Chapter 17

Mike regained consciousness to find that he was in a hospital bed. He had a splitting headache. For a full minute he was confused as to where he was until the memories flooded in on him. He wanted to climb out of the bed and destroy something, but he felt too weak.

He cried out, “No!”

Heart breaking at the anguish in Mike’s voice, his father stepped into view and said, “Hello, Son.”

“Colonel,” Mike croaked. There was supposed to be a hello in there, but the word didn’t make it out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry about Karen and Robert,” Robert said. His chin quivered and eyes watered as he said it. He took a deep breath to control his emotions. After a few seconds, he said, “I know you did your best to save them.”

“I kept looking for them, but I didn’t find them until it was too late. I kept hoping that they weren’t there, but I knew they were. I couldn’t give up looking for them, but I couldn’t walk past those others without helping them,” Mike said with tears running down his face as memories of that horrible time in the mall returned full force.

“You saved a lot of people that day,” Robert said with more than a little pride in how his son had handled himself.

“That day?” Mike asked feeling rather confused.

“That was two days ago,” Robert said.

Mike had been dehydrated and unconscious when they had brought him to the hospital. The hours spent inside the Hazmat Suit had nearly killed him. He should have only stayed in it for two hours.

“Oh,” Mike said wondering how he had lost two days.

“They saved your hand,” Robert said gesturing to Mike’s bandaged left hand. It was too soon after the operation to put it in a cast.

“My hand?” Mike asked without bothering to look at it.

“You broke it again. I assume that occurred when you were carrying people out of the mall. They had to replace two of the bones in your left hand with surgical steel rods,” Robert said. The alternative had been to remove the half of his hand.

Mike looked down at his left hand. Voice breaking, Mike asked, “What use is my hand without Karen or Robert? I can’t use it to teach Robert how to ride a bike or catch a ball. I can’t use it to caress my wife.”

Robert looked down at Mike with a frown.

In a soft voice, he said, “I’ll tell you how you can use your hand, son. Those bastards killed your family. Sitting here feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to bring them back. You can’t bring them back, but you can make sure that those bastards never have a chance to do something like that again. You need to get out of here and take care of business.”

“You’re right,” Mike said feeling a hardening of his heart.

Seeing the expression that crossed Mike’s face, Robert said, “Don’t give in to your anger or hate. Don’t allow this to make your heart hard or else you’ll end up a bitter man.”

Thinking it was an impossible task, Mike said, “I’ll try not to give into my hate.”

Robert looked at Mike for a minute seeing a war of emotions taking place beneath the fixed exterior.

He said, “Son, I’m pretty sure that you believe that a real man doesn’t cry. Let me tell you as a man who has led other men through horrendous circumstances one thing. That is bullshit. I’ve seen men cry like babies and I’ve never thought less of them for it. Some things demand it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Mike said.

Mike was lying in the bed staring out the window thinking about how he was going to track down every part of the terrorist network and destroy it. The nurse came into the room carrying a magazine and handed it to him.

She said, “You made the cover.”

The cover of the magazine had a picture of Mike wearing the Hazmat suit holding the hands of two women. Even though the Hazmat suit hid his face, the emotions he was feeling at the time were obvious. The position of his body conveyed the anguish of a man who had lost everything of meaning to him.

Mike glanced at the cover and asked, “Do they know it was me?”

“Only those of us who treated you know. The official story is that you were here in the hospital having your hand operated on at the time of the attack,” the nurse answered.

She had never seen such a large cover up in her entire life. It made her wonder who he was that so much effort to hide his involvement would be undertaken.

“Good. Throw it away,” Mike said turning his head to look out the window.

From the first moment it was published, the picture had come to symbolize the price that Americans were paying in the war against terrorism. One of the things that made the picture have such an impact was that none of the faces were visible in it. Everyone who looked at the picture could see themselves in it. In time, it would join the list of the one hundred most influential photographs of all time, and would have the same level of recognition that had been achieved by the photograph of raising the flag on Iwo Jima.

The nurse glanced down at the picture and asked, “Why?”

“I don’t like the idea of anyone profiting off my misery,” Mike said in a tightly controlled voice.

The nurse picked up the magazine and said, “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Mike said.

The dark mood that had settled inside Mike was reflected outdoors. The gray and overcast sky outside was threatening to rain.

Wearing his hospital clothes and a robe, Mike made his way down to room ten. It was a few minutes before seven when he arrived. The door was open and he made his way into the room. He took a seat and waited with his thoughts turned inwards.

The first one to arrive was Tim Collins from the FBI. He entered the room and did a double take at finding Mike seated at the table.

