Solomon's Porch (32 page)

“Sir, I’m sorry, Mr. President. I guess, I mean … ”

“Get on that fancy phone of yours and tell those cowboys down there to treat Mr. Carson and his people with respect. They are to escort and protect, not arrest. Am I making myself clear enough?”

“Yes sir, I’ll do that right away, sir.”

“These men somehow disabled every weapons system we have and you’re here trying to tell me a few policemen are going to subdue them? Honest to God, you people amaze me, honest to God … ” The President didn’t finish his thought. He stopped talking, grabbed his Bible and started to make his way to the door to exit his office.

“Sir, where are you going?” the first senior advisor accusingly asked, astonished that the Chief Executive would abandon his post in a time of crisis.

“Where any sane man would go right now,” the President answered. “To my private chapel to pray. To ask God to forgive me and to help me. It seems I’m about to meet His emissaries. I’d like to be prepared.”

“Let me see that thing,” Martz said, not so much asking as demanding. The guard handed him his weapon, a garden variety thirty-eight caliber pistol. Martz inspected it and returned the gun to the nervous guard.

“Does the bloody thing work?” Martz asked.

“Yes sir,” the sixty-two year old retired policeman said. “Just fired it last week at the range. It’s a beaut.”

“Well then, make yourself useful and shoot that monitor out over there,” Martz ordered.

“Mr. Martz, you want me to discharge my weapon in here, in the studio?”

“Hell yes. I’d rather you point the stupid thing at someone when you do it, but there are no suitable candidates for that job present, so the monitor will have to do.”

“Well now,” the guard hesitated. “I don’t think I can do that, sir. I know you’re the boss and all, but I would be violating … ”

“Mr. Ames, isn’t it?” Martz asked, interrupting.

“Yes, that’s right. William K. Ames, Mr. Martz.”

“Okay, Mr. William K. Ames, I’ll give you a choice. Fire that gun at the monitor or pack your stuff and leave.”

“You’d sack me over this, sir?”

“Damn right. Consider it done.”

Ames did not waiver further. He pointed the pistol at the monitor and pulled the trigger.

Click, click. Nothing happened.

Ames was perturbed. He removed the weapon’s six shells and replaced them with new rounds. He pulled the trigger again.

Click, click.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Ames said regretfully. “I guess you’ll have to pink slip me. I don’t understand it, I keep my sidearm in good condition at all times, I take my duties here most seriously, Mr. Martz, I … ”

“Ames!” Martz yelled.

“ … don’t understand how this could have … ”

“Ames!” Martz screamed again.

“Sir, yes sir.”

“It’s alright, Ames. You’re not fired. Carry on.”

“Sir, yes sir!” the old guard repeated and then immediately left to try and figure out what was wrong with his pistol.

Dave Martz, like millions of others, was simply stunned. Already he’d been told from his news staff that similar instant experiments with guns had yielded the same results. He wondered how far the phenomenon extended. Were people now incapable of stabbing each other, using clubs, or even landing a good left jab? He found it extremely difficult to grasp the possibility of the concept.

Then he looked over at one of the twenty or so monitors in the studio. The screen displayed a still shot of Alex Anderson’s face from the broadcast.

“Alex, my old friend,” Dave Martz said. “We really need to talk.”

Eighteen

Peter was wrong. The American authorities, in the form of the United States Marshal Service, did not arrest or seize anyone at Parkersboro. Shortly after they breached the flaming bus barrier, but before they made it into the camp proper, their authorization to take any further action was revoked.

Per the direct orders of the President of the United States, Peter Carson, Alex Anderson, Warden McCorkle, and the six disciples were “asked to attend an urgent meeting with the President and his senior staff in Washington at their earliest convenience.”

This Presidential invitation was delivered by the ranking officer of a company of Marines who arrived about half an hour after the Marshals were instructed to hold in place around the camp. The soldiers descended on Parkersboro in three separate helicopters, one of which was Marine Corps One, the President’s own ship. Initially at least, rather than the stick, the government was offering the carrot.

Peter immediately agreed to the President’s “request” and thanked the Marines for their courtesy. The soldiers deferred to Peter and, whether by order or of their own inclination, he was allowed to organize and time their departure. It was just after midnight when Peter told his escorts that they were ready to leave.

Julie made something of a scene after the broadcast. She begged Peter to allow her to go with him to Washington. He denied her as lovingly and as gently as he knew how, but for awhile it seemed as if she was refusing to take no for an answer. Julie was desperate to be by Peter’s side, to protect him, to prevent what her husband had told her was inevitable.

“What happens in three days, Peter?” she kept asking him. “Do you think they’ll still be so nice to you once God gives them their guns back?”

Julie Carson, Peter had given her permission to take back his name, did not accept the prophecy that Peter was predestined to be a martyr. She had been in a constant state of prayer since the night before on the beach, pleading with God to spare her husband’s life, or at least to be kind enough to take her also when He called for Peter.

Knowing that it wouldn’t satisfy her at the moment, but hoping that it would provide inspiration later, Peter reminded Julie that it was her first duty to be a mother to Kevin, to raise him up to be a man of God. “More than anything else, this is what the Lord wants you to do with your life,” he told her.

Peter’s tender counseling increased Julie’s inner conflict. She loved her son and knew that her role as his mother was a holy commission, but so also, she believed, was her love and duty to Peter.

In the end, she deferred to her husband’s wishes, quit arguing, and kissed him goodbye. What else could she do? Defy the man whom God so highly favored? As she watched the helicopters disappear into the northern night sky, Julie begged the Lord to return Peter to her, safe and sound. She couldn’t help but wonder if her last image of him would be of Peter standing in the entrance of the chopper mouthing, “I love you, Jules” as the soldiers folded up the stairs. She prayed for God’s comfort and mercy, but for now she was overwhelmed by sadness and fear.

