His uncle, the brother of his deceased mother, had joined a humanitarian contingent to visit a disease-stricken village in the western regions of North Korea. Part of Doctors Without Borders, the beloved uncle of the president had been like a father to him growing up. He’d paired with another medical provider, an epidemiologist who happened to be the mother of Secretary of State Carolyn Sanders.
While examining and treating patients in a remote village away from their assigned areas, the two encountered a North Korean security patrol. They were brutally beaten simply because they were Americans. Their mauled corpses were returned to the Doctors Without Borders camp. It was explained to the director of the contingent that criminals had attacked the two and were immediately killed by brave North Korean soldiers.
Nobody ever believed the story. Days later, the group was expelled from the country, and any chance of learning the truth was lost.
President Helton had discovered the commonality with Secretary Sanders many years ago at a political fundraising dinner. They compared notes, comforted one another, and became longtime friends. They also shared a solemn promise. To avenge their loved ones.
When he was elected, the president never imagined he’d have the opportunity to exact his revenge on the murderous regime. He’d laid the groundwork to gain the opportunity by bringing Sanders into his cabinet. Once in office, he learned how the U.S. government worked. In secret. He established a commission of loyalists to find an opportunity, as well as a justification, for wiping Kim Jong Un off the face of the planet.
That opportunity was now.
After clearing the Oval Office, the president retrieved a celebratory cigar he’d planned on smoking following his inauguration. He’d gotten caught up in the moment, and the opportunity, or just the right occasion, never presented itself.
He rolled the glass tube containing the Gurkha Churchill in his fingers. The top was sealed with green wax reminiscent of a Maker’s Mark whisky bottle. The cigar, known as His Majesty’s Reserve, sold for $750 each. A hefty price for a smoke but preferred by elites inside the Beltway and considered one of the most expensive cigars ever made.
He peeled off the seal and retrieved his butane lighter. Earliest man had a fascination with fire. It represented life as well as destruction, the president thought to himself as the hot flame hissed out of the lighter. He became mesmerized by its various hues of red, orange, and blue where it was the hottest.
He lit the end, rotating the cigar in his fingers to provide an even burn. With each puff of the cigar, the fire created by his lighter rose several inches. His mind deceived him as the fire morphed to a tower of flame stretching thousands of feet skyward until it formed a billowing, ever-expanding mushroom.
As he puffed on the cigar, the flame continued to dance up and down as it was fed and deprived of oxygen. His mind continued to play tricks on him. He saw a fireball spread across the nation he was elected to protect, incinerating large cities and rural towns, scorching the heartland while reducing to ash the bodies of millions of Americans. All of it floated into the clouds and beyond, swept up by the jet stream and carried for thousands of miles, leaving the remains of America around the globe.
With one final draw, the burning cherry glowed bright red, and he exhaled, sending smoke spiraling upward. And, within the smoke, there was a set of eyes looking back at him. Evil. Lifeless. Unblinking. Narrowing with scorn. Piercing his psyche. Leaving the words to float through his mind.
First strike.
In that moment, President Helton, a sly smile on his face, confirmed his decision. Once he was settled into the bunker at Mount Weather, he was going to make the case for a preemptive first strike against North Korea.
Do unto others before they do unto you, or something like that, he thought to himself, drawing a slight laugh from deep within him. His mind continued. Screw me? No, screw you! He could go on, but he’d settled on his decision.
Yes, he would exact his revenge while eliminating a despot at the same time. The world would be a better place for his efforts. He was convinced of it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday, October 22
Hayward, California
It was late that evening, and Owen was tied up at the office. By the time he broke away, a torrential rain swept down San Francisco Bay toward Palo Alto. Owen was on the Dumbarton Bridge, crossing the lower end of the bay, when a multi-car accident half a mile ahead of him occurred, effectively locking him down on the bridge in the midst of a multilane, thousand-car parking lot. He sat there, frustrated, waiting for emergency vehicles to clear the wreckage. And growing increasingly apprehensive as he listened to news stations on his satellite radio.
After thirty-six hours, the nuclear war between Pakistan and India had finally come to an end. It was being called the worst humanitarian and environmental disaster in history. Countless millions had perished in a blink of an eye as one nuclear warhead was detonated after another. Wildfires raged out of control across both countries, consuming millions of acres of farmland, destroying buildings, and sending noxious materials into the stratosphere.
It was during one roundtable discussion on NPR that Owen learned about the concept of nuclear winter. When these nuclear warheads struck the earth, not only did they propel millions of cubic yards of debris and radioactive material into the sky, but they spawned widespread firestorms across the landscape of both nations.
The fires were not quite as prevalent in the brief Iranian-Israeli exchange due to the geography surrounding the primary targets, Tel Aviv and Tehran. South Asia was a different matter.
The multitude of targets in both nations were located in fertile valleys used for growing food for the enormous populations in the region, especially India. The blasts created a mushroom cloud, but they also spread incredible heat and fire outward from the detonation site. The soot from the burning cities and plant material following the nuclear blasts entered the atmosphere and immediately began to spread around the globe.
Scientists interviewed by NPR claimed the soot, radioactive debris, and other materials could circumnavigate the globe within four to five days. As they did, sunlight would be blocked from reaching the Earth’s surface, resulting in a significant drop in global temperatures. In addition, rainfall would decrease substantially, thus increasing ultraviolet radiation levels due to the badly damaged atmosphere.
That was how nuclear winter began, a term of art dating back to the early eighties when Carl Sagan and a team of scientists brought the concept to the attention of the world. Their studies, as refined by present-day scientists, talked of unfathomable loss in agriculture productions and massive global starvation.
Owen’s pulse raced as those interviewed made their case. He changed the station to CNN. More of the same. FoxNews? Ditto.
The consensus was that the direct death and destruction was the obvious result of a nuclear war between nations. The widespread firestorms following the bombings would burn out of control for months in some locations, or longer. The millions of tons of soot and ash would absorb sunlight for a minimum of five years as the ability to grow the world’s four main cereal crops—corn, wheat, soybeans, and rice—would plummet for nearly ten years. It would be the single largest famine in documented human history.
Owen switched his radio to ESPN, hoping for a respite from the doomsday discussions. He would soon be disappointed.
