The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

'It is of no account. Let me know when you've determined exactly what it is.'
Ghosn took his dismissal and left. He was worried about his commander. The man
was ill – he knew that much from his brother-in-law, but exactly how sick he
didn't know. In any case, he had work to do.
The workshop was a disreputable-looking structure of plain wood walls and a roof
of corrugated steel. Had it looked more sturdy, some Israeli F-16 pilot might
have destroyed it years before.
The bomb – he still thought of it by that name – lay on the dirt floor. An
A-frame like that used for auto or truck service stood over it, with a chain for
moving the bomb if necessary, but yesterday two men had set it up in accordance
with his instructions. Ghosn turned on the lights – he liked a brightly-lit
work-area – and contemplated the . . . bomb.
Why do I keep calling it that? he asked himself. Ghosn shook his head. The
obvious place to begin was the access door. It would not be easy. Impact with
the ground had telescoped the bombcase, doubtless damaging the internal hinges .
. . but he had all the time he wanted.
Ghosn selected a screwdriver from his tool box and went to work.
***
President Fowler slept late. He was still fatigued from the flight, and . . . he
almost laughed at himself in the mirror. Good Lord, three times in less than 24
hours . . . wasn't it? He tried to do the arithmetic in his head, but the effort
defeated him before his morning coffee. In any case, three times in relatively
short succession. He hadn't done that in quite a long time! But he'd also gotten
his rest. His body was composed and relaxed after the morning shower, and the
razor plowed through the cream on his face, revealing a man with younger, leaner
features that matched the twinkle in his eyes. Three minutes later, he selected
a striped tie to go with the white shirt and gray suit. Not somber, but serious
was the prescription for the day. He'd let the churchmen dazzle the cameras with
their red silk. His speech would be all the more impressive if delivered by a
well turned-out businessman/politician, which was his political image, despite
the fact that he'd never in his life run a private business of any sort. A
serious man, Bob Fowler – with a common touch to be sure, but a serious man whom
one could trust to do The Right Thing.
Well, I will sure as hell prove that today, the President of the United States
told himself in yet another mirror as he checked his tie. His head turned at the
knock on the door. 'Come in.'
'Good morning, Mr President,' said Special Agent Connor.
'How are you today, Pete?' Fowler asked, turning back to the mirror . . . the
knot wasn't quite right, and he started afresh.
'Fine, thank you, sir. It's a mighty nice day outside.'
'You people never get enough rest, Never get to see the sights, either. That's
my fault, isn't it?' There, Fowler thought, that's perfect.
'It's okay, Mr President. We're all volunteers. What do you want for breakfast,
sir?'
'Good morning, Mr President!' Dr Elliot came in behind Connor. 'This is the
day!'
Bob Fowler turned with a smile. 'It sure as hell is! Join me for breakfast,