Fallen Masters Read Free Page A

estimates run as high as two million,” the announcer said in somber tones.
    “Obviously, we are unable to get to some of the more remote parts of Turkey, but here are pictures for Istanbul.”
    The screen was filled with images of the city, now reduced to piles of rubble, dazed-looking survivors walking around as if lost.
    “Here is the famous Blue Mosque, built by Sultan Ahmed in the seventeenth century. As you can see, the cascading domes have all collapsed, as have the six minarets.”
    It was during this initial report that the breaking news came that Charlene St. John, the internationally known song diva, was going to give a concert from Mexico City, with the total proceeds “one hundred percent,” the announcer stressed, “to be given to Turkey relief. We are told that not even the normal expenses of producing such a show will be deducted from the gross proceeds.”
    “Charley, find out if that is true,” POTUS said to his appointments secretary. Charley was Charley Crawford, the captain that POTUS had pulled from a burning Humvee at Saba al Bor, Iraq, nine years earlier, and was POTUS’s most trusted aide.
    “Yes, sir,” Charley replied, limping out of the room on his prosthetic leg.
    Jackson stared at the footage of the devastation that rocked Turkey and knew that the American response would have to be swift and massive. After watching several hours of nonstop news reporting from the devastated nation of Turkey, Jackson was brought out of the hypnotism that was the news cycle by Win Jackson, the President’s lovely wife, who reminded POTUS that she had purchased a pay-per-view for a current Charlene St. John concert as she was one of St. John’s many devoted fans.
    “As horrible as it is, the devastation in Turkey will still be there after the concert,” Win said. “You spend so much of your time worrying about the problems of the whole world, it seems. Could we not have a little beauty in our lives?”
    “Of course we can,” POTUS said, smiling gently and switching channels.
    Charlene St. John was dazzling in a sequined, body-hugging dress that caught the spots and winked back in thousands of tiny flashes of light. She began the concert with Ave Maria, then Panis Angelicus. After that she covered some songs, then sang a few of her own. Every song was met with a thunderous ovation.
    Then the lights changed and she stood alone in a single blue spot, surrounded by darkness. The darkness was filled by a few bars of music.
    “Oh,” Win said, leaning forward expectantly. “Listen, this is her signature song. Isn’t it beautiful?”
    Do you see the light
    Of all creation: the day, the night?
    A universe of peace and love
    Of goodness that comes down from above
    Take his hand
    And you will understand
    That we are one
    We are one
    We are one
    After the concert was over, POTUS called his aide into the office. “Charley, would you try to get Miss St. John on the telephone for me?” POTUS said.
    After a number of minutes, Charley handed POTUS the receiver. “I have her for you, Mr. President,” he said.
    “Thank you,” POTUS said. “Charlene?”
    “Hello?” Charlene replied in a tentative voice.
    “Charlene,” the president said. “I hope you don’t mind my using your first name, but tonight, you put yourself on a first-name basis with the entire world. I would like to invite you to the White House. I want to personally thank you for all you have done. I don’t know if you fully understand this, Charlene, but your singing has awakened angels all over the world. Your one voice has made a difference. Will you come?”
    “I—I would be honored, Mr. President,” Charlene replied. She felt frozen, and all her natural shyness bubbled up inside, rendering her close to speechless at this moment.
    “The honor is mine. My family would love to meet you, too. My wife, Win, is always commenting how much she loves your songs. And my son, Marcus Jr., has a little crush on you, I think. He’s fifteen and