Taming the Sword

By Paul Barber

IN THIS BLOCKBUSTER NOVEL, READERS WILL
RECOIL WHEN THEY SEE THE UNITED STATES
BROUGHT TO ITS KNEESWHEN THEY SEE:
~~~DEATH GRIPPING AMERICA~~~
The threat hung over America for years, then it happens: terrorists explode an EMP nuclear weapon high over the United States. Gamma rays destroy the nations power grids and America goes dark. Those on life support die. Airliners crash, their flight control circuits fried. Home appliances fail. As production, transportation, and communication lines collapse, friends and neighbors fight over the dwindling supply of food, water, and medicine. Deaths soar and angry Americans demand a permanent end to terrorism. A high-risk mission is readied, then former CIA Agent Taylor Ramsey is summoned, the only person the President trusts to lead a perilous voyage back centuries in time, back to the very roots of terrorism; the only person the President knows, wholl give all for one last chance to serve his country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781496925442

Paul Barber

Paul Barber is Academic Advisor for the Metanoia Institute's 'Doctorate in Psychotherapy by Professional Studies' and 'Doctorate in Psychotherapy by Public Works' programmes. He is also a Visiting Professor (Gestalt in research and organisations) at Middlesex University's Institute for Work Based Learning, a Fellow of the Roffey Park Institute and a Visiting Professor in Psychotherapy at the University of Novi Sad, Serbia. He is also Associate Editor of the British Gestalt Journal. He can be contacted by email at [e-mail] or on his website www.gestaltinaction.com.

Book preview

Taming the Sword

A NOVEL

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Paul Barber

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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This book is a novel, a work of fiction. Except for references to Almighty God; Jesus Christ; and Christianity, names, characters, places, events, incidents, organizations, countries, and religions mentioned are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Other than the exceptions mentioned, the author makes no claim of fact in the story and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events, locales, groups, or countries, is coincidental or used fictitiously.

© 2016 Paul Barber. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author, his designated representative or legal successor.

Published by AuthorHouse   05/12/2016

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2542-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2543-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2544-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014912316

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Book cover: designed by the author.

Front cover photo: LEGENDS sculpture entitled Symbols of Freedom crafted by artist Kitty D. Cantrell and owned by the author.

Back cover photo: Arlington National Cemetery. Credit: Ingfbruno (Creative Commons)

Title page representation of a broken Middle Ages sword. Credit: Greg Ryan.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

DEDICATION

This book is for my wife, Dorothy Ann (Dottie) Barber, who has given her love to me, cared for me, and provided encouragement through six decades of our lives together. I dedicate this book and the remainder of my life to her; a debt second only to that I owe my Savior.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Thanks to those who provided support, critique, and discussion in the development of this novel: Dr. Sue Whatley, leader of the Christian writers group, for her expert guidance; my son, Keith Barber, for his critical and imaginative suggestions in developing technical aspects of the novel; my daughter, Julie Barber Pankratz, for yielding to ceaseless calls for editing; and my son, Steven Barber, for his encouragement. My sincerest appreciation goes to these, and unnamed others, for helping bring Taming the Sword to fruition.

AVAILABILITY & OTHER WRITINGS

Taming the Sword is Barber’s third book. Other writings include Another Day in Which to Excel and America in the CrossHairs. Books are available wherever fine books are sold; or through the publisher; or through the author by emailing him at: [e-mail].

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Paul Barber’s life experiences enable him to present, in Taming the Sword, a fictional account of a terrorist event so bold it will give pause to the minds of those leaders responsible for protecting America.

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His participation in crisis management at the national defense level provides the knowledge and understanding of how National Command Authorities (President and Secretary of Defense) respond to various world crises. His subsequent service at the U.S. State Department allows an insider perspective on events dangerous to the United States and how diplomatic efforts are used to diffuse those situations. In Taming the Sword, Barber uses this depth of knowledge to present a perilous, but necessary, response to the most horrific terrorist attack ever mounted against America.

Through his many associations with people from other countries, including several years living in North Africa, Barber has accumulated valuable knowledge of various laws and methods of governing that incorporate different beliefs and moral value systems. Additional study of Middle Eastern cultures has provided insight into the rationale for using terror to overcome years of perceived injustice.

Barber holds a BS from Kansas State University and a MS from Central Michigan University. He is a graduate of senior level management and leadership programs including the Air Command and Staff College and a year of study at the National Defense University. He has completed a professorship at a major mid-western university.

During the Vietnam War, Barber flew 200 combat support missions. Later, while commanding his unit, he and his crews completed over 1500 wartime missions for which he received the Air Force Outstanding Unit Award with Valor. In an assignment to HQ, MACV in Saigon, he helped draft President Nixon’s plan to end the war and return home Americans held as POW’s.

