Could the crew be preparing to fire a third missile? Sanders pressed. The captain said
again that he couldn't be certain. But something was happening, and he was worried.
Did he have his GPS system working yet?
No, not yet, he conceded, though he insisted his crew was working feverishly to get it
fixed as quickly as possible.
The phone on Sanders's desk rang. It had to be the CDO, or one of his deputies, but she wasn't ready to answer. Not yet. She had one more question for the captain of the
Panamanian frigate, and she knew it might be her last.
"Are you and your crew armed?"
"No, should we be?" the captain replied, the anxiety in his voice suddenly rising another notch.
"I think that would be prudent," Sanders said, fearing for all their lives if the Liberian
crew was listening in on their transmissions, which she now considered an increasingly likely scenario.
* * *
A priority-one call came into NORAD at 9:58 p.m.
It was handled initially by a desk officer, then by a senior naval officer, who
immediately raced over to Lt. General Briggs with the news.
"Sir, you've got an urgent call."
Briggs looked up from his computer screen, where he and two colleagues were
frantically scanning the latest satellite imagery from the Atlantic and Pacific coastlines.
"From who?" Briggs asked, growing impatient with one interruption after another.
"Captain John Curry, sir."
"Oceana?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine; put him on line six," Briggs ordered.
He didn't need to be reminded that Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach,
Virginia, was the East Coast's only master jet base running 24-7-365 and a critical
component to the NORAD air defense strategy for the Atlantic seaboard. Home to
seventeen strike-fighter units, NAS Oceana was a six-thousand-acre complex employing
eleven-thousand-plus navy personnel and handling a quarter of a million takeoffs and
landings a year. If its base commander called on a day like today and said it was urgent, it had to be. Besides, Briggs had known Curry for nearly a decade and trusted him implicitly.
Briggs grabbed the receiver and hit line six. "Jack, it's Charlie. I'm swamped here—
what've you got?"
"A Christmas present, Charlie. I just need permission to open it."
"What are you talking about?" Briggs asked, glancing at his watch.
Curry quickly explained that he had in his possession the approximate coordinates of
the ship that had launched the Scud missiles against Washington, D.C. He briefly summarized how he had received the information—from one of his fighter pilots whose brother was
dating a Coast Guard communications specialist who was in direct contact with the captain of a Panamanian ship who saw the whole thing go down.
"Can you verify this guy's story?" Briggs demanded, his pulse racing.
"We're doing that now, sir," Curry replied, informing the NORAD commander that he had already scrambled two F/A-18E Super Hornets on the hope that he would be able
to give them authorization to fire en route. Both jets were inbound to the coordinates.
Both were heavily armed. Both had orders to do a flyby over the deck of the Liberian container ship and report back immediately.
"If this thing checks out, General, do my men have permission to take this ship down?"
Curry asked.
"Absolutely," Briggs replied without hesitation. "I just wish I could do it myself."
Briggs hung up and closed his eyes. He desperately wanted to get the U.S. on offense
against somebody, anybody. But for that he needed a target. Was this the break he'd been waiting for, or the first of many false alarms?
9:06 P.M. CST-ON BOARD AIR FORCE ONE, 49,000 FEET OVER ALABAMA
Caulfield stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.
His eyes were bloodshot. His hands were trembling. His head was pounding, and now a
Secret Service agent was pounding on the door. "Mr. Caulfield, you need to take your seat, sir."
"Just a moment," he replied, fumbling with the lock on his briefcase. "Now, Mr.
Caulfield," the agent said. "The pilot says we're approaching some serious turbulence. We need everyone in their seats." "I said just a minute," Caulfield snapped back.
He frantically worked the combination, knowing he hadn't much time. The first time
it failed to work. He had to slow down. He had to calm down. He tried again. This time
the briefcase opened like a charm.
Caulfield fished past the briefing books marked TOP SECRET and folders crammed
with policy papers. He reached past his digital camera and the yellow legal pads and his binder with the home, cell, pager, and e-mail information of every key figure in the
American government. There it was. He carefully opened up the leather bag's false bottom and quickly found the glass bottle, a small mirror, and a razor blade. Next he pulled out his wallet and rolled up a twenty-dollar bill.
The plane began to shake, mildly at first; then it began to shudder violently.
"Now, Mr. Caulfield," the agent said again. "I really have to insist."
The aide tried to breathe deeply, then wiped off his nose, carefully put away everything in his briefcase, and washed his face and hands. A moment later he was sitting again, his seat belt fastened, his eyes closed, his mind reeling, terrified about his mother, his
brothers, and his friends.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the turbulence had passed.
Special Agent-in-Charge Curt Coelho unbuckled his seat belt, stood, and straightened
his tie. "Sir, it's time," he said.
He then introduced Oaks to the Honorable Sharon Summers, the sixty-three-year-old
chief United States district judge for the Middle District of Florida, who thus far had been
sitting unnoticed in the back of the executive jet.
