The Peacemaker's Code

by Deepak Malhotra

  “Something doesn’t add up,” Kilmer said. “How does removing you from office help their cause? Impeaching you would put Zack in charge, and from what I can tell, the two of you see eye to eye on most things. Strauss would end up with someone he finds equally unpalatable. What can they do? Impeach you both?”

  Whitman and Perez looked at each other. There was some strain in what passed between them, but the president allowed her chief of staff to answer the question.

  “Yes, they could try to impeach both the president and the VP. The more closely he’s tied to her policies, the more likely he can be painted with the same brush. If that happens, we end up with the Speaker of the House as president—and Speaker Hunt is as perfect a combination of hawk and imbecile as you are likely to find in DC.”

  “I see,” said Kilmer.

  “However,” Perez continued. “Double impeachment is President Whitman’s theory about how this would unfold. I see it differently.”

  Kilmer was about to ask, but then he figured it out. That doesn’t seem right. Could it be?

  “That’s right, Professor. I know he’s your friend. But my sense is that Strauss and his coalition are working to bring Zack over to their side. It’s very hard to impeach both the president and the VP. It’s a whole hell of a lot easier to impeach only the president—especially if the vice president will come out and says she is unfit.”

  “Do you have any evidence to support your theory?” Kilmer asked.

  “Not much.”

  Whitman took it from there. “Professor Kilmer, I’m not asking you to choose between Zack and me. I’m not even asking you to choose between Strauss and me. I’m just asking you to do what you came here to do in the first place—help us with this crisis—but do so with an awareness of these dynamics. Does that make sense?”

  “It does,” Kilmer replied, as painful memories of Cameroon flooded back into his mind. “You brought me here to advise on the crisis. Now you want me to advise you on how to make sure that my advice actually gets carried out—not just today, but in the weeks and months ahead. Believe me, Madam President, I understand the distinction being made. Giving you the best advice is no longer enough—we need to ensure that you stay in office long enough to follow it.”

  “Precisely.”

  Kilmer’s mind raced to evaluate as many nodes in the decision tree as possible. After a few moments of silence, he had reached a conclusion. He would help Whitman—but sitting with her in the White House was not the best way to do it. He had to be where things might really go wrong. The divisions were deeper than he had imagined.

  “Okay, I’m in. But I do have two conditions.”

  “What are they?” Whitman asked, as Perez looked on, clearly astounded by Kilmer’s ability to conjure up conditions at a moment’s notice.

  “First, that you will allow me to work from Station Zero, if I ask to do so.”

  “That could be extremely dangerous, Professor. I might not want to put you in harm’s way.”

  “I agree, it could be very dangerous. Which brings me to my second condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “If things start to get ugly, you won’t evacuate me from Station Zero—unless I’m willing to leave.”

  Whitman looked at Perez, who shook his head in response. That’s asking too much.

  “If all hell breaks loose—if we are at war,” Whitman said, “I’m not going to leave you in the middle of it.”

  “In that scenario, Madam President, I won’t even ask to stay, and I’ll probably want to be on the first flight out. But there are other scenarios. If things start to spiral out of control, but they haven’t completely blown up yet, I might still be of some value. We both know that it’s always the peacemakers who get evacuated first. The men and women with guns get to stay. But in this situation, we need to try harder than ever to resolve things peacefully. Our Plan B is a Plan B in name only—we all recognize that. I’m just asking for the opportunity to do everything possible to avoid giving up on Plan A. You don’t have to listen to my advice, but I want the opportunity to offer it. I don’t want General Allen or Secretary Strauss shipping me off while my continued presence at Stations Zero might still be of help. That’s all I ask."

  “Professor, I’m not sure if I should be annoyed or impressed,” Whitman said. “I’m asking you for help in saving the planet, and you are… well, you’re using it as leverage. It hardly seems right.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to take advantage of the situation. I probably shouldn’t have even used the word conditions. Please just consider these to be requests. Assertive ones, to be sure, but I’m not asking for anything that you can’t afford to give, Madam President. And I’m not asking for anything that enriches me personally. Worst-case scenario, I go there, and I add no value. You can live with that, right?”

