As the SUV passed by the Lincoln Memorial, Christopher stared out his window, feeling defeated. For as long as he could remember, he had prided himself on being reliable and trustworthy, things he found impossible to believe outside of himself. Now he had cost his men their jobs and the credibility of the Omega Group because he had allowed himself to fall into the trap of entertaining God’s “voice” in his life.
That still, small voice—which, despite Christopher’s attempts to deny it, he knew was the Holy Spirit—had bombarded him over the last month, warning and pushing him to look beyond his job. For what? This? Just more pain and suffering. How could he trust God after this? How could he let God back into his life? Christopher’s thoughts flashed to Erin and her insistence that he start making an effort to trust God.
As the SUV made the turn onto the Arlington Memorial Bridge, Christopher noticed Joe’s praise and worship music was on again. A familiar tune from his childhood was playing on the vehicle’s speakers. “Hey, Joe, is that song ‘Everything Is Going to Be Alright’?”
“Yes, sir…”
“Joe!” Christopher screamed, but in an instant the car was pilotless and careening over the Memorial Bridge and into the Potomac River below. The impact and rush of water were shocking, as Christopher felt the stinging pain of a cut across his right leg.
“Jackson, are you all right? Jackson, answer me!” Christopher could see that Jackson was passed out, with water already up to his chest. He noticed a deep cut on Jackson’s head with blood pouring out. Christopher quickly reached for the window-break tool, grateful that the government had gotten something right in its bureaucratic method of purchasing vehicles. He broke his window and waited for the water to fill the SUV. He was momentarily glad that Jackson hadn’t put on his seatbelt as he pulled the limp man out of the window and toward the surface.
As Jackson and Christopher reached the surface, Christopher glanced toward the sinking SUV, half wondering if he had only imagined he saw Joe Cunninghman disappear before the crash. He got his bearings and swam toward the D.C. shore along West Potomac Park, towing Jackson behind him.
When he reached land, he found Jackson was breathing, but unconscious and bleeding profusely. Christopher, who always carried a knife, cut off a portion of his dress shirt to make a temporary bandage. With Jackson’s wounds taken care of, Christopher quickly inventoried himself and cut off the remainder of his shirt to tie around the gash in his thigh that was deep enough to need stitches.
Christopher had to fight to keep from going into shock as he took an assessment of what was going on around him. He found himself immersed in chaos. It was as if the whole world had been stopped and shaken like an enormous snow globe. The noise of car horns blaring from being pressed by deceased drivers, panicked drivers, and accident damage was unbelievable. Christopher felt like he was in New Delhi during rush hour. People everywhere were screaming incoherently from what Christopher could make out. His only thought was that D.C. had been struck by some terrorist act.
Moments later, the life-draining roar of a jumbo jet that seemed about to land on top of them slammed Christopher to the ground; he instinctively covered Jackson with his body. The plane slammed into the nearby Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, causing a loud explosion and more screams. Christopher’s instincts kicked in as he limped toward an empty sedan near the Memorial Bridge on-ramp. He opened the passenger door but immediately fell back at the sight of a woman’s clothing and what looked like metal dental work in the driver’s seat. He was startled by what seemed to be what was left after the driver just stepped out of everything and headed off to who knows where.
The mystery woman’s car had crashed into oncoming traffic, killing the other driver. Christopher pushed the woman’s clothes and fillings out of the driver’s seat and drove over to a still-unconscious Jackson. He strained as he carefully laid Jackson across the rear seat. As he buckled the center seatbelt around Jackson for safety, he laughed ironically since his lack of a safety belt is what had allowed Christopher to easily save him from their sinking vehicle at the bottom of the Potomac. Christopher knew he had to get Jackson to an area hospital as quickly as possible, which, according to signage on the Memorial Bridge, was George Washington University Hospital.
Christopher turned on the radio to get some idea of what was going on. Instead of information, he was greeted with the piercing noise of the public alert system, but with no instructions following. He picked up the cell phone in the cupholder and tried to dial the Pentagon operations center, but received an error message that the system was overloaded. He drove through the park grounds surrounding the Lincoln Memorial and Reflecting Pool, attempting to avoid the ever-expanding gridlock on every road in sight. However, it was apparent that driving was not going to get him far once he left the grassy knoll of the park.
