2012

Chapter 1 General Alfred William North entered his superior officer's luxurious suite in the Pentagon. General Samson had been appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff last year, and had taken Al with him into the stratospheric world of high-level military politics. General Samson's orderly had not been present to announce him. Given the present state of chaos within the military, that wasn't too surprising. He was probably on some detail or other within the vast building, and there hadn't been anybody available to spell him. They were due at the White House in ten minutes, so Al didn't stand on ceremony. Knocking once, he entered the office. Al had met Tom Samson when he'd been promoted to Air Force Chief of Staff. He'd been a very efficient officer, and personable. That, however, turned out to apply only to superior officers. Now that he was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and Al was still vice chairman, things had changed. Tom was a cold, charmless yeller, he was intolerant of failure, he was extremely demanding. Al still believed him to be a good officer, but his approach to the job was often too rigid. Truth to tell, Al had expected this promotion to be his. Counted on it, actually. What had happened had been a serious humiliation and a sad end to a great career. He had known the president for years, and he could not understand why he'd chosen Tom over him, frankly. He'd carried out his responsibilities with excellence. The difference between the two of them was that Tom had served in fighters and Al had trained in them but served his entire career as a staff officer. Tom had a Purple Heart and an Air Medal. Did Al, who had never heard a shot fired in anger, envy Tom his participation in the Cuban Troubles? Short answer: damn right. If it had been him, his career would not have stopped just short of the pinnacle. "Tom, I'm here," he said. Tentatively. Silence. The bathroom door was ajar, so Al walked toward it. "Tom?" he repeated. There came a shuffle of sound from inside the bathroom. "Excuse me," Tom replied, an angry challenge in his rumble. "Tom, I'm sorry, Lenny's not out front" "Get out of here!" "Sorry!" As Al headed for the door, he noticed, open on Tom's desk, a silver box about the size of an old-fashioned cigarette case. Inside were six narrow golden cylinders. Lying beside them was a hypodermic, silver, that tapered seamlessly from a wide back with a socket in it that would obviously fit one of the cylinders, to a needle with a point so fine it almost appeared hairlike. Al hurried out, his mind racing. That outfitwas he an addict of some sort? A cancer victim? And what strange looking equipment. A moment later, Tom slammed his office door with such force that the entire room shook. Al hardly heard. If Tom was an addict, very frankly, that could be good. Worth knowing. At that point, Lenny reappeared. "General, let me announce you," he said. "He knows I'm here." Lenny went white. "He does?" Al nodded. Nothing more was said, and a moment later Tom strode out, resplendent in his uniform, his gray eyes staring straight ahead, his face expressionless. Lenny snapped to attention. "We need to talk," Tom snarled at him as he passed his desk. "Yessir!" Strieber, Whitley is the author of '2012', published 2008 under ISBN 9780765358677 and ISBN 0765358670.