Excerpt of 2012: The War For Souls by Whitley Strieber

General Alfred William North entered his superior
officer’s luxurious suite in the Pentagon. General Samson
had been appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
last year, and had taken Al with him into the stratospheric
world of high-level military politics.

General
Samson’s orderly had not been present to announce him. Given
the present state of chaos within the military, that wasn’t
too surprising. He was probably on some detail or other
within the vast building, and there hadn’t been anybody
available to spell him.

They were due at the
White House in ten minutes, so Al didn’t stand on ceremony.
Knocking once, he entered the office. Al had met Tom Samson
when he’d been promoted to Air Force Chief of Staff. He’d
been a very efficient officer, and
personable.

That, however, turned out to apply
only to superior officers. Now that he was Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs and Al was still vice chairman, things had
changed. Tom was a cold, charmless yeller, he was intolerant
of failure, he was extremely demanding. Al still believed
him to be a good officer, but his approach to the job was
often too rigid. Truth to tell, Al had expected this
promotion to be his. Counted on it, actually. What had
happened had been a serious humiliation and a sad end to a
great career. He had known the president for years, and he
could not understand why he’d chosen Tom over him, frankly.
He’d carried out his responsibilities with
excellence.

The difference between the two of
them was that Tom had served in fighters and Al had trained
in them but served his entire career as a staff officer. Tom
had a Purple Heart and an Air Medal. Did Al, who had never
heard a shot fired in anger, envy Tom his participation in
the Cuban Troubles?

Short answer: damn right.
If it had been him, his career would not have stopped just
short of the pinnacle.

“Tom, I’m here,” he
said. Tentatively.

Silence.

The
bathroom door was ajar, so Al walked toward it. “Tom?” he
repeated.

There came a shuffle of sound from
inside the bathroom.

“Excuse me,” Tom replied,
an angry challenge in his rumble.

“Tom, I’m
sorry, Lenny’s not out front—”

“Get out of
here!”

“Sorry!”

As Al headed for
the door, he noticed, open on Tom’s desk, a silver box about
the size of an old-fashioned cigarette case. Inside were six
narrow golden cylinders. Lying beside them was a hypodermic,
silver, that tapered seamlessly from a wide back with a
socket in it that would obviously fit one of the cylinders,
to a needle with a point so fine it almost appeared
hairlike.

Al hurried out, his mind racing.
That outfit—was he an addict of some sort? A cancer victim?
And what strange looking equipment.

A moment
later, Tom slammed his office door with such force that the
entire room shook.

Al hardly heard. If Tom was
an addict, very frankly, that could be good. Worth
knowing.

At that point, Lenny
reappeared.

“General, let me announce you,” he
said.

“He knows I’m here.”

Lenny
went white. “He does?”

Al nodded. Nothing more
was said, and a moment later Tom strode out, resplendent in
his uniform, his gray eyes staring straight ahead, his face
expressionless.

Lenny snapped to
attention.

“We need to talk,” Tom snarled at
him as he passed his
desk.

“Yessir!”

“You bet, yes
sir, young fella.” He went stomping off into the outer part
of the suite.

Al followed him, and together
they descended in his private elevator to the basement
garage, where his staff car awaited them, rear door open.
All of this was done in silence. In point of fact, you just
plain did not talk to Tom unless he spoke first. He wasn’t
responsive to social chatter, jokes, gossip—anything like
that. In fact, the most amazing thing about him was that he
held this most political of all military appointments. How
the bastard had managed it, every single general on his
staff would have loved to know—if only to help find a way to
hurt him.

Historically, the Joint Chiefs was a
solid, smooth-running organization. Not under Tom. Tom had
made it into a rat’s nest full of spider webs. Men who had
worked together for years now fought like what they
were—creatures in a trap.

In the year since
Tom had come, there had been five “resignations.” All, in
fact, firings, brutal, mean spirited, often mysterious.
Worse, they had been followed by vindictive little
appointments to posts designed to humiliate the victims.
General Halff had been Army Chief of Staff. He was now
serving out his time as commander of Fort Silker in
Mississippi. Fort Silker was being decommissioned, so
Harry’s basic job was to arrange for environmental cleanup
and the sale of assets.

Al settled into the
car. He knew that this meeting was important, but he wasn’t
quite sure what it was about. He supposed that Tom knew, but
Tom wasn’t saying. Perhaps Al was on the chopping block.
Perhaps Al was due to be caught unprepared in front of the
president, a certain prelude to
destruction.

Except for one thing: Al had
known James Hannah Wade since they were roomies at the
Academy. In recent years, the friendship had necessarily
become arm’s-length, but the two men were still close enough
that Jimmy would on occasion invite Al to hammer squash
balls with him. This usually happened when the going in this
very difficult presidency got really rough. But Jimmy was
flying high right now, so no squash with his old friend.
And, as both of them knew, betrayed
friend.

The car turned onto Fourteenth Street,
headed past the familiar emerald arches of a McDonald’s,
then entered the White House grounds.

“We’re
listening today,” Tom said. “An intelligence
report.”

“What’s the general area,
sir?”

Tom turned toward him, then turned back
again. A moment later, the car stopped, and they were
walking through the White House to the Cabinet Room—but then
they passed the Cabinet Room and the Oval and headed through
Deputy Chief of Staff Morrisey’s office into the
Presidential Study.

It was an improbable place
for a large meeting—except that it wasn’t a large
meeting.

“Hi, Al,” the president said. Al
could feel Tom stiffen. Good sign, maybe the president had
finally realized that the appointment had been the mistake
that Al had told him it was—practically the only political
thought he’d ever shared with him. He turned to Tom. “Good
morning, General.”

“Good morning, Mr.
President.”

A moment later, National
Intelligence Chief Bo Waldo came in, followed by two aides,
who proceeded to hover over the TV.

Waldo
spoke. “Yesterday, there was a massive explosion in Cairo
that resulted in at least a hundred thousand deaths and
property damage on an extraordinary scale. The explosion
destroyed the Pyramid of Cheops.”

“And?” Tom
snapped.

The president gave him a sharp
look.