knees. As if he were a lightning rod, an electrical current leaped and flowed through his hands, up his arms and through his body. That was Rogan’s mission as he understood it: to ground the power of the Thunder Beings that trod restlessly across Father Sky. He began to slip into a deep, altered state as the chanting continued. It was all Rogan could do to stay mentally connected.
Stealing the Storm Pipe had been the key, he thought with satisfaction. His body was vibrating now, so fast he felt as if he were shredding apart, cell by cell. Too powerful an energy could make a person vanish into thin air. It wasn’t happening to him due to the great strength and long training of these twelve women, he knew.
Sweat poured down his tense, kneeling form. His deerskin shirt and breeches were soaked through. Then Blue Wolf moved her arms and pointed the pipe eastward, toward Washington.
Now! he screamed to her mentally. Visualizing the face of the vice president, Rogan issued his final order. Force the pipe to release its charge now, Blue Wolf! Now!
He was unprepared for that very thing happening. As the release was triggered, a flash of light occurred, and he was flung six feet backward. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he looked around, stunned. The sky remained turbulent. Angry purple-and-gray clouds still churned above them. But already the thunderstorm, created by the twelve women’s intent, with the help of the pipe, was beginning to dissipate. Had the ceremonial pipe done its deed?
FBI AGENT DAVID COLBY WAS standing next to Vice President Robert Hiram when an incredible wave of heat surged like a tsunami through the large office. His boss, Mort Jameson, was in the middle of his daily report when the bulletproof window began to glow like sun-scorched rocks in a desert, followed by an earsplitting boom. Thrown off his feet, Colby slammed into the wall and was knocked semiconscious. The agent heard the vice president scream. Momentarily blinded, Colby slowly crawled to his hands and knees, disoriented. Automatically, he pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster beneath his dark suit jacket.
As Colby staggered to his feet, sweat trickled off him. He felt as if he was in a steam room! Mort Jameson was groaning and trying to sit up. That’s when Colby noticed the vice president lying flat on the carpeted floor, mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly toward the ceiling.
Beyond the massive cherry desk, the window was still intact. There’d been no sound of a bullet being fired, only that deafening boom. What was going on? What the hell had just happened? The agent holstered the gun.
“Colby! Call for backup!” Mort yelled as he stumbled to his feet and ran over to the unmoving vice president. Dropping to his knees, he yanked the man’s tie loose, then pressed his fingers against his neck. “No pulse! Get help!”
Colby lurched. His ears were ringing, so much he could barely hear the shouted orders. Why wasn’t everyone piling into the room? The door was still shut.
Confused, he grabbed the doorknob. Surely someone had heard the awful booming sound? He swore he’d seen a bolt of lightning lance through the only window in the office.
Saliva dripped from the corners of Colby’s mouth as he yanked open the door. He had little control over his body. Unable to stand, the FBI agent called for help and medical personnel, then sagged against the jamb.
His eyes were blurred and unfocused now, his legs quivering uncontrollably. As his muscles gave way, he slowly sank to the floor.
“THE VICE PRESIDENT IS dead,” Dr. Scott Friedman announced to the small group of men in business suits. “From what I can tell, it was a heart attack. An autopsy will be performed shortly and we’ll know for sure.”
“My God,” Mort muttered, wiping his face with a linen handkerchief. The knot of men stood in a room adjoining the vice president’s hospital suite.
Mort’s frown deepened as he glanced at Agent Colby. Thirty-three years old and one of his best agents, the man was pale and shaken. In fact, after examining him, the doctors had told him to stay in the hospital because he was weak and disoriented, but Colby had steadfastly refused.
“This is…such a shock,” the President’s press secretary, Burt Daily, stammered. “What are we going to tell the media?” He kept his clipboard and pen poised as he scanned the group.
Mort Jameson glanced at the head of the CIA, Bucky Caldwell, and then at the Chief of Staff, Rodney Portman. The Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman, General Myron Klein, a marine, looked grim. “The doctor said it was a heart attack,” Mort repeated.
“But…” Daily looked around the group “…the vice president didn’t have a history of heart trouble. The man had low cholesterol, for chrissakes! He’d just had his annual physical two weeks ago. At fifty, he was healthy as a horse. Do you think the American public is going to believe this?”
“I don’t have the answer you’re looking for,” Friedman told them. “I’m just as puzzled over his death as you are. The autopsy will reveal more. I gave the vice president a clean bill of health.” Shrugging, he added, “His heart just gave out.”
“Agent Colby?” Mort zeroed in on the man. Colby had the face of a lean wolf on the prowl. His gray eyes were focused, the irises large and ringed in black.
Colby shifted his attention to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Escort Dr. Friedman from the room, please?”
“Yes, sir.” When he gestured toward the door, the doctor took the hint, said goodbye and left. Colby made sure the door was shut, then turned and walked back to the cloistered group.
“Something hit us in that room, sir,” Colby stated, giving each man present a serious look. “I felt heat, burning heat, building up seconds before that bolt of lightning, or whatever it was, struck the vice president. At first, I thought it was a summer storm. But we had blue skies and sunshine. From what I can tell, it wasn’t weather induced.”
Mort grimly nodded. “I need your help, gentlemen. I had the very same experience Agent Colby did. There was tremendous heat in the room. It hurt to breathe in that superheated air. And then—” Mort clapped his hands together “—there was a tremendous booming sound, something you might hear right after a lightning bolt struck close to you. The sound still has my ears ringing. Something came through that window, but the window’s still intact. Somehow this bolt killed the vice president, and it knocked the hell out of me and Agent Colby in the process.” He rubbed his jowls and studied the other men in the circle. “You got any ideas?”
“No,” the CIA director, Caldwell, said, “but I have my agents combing the room with the most sophisticated gear available. We’re trying to discover what the hell went down. Was it an act of terrorism or an act of God? I’ve got agents talking to the weather service gurus to find out if lightning can strike out of a blue sky and leave a window unbroken.”
General Klein, built like a short but powerful pit bull, lifted his green eyes to the group. “Gentlemen, I’d be looking for a more concrete explanation. It was an attack.”
“Jesus,” Daily whispered. “You’re standing here telling us this was a terrorist attack?”
“It’s possible,” Mort snapped, irritated by the press secretary’s whining demeanor. “You think we like what happened? Or the implications? If whatever it was can strike the vice president dead on the spot, whoever or whatever could do the same to the president. Which is why he and his staff have been put into hiding until we can figure this out. None of the ramifications are lost on us, believe me.”
Caldwell held up his hand. “Look, everyone stand down. We’re all shaken—badly shaken—but we’re working on this as fast as humanly possible.” He glanced at his Rolex. “I expect to have preliminary results in about thirty minutes. You’ll all be privy to whatever we find.”
Colby said, “I believe we’re dealing with something sophisticated.”
“Russian?” the press secretary asked, his face pained.
General Klein growled, “Either that or terrorists