Brad Marshall? thought Sachs. Where did that come from? Sachs knew Marshall, like most Americans did, from TV. The general’s six-foot-four-inch frame, short blond hair, blue eyes and telegenic face generated trust and fan mail. His cool, reassuring voice instilled confidence. He was the legend who personally destroyed four of Saddam Hussein’s palaces in a renegade attempt to assassinate the Iraqi leader. He was the only man on earth the President of the United States feared to face in the coming elections.
Sachs said, “You mean the Great American Pretender?”
“Defender, Mom. The Great American Defender.”
“If that’s what you call lying to Congress about secretly reviving the Star Wars anti-ballistic missile system.”
“At least someone is concerned about my welfare,” Jennifer said.
Sachs said nothing. Marshall’s “America First” views no doubt pressured the White House into firing her. He was a dangerous man politically because he was so personally charming. Sachs wasn’t surprised at her daughter’s blatant hero worship. But she was disappointed. She hoped Jennifer was only trying to get a rise out of her.
Jennifer reached around her neck and removed her school computer flashdrive and handed it to her. “I just finished a class report on him. Check him out. He’s a total stud, and he’s going to be the next president. Ms. Cooper my big lib Constitution teacher can’t handle it, and that’s why she failed me.”
Sachs took the USB drive and sighed. It was shaped like an action figure—”Fembot Fiona”—from Jennifer’s favorite hyper-violent and ultra-realistic videogame, the War Cloud. She knew her daughter played it to be cool with the boys on “group hangouts,” because she didn’t let Jennifer go on dates and because kids don’t go out to the movies anymore. Fembot Fiona’s head came off to reveal the USB plug-in.
Sachs said, “What are you, my eHarmony.com matchmaking service?”
“It doesn’t take a village to raise a daughter. Just a mom and dad.”
“Right,” Sachs said and put it around her neck to show Jennifer she valued anything her daughter had done. “Me and Brad Marshall. I can picture it now. The Second American Civil War.”
They turned the corner, and the noise of the rowdy assembly grew louder. Jennifer halted outside the gymnasium, packed with students. Her peers. Her social life.
“Just don’t embarrass me.”
“I’ll try my best, sweetie.”
Sachs watched Jennifer bravely walk inside first and was about to follow when the government-issued BlackBerry in her purse vibrated with its distinctive “Death March” tone.
Dang, she thought, feeling as if she had been caught by a parole officer. Determined to silence it, she reached into her purse to pull out her phone. It was probably the President, ready to blow a purple vein in his red neck as he screamed at her for standing him up.
Sure enough, the voice on the other end seemed to confirm it. “White House. Please hold.”
Here it comes, Sachs sighed. All that was missing was a cigarette and blindfold. “Yes?”
The cold, impersonal voice on the other end said, “This is the White House signals operator for the Federal Emergency Management Agency. I have an emergency message for Secretary Sachs.”
“Speaking,” said Sachs.
The FEMA operator said, “Please authenticate.”
“Look,” said Sachs, her body temperature heating up, “if the President wants to fire me, he can tell me himself.”
“Authenticate.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “Hold on.”
She rummaged through her purse and fished out an authentication card for the correct response.
“I authenticate,” said Sachs, reading the card. “Code-name: GREEN DOVE. Password: JENNIFER.”
“Where are you?” asked the FEMA operator.
“The Westchester Middle School in Bedford, New York,” Sachs replied. As if they didn’t know from her phone’s GPS signal.
“An alert warning has been declared,” the FEMA operator said. “Repeat. An alert warning has been declared. Please acknowledge.”
“Sure, I acknowledge,” said Sachs, hanging up. She turned off the ringer, plopped the BlackBerry into her purse, and walked into the gymnasium of students.
8
Inside the emergency conference room of the National Military Command Center, battle staff officers seated around a huge T-shaped table concentrated on their built-in consoles linking them to American forces worldwide. Six huge color display screens flashed world maps, charts, satellite overheads and troop concentrations.
Chairman Sherman and the rest of the Joint Chiefs stood on a platform perched above the battle staff. On speaker was the President.
“MrPresident,” the Chairman said, “we can confirm that the uranium traces found near Union Station came from an old Soviet-era SS-20 nuclear missile, the last of which was allegedly eliminated under the INF Treaty at the Kapustin Yar Missile Test Complex on May 12, l991. The Russian president claims the warheads must have been stolen around the same time as those 100 suitcase nukes we’ve been tracking the past 20 years. The difference is this warhead is more powerful, with a yield of 150 KIT.”
“Meaning what?” the president demanded on speaker. “Give me a damage projection so we can prep out-of-area first-responders to mobilize now in case this thing really goes off.”
Sherman hated thinking about the unthinkable, especially since he probably wasn’t going to be around to assess the accuracy of his estimate. But the president was right about mobilizing out-of-area FEMA help, even if this only shaved a minute off their response time.
“Within the first second of detonation, Mr. President, the shock wave will destroy even our most heavily reinforced steel and concrete buildings within a half-mile radius,” Sherman reported from the graphics on screen. “These buildings will include the Pentagon. Nothing inside this ring will be recognizable.”
There was a pause on the president’s end of the line, and then, “Casualites?”
Sherman said, “The thermal pulse will instantly kill those in the direct line of sight of the blast. Those indoors will be shielded from the thermal effect but die as buildings collapse. The real issue will be the fireball that erupts and wind shifts so far as casualties are concerned. Too early to talk hard numbers. But we caught a break with the snow keeping thousands of federal employees at home today. Our best guess is less than 4,000. Not nearly as bad as it might be, but more than 9/11. It’s the symbolism that we’ll ultimately have to deal with. We’re preparing a military response.”
“Response to whom?” Rhinehart demanded. “The Russians? The Chinese? We don’t even know whom we’re fighting. If we’re fighting.”
Sherman said, “Whoever it is gave us no time to negotiate.”
“Agreed,” said Rhinehart. “So why warn us at all?”
“Good question, sir.” Sherman looked up at a clock — one of three — on a nearby wall. “A five-minute warning means the nuke would go off at 11:49 a.m.,” he said, thinking out loud for his staffers. “Why not noon exactly?”
“The blue line, General!” An aide ran up waving a Metro schedule. “The Metro stops at the Pentagon subway platform at 11:49. The nuke is coming in on the train.”
Sherman grabbed the card and stared at it. There it was. 11:49 a.m. The Pentagon. Sherman checked the clock on the wall. 11:48. His stomach sank. Christ Almighty, it just felt right.
“The bastards are using D.C.’s own transportation system to deliver their destruction — just like the jets on 9/11 and the anthrax mail on Capitol Hill,” Sherman said, and started barking new orders. “Tell Metro to stop all trains, and get a strike team down there now!”