Everywhere he looked, people were in need of some form of emergency assistance as he rocketed around the Lincoln Memorial grounds, nearly hitting several waves of panicked and fleeing tourists. Christopher’s senses were overwhelmed. The blaring sirens announcing the approach of first responders seemed to be coming from multiple directions. Yet the realization of such a massive casualty event like this meant that the sirens would be like a mirage in the desert to a thirsty soul—salvation would be only an illusion for thousands.
The wall of people and wrecks at Consitution Avenue ended Christopher’s demolition derby. As he grabbed Jackson from the back in a fireman’s carry, streams of fire emanating from the leg wound raced up and down Christopher’s body. But he was determined to get Jackson and himself to the hospital—now over ten blocks away—on foot.
“Hey, what happened?” Jackson questioned.
“Oh man, I am glad you woke up! You’re heavy. I don’t know, but I think we’re under attack—planes are down, comms are down, and there are a ton of accidents,” Christopher said, propping Jackson up against a wall.
“Was it a nuke attack?”
“Nah, I didn’t see a mushroom cloud, but who knows? If the blast was far enough away, I suppose it could have been—in which case, you already know our prognosis.”
“Yeah, we’re dead men walking. But what happened to Joe?”
Christopher had a thousand-yard stare, and Jackson decided he might be in shock.
“Hey, what happened to Joe?” Jackson demanded once again.
“He’s gone…just disappeared, man. I don’t know what happened or what’s going on, but we’ve got to get to a hospital,” Christopher said, forcing himself to focus on a tangible person versus the ghost Joe had become.
“Do you think you could walk?” Christopher asked.
“Can a duck quack?” Jackson replied.
“I will take that as a Southern yes.”
Christopher’s thoughts whirled as he tried to understand a scenario where this much damage was done that was not a military attack. The carnage around them was beyond any war zone even a seasoned veteran could have imagined. Just in this small area of D.C. where they found themselves, it was easy to see that the death toll would reach the tens of thousands. Fires were raging out of control, vacated cars caused gridlock, and people lay dead or dying on the streets, not to mention the screams of those grappling with the apparent disappearance of many people.
Jackson leaned on a shell-shocked Christopher, afraid to ask what fears were running through his mind, but knowing it was likely the same that were in his own. His throbbing head and senses were overcome by the endless sirens and explosions in the distance, probably due to the unchecked fires raging around the city. The silence between the two men persisted due to fear on his part, but it was the voices of the nameless people they passed on the way to the hospital that fueled his worries. The conversations from the multitudes wandering the streets turned into a single cry of sheer agony that terrified him. They passed a man sitting on the curb crying into his hands as he wailed, “She’s gone! She’s gone!” And they saw that same scene repeated over and over again with increasing frequency as they drew closer to the hospital. People all around them were frantically searching and screaming for loved ones and collapsing in inconsolable grief when they couldn’t find them.
Jackson had witnessed something similar before, but in a war-ravished country where endless masses tried to escape the fighting; they were lifeless zombies dead to the world around them and the war that caused their pain. Now in his own country, that same look of desperation and despair had hit home. Jackson thought American society had been decimated by a not-yet-named nation or terror group, that war had once again breached America’s shores.
The scene at George Washington University Hospital was anarchy materialized. People were piled almost on top of each other in the emergency waiting room, and some looked like they were dead. The screaming people seeking lost loved ones or friends out on the streets were pouring into the emergency room waiting area in hopes of locating the lost. A frail older man who looked like he might be a security guard tried to maintain some semblance of order, but he was being shouted down and physically overwhelmed by the mob.
The stern but calm voice of a nurse blared loudly through a bullhorn: “LISTEN UP, I KNOW YOU’RE ALL HERE LOOKING FOR HELP AND ANSWERS, BUT WE ARE SHORTHANDED. THE FEW NURSES AND DOCTORS WE HAVE WILL BE COMING THROUGH TO TRIAGE THE MOST URGENT NEEDS AND ANSWER QUESTIONS. START FORMING FOUR LINES.”
Christopher and Jackson stood in a long line where people were pushing and shoving to get to the young woman running triage. It seemed every available nurse and doctor was working on multiple people, with more and more patients joining the queue every minute.
