With America in the crosshairs of terrorists who don’t have to play by the rules, President James Mitchell needed an edge. That’s where Bill Hiccock’s Quarterback Ops Group, (QuOG) a top-secret operations cluster run out of the White House, comes in. Their current goal: find a loose suitcase nuke before it finds its way to a city near you and ends millions of lives.

Despite his mastery of science, technology, engineering and math, Presidential Science Advisor William Jennings Hiccock is woefully inept in the realm of the political sciences. From his early days in the administration, every time he extended his hand in friendship to the press, the press had proven to be a voracious crocodile. But a good shot of you on the cover of a national news magazine can regenerate the stub into the hand it once was.

Bill just made the 8 o’clock back to D.C. from La Guardia and decided to skip going to the office and had his driver take him directly home. It was 9:30 p.m. and the funeral had taken more of a toll on him than he realized. The thought of going home to Janice and splicing into some iota of a normal routine was a comfortable idea.

He rolled out the garbage cans to the front of the driveway and went into the house from the garage entrance into the kitchen. As if he were eight years old, there on the fridge, being held up by magnets shaped like bananas, oranges, watermelon slices, and lemons, was the Time magazine cover. Under it was a Post-it note that read, “I always wanted to tramp around with a ‘cover boy.’ I await you upstairs Mr. Bond.”

Bill smiled, opened the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, and was about to take a slug from it, when the door closed and he was looking right at the cover picture of him with the President of the United States. Self-consciously, he got a glass from the cabinet and poured.

Janice was under the covers and her body was radiating heat. He snuggled close and she spoke softly into the pillow. “You look like you should be the President in that picture, Billy boy.” She reached around and pulled him into her.

Bill kissed her neck. “You’re just saying that to have your way with me…”

“I’m going to have my way no matter what I say, Mr. Commander n’ Geek.” Then she rolled over and made good on her promise.

Forty-five minutes later, she was curling Bill’s hair around her finger while he dozed off with his arm over her stomach, his head on her chest. “Did you read it?”

“What?”

“The article; did you get a chance to read it?”

“Yeah, good writing. Like a serialization of a novel.”

“Bill, I am concerned.”

Now he was up. He rolled over on his back, sat up, and took a swig of the orange juice in the glass. He jutted it to Janice as if to ask, “Want some?”

She shook her head. “The article makes it seems like you single-handedly caught the terrorist mastermind.”

“Jan, you know I can’t really talk about this…”

“Yes I know. But what if these guys get pissed off at you?”

“Who?”

“The terrorists; what if they come after you, personally? If I were them, and I read that article, I’d want to kill you for ruining my plans.”

“Hey, I’m an American, so they’d want to kill me for that alone. I’m in the government, so that’s another reason. And I let you speak back to me and go out in public with your face and ankles showing, so they can cut my head off three times before they ever get to ‘I ruined their party.’” He dragged his index finger under his chin in a slashing gesture for emphasis.

Janice grabbed the finger, pulled his hand to her lips, and kissed it. “God damn you, I am serious!”

“Okay, sorry. I have Brent.”

“He’s only a driver.”

“A driver with a gun!”

“No, I mean he’s only around when you are working.” Janice untangled from him and spun around, sitting up and locking her eyes into his. “Get a protection detail. Tell Mitchell I want you to have one. He likes me and I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me as a widow.”

Bill rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head, and spoke into the muffling mattress. “I was feeling so good five minutes ago. Thanks for the buzz kill, kid.”

She pulled the pillow off him and leaned into his face. “I love you. I don’t want anything happening to you because of fucking Time magazine. Promise me.”

“Janice…”

“Bill, promise me you’ll talk to Mitchell – tomorrow – or that was your last blow job!”

“You play dirty.”

“I like to think of it as, ‘below the belt.’”

Taking the biggest political risk of his Presidency, James Mitchell signed the executive order putting two very capable Special Forces operators under the auspices of Bill Hiccock’s Quarterback Operations Group. Bill had handpicked these men who were the best of the best; masters of language, spycraft, special weapons, and tactics. 

Bridgestone and Ross were active and fanning out from the source of the bombs, the refinery in Egypt. In a widening circle from the Nursery, they were trying to uncover any information about where the bomb was and where it might be headed.

