The Hammer of God

“God bless and keep her,” Ross added.

Bill was once again thrown. Then clarity washed over him. Of course; these are the men who risk their lives for something greater than themselves, for their country. It isn’t just a phrase to them. It is their creed. “God bless America, men.”

They disappeared into the dark recesses of the castle’s dimly lit exhibits as Hiccock made for the door.

The ride home was just as quick and uneventful. He was home by 9:30 and rolling out the garbage cans to the end of the driveway for tomorrow morning’s pickup. On the kitchen table was a casserole with a note that read, I’m beat. Microwave this. See you in bed.

In the den, Bill sat on his Barcalounger and shoveled in Chicken ala King ala Janice while watching ESPN. He thought of B amp;R and their corned beef feast last night. Then he thought of all the men and women stationed all over the world, some chowing down on MREs, others eating without their families or loved ones near. All doing what B amp;R was doing, believing in something greater than themselves and willing to suffer hardship and, if necessary, die for it. It made Bill wonder if he was worthy of being in a position over such people. Not that he didn’t do his part. On his right hand was the scar from the propellant burns he got aboard the Aegis cruiser when he stopped a nuclear-tipped rocket from launching on a Southern California nuclear plant. That was all top secret, the only public trace being the leathery patch of skin on the back of his hand. Even though he was currently serving his country, it was a cushy D.C. posting.

He rinsed the plates and slid them into the dishwasher, then headed up to the bedroom.

He padded lightly into the room not to disturb Janice. He slipped off his watch, put it on the nightstand, checked the alarm, and rolled over to give his wife a peck on the cheek. His right hand came down on something hard when it was expecting a soft protruding belly to rub gently along with the kiss.

“What the hell?”

Janice shifted and awoke. “Hi, baby.”

“What is this?” Bill rapped on her midsection with his knuckles.

“I bought it today. It’s to keep our baby safe from radiation.”

“Huh? Are you drunk?”

“No, I am certainly not drunk. I heard about the pulse of intense radiation that could reach out from an A- bomb detonation. Even if you are far away, the radioactive spike can create miscarriages or genealogic damage.”

“Where did you get this from?”

“I heard it today.”

“Where?”

“That doesn’t matter. The point is I don’t want to take any chances.”

Bill had to force his face back from his “are you screwy” expression to something more rational and non- judgmental. “Darling, what is this thing?”

“It’s an x-ray apron, I bought three.”

“Three?”

“Home, car, office. Since we don’t know when or where the bomb will explode.”

“If. We also don’t know if it is going off.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?”

“That’s what I forgot today. It was bugging me all day.”

“No need for sarcasm.” Janice kissed him and resumed her nuclear-safe position.

Bill reached up and shut the light. He lay there looking at the moonlight coming through the window. His own wife had succumbed to the public paranoia over this nuke. Janice was a smart woman. Intellectually, she had to know that she was acting irrational. Yet she was pregnant and her protective instincts were in full force, a force apparently even stronger than her intellect. Nature was an amazing thing. He set his mind that tomorrow he’d check on the radioactive pulse and see if there was anything to it. His last thought before he slipped under the haze of REM was the realization that nature was working on him as well.

The next morning, Bill got to his desk at 7:25. At 7:26, Press Secretary Margaret Lloyds entered and ruined his day. She threw the early bird edition of the Washington Post down on his desk.

“What’s the matter, Marg…” was as far as Bill got when he saw the subhead, under the headline, WHITE HOUSE PLANNING FOR D.C. NUKE. In smaller type below was the line, “Wife of Science Advisor dons lead-lined fashion.” The article went on to be the first-hand account of a woman who witnessed Janice buying x-ray aprons and Janice’s logic that the bomb was going off within 20 miles of the White House.

Bill picked up the phone and hit the Home button. It was busy. He tried again. Busy. He then hit Jan Cell. She answered.

“Bill, the phones haven’t stopped ringing. ABC, NBC, they all want to interview me. I am so sorry. The woman who was in the store with me must have been a reporter.”

“Ya think? Listen; sit tight. Don’t answer the phone. Margaret’s here and I’m sure she’ll have some ideas of how to handle this.”

“Okay. Sorry this happened, Bill.”

“It’s okay; don’t worry.”

Bill hung up and said to Margaret, “I’m worried.”

“So it’s true? Oh, dear God, this isn’t going to be pretty, Bill.”

“Look, she’s expecting and it’s scary out there right now.”

“It’s scary for everybody and they look to the White House for assurance. A story like this means we are running scared as well.”

?§?

Dariush’s hunch played out and the Cray found 17 words in 149 languages that fit the footprint. As he scanned the list, an English word popped out at him: Roosevelt. Another word in Eastern Arabic that the Cray spit out from the data string was “maghra.”

It was an unusual and hastily called meeting: a “by invitation only” press briefing in Margaret’s office. Five reporters, three from TV and two from print, were in attendance. The subject was lead-lined underwear.

“Is your wife privy to intelligence that points to the intended target for the nukes being the White House?”

“Neither my wife nor myself are privy to any information or speculation that the White House, or Washington for that matter, is a target.”

“Why did your wife buy these aprons?”

“All I can say is that she reasoned and decided to do this on her own and for her own reasons. As you know, my wife is pregnant with our first child. She is acting in a manner prescribed by instinct, nature, and evolution. But not by any connection to me, the government, or this administration.”

“How far along is she?”

“Seven months.”

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“No; we decided to be surprised.”

“Is Mrs. Hiccock protecting her…your baby from the suitcase nuke due to anything you might have said to her?”

“Again, I have no information to share with her on that topic.”

“I mean, about radiation in general.”

“I never discussed it with my wife. As far as I know, she overheard other women discussing it.”

“Women here at the White House?”

“No, at a beauty salon.”

“Professor Hiccock, your wife is a doctor, an educated woman. Are you asking us to believe that she did this because of gossip and not some top-secret report on the intentions of the terrorists?”

“I don’t know where you are going with that, but I am going to guess. Yes, my wife is a very accomplished and intelligent person. She is actually also a professor. She does hold a White House ID, but she does not hold any security clearance at the present time…”