Midnight

by Anna Dove

  Elizabeth’s throat tightened and she felt the beads of perspiration break out on her forehead. A cold chill crept over her skin and goosebumps rose on her arms and at the nape of her neck. She kept listening, her mouth dry and the air seeming to tingle around her. Survivors?

  Pause, and some shuffling as he paced slowly.

  “Good,” he said. “Now where are you? I didn’t see you after dinner.”

  His pacing brought him closer and closer to the window with each round. The drape did not quite reach to the floor. Elizabeth breathed shallow and light, trying to suppress every natural movement or sound that she would have made in breathing. As the seconds ticked on, she found herself inexplicably short of breath, and her palms grew increasingly clammy. She felt as though the air was trapped in her lungs and wouldn’t come out or in.

  “I see. Well, rest up. Tomorrow, we will have a long ride to Chimaugua.”

  Chimaugua. The word sounded familiar. Where had she heard it? It inspired a strange feeling of fear, as if it was a heavy word weighted with misfortune. A report--she had heard it in a report. The man giving the report--he was tall, and blonde, spoke in a clipped voice--he was from the Department of Defense. She remembered his uniform. Chimaugua! It was a nuclear fallout bunker. The blonde man had told them of its energy independence as a model for other bunkers. She hadn’t paid much attention to the report; it seemed unimportant for her purposes.

  “Goodnight.” Reed’s voice sounded muted through the barrier of the drape. She heard the door open, and shut, and there was silence.

  Elizabeth remained behind the drape for a few minutes, her heart racing. Her hands were ice cold. Her tipsiness faded into grave sobriety as the weight of the words hung in her mind like a sinister dream. What would necessitate Reed going to Chimaugua? What was he planning that would necessitate survivors? Why were the Pentagon and Quantico involved? What the hell?

  This couldn’t be real.

  She shivered. She should tell Haley.

  Pulling aside the drape, she slipped back out into the room and then stepped into the hall. The bright light of the chandeliers above made her squint and she looked both ways, scanning for any passersby. Not a soul appeared, and she walked quietly toward the gala.

  Upon entering, she found herself again surrounded by silk dresses, gems, and tuxedos. Noises echoed; laughter and music and meaningless words. Like figments of a bright imagination they swirled and danced around her. White sparkling teeth and bubbling champagne flutes. There was Haley--standing and speaking with someone unfamiliar. Elizabeth soon found herself at her friend’s elbow. Haley turned with a smile that disappeared instantly when she saw her friend’s frightened expression.

  “Elizabeth! What is it?”

  Haley pulled Elizabeth to the side of the room, turning her away from the crowd.

  “I’ve got something important to tell you, but we can’t talk here.” Elizabeth tugged at Haley’s elbow. Without a word Haley sensed the urgency, and nodded. The two made their way towards the door, Haley walking in front. They had reached it and were about to walk through the awning when they found themselves face to face suddenly with the Chief of Staff, Snyder Reed.

  He smiled benevolently.

  “You aren’t leaving yet, are you?”

  “I’m afraid we have to,” answered Haley, in forced cheerfulness. “We have work early tomorrow.”

  “And you too, Miss Elizabeth? I’ve heard such reviews of your work on China that I had half a mind to ask you to join the Council tonight.”

  Elizabeth stood mute, the color drained from her face.

  “She’s not feeling well,” interjected Haley hurriedly. “We must get some rest. I hope you enjoy your evening, Mr. Reed.” The two passed Reed, who bid them good evening and then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Haley,” whispered Elizabeth breathlessly, thrown off by the encounter and with a note of panic, “let’s hurry.”

  They went down the stairs and toward the street. Haley raised her arm and hailed a cab. The cab driver was a silent type, and Haley watched out the window as the monuments and buildings faded by. In less than twenty minutes, they had arrived home, and Haley handed the driver a twenty dollar bill, which was all she had in her wallet, with an instruction to keep the change.

  In their apartment, Elizabeth sat in the corner of the couch, wrapping her legs in her arms. She was shaking as the words continued to play in her mind. Haley turned on one of the lights and then joined her, resting her chin on Elizabeth’s knees. The light dimly fell on both of them, huddled on the soft couch.

  “Tell me.”

  Elizabeth nodded and took a deep breath. Her head throbbed.

  “I was looking for a bathroom, just before I came and got you. I guess I took a wrong turn, and I ended up in someone’s office, I don’t know whose. And then I had to hide behind a curtain because someone was coming in. It was Reed. He was,” she paused, “on the phone. With someone. I don’t know who. And they talked about a plan that he had orchestrated, and making sure that everything went well, and that he had coordinated with the Pentagon and with Quantico - and something about survivors and making this country better - and then--Haley--then he said that tomorrow they would have to go to Chimaugua-”

  “The...the fallout bunker?” interrupted Haley.

  “In case of nuclear attack,” affirmed Elizabeth. “I know.”

  “The Chief of Staff doesn’t orchestrate drills; the Pentagon does.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Maybe he was working with the Pentagon on orchestrating a drill,” continued Haley. “I don’t know enough about the processes, the chain of command there...it’s got to be a drill. It has to be.”

