by Anna Dove
“Tom will stay,” said the Senator, glancing up at the man who still stood by the door and then back at the women. Authority and grimness deepened his tone. Tom sat down.
“I don’t know where to begin,” said Haley quietly, and her voice sounded in her own ears as if it was coming from far away. She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the table in front of her. There were little brown patterns in the cut of the wood. “It may be something or it may be nothing but a sick joke or something we’ve misunderstood—but I’ve come to you because I know I can trust you, and if you trust Tom then I’ll believe you,” she continued. “I didn’t know what else to do or who else to tell. At the gala--Elizabeth and I went together--at the gala, she was lost in the Eisenhower hallways and overheard a conversation.”
“Stop,” suddenly said Tom, and he stood up abruptly. He went to the door and peered out the peephole; after a moment returned and nodded for her to continue. Haley looked up to find the Senator’s clear blue eyes fixed on hers, with an expression that she had never before seen in him. She was an ant that is being held under a magnifying glass, which gathers the sun’s lethal rays into a concentration too pure to survive.
“I need,” said the Senator softly, turning to Elizabeth, “For you to account to me every word, every detail that you can remember.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, and swallowed a lump in her throat. She looked very scared and small, for once, and clasped her hands around herself involuntarily. “I remember that I took a wrong turn and went into a wrong room. Someone else was coming in, and I hid behind a curtain. It was Reed, the President’s Chief of Staff, I knew because he was talking and I’ve heard him before and I’ve met with him before for work. I know his voice, I swear on my life it was him. He was talking in a low tone at first, and he asked why they, whoever he was talking to, were worried. And then he said that they shouldn’t be worried, because he had orchestrated it perfectly. He said he had talked to the generals, to the Pentagon, and to Quantico. He said a whole bit about the country going to change - that whoever was a survivor after this would help make the country safe, strong again. And then he told them to get rest, because the next day they would be--they would be going to Chimaugua. And then he said goodbye, and hung up, and he left. That was all.” Her mouth was dry, her head rang. The room seemed stifling. She was trembling a little.
The Senator said not a word, but there seemed to be hundreds flitting through his mind. Haley could see his brain churning, running at lightning speed through all the possible scenarios, as his gaze flicked to her, and then Tom, and then dropped to the table in front of him. Tom was wearing a watch, and it ticked on with the most irreverent audibility in the silence, laughing in their faces that there was nothing they could do to stop the seconds and the minutes from passing. The Senator looked at Landon.
“Damn it,” whispered Landon.
“What?” said Haley, her voice catching in her throat.
“No drill,” said Landon. “There’s no drill tomorrow. I’m on the list for Chimaugua. There’s no drill. And I have heard of no communications between Reed and the Pentagon. If it was something big I would have known about communications.” His voice was barely audible.
Tick, tick.
The room seemed to be getting smaller, as if the walls were buckling under an immense pressure. Haley’s heart sank to the very pit of her stomach, and her hands grew cold, and her mouth dry as a bone.
“Could it be anything else? Maintenance?” murmured Elizabeth dully.
“The maintenance staff is there 24/7. No high level official actually goes to Chimaugua unless it is a drill or a nuclear attack. Ever.” Landon spoke in a hoarse tone.
Haley felt light-headed and raised her hand to her forehead as her vision blurred slightly.
“Don’t any of you dare tell anyone else,” interjected Tom all of a sudden. His voice was tight and choked and he looked at all of them with glistening brown eyes. “Not yet. We have to wait and see, Joe. It’s no use. There’s no line now, no way of knowing who’s in it and who’s not. If a nuke hits New York, or Los Angeles, then we watch the reaction. Anywhere it hits, we watch who says what, and we figure out who is doing what part of this horrible game. If we reveal our cards too soon, the gig’s up. And we know it won’t hit D.C.; Reed is not selfless enough to sacrifice his own life toward whatever end he’s pursuing here.”
“The process,” murmured the Senator. His piercing gaze stayed on Landon. “Tell me what is the process for a launch. I want to know the exact chain of command, the exact process.”