Throughout his 28-year military career, Colonel Barber received numerous Air Force, Army, and Joint Staff awards including the Silver Star; Bronze Star; Defense Meritorious Service Medal; Air Medal with four Oak Leaf Clusters; Joint Service Commendation Medal; and many others. Upon retiring from the Air Force, Barber completed a second career as an Edward Jones Financial Advisor. He is a published author and poet.

CONTENTS

Dedication, Acknowledgment, Availability & Other Writings

About The Author

Introduction

Chapter 1: A Nightmare

Chapter 2: Why Me?

Chapter 3: Now We’re Even

Chapter 4: Taking the Captain Home

Chapter 5: The EMP Event

Chapter 6: Welcome Home

Chapter 7: Cherry Blossom Time in D.C.

Chapter 8: Getting to Know You

Chapter 9: Orientation Week

Chapter 10: Meeting with the President

Chapter 11: Project History-Maker

Chapter 12: An Answer to Prayer

Chapter 13: A Real Flying Saucer

Chapter 14: It’s a Winner

Chapter 15: Life is Good

Chapter 16: A Bomb Threat

Chapter 17: Just Nine More Days

Chapter 18: A White House Wedding

Chapter 19: Back to Work

Chapter 20: The Mission Team

Chapter 21: A Presidential Pardon

Chapter 22: Training the Team

Chapter 23: President Addresses the People

Chapter 24: Meeting Ramsey’s Parents

Chapter 25: We’ve Got a Threat

Chapter 26: The Mission Launches

Chapter 27: From Damascus to Baghdad

Chapter 28: Taming the Sword

Chapter 29: We’ve Got a Problem

Chapter 30: Unintended Consequences

Chapter 31: Going Home

Chapter 32: Not Another Mission?

INTRODUCTION

THE SWORD: SYMBOL OF TERRORISM

The world is at war! Or is it terrorism we’re fighting? America can’t seem to differentiate between the two. Once upon a time we had a ‘War on Terror.’ Now, it seems we’re unable to say those words, or even identify the terrorists for fear of hurting someone’s feelings. Which is it: terrorism, or war…or does it really make a difference? Terrorism is the use of violence and intimidation in the pursuit of political or religious aims. War is a state of conflict between different nations.

But such differences seem argumentative, even feeble, when millions of people are being herded into gas chambers; when men, women, and children are brutalized, burned, or beheaded; when public events are bombed; or when a nation’s identity is threatened. The goal of both terrorism and war is intimidation, death, and destruction of the opponent; so for our purposes, we’ll link them together and refer to them jointly as terrorism.

Over the past four decades there have been hundreds of events where terrorists struck America: attacks on our embassies; military facilities; transportation systems; tall buildings; gatherings of people; and the beheading of individuals. We’ve witnessed Middle Ages type atrocities through the lens of a camera: the raping and slaughter of innocents that horrifies all but the most depraved; other heinous acts of terror where the sword was the instrument of terror…a sword that symbolizes only one thing—terrorism.

But it’s not just America that’s threatened…Western civilization is under attack. Why? Some say it’s Western opulence and decadence that terrorists loathe. Others believe that it’s democracy and freedom they hate: freedom of religion; freedom of speech and expression; freedom of representation. Many radicals claim their religion demands holy war against those with differing belief systems. Whatever the reason, it’s a conflict between those who want to rule others in a theocracy and those who prefer self-rule in a democracy.

America is a rich target for those who lust for destroying this nation from afar: a valuable target for those who would sabotage it from within. Whether from a terrorist group or a terrorist state, their common goal is replacing the U.S. Constitution with a different set of laws.

The Director of the FBI recently said this about terrorism: More attacks are coming and we can’t stop them all. Ominous words! It matters not your economic status, political affiliation, race, religion, sex, or ethnicity—as an American, there’s a target on your back.

Samuel Adams, one of America’s founders, said: The liberties of our country, and the freedom of our Constitution, are worth defending at all hazards; it is our duty to defend them against all attacks.

Those words need repeating, as they may have been lost in time. What will it take to mobilize this country against a foe whose belief system calls for the death and destruction of all those who think differently than themselves?

America will continue to be challenged by a variety of terrorist groups, but now, a terrorist nation has become a threat. Iran, known for thousands of years as Persia, and the name we will continue to use, has long been known as a state sponsor of terrorism. But now, as that country enriches uranium far beyond that required for peaceful power generation; as that nation claims a right to build nuclear weapons; as they simultaneously develop intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBM’s); and with the Supreme Leader joining the people in the streets of Tehran crying Death to America, then the possibility of a nuclear missile attack on the United States increases dramatically.