"I appreciate you joining us on such short notice, Your Honor," Oaks said as he shook the judge's hand and offered her a seat at the small conference table.
"I'm horrified, sir," Judge Summers replied. "But be assured, Mr. President, I'll do whatever you need to get our government up and running again, consistent with the
Constitution."
"Thank you, Judge Summers—I'm going to hold you to that. How long have you been
serving on the bench?"
"President Bush 43 nominated me to serve just after 9/11, sir," she explained. "Senate confirmation went quite quickly, compared to most of my colleagues. I was confirmed on
March 27, 2002, and received my commission three days later."
"Thank you for serving your country," Oaks said.
"It is my honor, sir."
"Do you have a copy of the Constitution?" Oaks asked.
"Yes, sir," she said. "I always keep a copy in my purse." She held up a small, leather-bound edition.
"Does someone have a Bible?" Oaks asked a few moments later.
"I have my personal Bible with me, sir," the judge said. "Will that do?"
"It will," he said. "Are you a woman of faith, Judge Summers?"
"Not growing up, I'm afraid," she replied. "But I have to admit, Mr. President, the Ezekiel War changed everything for me. So, yes, I am now, you could say."
"Very well," Oaks said, thankful that someone with faith he himself didn't possess could be with him at this terrible moment. "Then I'd very much appreciate your most earnest prayers in the hours and days ahead, Judge Summers."
"You have not only my prayers but those of a grateful nation, Mr. President," she said, her voice thick with emotion.
Oaks appreciated the sentiment and deep down hoped it was true, but he wasn't so
certain that it was. He had been
an agnostic for as long as he could remember. He wasn't hostile to people of faith, not by any means. His own wife had found herself drawn back to the church in the months since the war. But he simply couldn't seem to put himself in their shoes. He'd always been a Frank "I Did It My Way" Sinatra kind of guy, and he had no idea how to change, even if he had wanted to.
"Well, we had better not wait," he said, taking a deep breath. "Let's get this done, and then we'll talk about the line of succession and the chain of command."
"Yes, sir," Judge Summers replied.
She stood, as did everyone else on the plane, aside from the pilots themselves. Bobby
Caulfield pulled out his digital camera to record the event for the nation, for the world, and for generations yet unborn.
"Mr. President, is there a particular passage you would like me to open to before I administer the oath of office?" the judge asked.
Oaks found himself embarrassed by the question. MacPherson had been the religious
man on the ticket, not him, and at this moment, his mind was blank.
"Whatever you think would be appropriate would be fine with me, Your Honor," he said, hoping to sound gracious rather than ignorant.
"Well, sir, ever since the Secret Service picked me up at my home and told me what was happening, I just keep thinking of 2 Chronicles 7:14," she explained, opening up to
the passage, clearing her throat, and reading it softly. "The Lord says, 'If My people who are called by My name humble themselves and pray and seek My face and turn from their
wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, will forgive their sin and will heal their land.' We need a whole lot of healing right now, sir. Which means we need a whole lot of prayer and a whole lot of humility."
Oaks nodded. "I couldn't agree more, Your Honor. That will do nicely."
"Thank you, sir. Are you ready?"
Oaks looked around a plane full of strangers. The only person he recognized was
Caulfield. Marie wasn't with him. Nor was his chief of staff or any of his military or
political advisors. He felt alone and overcome by the magnitude of the task ahead of him.
He couldn't let it show, of course. He had to project strength, particularly here,
particularly now. But the truth was he was scared, and he knew he wasn't the only one.
He could see the fear in all of their eyes, no matter how brave and professional they acted or sounded. It was up to him to set the tone and to rally a nation paralyzed with shock.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm ready," he said at last.
"Very well, sir, please place your left hand on the Bible. Thank you. Now, please
raise your right hand, and repeat after me as I administer the oath of office, from
Article II, Section 1, Clause 8 of the U.S. Constitution."
Oaks did as he was told. So the judge began.
"I, William Harvard Oaks, do solemnly swear . . ."
"I, William Harvard Oaks, do solemnly swear . . ."
" . . . that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States . . ."
". . . that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States . . ."
" . . . and will to the best of my ability . . ."
". . . and will to the best of my ability . . . "
" . . . preserve, protect, and defend . . . "
" . . . preserve, protect, and defend . . ."
". . . the Constitution of the United States."
". . . the Constitution of the United States."
Judge Summers lowered her right hand and held it out to the man who now legally
held the fate of the nation—and perhaps the world—in his hands.
"Congratulations, Mr. President," she said as Caulfield continued to snap pictures.
"Please lead us well."
Everyone applauded.
"I'll do my best, Judge Summers," the president replied. "May God have mercy on us all."
5:44 A.M.-A REFUGEE CAMP IN NORTHERN JORDAN
The bloodred sun rose quickly over the desert.
