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Damocles’ sword of nuclear holocaust.
    â€œBin Khoury hasn’t backed out of the agreement, has he?” Garrett asked without preliminaries. He had high hopes that this week’s historic visit to Jerusalem for the signing of an accord between Hamas leaders and Israel would be the first legacy of many in his presidency.
    But nothing of value came easy. Not only were Arab factions across the Islamic world staging violent protests, but the small Israeli right-wing extremist group, Shomrei Kotel—fixated on erecting the Third Temple—had now threatened to blow up the Dome of the Rock and clear the site for rebuilding.
    â€œActually, we’ve got another situation, sir.” Wright’s mouthtwisted in the unconscious grimace that had been mercilessly caricatured by comic impressionists on
Saturday Night Live.
    â€œWarrick called in just before boarding his flight from Baghdad.” The President’s former law professor paused for a moment, knowing the impact his next words would have. “He has a bead on the whereabouts of Firefly.”
    Silence hung in the historic room. Even President Washington, gazing down from his portrait over the mantel, seemed to be holding his breath.
    Garrett slowly steepled his hands before him on the desk.
Firefly.
He hadn’t been briefed on Firefly until his second week in office, and the news of its existence had raised the hairs along his spine more than any other piece of classified data he’d been privy to since taking the oath.
    â€œWhat sort of a bead?”
    Without being asked, the Secretary of Defense drew up a chair and folded his bulky six-foot frame into it.
    â€œOne credible enough that I’ve activated the means to retrieve it.”
    The NSU,
Garrett thought. Only a handful of people in the government knew about the top-secret unit, which had been created by his predecessor. The stealth unit, independent of the CIA was charged with ensuring the security of the United States—at any cost.
    â€œFirefly is still in Iraq?” he asked. “It’s been there all along?”
    Wright nodded grimly. He could see the President’s agile mind racing. Not much showed in Owen Garrett’s controlled, intelligent face, but as one of his oldest friends and supporters, Wright recognized the subtle tightening of his broad knuckles and knew that the leader of the free world was experiencing the same surge of hope, fear, and trepidation as he.
    â€œWhat are they doing to get possession of it?” Garrett demanded, his prominent slate-blue eyes scouring Wright’s face. “Because you know damn well the Mossad is doing the same or better.” He slammed his fist on the papers piled in front of him. “We thought we had a lock on it at the damned museum five years ago, before it managed to slip through our fingers. That cannot happen again.”
    â€œIt won’t, Mr. President. This time we’re doing everything necessary.”
    Garrett leaned forward, a muscle twitching in his neck. “Like what?”
    Wright winced, then pushed himself to his feet and met the chief executive’s eyes.
    â€œI hope you’ll excuse me from answering that question, sir. It might be better if you don’t know the details.”

7
The Radiant Light of Heaven Church
Pensacola, Florida
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    On a normal Sunday morning, the Radiant Light of Heaven sanctuary vibrated with the energy of a thousand voices raised in praise. The Reverend Ken Mundy knew how to bring his flock surging to their feet. All eyes were fastened on his homely, heavily jowled face, supersized on the screen suspended from the vaulted ceiling. It was a face of sincerity, a face of passion, a face flush with the conviction that the End of Days was near.
    It was the same face, the same message, seen on videos every Sunday in the five Radiant Light of Heaven churches scattered throughout Florida, Georgia, Texas, and Michigan. He’d managed to