Anders Nystrom, in all his nine years, had never seen anything like it.
The towheaded boy was standing alone on the rocky beach, his down jacket fluttering in the wind. After being kept in the house for two days by the storm, his mother had finally allowed him outside to comb the beaches this morning.
Anders knew these shores like his own backyard, having been born and raised in the nearby village of Skallelv. He particularly loved the beaches during rough weather, reveling in the strength of the sea and the edge of the wind. More to the point, he looked forward to the curiosities washed up by the big blows. His mother was enamored with driftwood, but Anders preferred the man-made flotsam gifted by the sea. Colorful buoys broken away from traps, lumber washed overboard from cargo ships, the odd derelict rowboat or hatch cover. He’d once found an entire shipping container washed up on the beach—as it turned out, full of red and blue picnic coolers.
Yet never had anything approached what Anders was looking at now.
The ruckus from the next cove had gotten his attention instantly. Noises unlike anything he’d ever heard, great explosions like the thunder of breaking waves during the worst storms. He’d run to the point to see what was happening, and on the way there he was sure he heard a helicopter—the Coast Guard flew by regularly, although this one sounded different. The helicopter sound faded, and when he finally reached the point Anders saw but one peculiarity in South Cove: wavering in the surf, a smashed and smoking machine of some kind.
He sprinted down the hill and along the beach. Anders drew to a stop ten meters away, mesmerized by the thrashed pile of wreckage. A few bits and pieces reminded him of an airplane, but given the degree of pulverization, he couldn’t be sure. He stared for a time as the remains rose and fell, riding the surf’s rhythmic carriage.
Then a misplaced sound diverted his attention.
Anders looked above the tideline, and with a start he saw what he hadn’t at first. Beside a small rock outcropping, half-hidden beneath a drift of icy seaweed, lay the unmistakable figure of a man. Anders moved closer, quickly at first, but then more cautiously. The figure didn’t move, and he stopped a few paces away. He saw blood on the shirt and pants, limbs that seemed arranged awkwardly. He assumed the man was dead: some shipwrecked soul, a victim of the storm. He’d never seen a dead person.
Bravely, Anders went closer, and he looked for the one thing that might prove the point. To his surprise, he saw the opposite: the man was definitely breathing.
Without hesitation, he broke into a run and headed for home.
He had to tell his mother.
The helicopter carrying Burke and the rapid response team was circling when the 911 call from Alyssa arrived. It took three minutes for it to be routed to the FBI command center, where no less than the director himself began coordinating a response. With the West Virginia Highway Patrol blockading the road in both directions, the pilot landed on the highway south of the bridge.
Burke quickly located Alyssa, who explained what had happened. Based on her account, and acting as on-scene commander, Burke dispatched a burgeoning army of law enforcement personnel. He sent local sheriff’s deputies to the scene of a car crash near the bridge, telling the officers to proceed with caution. Keeping Alyssa with him, Burke led a small convoy of highway patrol vehicles into the nearby forest. They arrived at the head of the hiking trail to find Sarah Ridgeway walking out of the woods.
On first glance she looked traumatized, but her relief was instantaneous when she caught sight of her daughter. Burke held back to let the reunion run its course. Sarah Ridgeway and her daughter flew into each other’s arms, locking so tight they seemed to become one. He allowed a full minute before asking Sarah what had become of the imposter. When she told him, Burke decided the immediate crisis had ended.
Longer term worries, however, quickly took hold.
He backed away from the mother and daughter, and called Truman. His conversation with the FBI director lasted five minutes, Burke mostly listening. When the call ended, he made his way back to the bittersweet reunion.
“I just talked to headquarters,” he said, ushering them a discreet distance away from a clutch of highway patrol officers. “I’m glad you’re both safe, but we have some unusual considerations going forward. The three of us have to be very careful.”
“Careful in what way?” Sarah asked, her overtaxed mind not capable of nuance.
“We are in a very precarious situation. The director wants to meet with you both.”
“The director of the FBI? Now?”
“I know it’s been a long night, but I’ll explain on the way. Claire will be there as well. I’ve got a helicopter standing by. For the moment, it is very, very important that you don’t talk to anyone about what’s happened.”
“A helicopter?” Alyssa said, mirroring her mother’s edge.
Sarah drew her daughter closer, seeming to catch what Burke was saying. “It’s okay, baby. I know you’ve been through a lot, but we’re safe. Agent Burke is right.”
Alyssa seemed to think about it, and then in an uncertain voice, said, “Mom … where’s Dad?”
She pulled her daughter closer still. “I wish I knew, sweetheart. I really wish I knew.”
The tragedy of timing over the next twelve hours was nothing less than Shakespearian.
At eight o’clock the next morning, the FBI issued a press release announcing the tragic and untimely death of Congressman Bryce Ridgeway. Both sparse and vague on detail, the story line invoked a hiking accident in West Virginia, and verified that his family was with him in the final moments—elements of truth, tortured as they were. Within an hour the Ridgeway home was surrounded by news crews desperate for some sign of the widow and daughter, who were in fact bunkered safely in the home of a close friend.
At noon that day, Claire opened the door of her townhome to find FBI Director Robert Truman and Agent Burke. “We need to talk to Sarah and Alyssa,” Truman said.
“They’re asleep.”
Truman shouldered in uninvited. “It’s very important—they’ll want to hear this.”
Five minutes later a groggy mother and daughter were together on the couch, the others crowded into various chairs. “What’s this about?” Sarah asked.
“We received word this morning of certain signal intercepts—they were obtained last night by the National Security Agency. NSA routinely monitors electronic communications around the world, but yesterday there was an unusual spike of activity. A highly irregular military operation took place along the extreme northwestern border of Russia. In the end, an airplane was shot down—it crashed on a beach in northern Norway.”
“All right,” Sarah said, “but what does that have to do with us?”
“The Russian Air Force was apparently operating in conjunction with the SVR, their foreign intelligence service. They were trying to prevent a light aircraft from escaping Russian airspace. The intercepts made clear that this was an extremely high-risk operation—orders were given to shoot down a civilian airplane inside another country’s airspace. Not unprecedented, but very risky.”
Sarah’s expression began to shift. She no longer looked weary. “Are you saying—”
The director held up a hand to stop her. “The only certainty is that there was a survivor from the crash. He was severely injured, and is being airlifted as we speak to a regional medical center. We’ve only got a few pictures to go by, but yes … we think it might be Bryce.”
Mother and daughter locked eyes.
Without another word, tears of joy began to flow.