CHAPTER TWELVE
The sun turned the White House orange as it rose in the east. It was as if this was just another day of waking up in a bright and hopeful world. But it wasn’t. Inside, the President was in the Oval Office, reclining on a couch in front of a table cluttered with papers and Post-it stickers. He was asleep until the phone rang and roused him. He bolted up, fully awake, but disoriented.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said Proger.
Cooper cleared his throat. “Morning, Stan. How are you? Get any rest?”
“Yes, sir. Fully rested. Ready to get started.”
“On?”
“We’ve got a press conference set up in thirty minutes.”
“What? Who ordered that?”
“Uh, I did, sir. The press secretary has been barraged by phone calls all night, from all over the world. I’ve received calls from most of the big networks: NBC, CNN and, of course, Fox. Someone even put Matt Lauer through to me.”
“What are you telling me, Stan?”
“I had to stall them. I told them you would do a public address this morning to answer any concerns or rumors.”
“But, I wanted to talk to Dr. Pevnick first. You knew that…”
“Yes, but the media already knows something. They’re not buying the methane story anymore.”
“They were last night. What happened? Who leaked the truth?”
Proger hesitated, then, “I don’t know, sir. But it’s out there. I think we need to talk about evacuation as well, sir.”
“Absolutely not, Stan. Not until I talk with Dr. Pevnick. We already know that will cause widespread panic, food and fuel hoarding, armed robbery, looting, assaults. Total mayhem. That will be a last option for us, and I won’t initiate evacuation until we have some armed forces in place to assist. Besides, I’m still hoping we will be able to do something with that fault line.” He paused, rubbing his face. “Damn. I thought we could pull this off, at least until we had a better plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cooper stood up and hurriedly began to get dressed. He looked in the mirror. He needed a shave and to wash up. His face was swollen from sporadic sleep; he looked like he’d been up all night partying like a frat boy.
“Stan, I need you to do the press conference.”
“Uh, of course, sir. What should I tell them?”
“Just stall. Tell them I had to rush to Camp David to meet with some people on this crisis. Tell them I will conduct a full press conference tomorrow morning at eight. Maybe I can find a positive spin to put on it by then.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll handle it.” Proger heard the President hang up the phone. He smiled, looking down at his own phone and the recording device that was hooked up to it. “Gotcha,” he said.
Cooper leaned back, wondering why Proger had called a press conference without conferring with him first. He felt uneasy. He’d been having a dream just before the phone had woke him up.
In the dream, he was standing on the Truman balcony of the White House, looking out toward the Washington monument. Below, he could see his daughter playing on the lawn. He looked back up to see a wall of water rushing into the city. It toppled the monolithic monument and came forth like a biblical curse. He felt a pang in the pit of his stomach as the lives, the lessons, the experiences, the archives of the great city, the home of the nation’s history, all was wiped away. He felt a gripping fear when he looked back to his daughter and began to shout, “Run, run, run!” But she could not hear him, and the water swelled, rose up, and consumed her, like a giant shark.
***
At the Beehive, a ray of light fell across James’s face and woke him. He pushed himself up off the table, one side of his face completely numb. He rubbed it briskly, trying to wake himself. He looked around, saw Etta and he smiled. Reaching over, he stroked her hair, softly, not wanting to wake her. The flickering of the computer screen caught his attention. There was an emergency webcast about to begin.
James watched the screen as Vice President Proger walked out to a stand of microphones. He looked authoritatively at the group of gathered reporters that hummed like bees. James turned the volume up on the computer and leaned forward, entranced.
“Thank you all for coming,” said Proger. “What I’m about to say is going to be upsetting, understandably. Please listen to me, then I’ll try to answer questions as best as I can.” He paused and glanced solemnly at the faces of the reporters, then continued, “As you are all aware, approximately four days ago there was an explosion off the coast of the southeastern United States. Initially, it was thought best by some members of this administration to cover up the truth and report that the explosion was the result of a field of frozen methane that erupted.”
The reporters murmuring grew louder, and Proger waited until it subsided. “As your Vice President, I can no longer stand by this falsehood and the indecisive planning that has become commonplace for this administration, leaving our country vulnerable to this type of attack. And so, I’ve decided to be open and honest with the American people. The facts are these: the explosion was a nuclear device and was the result of a terrorist act. Worse, the explosion was located at an unstable geographic site that is now quickly deteriorating and will soon cause an earthquake and resultant tidal wave that will endanger most of the eastern coast.”
An audible gasp came from the phalanx of reporters that trickled off to silence again.
