The PEOC was the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, a nuclear strike — proof bomb-shelter version of the Situation Room.
Arnie continued, “A CNN reporter on the scene said you were dead. It went live on air and it’s all over social media, but no one else has taken the bait. As soon as I heard you were alive, I contacted the head of their news division on his cell phone and said he needed to walk that back right now. He thought I was spinning him, the son of a bitch. I told him he either retracted that bullshit story or I’d see he was blamed for the attack if the Russians decide to spin up a full-on invasion of central Ukraine.”
While Arnie was talking, Ryan could feel the aircraft accelerate on its takeoff roll. He didn’t think they could have closed the hatch three minutes prior, and already they were hurtling down the runway. No one in the room around him bothered to strap themselves in, they were all too busy working. He had the sense that his legs were cold, and he thought that meant his pants had been removed, but lifting his head to look down would have been too painful, so he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Arnie said, “MSNBC is reporting that the Muslim Brotherhood, the Islamic State, and the Taliban have all taken credit for the attack.”
Ryan replied, “You need to make a statement. Let everyone know I’m alive.”
Arnie said, “Getting the press in the briefing room. I’ll go on as soon as I get off with you.”
Just then, a mobile phone was passed into the President’s suite from the hallway. One of Ryan’s young aides called out, “It’s the First Lady, Mr. President!”
Jack told Arnie to hold and he waited for someone to remove the headset and hold the mobile phone to his ear. He turned his head to get situated better, and he hissed with the new onset of agony in his shoulder. Covering quickly, he said, “Hi, honey. I’m fine. I was just about to call you, I’m sorry.”
“I needed to hear you, Jack. I love you.” Ryan could hear the pain and terror in Cathy’s voice. “Now put me on with Dr. Handwerker.”
He wasn’t surprised his wife wasn’t going to rely on him to relay his condition. She knew Jack wasn’t a physician, and she also knew he would sugarcoat any serious issue. Before he sent the phone on he said, “Do the kids know?”
He was talking about Kyle and Katie, but Cathy would know this. “They don’t. They were on a field trip when it hit the news up here. The Secret Service has them on their way to the White House. I’ll need to tell them something when I get there.”
“Tell them I’m coming home.”
“Who did it, Jack? Was it Maldonado?”
“Not a clue. I don’t even know what happened. We were riding along, and then I woke up in a heap. I’ve got to run. Passing you to Maura.”
He turned his attention back to Arnie now. Though he’d been on the verge of shock just minutes earlier, the familiar aspects of doing his job, managing crises, delegating responsibility, all cleared his head. His pain had not dissipated, but his brain had something else to focus on. “What are the Russians doing?”
“Full alert.”
“That’s it?”
“They have bombers skirting Alaskan airspace, but that happens on a good day.”
“Yeah. I want a briefing from SecState and SecDef within the hour.”
“It’s all taken care of here.”
“No, Arnie. They need to be on the phone with their counterparts in the UK, Russia, China—”
“Jack! They’ve already started that. We’re taking care of the immediate fires here. The world is going to hang on while you get patched up.”
Jack all but ignored him. “I want you to make a list. I will work the phones all day and talk until I lose my voice. I need to let everyone know I am strong and in charge.”
Dr. Maura Handwerker said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President. But you are going to need to rest.”
“I need to make a statement, too. Live. On camera. We can’t wait to land, we need to do that from the plane.”
Ryan saw his doctor above him glance over at the nurse. They didn’t say anything, they focused on placing compresses on his shoulder, but he understood the look.
Ryan forced himself to look down. His shoes were on the floor and his black slacks had been sheared off, bloody gauze covered his lower right leg. His suit coat and dress shirt were gone as well, and his right arm was being held close to his body by the nurse, who was prepping Ace bandages to wrap it. His left arm was by his side, covered in compresses. He could feel the scratches on his face that had gone unattended because they were down at the bottom of the priority list.
He looked to the nurse. “That bad?”
She said, “If you order us to clean you up, we will do it, but you really need to rest, and your collarbone needs to stay right where it is, which means we can’t put a shirt on you.”
Jack addressed Arnie Van Damm again. “You go live now, and I’ll do an audio statement. We’ll get one of the press people up here to record it.”
Detmer had been standing back, but he said, “Sorry, Mr. President. Secret Service didn’t let any press on the plane before we took off.”
“Shit,” said Ryan.
“I can record you,” Detmer offered.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Coming from the White House, some will say it’s faked, but that and a picture of my face will have to do till we land.”
Maura said, “I’ll put a bandage on your forehead. We’ll make you presentable.”
61
Emilio, the two Maldonado cowboys, and Adel Zarif arrived at the safe-house apartment thirty-five minutes after the attack. As they climbed the stairs all four men looked to the south and saw the thick hanging cloud of smoke. It was diffusing now, but it, and the half-dozen helicopters circling around, would remain in the air over the city for some time.
Zarif was looking forward to watching the news broadcasts while he waited for nightfall. The plan was for the Maldonado men to take him all the way into Guerrero, where they would then fly him from Acapulco to Cuba. There, North Korean agents would be waiting to take him to Pyongyang.
And Zarif couldn’t wait to get out of here.
One of the rough-looking men unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, followed close on his heels by his partner. Emilio entered, and then Zarif followed him in.
All three Mexicans headed for the kitchen to get beers, but Zarif walked straight down the hallway to the bathroom in the back. He hadn’t taken the time to piss since he’d left hours earlier, and the TV would have to wait while he took care of business. He didn’t even take off his backpack before he unzipped his fly, but as soon as he did this, he heard a shout from the living room, and then a second shout, this time from Emilio.
He leaned out of the bathroom and looked up the hallway into the living room. Three Asian men in the blue coveralls of sanitation workers had entered the apartment right behind Zarif and the Maldonado men. In their hands were black pistols with long silencers. While Emilio and the other two stood by the television with beers in their hands, the three men opened fire, shooting each Mexican several times.
Their bodies spasmed and spun and dropped to the blood-spattered carpet.
Zarif leapt back into the bathroom, he shut and locked the door, then he climbed into the bathtub. Above the tub was a window high on the wall. He reached up and pulled it open, and then he struggled to heft himself up to it.
Behind him the bathroom door splintered with a dozen bullet holes. Zarif pushed through the window as hard as he could, then fell outside onto a small overhang. He rolled to the edge, then tipped over the side and dropped down one floor to a dusty parking lot.
As he looked back over his shoulder he heard scuffling in the bathroom, and then more gunfire erupted from the window, pocking the parking lot around him. Zarif dove between a parked Ford Bronco and an old Winnebago and crawled as fast as he could to the other side.