by Ben Coes
“Hang in there,” said Dewey. He leaned closer, even though Murphy was completely unconscious, and spoke softly into his ear. “Mike, it’s Dewey. You did it. You saved the president and the country. Looks like I really am going to have to take you to Disneyland, you son of a bitch.”
119
11:04 P.M.
UNITED STATES FEDERAL RESERVE
1135 SIXTH AVENUE
NEW YORK CITY
Tacoma sat in a chair inside the governors’ room, waiting. It had been more than twelve hours since he entered the room and still the iodine sheet field purred with a low electric hum. He could see down the corridor, where the white energy field continued to guard the room and prevent his exit.
Tacoma had taken a nap on the floor. He’d done 1,450 push-ups. He’d taken a second nap.
He heard a beep in his ear.
After a few clicks, Igor’s voice came on.
“Hi, Rob,” he said. “How’s your ‘staycation’ going?”
“I’d like to get out of here,” said Tacoma. “Can you at least turn it off for a few seconds so I can try and run back out?”
“The problem is, Robert,” said Igor, “the system has an AI component and is self-learning. The two-and-a-half-second flaw no longer exists. I’m trying to figure out another way.”
“There has to be an on-off switch somewhere,” said Tacoma.
“There isn’t,” said Igor. “Yes, it can be turned off. It can be turned off forever or for an hour, but only with the four governors. They designed it a certain way for security purposes. NSA, Langley, and the company that built it, Dassault, are all working on it. The idea was to create a truly secure system and they succeeded. It’s a fortress.”
“What about just, I don’t know, cutting off the electricity supply?”
“Of course we’ve thought of that,” said Igor. “The electricity is self-generated. We’ve even considered bringing a crane in and ripping out the floor above you. Remove the roof perhaps. The problem is, what if the sheet field, not being constrained, fries everything, including you? As my father used to say, before you pull the trigger make sure the gun isn’t aimed at your own head.”
* * *
As the hours dragged on, Tacoma had spoken to Calibrisi and Katie, but when he was attempting to reach Igor at around midnight his earbud stopped functioning.
The temperature inside the governors’ room had increased. At first he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. But after a few hours, it was unmistakable.
It was getting hotter. He could feel it. He wasn’t going crazy.
By 3 A.M., he was drenched in sweat. He estimated the temperature to be in the nineties.
Tacoma walked to the restroom. As he splashed his face, he stared in the mirror, then looked down at the drain. What if Igor and all those other brains were just making this more complicated than it was? The water had to come from somewhere and it had to drain somewhere.
Tacoma lifted the ceramic lid on the back of the toilet and hammered it against the wall. It barely made an indent. He kept pounding the heavy commode top against the wall, as hard as he could, slamming it over and over, breaking through a stainless steel surface until he was at concrete. He kept at it, his face and body dripping in perspiration.
After almost an hour, a chunk of concrete broke from the wall and fell, crackling as it was immolated by the sheet field just beyond.
He kept at it until he had exposed the area just behind the wall. It was a chasm, filled with white and blue light. He leaned closer. He smashed the lid through the opening, inching it through a hole in the wall. At some point, the end of the ceramic lid abruptly disappeared in tiny crackling flashes of orange and red, smoked by the sheet field.
Tacoma pulled the ceramic back out and smashed as furiously as he could, hammering into the concrete until the hole was big enough.
He climbed out through the opening in the wall, carefully, staying tight to the wall even as the white, blue, and orange sheet field hovered just inches away. He gripped a piece of steel at the bottom edge of the floor. He held on to the concrete and dangled, then stared down. He saw a wide pipe stemming out from the bathroom floor. He swung and leapt, grabbing the pipe. Tacoma shimmied down the pipe as the iodine sheet field hummed just inches away.
Tacoma knew that where the pipe met the energy field below would present either an opportunity—or else he would have to climb back up to the suite of rooms.
