Chapter thirty-one

0926 IX September 2001

The FA7V has ordered all nonmilitary planes grounded and has canceled all flights in the United States.

0930 11 September 2001

"Davis, I'm patching NYPD traffic control through to you," Cam said. "They'll plot a route out of here for us."

Silently, Felicia adjusted the earphone from the NavCom, struggling to keep the image of Mac lying helpless and bleeding at bay while focusing on the directions relayed to her by an adrenaline-charged NYPD officer.

While Cam watched the street for signs of further attack, Foster's confiscated weapon in one hand and her cell phone in the other, Blair fought to clear her head of the kaleidoscope of nightmarish sounds and images that followed fast one upon the other. She could still hear the gunfire, smell the metallic odor of the bullets, see the neat round hole blossoming red in the center of Foster's forehead and Mac's body bouncing off the Suburban and crumpling to the ground. If all that weren't horror enough, she had visions of the tens of thousands of people in the World Trade Center who might be trapped, injured, or dying as a result of the plane crashes. It was more than she could absorb. Then a cold hand clamped around her heart. If we 're under this kind of attack here, what else might be happening? "Cam! My fath—"

Shaking her head, Cam signaled with a tilt of her chin that she had an incoming call. "Roberts." She spared Blair a glance, her heart twisting at the panic she saw in her lover's eyes. She wanted to offer comfort, but she simply didn't have time. They weren't safe yet. "Egret is secure, but we've taken fire. I have casualties." She listened intently, narrowing her eyes against the throbbing pain at the base of her skull. "Negative...we've been internally compromised...Not in my opinion, no." She shook her head, and then regretted it as her stomach heaved. "No sign of pursuit. Negative.. I am not relaying my position. I will advise when I've determined that we are secure." She shook her head again, the pain eclipsed by anger and frustration. "On my authority."

Abruptly, Cam terminated the call, rested her head against the seat, and closed her eyes for a second. Mercifully, the nausea subsided. She opened her eyes and met Blair's. "That was the White House security chief. The president is safe. He's in the air, location and destination unknown."

"Thank God." Blair studied Cam intently, noting the fine mist of sweat on her forehead. "You don't look well."

"I'm all right."

"Cam—"

Cam set the phone aside and rested her fingers on the top of Blair's hand. "My head took a glancing hit and it's stirred up the headache. Not too bad."

Blair bit back another question. There was nothing to be done—Cam had to do what she was doing. "What were you arguing about with the White House?"

"The Armageddon protocol has been set in motion, and the idiots don't understand our situation here."

"What do you mean?" Blair asked quietly. She'd never heard Cam say anything quite so critical of her superiors. The Armageddon protocol, she knew, was a response plan initially orchestrated by the Reagan administration in preparation for a nuclear attack or some other massive strike aimed at eliminating the president and other high-ranking federal officials. A shadow government consisting of a predetermined list of appointees would be sequestered in undisclosed, secure locations until the threat was contained. Such action would ensure that the government would continue to function even if the president, his staff, and his cabinet were destroyed.

"Ordinarily, we would proceed to a safe house, but with Foster..." A muscle in Cam's jaw bunched tightly and her fingers turned white as she gripped the dead agent's gun—the one he had trained on Blair's heart. "With one of my agents involved in the assault, I have to assume we are completely compromised. I can't trust the safe house locations or any evacuation plan to be secure." We 're out here alone,

"Commander," Stark interrupted urgently. "I have Reynolds calling from command central."

Instantly, Cam held out her hand for the other phone. "Reynolds," she said sharply, "Mac Phillips has been wounded. He's in the...yes...yes. Status?...What about Parker?" She let out a breath, her eyes emptying of all emotion. "Evacuate and secure the building. Notify the FBI...wait...hold a minute." She passed the phone back to Stark. "I've got another priority call coming in. You work through securing the scene with him. See if he can get someone from the local FBI office. We need to keep this out of the news."

"Yes, ma'am." White faced, shivering in the sweat-soaked T-shirts and shorts she had been working out in, Stark extended her left hand. Her throbbing right arm was stiffening, and she cradled it against her abdomen to help contain the pain. She forced herself to think about the myriad details that needed to be addressed—most importantly, determining the identity of the unknown assailants. But what she desperately wanted to do was to ask for information about the situation at the World Trade Center. Her lover was there somewhere. But Blair was still in danger, and her duty came first. "All right, Reynolds. Listen up."

0941 11 September 2001

American Airlines flight 77 has crashed into the west side of the Pentagon.

"Jesus Christ," Cam breathed as she heard the words she could not believe. Phone to her ear, she glanced at Blair. "They're evacuating the White House. A hijacked airliner just hit the Pentagon."