Jackson instructed, “Look at that,” as he directed Christopher’s gaze to a pile of scrubs.
“Yeah, those are the people that disappeared, and how bad are you two hurt?” The same haggard nurse who had used the bullhorn earlier had made her way down the line to Christopher and Jackson. Her nametag said RUTH.
“My friend has a pretty big gash on his head and maybe a concussion, and I am in need of a few stitches,” Christopher responded.
“Ma’am, I will be fine, and I can see you folks are in need of some extra medical assistance. If you could just direct me to a treatment room, I could sew up my friend and myself, and I’ll even stick around to help you,” Jackson offered.
“Huh, you think I fell off the turnip truck yesterday, young man? You’re not stealing drugs out of this hospital. Now find a place out of the way and wait like all the rest of the lower priority folks,” Ruth ordered tersely.
“Ruth, Jackson is telling the truth. We are Army special forces soldiers and Jackson’s career field is general medicine. He’s basically a physician’s assistant,” Christopher said, assuring her.
“Actually, I am considered a doctor in most countries around the world,” Jackson quipped.
“Well, let me see some identification, ‘Doctor,’ because I’ve never seen a ‘soldier doctor’ with such calloused hands, a dirty uniform, and a half-naked friend,” Ruth ordered, directing that last remark to the shirtless Christopher.
Jackson pulled out his identification card and vouched for Christopher, whose wallet and phone were undoubtedly somewhere in the Chesapeake Bay.
“Well, I guess you two are soldiers. Follow me,” Ruth instructed.
“Hey, why are they getting treated?” a lady from the line protested.
“Ma’am, I’ll be right back to check on you,” Jackson promised as he winked at her with a blood-crusted eye, causing the woman to wince in revulsion.
Ruth spoke as the men entered treatment room one. “Okay, hop up on that table, Doc. Let’s see if you have a concussion. Sir,” she added, pointing Christopher to a chair, “strip down to your undies so I can fix you up next.”
“Ma’am, Ruth, I am okay,” Christopher protested.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. If the doctor here can help me, then that’s what’s about to happen. So strip down like I told you. I can see the bloodstains on your pants. Take off that uniform, too. It looks disgraceful in its current state. Put on a pair of scrubs, in the closet behind you.”
Christopher felt like a child at his grandmother’s house as he mustered a defeated, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ruth, I am really okay,” Jackson told her.
“Really, let’s see,” she responded as she ran Jackson through a series of cognitive tests. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
“Okay, what’s today?” Ruth asked.
“The worst freaking day ever,” Jackson proclaimed.
“You’re well enough, and your attitude seems intact as well. Sir, hand me the gauze and that suture needle in the drawer next to you,” Ruth said, directing Christopher.
As Christopher handed Ruth the items, he asked, “So what do you know about what’s happened here in D.C.?”
“Oww…” said Jackson, scowling.
“Oh, hush up. You’re just a big baby,” Ruth scoffed as she continued stitching up Jackson’s head. “I don’t know much, but I will never forget talking in the nurse’s lounge when people just disappeared.” She shuddered as she spoke.
Another cry erupted from Jackson. “Ouch!”
“Shush! I’m all but done,” Ruth instructed as Jackson wriggled under her strong hands and will. “I am the head nurse on shift here—”
“No kidding,” Jackson quipped before letting out another yelp as Ruth tugged his wound closed, likely harder than necessary due to his wisecrack.
“So what happened?” Christopher asked again.
“That young nurse you saw out front came running up to me saying that her lead just disappeared.” Ruth explained that the young triage nurse was brand new and had been shadowing a veteran nurse. “Today is her first day. I thought the nurses were playing games, which I don’t tolerate,” she assured them.
“I can imagine,” Jackson said, smarting off again.
“Anyway, I followed her to a patient’s room, and sure enough, all of her lead nurse’s clothes were in a pile. It freaked me out so bad, I just told her to head back up front. Well, about that time, the alarm for a maternity floor security breech starting going off, so per protocol we head for assigned exits. As I was running to the ER front entrance, I notice two more clothing piles at my nurse’s station and…” Ruth’s tough exterior cracked.
“It’s okay, Ruth, you don’t need to talk about this,” Christopher murmured.
