Triggers

by Robert J. Sawyer

  But he—she!—needed a scalpel, or at least something really sharp.

  “Oh, God!” said the pinned woman, looking now at her husband, whose blue color was becoming more pronounced. “Oh, God—he’s dying!”

  Nikki undid the man’s seat belt, and, with great effort, pulled him out onto the cold wet pavement, laying him on his back. She didn’t have a razor blade or knife—not even back in her purse. But there were shards from the car’s broken mirrors, and she found one that was long, narrow, and pointed.

  The top part of the man’s Adam’s apple was crushed. She moved her fingers down about an inch until she felt the bulge of the cricoid cartilage. She backed up a bit, finding the valley between it and the Adam’s apple—the cricothyroid membrane.

  She knew she should sterilize the mirror fragment and the man’s skin, but there was no way—and no time!—to do that. She held the shard as firmly as she could without cutting herself, and she drew it horizontally down the man’s neck, above the membrane, but—

  But she didn’t even break the skin. Knowing how to do it wasn’t the same as having the guts to do it, it seemed.

  “What are you doing?” shouted the man’s wife, who could only see that Nikki was on her knees at the side of her husband; her husband’s body was mostly out of view.

  It was a good question. What the hell was she doing?

  What she had to do. What she—what Eric—had trained to do.

  She took another deep breath, then tried the cut again, this time at least breaking the skin. But she had to go twelve millimeters deep—except she had no idea how much twelve millimeters was. Damn! It was—it was—

  About half an inch.

  She pushed the glass in further, making the incision. Blood welled up, thick and dark, and—

  Damn! The glass broke; the sharp tip was now stuck in the wound. Nikki threw the rest of her impromptu scalpel away and it clattered against the pavement. She used her thumb and forefinger to dig out the piece of glass, tossing it aside as well. The tissues pressed together, closing the incision.

  Nikki reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a ballpoint stick pen—one with her firm’s name emblazoned across it; a good real-estate agent always had a pen handy to close the deal. She pulled out the writing tip and its attached tube of ink, and fumbled in the cold to pry off the blue end cap until, at last, she had a plastic tube open at both ends.

  She was supposed to insert the tube about twenty millimeters, and, well, if twelve was half an inch, then…

  She pushed the tube into the incision. And then she blew into the tube and placed her palm flat on his chest. It rose! She paused for five seconds, blew in again, waited another five seconds, exhaled once more, counted off five more Mississippis, again and—

  And the man’s eyes fluttered open.

  She waited to see if he was breathing well on his own—and he seemed to be; she was pleased to see puffs of condensation blowing out of the end of the tube.

  Nikki rolled back on her rump, drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, and just sat there, waiting for her own breathing to stabilize. After a minute or two, she reached up to touch her nose to see if it was still bleeding; it wasn’t—but it certainly was tender to the touch.

  Off in the distance, she heard sirens; God only knew when trained medics would get here, but…

  But she was a trained medic now, it seemed. And as much as she’d freaked out at the hospital, as much as she really didn’t wish to intrude on Eric’s and Jan’s lives, as much as she just wanted things to be the way they had been before this craziness began, she had just saved a person’s life.

  And that was something she’d always remember.

  CHAPTER 42

  “I need to get back in action,” Seth said to Susan Dawson.

  Susan spread her arms to encompass the drip bags, the vital-signs monitor, and more. “You’re still recovering, Mr. President.”

  “I can lie in bed anywhere. I need to go home.”

  Susan’s voice was gentle. “Sir, the White House is gone.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s—yes.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I know. But the country needs to see that it has a leader, and…”

  He trailed off, and after a while Susan prodded him with, “Sir?”

  He considered how much to tell her. It was Saturday, and Counterpunch was scheduled to commence Tuesday morning Washington time. “There’s something big coming up, Susan, and I need to be available for it. I can’t lead from here.”

  “Nothing is more important than your health, sir.”

  “This is.”

  She nodded. “All right. Where would you like to go?”

  “Camp David.”

  Camp David was located sixty miles north-northwest of DC, in Frederick County, Maryland. Following in the footsteps of George W. Bush and Barack Obama, Seth had named the camp’s Evergreen Chapel as his primary place of worship—neatly sidestepping the need to be seen at a public church each week. The site of the historic peace talks between Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin, and of numerous meetings between Bill Clinton and Tony Blair, Camp David was one of the most secure facilities in the nation, guarded by an elite unit of Marines.

  “What if something goes wrong?” asked Susan. “What if you need medical attention?”

  “It’s a military facility,” Seth said. “It’s got an excellent infirmary, and Dr. Snow and the rest of the White House medical team will relocate there. And the First Lady is on her way there now to get things set up for me; she’s flying in from Oregon.”