"Oh my dear Lord." Blair's eyes grew huge, brimming with agony and despair. "This can't be happening. Oh, Cam."

"We're leaving the city, Commander. Your orders?" Felicia's voice through the open partition that separated the rear compartment from the driver's area was hollow, eerily devoid of inflection.

Blair wasn't certain that Cam had heard the question, but it was clear to her that no previously determined official destination was secure. Suddenly, she leaned toward the front and spoke to Felicia in a low voice. "Drive to the Mass Turnpike and head east. And I need to use your phone."

Briefly, Felicia flicked her eyes to Blair's in the rearview mirror, then back to the road as she removed her cell phone from the pocket of her sweats. Handing it through to Blair, she murmured, "Yes, ma'am."

While what was left of her security team attempted to coordinate their safe passage, the president's daughter decided to make arrangements for a temporary sanctuary on her own. She'd spent half her life disappearing, and she'd been very good at it. Praying that she could get an open line in the midst of a panic that must be overburdening the telephone systems, she pushed 411. Sighing in relief when an operator finally answered, she gave a name and address and waited for a connection. Answer. Please answer.

Expelling a pent-up breath at the sound of a voice on the line, Blair said urgently, "Tanner? It's Blair. I've got a problem."

Blair closed the phone just as Stark and Cam finished their calls. She looked from her lover to Paula Stark. Both were hurt. Both at the very minimum needed first aid for their wounds, if not professional medical attention. Felicia was holding up, but she looked shell-shocked. What she was about to say was only going to add immeasurably to everyone's pain, but there was nothing she could do. In a voice dry as tinder, she repeated what she'd just been told. "The South Tower of the World Trade Center just collapsed."

"No!" Stark jerked forward on her seat, her eyes wild. "That's impossible. There are 50,000 people in that building." Renee! Renee is there!

"Paula," Blair said softly.

"Listen," Felicia said abruptly from the front seat. "I've got something coming over the scanner here."

The vehicle grew eerily quiet as the sound of a disembodied voice filled the silence.

United Airlines flight 93 has crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, presumably en route to a target in Washington, DC.

"Is that number four?" Blair's voice was tight with disbelief. "This can't be. This just can't be."

Cam reached for Blair's hand as Stark slumped in her seat, her face ashen. "It's imperative now that we maintain radio silence. No one makes any calls except me."

"Renee is in the South Tower," Stark said, her voice trembling. "Can I call her?"

"I'm sorry, no." Cam's tone revealed none of her regret. "We have no idea who is behind these attacks, or how much they know, or where the next target might be. We can't risk broadcasting our location."

"Cam," Blair said quietly, her heart aching. "One more call couldn't hurt, could it?"

"I don't know what might hurt at this point. I can't risk it." The disappointment in Blair's face stung, and Cam's question came out more abruptly than she intended. "Who were you just talking to?"

Taken aback, Blair stared, and caught the flicker of pain in Cam's eyes before they went flat. That brief glimpse of her lover's anguish dispelled her own mounting anger. Cam's leg was rigid beneath their joined hands. The only visible sign of the terrible strain she was under was the low, tight tone of her voice. The depths of her charcoal eyes, however, were nothing more than opaque obsidian reflections, more impenetrable than Blair had ever seen. Oh, darling, I can't imagine what it's costing you to do this.

Gently, Blair replied, "An old friend of mine from prep school. We can go there—it's as secure as any place right now. Probably more."

Cam narrowed her eyes. "Were you lovers?"

Blair blinked. "I hardly think that matters now."

Impatiently, Cam shook her head and bit back a grunt of pain. "No, if you were, it's probably a matter of record. Somewhere, someone put it in a file, and we don't know what intelligence has been compromised."

"God, do you really think something from so long ago—"

"I don't know, Blair. Jesus, I've got one dead agent—"

"Mac?" Felicia cried.

"No," Cam replied swiftly. "Parker. Reynolds said Mac was unconscious but alive when he reached him. He managed to commandeer a NYPD cruiser off the street to transport Mac to NYU hospital." In a gentler tone, she added, "That's all I know, except that Mac is tough."

Blair stroked her hand absently along Cam's thigh. "Tanner was never my lover. And she lives in a fairly remote area. I told her we were coming."

Cam sorted through options, ranking them in order of possible security risks. Until she had more information about the nature and extent of the attacks, she couldn't be certain that any federal or military installation was secure. In all likelihood, Foster had passed along the details of their internal evac routes to whoever was behind the assault. She had to admit they'd be better off lying low in a civilian location. "All right. Where are we going?"

"Whitley Island."

1005 11 September 2001

The skies over America are empty.

For almost a minute, there was complete silence in the vehicle. Felicia drove east toward the Mass Turnpike at a steady sixty-five miles per hour. Stark leaned against the door, her face turned to the window, her eyes glazed. She was shivering uncontrollably.

