“Yes,” Caldwell said in a strangled tone, “and they’ve been testing their version of SDI in the Pacific against our military aircraft off and on the last two years. We have five blinded pilots in different military cargo aircraft who were targeted. We can’t prove it, of course, but the Russians are the only ones who have this kind of know-how and technology.”
“Laser technology is ready to be used,” General Klein agreed wearily. “And all fingers point to them.”
“Could it be other terrorists, though?” Daily insisted. “We know that the Russian labs in Moscow were looted six months ago. President Kasmarov never said what was stolen by the Chechens. Could it have been their laser equipment? Could they have gotten that stuff into our country unseen? Used it against the vice president?” He gave them all a desperate look. “My God, if that’s so…”
Holding up his hand, Mort said, “Don’t go there yet, Burt. We need time to do a thorough investigation. Right now, we’re all treating this as an attack from an unknown enemy.”
Shaking his head, Burt scribbled some notes on his clipboard. “The American public will panic if that’s what has really happened. Lasers loose in the country! My God…”
Chief of Staff Rodney Portman stirred and opened his hands, which had been clasped tightly in front of him. “Look, gentlemen, we all have our work cut out for us. I’m going to put in a call to the Russian ambassador about this, discreetly, of course. We have no proof they did anything.” He sighed and added, “I’ll make some preliminary forays with the ambassador and be back in touch.”
Klein snorted. “I’ll tell you what. You should, in the strongest terms possible, issue a communiqué to Kasmarov and let him know that he’s in our gun sights.”
Gray eyebrows raised, Portman gave the man a thin smile. “Diplomacy is a must here, General. You realize that. We’re not going in with guns blazing. We don’t have proof—yet.”
“I don’t need any,” Klein said. “No one in the world has advanced laser weaponry except those sons of bitches. This is them or the terrorists, and my hunch is it’s Kasmarov pushing his weight around. The president has put us at Defcon Three. And we’re staying there until this gets sorted out between all of you.”
“Dammit.” Daily groaned mournfully and shook his head.
“Go lie to the American public,” the CIA director ordered the press secretary. “Heart attack. Pure and simple. No big deal.”
“Got it,” Daily agreed, his voice grim as he scribbled more notes on his clipboard.
“Our job,” Mort told the group, “is to protect the president from any future attack. So, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? We will remain in touch with one another to unscramble this debacle.”
Colby followed his boss out of the room. He was still feeling out of sorts, the dizziness assailing him off and on. He made sure he was near a wall whenever possible so he could reach out and stabilize himself. Something was wrong, but what? Was it really the Russians? Why would they do this at a time when Kasmarov had his hands full with internal problems of his country?
“Director?” Colby called as they walked out the doors of the hospital into the dusk. “I’m going back to the vice president’s office. I want to see if our team has come up with any clues.”
“Good idea, Agent Colby. You sure you’re up to this? You look like hell warmed over.”
Grinning tiredly, Colby said, “I’m a lot better off than the vice president, sir. I’ll be fine.”
“Go for it.” Mort smiled and walked down the sidewalk to an awaiting black limo.
Colby avoided the flock of reporters still hovering around the E.R. doors on the other side of the hospital. He reached the parking lot, opened the door of his dark-blue Toyota hybrid Camry and climbed in. Sitting there, he took a couple of deep breaths. Whatever had happened in that office had made him feel spacey, dizzy and out of his body. It was hard to focus, to stay grounded.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Colby realized he was lucky to be alive.
CHAPTER TWO
DORIS RED TURTLE, a medicine woman of the Cheyenne nation, scanned the circle of elderly women. They all sat without expression, even though the eight-sided hogan, windows open, was stifling as the Arizona summer sun beat down upon it. They had gathered in the Navajo nation, at a special place among the red sandstone monoliths near Monument Valley.
The medicine woman’s brows, thick and white with age, drew downward. “Rogan Fast Horse murdered the vice president of the United States four days ago. That is why I issued a plea for all of you to come here. He’s sworn to kill others in the president’s cabinet, and then the president himself.”
“Why should we care if he kills them?” Sparrow Hawk, an Apache medicine woman, spoke up. Her hair hung in two thick, gunmetal-gray braids. She wore a knee-length, blue calico gown, and cradled a pipe bag made of elk skin in the crook of her left arm.
Doris held the flashing black eyes of the Apache. “This is no time to thrash over the history of what whites have done to our nations. Rogan is a threat to all people, no matter what their skin color or gender.” Her gravelly voice dropped lower in warning. “As you know, two years ago, Rogan stole the Storm Pipe from the Hokahto, Blue Heron Society, of which we are all members. He acquired this sacred ceremonial pipe by murdering our sister, Cora Thunder Eagle, who carried it.”
Doris grimaced and added, “Rogan killed her daughter’s husband, Hal, as well. This is not news, of course.
“We were all worried what he’d do with this pipe. Sell it to a collector? Try to use it himself? But why would a man want a woman’s sacred pipe, which can only be handled by one of the sisters? Men can never access that power, no matter how hard they try. We all wondered what would happen. Well, now we know what he was planning to do with it.”
The women, who ranged in age from sixty to almost a hundred, all nodded in agreement. There were twelve of them present, representing a dozen Native American nations. Each medicine woman had been chosen, trained and appointed ambassador to this supersecret and sacred pipe society.
Doris looked to her right, her gaze settling on a tall, thin Navajo. “Agnes Spider Woman, who is our oldest member, will speak now. Grandmother?”
Agnes gave a slight smile of acknowledgment, her light-brown eyes watering, the lids sagging heavily at the corners. Her gaze moved slowly in a clockwise direction around the assemblage. Each medicine woman sat cross-legged on Navajo rugs that Agnes had woven by hand during her long life. Beneath the colorful rugs, the red clay was hard-packed, a reminder that Mother Earth lived with them in harmony. The rocks represented her bones, and the soil, her flesh. The only door to the hogan was open and a slight breeze entered, easing the stifling conditions. There were two small windows, one in the west and one in the south, that were open to allow a breeze. “Thank you, my sister Doris Red Turtle.”
Like Sparrow Hawk, Agnes cradled a ceremonial pipe in her left arm, for the Navajo nation. Veins stood out dramatically beneath the coppery skin of her hands. She moved her arthritic fingers gently across the beaded deerskin pipe bag that carried it. “Greetings, my sisters. I had asked Red Turtle, who is a powerful voice among our nations, to bring you here.” Her voice was reedy but still strong for her age as she exclaimed, “May the Great Mystery bear witness to our plight and give us direction to change it.”
Slowly lowering her birdlike arm, she said, “Rogan Fast Horse, a Cherokee métis medicine man from Nevada, plotted to steal a pipe from our Blue Heron Society. He made his intentions clear many, many years ago, but we gave his threats little attention. Our mistake was in not taking him seriously. We know there are some arrogant, power-hungry medicine men among the nations. Few, but they are