Surprised to see him there, he said, “I heard that you were a patient here. How did you manage to get permission to attend?”

“I didn’t ask for permission,” Mike answered shrugging his shoulders.

“That works,” Tim said with a short chuckle.

A minute later, Jack Lancer walked into the room and said, “I see that you made it. I was afraid that you wouldn’t be able to get away.”

“I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world,” Mike said.

John Daniels and Larry Dinkins of the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) and NDIC (National Drug Intelligence Center) respectively entered the room together.

While John closed the door, Larry said, “Mike Bowman. It’s a pleasure to meet you. That was one hell of a job you did the other day. You killed the terrorist, rescued one of the responders, and carried twenty-three people out of the mall. Sixteen of the people are still alive because of you.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Mike discounted all of the things he had done. There was one thing that he hadn’t done at the mall.

Voice cracking, he said, “The people I went there to rescue didn’t make it.”

“Are you sure that you’re up to this?” Jack asked worried that Mike was too emotional.

“I’m sure,” Mike answered as the other men took seats around the table.

Jack looked around the table for a second and then said, “The first order of business is numbers. We’re down to eighty-two members in the Intelligence 100. The CIA has only fifteen members left from an original of twenty-three and that’s after we added Sanjay. The FBI has only fifteen members left and we’ve already added two.”

Tim said, “The terrorists are killing us faster than we are killing them.”

“So what do we do to increase our numbers?” Jack asked.

“Nothing,” Mike said.

He looked from one man to the next trying to judge their reaction. Tim sat back with a frown. He had expected Mike to sit quietly for the first few meetings rather than jump in and start arguing points.

He asked, “Why do you say that?”

“The charter of this organization was to provide unbiased intelligence analyses, while getting rid of the foreign agents who are negatively impacting national policy. The first part of that problem has been solved. The second part of our mission can’t be achieved until this President is out of office,” Mike answered.

Larry coughed. When he finished coughing, he said, “Mike is right. Sometimes I forget that fact and start to believe that we are here to end terrorism.”

“What do you suggest?” Tim asked worried about Larry’s cough.

“I think that for the next two years we need to direct agents to collect as much information as we can about the foreign agents and the terrorists. A bunch of the bullshit that has been keeping our people from doing their jobs is gone. It has been replaced by a different bunch of bullshit, but this President isn’t going to remain in office for more than one term. Once he’s gone, perhaps the next President will be willing to do what needs to be done,” Mike answered.

“Are you sure that he won’t last more than one term?”

“I won’t ever accept that the American voter is dumb enough to keep him in office,” Mike said.

“They were for the previous President.”

The news was filled with stories about the attack at the mall. Even though suicide bombers had been killing Americans on an almost daily basis, this attack was major news. The fact that it involved a poison made it big news, even though they weren’t releasing the name of the poison or how it had been delivered. There was a lot of speculation about the poison. The most common candidate was Sarin gas, but there were no details about how it had been delivered.

The one story that amused Mike was the policeman who was being credited with having killed the terrorist driving the van. It was the same guy who had complimented him on his shooting. The poor guy looked positively miserable trying to answer questions about his actions. Every time he said that he hadn’t done it, the reporter countered with eyewitness accounts that put the policeman in the role of shooter.

The interview with the policeman was followed by the President holding a press conference at Camp David. As usual, the man was talking about how a moderate response to the attack by a few mentally unstable individuals was necessary and that law enforcement was investigating the matter. Mike listened incredulously as the President outlined his plan for dealing with the terrorists.

He snorted and said, “Dealing with them? I’d call that plan more of a capitulation to them.”

Disgusted, he switched off the news just as the nurse entered the room. She waited for him to calm down a little before she said, “You have a visitor.”

“Who is it?” Mike asked dreading the answer.

He was not looking forward to having to face the Admiral and tell him that he had been unable to save his daughter.

“Representative Anthony Archer,” the nurse answered.

“What does he want?” Mike asked with a sharp edge to his voice.

He knew of the Representative because he was one of the few members of congress who was a vocal opponent of the current Presidential policies. He really wanted to refuse the visit. He’d definitely refuse the visit if the man wanted to use his misery to improve his political position.

“His late wife was the woman whose hand you were holding in the picture.”

“Oh,” Mike said swallowing heavily. He didn’t know how to face the man or what to say to him. There weren’t any last words for him to relay. Turning his head so that he was looking at the nurse, he said, “Send him in.”

The man who entered the hospital room did not look like a Washington power broker. He looked like a sad man on the verge of tears. Approaching Mike in a shuffle, he stopped two paces away from the bed.