The Lance

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Rice was leaving. The Secret Service took over escort duties. Rice and Nick boarded a helicopter on the hospital roof manned by a squad of Marines in full combat gear, detached from the Embassy. Flanked by hovering Apaches with Israeli markings, they lifted away from Hadassah's roof and headed for Tel Aviv and Air Force One.

At Tel Aviv the helicopter set down at the far end of Ben Gurion Airport where the President's plane waited. Israeli armor and heavy machine guns mounted on tracked vehicles surrounded the plane.

Air Force One was one of two Boeing 747-200B aircraft modified far beyond the civilian models. It was a beautiful plane, impressive, as it was meant to be. The white body was streamlined with blue. The American flag was painted on the tall tail section and the words United States of America on the sides of the fuselage left no confusion about who was on board.

Nick followed Rice up the retractable stairway to the President's entrance near the front of the plane. They began rolling down the runway as the hatch closed.

Rice sent Nick back to the cabin space reserved for senior staff, at the leading edge of the starboard wing. The aisle from the President's office and quarters ran along the port side of the plane. Heading aft, Nick passed a medical room that converted into a state of the art operating theater. He passed a gleaming galley.

He nodded at the only other person seated in the senior staff area, an Army Colonel in pressed uniform with a black leather case beside him. Nick knew what it was. The football.

It held the electronics that could launch America's nuclear arsenal. It was never far from the president's side, no matter where he traveled.

The chairs in the senior staff area weren't like anything on a regular passenger airplane. The fittings were custom made of polished woods. The seats were of light brown fine grain leather. It was like being in someone's living room.

Everything was clean and new looking, the carpet thick underfoot, the decor muted and soft, beiges and light greens, earth tones to soothe the nervous political mind. An Air Force Steward took Nick's order for a double Irish, which is what he wanted for personal soothing. His head hurt. His ribs ached and stabbed him every time he took a deep breath. His back was tight as a steel drum.

Air Force One lifted into the air and climbed skyward. Off the starboard wing a flight of Israeli F-16s pulled alongside, armed escort until American planes could pick up the task.

The explosion on the Mount had killed the Israeli Prime Minister. The Secretary of State and the National Security Advisor were both dead. Calloway was dead, with five other agents. More injured personnel had stayed behind at Hadassah. Two key Presidential Aides were dead. Nick supposed it could have been worse.

Who was he kidding? There wasn't a doubt in his mind that war between Israel and all of Islam had begun. Someone had kicked the pot over into the fire and a lot of people were going to die. The more he thought about it, the angrier he felt.

The whiskey was doing its work and he sank deeper into the chair. The stitches on his leg felt like hot cactus needles under his skin. He set the glass down and closed his eyes and thought about Selena and wondered what she was doing. He drifted into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed of Megan, his brown haired lover.

His dead lover.

Megan waited at the edge of the cliff, the sea wind blowing her long, brown hair out behind her.

"Hey, Baby," she said.

He knew he was dreaming, knew Megan was dead. Sadness overwhelmed him, an abiding sense of loss. When he was awake he could put it away where he didn't have to think about it. That wasn't possible here. But he'd rather see her here than not at all.

"I miss you. I miss you so much." He held her tight.

"I know."

The dreamscape changed. A gaping chasm opened at his feet. At the bottom red and orange flames flared. Dark shapes danced in demented time with the flames. A sound like cold wind whistling through razor wire came and went at the edge of hearing.

"You've got to find it, Nick."

"I don't understand. Find what? Where is it?"

The cold wind was getting stronger and Megan started shredding, bits of her flying away. He reached out to touch her, touched air.

"You have to stop it." Megan put a transparent hand on his shoulder. She gestured at the chasm. "Find it, Nick."

"Major Carter."

He jolted awake. The hand on his shoulder belonged to the steward, an Air Force Sergeant. "Sir, the President would like you to come forward."

Carter felt the dream fading. Find what? The chasm in the dream looked like someone's vision of hell. Maybe his own.

Now and then he had a dream that warned of things to come. It was called the "sight" in Ireland. It had skipped a generation and passed to him from his Irish Grandmother. Sometimes that kind of dream gave advice. Dreams like that always had a weird, intense quality and he always remembered them. This was one of those.

Megan, he understood dreaming about her. It happened a lot. But the dream made no sense.

He looked out the window. The Israeli fighter escort had been replaced with the smooth, futuristic shapes of American F-22 Raptors. He'd been asleep for a while. He got up and went forward.