24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

21. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3:00 A.M. AND 4:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

3:00:46 A.M. EDT

Acorn Street

Boston, Massachusetts

Claudia Wheelock was dreaming of her two young children, scampering barefoot in front of her along the sand.

The Martha’s Vineyard setting was achingly familiar, a beloved island where her family had spent so many long, lazy summers. Just ahead was her father’s oceanfront shingle-style cottage. She was moved to tears, seeing him there again, relaxing on the wide, wooden porch, just as he had when he was alive. And her mother was nearby, laying out a luncheon of freshly made lobster rolls and sweet lemonade.

In her early forties now, Claudia was still a strikingly beautiful woman, with a fit figure and short blond hair.

Her flaxen-haired children reflected that golden beauty as they ran ahead of her, giggling as they darted in and out of the white-capped surf. Claudia laughed, feeling the joy and luster of this moment, expecting all good things to be waiting for her and her children at the end of their little stroll—

Then came the crack of thunder.

The noise was sudden, almost deafening, and it completely shattered Claudia’s safe, idyllic vision. Another boom came, this one strong enough to shake the walls of her sister’s Federal-style row house on Beacon Hill.

Now Claudia was fully awake. For a moment, she lay staring at the ornamental tin ceiling, wondering if she’d dreamed the noises. But she could still hear the tail end of the last report. The rumbling echoed for several seconds through the narrow cobblestone streets before dissipating completely.

Claudia rose quickly, parted the guest room’s lacy curtains, and peered outside. The night sky was clear, though suffused with a strange red glow. Then Claudia heard movement in the hallway. The night had been humid and warm, and she was wearing only a flimsy tank top and underwear. She quickly threw on a short, white terry- cloth robe.

Before she opened the door, something possessed Claudia to fish in her suitcase for the item her husband had pressed upon her last year, when an unbalanced fan of her novels had begun aggressively harassing her with e-mails and phone calls. The small handgun was there, still in its case. She checked to see if it was loaded, then slipped it into the pocket of her short robe.

When Claudia opened the door, her brother-in-law was already standing in the hallway, and her sleepy-eyed sister was peeking out of their master bedroom door.

“I think I heard a bomb going off,” Claudia said.

“A bomb?” Roderick practically sneered. “Don’t be ri-diculous, Claudia. A gas main probably ruptured or an old steam pipe cracked, nothing more than that. This is real life after all, not one of your thrillers.”

Claudia was about to remind Roddy that she wrote legal thrillers, and the only explosions that occurred in her novels were in the courtroom. But instead she kept her mouth shut, knowing she’d be wasting her breath. As Associate Dean of Humanities at Harvard University, Roderick Cannon held all works of popular fiction beneath contempt.

Besides, thought Claudia, things were already strained between them. They’d spent much of the previous night’s dinner arguing about her husband’s new job as Northeast District Director for the CIA’s Counter Terrorist Unit.

Roderick insisted on focusing on CTU’s old directives.

He kept bringing up the Unit’s supposed trampling of constitutional rights, illegal wiretaps, and alleged use of torture.

Her brother-in-law refused to acknowledge that Claudia’s husband was an agent of change, that Nathan Wheelock was working toward expurgating any CTU personnel who favored such practices. In the past year, since he’d taken the position, Nathan had abolished all racial and religious profiling within his command, made certain that his people placed wiretaps only on domestic calls to known terrorists overseas, and forbade any agent under his authority to engage in torture.

Claudia was very proud of her husband’s progressive policies. She herself had been a high-profile civil rights attorney before quitting to raise her children and write best-selling legal thrillers, and she was in the perfect position to help keep her husband’s career objectives on track, ensuring the civil rights of any suspect or prisoner were treated as a CTU priority.

The law was on Nathan’s side, too, of course, and it helped that the current Administration was in Nathan’s corner. It was only a matter of time before Claudia’s husband would be elevated to a much higher position within the Agency. Then Nathan’s regional policies could be implemented nationally, through every district and division of the CTU organization.

But Claudia’s arguments fell on deaf ears. Roddy’s mind was already made up. CTU was a useless, fascist organization that should never have been created, period.

Obviously sensing another argument in the works, Claudia’s sister Gillian stepped out of the bedroom. “Since we’re all awake,” she chirped brightly, “I’ll turn on the telly and see if we’ve had a minor quake.”

Claudia winced at Gillian’s use of British idiom. Since marrying an Englishman, she’d been suppressing her Boston accent, as well.

Downstairs, her sister put on a pot of tea while Claudia tuned into WHDH, the NBC affiliate in Boston. Her timing was perfect. After a few seconds of one of those ubiquitous M*A*S*H reruns, the show was interrupted by a “breaking news” interstitial, then a somber-looking announcer appeared on screen.

“We’ve just received word here at the studio about a massive explosion in the center of Boston. It appears the blast has collapsed a portion of Interstate 93 between Cambridge Street and Boston Harbor.”

“The Big Dig,” Roddy grumbled, plopping down at the kitchen table. “A monument of excess and corporate corruption—”

“I thought the Dig was a government project,” Claudia corrected.

“In America, government and business are one and the same thing. Instruments of arrogant avarice.” He imperiously waved his hand. “The superciliousness of your American officials never ceases to astound me.”

“You know what, Roddy? You can always go back to England—”

“Here we are!” Gillian forcefully chirped, setting the teapot down between them. “It’s chamomile. It won’t keep us awake—”

Another blast, much louder than the previous one, shook the windows. Roddy jumped to his feet, sending a china cup tumbling to the floor.

“Roddy, do be careful! You’ve broken a piece of our good—”

Another blast shattered the kitchen window. Gillian screamed. Claudia pushed her sister away from flying shards of glass. Other windows in the neighborhood had broken, too. They could hear cries of shock and surprise.

“I’m going to investigate,” Roddy declared.

“No, wait,” Claudia urged. “Stay here until we know more. This could be a terrorist event.”

“Now you’re being absurd,” Roddy replied. “Obviously your husband’s right-wing fantasies have clouded your mind.”

Outside, a red glow continued to spread over the predawn sky. Sirens wailed. On television, the news anchor’s running commentary about the troubled history of the Big Dig was suddenly interrupted when someone off camera slipped him a sheet of paper.

“We’ve just received word of a second explosion. This one at Harvard Medical School—”

“My god!” Gillian cried.

Roddy stormed off before Claudia could stop him. Both women were relieved when they heard him climb the stairs, instead of going to the front door.

“We have raw video feed coming in of the initial blast at the Big Dig,” the anchor said.

On screen, a massive hole in the center of town was spewing fire like a live volcano. Buildings around the site had collapsed, some of them burning. Though horrified, the sisters could not turn away from the screen.