Memorial Day

Epilogue
MONDAYMORNING; MEMORIALDAY

The birds were singing, the sun was peeking through the sides of the window shade, and somewhere off in the distance the thrum of an outboard engine punctuated the still morning air. It was summer. Rapp stirred and reached out expecting to find the smooth, soft skin of his wife. All he found was a lumpy pillow. He clutched it and rolled over, not yet sure if he wanted to keep sleeping or get up. The guest cabin at his in-laws' north woods retreat was a great place to sleep. It sat a mere twenty feet from the water's edge, and when there was a slight breeze the water would lap up against the shoreline rhythmically, sending you into a prenatal slumber. It was nature's version of a mother's heartbeat.

On this particular morning, however, there was no breeze, which presented an entirely different problem. In addition to the thrum of the outboard engine, which was fading, there was the sound of another boat on the water-a boat he was very familiar with. Rapp's in-laws were big water skiers, and when at the Rielly cabin, there were only two times to ski: either early in the morning or late in the evening. Early in the morning was always preferred. The evenings were a bonus.

On Saturday, Rapp had left D.C. almost immediately. He'd talked briefly to Kennedy, and it didn't go very well. The full reality of what they had narrowly avoided had begun to gnaw at him almost immediately. In his typical straightforward manner, he told Kennedy what he thought of certain high-ranking people in the U.S. government. She asked him to keep his opinions to himself, and he hung up the phone without responding.

He left D.C. on a private jet and flew to Rhinelander, Wisconsin, where his wife was waiting to pick him up. They had sat by the camp-fire that night with his in-laws and told stories. At no point were the events of the last week brought up. Rapp had slept hard that night and then right through the morning ski ritual. Anna and her three brothers had ribbed him about it the rest of the day. That was the other thing about the Rielly family-if you didn't ski you were a wimp. Rather than suffer through another day of verbal abuse he threw back the covers and got out of bed.

In the small galley kitchen he found a pot of coffee and a note. It read:Honey, went skiing. You'd better get your butt down to the dock or you'll never hear the end of it. Rapp smiled. He poured himself a cup of coffee and looked out at the lake. Through the tall pines he got a glimpse of them skiing down the north shore of the lake. He went back to the bedroom and threw on his swim trunks and an old faded sweatshirt.

On his way back to the kitchen his satellite phone rang. He picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Kennedy. This was the fourth time she'd tried to reach him since he'd left D.C. There was no TV at the cabin, and he'd made no effort to turn on the radio and find out what was happening in the world. He stood there staring at the screen and after a few seconds reluctantly decided he'd better find out if something was going on. He unplugged the charge and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Hello."

"Good morning," Kennedy said in a slightly guarded tone.

"Everything all right?" Rapp's voice was gravely from sleep.

"Yes, everything's fine. I'm sitting on the deck, watching Tommy build a sandcastle. Any reason why you haven't been answering your phone?"

Rapp grabbed his coffee and stepped outside, the screen door slamming closed behind him. "I wasn't in the mood to talk." Rapp worked his way across the dew-laden grass toward the dock.

"And why is that?"

After he left Washington on Saturday, Rapp's resentment toward those who lacked his fervor had worsened significantly. "Why do you think, Irene?" Rapp stepped onto the dock. "You think, just maybe, I'm fed up with all the bullshit?" Despite his choice of words there was no cynicism in Rapp's voice, only resignation.

"Could you be a little more specific?"

"For starters, we came within minutes of losing a half million people and the nation's capital." The old dock squeaked under his weight.

"But we didn't, Mitch. Thanks to you and Paul Reimer and Skip and a whole lot of other people, we stopped them."

Rapp sat down in an Adirondack chair at the end of the dock. "It should've never gotten that far, Irene. We got lucky."

"But we stopped them, and the president is extremely grateful for what you did."

Rapp looked at the water. There wasn't a ripple on the lake. He wanted to tell Kennedy that the president could kiss his ass, but he decided to instead say, "At the moment I don't really care too much about what the president thinks."

"That's unfortunate, because you are probably the only person who can talk him out of acknowledging you when he addresses the nation tonight."

Rapp was dumbstruck. "What are you talking about?"