It was already nearly a hundred degrees, and it wasn't even six in the morning. The camp was stirring back to life, thus far unaware of the horror unfolding in the United States.
But Bennett and Dr. Kwamee knew. They huddled with a few other night shift doctors
and nurses around a small television the camp's chief physician kept in his office. Not a single American broadcast television network was on the air, but Dr. Kwamee kept switching back and forth between the BBC, Sky News, and CNN International. None of them could
believe what they were hearing or seeing.
". . . and to recap for those of you just tuning in, the BBC has now confirmed that four American cities—Washington, D.C., New York, Los Angeles, and Seattle—have
been hit by nuclear bombs. Sources at Whitehall have confirmed for the BBC that killed in the attack on Los Angeles was American president James MacPherson. I repeat, the BBC can now confirm from senior British government sources that the American
president is dead. He was killed in a nuclear explosion just as he was beginning to deliver his address to the Republican National Convention at Staples Center in Los Angeles.
No word from 10 Downing Street yet, though we expect the prime minister to make a
statement shortly.
"We can report that casualties in the United States are expected to be in the
millions. Damages, we are told, are utterly beyond comprehension. Wall Street has
been completely annihilated, we understand, and all trading across Asia has been
halted after the markets began collapsing—the Nikkei alone dropped 36 percent
before officials were able to shut it down. European markets are not expected to open this morning. "At the moment, it is not clear whether these bombs were smuggled into the country by terrorists or launched into American cities by missiles. Defence Minister Allister Morgan says he has no indication that intercontinental ballistic
missiles were used. Nor does he have any . . ."
So this was it, Bennett thought, his mind suddenly reverting back to the phone call he had received earlier. Whoever had called him had known these attacks were coming. He'd
been telling the truth, which meant he probably knew what was coming next. So who was he? How much did he know? Bennett still couldn't figure out how anyone could have
obtained his unlisted satellite phone number. But he began wondering how to seize the
initiative and find out who this person was. This was a lead—a lead the authorities back in the States needed. But whom should he call? Almost everyone in the administration—many of
whom he knew personally—was likely dead.
Bennett shook off the horrible thought. First things first, he decided. He took out his satellite phone and dialed his mother's home number in Orlando. All he got was a recording.
"I'm sorry, your call could not go through as dialed. Please recheck the number or hang up and dial again."
He tried several more times, without success. He tried his mother's cell phone
number. Again, no luck. He tried the neighbors but was told repeatedly that all circuits were busy. This did not bode well, Bennett thought, though he quickly tried to drive the notion from his mind.
Dr. Kwamee switched stations again.
"This is CNN Breaking News . . ."
The distinctive music and imagery drew Bennett's attention.
" . . . from the CNN Center in Atlanta, here's Terry Cameron."
"As a nuclear crisis of unimaginable proportions unfolds across the American
homeland, CNN can now report that Vice President Bill Oaks has not only survived the
four nuclear blasts but has just been sworn in as the new U.S. commander in chief. Moments ago, William Harvard Oaks became the forty-fifth president of the United States. What you are seeing on your screens is a digital photograph taken by a White House staffer on
board Air Force One as the oath of office was being administered to the vice president by the Honorable Sharon Summers, who we understand is a federal judge from somewhere
in Florida. . . ."
Cameron paused for a moment, perhaps, Bennett thought, to let the enormity of what he
was saying to the country and the world begin to sink in. Or perhaps just to steady his emotions. News anchors typically weren't supposed to show their feelings on air. CNN
International anchors in particular—at least in Bennett's experience—rarely showed flashes of any kind of patriotism or special affection for the United States. But Cameron was having trouble remaining emotionally detached from this story. And thank God, thought Bennett, who was having trouble keeping his own emotions in check. The woman on the BBC was
acting as if this were simply an earthquake or a hurricane of some sort. Did she not get how serious this was, or was she secretly happy about it?
Maybe that wasn't fair. She was a professional. She had a job to do. But didn't this
mean anything to her? Why was she so calm, so unmoved by the enormity of the carnage?
Then again, wasn't he fighting to keep control? Had he been alone, Bennett might have lost it. But as the only American in the room, and as the only person Erin had in the world at the moment, he had already decided he had to keep his emotions in check.
What's more, he knew he had to keep this all from Erin. She was too weak to take any
of it right at the moment, and perhaps for days. After all, every friend she had at the White House was dead. So were all her friends at the CIA, where she had worked for nearly a
decade, and where her father had worked for a quarter of a century before his death in
Afghanistan during the war with the Soviets.
And how would he ever tell her that the entire MacPherson family had been killed?
Bennett wondered. The MacPhersons had practically adopted Erin when her mother had died of ovarian cancer in the early nineties. The MacPherson girls were the only sisters she had in the world, and they had always treated her as part of their family. And now they were gone. All of them. The truth was, nearly everyone he and Erin had ever known was dead,