"We need to move Lee James out of Boston—fast," Oaks said. "I want him in a secure military facility ASAP."
"I'm already on it, sir," Briggs assured him, then quickly explained that in accordance with the administration's top secret "continuity of government" plan, he had ordered Secretary James to be evacuated immediately and taken to Mount Weather, the classified
underground emergency operations center in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western Virginia, about seventy-five miles from Washington, D.C.
Mount Weather had been built in the 1950s for government leaders to run the country
from in case of a nuclear war with the Soviets. Oaks had actually been there through
numerous crises, including the Day of Devastation. He'd also run countless COG drills from there, as had Secretary James, and both knew its layout and capabilities well.
Briggs also reminded Oaks that as per the continuity of government plan, the secretary
of defense was being routed to Site R, or Raven Rock, the site of the Alternate National Military Command Center, located along the Pennsylvania-Maryland border, not far from
Waynesboro and about ten miles from Camp David. From there, Secretary Trainor and his team would be able to run the Defense Department's state-of-the-art underground war room as they ramped up for a nuclear revenge scenario Briggs had already dubbed
"Operation Reciprocity."
"What's the status of the primary war room?" Oaks asked.
"The Pentagon was badly damaged, sir," Briggs noted. "The only survivors we know of were those who were actually in the NMCC when the missile hit. I'm in contact with
them but their communications systems aren't working well. They're understaffed. Shell-
shocked. They've got serious radiation leakages, and it's not clear if they're going to be able to contain—"
"General Briggs," Oaks suddenly interrupted, "are you telling me the Pentagon's billion-dollar, nuclear-blast-proof war room isn't functional?"
"Not the way it was designed to be, no; I'm afraid not, sir," Briggs replied. "That's why I'm sending the SecDef to Raven Rock."
Oaks shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "How long until Trainor's in place?"
"Another few hours, sir," Briggs said. "But Secretary James's plane should be wheels up in a few minutes. He'll be secure at Mount Weather in an hour."
"I want them both to have fighter escorts," Oaks ordered. "Done."
"Good," Oaks said. "And I want a full ground stop—no planes in the air unless they're military or are authorized by you or Secretary Trainor. Got that?"
"We're on it, sir," Briggs said. "It's going to take some time to implement. We currently have more than three thousand flights in the sky and FAA headquarters is gone. So is the Transportation Department. We're having to contact each airport and regional air traffic control center individually. We're telling everyone to get their planes on the ground within thirty minutes."
"Good. What else?" Oaks asked.
"I've scrambled combat air patrols over each border and every major city. I also
ordered the full fleet to sea."
"You sure that's the best move, General?" Oaks asked skeptically. "Shouldn't we hold back some assets in reserve, at least until we figure out what's happening and who our
enemy is?"
"I considered that, sir, but we have to safeguard against another Pearl Harbor," Briggs quickly replied. "We don't know what else is coming, and we don't want our naval assets concentrated and vulnerable. With your permission, sir, I'd also like to order two carrier battle groups off both coasts and order a series of navy ships armed with the Aegis ballistic missile defense system off both coastlines, as well as in the Gulf of Mexico. But we need to do this fast."
"You have my authorization," Oaks said without hesitation. "Now, where do you want me?"
"I'd like to bring you here, Mr. President," Briggs replied, reminding Oaks that Peterson Air Force Base was not only home of USNORTHCOM but also the NORAD command
center buried deep inside Cheyenne Mountain. "You'll be safe here. We've got everything you'll need on hand, or close by. My staff and I can help you begin to reassemble a
government. And I think it's better that you and I are in the same room, not separated by two thousand miles and a communications system that could still get knocked out. Is that okay, sir?"
"It is, General—I trust your judgment," Oaks said. "Now, what about Congress?"
"Too soon to say, sir," Briggs admitted. "We're still trying to piece together that picture.
At this point, I can tell you that we are operating under the assumption that all of the Republican leadership and more than two hundred GOP members of Congress are dead.
They were all at the convention. At the moment, we're simply not sure about the Democratic leadership or other members of the Democratic caucus. Many of them were converging on
Manhattan to begin their convention in a few days. The rest are scattered all over the
country and I assume were preparing to head to New York in the next few days. We're trying to contact everyone, but much of the civilian communications grid is down, as are major segments of the national power grid."
"Where's the Speaker of the House?" Oaks asked.
"I don't know," Briggs conceded.
"How about the president pro tempore of the Senate?"
The general didn't know that either.
"We're looking for him," he said, his tone betraying his lack of hope that they were going to find him any time soon.
"Are you expecting more attacks?" Oaks pressed.
Briggs said that was the most difficult question of all to answer. The CIA was gone.
So was the Defense Intelligence Agency. As such, America's intelligence-gathering systems had been badly disrupted. No one knew what was coming next or from where, much less
when. They had no idea who was hitting them or where to strike back. All U.S. forces
worldwide were now at DefCon One. But without a clearly defined enemy and clearly
defined targets to strike, there wasn't much the military could do. At least for now.
