A dark band of rebel angels encircled it. Their maneuver appeared to be twofold: to discourage any further rescue attempts, and to keep the helicopter from landing. Despite the pilot's best effort, they prevented him from making any progress toward the carrier.

"They're doomed," the tie concluded.

The tech agreed.

"Call them off!" I shouted at Semyaza. "Do you hear me? Let it land!"

The tech and tie stared at me like I was crazy. I didn't care. They didn't understand. They couldn't see what I was seeing.

"Semyaza, I'm begging you . . . let it land!"

With a stony expression, he said, "Every war has its casualties."

The helicopter coughed again. This time the black smoke from the engines flowed with a steady stream. It was going down.

Then, above it, a hundred streaks of light looking like righteous comets broke through the dark ceiling and engaged the devilish perimeter. A burst of light signaled every blow with explosions popping all around the crippled helicopter. I felt them. Every thrust, every wound, every death. It was as though the battle I was watching had a twin inside me.

I shielded my eyes from the intensity so bright that I could barely see the helicopter. But I could see enough.

A dark spirit took shape and attached itself to Christina, pulling her down, prying her fingers from the strap.

My chest inflated with rage. My hands clenched so hard they hurt. My feet danced for a chance to launch into the fray. All I wanted was to be able to fly to Christina's rescue, sword in hand, if possible, but if not, barehanded. I wanted to get a good grip on just one of them, to rip his . . .

Semyaza stood beside me, smiling. "You would strike, even if you felt the blow?"

I didn't answer. We both knew I would.

The tempest surrounding the helicopter dimmed as it emerged from the turmoil as though it was flying out of a cloud, and as it did, I saw angels.

Supporting the fuselage.

Cradling Christina.

Carrying the crippled aircraft to safety.

Christina dropped into the waiting arms of sailors on the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan. A moment later the angels gently set the helicopter down.

The tech and tie let out a whoop of joy.

I swiped at tears.

"That was unfortunate," Semyaza said.

CHAPTER 29.

Give that pilot a Distinguished Flying Cross!" the news crew tech shouted, thrusting his fist into the air.

"He made it! He made it! I can't believe he made it!" the tie shouted with him. "There's no way he could have made it, but he did!"

The tech and the tie were jumping up and down like little boys. The cameraman celebrated in his own way by keeping a tight focus on Jana.

On the monitor Jana was wiping tears of relief with one hand as she held the phone with the other. She, too, credited the pilot for his unbelievable flying skill.

Wait until I tell her what really happened.

Shouting into her cell phone, Jana was making her way to the first helicopter, which had landed for another load. The president's staff filed aboard. A Secret Service agent a.s.sisted Jana into the belly of the mechanical beast. Once inside, she turned to face the camera and continued reporting.

She said, "Even now with the children safely aboard the USS Ronald Reagan, despite intense pressure from the Secret Service, the president insists on being the last man to leave the bridge and that means that, since we have just reached maximum occupancy, he will wait for the next transport."

As helicopter one lifted off the bridge, President R. Lloyd Douglas turned to the handful of Secret Service agents that were left behind and gave them high fives.

Next to me, Semyaza was unimpressed. He said, "Act Three. Final curtain. Cue the actors."

On cue, Danny Noonan's FA-18 Hornet dropped out of the dark cloud of Lucifer's army. Once again he had the bridge in his sights. His plane trailed smoke like blood from a wound. Apparently the pursuit planes had gotten in a few licks while they were away.

"I don't believe it!" the cameraman cried.

He was the first to spot Noonan in the background while shooting Jana on the helicopter. He zoomed onto the swiftly approaching FA-18. The jittery picture on the monitor made the threat appear even more ominous.

The pursuit planes were close behind. They riddled Noonan's aircraft with machine-gun fire.

Noonan had run out of time. Rebel angels swooped down on both sides of the Hornet, shielding it from the fire of the pursuit planes. At the same time more rebel angels buffeted the pursuit planes, throwing off their aim.

On the bridge the Secret Service agents saw the incoming fighter. They hustled the president into his limousine, determined to protect him to the end.

"G.o.d in heaven, he's coming back!" Jana reported from the helicopter.

"Use your missiles!" the tech shouted to the pursuit planes. "Use your missiles! Blow him outta the air!"

Looking as though they heard him, both pursuit planes fired their missiles at the same instant that Danny Noonan fired his at the bridge.

Noonan's rockets slammed into the bridge mid-span just as one of the pursuit rockets. .h.i.t his wing. Limousines and the school bus lifted off the bridge in a fiery ballet as Danny Noonan's wing exploded, spinning his aircraft into the heart of the disintegrating bridge, where an instant later a second, larger ball of fire erupted with such force it shattered windows over a mile away.

I watched in horror as the blast knocked Jana's helicopter sideways. I lost sight of it behind billowing clouds of smoke.

The pursuit planes knifed through the smoke and climbed into a cloudless sky, having succeeded in shooting down their commander, but not before he a.s.sa.s.sinated their commander in chief.

Rubble from the bridge rained like fireworks into the bay, with chunks of concrete and metal debris with smoky tails. A thick cloud covered the bridge as though history had declared it a sight too horrible to be seen.

It was Dallas, November 22, 1963, all over again. The world was stunned, afraid to take a breath for fear that doing so would be an admission that life would go on.

"Did you get that?" the tech said, hushed at first, but growing animated. "Did you get that? Man! We are going to be famous! This has Pulitzer Prize written all over it!"

"Do you think so?" the tie said, sharing the tech's excitement.