"You haven't read the papers or seen the reports on TV?"

"No. I'm in the middle of Northern Wisconsin. The nearest town is fifteen miles away."

"Well, the blast at Mount Weather was picked up by seismic installations around the globe. The French government is complaining that we have reneged on the test-ban treaty, the Germans are saying that there was a nuclear accident west of Washington, and rumors are running rampant in the American press that there was a terrorist attack on a secret government facility near Washington."

Rapp set his coffee cup down. "Irene, tell the president that I do not need, or want, the public acknowledgment."

"I already told him that, but he won't listen. He says whether you like it or not you deserve it."

"Absolutely not."

"Then you'd better tell him yourself."

Rapp looked across the length of the lake. "I have no desire to talk to the president. In fact, tell him I'm already thinking about quitting, and if he so much as mentions my name it's a done deal. And tell him that not only will I quit, but I'll tell every last reporter in Washington that while the rest of us were trying to stop these terrorists, he was more concerned with election-year politics and listening to Valerie Jones and Martin Stokes and that Stealey woman from the Justice Department."

There was a long pause on the line, and then Kennedy asked, "You're not serious about quitting?"

"You're damn right I am."

"Mitch, let's not overreact here. I'm sure I can convince the president not to..."

"It's not that, Irene. I'm fed up with the whole mess. All the politics and the P.C. bullshit. I'm sick of working with people who have no idea how to fight this battle. I'm sick of trying to convince political appointees how serious the threat is, and I'm sick and tired of people who want to treat this as if it's a law enforcement issue when we're in the middle of a damn war."

"Mitch, I share your frustrations, but you are far too valuable to this fight. We need you."

"Then you'd better convince the president to make some changes. I don't want a medal, I don't want any public recognition...I want some people fired. Remember when we used to fire people, or better yet, remember when people used to resign? Well, I don't care if they leave on their own, or if they're shown the door, but some people need to go."

Kennedy didn't answer right away. After a long pause she said, "Would it help if I told you Valerie Jones will be stepping down within the month?"

"I'd say it's a nice start. What about Stokes and Stealey?"

"I'm not sure about Stokes, but I don't think he's the problem. If we tell him to crack down, he'll do it."

"Then what about Stealey? She's the idiot who convinced the president to lock those two guys from Atlanta up in a jail, when they should have been stuffed in some hole."

"I think between the two of us we can make that happen. Will that help?"

"Again...it's a nice start."

"So, I'll see you at work soon?"

Rapp looked out across the serene lake. The ski boat was headed back in his direction. They were still several hundred yards away, but he could tell it was his wife who was flying across the wake. She was practically lying down on each cut, throwing up a wall of water.

"Mitch," said Kennedy, "this thing is far from over. You know they're going to come at us again."

Rapp knew better than anyone that the Islamic radical fundamentalists were not about to pack up and quit. He let out a tired sigh and closed his eyes. "Irene, I'm tired, and I'm sick of butting heads with people who are supposed to be on our side."

"Believe me, I understand. I've already spoken to the president about this, and he knows that he hasn't listened to us enough. The enormity of what almost happened has shaken him to the core." Kennedy's voice had taken on a surprisingly optimistic tone. "Mitch, if there was ever a time to get him to declare open season on terrorists-this is it."

"But will he? When it comes down to it, will he actually turn us loose?"

"This time...yes, I think so."

Rapp looked out across the water and sincerely wondered if he could walk away from it all. He doubted it. He was too passionate about the fight. He didn't need to admit that to Kennedy and the president, though. He would push for everything he could get.

"Irene, I want carte blanche. Tell the president I'm going to hunt down every last son of a bitch who had a hand in this attack, and I don't want anyone from the White House or the Justice Department looking over my shoulder."

"I think there's a very real chance he would welcome that strategy."

"Good...then I'll be in sometime this week." Rapp ended the call, his mind already a thousand miles away, coming up with a plan of attack. A mental list was forming of who and what to hit first. Soon the religious zealots would regroup and come at them again. The outcome of this war, Mitch knew, was far from certain. There was no walking away from this fight. No sidestepping it. There was only one way to wage it-head-on and with brutal and overwhelming force.