Proger continued, “In spite of my pleadings to establish an immediate emergency plan that would include mass evacuations of all coastal residents at least fifty to one hundred miles inland, as well as completely vacate the state of Florida, nothing has been done…until now. To allow you, the American people, to decide how we are going to survive this crisis, I offer my suggested plan:
“One: begin the evacuation of the eastern coastal states aided by our military, which in its depleted condition due to foreign commitments, will be supplemented by the able-bodied state militias that, historically, have been in existence since our forefathers wrote the Constitution of these great United States. Two: in order to maintain government order and leadership, I am asking all congressional members and the governors of each state to convene in St. Louis, because of its central and protected location, so that we can formulate a decisive and reasonable recovery plan for this, our country’s greatest crisis ever. This planning session will include considering a complete overhaul of our nation’s economy, so that we will not only survive this crisis, but we will recover our global economic standing. And, three: I am calling for an immediate investigation as to why the President has failed to take any steps toward mitigating this national disaster, and demand this investigation begin with the immediate impeachment of the President for negligence of his sworn duties. Now, please listen to this.”
Proger stepped back and nodded to an aid on the side. There was a crackle across the public address system, then a recorded conversation:
“Stan, I need you to do the press conference.” It was the President’s voice.
“Of course, sir. What should I tell them?” Proger’s response.
“Just stall. Tell them I had to go to Camp David.”
“I think we need to talk about evacuation as well, sir.”
“That will be a last option. Just stall. We…could pull this off…”
Proger returned to the bank of microphones. “I regret that I have had to bring this news to the American public, but I feel it is my sworn duty as Vice President and steward of the public trust to assure our government is transparent, proactive rather than reactive, and prepared to face any challenge that comes our way. Now, that is all I can say at this time. Please stay tuned to your televisions, radios, and computers for additional information on the mitigation of this threat to our great country.”
A barrage of questions came from the reporters, some of whom ran up to the podium as if they were going to attack the Vice President. He waved them away. Pandemonium ensued, and several Secret Service agent
s rushed to keep the crowd back. Network cameras scanned the room. Most of the reporters, while normally quite cool, even in the blowing winds of a hurricane, had fear written on their faces, and the natural instinct for “flight or fight” was evident in all of them.
James stared at the screen in disbelief. He knew what this announcement would do to the psyche of all who saw it. He clenched his hands in prayer and closed his eyes. “God help us,” he said out loud.
Within minutes of the announcement, cell towers were so jammed with calls that many people could not make connections at all. Television networks shut down all regular programming in order to pursue the story and sent armies of reporters into the field to investigate the disaster and to begin to cover the aftermath of the announcement. Stock markets fell. Riots and looting weren’t far behind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun glinted off the flawless black shine of the President’s limousine as it tried to push through traffic. Even surrounded by the motorcade, their progress was stop-and-go through the D.C. gridlock.
Cooper wondered what the problem was as he used an electric shaver in the back seat. One of his closest advisors, Dr. Kevin Glass, a twenty-six-year-old Harvard graduate and already renowned economist, sat next to him. The young academic was tapping out numbers on his phone’s calculator when it began vibrating.
“Good morning,” said Glass inquisitively. He paused, his mouth falling open as he stared at the President. “What? I don’t believe it. Are you sure?” His face was a mask of alarm.
Cooper raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“It’s the press secretary, sir,” Glass explained, holding the phone momentarily away from his ear. “I’m afraid he has bad news. The Vice President just held a press conference and…”
“Yes,” said Cooper. “I asked him to cover for me.” The look on Glass’s face suggested things had not gone according to plan. “What? What’s happened?”
“I…well…uh…,” said Glass, his face red as if it might explode.
Cooper grabbed the phone out of Glass’s grasp. “This is the President,” he growled. “What’s going on? What? Why would he…? That fool! I just talked to him this morning. I thought he seemed…odd. What? He said ‘impeach’? On what grounds?” There was a pause as he digested the message. “And what is Congress saying? Uh-huh. Okay. Stand by the phone. I’ll be in touch.”
Cooper leaned forward and turned on the television monitor in the back seat of the car. There were newscasts on every channel covering the Vice President’s message and interviewing various congressmen. A reporter from NBC caught an elderly statesmen, Senator Martin from North Carolina. The reporter stuck a microphone in his face as the senator tried to dodge around him.
“Senator Martin, Senator Martin….would it be fair to say the government has been hiding this crisis from the American people?”
“Yes,” the senator answered, visibly annoyed, “as well as from members of Congress. This morning was the first I’ve heard of a terrorist event. We should have begun evacuating three days ago.”
“Obviously you have a lot of planning to do, as we all do, but can you comment on impeachment? Is that something Congress will consider for the President?”
“I’m not going to comment on that subject until I’ve met with my colleagues. As you know we are all on our way to an emergency Congressional meeting we were summoned to a few minutes ago. Our immediate priority is, of course, the safety and well-being of the citizens of this great country.” Senator Martin considered his words carefully. “But,” he continued, “if we need a change of leadership to deal with this crisis, then I, personally, would not rule out considering impeaching the President.”
Cooper was outraged. “I knew that idiot didn’t agree with me on how to handle this crisis but I never thought he’d go this far. “This is nothing less than a political coup, Kevin. And, under the circumstances, it might just work for him. I have to find out what he’s up to. Can you get him on the phone for me?”