  “No, the worst-case scenario is you end up dead. I don’t want to live with that.” Whitman took a step toward Kilmer. “Here’s what I can offer. You will go to Station Zero whenever you want. And if things get out of control, you will only be evacuated if I insist on it. I won’t relinquish my authority to call you back when I want—no way, Professor. But Allen, Ramsey, and Strauss will not force you out. If they want you to leave, I’ll let you argue your case to me. That’s the best deal you’re going to get.”

  “I understand. And I accept. Thank you, Madam President.”

  Whitman smiled. “Good. Now let’s put all of this aside and get back to work. We have aliens to encounter. And nothing that we’ve discussed here takes precedence over getting that right.”

  They wrapped it up and Kilmer left the chief of staff’s office. They would meet again soon enough in the Situation Room.

  ~ 51 ~

  Kilmer walked the halls and reflected on what had just transpired. It had been easy enough to say yes to Whitman’s request. He’d learned a long time ago, and quite painfully, that elected officials, no matter how well-intentioned they might be, were always attuned to their political constraints. If Kilmer ignored those constraints, or if he gave advice that could only be implemented in an ideal world, he was just wasting everyone’s time—or worse, as in Cameroon, he could end up with blood on his hands. The hard part wasn’t coming up with good ideas, it was coming up with a coherent strategy that someone with limited political capital could realistically execute. If Whitman needed his help to do that, or to keep her job long enough to do what was right, he was willing to help. He didn’t expect her replacement to be any wiser or more ethical than her.

  But something was bothering him. What was it?

  Did he feel like he was betraying Zack? No, the greater good was more important—and Perez was probably wrong about Zack anyway. Was he concerned that Whitman and Perez were manipulating him? If they were, he would figure that out eventually, and then just walk away. Did he fear he was on the wrong side of this fight? Could Strauss and Druckman be right to worry that Whitman would buckle under pressure? He didn’t think so. She seemed like the most level-headed person at the White House.

  So, what was it? What was bothering him? Nothing had really changed about his role. And, as long as Whitman was still in control, all he had to do—

  As long as Whitman was still in control…

  But she wasn’t. At least not as much as they all liked to believe.

  Kilmer decided he would need to start paying a lot more attention to what was going on—starting immediately.

  ~ 52 ~

  Kilmer sat next to Silla in the crowded Situation Room. All eyes were toggling between the five screens that provided views of Touchdown-1. Three of the cameras were trained directly on the spacecraft, offering different angles and different levels of magnification. Another camera showed the path that led from 300 degrees on the perimeter to ET-1. The last one provided an aerial shot of Touchdown-1 and its surrounding areas, including HQ-1 and HQ-2.

  Kilmer familiarized himself with what each camera angle did and did not capture. What exactly he was wo
rried he might miss, he wasn’t sure—which was precisely why he was afraid he would miss it. He slowed his breathing to lower his heart rate. His eyes narrowed. He was ready—to collect, filter, evaluate, rearrange, analyze, infer…

  At exactly 6 p.m., Whitman gave the order. Operation School Dance was a go. Eight soldiers took to the field and crossed the perimeter. They walked casually and appeared to be chatting.

  “Are we able to listen in?” Whitman asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said General Ramsey, who was overseeing the operation from HQ-2. “All of their mics are still functioning, and we’re capturing ambient sound using various field devices.”

  “Can you feed one of their mics through to our speakers? I want more than the visuals.”

  “Just one moment. I’ll put someone through… Okay, here we go.”

  There was a slight crackle, and then a voice could be heard.

  “…and oh my God, she was so hot. I couldn’t believe it, man. So, there I am, totally hung over, and—”

  “Can you pick someone else, General?”