Although Russia will continue to be a major threat to the United States, just as the Soviet Union was during the Cold War, they will not risk a nuclear war. But a terrorist nation where radicals are taught to love death more than they love life would…that’s why a nuclear-armed Persia constitutes the most serious terrorist threat facing America.

A nuclear missile attack by Persia would result in American deaths being counted in the millions, rather than thousands. It is in Taming the Sword that we have a fictional account of such a horrific attack on the United States: we’ll see how people react when their friends and family are caught in the grips of death; we’ll see a proud nation teetering on survival; and we’ll see a nation’s response to the most terrifying and horrendous attack ever mounted against the United States of America.

TAMING the SWORD

A NOVEL

Leaders, who won’t define the enemy, can’t be trusted to defend the people when the attack comes.

Paul A. Barber

CHAPTER ONE

A Nightmare

Exhausted and beaten, Special Agent Taylor Ramsey was on the run, scrambling to stay below the radar while searching for a way out of Persia. He had collected the information the President needed, but it would be worthless unless he got it back to Washington. With his cover blown and his ten-week CIA Black Ops mission in jeopardy, he was praying for a miracle…hoping to escape another dangerous incident.

Day before yesterday, young Zeudi men from Persia’s prep school for terrorism caught up with Ramsey in a back alley of Tehran, pummeling him for several minutes before his escorts got him away and into a safe house. After a short rest and getting his ribs taped, he ventured out again with a new disguise and two new attendants. By then, however, the elite Revolutionary Guard had closed the borders and joined the search. Escorts rushed him through the underground system, staying just ahead of search teams. But suddenly, shots rang out from both sides of the alley and Ramsey thought they’d been caught.

Doubling back to escape the crossfire, escorts quickly pushed him into a café and out the back door into a narrow alleyway along the bazaar, herding him through open shops and merchant stalls. They evaded search teams for another hour; but once again, shots were fired and one of his attendants was hit. The other one changed plans and took Ramsey on a new underground route into the Zagros Mountains of southern Persia, arriving there just after midnight a day and a half later.

With the borders sealed and time running out, Ramsey hurriedly sent a coded text message to the Commander, Task Force 63 in the Persian Gulf, giving his GPS position and requesting the Seal Team execute a snatch-and-reel recovery. He knew this was a ‘last resort’ procedure, and if not for the information he carried, it wouldn’t be approved…so he added a special text: ‘Have vitals for Eagle One.’

While waiting for a response, Ramsey and his escort curled up under a mountain shrub. Thirty minutes later, instructions were received: a drone recovery would occur at 5:56 a.m. in a narrow, rugged valley, twelve miles from their current position. Ramsey double-checked the coordinates and then his watch—they had five hours to get there.

Moonlight helped them avoid the small settlements dotting the mountainsides, and barking dogs provided an extra incentive to move quickly. By 5:30 a.m. they had reached the assigned coordinates and Ramsey promptly sent a confirming message: I’m in position.

Tired, dehydrated, and nursing two cracked ribs, he rested for a few precious minutes before opening his emergency kit. Then he tied one end of a long bungee cord to the back of his harness and the other end to a large balloon. When the time approached, he inflated the balloon with a small can of helium.

At 5:55 a.m., Ramsey thanked his escort, said good-bye and set the balloon free. Barely visible in the dawn’s early light, he watched as it rapidly ascended, the bungee cord trailing along behind. He wasn’t sure if this new procedure would work; until now, a low-altitude snatch-and-reel recovery using a drone was only theoretical. But recalling the instructor saying to face the incoming flight and cross your arms over your head, he assumed that position and braced himself.

Ramsey waited nervously, knowing that he wouldn’t hear the drone. But to his surprise, a moment later he picked up the ‘whaup-whaup-whaup’ sound of an incoming helicopter. Then he saw the silhouette and felt the turbulence from the chopper blades.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and prepared for the snap of the line that he knew was coming. But then the sound stalled…suddenly, two Navy Seals had their strong arms locked around his shoulders. Another one cut the bungee cord and Ramsey was quickly pulled aboard the craft. The pilot hurriedly lifted off, reversed course, and made a high-speed retreat from the valley, returning to the safety of the Gulf.

As they approached the carrier, the pilot was waved off and ordered to fly on to Dhahran Air Base in eastern Saudi Arabia; a medical team was waiting to rehydrate Ramsey, re-tape his ribs and provide medical attention. He would have just enough time to shower, shave, and dress in clean clothes before boarding an Air Force transport to Germany.

Enroute to Frankfurt International, pilots pushed their jet to the maximum, rushing to make a connecting flight the American Embassy was holding at the gate. You’re cleared for a straight-in approach, the controller advised. Expedite your landing and taxi to gate D-12. Your passenger is catching United Flight 1260 bound for Washington, D.C.

When Ramsey heard this he quickly sent a text to his anxious family: I’m in Frankfurt and on my way home…pack up the camper.