“The President is obviously the only person authorized to launch a nuclear weapon, whether as a first strike or as retaliation,” replied Landon quickly in a low voice. “There are over 3,000 warheads both non-deployed and deployed that the United States owns. Our allies own another 3,000 roughly, cumulatively. There are two possibilities. Either the U.S. weapon is housed here on domestic soil or it is located remotely. In both situations, the launch process is the same. President gives the command, and then the Secretary of Defense has to concur--”
“What is the process of command,” interrupted the Senator.
“The President has the Gold Codes, provided to him daily by the NSA. The codes are stored in the nuclear football, that case that the President has always available. The codes change daily. No one except for the President--and I suppose the individual or individuals who created them--knows the pattern that the codes must be delivered in. The nuclear football also has the location where the President must be relocated in case of an attack as well as instructions on launch and where the classified site locations are.”
“And the Vice President has one too,” said Tom.
“Yes. The Vice President has his own nuclear football but only to be used in case of the invocation of the 25th amendment. His codes are useless outside of that.”
“Yes,” said the Senator and waved his hand impatiently.
“Every day the codes are issued to the President and Vice, to the Pentagon, to the U.S. Strategic Command, and TACAMO, which is the secure military communications system. If the President decides to launch, he first decides an attack option from the nuclear football, and then the Joint Chiefs of Staff are put on alert. Then the President and SECDEF both pass on the order to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
“Can SECDEF veto it? Not that he would, since he’s in Gilman’s pocket.”
“No, he can’t. No one can veto it. They can fail to execute but they cannot veto. If they fail to execute I am sure there are severe legal ramifications. After this, the president’s aide who carries the nuclear football--this is a military officer who has passed the highest background check possible, the Yankee White--he creates secure communication with the National Military Command Center and with North American Aerospace Defense Command. Following this the launch order is passed to the nuclear launch facility, where it is then subject to the two-man rule. The codes must be authenticated individually by two separate Nuclear and Missile Operations Officers, who then if the codes are verified, must simultaneously participate in the physical launch. It literally cannot be done by one individual. The slots for the two launch keys are positioned far enough apart to make it physically impossible for one person to reach both of them at once. The keys must be turned within two seconds of each other and held--it is a spring load.”
“When the keys are turned, is there an option to abort?” Haley questioned.
“No. Then the silo door slides open. It will slide through a security radar beam and set off an alarm. The fuel then ignites and the launch of the warhead is activated.”
“So the President must be involved then,” responded Haley. “Either that or the weapon was manufactured outside of regulations.”
Landon shook his head. “Nothing can be manufactured outside of our knowledge. We know where every single nuclear weapon on this planet is, no matter who made it, down to the tenth of a degree. It is simply impossible for one to be constructed without
our knowledge. It has to be one that already exists.”
“The Chief of Staff could be working with another country perhaps?” asked Elizabeth. “Why are we limiting this to solely United States weapons?”
“Elizabeth, I truly don’t believe that would be possible,” said the Senator, his tone low and his words terse. “This makes much more sense as an internal attack. Many more people to cover for him, if he is indeed the person behind this. If he’s not, then he’s covering for someone else. If an American citizen were coordinating an attack this large with a foreign government, they would be discovered within four seconds. No--this is coordination--the DOD, the intelligence community, the executive branch; this is too big. It has to be coordination.”
“I agree,” said Landon. “But, Haley, the President is not necessarily involved.”
“How?”
“If the President is killed or incapacitated then the authority follows the presidential line of succession. Vice, and then Speaker of the House, etc. Also, if the Vice President and the majority of the Cabinet members invoke the 25th amendment, then the Vice President will take control.”
“So Reed could be working with literally anyone in the succession line; but they’ll have to get rid of the President and anyone else in front of them first?”
“Yes.”
Haley shook her head and leaned back in her chair.
“Or,” said the Senator, “Reed could be working directly with the operations officers, and completely bypassing the chain of command. He could have accessed and copied the necessary codes from the NSA, working with any number of individuals--SECDEF, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, NORAD, NMCC.”