  General Ramsey ended the feed. “Sorry, Madam President. We told them to have a normal conversation. They are very good at following orders.”

  There were some chuckles in the Situation Room and at HQ-2. A moment later, another soldier’s voice came through the speakers.

  “…if we keep looking over. … That’s my point. Let’s make it more natural, especially when we get into the kill-zone. … Come on. … No, I agree. They shouldn’t call it a kill-zone. At least rename it before the operation. Like We’re sending you to the mothership isn’t enough, they gotta add in the kill-zone to justify the hazard pay or something. … Nah, man, I’m just messin’. But I do think they could’ve come up with a better name. … Like, I don’t know. Vacation zone. Or hottie zone. Yeah man, every soldier in the whole joint would’ve signed up if they called it the hottie zone.”

  Whitman rolled her eyes. “I hope to God the aliens aren’t listening. This is just embarrassing.”

  Kilmer glanced over and saw that Silla was finding it hilarious—and trying not to laugh out loud.

  Whitman asked for the field audio to be patched through instead. Soon a slight humming sound, presumably emanating from ET-1’s engines, could be heard.

  Kilmer turned his attention back to the screen. The soldiers were approaching the 110-yard mark. They slowed down. And then they stopped. The fourteen deliveries that the cat shooter had made were easily visible, all but one of them situated at various points between the soldiers and ET-1. A few of them would be along their path as they moved toward the spacecraft.

  “Madam President, we have initiated the three-minute countdown.”

  The soldiers were facing the spacecraft and standing in a small cluster. They were chatting with one another and occasionally waving at the spacecraft. They looked like trick-or-treaters waiting for someone to open the door.

  The three minutes went by with no visible change to the scene. At least a few of the soldiers could be seen checking their watches. There was some conversation between them. Someone seemed to be adjusting his body camera. A few appeared to be testing their collar mics. Two of them reached into their jackets to retrieve what were probably their two-way radios. They both tested them. Then the group of eight began to move forward—slowly—their movements more deliberate now. When they reached what might have been the one-hundred-yard mark, a few hands went up to the earpieces.

  “Madam President,” Ramsey reported, “we’re starting to lose sound… We’ve lost sound. We can’t hear them. We have to assume they can’t hear us either. We’ve also lost the body cameras.”

  On the screen, two other soldiers retrieved their two-way radios, fiddled with them, and tried to speak into them. By the looks of it, they were having no success.

  It took another three minutes for the group to make it to the twenty-yard mark. They stood in two rows, four in front and four a few feet behind them—like a group of Christmas carolers. One of the soldiers in the front had a piece of paper in his hand—the welcome message. He appeared to be reading it aloud as his fellow soldiers stood at attention.

  After the soldier put the paper away, the group began their five-minute wait. One of the other soldiers in the front row had his hands in his pockets and was swaying left to right. The other two soldiers in that row were waving, every so often, at the spacecraft. A soldier in the back was cracking his knuckles and looking every which way. Two others retrieved their two-way radios and held them close to their bodies. The fourth soldier in the back seemed most at ease; he was moving his head to some tune that he might have been whistling or humming.

  Suddenly, a voice from the speakerphone shot through the Situation Room.

  “Madam President, this is Noah!” Director Druckman shouted.

  “Yes, Noah. What is it?”

  “The aliens—they understand our countdown!”

  “How do we know that? What are you saying?”

  “Madam President, they just replicated our methodology. About a minute ago, they started broadcasting a four-minute countdown of their own.”

  “Counting down toward what? Do we have any idea?”

  “None, Madam President.”

  Silla reached for her phone. “I’m going to check on the locations of the reserve spacecraft, Madam President. It could be anything.”

