Agent Zimmer shook his head. “There isn’t time, sir.”
“Then make it quick.”
Zimmer paused. “We have reason to believe that short-range theater ballistic missiles may be headed toward the White House.”
The president’s eyes widened—just like everyone else’s. “Ballistic missiles! How could they get this close to Washington without being detected earlier?”
Zimmer pressed his lips tightly together. “They’re ours.”
Christina made her way through the front door of the offices of Kincaid & McCall on C Street. They were not as plush as the old digs at Warren Place in Tulsa, but arguably the location was better. Particularly when your husband was jumping from one political appointment to the next. And that was the key to real estate, wasn’t it? Location, location, location.
Jones was sitting in the front office, taking phone messages, answering email, and watching CNN out the corner of his eye.
“What’s happening?” Christina asked, flinging her briefcase up on the counter. “What’s new in our world?”
“Nothing unexpected. Just me managing the office all by myself. As usual.”
Jones was a fabulous office manager, so the martyr streak was something she and Ben had learned to ignore. “Gosh, sorry. What am I, two minutes late?
Excusez-moi!”
“I thought you were coming in at eight now.”
“Did I say that? Well, I thought better of it.”
“You’ve got about a zillion calls from someone at LexiCo. Are they a client?”
“They are now,” she said proudly.
“Great. More work. When is Ben coming back?”
“Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. Fear not, Jones. We’ll survive.”
“Yeah. But I miss seeing the Boss.”
She didn’t bother to ask why she wasn’t the boss now. She knew that for Jones, there was only one Boss, and it wasn’t her—and it wasn’t Bruce Springsteen, either. “I’m sure he’ll drop by from time to time. But he’s very busy. Such a big shot. Working for the president.”
“Yeah, yeah. Very impressive.”
For a moment Christina was afraid he was going to cry. She would have to make sure Ben came by for a visit. “Anything else going on?”
“You’ve got three youngsters wanting to interview for the associate position.”
“Swell.”
“You didn’t tell me we were hiring another associate.”
Christina sighed. “Jones, we’re—”
“As the financial comptroller of this outfit, shouldn’t I have been consulted? So you could determine
if
we can afford a new associate.”
“This LexiCo work should pay for an associate’s salary and then some.”
He sniffed. “Let’s hope so.”
“Any phone messages?”
“Yes,” he said, lightening somewhat. “My wife got a job at the Library of Congress.”
“That’s wonderful. Paula will be able to stay with you here full-time. I’m glad. I don’t think a married couple should ever be separated for long.”
“Well, you know, we’ve been married awhile. We’re not as googlyeyed as you and Ben.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I have trouble keeping down my dinner when I’m around you two.”
She grinned. “Anything else? You know what I want to hear.”
“Sorry. No word from Loving.”
She frowned. Their longtime investigator Loving had taken a tough beating some time ago when he was tracking cesium smugglers during an investigation relating to one of Ben’s cases. He’d survived, but the trauma of the experience had hit him hard. He’d asked for some time off—an investigative sabbatical, so to speak—to relax, recover, and try to get his head together. No one had seen or heard from him since.
“If that changes, let me know immediately.”
“I will.”
“Anything I can do for you?” she asked.
He pressed his hand against his chest. “No, no, you just go on about your business. I’ll take care of all the logistics and payroll and everything else that’s difficult or—” His eyes darted to the television screen. “Wait a minute. What’s going on?”
Christina edged around the counter so she could see. The screen was displaying a stock picture of the White House.
“… don’t have the details, but we are told that the terrorist alert warning is at its highest and that there is a concern that we may be facing an imminent threat. Inside sources say that the president and everyone else in the White House have been evacuated to an undisclosed safe location. Repeated rumors are circulating that the White House itself may be in danger and…”
Christina stared at the screen, her face turning ashen. “Ben!”