A silence again fell for a few moments. Tick, tick, Tom’s watch went on, and in each of them rose increasing urgency and increasing defeat, as the seconds passed. Haley’s eyes drifted to her lap; her hands clasped together tightly. Her fingertips pressed into the spaces in between her whitened knuckles.
“Damn it,” whispered the Senator. Then, sitting up straight, he pounded his fist on the table so forcefully that a hairline fracture appeared in the wood. Elizabeth jumped and Haley raised her hand to her head, and standing up, turned to face the wall. She felt as if she might get sick. Landon rested his hands on the table and looked at the Senator. Tom moved to the door again and checked the peephole.
“Where are most of the deployable nuclear weapons?” asked the Senator, directing his question again at Landon.
“Majority in the Pacific Islands, now. We redistributed strategically six months ago because of China, and we are about to redistribute again,” responded Landon.
“So simply statistically speaking, the launch is most likely to occur from one of those locations.”
“Statistically, yes. But this attack is itself a statistical anomaly. This statistically should not be happening.”
“Agreed. However,” responded the Senator, sitting down again and leaning towards Landon, “we must start somewhere. I want to see Reed’s travel records. I want to know if he ever visited any Pacific Islands.”
“I don’t think he would risk that,” interjected Tom, who had been silent until now.
“Maybe,” the Senator replied. “But you see, when people get drunk on power, they begin to see themselves as untouchable whether they know it or not. Crime works the same way—rather, getting away with a crime. Simple mistakes are too common.”
“It will take too long to get those records, it would take a FOIA filing or a trustworthy connection,” said Haley, swallowing. “Besides—won’t it raise suspicions? Tomorrow when it happens, after it happens, don’t we want to proceed as normally as possible, to blend in so that we can notice what’s going on around us?”
“No, I agree with Senator McCraiben,” said Elizabeth in a voice that sounded far away. “The records might show something helpful. I think we should get them.”
“No,” said Tom, shaking his head. “I see what you mean, but there’s not enough time. Let’s say we found he had been to Honolulu. So what? Can we call up all the hotels in Honolulu, see where he stayed, what he did? Plus, we can’t trust the White House. Why would we expect the records they give us to be true?”
“I don’t know what I’d be able to access from the NSA or the Pentagon,” said Landon. “If I search too deeply for information, people will get suspicious. I can’t trust a single soul there now. If in time we figure out who in the White House or the Pentagon or intelligence agencies we can trust, I’ll ask for the records, but for now it’s putting our necks out too far.”
“You know, Landon,” continued the Senator gravely, “this means that tomorrow you and I will be put in Chimaugua Bunker as well.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
The Senator muttered an expletive under his breath.
“To be trapped down there in that hell-hole while people die, to be cut off from my wife and my children—and then, on top of that, trapped down there with some of the very people who have plotted this,” he said. “God help me.” And he meant it.
Again they all lapsed into silence; words were lost. The lonely silence chilled them bitterly; the watch ticked on.
“I am going home to wait with my wife,” said the Senator, as if he were a general who had just suffered a humiliating defeat. “There is no evasion; it will happen. We have no choice but to wait.” And standing up, he abruptly went from the room.
Tom also slipped from the room. Elizabeth put her head down on the table and her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs.
Landon sat quietly, his eyes on the table, not one muscle moving.
“We have to go home,” said Haley dully, touching her friend’s shaking shoulder. “Now. Come on.” She stood up.
“Haley,” said Landon suddenly, standing as well. He continued in an urgent tone. “You both can trust me. I’m not involved in this. I’ve heard nothing about this. That either means that there’s a hell of a lot of people involved or very few people involved. Either way, I promise I will work with the Senator, when we are down in Chimaugua tomorrow. I promise. Thank you both for having the courage to say something to someone besides yourselves. You chose the right people. I promise, you can trust me. Now, whatever happens, don’t say anything to anyone about this. You cannot trust anyone. Make sure you’re safe and not raising suspicions. Don’t do anything out of the ordinary. If it’s an operation this big, they’re watching for people who might catch on. And if they’re willing to kill people with a nuclear attack, they will kill them any other way too. Don’t raise suspicions. Above all, don’t raise suspicions.”