Embassy personnel met Ramsey and rushed him to the waiting Boeing 787 Dreamliner. Hurrying aboard, he heard the entry door lock and felt the aircraft being moved away from the gate. Attendants quickly escorted him to a seat in first class, but to him, seating didn’t matter…he was going home. All he wanted now was a couple of pillows for his cracked ribs and the three days of sleep that he’d missed.

It was 4:30 p.m. when United Flight 1260 reached cruising altitude and flight attendants began serving the evening meal. A dinner of bacon-wrapped filet mignon, twice-baked potato and cheese-covered asparagus was set on Ramsey’s fold-down tray. Then the attendant switched on the overhead light and gently nudged him awake. It was the finest meal he’d seen in months; he promptly scarfed it down before flipping off the light and going back to sleep. Except for waking up to use the restroom and to get a blanket, he slept his way across the Atlantic.

Approaching D.C., the pilot began a long descent into Dulles International, but then abruptly reconfigured the aircraft and climbed back to 22,000 feet where he entered a holding pattern. In his grogginess, Ramsey couldn’t understand the continuous turning of the aircraft. What are we doing? he wearily asked the flight attendant.

We’re stacked up above Dulles, she said. Our terminal is closed while they sweep for a bomb.

Thirty minutes later, United Flight 1260 was cleared to land. Taxiing in, all Ramsey could think about was grabbing his bag and hurrying home. But just as he deplaned, an Agency representative handed him an envelope containing orders from the Director of Intelligence: Proceed to the White House. Eagle One wants an immediate back-briefing.

The ride to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was slowed by heavy rain and Saturday evening traffic, but it gave Ramsey time to finish his report. Gate guards cleared them in. Continue to the White House portico, they ordered. Agents will escort you to the Oval Office.

Good to see you again, Agent Ramsey, the President said, as he moved from behind his desk to shake hands. Welcome home.

Thank you, Mr. President; it’s good to be back.

I know you’re tired and eager to get home to your family, so let me cut straight to the chase. Does Persia have a nuclear weapon?

The news isn’t good, Sir; they broke the Treaty and built two. But the worst part: they gave one to Zorbattah, their foreign terrorist group.

I figured they’d bust the Treaty…what’s Zorbattah planning?

I don’t know, Sir; but they’re chanting ‘Death to America’ in the streets of Tehran. I believe they’ll use it sooner than later and probably against us: we’re still the ‘Great Satan.’ I hope to learn something when I return; one of my contacts says he can get me deep into Zorbattah, so I’ll be returning there just as soon as the Agency can turn me around.

After breaking the accord, they’ll see no restrictions to proceeding.

Their goal is 100 nukes, planning to add one every few months.

Did you locate their main uranium enrichment facility?

Yes, Sir…it’s buried deep in a hollowed-out mountain not far from Tehran and circled by a highly sophisticated missile defense system.

Anything new on their delivery capability?

They’re continuing to stockpile North Korean missiles; but now a bigger concern…they’re testing their own long-range missile. And with Russia’s help they’ve solved weapon miniaturization; they can now fit a nuclear warhead on the tip of a missile.

That’s very concerning…what else?

Ramsey slipped off his Texas A&M ring and handed it to the President. Sir, under the eagle’s eye you’ll find the microchip. It has all the information that targeting experts will need: location of storage caves, production facilities, and most importantly, positioning of the advanced S-300 missile defense system that Russia recently installed.

That system will complicate our planning…anything else?

I met with Pluto.

What’d he say about conditions there?

The people are reeling from centuries of religious lockdown and radicalization, and they’re deathly afraid of the Revolutionary Guard. During a recent crackdown, several thousand students were killed and many more wounded in their protest against Zeudism, Persia’s forced religion. The remaining protestors have gone underground.

What will it take to change their behavior…what’s Pluto saying?

Sir, the Persians are beautiful people, but they’re living a religious nightmare…it’s been that way ever since the King of Persia was overthrown by Prophet Dariush 1500 years ago. Zeudism has a grip on the country, and with the high priest the supreme leader, his main focus is on survival of the theocracy. As for Pluto: he believes Persia’s hostile behavior will accelerate as they pour more funds into Zeudi terrorism.

Agent Ramsey, help me out here…until a few months ago I was a governor, not deep into national affairs. I need a better understanding of what we’re facing. As a skilled agent and top authority on terrorism, where’s this coming from? Why do Zeudi terrorists hate everyone?

How much detail do you want, Sir…the short or long answer?

I need detail; give me both barrels.