“No, I do need to because I feel like I am going crazy. Once I was at the ER entrance, a security guard ran up to me along with another nurse friend. They both said all the babies and children had disappeared.”
“What did you say about children?” Jackson asked in a strange voice.
“You heard me. Every single baby, born or unborn, is gone, and many of the children in this hospital are gone as well. Several mothers were already in active labor when it happened—the labor stopped and the infants vanished. One mother had a heart attack from the shock and died. The maternity floor is still on lockdown after her husband took the gun of a security guard and killed himself. The hospital administration is trying to contain the distraught parents until counselors can be provided.”
“What kind of terror attack could do this, Christopher?” Jackson questioned.
“I am not sure, my friend, that it was a terror attack,” Christopher said grimly as he pulled out the cell phone he’d acquired and tried to call the Pentagon operations center again…nothing.
“Hey, let me use that thing while Florence Nightingale here stitches you up real quick,” Jackson said.
“Watch it, Doctor Jackson. You might be a soldier, but this old lady can take you,” Ruth threatened.
Christopher tossed the cell phone to Jackson and winced as Ruth unapologetically began cleaning and treating the gash on his leg.
Jackson tried to call his wife Sarah but couldn’t get through, so he attempted a text knowing that data sometimes goes through when voice calls don’t. “I’m alright will call later love ya,” was his quick message. “Hey, Christopher, I’m gonna stick around here and help Ruth. Once comms are reestablished, I will meet you at the Pentagon. I am guessing they will have a need for us sooner than expected.”
“Yeah, okay. I need to get to Erin,” Christopher replied as he read the first news reports rolling across a television screen: “Millions missing and millions more dead in a global catastrophe.”
“Well, there’s my answer. This is something worse than a terror attack. Seems like the whole world experienced this. Godspeed to you, brother. I know how to get to you if something happens. Just check on Erin,” Jackson said.
“Thanks. I hope Sarah and the girls are okay.”
“I am sure they are, but thanks, man.”
“Ruth, can you please find me a change of clothes?” Christopher asked.
“One second,” Ruth said, disappearing from the room and returning a minute later with a set of scrubs, a sweatshirt, and a slightly too big pair of sneakers.
“This is all I could find that might fit you,” Ruth said.
“Thanks, you two. I am heading for Harrisonburg now. Let Colonel Delmar and Gabriella know once you get back up on the net, Jackson,” Christopher instructed.
Ruth suddenly buried her head into Jackson’s shoulder as her shoulders heaved with a quiet sob. Jackson nodded, but he heard Ruth’s muffled admonition. “Please be safe. Who knows who will disappear next?”
But Christopher didn’t think anybody else was going to disappear, which was why he needed to see if Erin was still here.
Gabriella had just entered the West Wing after the meeting with the National Security Advisor and Omega Group when she heard screams. “Show me your badge, now,” said an aggressive Secret Service agent, his gun trained on her to prevent Gabriella from proceeding farther into the White House.
“Wow, is that necessary?” she asked as she pulled her badge out of her jacket.
“You’re clear,” the agent said, and with that he ran toward the Oval Office.
Gabriella’s heart was racing not only from the unexpected and violent encounter with the Secret Service agent but also due to the screams echoing throughout the White House. Has the president been assassinated? she wondered, horrified by the mere thought. As Gabriella neared the office of the National Security Advisor, she noticed several staffers gathering outside the office, and several were crying. “Hey, what is going on?” she asked.
A teary-eyed staffer answered that Estelle, the long-standing secretary of the National Security Advisor’s West Wing office, had disappeared.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“Where have you been? Millions of people are being reported missing all over the world, and the president is about to declare martial law,” the staffer informed Gabriella.
Gabriella felt like someone had just sucker punched her as she collapsed onto a plush lounger outside the National Security Advisor’s office to keep from landing on the floor—her legs refused to support her. “How many have been affected in the White House?”
The staffer, apparently in shock, answered, “Estelle, and some of the cooking staff according to reports I’ve heard, but that’s it.”
“Oh, thank goodness, Gabriella! At least you weren’t caught up in this attack,” National Security Advisor Markeson said, gasping, as he came out of his office.