"Cam," Blair said quietly, nodding in Stark's direction. "She needs medical attention. And so do you."

"I don't want to stop yet." Cam kept her voice low out of habit, although in actuality, the only people she could absolutely trust were in the car with her. Other than Mac, and she missed him tremendously now. "I don't think we're being pursued, but I don't know if there's another assault team looking for us or already on an intercept course. The last thing I want to do is go to a hospital and televise to the world where you are."

"Can't we drop her off at a hospital somewhere, then?"

A brief, sad smile crossed Cam's face. "You don't really think she'd go, do you? Plus, I can't afford to lose another agent. I need her on the job."

"You can assemble the rest of the team in a few hours once we reach Tanner's."

"No, I can't." Cam rubbed her eyes. "Foster was part of the attack, Blair. I can't trust any of the agents now. Every one of them is a suspect."

"All right," Blair conceded. Carefully, she moved to the opposite seat, knelt facing the rear, and leaned over the back of the seat into the storage compartment behind it. She rummaged around until she found the emergency medical kit, which she lifted back over the seat and set on the floor. Then she resumed her search and, a few minutes later, swiveled around with a bundle of clothing in her arms. "The Suburbans may be ugly as hell, but they're very well equipped. I've got the ever-present blue polo shirts and one-size-fits-all khaki pants. Felicia and Paula can at least get out of their damp clothes."

"Davis," Cam said. "Pull into the first drive-off you see. Park well away from any other vehicles."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ten minutes later, Davis pulled the Suburban into a rest stop, drove to the far end of the narrow parking lot, and stopped. Blair slid over next to Stark.

"Paula," she said gently, putting her hand lightly on Stark's arm. "Let's get your T-shirt off so I can take a look at your shoulder. I've got a dry shirt for you, too."

Stark, her gaze slightly unfocused, searched Blair's face. She blinked. "Thank you. You don't need to do that. I can take care of it. You should see to the commander."

"Yes, I will. But you first." Patiently, Blair waited.

After another few seconds' hesitation, Stark lifted her T-shirt with her left hand, but couldn't mange to raise her right.

"Let me help you with that," Blair said, carefully manipulating the garment and working it slowly over Stark's injured right arm. The sports bra she wore beneath was wet with sweat and blood. "Take off the bra, too."

Stark flushed.

"It's okay, Paula."

Stark glanced across the compartment to Cam, who sat quietly with her eyes trained out the rear window, scanning the incoming vehicles, her weapon still at the ready. The sight of the commander, so steady, so focused, infused Stark with purpose. I need to get myself together. The commander needs backup. Quietly, she said to Blair, "Can you help me, please."

"Of course."

After helping Stark out of her underwear, Blair cleansed the jagged bullet wound in Stark's deltoid area with peroxide, applied an antibiotic ointment, and bandaged it. Throughout the process, Stark remained still and silent. "Let me help you get a dry shirt on."

As Stark carefully pulled on the shirt, another bulletin came over the scanner.

1028 11 September 2001

The North Tower of the World Trade Center has collapsed.

With an agonized moan, Stark pushed open the door and bolted from the car.

When Blair moved to follow, Cam said quietly, "Let her go."

Blair's patience snapped. "For God's sake, Cam. There's no danger here, and she's suffering. I don't want her to be alone with this."

"She needs to be alone with it." Cam's voice revealed no hint of anger, only sadness. "She needs to put it away for now, and she will. Just give her a minute."

"Is that what they teach you?" Blair demanded wildly. "To bury your pain, even when it's killing you?"

"We don't bury it, Blair. We just save it."

The grief in Cam's face brought tears to Blair's eyes. "Oh, Cam. I'm sorry." Quickly, she crossed the space between them and curled up against Cam's side, threading an arm around her lover's waist and resting her head against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. None of this is your fault, and everything you're doing is to protect me. I know that, and still I resent what this job does to you."

Cam pressed her lips to Blair's hair and closed her eyes. "I would do anything not to lose you."

"I know." Blair lifted her face and kissed Cam's neck. "I love you." She held Cam a moment longer, then pushed away. "It's time for you to get cleaned up, Commander."

By the time Blair had tended to Cam's scalp wound, Stark, hollow eyed and beyond pale, had returned.

"All right, Stark?" Cam asked.

"Yes, ma'am." Stark's voice was raspy and sore from choking back the bile that had threatened to erupt when she'd heard the bulletin. She had to believe that Renee was still alive. She simply had no other choice. Any other possibility was more than she could bear. "I'm ready."

"Davis," Cam said, "Ms. Powell will give you directions to Whitley Island. Get us there as quickly as you can."

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