been training many of those small group leaders. But over the past several months, the response had dropped precipitously. Spiritual hunger was waning. Apostasy was growing. It had made Bennett restless. He desperately wanted to make an impact. He wanted to make a difference. He wasn’t trying to reach a continent for Christ. Just a camp. A single, solitary refugee camp. And now that, too, had been taken from him.
He wasn’t mad. Not anymore. Just confused. The world was exploding. The clock was ticking. Christ was coming back. Maybe soon. He desperately wanted to finish well. He longed to hear Jesus say to him, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” But what good could he do here? He didn’t even know where “here” was.
66
Time was slipping away.
There were less than ninety minutes until his televised address, and there was still so much to do. The president sat in General Stephens’s office, signing a series of National Security Directives, executive orders, and letters to a Congress still weeks away from being fully reassembled, authorizing an array of emergency and administrative actions.