  Whitman gave her a nod and then turned back to the speakerphone. “HQ-2. Listen carefully. I want our soldiers to have the option of a quick escape. Move our support vehicles forward into Touchdown-1 but stay out of the kill-zone. The fact that they’re giving us a countdown probably means that they don’t intend any hostile action, but we can’t take any chances—nor can we presume we know what they would consider to be ‘hostile.’ I’m going to put our F-35s and B-2s on alert. General Ramsey, I’m also putting your helicopters in the air, but they will be kept at a distance and low to the ground. We have our eyes on you and we have your back. However, if we lose contact with you for any reason, you are not—I repeat, not—to initiate any aggressive action of any kind against ET-1. We will make those calls from here. Is that clear?”

  At least three Yes, Madam Presidents came back.

  “I want HQ-1 and HQ-2 evacuated, except for essential personnel. The only people who can stay indoors are the ones making sure we have eyes, ears, communication, and coordination. I also want the four of you dispersed. Ramsey, I want you out there with your soldiers. Strauss, head to 300 degrees on the perimeter to keep an eye on things there. Noah, I want you out of the building, but keep us updated on the alien broadcast. Casey, I want you to remain at HQ-2 and stay on this call. Let’s move.”

  The next few minutes went by slowly. The aerial camera showed soldiers and staff evacuating the field headquarters. The soldiers on the perimeter appeared to be taking cover or lying flat on the ground. Three vehicles started to make their way toward the spacecraft. The eight soldiers in the kill-zone remained unaware that ET-1 had initiated a countdown; they stayed at the twenty-yard mark.

  The four minutes ended.

  There was a collective gasp in the Situation Room.

  Kilmer’s first thought was that an explosion had just blown all of Touchdown-1 to smithereens. All five screens showed nothing but a blinding bright light. It had originated at or near ET-1 and then, within a split second, covered the entirety of the area.

  But if this was an explosive or incendiary device, it functioned differently from human technology. The seconds ticked away, but the light didn’t diminish in its intensity. It didn’t turn into smoke, or fire, or scenes of devastation. There was nothing but continuous light—like staring directly into a powerful flashlight.

  “This is the president!” Whitman announced loudly into the speakerphone. “Casey, do you hear me?”

  There was no response from HQ-2.

  “Zack, Salvo, Art, get on your phones. Now! Everyone—find me someone at Station Zero—I don’t care if they’re on the ground or in
the sky. I want to know how widespread the blast is. Get me images from our UAVs.”

  Everyone was instantly on a cell phone—dialing, talking, or anxiously waiting for someone to pick up.

  Kilmer had no one to call. He just sat there… thinking… watching… listening.

  It was hard to hear over the commotion, but the humming of ET-1 continued. Then he heard a different sound—metallic, like someone dropping coins into a panhandler’s tin cup. It stopped. He looked around, but no one else seemed to have noticed. He kept concentrating. But there was only more blinding light and more humming.

  And then, suddenly, the light went away and the images on the screen returned. As if a switch had been turned off. There was no smoke, no devastation.

  Seconds later, General Allen was on the speakerphone.

  “Madam President.”

  “Casey! What the hell just happened?”

  “I don’t know. It was like a flash grenade—except it lasted almost two minutes. It felt like you were looking into the sun. But there was no blast, no sound of an explosion. I’m going to call for a headcount immediately.”

  Silla tapped Kilmer on the shoulder. He looked over and saw her staring at one of the screens—the aerial shot. Kilmer turned to the screen. The eight soldiers had been crouching or lying down on the field—and were now scattered around the 20-yard mark where they had earlier stood in two rows. They were starting to get up.

  But that wasn’t what had caught Silla’s eye. She pointed. “Madam President, I think you need to take a look.”

  The president turned toward the screen. The image showed ET-1 parked in the center of Touchdown-1, with the eight soldiers still nearby. It also showed, at varying distances from the spacecraft, eight deliveries that the cat shooter had made earlier.

  “Six of the deliveries are gone,” Silla announced.

  The conversation came alive with a barrage of questions. Did the aliens leave any tracks? Which ones were taken? Why only six? Did anyone see anything through the blinding light?