The best lead they had ferreted out yet was a truck driver who they now believed delivered the 24 nukes to the facility two weeks before the raid. They based that belief on information provided by the long trail of broken bones and soiled undergarments of those who needed some persuasion to cooperate with them.

They were sitting in an old Range Rover at a truck stop along the desert road from Syria waiting for the truck driver.

“Ever hear of this guy Hiccock before?” Bridgestone asked.

“No, but he’s got enough juice to get us out of jail free. That’s all I need to know.”

“So we are part of what now?”

“Quarterback ops, or something like that.”

“Ah, now I get it.”

“Wanna share?” Ross hated when Bridge knew something he didn’t.

“Bill Hiccock! Played for Stanford! Now he’s like the science guy for Mitchell. He sprang us!”

“Like to meet him someday. Thank him face to face.”

“You and I should live so long.”

“Is that the truck?”

“Plate number BH7234, roger.”

They watched as the truck pulled into the rest stop. The driver, one Jamal al Najime, stepped from his cab carrying his thermos and made a beeline for the restroom. Ten seconds later, Ross climbed into the cab to look for any records or clues to his affiliation. Bridgestone positioned himself outside the truck stop’s men’s room. Not being listed in the Michelin Guide meant this roadside oasis essentially had holes in the ground for commode facilities and since ventilation was still two centuries off, the odor was very distinct.

When Jamal emerged, Ross watched him walk to the counter, place his thermos on it, and sit. Ross entered and went straight to the men’s room. Bridge followed. They checked that they were the only ones in there and spoke English in low tones.

“You take him, Bridge. He’s from the south; you’ll do better with him.”

“What else did you find?”

“He’s not real religious. He is on his way to Cairo out of Damascus with a load of televisions in the back. He’s got two daughters and one son. He takes pills for high blood pressure. He’s had riders in the shotgun seat. I found prescription glasses in the passenger door pocket. He doesn’t wear them and I don’t see contacts. He’s studying up on chicken farming.”

“Stay close; I’m going to try and jump a ride with him.”

“Got your back, Master Sergeant.”

Bridgestone sat next to Jamal and ordered strong coffee. Jamal ordered and ate like a truck driver. Bridgestone started small talk in Arabic.

“Sandstorm’s coming this afternoon.”

“They always make it sound worse than it is.” The driver grunted as he tore off another piece of flatbread.

“Where are you headed?”

“Cairo. Got four hours to make it.”

“You have to go pretty fast, and then the storm.”

“I’ve done it in three-and-a-half during worse.”

“May Allah guide your trip.”

“Thank you and a blessing upon you. Do you drive?”

“I drove before I lost my truck. I’m hoping to get some relief work in Cairo. Trying to make my way there now.”

“How are you going?”

“On the charity of others. Allah has seen fit to have gotten me this far.”

“Where did you start?”

“Lake Nasser, early yesterday.”

“You made good time for someone without a truck.”

“Some of the drivers still know me, so I was able to beg a few rides.”

The trucker dabbed the bread in oil. “Ever drive Syria?”

“Sudan, Jordan, Sinai, Syria, yes, on many occasions,” Bridge said in perfect desert cadence.

“Some a little less legal than others, but it’s not my place to speak.”

“I am afraid it’s the only way to make a good living these days.”

“Praise Allah. But they do pay like the devil.”

That made Jamal laugh. “Shame on you, brother. You are going to need much luck in Cairo. Don’t get Allah on your bad side.”

“My friend, if I am not already on his list, it is purely an administrative oversight.” Bridge stressed the vowels of the last two words in a manner consistent with...

“You are from the desert?”

“Yes, south of Al Kharijah. You are quite astute.”

“When you drive as far as me, you get so that you

can tell people.”

“My father was a herder. I hated it. I started driving at 14, got my own truck at 22, but it seems like I have no head for business.”

“No, it’s not your head, it’s the business. It’s madness! Rules, regulations, fuel, and insurance; they have many ways to put you out of business, but never help you stay in business.”

“I was talking with someone who knew a Minister, to get a government contract. I thought I would be set for life. But he wanted too much money and I wasn’t able to pay for the introduction.”