"Shut up, Craig," the cameraman said soberly.

Like me, his attention was in the direction Jana's helicopter had last been seen. The smoke was thinning.

I heard it before I saw it. Rotors beating the air, sounding like a heartbeat. The helicopter emerged through the haze and steadily plodded toward the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan with the last load of survivors.

I began to breathe again.

The tidal winds began to clear the area surrounding the bridge and for the first time I saw the view that tomorrow would be plastered on every newspaper in the world and printed in every history textbook. The gem of San Diego appeared twisted and broken, its center arches thrusting upward out of the water like tombstones on a foggy night.

Coast Guard boats plied the waters, venturing into the area in search of survivors-of which we knew there were none-and bodies.

"Roll the credits," Semyaza said.

I looked to the sky. It was over. The heavens of both universes were clear. Lucifer's army had dispersed.

Across the bay where the farewell rally had been scheduled, the land's edge was lined with people wanting to get a look and a picture of history. Cl.u.s.ters of people stood on the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, among them Christina and Jana, safe, though I couldn't see them.

Jana was no longer on the monitor. I recognized the evening news anchor. Apparently he had been on Coronado to cover the farewell rally that never happened.

It was over. The roller-coaster ride I'd been on since returning to California to speak at my high school alma mater was finally over. The suddenness with which history had turned the page was unnerving. The Douglas administration was no more. Christina was out of a job. After today, Jana would most surely be recruited by the networks. According to the clock, only an hour or so had pa.s.sed. But the clock was wrong. It was a new day.

Turning my back on what had once been my favorite San Diego landmark, I walked away.

Semyaza fell in beside me. "Quite a production, no?" he said. "If we really were rolling credits, do you know what they'd say? Produced and directed by Azazel."

I stopped and stared at him.

"That's right. Your grandfather put this little production together. As you can see, he learned a thing or two during his dalliance in Hollywood."

I shook my head and continued walking.

"We're not finished," Semyaza said.

"Yes we are."

I started walking again. This time he didn't follow me.

"All of this?" Semyaza said to my back. "You think it was to control history. That isn't our prime objective here."

I was tired of listening to him. I kept walking.

And then I couldn't.

My feet stopped and-just like in Myles Shepherd's office-I hadn't stopped them.

It angered me that he could do that.

In no hurry, Semyaza strolled casually until he faced me.

"Today isn't about your nation's history, Grant. That was just a bonus. Today is about you. This entire production was staged for your benefit."

I didn't believe him. How could I? He was speaking in hyperbole, overstatement for effect, it had to be. FA-18s screaming across the sky . . . a bridge blown up . . . a president a.s.sa.s.sinated . . . lives lost . . . millions of dollars in damage . . . to think that it all happened because of me was . . . was . . . unthinkable. Events of this magnitude do not hinge on historians and writers, but men with names like Charlemagne, Napoleon, Churchill, and Lincoln.

"This never was about Douglas," Semyaza pressed. "Do you think we care who sits in the Oval Office? One man, not even a president, has the power to change the course of history. It takes a movement, not a man, to effect significant change. Do you really think we care how history remembers R. Lloyd Douglas? Who do you think we are? The Make-A-Wish Foundation for deluded politicians?"

"Then why?"

"I told you. Today is about you."

"I don't believe you."

If eyes were ever deadly serious, his were when he said, "Then tell me why Lucifer's second in command would clothe himself in vile human flesh for years? If we don't concern ourselves with presidents, why would we concern ourselves with a high school student in some mediocre California town?"

I didn't have an answer for him.

"You had come of age," he said. "We couldn't take the risk that Abdiel would attempt to recruit you or sway you to the other side. So I babysat you. Prodded you. Goaded you. I did whatever it took to get you to this place."

"My book. The White House. The Pulitzer."

"All of it to prepare you for today."

At the high school Semyaza had boasted that he was responsible for my book winning the Pulitzer. I thought it was sour grapes. For all the lies, why did that part have to be the truth?

"Do I scare you that much?" I asked.

"You present a threat we can't ignore. Your father made it easy for us. He was weak, unable to accept the reality of who he was. He neutralized himself with alcohol. He didn't even tell your mother who he really was until after you were born. We didn't have to concern ourselves with him. He was an embarra.s.sment, never a threat. And then he killed himself."

I needed to walk. To think. But when I tried, my feet remained Super Glued to the deck.

"Is this necessary?" I asked, pointing to my feet.

Semyaza didn't answer me, neither did he release me.

"All right . . . ," I said. "So . . . you're saying that all of this . . ." I waved an expansive hand at the ruined bridge and bay littered with debris. "To what end? To impress me? To win me over to your side?"

"To convince you that you cannot win," he said. "Do you know why Abdiel and the others loathe you so much? You're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d offspring. A freak. Not fully angel, not fully human. An embarra.s.sment."

"While you, on the other hand, have exhibited nothing but warm feelings toward me."

"You're a mistake, Grant. Eons ago we mated with human females by design. It was thought that by uniting the two races we would unite their destinies. The Father's response was to kill our human wives and offspring by genocide, literally wiping them off the face of the earth, and to condemn their spirits to an eternity of torment. As a result, Lucifer forbade any further cohabitation with human females. However, some among us had developed an attraction to female flesh. You are the result of Azazel's l.u.s.t."

That made me feel warm and fuzzy all over. "Not exactly a Hallmark moment, is it?" I said.

"A number of us have argued that the wisest course of action is to kill you outright. As a demon you are easier to control."