Questions popped into my head. How many people were inside the plane? Were they young? Old? Did they know they were about to crash? Were they praying for deliverance? Or had they accepted the cold, hard reality of their situation?
The plane dipped, straightened out, and then dipped again.
A small part of me knew it was time to jump into the truck, to drive as far away as possible. But my feet were rooted to the ground.
The plane dipped again and then gained a little altitude. I caught glimpses of scorched metal between wisps of black smoke. More smoke, the grayish contrails, continued to trail the aircraft, dissipating rapidly.
The plane shot overhead. It was so low I felt like I could reach up and touch its belly. The shrieking noise grew louder. It sounded like giant nails scratching a massive chalkboard.
Covering my ears, I spun around. The plane teetered overhead, miraculously maintaining altitude.
“Come on.” Beverly grabbed my arm. “We’ll—”
A coarse cheer sounded to the heavens, drowning her out. Rotating my waist, I looked at God’s Judges. They stood close together, their fists raised to the sky, hollering and yelling like they’d just won a massive battle.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll get Lila.”
As Beverly darted to the truck, I hurried to Lila’s side. Every breath I took tasted foul and bitter in my mouth.
“I should’ve known she’d find me.” Lila knelt on the soil. Her eyes, wide as saucers, were aimed at some point in the distance. “This is my fault. All my fault.”
“Time to go.” I tried to lift her to her feet, but she just sagged back to the ground. Then her eyes widened even further.
Following her gaze, I glanced at God’s Judges. A bolt of electricity shot through me.
The militia members lay on the ground, flailing like dying fish against the soft dirt. Some people grasped their throats. Others clawed at their eyes.
Guess that ends the victory celebration.
I turned my gaze skyward. The plane’s contrails descended upon us. They were thick, yet almost invisible to the eye.
A distant booming noise rang out from the west, signaling the plane’s demise. But I barely noticed it.
My gaze remained locked on the contrails. I watched them twist back and forth, licking at the air like a pack of writhing snakes. The first few contrails settled on us. I could barely see them, but I sensed their presence.
“We need to—” The words caught in my throat as more contrails barreled into me. I felt their weight, their substance. I struggled to say something, anything. But my jaw just hung from its hinges.
The contrails touched my neck, my face. They filled my mouth, leaving me choking for air. They surrounded me, engulfed me.
My vision blurred up. I itched my eyes, but it didn’t help.
My lungs started to ache. Needing to breathe, I inhaled the contrails. They were odorless, tasteless. I inhaled again. This time, I couldn’t smell anything. Not dirt, not wood from the barn, or decayed vegetation. Not even exhaust from the truck.
“We’ve … got …” The words seemed to stick in my throat. I spun toward Lila. “Are … what?”
Her eyes bulged. Her hands flew to her throat. A soft gurgle escaped her lips.
Glancing back, I saw Graham emerge from the cab. Almost immediately, he crouched down, gasping for air.
Shifting my gaze, I saw Beverly. She knelt next to the truck, her head jerking spastically.
Haziness swept through my brain. My balance vanished and I stumbled to my knees. My head felt woozy and light as a beach ball. I tried to stand up, but my body tipped over. My face thudded against the dirt.
My eyes started to sting. My throat closed up. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.
The contrails … they’re killing us.
Chapter 12
The shiny black ball rocketed down the lane. It curved gently, from right to left, angling toward a spot between the one and three pins. President Walters sighed with pleasure.
Slowly, the ball started to drift. A frown creased the president’s face. Seconds later, the black orb slid into the gutter and dropped out of sight.
President Walters slammed his foot against the ground in frustration. “Damn.”
“Really?” The tone was tough and goading. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
The president flung himself into a blue plastic chair. He stared daggers at the room’s only other occupant. “Your turn.”
Special Agent Ed Hooper grabbed a bowling ball and walked to the lane. He was a tall and lanky man with oversized limbs. His lined face was covered with pockmarks. He wore his baldness proudly, keeping his head shaven at all times.
A cheap, but well-fitting gray suit and a dark blue necktie adorned his lean frame. His appearance reflected the no-nonsense attitude that had made him famous in law enforcement circles long before he’d joined the United States Secret Service.
In addition to security, the Secret Service also safeguarded the nation’s financial systems from counterfeiting and major financial fraud. Hooper was widely regarded as the top investigator in the department, with a well-earned reputation for uncovering the truth.
But his work wasn’t confined to the Secret Service. Six months prior, he’d quietly busted a treasury bond forgery ring with ties to the president’s reelection campaign. Afterward, the president had begun to ask him for help with other investigative inquiries.
Hooper studied the lane. Then he strode forward, lifted his arm high above his head, and swung it down in a perfect arc.
The ball shot down the alley, curving from right to left. A moment later, it exploded through the one and three pins, sending all ten pins flying.
President Walters scowled. After six frames, he was losing by a score of 111 to 89. Even worse, he was bowling off an empty frame while Hooper now had the advantage of bowling off a strike.
Quickly, he calculated his best possible score. If he threw nothing but strikes for the remaining frames, he could still break 200. Then he just needed Hooper to toss a few bad balls and leave some open frames. The odds weren’t great. But as long as he had the slightest chance of victory, he’d do everything in his power to seize it.
The president watched Hooper leave the lane. Besides his legendary skills, Hooper possessed two rare qualities, especially for Washington, D.C. First, he was a man of his word. Second, he could be counted on to keep a secret. Because of those attributes, the president trusted him completely.
President Walters waited for Hooper to sit down. Then he grabbed his ball and approached the lane.
Friends of President Nixon had built the White House Bowling Alley in 1969. It consisted of a single lane situated directly beneath the driveway leading to the North Portico. It was surprisingly modest in appearance. The left wall was adorned with a painting of giant pins and a bowling ball. A long mirror hung on the right wall.
Past occupants of the White House had used the place sparingly. But President Walters liked to bowl and often utilized it for business purposes. And at that moment, the president had business to conduct.
Very important business.
The president strode forward and released the ball. It crossed the lane quickly and slammed into the pins, scattering them to all sides. A smile crossed his face.
One strike down. Five to go.
Hooper whistled. “Nice roll.”
“Thanks.”
Hooper stepped up to the lane. The president shook his head as he watched the agent roll another strike. Hooper was incredibly unorthodox. He used a bizarre five-step delivery and froze at the end of it, like some kind of figure on a bowling trophy.
Afterward, Hooper rubbed his hands together and stepped to the side. “I have a question for you.”