September 11, 2001, is starting off like any other day. By 5:15 a.m. Cameron Burke, a Vietnam vet and member of the military intelligence special operations unit, is running along the Potomac. As he completes his run and mentally plans his day, Camero
Arise, O Phoenix
a novelBy Lisa K. DruckerUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Lisa Karen Drucker
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-1037-7Chapter One
Book I On Our Own Soil
By 5:15 a.m., Cameron Burke was running along the Potomac. He ran every morning, no matter the weather. "Just like the mail," Patricia, his wife, always said. Ex-wife, he hastily corrected himself, wondering when it would become automatic. He could still hear her saying the words, her voice tinged with what he now realized was bitterness, though for years he had thought it was acceptance.
His feet hammered the pavement. He exhaled rhythmically.
Maybe bitterness was too harsh. Maybe it was only resignation.
His pedometer cycled another round.
No, it was bitterness. Better to just accept it and move on. She'd known what he was when she married him: driven, tough, honest, decent. Her description, not his. Within the past year or so, he had suddenly become an inflexible, monomaniacal workaholic. Again, her description. His daughter, Margaret, called him "the casualty of Mom's self-improvement juggernaut."
Burke couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, even though it made his breathing uneven and running more difficult. Margaret was the light of his life, her wry sense of humor a source of constant delight, despite their constant battling over politics and much of what that entailed, which Margaret referred to as "life issues." Nonetheless, she was "her father's daughter," as Patricia always referred to her, and Burke loved it—always had, always would.
His pedometer finished cycling his last round, and he slowed to a walk. Patricia had a lot to say about everything. He'd never realized it until they divorced a little less than a year before, and he shook his head at his own ignorance. He'd missed all the signs, after all, hadn't he? Despite the fact that Margaret assured him Patricia was the loser, not he. "She's my mother, so I can say that," she had punctuated her pronouncement, with the innocent confidence only a twenty-two-year-old can possess. As long as his daughter didn't blame him for the breakup, it didn't matter who else did.
He walked back to his apartment for coffee and a quick shower. He had to be at Langley for a meeting at eight. He was ready for it, though. As always, the run had given him what he needed: clarity, focus, determination. He hoped the meeting at Langley wouldn't run on forever. He had to be back at the Pentagon for another meeting at ten, and didn't relish either one—he hated meetings.
Burke shrugged again, the door to his apartment in sight. September 11 was starting off like any other day. Which could mean anything at all in his line of work, but that was the deal, and he had agreed to it a long time ago.
* * *
Cameron Burke held his head in his hands. How could this have happened? he wondered for the umpteenth time that day. It struck him suddenly that, in the wee hours of December 7, 1941, the day had seemed as innocuous to Americans as had September 11, 2001—until just past 8:46 a.m. eastern daylight time.
Just a few hours before, he'd been finishing his daily run and thinking it was an ordinary day, even though he knew that there was no such thing for anyone who spent his life doing what he did for a living.
Burke lifted his head and swigged now-cold black coffee from an ancient mug, grimacing. No more time to grieve, though. Not for him. He had already received his orders from the president, albeit by means of a few layers of brass—find out who did this, and show no mercy to the perpetrators or to those who harbor them. All Americans would soon be advised of how the president intended to respond to the attacks: protecting our nation in self-defense, finding the perpetrators in order to obtain justice, preserving the ideals and freedoms on which—and for which—our country had been founded. The president's response was in line with Burke's personal reaction, so the orders had come as a blessing. He could focus on the task at hand now, and he felt grateful that it supported his own moral convictions. He hadn't been that fortunate with every mission he'd been assigned to over the years.
Burke refused to let himself think about the friends lost at the Pentagon. Not to mention that if his meeting had been scheduled for nine o'clock instead of ten, he might have been lost too. He knew all too well that survivor guilt could be lethal, so he willed such thoughts out of his consciousness. For his colleagues as well as for Burke, jobs at the Pentagon signified at least a reduction in the danger they had accepted in connection with their chosen work. You might think about dying every day when you were in a war zone or a country hostile toward America and democracy, but you never thought about it in between assignments when stationed on our own soil.
To add to his concern, Margaret was now living by herself in a loft in SoHo (a gift from him and Patricia when Margaret had graduated from Pratt on a full scholarship), where she was able to "refine her art and live by her principles," as she put it. Unable to get through to her by phone, all he could do was pray she was safe. Given Margaret's antiestablishment nature, the Financial District was probably the last place on earth she'd ever be. Burke smiled wryly at the irony of his gratitude for Margaret's dedication to the liberal views that had caused so much contention between them ever since her late adolescence.
As a native New Yorker and former firefighter—and with his cousin, Dylan, and old friends still among New York's Finest and Bravest—Burke feared that all too soon he would be learning of losses close to him, even if Margaret was safe. He prayed that she had to be safe, especially once he'd seen the Twin Towers collapse. There, but for the grace of God, go I, he thought. Had he been near the towers or the Pentagon, unless he'd been rendered unconscious, Burke would have stood with the rescuers, shoulder to shoulder, trying to help as many of the victims as he could. Even with the specter of death and destruction descending and palpable, he would have been among those running into the smoke and flames without hesitating, fighting to save lives while as many as were able to were struggling to escape.
Serving and saving were in his bones. Always had been. He'd been one of New York's Bravest until he went off to Vietnam, where his service led him into the military-intelligence special operations that became his life's work and true calling. Feeling powerless in the wake of the tragedy was the worst part of it for Burke. Not being able to know for sure that Margaret was all right. Not being able to be there saving and serving. Not being able to help during the nation's greatest tragedy, especially when he had been spared by the grace of God, not just that day but in so many other life-threatening situations over the years. He knew he had to get beyond those feelings—guilt, rage, helplessness; sometimes alternating, other times commingling—but right now he didn't know how he would.
Burke had no regrets. Given the chance, he wouldn't change anything he'd done. Except for one thing: Josselyn. If only he had that to do over again.... But he would never get the chance, so it didn't matter.
Shaking his head as if to cast off the recollection, Burke grabbed his bag and swept out of the room without looking back. The best he could do right now was to focus on the enormous task that lay before him and keep putting one foot...