The president and Agent Zimmer continued to exchange words while moving, but the whole evacuation procedure became so frenzied Ben could no longer hear what was being said. He felt as if he were a cow in a slaughterhouse. The Secret Service agents didn’t quite use a prod on him, but almost. If he delayed or hesitated, his personal shepherd pushed up against him, nudging him along.
They quickly passed through Cross Hall, which connected the State Dining Hall and the East Room. A few seconds later they were in the East Wing, where the First Lady and the White House social secretary kept their offices. Where were they going?
As they entered the corridor, they encountered another squadron of agents with two political heavy hitters of their own: Michael Ruiz, the nation’s first Hispanic to fill the office of secretary of state, and secretary of defense, Albert Rybicki. Just before they turned the corner, Ben thought he caught a glimpse of another platoon of agents whisking someone in the opposite direction—someone who looked like the vice president of the United States. Could that be? Why wasn’t he coming with them?
But once he thought for a moment, he realized that made perfect sense. Even if there wasn’t time to transport everyone else, they would take the VP to another location. They didn’t want the president and his immediate replacement in the same place. Just in case those missiles made contact.
After they had traveled about halfway into the East Wing, the Secret Service agents herded them into a large elevator. It had the spacious, no-frills appearance of a freight or cargo elevator, but given how many of them there were, Ben was grateful for the extra space. Agent Zimmer pressed a button and the elevator descended. In the small and relatively quiet space, Ben was able to pick up more of their conversation.
“I’m confused,” the president said. “I thought that in the event of an imminent air strike, the plan was to put me on Air Force One and get me the hell out of Dodge.”
“Based on our current intel,” Zimmer explained, “we’re not sure there’s time.” Zimmer was dark-skinned and the black suit and tie made him seem even darker. His clipped manner of speaking and emotionless delivery might make him seem cold to some, but Ben had learned to appreciate his rare ability to remain totally cool in a crisis. “At any rate, we’re not taking the risk. We’re taking you to the PEOC. We’re sending the vice president off in the plane.”
“But if there’s not enough time for me…” The president didn’t finish his question. He figured it out for himself. “Oh.”
If someone had to be at risk, it wasn’t going to be the president. It would be the man chosen as his running mate.
“Thank heaven the First Lady is in California. How can we be under attack from one of our own missiles?” the president asked.
“We’re not sure yet, sir. But a missile has been fired.”
“How close?”
“The missile has already entered P-fifty-six airspace.” Ben had been around long enough to know that was a reference to the zone of restricted air traffic surrounding the White House.
“Can’t we bring it back?”
“We cannot, sir.”
“Divert it?”
“No.”
“I specifically recall being advised that our computer guidance systems had the capability to—”
“Sir, we’ve lost control of the guidance systems.” Zimmer probably didn’t intend to raise his voice, but he did, and it had the effect of silencing everyone in the elevator.
The agent took a deep breath, then slowly continued. “We’ll give you a full briefing as soon as we have you safely in the bunker.”
The elevator doors opened and they all streamed outward. Zimmer and two other agents steered the president toward a door on the far left. Dr. Albertson went with him, presumably still eager to complete his examination. Everyone else was herded toward a set of double doors directly before them. Cartwright, predictably, tried to break loose from the pack and follow the president, but one of the agents gently but firmly kept him moving toward the double doors.
Ben was escorted into what at first glance appeared to be a fairly standard White House briefing or conference room. There was a long table in the center surrounded with chairs, a three-seat communications terminal, a video monitor like the one in the Oval Office, a programmable illuminated map of the world, a writing easel, telephones, the ubiquitous coffee station, and on the north wall the seal of the president of the United States. When he looked more closely, though, and more important, looked up, he realized that the room was far from conventional. It had a rounded, almost tubular shape. The ceilings curved at the corners and, above the faux-wood paneling, the walls were gray. There was also something odd about the air, although it took him a moment to identify what he was subconsciously sensing. There was nothing natural or fresh about the air. It was all being pumped in from somewhere else.
