Her father! Maybe he could ensure that the coup was called off. She would have to meet with him.
Clarissa nodded off, not once, but three times. First, she needed some sleep. Bill would be expecting her to be waiting in his bed.
After one last check to ensure that the incriminating E-mails had been deleted, she turned off the computer, rose to her feet, she turned off the lights, and headed out.
Moments later, the door to the darkened office opened. Men wearing suits and latex gloves entered but didn’t turn on the lights. With penlights on earphones and whining electric screwdrivers they opened a bay in her computer. Within seconds, they plugged a cable into a hidden jack, powered up the internal disk drive in Clarissa’s computer, then unplugged their portable computer. With a few short whines of electric screw drivers, they were done.
Thirty seconds after they entered the office, they departed leaving no trace of their intrusion.
Bill Baker could see nothing through the newly installed metal shrapnel screens that covered the windows and walls of the White House. But he could hear the commands shouted from the lawns outside. They were routine for that hour of the morning. The number of troops dug into slit trenches just inside the White House fence was doubled in the hours before the sun rose. Although they were miles behind friendly lines, the predawn reinforcement was standard procedure for all U.S. Army troops in the field. Dawn attacks by the Chinese were a daily ritual.
Bill peered out the window through a crack between two reactive armor screens. He could see a flickering fire in a barrel on the lawn and tried to make sense of the scene. The only way he could bring it into focus was to close one eye. At first he assumed the fire that rose from the large drum was to warm the throng of guards. But a steady procession of men in suits — Secret Service agents — hurrying back and forth between the White House and the fire betrayed its true purpose.
The agents dumped files and papers into the outdoor incinerator under the watchful gaze of agents with assault rifles on their hips.
A deep rumbling in the distance announced the coming of day. Bill sank into the chair behind his desk to listen. He was exhausted by the late hour, the lack of sleep, the strain of the momentous decision that he had made and all the other decisions — most wrong — before it.
The drumroll of artillery at the front almost thirty miles away inspired not awe but sickening dread. Its individual beats were swallowed by the distance, but the earth quaked beneath the blows. A thousand guns. Ten thousand. Stephie.
Bill covered his face, and tears filled his eyes. His chest bucked with each silent sob. Behind the shield of his hands, he let himself go. His face contorted. All semblance of control was abandoned. He allowed himself what he fought to keep from everyone in the world. He jammed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth to try to ride out the wave of agony.
The emotional storm ended abruptly, and he let his hands drop to the desk. His face was wet, but he felt strangely calm. He sniffed and dried his tears.
Deep blasts sounded from the southern fringes of Washington, DC, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. The long-range Chinese guns reached out for the capital and fell in Alexandria. The Pentagon was a gutted shell. National Airport’s runways were pitted, and birds flew through its open terminal. Bill could hear the jarring explosions of individual heavy shells landing singly. Deliberately. Their sole purpose, in Bill’s mind, was to warn all who still remained in the juggernaut’s path that the end was nigh.
Boom.
The windows of the Oval Office rattled.
One million American soldiers dead, wounded, or captured.
Bill heard the familiar shriek of an antiaircraft missile propelled by compressed gas from its launch tube in Lafayette Park and rising like a reverse bolt of lightning — from the ground into the sky — when its solid-fuel booster ignited and left white embers of burnt air in its wake.
Boom.
A car alarm on the drive below sounded.
From Mississippi to Virginia and half of California firmly under Chinese control.
Richard Fielding entered the Oval Office to find Bill staring into empty space. He crossed the room, unlocking and unzipping his valise, and extracted a single sheet of paper with a single paragraph printed on it.
Bill sat at his desk and read Clarissa’s E-mail.
“It’s not exactly what we thought,” Fielding said. “But she’s spying for some group of coup plotters.”
“I don’t believe it,” Bill replied.
Fielding saw through Bill’s lie, though he didn’t say so. Instead, he remarked, “At least she thinks that they are coup plotters. The people on the other end of that E-mail could just as easily be the Chinese military. On the other hand, somebody planted that bomb on Marine One. And our people are convinced that it was an inside job, Mr. President.”
“But who?” Bill asked feebly, but thought, Why, Clarissa, why?
Fielding shrugged. “Apparently, Dr. Leffler doesn’t know who it is,” he replied. “But I’d bet that her father does.” Bill opened his mouth to rebuke the man, but Fielding detailed the suspicious behavior of old Tom Leffler, Bill’s mentor. Asking his secretary how to shred E-mails sent and received. Asking the deputy national security advisor over lunch who had attended particular NSC meetings. Buying a pistol at a Reston, Virginia, pawnshop. Incessantly having his house swept for bugs. Meeting Clarissa at a scenic overlook just off the George Washington Parkway.
Several times, Bill had considered interrupting with an angry demand to know just who had authorized the surveillance of the Speaker of the House, but each fact — however obtained — deflected his objections. The picture was sketchy. The dots could be formed into any pattern the viewer chose. In Bill’s fertile mind, fears sprouting spontaneously from depression and paranoia. Only breathing seemed difficult.
“We’ve got to know…” Bill began before clearing his throat. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”
“Are you giving me the authority to investigate?” Fielding inquired. Bill, slack-jawed, held Clarissa’s E-mail and nodded. “Will you tell Justice that you granted me that authority?” Fielding asked. “I need their support.”
Bill nodded.
Fielding looked at him for a long while before he spoke. “Sir, until we know for sure whether there is a coup in the offing, it would be best if you weren’t in the White House. Obviously, they can penetrate the security here.”
Bill replied that Vice President Simon was orbiting Omaha aboard the emergency command aircraft.
“I’m talking about you, sir,” Fielding said. “Your safety. It would be better if you evacuated Washington.”
“I’m staying in the White House,” Bill mumbled, sounding more like lethargic than heroic.
After a moment’s hesitation, Fielding nodded, accepting the decision as final. “Sir, as far as this whole matter with Dr. Leffler goes, I’m willing to testify,” Fielding said, carefully choosing his words, “that you have been using Clarissa all along to pass disinformation on to the Chinese.” When Bill focused on Fielding, the CIA director said, “It’ll give you cover — political and legal — when we arrest Dr. Leffler.”
Arrest, Bill thought. “When we arrest Dr. Leffler.” Although he had not fully digested that fate for Clarissa, his thoughts skipped ahead. What will her punishment be? High treason during time of desperate war for national survival. What penalty did societies like America mete out for such crimes? The obvious answer pressed itself down upon him. His eyes sunk closed. The justice would be swift. Harsh. Unforgiving.