“I’ve been trying to, sir,” said Glass. “He isn’t answering.”
“I see. Okay. I can’t worry about Congress right now. Do me a favor, call any Congressman you’re close to that you can trust. Tell them the truth about what we’re trying to do. Find out where they stand. I’ll have my secretary and her staff begin to do the same. Maybe we can get this turned around or, at least slow the fuse on the bomb, so to speak.”
“Yes, sir,” said Glass with enthusiasm.
“I’ve got to get in touch with Director Finney and make sure we have our emergency plan in place.”
Glass nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find you still have a lot of support, sir,” he said, trying to put a positive spin on the dark moment.
Cooper glanced at him and shook his head. “Then you don’t know politics yet, kid.”
Glass began making phone calls, his fingers punching buttons like a machine.
Cooper leaned back, kneading his temples with his fingertips. His phone was in his lap—he knew he needed to start using it, and quick—but he was overwhelmed as he gazed out the window of the car and looked at the clouds in the sky. As he stared at one of them, he could swear it looked like a skull grinning at him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jeremy Clemens: Acquired Savant
Six years ago: Rouen, France
Jeremy squinted into the sunlight, waiting for the pitch. He enjoyed baseball, probably because his father liked it so much. If supporting the family as a mechanic hadn’t been a priority, Jeremy knew his father would love to have been a professional baseball player. He used to tell the story that, if he had kept playing, he would have gone to the United States and joined the major leagues. That had been his dream.
Jeremy was fascinated with the engines and other things that his father repaired or rebuilt. He would watch him as he toiled over the engine compartment or under the car and hand him various tools. He wouldn’t have minded being a mechanic like his father, but his father told him he would never allow that; Jeremy was going to go to school, then to college, and be the first one in his family to do so. There, he would study engineering or medicine or law, all highly respected professions that did not require one to constantly scrape the grease out from under one’s fingernails with a pen knife, or smell like diesel fuel so strongly that not even two showers could erase the scent. Jeremy didn’t mind the grease or the scent, and he enjoyed the sound of the engines when they ran smoothly, efficiently.
His mother worked cleaning houses. She didn’t like her job either. She had always wanted to be an artist, but her family could not afford to send her to art school. So, she did what her mother did and her mother before that. Generations of cleaners.
“Strike One,” yelled the umpire behind him. Though it was only minor league for twelve-year-olds, the man seemed to take his job seriously. Jeremy realized he’d been day dreaming. He shook himself out of it, twisted his torso back, lifting his shoulders slightly, and arched his left foot up, coiled and ready to nail the next one that came across the plate.
“Stay focused, Jeremy,” hollered his father. He was behind the fence, near the dugout, within the corner of Jeremy’s peripheral vision.
The pitcher began to wind up.
“Why don’t you shut up and let the kid play,” said another man, who stood up next to his father, sloshing beer from an open plastic cup. Jeremy tried not to look. But when he saw his father stand to argue with the man, he turned his head slightly to get a better look. The man pushed his father, and his father stumbled back. His mother put her hand over her mouth. That was the last thing Jeremy saw when he was “normal.”
There was a nauseating crunch and a blinding flash of white light as the pitched ball hit him in the side of his head. Jeremy fell to the ground, his skull cracked. His eyes remained open, the pupil in one enlarging as the damage to his brain spread. Blood poured from his nose and ears. His eyes fixed on a giant clock that stood next to the scoreboard on the field. It read: 9:23am
.
People ran to him: the coaches, his parents, other kids on his team. He could see them, but could not understand what they were saying…anymore. Then, the light went out, and he felt himself fall into a blackness in which he would remain for months.
At the hospital, Jeremy was assessed, and the prognosis was not good. His skull was shattered and blood was filling up inside, causing pressure on his brain. He would die soon, if the doctors did not remove a section of his skull. He might die, anyway. He had already stopped breathing, and was being kept alive on a ventilator. Jeremy’s parents told the doctors to do what they could to save him. He was wheeled into an emergency room within forty minutes of the time he was standing at home plate waiting for that pitched ball.
The surgeons removed a circular section of his skull on the side where the baseball had struck him. The brain immediately swelled and pushed out of the hole the doctors had created, like dough rising quickly from a mixing bowl. They placed ice around his head and pushed pure oxygen into the tube inserted into his trachea. When the brain kept swelling, the surgeons removed part of it.
The piece of the skull they removed was kept in an isotonic solution, and when the surgeons were sure his brain had stopped swelling, the section was placed back onto Jeremy’s head, like a missing puzzle piece. They sewed the skin back over it, leaving an oblong scar that looked like a halo tilted to one side.
The doctors told his parents they would have to wait and see. His chances were not good and, if he did survive, there would be severe damage. But, they could not say to what extent. He might not be able to walk, or even talk again. Time would tell.
The Savants Page 9