Agent Zimmer entered from a side door not far from the presidential seal. “Please take your seats.”
Everyone complied. Sarie took the seat nearest the coffee and poured herself a tall one. Ben knew she was a coffee junkie. He drank the stuff on occasion to make a good show, but in the privacy of his office, he always preferred a cup of chocolate milk. Cartwright was still grumpy, so Ben stayed out of his way.
“Welcome to the PEOC,” Zimmer continued.
“The what?” Ben said, apparently too loudly.
Zimmer smiled slightly. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t know, Ben. I guarantee it. Dick Cheney said he didn’t even know this place existed until we brought him here on September eleventh. PEOC stands for the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. It’s an underground bunker buried deep in the basement beneath the East Wing of the White House. It’s designed to withstand a nuclear attack.”
Ben swallowed. “Then you believe—”
“We do not at this time believe there is a nuclear threat, no. But with an extremely powerful conventional missile in the air and a nuclear suitcase gone missing, this seemed the most prudent response.”
“How long are we going to be here?” Ben asked.
“I have no way of knowing the answer to that question.”
“Can I call my wife?”
“Not at this time, no. This bunker is shielded so intensely that ordinary cell signals cannot get out. The only way to make contact with the outside world is through this communications station. I’ll let you know as soon as that situation changes.”
“Enough of this blather,” Admiral Cartwright said. “Tell us what’s going on. What’s this about one of our own missiles heading toward the White House?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”
“Do you know who I am, mister? I’m the head of the—”
“Yes, sir, I know very well who you are,” Zimmer said without blinking. “And that information still can only be disclosed on the president’s direct order.”
“What about me?” Ruiz asked. “I’m the secretary of state. Can you tell me?”
“Not at this time.”
“If you can’t tell me, whom can you tell?”
“The president is being briefed. After that’s completed, he can make a determination about what information he wants released and to whom.”
“Are you listening to me? I’m the secretary of state!”
“Yes,” Agent Zimmer said, absolutely stone-faced. “I knew that already. I also know that your wife’s name is Marjorie, that you have two daughters named Olivia and Danette, you keep a bull pup named Tiger, you graduated eighty-sixth in your class at West Point, and your favorite book is
Pride and Prejudice.”
He paused. “I really don’t need a briefing on who you are. But thank you anyway.”
Ruiz sat back in his chair, apparently chastised.
“Does anyone else require identification, or may I proceed?” Zimmer was looking directly at Cartwright as he said it.
Cartwright mumbled, “Proceed,” then he turned toward Ruiz, eyebrows knitted.
“Pride and Prejudice?”
he whispered. “That’s not a man’s book.”
“Have you read it?” Ruiz shot back.
“Well…”
“So shut up.”
Secretary Rybicki leaned forward. “Can you at least tell us if this is about Kuraq?”
“No,” Zimmer said, “I can’t even tell you—”
All at once, the lights in the room shimmered on and off. Someone shrieked, startled. Ben noticed that the power to the monitor and communications panel flickered off as well.
“What was that?” Cartwright demanded.
Zimmer’s face barely changed, but it was enough for Ben to be concerned. “I don’t know. I’ll investigate.”
“Damn it all, man, are we safe or not?” Cartwright said, rising to his feet. What he lacked in height he made up for in bluster. “Can they get to us?”
“Nothing can get to you in this bunker.”
“Apparently something is shorting out the electrics!”
“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion. Power blips happen, even in the White House.”
“Don’t give me your flippant speculation. I want facts.”
“Then give me a chance to investigate,” Zimmer said, with just enough edge to get his point across. Cartwright sat down.
Ben found himself admiring Zimmer even more than he had before.
Zimmer moved to the communications station and talked to someone on the other end. Ben tried to eavesdrop but the chatter was too soft and too fast.
Sarie’s brassy southern drawl interrupted his reverie. “Somehow this wasn’t what I had in mind when I decided to go into politics.”