“That is a fair statement,” the President’s first senior advisor agreed. “Without exception, weapons in any form in armed forces everywhere have simply ceased to be operative.”

“So, you would agree that our threat assessment is valid?” the National Security Advisor asked.

“Yes, for the moment. But only for the moment.”

“Elaborate, please,” the President said.

“As of this minute, roughly one a.m. eastern time, on June twenty, the United States faces no external threats. Our ability to make war and the ability of any of our potential adversaries to do so has been, uh, suspended for lack of a better term,” the first senior advisor explained.

“And?” the President prodded.

“Well, sir, when this restriction or paralysis is over, what then? Will everything be just as it was before it started? Our command and control functions are highly integrated, ultra sophisticated computer systems. Conceivably, there could be a significant delay window between when the switch, if you will, is thrown and when we are able to bring our strategic nuclear and non-nuclear weapons back on-line.”

“So what? Isn’t everyone else facing the same problem?” the President asked.

“They are, Mr. President,” the first senior advisor continued, “but not all weapons systems are alike. For example, the typical Russian or Chinese ICBM is far less complex in terms of electronic guidance and computer technology than our own. Given this fact, they may recover their ability to launch quicker than we can.”

“How much quicker?” the President needed to know.

“We estimate that the Russians might be able to launch a full, or nearly full, nuclear first strike anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour before we could respond, sir. As for the Chinese, we don’t have enough information to make an educated prediction.”

“And this analysis is based upon?”

“It is based upon the time required to power up our systems versus theirs, to reboot and reconfigure digital files, to reestablish command and control capabilities, to … ”

“Wait a minute,” the President said, breaking in.

“Sir,” the first senior advisor asked.

“Didn’t you just tell me a few minutes ago that lack of power was not a problem?”

“I did sir, that appears to be true Mr … ”

“In fact, as far as our experts, or anyone else’s I’m willing to bet, can tell there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of our weapons or command systems. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes sir.”

“And let’s not forget how far this suspension, as you call it, extends. Still no reports of any homicides or assaults or any type of violence anywhere?”

“No sir, Mr. President,” the National Security Advisor confirmed. “We are monitoring a large sampling of police bands from across the globe. Since Mr. Carson’s pronouncement, not a single incident of violence has been reported anywhere.”

“I still find it impossible to get my mind around that,” the President admitted, as he stood and began to slowly pace around his couches, “but I’d be a fool to ignore the facts. And gentlemen, as my pappy always said, I might be a fool, but I’m not a damned fool.”

“Call the list,” the President ordered his National Security Advisor.

“All of them, sir?”

“Yes, all of them! They’re up and about anyway doing what we are, trying to make some sense of this. I want the Russians, the Chinese, the Brits, the Indians, hell I want the Prince of Monaco to know that the United States of America is in the same boat as they are and that we intend to fully report any change in our defense status the instant it occurs. I want commitments from all of them to do the same.”

“Forget healings or visions, that right there is absolute proof of the existence of the Living God,” Saul Cohen said, as he smiled and pointed at Malik Graham. “I was certain we’d never be able to get him in here.”

It took ten minutes of prayer and fifteen more of persuasion by Saul and Peter to get Malik to step into the helicopter. He had never flown on a commercial aircraft, much less agreed to ride in some contraption that looked to him like a flying deathtrap. Malik was in the very same position he assumed when they departed Parkersboro; double strapped in his seat, muscles flexed, eyes closed, his huge hands squeezing a Bible so hard it seemed certain to be flattened by the time they reached Washington.

“Panos,” General Vargas said. “Mr. Austin and I would like to speak with you, sir. Alone.”

Peter walked to the back of the spacious Marine Corps One cabin with Vargas and Austin after strongly advising Saul against his prankster inclination to undue Malik’s seat belt “just to see what happens.”

“Both Tim and I know the President,” Enrique Vargas told Peter, “at least to some degree. I’ve been in several top military conferences with him. Austin was part of the prosecution team that briefed him on some sensitive matters in Texas.”

“And?” Peter asked.

“He’s a good man,” Tim told Peter, “and I believe he fears God. He’s highly intelligent, both street smart and book wise. As politicians go, he’s basically honest.”

“The Lord has allowed him to be President right now for a reason, I’m sure,” Peter added. “What you’re telling me is reassuring.”

“The issue isn’t the President,” Enrique Vargas said, lowering his voice as he spoke. “It’s some of the men he keeps close, Panos. Two in particular concern us.”

“Go on.”

“The President’s two most senior advisors are ruthless men, Peter,” the General said. “Evil. Rotten to the core.”

“You’re sure of this?” Peter asked.

“One hundred percent,” Tim Austin corroborated. “In the Bureau we’ve known for years that both of these guys have and would do anything required to advance their own interest.”

“Such as?”

“Such as destroying good men and their careers on a whim, fabricating evidence in criminal trials, finding ways to funnel billions in inflated government contract money to their cronies, and committing murder. And that’s just for starters.”

“Murder?” Peter wasn’t shocked by corruption, but accusing two of the most powerful men in the government of such a high crime seemed extreme.

“I’m absolutely sure of it,” Tim said unflinchingly, “but I cannot prove it in a court of law. These men are very clever and experienced, the best of the best. And know this, Peter, they haven’t killed once or twice, it’s a routine tool for them, part of their everyday arsenal.”

“Does the President know?” Peter wondered.