Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 68

Five Days, Eight Hours, Fifty Minutes

Disgusted, Pendley glanced down at the clock on his Blackberry.

Ten minutes.

Ten short, painful minutes.

Ten long, monumental, divisive minutes.

How long ago had this entire affair begun? Certainly, his crusade was far longer than two days old. In fact, one could make a reasonable argument that the last two days was only the culmination of a life filled with dreams of shaping the fate of a world, not only these United States. Arthur Pendley long imagined himself the steward of the planet. In fact, such a message had spoken volumes to his constituents. Such a dream had kept him at the top of a short list for a fruitful political life. Such vision had moved him from local office to national position. Such optimism had forced his nomination to key Senate committees. Such passion had awarded him the authority to make Kupher a reality. But – in the end – where was he now? Standing. In an exaggerated basement. Passing moments by watching the tick of a digital clock.

Ten minutes.

Ten horrible, devasting minutes.

His plan for peace had taken him around the world. He had met with the heads of states from, virtually, every 'civilized' country. England. France. Germany. Russia. China. Japan. North and South Korea. He knew all of their leaders by name, and he had spoken with them – under assurances of their confidentiality – of his hope for the future of their shared world. Of course, he couldn't tell them what he was doing in his private time. He couldn't utter a single word of what the funds diverted through the Black Budget was going to do to his dream, how this money would someday shape their planet, how he was going about achieving his own personal goals, but he hoped in his private moments that, were they to know, they'd agree. People always wanted to bring down the United States, after all. Even the United Nations felt the last remaining superpower needed to be done away with for reasons of parity ... but no country dared. Maybe no country would ever dare, but a single man with a vision could.

Ten minutes.

Ten agonizing, pacifying minutes.

With power – and Arthur Pendley truly believed he held power – there came women. He had met hundreds of them in his travels. His ten years in the military had taken him to many corners of the world – Special Forces only traveled into the most dangerous localities – and his thirty-five years of government service had opened many more other doors. With every nation, on every continent, there were always women willing to serve the powerful in oh, so wonderful ways. It was, indeed, the world's oldest profession, and Arthur Pendley had 'employed' many of them, so long as they served his needs with humility, with perfection. They were beautiful – the females of the species – and they came in all colors, shapes, sizes, and temperaments. He loved them all, and they – in turn – loved him. Would they share in his dream for a civilized tomorrow? Probably not. Women were revered as nurturers, regardless of the color of their skin, and they certainly wouldn't support a weapon of total annihilation without debate or regret ... but, now, they no longer mattered.

Belinda had taken her own life, after all, so he refused to let the thought of any woman distract him further from achieving his life's work.

This campaign was about him.

Yesterday was about him.

Tomorrow, ironically, would be about him.

Everything he wanted to share with her – why didn't he ever tell her? – would now be his and his alone, and there wasn't a single thing any man, woman, or child could do to stop him.

Ten minutes.

Ten final minutes.

He knew that, within ten minutes, he'd have to call another strike if the White House refused his demands. He imagined that the President and his Cabinet were probably locked away in committee, debating the political merits of what to do next, trying to choose between life under his direction or no life at all, and he couldn't imagine what would keep them surrendering to him. 'They had better back down,' he thought, 'they had better give in ... or I don't know what I'll have to do.'

Accessing a folder, he scrolled through the list of targets. He had planned for so long that the list had grown quite long, and he was no longer certain that sorting through what to strike next would be personally expedient, but then ... in the blink of an eye ... he saw it, and it only made perfect sense.

Chloe had warned him that, were she to suddenly vanish, were her efforts to be discovered and intercepted, he would receive the email, copied to him, that would be circulated to the members of the Washington press community. When he noticed it, when he opened it, he feared that she, too, had died ... but Chloe wouldn't be so weak, so fragile, as to take her own life. She was strong – immeasurably resolute in her conviction and commitment to him – and he guessed that she had been discovered, had been cornered, and had gone down fighting. Sadly, there was a part of him that hoped it was so. But ... with her death ... he knew that the next target – this next attack – would have to send a message that would underscore his potential to the entire world ... and, smiling to himself, he was quite certain this would corner the market for any news outlet for days, if not years, to come.

'That' would be next.

"Doctor?"

Watanabe glanced up from the monitor. "Yes, senator?"

"Doctor, please prepare these coordinates for attack."

Studiously, he rose and glanced on the small screen. Punching in the string of numbers into the targeting system, he suddenly realized where he would be striking next. Certainly – much like the last blast to the waters of the Persian Gulf – this target had little military significance. It was far more personal, far more insidious.

"Senator," he began softly, "you can't be serious."

The man nodded. "Have I bluffed yet?"

"Why would we want to strike at something so ... benign?" he tried.

"Each of us has our reasons, doctor."

"But ..."

"Those are my coordinates," he insisted, deactivating his Blackberry and returning it to his waist cradle. "Please make it ready for the next strike."

END of Chapter 68