“Camel’s asses all. There is a special place in hell for people like that.”

“If I can’t find another job. I don’t know what I’ll do.” Bridge laid that out there like a big fat softball pitch on a Sunday afternoon.

“You still know this Minister?”

Swing and a hit. “My friend does.”

“It might be interesting to speak with him; how much did he want?”

“Ten thousand pounds, then five percent of each load. But you get 100 trips within the Misr, guaranteed a year.” Bridge used the local term for Egypt.

“Interesting.”

“When I get to Cairo, if I get to Cairo, I can look him up if you are interested.”

“Come with me; I have a seat.”

“Why, thank you, brother. That is most kind.”

The waiter returned with a full thermos for Jamal and a check.

“Here, let me get that, er… the coffee I mean,”

Bridgestone said sheepishly as he laid down enough coins to only pay for the refill of the thermos.

“There’s no need.”

“Please, to cover the fuel.”

“Okay. What is your name?”

“Mohammad Ali, and please no jokes.”

“You must have heard them all.”

“Regrettably so.”

Ross watched as Bridge climbed onto Jamal’s rig. He started up the Rover and tailed them from a safe distance behind.

Hiccock had earned his place in the administration by thwarting some of the biggest potential manmade disasters that could have killed millions and devastated the nation. But in Washington, memories are short and protocol is never forgotten, so he was summoned to the Chief of Staff’s office… which is never a good thing.

“I speak for the President when I say that you have saved this country from unspeakable calamities and all Americans are in your debt…” the Chief of Staff said.

“Wow, that sounds like a set up for a bigger ‘but’ than Aunt Esther’s.”

“Who?”

“Forget it, Lamont. Go on, sorry I interrupted.”

“Bill, no one is questioning your judgment, but I have to ask you some questions.”

“Sure, Ray, I understand.”

“Your new French initiative. How does the death of your friend, which I am sorry to hear about by the way…”

“Thank you.”

“How does his death connect to the search for the loose nuke?”

“Ray, you know, I’ve been so deep into this I didn’t see the obvious inference of preferential treatment that I am giving an old acquaintance. That also means you were much nicer about this than you had to be and I thank you for the benefit of the doubt.”

“As I said, you earned it.”

“Sergeants Bridgestone and Ross are now in Paris after tracing the 24 nukes back through an Iranian connection.”

“Iran? Does CIA or State have this?”

“We’re sharing what we know…”

“So share with me.”

“One of Ensiling’s associates, Dr. Brodenchy, whom my friend Peter was close to, popped up in Egypt around the same time as the nukes did. Now’s he’s believed to be in France. His last posting with the U.N. was with IAEA. After his stint with the International Atomic Energy Association, he went to work for Fallon Technique, a French nuclear reactor company. That job brought him to Iran when the company started advising the Iranians about building their own nuke plant. Somewhere in between, he converted to Islam. He now goes by the name ‘Jahim El Benhan.’”

“Wait!” Ray started scanning the file cards posted on the inside of his forehead. “Isn’t Alzir El Benhan the bioterrorist we have in custody for that flu thing up in New York?”

“And getting him released was the reason the ambassador was kidnapped in Egypt. And that all led us to finding the nukes.”

“So Jahim and Alzir, are brothers?”

“Hungarian Muslims. The brother adopted his Muslim name first back in the 50’s. Dr. Brodenchy converted when his brother and he were reunited in Iran.”

“You figure Jahim kidnapped Greeley to get his brother Alzir back?”

“Apparently while he was in the middle of the nuke thing.”

“There must have been a stronger reason than blood for Jahim to risk the nuke op just to get his brother back?”

“We’ll know when we ask him.”

“Bridgestone and Ross?”

“They cut through countries, culture, and bullshit like a laser through butter.”

“Thank God they are on our side.”

“Allah be praised, man.”

“You sold me, Bill. I’ll tell the President that you and your team are on to something and you’ll report as soon as you can.”

“Actually, Ray, I need to see the President right now.”

“Why?”

“You are not going to believe me, but you are not cleared for this.”

Ray’s eyebrows went up. He picked up his phone and asked the President’s secretary if the boss was alone.