Goliath

“Actually, I meant that subjectively. The Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty of 1996 bans all nuclear explosions. Unfortunately, the CTBT never formally defined the term ‘explosion,’ since it assumed only fission triggers, and so testing goes on. It’s a loophole our government refuses to close.”

A heavyset man in the fourth row stands, pausing to allow the television cameras to focus. Dr. Goode recognizes the Republican lobbyist from her visits on Capitol Hill. “Come now, Ms. Goode, aren’t you overplaying the part of antinuke alarmist just a bit? No country has ever announced the goal of building these pure-fusion weapons. And even if they were conceived, no country would ever use them.”

Goode stares at the man with a look to kill. “First off, Mr. Johnston, no country would be stupid enough to announce pure fusion as a goal. Second and most importantly, what you’re failing to mention is the real danger of these weapons. When it comes to acquiring thermonuclear devices, the biggest obstacle to rogue nations and terrorists up to now has been their inability to obtain sufficient quantities of enriched uranium or plutonium. By contrast, deuterium is abundant in seawater and tritium is easily made in a college physics lab.”

“Come on, Ms. Goode—”

“It’s DOCTOR Goode, Mr. Johnston, now sit your Republican-leased fat ass down.”

A smattering of applause as she grabs the microphone and turns to face the cameras. “If you listen to nothing else I say, listen to this. The most frightening thing about pure-fusion weapons is what attracted the military to them in the first place—and that is their much smaller yields and relative lack of radioactive fallout. By eliminating the harmful aftereffects of the bomb, you reduce the political unacceptability of using the weapon while increasing its relative lethality.

“In other words, humanity is on the brink of eliminating its own nuclear stalemate.”

Dr. Goode inches her way through the crowded lobby to a waiting elevator. The doors shut, sealing off the mob. She presses the button for Parking Level Three.

Three-thirty. With any luck, I’ll miss rush-hour traffic and be back in Wilmington before Duncan and Ian get home from school.

The elevator doors open. She hurries to her car, a two-year-old Lincoln Town Car she has converted to fuel cells. Using her key chain, she deactivates the security device—

—as the two FBI agents approach from behind, flashing their badges.

“Sometime in the next thirty years, very quietly one day we will cease to be the brightest things on Earth.”

—James McAlear

“This conflict was begun on the timing of others; it will end in a way and at an hour of our choosing.”

—President George W. Bush, after the terrorism of 9-11-01

“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions”

—Samuel Johnson

CHAPTER 4

White House

Washington, D.C.

Gunnar follows Rocky and the two MPs down a short corridor in the West Wing of the White House. His pulse quickens as the large, light-skinned African American steps out from behind a set of double doors to the president’s Situation Room.

The Bear returns his daughter’s salute. “Wait for us inside.”

Rocky shoots her father a look, then enters the private chamber, leaving the two MPs unsure of what to do next.

“Return to your posts.”

“But sir—”

“Dismissed.”

The MPs pivot and head back down the hall.

General Jackson stares at his former commando. “Glad you’re here.” “Didn’t have much of a choice:”

“The president’s inside waiting. We’ll talk later. For now, keep your ears open and your mouth shut, and don’t allow anyone to provoke you.”

“Maybe you ought to mention that to your daughter.”

Ignoring the comment, Jackson opens the door, motioning Gunnar inside. The newly appointed commander in chief of the United States Special Operations Command feels as if he is leading a lamb to slaughter.

Rocky is standing off to one side. Her father signals her over as a gangly civilian with tight wavy hair steps forward to greet them.

“Commander Jackson, meet Gray Ayers, Secretary of the Navy. Mr. Secretary, this is my daughter, Commander Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher.”