He descended quickly and in silence. He paused and looked up. The floor where the Fed was was basically a box, suspended on steel girders and cables, surrounded by the iodine sheet field. He came to the bottom of the field of energy. There was a break in the white field of light near the plumbing. But it was barely larger than the pipe itself—a circular hole in the sheet field through which the pipe could pass, and enough space around it to not melt the pipe itself. He inched closer. He estimated that there was about a foot of free space in a circumference around the pipe. If any part of him entered the light it would simply burn away in milliseconds and would either kill him or disfigure him forever.
He wrapped his arms and legs around the pipe and pressed his face as hard as he could against the steel. Slowly, and with his eyes shut, he inched below, allowing himself to slide bit by bit down the pipe. He could feel warmth as his feet entered the opening and then along his legs and torso. The electric hum grew louder and his closed eyes were suddenly hit by brightness, and he couldn’t help himself. He opened his eyes and stared into the light. It was like a line, several inches wide, of pure white energy. He shut them again and kept moving down, until he knew he was below the sheet field, and even then he kept inching down until his feet hit an object. It was the top of a floor. He climbed onto a dusty slab of concrete, crossed by steel girders, and looked up at the box of white light.
He sat down and breathed in and out, staring up. He sat still for several minutes. Then he stood. He searched the unlit space and found the elevator shaft and the doors where the elevator had once let out. He pried it open and saw he was on an abandoned floor, covered in dust and empty. He found the fire stairs and descended to the lobby below.
120
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
ONE WEEK LATER
John Schmidt stepped into the White House briefing room for the first time in a week. It was packed with reporters. While the White House had given daily statements as to the president’s health, recovery efforts in New York, and responses to the new Iranian regime put in place following Ali Suleiman’s death, Schmidt and the White House had yet to step out in front of a hungry corps of White House reporters from across the world.
The subject of reelection was almost an afterthought. The election was in sixteen days. Dellenbaugh was projected to win all fifty states in a landslide.
Schmidt had let his brown and gray hair grow out a bit and he had a rough-looking beard and mustache.
“Welcome back, John,” said one reporter.
Schmidt nodded. “Thanks, Fred. How y’all doing?”
A low murmur of responses came from a few of the reporters, but most said nothing.
“It’s good to see you all. I have nothing further to add to this morning’s statement,” said Schmidt. “So without further ado, can I take some questions?”
“How is the president?” said Carol Watkins from The Wall Street Journal.
“President Dellenbaugh is on the mend,” said Schmidt. “He’s doing fine. When he gets mad and tries to chase me around the West Wing, he can’t catch me yet, but he’s getting closer, if that’s any indication.”
The room erupted in laughter.
“When is he expected to name a nominee to be his vice president?” said Archie Perry, from AP.
“Good question,” said Schmidt. He pointed at another reporter as people laughed again.
He pointed at a female reporter, Irina Kastenn from CNN.
“John, I’m sure you saw the r
eport in the Financial Times yesterday detailing issues involving the Federal Reserve?” said Kastenn.
“Yes,” said Schmidt.
“The report indicates that there have been widespread outages in terms of the Fed’s interactions with various counterparties, including the U.S. government itself, but also the IMF and several large American banks,” said Kastenn. “Has something happened in terms of the Fed’s capabilities? Its technology? And was this in any way related to the attack on New York City?”
“The Fed continues to be the main supplier of liquidity not only in the U.S. but in the free world,” said Schmidt. “Next?” he said, pointing at a reporter from the New York Post, Miranda Devine.
“I’d like to ask about Iran,” said Devine in a distinct Australian accent.
Schmidt looked nonplussed and waited in silence for her to finish her question.
“Is the White House considering further military action against Iran?” she said.
“Nothing is off the table,” said Schmidt.
“According to Jane’s, America has three nuclear submarines in striking range of Iran,” said Devine.
“Actually four,” said Schmidt.
“Does this mean the U.S. is considering a nuclear strike?” said Devine.