  “What if it isn’t,” murmured Elizabeth.

  Haley looked around the apartment--the soft rug, the paintings of the ocean, a wooden wine rack she had bought in Costa Rica. Suddenly, she pulled out her phone and powered it down, and disconnected the Wi-Fi router from the wall, and Elizabeth also turned off her own phone.

  “We need to find out,” said Elizabeth after a moment, in a subdued tone that carried notes of urgency. “Haley, we have to find out.”

  Haley looked at her friend.

  “Elizabeth, if this isn’t a drill…if it’s not a drill, how do we know who we can trust? If there is a nuclear attack on U.S. soil, orchestrated from within, how do we know who to trust and who is involved?”

  Elizabeth did not have an answer to this question, and so sat in silence with her hands clasped tightly.

  “Is there no one in this city who you trust?” Elizabeth asked at last, after a few long moments.

  “I trust Senator McCraiben.”

  “Do you trust him that much? That you would risk your life in entrusting him with this information? It may be a drill, I pray to God it’s a drill, but Haley, if it’s not...”

  Haley paused. The Senator—his face, his kind smile, his gruff demeanor, it flashed in her mind like a passing thought. She nodded.

  “We just don’t know,” continued Elizabeth. “We don’t know.”

  “I think we have to take the chance,” Haley replied quickly. “If there’s anyone who I trust, it’s him.”

  “Haley, he wasn’t even there tonight. He could have perfectly well been on the phone with Reed.”

  “There are any number of people who could have perfectly well been on the phone with Reed, including many people who were there.”

  “I just don’t think we can trust him.”

  “Well then, what’s your plan?”

  They both sat for a moment. The spring peepers sang happily outside the apartment and the wind rustled the treetops. A window was cracked open. Haley stood up and walked to the window, pulling down to shut it completely.

  “I don’t have a plan, but I just think we have to think more clearly about who to trust.”

  “Damn it Elizabeth,” burst out Haley angrily, “We have less than twenty-four hours. If we don’t trust one per
son enough to tell them, literally millions of people could die. This could be very real. You’ve overheard something that is of critical concern to national security - I mean, this is potentially millions of people dying. Who do you trust? Isn’t there one person in this city who you trust? I can’t have this on my shoulders. You can’t either. Just give me one name, and if we agree, we go to them.”

  Elizabeth buried her face in her hands and sat still. Haley paced back and forth, her hands on her head. A minute passed. Two.

  It’s just a drill, Haley told herself. It’s just a drill. It has to be just a drill. A sick joke.

  “Haley, do you really trust the Senator?”

  Haley’s gaze jerked up. “Yes, yes, I do. Of all the options he is the one I trust.”

  “Why?”

  In her mind’s eye, Haley saw the Senator. Working tirelessly. He would often get angry over injustices towards people who were not his constituents, who he had no political reason to care about. He would consistently sacrifice his own personal comfort to make sure that others had what they needed. Every morning he would come into her office, ensure that she was set up properly and not overwhelmed, and offer encouraging words. He had so much on his shoulders and yet would take the time to make sure she felt comfortable in every meeting, every interaction, every assignment. The way he treated his family, his friends, his constituents, and more than that--people in general--it was different, it was rare, it was honorable. He had so many chances to take an underhanded jab at opponents, to play dirty politics, and he had refused every one. He never used people. Ever. He treated people with the utmost dignity and respect. He would never do this. Yes, if there was one man in Washington to trust, it would be him.

  Haley took a deep breath.

  “Too much to explain, but you have to trust me on this,” she said quickly and firmly.

  Elizabeth paused, and then nodded.

  Haley reached to her phone, powered it on, and dialed the Senator’s personal line.

  “Hello, sir.” Her voice was tight.

  Pause.

  “No, I’m not really alright. I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me and my friend in half an hour?”

  Pause.

  “Landon is with you? I suppose it’s your call, how much you trust him. It’s something really important. It could involve officials at the Pentagon. And I don’t think your house is safe for this discussion.”

  A longer pause.

  “As long as you would trust him with anything - I cannot emphasize how critically important this could be. This could put all of our lives in danger. If you trust him to that extent, then yes.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, where you told me to deliver that folder to him?”

  Pause.

  “Good. We are on our way.”

  She hung up, and filled herself a glass of water and gulped it down. She moved away from the counter towards the door.

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.

  “Let’s go. Going to a little dive bar at a friend of his. There’s a small room in the back where we can speak safely,” said Haley.

  “James Landon is coming? And you’re sure it’s safe?”

  “He was with the Senator when I called, meeting about an unrelated issue,” responded Haley, reaching for the doorknob, “And no. No. Nothing is guaranteed to be safe.”