What's more, they had a very serious succession crisis on their hands.
"So what happens if my plane's taken down on the way to NORAD?" the new president asked his senior surviving military commander. "If I'm killed, who exactly is supposed to run the country?"
4:27 A.M.-A REFUGEE CAMP IN NORTHERN JORDAN
It was painful even to open her eyes.
And when she did, Erin Bennett had no idea where she was. It didn't seem like the tent
that had been her home for the past seven months. Then again, it didn't smell as bad either.
There was a distinct odor to the room, but she couldn't place it.
Her temples throbbed. It hurt too much to think, too much to figure out where she was
or why. So she began to drift away . . . back . . . back . . . to a simpler time than this.
Suddenly she found herself standing behind her desk in her penthouse office, high atop
London, overlooking the Thames. In the window, she could see a reflection of herself in her black suit and black pumps, her hair back, her nails done. She turned and saw her
team gathered around her in that high-tech financial war room she had once designed and run for Global Strategix. The satellite boxes. The shortwave radios. The bank of television monitors. The high-speed Internet access and fiber optic cables, streaming thirty million phone calls across the Atlantic and back in a single second. The little ceramic plaque
sitting on her desk, the one that read, "Know well the condition of thy flocks." And there was that smell again. Perfume? Cleaning supplies?
Whatever it was, it was stinging her throat, making her eyes water, and forcing her
against her will back to some semblance of reality. She wasn't in London, she realized, and the disappointment spread over her like a cloud.
Erin struggled to open her eyes again,
and when she did, she noticed a clock on the
wall. It was four thirty, though whether it was morning or night she had no idea. She tried to recall the past few hours, but it was all a blur. Slowly, and with great difficulty, she turned her head to the right, then to the left. Every muscle in her body ached. Her throat was on fire.
At first she felt like she was burning up. After a few moments, she found herself
chilled. Her arms were covered with goose bumps. An IV needle was jammed in one of
them, covered in tubing and tape. Even her eyes ached in their sockets. But the mental fog was lifting a bit. She was in the hospital. Jon had brought her here. But why? What was happening to her?
She groped around for a while and finally found a call button, which she pressed
repeatedly. A few moments later, a tall, gentle-looking black man—probably in his late fifties or early sixties, she figured—opened the door. He had a warm, friendly smile and a cup of water and some pills in his hands. Erin squinted and tried to read his ID tag: "Francis P. Kwamee, MD." It said he was from Accra, Ghana. It said he worked for the World Health Organization. All well and good, but where was Jon?
Erin tried to ask, but the pain was too much. The doctor spoke instead.
"How are you feeling, ma'am?"
Not well enough to answer. She just shook her head.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Bennett," the doctor said. "We're going to take care of you right. But first, I must say, you have a pretty eager visitor out there in the lobby. May I let him in? I don't think he can wait much longer."
Erin's heart leaped and she smiled weakly.
"Very well," Dr. Kwamee said. "But I do need you to take your medicine first."
She nodded slowly and with his help took the pills, despite the pain of swallowing.
When Dr. Kwamee stepped out of the room and she was alone again, Erin closed her eyes
and took a deep breath. She thanked the Lord for being merciful to her, for keeping her safe, and she asked Him to bless Jon and hold him close to His heart. As she said amen, the door swung open and she quickly found herself in the arms of the man she loved, and all was well.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Bennett asked as he sat beside her on the bed and gently stroked her hands.
Erin desperately wanted to tell him. She desperately wanted to talk to him, to catch up with him and find out how he was doing, but she winced as she tried.
"That's okay; just rest," he assured her with a soothing bedside manner that she sensed she was going to need a lot of over the next few days.
She was privately grateful there wasn't a mirror to be found. She knew she must look
horrible, but Jon didn't seem to care, and it made her love him all the more.
"By the way," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "has anyone told you how beautiful you look today?"
She tried to shake her head.
"Good." He smiled. "I'd have to punch them in the nose."
Her smile broadened, and as it did she finally felt the new pain relievers coursing
through her veins. Could the pills really be working so quickly? Maybe it was something in the IV instead. At any rate, her eyelids were getting heavy, though she was determined not to lose this moment.
"So, did the doc say anything? Besides, of course, how desperate I was to see you?" he asked.
She shook her head ever so slightly.
"Dr. Kwamee didn't give you your diagnosis yet?"
Again she shook her head just enough to make the point.
"He didn't give you your prognosis?"
"No," she managed to whisper.
"Then perhaps I should fill you in."
Erin felt herself drifting, but she did everything she could to focus as Jon explained
that she had bacterial meningitis, explained how it was affecting her, how she would be treated, and how long it would probably take to recover. Erin was relieved to hear it wasn't
something worse, and she squeezed his hand when he was finished to thank him for being the bearer of such good news. After all, God only knew what other diseases she could
have contracted in this place. She had made out like a bandit, she thought, and hoped now she could let herself drift away in a long and peaceful nap. She could see Jon soon enough.
