Alexander was small, a slim little girl with a sweet smile who had grown to a petite white-haired woman who could always charm any man she met. Seeing her in that crowded basement shelter, with the stench of hundreds of bodies pressed too close together. Cole realized with a shock that his mother was old: her face was webbed with tiny wrinkles, there were dark lines under her eyes, she seemed haggard and worn-out.
"Don't look so shocked," she said after he had kissed her cheek. "You haven't seen me without makeup for years."
Then she smiled and he felt all right again.
"I've come to take you and Dad out of here," Cole said.
"That's not necessary. I'm fine right here."
"I've got a jet sitting at the airport . . ."
His mother seemed genuinely surprised. "How did you do that?"
He shrugged. "Sold the business to Palmerson; he's been after it for a year now. Spent a chunk of it on the plane. Couldn't find a pilot on such short notice so I flew it myself. Now, come on, before somebody steals it."
"Your father's not here," she said. "They sent him to Tel Aviv."
"Goddamned State Department," Cole muttered.
"Okay. We'll fly to Tel Aviv and pick him up there. Phone him from here first."
"He can't just go, " his mother said, "simply because his impetuous son wants him to. He's got a job to do. He's got responsibilities."
"They're throwing nuclear bombs around. Mom! You and Dad have got to get out of here, to where it's safe!"
"They won't bomb Jerusalem. General Shamar has given his word. The Moslems revere the city just as much as the Israelis do."
Alexander forced down his temper. This was his mother he was dealing with. "Mom, they've already nuked Haifa and Damascus. The fallout ..."
"I'm not leaving. Cole. Your father can't leave, and I won't go without him."
That was when the black Marine sergeant picked his way through the overcrowded basement toward them.
"Mrs. Alexander," he said, so softly that Cole could barely hear him against the background murmurs. " 'Fraid I got very bad news, ma'am. We just got word, Tel Aviv got hit."
Amanda Alexander stared at the sergeant as if she could not understand his words.
"A nuclear strike?" Cole asked, his voice choking.
"Yeah." The sergeant nodded.
"Oh, my Christ."
His mother reached out and touched the Marine sergeant's arm. "That . . . that doesn't mean that everyone . . . everyone in the city's been . . . killed, does it?"
"No," the black man admitted. "We don't know how bad the damage is or how many casualties. Bound to be plenty, though. Thousands. Tens of thousands, at least."
Cole grasped his mother's wrist. "We're getting out. Now."
"No!" She pulled her arm free with surprising strength.
"Your father may be all right. Or he may be hurt. I'm not leaving. Not until I know."
"But that's . . ."
"I'm not leaving. Cole."
So he stayed with her in the basement of the U.S. embassy building in Jerusalem.
It had started as another round of the eternal Middle East wars between Israel and its neighbors. In three days it escalated into a nuclear exchange. By the time four ancient cities had been blown into mushroom clouds, the two great superpowers decided to intervene. For the first time in more than fifty years, the Soviet Union and the United States acted in harmony to end the brief, brutal conflagration that is now called the Final War.
The Americans and Soviets imposed a cease-fire and ringed Syria, Israel and Lebanon with enough troops, ships and planes to make it clear they would brook no resistance.
The U.S. Navy moved in force into the Persian Gulf while Russian divisions massed on Iran's northern border. With Damascus and Tehran both reduced to radioactive rubble, with Haifa and Tel Aviv similarly demolished, the fighting stopped.
That was when General Jabal Shamar, supreme commander of the Pan-Arab Armed Forces, sent a special squadron of cargo planes to Jerusalem. The lumbering four-engined aircraft circled over the city at an altitude of some three
"Don't look so shocked," she said after he had kissed her cheek. "You haven't seen me without makeup for years."
Then she smiled and he felt all right again.
"I've come to take you and Dad out of here," Cole said.
"That's not necessary. I'm fine right here."
"I've got a jet sitting at the airport . . ."
His mother seemed genuinely surprised. "How did you do that?"
He shrugged. "Sold the business to Palmerson; he's been after it for a year now. Spent a chunk of it on the plane. Couldn't find a pilot on such short notice so I flew it myself. Now, come on, before somebody steals it."
"Your father's not here," she said. "They sent him to Tel Aviv."
"Goddamned State Department," Cole muttered.
"Okay. We'll fly to Tel Aviv and pick him up there. Phone him from here first."
"He can't just go, " his mother said, "simply because his impetuous son wants him to. He's got a job to do. He's got responsibilities."
"They're throwing nuclear bombs around. Mom! You and Dad have got to get out of here, to where it's safe!"
"They won't bomb Jerusalem. General Shamar has given his word. The Moslems revere the city just as much as the Israelis do."
Alexander forced down his temper. This was his mother he was dealing with. "Mom, they've already nuked Haifa and Damascus. The fallout ..."
"I'm not leaving. Cole. Your father can't leave, and I won't go without him."
That was when the black Marine sergeant picked his way through the overcrowded basement toward them.
"Mrs. Alexander," he said, so softly that Cole could barely hear him against the background murmurs. " 'Fraid I got very bad news, ma'am. We just got word, Tel Aviv got hit."
Amanda Alexander stared at the sergeant as if she could not understand his words.
"A nuclear strike?" Cole asked, his voice choking.
"Yeah." The sergeant nodded.
"Oh, my Christ."
His mother reached out and touched the Marine sergeant's arm. "That . . . that doesn't mean that everyone . . . everyone in the city's been . . . killed, does it?"
"No," the black man admitted. "We don't know how bad the damage is or how many casualties. Bound to be plenty, though. Thousands. Tens of thousands, at least."
Cole grasped his mother's wrist. "We're getting out. Now."
"No!" She pulled her arm free with surprising strength.
"Your father may be all right. Or he may be hurt. I'm not leaving. Not until I know."
"But that's . . ."
"I'm not leaving. Cole."
So he stayed with her in the basement of the U.S. embassy building in Jerusalem.
It had started as another round of the eternal Middle East wars between Israel and its neighbors. In three days it escalated into a nuclear exchange. By the time four ancient cities had been blown into mushroom clouds, the two great superpowers decided to intervene. For the first time in more than fifty years, the Soviet Union and the United States acted in harmony to end the brief, brutal conflagration that is now called the Final War.
The Americans and Soviets imposed a cease-fire and ringed Syria, Israel and Lebanon with enough troops, ships and planes to make it clear they would brook no resistance.
The U.S. Navy moved in force into the Persian Gulf while Russian divisions massed on Iran's northern border. With Damascus and Tehran both reduced to radioactive rubble, with Haifa and Tel Aviv similarly demolished, the fighting stopped.
That was when General Jabal Shamar, supreme commander of the Pan-Arab Armed Forces, sent a special squadron of cargo planes to Jerusalem. The lumbering four-engined aircraft circled over the city at an altitude of some three
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