  4. Three Years Prior

  “Come this way, honored Odysseus, great glory of the Achaians, and stay your ship, so that you can listen here to our singing; for no one else has ever sailed past this place in his black ship until he has listened to the honey-sweet voice that issues from our lips; then goes on, well-pleased, knowing more than ever he did…”

  ------Homer, the Odyssey

  The Council of Economic Advisers is an agency within the executive office of the president. Established in the mid 1940’s, its purpose is to provide the president with sound guidance regarding economic policy. Its members, a sparse handful of geniuses from all over the country, are housed in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, commonly known as the ‘EEOB’. The EEOB, designed by Supervising Architect of the Treasury Alfred Mullet in the late 1800’s, is a flamboyant contrast to the other somber and regal Greco-Roman edifices in the city, with its elaborate granite, slate, and cast iron walls styled in the optimistic French Second Empire fashion. The massive building stretches magnificently to the immediate west of the White House, connected to the West Wing by a subterranean tunnel.

  Three months into his job, Carlos had overcome the learning curve and was seated at his desk, researching the trade deficit between Ecuador and Nicaragua, when his door burst open and his coworker Peter Jenkins entered with tie askew and lapels crooked.

  “Don’t you want to see the briefing?” said Peter, a loud, red-headed individual with a square face and bright blue eyes and an incredible quantity of freckles. “We’ve got ten minutes.”

  “I don’t know,” said Carlos. “I have so much to do.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” returned Peter. “Don’t you want to see our first major accomplishment announced on national television? Come on. Get up, and come with me!” Peter approached the desk with a jovial smile on his face. “You work, work, work. Take a breath, take a minute, and let’s go see history being made!”

  Carlos leaned back, and smiled. Smiling or not, though, Carlos was an objectively attractive person. He had a clear, deep complexion and dark eyes, with a firm jaw and brow. He never spoke quickly, but always after a brief ponderance as if he were deliberating his words, deciding whether or not they were worth the time to speak.

  “Alright,” he said after a pause. “I’ll come.”

  “Hurry up,” said his friend, as Carlos stood and slipped on his blue suit jacket that had rested on the back of his chair.

  Across the black and white checkered hallway, down the brass elevator, through the tunnel, and up into the West Wing they made their way, and were ushered into the hall that led to the press offices and the press briefing room.

  Carlos entered the press briefing room first and stepped past the media White House Correspondents that sat waiting in their designated seats, chatting to each other, their hands clasped in their laps and their ankles crossed. They glanced up as he entered with Peter in tow; and turned back to their conversations. The cameras, with piles of wiring and cords, were set up in the rear of the room, trained on the podium and backdrop in the front. Carlos and Peter shuffled over the longer wires to the side of the room, facing the podium. Carlos saw that a few other members of the Council were seated in the back rows or standing in the back.

  “I can’t believe this,” said Peter in a low tone. “So proud. We’ve got to all go out tonight in celebration. Shots on shots on shots.”

  Carlos nodded, but with no intention of actually following up on the offer. Peter was the sort of person that found every occasion he could to go out and celebrate.

  The Press Secretary, Milton Brando, entered the room, and immediately all eyes shifted as he took the podium. He was a wiry, brilliant, fast-talking person, with sharp features and spiky black hair that refused to be tamed to his head no matter how much gel was used in the process.

  “Good afternoon,” said Brando, and without further ado, jumped in. “Later this week the President and First Lady will travel to Brussels for the G20 summit,” he began. “President Gilman’s participation in the G20 summit--although, you know, it’s much more than the G20 when we count it up really, I mean, count up the countries--well, his participation reaffirms his commitment to domestic economic growth, to negotiations with the international trade associations, and to establishing relationships based on the principle of recognized state sovereignty and economic competition under fair, free, and reciprocal trade.” The camera shutters clicked. “While at the G20,” he continued, “the president will interact with many global leaders including the presidents of Russia, Argentina, and China, and the Prime Minister of Japan. This brings me to the next point. We hav
e recently, as you all know, enacted a new deal with China. President Xi and President Gilman will be sitting down at the G20 to discuss this deal. It was a mutually beneficial bilateral partnership and President Gilman is looking forward to meeting with President Xi for the first time following the signing of this deal. Issues of intellectual property theft have been solved. Forced technology transfers have been solved. Tariff and non-tariff barriers have been removed. We are making progress toward a world of true free markets independent from barriers. We are in a strong position now, and President Gilman will be happy to sit down with President Xi following the execution of this deal, which happened this morning. Now, I will take questions. Joanne,” he said, nodding to the CNN correspondent.

  “Is the President concerned that China has recently invaded the South China Sea and claimed its oil revenues? And a follow up, if I may, how does this affect China and U.S. relations?”

  “President Gilman is working with President Xi to resolve the situation in the South China Sea in a manner that is beneficial to all parties involved. Our relations are good, as evidenced by the fact that President Gilman and President Xi will be meeting at the G20. Next, Dave.”

  Dave, from some obscure media outlet, asked the same question in different form, to which Brando repeated his answer.

  Carlos leaned against the wall.

  “Some praise,” muttered Peter behind him. “We score a massive trade deal with China and they want to know about the South China Sea.”

  “It’s a fair question,” said Carlos. “The South China Sea invasion is no light matter. Besides, Peter,” he added, “you know that working for recognition is a lost cause in this business.”