“Sir, what attack?” Gabriella asked.
“Cindy, get these people back to work and away from my office. We are in the middle of a global crisis, and crying is not going to help. Did you hear me? Move!” Markeson yelled at the staffer who had been telling Gabriella what she knew of the situation.
Gabriella watched as Cindy shooed the other onlookers away from Markeson’s office while picking up Estelle’s clothes like a mother picks up a newborn.
“Gabriella, please come with me to the Oval Office,” ordered Markeson as he all but pulled her to her feet.
President Glen Rodgers, the no-nonsense Gulf War veteran fighter pilot, looked nervous and at a loss for words as Gabriella and Mr. Markeson entered the room full of staffers and advisors who were briefing him on the disappearances. He spoke in a shaky and rushed tone as he next asked for a situation report from his chief of staff.
“Sir, the initial reports indicate every country in the world has been affected by this event. The missing persons count is approaching hundreds of millions based on initial tallies across the globe. Panic is widespread, and rioting and looting have already begun in many locations around the world.
“Additionally we recommend you approve an already-drafted executive order rescinding the Posse Comitatus Act and declare defense readiness condition level 2 immediately. The Defense Department has yet to provide the numbers of military personnel missing or dead, but we anticipate a loss of some military capabilities, especially the longer we wait to raise the DEFCON level.
“Lastly, Homeland Security is reporting that every major city has critical shortages of first responders and key infrastructure staffing. We are facing absolute pandemonium throughout the nation,” the chief of staff concluded.
President Rodgers asked, “What about the First and Second ladies?”
“Sir, in the last communication the White House Situation Room received from Executive One Foxtrot, the plane was sending out a distress signal, reporting that two of the pilots were taken in the disappearances.”
President Rodgers ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, saying, “God help us!” He strode solemnly over to a window before speaking. “Okay, I approve all of those recommendations. Get as many troops and resources as possible out on the streets to mitigate the loss of life. Declare martial law and price control the economy. What bread costs today, it better cost tomorrow. If you get reports of some company trying to turn a profit off this thing, let me know and keep me updated on how the rest of the world is handling this.”
He turned his attention to Gabriella. “I understand that you have been named the new deputy of Omega Group, is that correct, Gabriella?”
“Yes, sir.” Markeson answered the question.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the president said dismissively.
“Yes, sir, I am the new deputy of Omega Group,” Gabriella confirmed as Markeson watched helplessly.
“Then I need you to get to the Pentagon as soon as possible and have Omega get to Brasilia to determine the fate of the First Lady, my daughter, and the Second Lady,” the president ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Markeson replied, interrupting again, declaring that he would ensure that the first families would be returned safely.
President Rodgers ignored Markeson, addressing the room in general. “What do we have available regarding aircraft to get Gabriella across town if traffic is as bad as you guys are telling me?”
A rustle of papers and a few clicks on laptops were heard before the president’s chief of staff responded, “There is a Blackhawk helicopter at Andrews Air Base we could get over to the South Lawn, but the availability of a crew may take a while due to the widespread communications issues.”
“Well, get started!” the president barked. “Everyone, let’s get back to work. A lot of people need us to figure this thing out.” That last order from the president sent staffers scurrying out of the Oval Office like rats deserting a sinking ship.
“Gabriella, if I could have a word alone with you?” asked President Rodgers.
“Sir, would you like me to stay?” Markeson inquired, interrupting again.
“No. Go find something to do,” the president scolded, apparently irritated by the obnoxious man.
Gabriella watched as Markeson sulked his way out of the Oval Office, closing the door behind him.
“Gabriella, what do you think just happened?” the president inquired gravely.
“Sir, I have no idea—perhaps some complex terror attack?” she posited.
“No, I don’t think so. I think my wife of thirty years would call this event the rapture.”
“The rapture, sir?” Gabriella asked, beginning to seriously question the president’s reasoning capabilities.
“Yes. Are you familiar with the term?”
“I am. My mom took me to church all the time when I was as a child—at least, it seemed like all the time.”
President Rodgers laughed. “Yeah, I know the feeling. My wife grew up in the Bible belt and has always fussed over my daughter and me, telling us that this day would come. She said it would be a terrible day not just due to the loss of life, but due to the missed opportunity to avoid what was to come.”