"Fine, Sir, this is what I know…the terrorism that America faces has its roots in fifth-century Syria. There, a boy by the name of Agneiu Dariush was born to a high priest sent to Damascus by the King of Persia: his divine objective was to restore Zoroasterism to its glory days when it was the world’s foremost religion. Like his father, this young boy became a priest and followed in the footsteps of Prophet Zoroaster, their distant ancestor who had founded Zoroasterism a millennium earlier in southwest Persia.

"But Zoroasterism was dying as the world embraced a new religion, Christianity. Agneiu Dariush was upset, distressed and grieving as he watched his ancestral religion fade. He blasphemed Christianity; but realizing that Zoroasterism was beyond restoration, he searched for an alternative religion by studying with spiritual scholars. One day he claimed that an angel came to him, saying: ‘Zoroasterism laid the foundation, but the Temple of Fire is now gone. Zeud is calling you to form the world’s final religion, Zeudism, and you, Dariush, are the last prophet. I will instruct you in the preparation of your holy book.’

"For 15 years, Dariush preached Zeudism on Damascus’ market square, always with a spiteful eye on Christianity. But Damascus’ leaders would not accept the Prophet or his religion. The local people ridiculed and belittled him, even mocking and taunting those who converted. Dariush remained peaceful, but having little success, he became discouraged and bitter. He finally decided to take his converts and move his ministry to Baghdad. His followers, angered by the rejection of the Prophet and repudiation of Zeudism, urged him to turn to militancy. They encouraged him to use coercion to gain adherents to the faith.

"There were a few more converts in Baghdad, but most Iraqis rejected Zeudism. That’s when Dariush took the advice of his followers and turned his ministry from peace to war. He gathered an army by offering recruits a share of the booty and promised that young girls were waiting in heaven for anyone dying in battle.

"Raids first began against pagans who had rejected Zeudism, but they soon spread to Christian and Jewish tribes. Prophet Dariush gave them four choices: convert to Zeudism; be sold into slavery; be subjugated and pay a tax; or be killed. The sword was the instrument of terror; it would become the symbol of terrorism.

"The Prophet ordered raid after raid, personally leading many of them. After each raid, a new war verse was added to the holy book. With an army of thousands, they slashed their way across Iraq: raping, torturing, and beheading. Tribesmen were subdued and within a few years, Iraq was subjugated. Dariush’s army then advanced into Persia, the Prophet’s ancestral homeland. After the king was deposed, Dariush took the throne and established a Zeudi theocracy. But a year later, disaster struck: at a celebration dinner for the new king, his cousin placed poison in the lamb and the Prophet died. In a family feud, a son killed an older half-brother, ascended to the throne and took command of the army.

"For over 1500 years, Persia controlled the Empire with an army of radicals who forced Zeudism on the people…all freedom was lost. The sword was the weapon of choice as Zeuditees adhered to the command of their holy book to smite the neck of infidels. Millions died because they would not give up their religion.

"In the eighteenth century, U.S. interests came under Zeudi attack when pirates began raiding our merchant ships. If a bounty wasn’t paid, the crew was beheaded or sold into slavery. But it was the twentieth century when a full-scale terrorist assault began against America. Radical Zeuditees bombed U.S. Embassies throughout the Middle East and Africa. They bombed our barracks, our airliners, and our warships. They flew aircraft into our buildings, attacked U.S. military facilities, and bombed dozens of our cities and gatherings of people.

"For fifteen centuries the goal of radical Zeuditees has been to establish Zeudism as the world’s only religion. It’s a mission they believe was assigned by Zeud. We call it terrorism…but for them it’s a religious war. We need to recognize it as a war if our way of life is going to survive. As a Christian nation, America is a natural target: a rich target for those who lust for destroying the United States from within; a lucrative target for those plotting her destruction from the outside.

Mr. President, you asked why they hate us…it’s our democracy and freedom: freedom of worship; freedom of speech; freedom of assembly. It’s a conflict between those who obsess with ruling America as a Zeudi theocracy, and the American people who prefer self-rule in a democracy. Radical Zeuditees have only one goal here, Sir: the subjugation of the American people and replacing the U.S. Constitution with Zeudaric law.

Agent Ramsey, the President said, your knowledge of terrorism is impressive, and your insight will be helpful as we review our strategy. We’re considering changing from a defensive to an offensive posture, and I’d like your thoughts on that. But I want to ask about something you referred to earlier: the resistance effort and Pluto’s group. How large is the resistance in Persia? How effective are they?

The resistance is a couple million, and they’re very effective. With Pluto’s help I was able to melt into the back alleys of Tehran where I met with shopkeepers in the cafés. Those men are a smorgasbord of intelligence just waiting to be collected. And they provided cover when Zeudi enforcers came around. Only once was I fingered: if not for Pluto’s help, I’d still be chained in that godforsaken hellhole of a jail.

Sounds like you have some friends there…anything else?

Here’s my full report, Mr. President. You’ll find it in great detail.

I heard you had some difficulty getting out.