Schmidt looked at a piece of paper on the podium.
“So far, five thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine Americans were killed in New York City by Hezbollah terrorists trained, sponsored, armed, and ordered to be sent by the mullahs who run Iran,” said Schmidt. “In addition, there have been, to date, approximately forty-five thousand hospitalizations.” Schmidt paused. “Nothing is on or off the table and it is the policy of this administration, and President J. P. Dellenbaugh, that we do not discuss specific possible military actions before those actions are taken. Thank you.”
As reporters yelled more questions, shouting Schmidt’s name, he stepped down off the podium and walked to his right, exiting through the door that led toward the Oval Office.
* * *
Schmidt stepped into the Oval Office, glancing about. The group inside was small. CIA Director Hector Calibrisi; National Security Advisor Josh Brubaker; Secretary of Defense Dale Arnold; Secretary of State Bailey Miller; Cory Tilley, the chief speechwriter; and the White House military aide, Dan Guerney, a U.S. Navy captain and former F/A-18 pilot.
No one was talking, nor was anyone looking at a cell phone, document, or anything else. It was a somber mood, created by the mere fact of Guerney’s presence along with his sidekick, a slightly worn, large steel briefcase, a Zero Halliburton, chained to his wrist. It held the codes to America’s nuclear weapons arsenal. This was the so-called “football.”
The door to the Oval Office opened and President J. P. Dellenbaugh entered. He walked slowly, limping. Beneath his eye was a dark bandage. His other eye was blackish purple.
Everyone stood.
Dellenbaugh normally would have said something, a wry remark such as, “Hey, guys, what have you been up to?” but the president was in an altogether different place. He’d seen the edge of the abyss. He looked angry. His brown hair was combed neatly back, parted in the middle. Dellenbaugh looked battered and bruised, bloodied, yet somehow tougher and stronger because of it.
“Good morning, everyone,” said the president. He sat down behind the desk. “Nice job, John, I watched it from upstairs.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Schmidt.
“Where’s the statement, Cory?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Here, sir,” said Tilley, standing and walking to Dellenbaugh. He handed him a sheet of paper.
Dellenbaugh read it aloud:
“A week ago, the Republic of Iran declared war on the United States, invading our shores, killing innocent people, destroying vital infrastructure, and spreading their own uniquely hateful brand of terror. Today, the United States of America has responded. A few minutes ago, I authorized the launch of three nuclear missiles on the Republic of Iran. The United States wishes war with no one. If we are attacked, however, we will respond in kind, and if we are attacked the way we were in New York, we will respond with unprecedented and overwhelming force.”
Dellenbaugh finished, wincing a tiny bit at some spike of pain in his body, then ran his hand back through his hair, swallowing the pain as he looked at the American people, and the world’s inhabitants.
“Excellent,” said Dellenbaugh. “Let’s call a press conference for an hour from now and I’ll authorize the nuclear strike.”
He looked around the room. Everyone was silent.
“Where’s Adrian?” said Dellenbaugh, suddenly realizing that King wasn’t present.
“He’s in his office,” said Calibrisi, standing up. “I’ll get him.”
Dellenbaugh, grimacing, stood up.
“No, Hector, I got it,” said Dellenbaugh.
The president limped to a door that opened into a private hallway connecting the chief of staff’s office to the Oval Office. When he arrived at King’s door, he knocked.
“Yeah,” said King.
Dellenbaugh opened the door. He stepped inside King’s office and shut the door. He sat down on King’s sofa. King was behind his desk. He nodded at Dellenbaugh and smiled.
“Hi, Mr. President,” said King. “How you feeling?”
Dellenbaugh ignored him. Finally, after King said nothing, Dellenbaugh leaned forward.
“So I take it you don’t think this is a good idea?” said Dellenbaugh.
King walked around from his desk and handed Dellenbaugh an envelope.
“What is it?” said Dellenbaugh.