Haley nodded, and Elizabeth, who had looked up at Landon while he spoke, rose to her feet. She wiped her eyes and nose and mouth on her shirt and then turned to the door, still shaking.
In their apartment that night, they could not sleep but lay wide eyed and numb in Haley’s bed as the moon chariot sped in an arc across the heavens. Their arms interlocked, they waited wide-eyed, and their hearts beat quickly until the gray light climbed over the horizon and birds began to chirp in the trees, signaling that daybreak had come.
6. Bedlam
“If you're going through hell, keep going.”
― Winston Churchill
Haley’s hands shook as she took a mug down from the office cabinet. She placed it on the counter and reached for the coffee pot. The coffee stream sploshed and splattered into her cup, some droplets missing the mark by a wide margin.
“Napkin?” said the Senator from the door behind her, and Haley started. The Senator came forward, paper napkin in hand, and wiped up the drops of coffee from around the mug. There were dark circles under his bleary eyes.
“I don’t know if I can stand it, sir,” said Haley under her breath.
“What, the waiting?” he said in a low, matched tone.
“Yes.”
The Senator paused, and gave a deep sigh.
Haley wrapped her fingers around the warmth of the mug.
“I didn�
�t sleep,” he said after a moment.
“Neither did I.”
“I prayed instead,” the Senator said. “And this morning I told my wife goodbye, and now I don’t know when I’ll see her again,” he continued almost wonderingly. “It seems like a dream.”
“I know.”
The Senator looked away, his eyes absently roving up and down the wall, and after briefly resting a hand on her shoulder, he turned on his heel and went from the room, his broad, stooped shoulders disappearing through the doorway.
+
Elizabeth sat in her chair, absently tracing her pencil eraser on the table. Since the morning, she had not been able to focus at all; the gnawing pit in her stomach would not leave. Her eyes glanced to the clock as she had been doing since her arrival. 11:42 am. Time had never moved so slowly.
Doughnuts had been delivered that morning, and her coworkers were in a sugary mood. They stuffed their faces with maple bacon, frosted cream, chocolate sprinkles, washing it all down with cups of strong coffee. Elizabeth saw them laughing, the sugar and caffeine absorbing into their circulatory systems, and she felt nauseous. 11:44 am.
She ruffled through the stack of papers on her desk: memorandums, reports, briefs, cover letters. Why the Congressman should consider the effects of supporting steel tariffs. Why Jones & Co. needed to avoid lobbying Senator Bloomings on tax reform. Why the Department of Homeland Security could reissue TPS visas for Haiti and come up with a more helpful number. Why the Council of Economic Advisors should conduct more research on the effects of China’s new trade policy. Her fingers trailed listlessly. 11:47 am.
Maybe she could go see Carlos, to distract herself. She called him; he answered. She’d be right over. Picking up a manila folder with nothing in it, she stepped out of her office, but not without one last look at the clock.
11:49 am.
It was a warm day outside, and she decided to walk. One hand pressed against her stomach, she made her way from McPherson square to the Eisenhower building, passing hot dog stands, statues, tall business buildings and short historical buildings. The birds twittered softly in the building crevices and planted trees, on the tops of covered bus stops and on post office mailboxes. Looking up, Elizabeth saw a clear blue sky, outlined against the buildings. A plane soared overhead. Puffy clouds floated nonchalantly by, and the warm sunlight fell on her face. There were conversations all around her, in many different languages. A man in a suit on a phone call in Arabic. A woman in slacks talking in French to another woman in slacks. A woman scolding her child in Spanish. A British man negotiating the price of a real estate deal. A car sped by, its engine purring. The city was full of the world, and Elizabeth had never seen the sounds and colors and smells and sights like she did just now. She spotted a bench, and she sat down.