William Forstchen - The Final Day

It was a technique John had learned as well. If you want the straight dope, go to those at the bottom of the food chain of administrations, not the middle or the top.

The two old friends turned to look back at each other.

“Any place where we can sit and talk one-on-one?” Bob asked.

“It will be crowded in the airport clubhouse. Let our people get out of the cold, grab something to eat, and mingle.”

John did not add that Forrest, along with Grace and several others, had been thoroughly briefed that if the two sides did get together, they were to break out a jar or two of moonshine and pump for any information they could glean. He realized that chances were at least one of Bob’s security team was his intelligence officer who would be doing the same. Forrest should be able to sniff that out quickly enough.

“The hangar we were waiting in is out of the wind and catching the morning sun; let’s you and I settle in there,” John offered, pointing the way.

John fell in by Bob’s side, subtly gesturing for his friends to leave them be and take care of their guests. He looked back to the chopper; the rotors were slowly turning over in idle.

“Your crew can shut down if they want; there’s no threat here, Bob.”

Bob just smiled but did not reply to the offer, and John did not press him.

Getting out of the snow, they stomped into the hangar. Its long-gone owner had turned it into an aviator’s man cave, posters of World War I and II aircraft papering the walls, along with a couple of classic pinups of nose art from that era. There were a couple of overstuffed lounge chairs next to a long-cold space heater, the chairs smelling unpleasantly of mouse or some other rodent. John dragged the two chairs into the morning sunlight while Bob examined the posters and, brushing the dust off the windshield, looked into the cockpit of a long-grounded Aeronca Champ, its tires cracked and deflated after years of sitting idle.

“I actually learned to fly in one of these.” Bob sighed. “Sweet plane, postwar version of that L-3 I heard you have up and running.”

John looked over at his friend. Of course he would know what John had.

There were so many questions, but Bob opened first. “John, what happened to Jennifer?”

The question took John aback, and with it returned all the pain of those tragic days. He looked away from Bob, gaze unfocused. “She died, Bob. The way so many died. In her case, diabetes.” He fell silent, not wanting to say more; it was not the conversation he wanted for now.

Bob reached over and in a fatherly gesture patted John on the knee. “Sorry I brought it up. Last time we talked, it was her birthday. Remember?”

“Of course I remember.” John could not keep the bitter edge out of his voice. “Her last birthday thanks to whoever, whatever triggered all this madness.”

He looked back at his friend. It was, of course, not Bob’s fault.

“And you, Bob? How is Linda?”

“I’ll never know.” Bob sighed. “She was visiting friends in Florida when it hit.” A pause. “You most likely know what Florida turned into. I somehow knew she was dead within a few weeks. You know how that is with someone you love. You just wake up in the middle of the night, you know they are there in the room with you… and they are dead and have come to say good-bye. I just pray it was gentle and swift.”

“Jennifer’s wasn’t,” John said, and he instantly regretted it, seeing the hurt in Bob’s eyes. “I’m sorry I said that, Bob.”

Bob did not reply, the two old friends sitting in silence for a moment until John stirred from his seat. Remembering the thermos of coffee left by Forrest, he picked it up from the floor and motioned to it. Bob nodding agreement as John poured out the hot brew into two battered cups, handing one to his friend.

“The real stuff?” Bob asked.

John nodded and could see the look of surprise.

Bob reached into his parka jacket, produced a flask, motioned to John’s cup. John could pick up the welcome scent of scotch and looked quizzically at Bob, who just smiled while he poured several ounces into his own cup before raising it in a toast.

“I thank God you are still alive, John. Here’s to those we lost.”

“To those that we lost,” John whispered.

The two sipped their drinks, and it helped to relax the tension.

“Bob, a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“How the hell did you survive? You were in the Pentagon the day it happened. What happened up there?”

Bob looked down at his drink before taking a long gulp. “Some of us got lucky. Most tried for their homes to get their families out. Washington went into total chaos within hours. Those that had set out to try to reach their families, some with forty miles or more of a hike ahead of them? Never heard from again. Me? Linda was in Florida—no reason to try for home. Some of us struck out for Fort Meade and hunkered down there until we tried for Fort Belvoir, the rumor being that local assets were trying to regroup there. From there, well, for a while, I was out on a carrier. The navy with assets overseas fared better than the army on that count.”

“What really happened, Bob?”

“We got hit, and we lost.”

“That simple? ‘We got hit, and we lost’?” There was a sharp edge to John’s response.

“About all I can say.”

“All you can say, or all that you know?”

Again a moment of silence.

“John, you were on the phone with me when it hit. You know I and all those around me were as off guard as you and a minute later literally in the dark, same as you and the rest of the country. Pearl Harbor in spades.”

“And if I remember my history, a couple of lectures from long ago at the War College, the warning signs for Pearl were clear enough to read.”

“After the fact,” Bob interjected. “After the fact, the patterns fell into place. But before?”

“Some read it correctly.”

“Don’t tell me you are buying into some conspiracy shit?” Bob snapped. “You’ve too sharp an intellect for that.”

“With everything we had? Surely…”

Bob did not reply.

John fell silent and looked at his friend closely. Bob had answered a little too sharply and quickly. Was there something he was holding back? Even before the Day, Bob held many a secret that generals held while those under him were kept in the dark and knew better than to try to ask. He filed the suspicion away. Bob would only share what he felt he could share at this moment and nothing more.

Bob had aged ten, fifteen years since he had last seen him little more than three years ago. Though there was still something of his once sharp, penetrating gaze of confidence, there also seemed to be an infinite weariness behind the eyes.

His shoulders were rounded over slightly as if carrying some unspeakable burden. Gone was the ramrod-straight posture, that certain look and feel of command. There was a slight tremor to his hands as he held the warm mug. Was it just exhaustion of the moment or something far deeper?

“And out there?” John finally asked, shifting the topic away from the personal for the moment.

“Where?”

“The world. Everything, anything. We no longer trust Voice of America out of Bluemont. We try to glean what we can from the BBC, even China and their News to America program. What’s the straight dope?”

Bob sighed, set his coffee mug down, unscrewed the cap to the flask of scotch, and offered it to John, who took another ounce while Bob emptied the rest back into his cup.

It surprised him. Bob always had a taste for good twelve- and fifteen-year-old scotch, but only after hours and off duty.

“John, the world has gone three-quarters of the way to hell and is tottering on the edge of the final abyss.”