“My resignation,” said King. “If you’re going to hit Iran with a nuclear strike, I can’t stick around.”
“Adrian, you’re the biggest hawk in this entire administration,” said Dellenbaugh in disbelief.
“Yeah, no shit, but dropping nukes is just a bad fucking idea, with all due respect, sir,” said King.
“They killed five thousand innocent people!” shouted Dellenbaugh. “They killed children, parents, brothers, and sisters!”
“And if you go ahead with this, we’ll kill at least a million innocent Iranians,” said King. “A million! Those sick bastards in Hezbollah should be wired up by their nutsacks as far as I’m concerned, but you know as well as I do most Iranians had nothing to do with it. We can kill as many of the bad guys as you want, but I’m not in for turning Tehran into a glass parking lot. Harry Truman was stopping a war. This would start one. This is about revenge. You know it and I know it. I’ve got kids, you’ve got kids.”
Dellenbaugh nodded, deep in thought. He reclined, wincing, and stared at the wall of bookshelves. Neither said a word for at least a minute.
“You’re right,” whispered Dellenbaugh. “This isn’t who we are.”
He reached out and took the envelope from King. He didn’t open it.
“What was I thinking?” said Dellenbaugh.
“You were angry, just like I am,” said King.
“Adrian, you’ve been my chief of staff for a long time now,” said Dellenbaugh. “Normally, I wouldn’t accept your resignation. But I’m going to.”
King nodded.
“But only on one condition,” said Dellenbaugh.
“And what is that, Mr. President?” said King.
“Will you serve as my next vice president of the United States of America?” said Dellenbaugh.
King looked shocked. Slowly, he reached his hand up and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
President Dellenbaugh stood up slowly. He extended his hand. King walked toward him and put his hand into Dellenbaugh’s, and they shook hands.
“I’d be honored, sir,” said King.
Epilogue
TUPAI
FRENCH POLYNESIA
22 DAYS LATER
It was a remote island, that was for sure. A place of stunning beauty near Bora Bora, owned by a client of Katie Foxx and Rob Tacoma and their private security firm, RISCON. Katie had asked the client—a forty-one-ye
ar-old Silicon Valley billionaire—if she could borrow the island for a few months, with the understanding that he would tell no one.
It was a private island with a full staff and various luxury amenities.
After the events of 10/11, Calibrisi, Polk, Dellenbaugh, Katie, Tacoma, and Jenna all wanted to hide Dewey, even if he didn’t care or seem to notice. That was the real reason they were on the island. For a few weeks or months on a remote island near Bora Bora, he would disappear.
Katie, Tacoma, Dewey—and Jenna—off the grid by design.
Hammocks on trees, surfboards, kayaks, chaise lounges, several swimming pools, a tennis court, a beach that circumscribed the entire island in dusty, soft white sand. The beach had overhanging palm trees, the water was a spectacular shade of light blue, and they spent hours sitting on the beach. At night, they enjoyed huge meals prepared by staff.
After two weeks on the island, Dewey was, as usual, lying out on a small wooden dock that was moored a few hundred feet from the shoreline. He’d brought, also as usual, a cooler stuffed with cold beer.
Jenna went for a slow barefoot run around the island with Katie. When they passed by where Dewey was, she slowed up.
“I’ll meet you back,” said Jenna.
Jenna dived and swam out to the dock. She climbed up onto the dock, dripping wet. Dewey was lying on his back. He wore a blue bathing suit with white stripes down the sides. A small bandage was still wrapped around his thigh. Next to his head by his left ear was a half-full bottle of beer.
Jenna walked to Dewey and stood over him, dripping water on him. After a few moments, he noticed. He turned his head and looked at Jenna, dark sunglasses still on. He smiled. He didn’t get up or even raise his head.
Jenna took off her bikini top.
Dewey reached up and lowered his sunglasses slightly, looking at her over the top of the frames.
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” said Dewey.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS