There were actually two Situation Rooms under the White house. The first one could handle about three dozen people. That was the one seen on TV shows, in movies and in newscasts.
They walked right by it.
Tom led him through mahogany doors into the smaller of the two Situation Rooms. Like its more famous counterpart, this room sported mahogany paneling and nearly wall-to-wall video screens. This one, however, was more discreet. One mahogany conference table ran down the middle of the room, six chairs on either side. Very few people even knew that this room existed—it was mostly for situations unfit for public consumption.
Military men filled the chairs on the table’s left side (the president’s left, of course). Next to the president sat Donald Martin, secretary of defense, then General Hamilton Barnes, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, army general Peter Franco, air force general Luis Monroe, Admiral Nathan Begeley, head of the navy, and finally the highly opinionated, buzz-cut-wearing General Monty Cooper, marines.
Vanessa sat on the other side of the table, first chair to the right of the president. Then Tom’s chair, then the space for Murray. Empty chairs lined the walls. These were usually occupied by junior officials, assistants, but today everyone was flying solo. They couldn’t afford a leak. Maybe Gutierrez still wanted to reveal everything to the public, but at least he understood that until such a time came, they couldn’t afford extraneous eyes and ears.
“Mister President,” Murray said. “The attack is scheduled to begin in forty-five minutes. If I may, sir, I’d like to take advantage of the time to bring you up to date on another development.”
Gutierrez sighed and sagged back into his chair. Murray couldn’t blame him for showing frustration—what with the Iranians, increased hostility between India and Pakistan, the Palestinian complications, Russian troops rattling sabers over Arctic oil and, of course, Project Tangram, it had to be the longest first eight days in office any president had ever faced.
Gutierrez stayed slouched for a second, then sat up again and straightened his coat. It seemed a clear effort to look more presidential. He nodded at Murray.
“We’ve detected another possible host location,” Murray said. “Near Glidden, Wisconsin.”
“Is that anywhere near Bloomingville, where Ogden is going to attack?” Gutierrez asked.
“South Bloomingville, sir,” Murray said. “And no, it’s about seven hundred miles away. Glidden is near Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”
“Is there a another construct?” Vanessa asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Murray said. “Dew Phillips is in Glidden, trying to find parasite hosts who could identify the construct’s location. He’s using Perry Dawsey to track down the hosts.”
“Dawsey?” Vanessa said.
“He’s under control,” Murray said.
“Under control,” Vanessa said coolly. “I did a little fact-finding. When infected, Dawsey killed his friend Bill Miller. He killed Kevin Mest, the person who gave him the Mather location, and then it seems you forgot to tell us he burned three little old ladies to death to get the South Bloomingville location.”
Murray blinked. How had she found out about that?
“That was self-defense,” Murray said.
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Three women in their eighties, Murray? Self-defense?”
The president’s eyes narrowed. “Murray, is this true?”
She’d saved this up and sprung it on him, right in front of the president.
“Yes, Mister President, but I’m not kidding about self-defense. Those ladies were infected. They tried to fire-bomb Dawsey with a Molotov cocktail. Apparently, he caught it and threw it back.”
“That’s five deaths,” Vanessa said. “Tell us, Murray, why are you still using him?”
“We don’t really have a choice, ma’am,” Murray said. “As I’ve explained, the only reason we’ve found any of the gates is because Dawsey can track these hosts.”
“I understand that,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Your bloodhound picked up the scent. Now send in professional soldiers, not Phillips and his pet psycho.”
Donald cleared his throat. “Vanessa, Ogden’s men are already deployed. I don’t think Murray has a choice here.”
She shot Donald a glare that spoke volumes. “Ogden has four hundred eighty men in the DOMREC,” she said, using the military acronym for Domestic Reaction Battalion. “Four companies of a hundred twenty men each. Ogden is going in with X-Ray Company and he’s got Whiskey Company on reserve there, right?”
Donald nodded.
“That leaves Companies Yankee and Zulu on the ground at Fort Bragg,” Vanessa said. “So why the hell aren’t we using them instead of Dawsey and Phillips?”
“We need to be subtle,” Murray said. “Glidden is a town, not the deep woods. If we drop two companies on Main Street, USA, that might attract a little attention.”
“And a rampaging psychopath won’t?” she said.
“That’s enough,” Gutierrez said. “Murray, I’m sure you took steps to keep Dawsey in check, am I correct?”
“Yes, Mister President,” Murray said. “We have two seasoned agents following Dawsey at all times. Dawsey will locate the hosts, then these men will move in, take Dawsey down if necessary and secure the hosts.”
General Cooper knocked twice on the table. “This is all good and fine, but we have an attack to monitor here,” he said in a voice so gruff it almost sounded like a caricature of how a marine general should talk. “Not to speak out of turn, Mister President, but there’s information we need to share so you know what you’re seeing when the attack begins.”
Gutierrez nodded. “Thank you, General Cooper. Murray, before we focus on Ogden’s attack, I want to make something clear. We know that this is a crisis situation and Americans may get hurt, but we don’t need them getting hurt by the people who are supposed to be solving the problem. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” Murray said. “I do.”
Murray did understand the need to control Dawsey—he just hoped Dew Phillips understood it as well. Vanessa Colburn wasn’t playing around. She clearly wanted Murray gone. And as much as he disliked that woman, she was right about one thing…
That kid was a fucking psycho.
YOU SHOULDN’T HIT YOUR KIDS
Dew Phillips ran a red light at the intersection of Grant and Broadway. He’d even put the port-a-bubble on top of his Lincoln, its circling light playing off the sheets of pouring rain. Fuck secrecy. He had two men down. That murdering kid was going after hosts again.
Dew wondered if any of the infected would be alive by the time Margaret arrived.
Thadeus McMillian Sr. sat at his kitchen table, bouncing his five-year-old son, Stephen, on his knee. Stephen wore his favorite fuzzy yellow pajama bottoms and a little Milwaukee Bucks T-shirt. Looked so damn cute. Stephen was the good child. Tad Jr.? Not a good child. Sara? Not a good child.
Thadeus pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about his daughter.
A dozen empty beer bottles stood on the table, leaving wet ring-stains on the map spread across the table’s surface. There were more beer bottles on the floor, along with a half-empty fifth of gin. He didn’t drink gin. His wife, Jenny, guzzled the stuff.
The fucking alcoholic bitch.
She’d been a three-martini-a-day girl up until Junior started acting up. Since then she’d skipped the martini glasses altogether and started pouring gin right into her favorite Hello Kitty coffee cup. Every time she took a sip, that stupid cartoon cat seemed to stare at him.