It was touch and go for a while, Sir.

I was relieved when they didn’t use that drone to snatch you out of the mountains. It hasn’t been fully tested and I just don’t have any confidence in it. Another thing, Agent Ramsey: why are you getting all these critical Black Ops assignments? I see your name on everything.

Just lucky, I guess, Sir.

It seems that ever since you captured the weapon trafficker, you’ve become the Agency’s go-to man. Have you noticed that?

Sir, I just go where they send me.

Well, your efforts don’t go unnoticed; you’ve done a fine job here. Now take some time off…and be careful! Intel reports say that Zeuditee terrorists are looking for you. I’d suggest you get out of Washington for awhile before you think about returning to Persia.

Ramsey thanked the President and departed. After stopping at the fountain to take a pain pill, agents escorted him to the waiting car. Take me home, he said to the driver. That’s 312 Pecan in Langley.

Except for those few hours on the plane, Ramsey hadn’t slept for days. Now, as they departed the White House grounds, he laid his head back in hopes of getting a few winks on the ride home.

But his mind returned to the White House, reflecting on President Ballenger: how he was thrust into office a few months earlier. He’d been elected Vice President, but President Virginia Clausen’s untimely death on Inauguration Day laid waste to the nation’s election. Ramsey recalled how Ballenger, an Air Force pilot and two-term governor of Illinois, had swung the country in a different direction than Clausen had planned: the military and intelligence agencies would be beefed up, not cut. Ballenger quickly won the trust of the American people. Ramsey, too, became an admirer, volunteering for covert missions in the fight against terrorism.

Ramsey was good in his undercover work, but tonight his focus was on getting home to his family. As they departed the city and headed for Langley, the rain was heavy; and with poor visibility and dense traffic, neither he nor his driver was aware of the SUV that fleetingly appeared on their route out of Washington and north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. It wasn’t until they entered Langley that the driver noticed the vehicle trailing a block or so behind. He alerted Ramsey and they watched as it made all the same turns. It was only when they turned onto Pecan Street that the mystery car disappeared.

It may have just been a coincidence, the driver said.

But Ramsey was uneasy. Turn left at the next corner, he said. I want to see why that car was following us.

They hurried around to where they’d last seen the SUV, but it was gone. For several minutes they searched the side streets but came up empty-handed. Finally, he told his driver to take him on home.

As they pulled to a stop in front of his house, Ramsey thanked his driver, retrieved his small bag from the trunk and rushed inside. Tossing the bag aside, he hurried to a front window in the den, pulled the venetian blinds apart and peered out into the street.

What is it? his wife, Gretchen, asked, hurrying from the kitchen.

It’s probably nothing, he said, but a car followed us. I was just checking to see if it was going to drive by our house…I guess not. Ramsey turned and threw his arms around Gretchen and tenderly kissed her. Oh, I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart, he whispered.

Welcome home, darling, she said, taking his hand and leading him to the sofa. With her eyes brimming with tears, she gave him a long, lingering kiss. It’s good to have you home. We missed you, and I’m so glad you’re back. I was worried when you didn’t call.

I would have been home sooner, but we were held over Dulles for thirty minutes; there was a bomb scare in one of the terminals with no calls in or out. Then after we landed, I learned that President Ballenger was waiting for my personal assessment. I should have called, and would have, but I was rushing to finish my report.

Well, you’re home now and that’s all that matters.

It’s good to be back…that was a very difficult assignment.

Where were you this time?

Persia, the whole time.

Throughout their lives, Ramsey never shared his work. All Gretchen knew was that he worked for the CIA and everything he did was secret. She could only guess it was more dangerous than he let on, and he never discussed his next assignment. It’s best you don’t know, he would say.

Taylor and Gretchen Ramsey had met thirteen years earlier when he was assigned to the Intelligence unit at the American Embassy in Moscow. A year later, when his tour was up, he brought her to the states and they tied the knot. Their two children, Rick, almost eleven, and Emily, nine, have continued to be a special source of his pride.

Your text about going camping got us all excited, Gretchen said. Our bags are packed, the camper’s stocked and we’re ready to go.

Great; we’ll leave early in the morning…but where are the kids?

I hear them coming now, she said.

Hi, Dad! Rick shouted, rushing in and throwing his arms around his father. I’m glad you’re home…where were you this time?

The Middle East, he said, hugging Rick tightly.

Hi, Daddy, you’re home! Emily shouted, surfacing from her room.

Hi, sweetheart, I really missed you, he said, giving her a big kiss.

I missed you, too, Daddy. We hoped you’d get home for dinner. Mom fixed your favorite meal, stuffed cabbage and boiled red potatoes.

I’m sorry I missed that; hopefully, next time.