But she really needed to sleep, perchance to dream. . . .
But Jon wasn't finished.
"Actually, sweetheart, there's a little bit more," he said.
He had a curious look, she thought—as if he was hiding something, though something
not altogether bad. It almost looked like he was trying to look grim.
"What?" she whispered.
"You sure you want to know?" Jon asked.
The drugs were making her feel so groggy, so dreamy. But yes—she nodded; she wanted
to know, and soon, before she slipped away for another few hours.
"You're sure?" he teased. "It's been a long night, after all, and you really need your rest."
Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her, and as always, it didn't take much to win him
over.
"Very well, Erin Christina Bennett," he began, leaning in close and kissing her softly on the forehead. "I have the pleasure of suggesting that you not make any plans for May third of next year . . . plans that don't include being in a hospital, that is."
She had no idea what he was talking about. She wanted to, but it didn't compute, and Jon's face was already beginning to blur. Her eyes were closing. She tried to hold on, tried to think of what she might possibly have planned for May of next year. She blinked hard and tried to refocus, but it was a battle she was quickly losing.
He leaned close to her face and put his finger to her lips. "Finally, a little good news, sweetheart," he whispered at last.
"What?" she managed to ask.
Bennett paused for a moment, then whispered, "You're pregnant."
Erin's eyes suddenly opened wide. Her heart felt as if it skipped a beat. Had she
heard him right? Or had she fallen asleep and dreamed it? But the look in his eyes told her all she wanted to know. She hadn't dreamed a thing. She was going to have a
baby, with the man she had longed to marry since the day she had met him. How could she be so lucky? Why had she been so blessed?
The room began to spin. She was dizzy with joy. The drugs probably
had something to do with it too, but it wasn't only the drugs. She began to giggle a
little. Her face ached from smiling, but she couldn't help it. Every minute with Jon Bennett had been an adventure, and she had loved each moment of their lives together.
Erin suddenly realized that she had never felt as safe as she did at this moment. Somehow, in a way she loved but couldn't explain, a soothing, comforting peace seemed to wash over her disease-ravaged body like the cool waters of a gentle mountain stream. And as hard as she had fought to stay awake, she surrendered to the narcotics and slipped into a sound and dreamless sleep, with a smile on her lips and her best friend at her side.
She never heard Dr. Kwamee burst in a minute later and say, "Mr. Bennett, come quickly; something terrible has happened."
9:38 P.M. EST-U.S. COAST GUARD COMMAND CENTER, CURTIS BAY, MARYLAND
Carrie Sanders waited for instructions from her superiors.
But they weren't coming. Sanders and her colleagues were horrified. They were
tracking a flood of fast-breaking intel reports on the missile attacks around the country.
They now knew for certain that the mysterious reports of rockets being fired off container ships near the ports of Baltimore, Newark, Seattle, and Long Beach were all true. They
knew more missiles might be out there on more ships, preparing to launch at any moment.
They knew the president was dead. They just didn't know what to do next.
Sanders's supervisor was frantically calling his way up the chain of command, but
without success. Most calls didn't ev
en go through. Those that did either weren't answered or were rerouted to other Coast Guard command posts around the country that had even
less information than Sector Baltimore. Chaos and confusion were everywhere, and for
the first time in Sanders's tour of duty, she began to experience real fear.
This was real. This was the nightmare scenario. This was the grand finale the analysts at Langley and DIA had been warning about for years. A terrorist network or terrorist
regime had actually hit the American homeland with nuclear weapons. They had
apparently decapitated the American government. They had clearly crippled the American
military's command and control system, or at least so disrupted it as to render it ineffective in the most important early stages of the war. Now what?
Rear Admiral Scott Conklin was commander of the Fifth Coast Guard District, based in
Portsmouth. He was responsible for the mid-Atlantic region, stretching from New Jersey to North Carolina. A gruff, chain- smoking, fourth-generation admiral, Conklin had previously served with distinction at Coast Guard headquarters in D.C. as director of port security. In fact, Sanders knew that in Washington, Conklin had been largely responsible for making sure a scenario like this—a sea-based attack on the capital—never happened. He had helped draft the new maritime security regime covering all U.S. ports and vessels and operational
security protocols covering all eight thousand foreign vessels coming in and out of U.S.
ports every year. If anyone knew how to handle a crisis like this, Sanders thought, it would be Conklin.
But no one at the ops center in Annapolis could find the rear admiral or any of his five senior deputies. All of them were scheduled to be in Manhattan the next morning for a U.N.
conference on maritime security. Were all of them now dead? Were they alive but
severely wounded? Were they alive but unable to communicate back to the ops
center? What did that mean? Who was in charge?
The face in the picture on the wall of her Communications Center— in the frame next