Kyle Pratt - Through Many Fires

Many authors say that their spouse is their biggest fan. My wife Lorraine most certainly is mine. This book would not exist without her support, ideas and constant encouragement.

I would also like to thank my friends and fellow writers, Joyce Scott, Robert Hansen, Barbara Blakey and Carolyn Bickel. You have all taught me so much about the craft of writing.

Those who were murdered cry out for justice. Senator Stevens scanned the pages of the terrorism legislation. They will soon have it. He was pleased with the progress of the bill, but he could not let up now. Sliding by a portly colleague, he maneuvered toward the senator from Oregon, “Do I have your support, Dave?”

“Sure, you do.”

“Thanks.” Stevens stepped away.

“What’s the rush?”

“I need to bend the ears of a few senior members before the president speaks.”

“Okay,” he grinned. “Always on the job, eh?”

“Always,” he said with his gaze fixed on the National Security Advisor. As Stevens neared he gripped the man’s arm and asked, “Did he do it, Jake? Did the president include my proposal in his final draft?”

“Yes but,” Jake lowered his voice to a whisper, “how many will support the president this late in his second term?”

“I know he’s a lame duck, but we need to go on the offensive again. This bill provides a comprehensive approach to terrorism.”

Jake shrugged. “You don’t need to sell me. We need support from Congress.”

“Okay.” Stevens slapped the man on the back. “Thanks for taking it to the president. I will get the support you need.” He scanned the House chamber for another colleague when applause thundered. Turning toward the rostrum, he sighed.

The president stood behind the lectern, cleared his throat and smiled broadly. Stevens glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. I wish I had more time. He waved to another senator, moved quickly to his seat and leaned back as the president began to speak. A departing aide casually opened a door to the house chamber.

One thousand yards away a nondescript van pulled into an alley and stopped. The driver leaned forward and muttered a prayer.

White light, as intense as the surface of the sun, seared the retinas of Senator Stevens. Before blindness registered on his brain, superheated air scorched his lungs. The chair splintered as scorching wind threw his body through the wood and upholstery. His skin blistered, boiled and dissolved.

Walking toward the door with his co-workers, Caden Westmore sneaked a look at his watch. 8:55 . Feeling a hand rest on his shoulder he turned.

The Chief-of-Staff thrust his free hand forward. “Well, how does it feel to be Chief Foreign Policy Advisor?”

“I’m sure you knew Stevens would promote me days ago,” Caden said as they shook hands, “but I only found out a few hours ago.” He shrugged. “I’ve hardly had time for it to sink in.”

They continued to talk as they stepped outside. The January wind tingled against Caden’s face and the icy air reached deep into his lungs. The winter sun had long since gone down; he could see his breath in the glow of the restaurant window.

Buttoning his suit jacket, he said goodbye. A gentle snow fell, tickling his exposed hands and face, as he ambled up the street towards his car. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes till nine. The dinner had ended at just the right time. Congress would be assembled and waiting on the president. He turned the corner and picked up his pace, eager to get to his car and listen to the address on the radio.

Caden smiled as a woman with flowing blond hair walked past. Images of Becky came to mind. He wished she was with him in D.C. I should call and tell her about my promotion. He retrieved his phone and tapped her name. At the sound of her soft southern accent he smiled. “Hello beautiful.”

The night flashed as bright as a desert noon. Light penetrated his suit and warmed his back like a hot summer day. He squinted then closed his eyes tight. Even with eyelids firmly shut, a blood red glow filled his vision. He flung his arm across his face. The phone squealed. He jerked it away. Then there was silence. Tentatively he opened his eyes as all the world seemed to wait—but for what?

“Becky? Becky?” He glanced down. The phone seemed to be off. He pushed the button, but it did not turn on. He dropped it into his pocket. What happened?

The crackling of a rifle shot ricocheted around him. But unlike a rifle shot the sound did not fade, it grew and echoed. He turned left and right trying to see where it came from when a boom like none he had ever heard reverberated through him. He stumbled, regained his footing and wiped his eyes only to have wind slap him several steps back. Dust hung in the air. Car alarms and people screamed. Caden’s eyes darted left and right. Dozens stood like him, confused statues. Never-ending rolling thunder filled the night as debris, carried by a strong wind, buffeted him.

Several feet away a woman screamed. Caden followed her terrified gaze. His heart pounded. As if the gates of hell had been thrown open, out from the very bowels a satanic belch of fire and light raced towards the heavens. Lightning crackled across the sky in a dozen directions as he watched in disbelief. A boiling mushroom cloud formed in the southern night sky.

A cacophony of horns sounded as the normally quiet suburban street filled with panicked people all going away from the cloud. Repeatedly jostled and shoved he wondered where the crowd came from.

Screams grabbed his attention. At the street corner the blond woman from moments ago was knocked to the ground by the frightened crowd. Others trampled her in a panic. He tried to help her, but the throng was like a riptide going in the wrong direction. Caden struggled to stay on his feet as he was shoved and spun around. The surge of the mob carried him away. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw only the growing torrent of people and cloud.

Caden thanked God the horde moved towards his car. As the flow of people brought him near, he pushed and shoved his way to the vehicle. He jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed his foot on the gas pedal and turned the key. The car sputtered and died. God, help me! He realized he still had the gas pedal to the floor. Calm down. Calm down. He took his foot off the gas and turned the key. The car coughed and shook, then started. Caden let out a sigh, pulled away from the curb and joined the fleeing masses.

Traffic was already heavy as a plan formed in his mind. He would go to his apartment and get everything he could. And then what? Just get away from the blast. But to where? Becky! He would go to Becky in Atlanta. Caden wondered if she was safe. Had Atlanta been attacked? Would it be attacked? He tried his phone again. It turned on, but when he tried Becky’s number nothing happened. What about Mom and Dad, Peter or Lisa? He was sure they were okay—for now. He speed dialed his parents, then his brother, then his sister, but there was only silence. Looking at the phone in frustration he noticed there was still no signal. He threw the phone on the seat beside him.

The roads were jammed. Every stoplight and streetlight was out. Escape from the firestorm was painstakingly slow. It was like some horrible nightmare where he tried to run, but couldn’t. He could walk faster than his car moved. Usually the drive from the restaurant to his apartment in Bethesda was a mere ten minutes, but tonight, it was the longest half-hour of his life. When he finally pulled up to his building he was relieved that, at least on this night, there was plenty of parking in front.