School’s out, Daddy, and I got an ‘A’ on every final. That computer class you suggested…it was fun; I want to be a computer scientist.

That’s great, Em. You make us very proud.

Dad, what can you tell us about your trip? Rick asked.

Not much…I was there collecting information.

Was it dangerous?

Well, I wouldn’t have wanted them to catch me in there, he said. But he never talked about getting caught, and never mentioned that the government would deny knowing him if ever he was captured.

Dad, I know it’s late, and you’re probably tired, Rick said, but I have a new science-fiction movie if you’d like to watch it.

Sure; nothing better than a good movie on a rainy Saturday night.

While Rick set up the DVD player in the den, Gretchen and Emily popped some corn and fixed cold drinks. Ramsey grabbed his favorite recliner and the family settled in to watch the movie.

As the movie approached a riveting scene, no one noticed the noise coming from the street in front of the house…no one, that is, except Taylor Ramsey. His CIA training had honed his vigilance skills, and when the car screeched to a halt, he quickly headed for the front door. But he got only a couple of steps before the first shots hit the house. Get down! he screamed, as he dove behind the sofa.

The torrent of bullets lasted only a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Early shots knocked out the TV and side lamps; suddenly, the entire house went dark as bullets struck the electrical box.

Ramsey could hear the high-powered AK-47 shots tearing through the walls and furniture in their three-bedroom home. Windows shattered and pieces of glass flew through the air like missiles. Finally, the assault ended and the car sped away. Is everyone okay? Ramsey yelled.

I’m okay, Gretchen shouted, but the kids? Where are you, Emily? Rick, are you okay? There was no answer, just an eerie silence.

Frantically, they searched through the large den. Weren’t they here when the shots rang out? Ramsey pleaded.

They were on the sofa together…they must have run for cover.

Let’s find them and get out of here; the attackers may be coming back. But be careful, there’s broken glass everywhere.

As Gretchen worked her way around, she suddenly yelled, Here’s Emily by the kitchen door…she’s breathing, but I think she’s been hit!

Ramsey quickly found his way over to Gretchen and Emily. I’ll take her to the back bedroom, he said. Find Rick!

Picking up his daughter, Ramsey could feel her blood running down his arm. He hurriedly made his way to the back of the house and had just laid her down when Gretchen screamed, I found Rick—get in here!

Ramsey rushed back to the den. Where are you, Gretchen?

Here by the front bay window…Rick’s not breathing!

Oh, my God! Ramsey roared. Get my cell phone from the hallway buffet and call 911. Then go back with Emily. If she stops breathing, give her CPR. I’m going to help Rick.

Gretchen worked her way across to the hallway while Ramsey knelt over Rick to listen for his breathing. But there was none, and no pulse, either. He quickly began CPR. For several minutes he tried to resuscitate his son, but soon realized it was too late…Rick was already gone. Ramsey pulled his child into his arms, kissed him on the cheek and whispered, I love you, Rick; I really love you. They will pay for this!

Grief stricken and with a broken heart, Ramsey sobbed as he clutched Rick to his chest, but then remembered Emily lying in her bedroom, hurt and bleeding. He carefully laid Rick down and hurried to help his daughter. In the hallway buffet he reached for the flashlight, but it was gone. He hurried on down the hall. How’s…Emily…do-doing? he sobbed in a faltering voice as he entered her room.

Oh, no—NO! Gretchen wailed. Rick’s dead, isn’t he?

I’m so sorry, Ramsey cried. I tried and tried, but I was too late.

Not Rick! Gretchen bawled.

I know, but now we must help Emily. Did you call 911?

Yes, she blubbered, but can’t we turn on the lights?

The electrical system is out…where’s the flashlight?

I had it in the kitchen; I’ll get it.

Gretchen returned and shined the light on Emily. Oh, no! NO! she screamed, seeing her daughter’s bloody body. Is she going to die?

She’s breathing, Ramsey said, as he knelt beside his daughter. But it’s heavy and labored. I’ve seen this kind of wound before; she’s bleeding internally. We’ve got to get her to the hospital.

The 911 operator was sending emergency crews, Gretchen sobbed. They should be here any minute.

I hope so, or Emily isn’t going to make it. Hand me my phone; I need to call the Agency.

With bloody fingers, Ramsey quickly hit the speed dial.

Central Intelligence, here.

This is Agent Taylor Ramsey. I need the Watch Center; hurry!

This is the Watch Officer.

Sir, this is Agent Ramsey. Someone just shot up my house and killed my kids. We need help. I’m at 312 Pecan, just outside the gate.

We’ll have someone there right away.

Ramsey returned his attention to Emily who was now coughing up blood. We need a doctor! he yelled. Where are those responders? Why aren’t they here? What’s taking them so long?

Emily’s gurgling, Gretchen cried out.