“I see, sir. But if I may ask, what does this have to do with me?” Gabriella queried, clearly confused.
“Gabriella, I am telling you this for two simple reasons. First, she was right. The guilt of dismissing her beliefs and helping my daughter make the same decision is overwhelming right now, and I needed to tell someone. Second, it’s important that Omega not expect to find the First Lady since, if she is correct, she will be safe—though missing. My daughter and the Second Lady are my primary concern. I don’t want to place those men in greater danger by having them search for someone who isn’t going to be found.”
“How do you know she won’t be found, sir? She could still be in Brazil.”
The president turned to look out a window in his office once again before saying with dead certainty, “Gabriella, you can’t be married to someone as long as I have been without instinctively knowing certain things about your spouse. Trust me when I say my wife is in Heaven.”
Just then the president’s chief of staff burst into the Oval Office, saying, “Dr. Costa, we have a helicopter en route to the White House South Lawn estimated to arrive in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, and, sir, don’t worry. We will bring them all back.”
“No, Gabriella, you won’t. But please bring back my daughter if she is alive. There is much I need to discuss with her…and, Gabriella, your dad would be proud of you, as am I,” President Rodgers concluded.
As Gabriella strode across the South Lawn of the White House with her high heels in one hand, escorted by the Secret Service agent who had nearly shot her, she felt unsure of herself for the first time in a long time.
“Ma’am, are you ready?” came the voice of the lone pilot across Gabriella’s headset.
“Yes, let’s go,” Gabriella instructed.
The results of the disappearances made for a horrific view from the air. The Washington, D.C. metro area seemed more like a smoldering parking lot than a bustling capital. Cars lined the streets, unmoving. Fires were raging across the metro area, and she knew that the disappearances had created a significant shortage in every sector of public service, which would make responding to the needs of so many impossible. It was a sad reality that many would die tonight. Hordes of people had begun walking across bridges, heading toward home or at least away from the carnage of D.C. toward the unknown trials that awaited them at their destinations.
Gabriella felt the warm sting of tears in her eyes as she witnessed humanity and disaster interacting hundreds of feet below her. President Rodgers’s take on the disappearances stirred in her a notion she had long ago dismissed—God.
Gabriella had started challenging the concept of God in her teens, as her promising intellect put her at odds with her mother’s devotion to the Church in general and, in particular, her mother’s “relationship with Jesus,” as she put it. Gabriella saw the Church as a fantasy world of promises for a better life for people who believed in Jesus Christ as their personal savior. Instead she trusted in the possibilities of the human mind working to make the wrongs of the world right with tangible technologies and science versus hope and prayer. Gabriella couldn’t understand how people could believe in God or religion when so much was wrong in the world that God supposedly loved and created.
She could hear her mother’s voice in her head now. “Science demands adherence to principles that are bound by the limitations of human intellect, Gabriella. A belief in God is not a condemnation of science, but rather an acknowledgment of the power behind science and nature. The intellectual world makes humanity its god, while Christianity places God above man. My belief in Jesus Christ allows me to have hope and provides a sense of purpose that life is more than an accident, that we are not just born to live and die only seeking our own purposes.” This dogma was her mother’s standard rebuttal speech when Gabriella would berate Christianity.
Gabriella was forced to attend church until her teenage years, when, with the help of her show-me-evidence-and-I-will-believe-it father, she became militant regarding anything dealing with religion in general, but especially toward Christianity. She always accused her mother of being narrow-minded and bigoted for thinking that Jesus was the only way to Heaven, and that became even truer after her mother was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer in her junior year of high school.
Gabriella remembered asking her mom on her deathbed how she could love a God who was destroying her body and her family. Remembering her mom’s words evoked a sob from somewhere deep inside that she thought was long barren of any feeling. “My dear Gabby, I love God because His promises to love and care for my family and me won’t end with my life. God never wastes the pain life brings us. We just need to let go of the pain of life and give it to Him. God is always faithful to see us through to a better day.”
As Gabriella watched the sun begin to set behind the Pentagon, she wondered if this day had been orchestrated by God. She had little doubt that her mom would believe that to be true. Perhaps God did have a plan for the world that her mother had known and she had overlooked.