She’s choking on her own blood! Let’s get her off her back.

They rolled Emily onto her side, and as they did, blood spewed from her mouth. Ramsey wiped it away, but suddenly, she stopped breathing.

Oh, my God! he exclaimed. We’ve got to help her!

He stuck a finger into Emily’s mouth to swab out the blood, then tilted her head back and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. A few seconds later, he began pumping her chest. He repeated the process for several minutes before collapsing on the floor.

It’s no use, Gretchen…it’s no use…Emily’s gone. Why didn’t those emergency teams come? he cried. Why?

Why is this happening to us? Gretchen bawled, as she fell down beside her husband. I want to die. Why didn’t they just kill us all?

Ramsey placed his arms around Gretchen and pulled her tight. I am so sorry, he said between sobs. I am so very…

He didn’t finish the sentence. Do you smell that? he asked.

What is it? Gretchen cried.

It’s gas—they hit a gas line!

Just then an explosion rocked the front of the house with poker-hot flames blasting down the hallway. Oh, my God! Ramsey yelled, reaching for the bedroom door and slamming it closed. We’ve got to get out of here!

We’re blocked in! Gretchen screamed. Now we are going to die.

As smoke filled the pitch-black room, Ramsey’s mind frantically searched for a way to escape the burning house. Then he remembered the nightstand beside Emily’s bed and felt his way over to it.

Get over by the closet wall! he yelled at Gretchen. I’m going to knock out the window!

Ramsey picked up the nightstand, located the window and heaved the heavy piece of furniture. It broke the glass but got hung up on the frame. He pulled it back and heaved again; this time it broke through. Hurriedly, he grabbed one of the blankets from Emily’s bed, wrapped it tightly around his arm and knocked out the remaining frame and glass.

The draft from the opening quickly drew the fire from the front of the house; the bedroom door burst into flames and acrid smoke flooded the room. Where are you, Gretchen? he hollered.

I’m here by the closet; I can’t breathe!

Get over here! he yelled.

I can’t; the carpet and wall are on fire!

Crawl across the bed! he bellowed.

Gretchen jumped to the bed and slid across. Ramsey grabbed another blanket, wrapped it around her and then pushed her toward the opening.

But the kids! she cried. I’m not leaving without them!

I’ll get Emily, he said, forcing Gretchen through. Now run!

Ramsey turned to find his daughter. Flames were everywhere and the dense smoke was suffocating. He tried and tried, but each time was turned back. He soon realized that he’d be unable to get Emily’s body out of the house. With eyes and lungs burning, he crawled through the opening, reaching safety just as that end of the house went up in flames.

Where are you, Gretchen? he yelled through his coughing.

I’m here by the back alley gate.

Ramsey hurried to his wife. I couldn’t get Emily out, he said. I’m so very sorry.

Oh, no—NO! she cried. Both our kids are gone. I want to die!

Ramsey picked up the blanket that Gretchen had dropped and wrapped it around her. Holding each other, they wept as they watched their home burn. But the loss was too much for Gretchen and she fainted. Falling to the wet ground, Ramsey pulled her onto his lap, rewrapped the blanket and then slowly rocked back and forth. Nothing more was said…the only sounds that could be heard were the rain, their burning home, and his sobbing.

It was only a moment before Ramsey heard the sirens, faintly at first, but then louder and louder as emergency vehicles closed in on their home. It was very loud, sounding like hundreds of responders. The noise blared in his ears, piercing his very soul. It just wouldn’t stop. It was so loud and it kept ringing—ringing—ringing—it kept ringing in his ears.

Taylor Ramsey tried to stand, but he fell. His mind, groggy and dazed, couldn’t make sense of the loud, ringing noise. It continued to penetrate his inner being, but somehow, it now seemed different…it was intermittent. Finally, he realized that the ringing wasn’t coming from police sirens at all…it was his new cell phone. He’d been having another nightmare, just like all the others since the attack on his family…three and a half years ago.

CHAPTER TWO

Why Me?

Wobbly and shaken, Ramsey got up and reached for his ringing cell phone. Hello, he said in a trembling voice.

Is this Special Agent Taylor Ramsey? the caller inquired.

Who wants to know? Ramsey asked quite brusquely.

This is the CIA Watch Officer. I’m calling to tell you that someone at the White House wants to speak with you.

Can’t this wait? Ramsey pleaded, glancing at his illuminated watch. It’s five o’clock in the morning.

Not here, it’s not…now hold, while I patch this through.

Okay, he muttered, trying to regain his senses.

Situation Room, here.

Sir, this is the CIA Emergency Center. I have Special Agent Taylor Ramsey on the line. I was told that someone there is looking for him.

"Yes, President Ballenger wants to speak with