  “What about Mount Weather?” Susan asked. “Isn’t that where most of the White House staff are now?”

  Seth really wanted to take a long pause before he went on, but that was hardly the way to demonstrate that he was fit to be moved. “Camp David is the designated fallback location for the Executive Office of the President under the Continuity of Operations plan. And that’s where I want to lead from.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said.

  “I want Singh and his equipment relocated there, too. Both he and it are far too valuable to be anywhere but a secure installation.”

  “Very well, sir. Will do.”

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Seth said. “Make sure that Leon Hexley is moved there, as well.”

  Susan frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise, sir, given his contact with Gordo Danbury?”

  “One of the foremost lessons of history, Agent Dawson: keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”

  BESSIE Stilwell was exhausted. She wished her son had taken better care of his health, wished that he’d had a less stressful job, wished that he’d stayed in Mississippi.

  But Mike had done none of those things, and so she’d been pulled into all this craziness. Linked minds! Meeting the president! A trip to Los Angeles! Visiting a TV studio! And now a flight back to Washington on a military jet. It was all much too much.

  Darryl Hudkins had dozed for most of the return flight so far—and that had let Bessie relax. At least when he was unconscious, he presumably wasn’t riffling through her memories.

  Memories. Of a life that was almost over, a life nearing its end, and—

  And that was something, she realized. Mike had bugged her for years to write her memoirs, commit her recollections to paper, set down what it had been like to go work in a factory during World War II, to lose a son—Mike’s elder brother, in Vietnam—to watch the first man go into space.

  Eighty-seven years of life.

  She’d seen endless footage of the Lincoln Memorial on TV these last couple of days, and, of course, she knew the words of Lincoln’s most famous address, even though it was an artifact of the War of Northern Aggression.

  Fourscore and seven years…

  A lifetime. Her lifetime.

  The world will little note nor long remember…

  Her.

  And it was true.

  Her husband was gone.

  Her elder son Robert was gone.
r />   Yes, Mike had survived this heart attack, but he had his father’s genes; he’d be—it was tragic to think it, but she was a realist, she always had been—he’d be gone soon, too.

  But Darryl was—well, he’d never said, and she had little experience judging the age of colored men—but he couldn’t be more than thirty-one or thirty-two.

  More than half a century younger than her. And he’d told her, earlier in the long flight back, that one of the linked people had been killed but the person he was linked to—a nurse—had retained his memories.

  That man was gone.

  But not forgotten.

  And if that’s the way these things worked, she decided she was pleased: a half century from now or more—and maybe, what with all the things medical science was doing, much, much more—someone would remember her life, someone would recall what it had been like to be her.

  The Gettysburg Address had been a eulogy: from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…

  She’d heard dozens of eulogies over the years, for family, for friends, for neighbors. And they all had said some version of what Lincoln had observed, although rarely as eloquently. They’re not really dead—so long as we remember them.

  In that sense, at least, the events of the last two days had given her a new lease on life. Darryl Hudkins would remember her. He shifted a bit in his seat next to her, and Bessie smiled at him.

  A short while later, the military jet started its nighttime approach toward Andrews Air Force Base. Bessie was grateful for the darkness; she’d rather not see the ruins of the White House off in the distance.

  But she did see one building that she recognized—indeed, that she imagined everyone recognized, although its form could really only be appreciated from the air.

  The Pentagon.

  It sat there like a monstrous snowflake. And on the other side of South Washington Boulevard from it was a vast black area, and she knew, because he knew, what it was: Arlington National Cemetery, where 30,000 souls were trying to rest in peace.

  The site of the Pentagon focused her attention, bringing back memories of…

  Peter Muilenburg, the secretary of defense, meeting with President Jerrison and first proposing Counterpunch.

  And, to his credit, Seth reacting with horror, and outrage and shock.

  Yes, Seth had said, they’d attacked Philadelphia, destroying the Liberty Bell, and so much more.

  Yes, they’d bombed San Francisco, taking out the Golden Gate Bridge.

  And, yes, the tallest tower in Chicago had been brought tumbling down.

  But this couldn’t be contemplated, this was unthinkable, this was un-American.

  But Muilenburg had continued to make his case, to outline his plan, to show how it could be done with negligible American casualties, to show that it would work…

  And, at last, Seth Jerrison, the history professor turned president, had said, “Do it.”

  Bessie could feel the air pressure changing as the plane descended. She took out her hearing aid to help things equalize.

  She was in a tizzy, still not clear what she should do. Should she tell Darryl about Counterpunch? Ah, but he worked for President Jerrison and—it came to her: he was one of two Secret Service agents that Seth still trusted.

  Besides, even if she told people, would anyone believe her? Back in Pascagoula, she’d seen how folks looked at Mabel Simmons, laughing at her stories of seeing aliens and ghosts, calling her “that crazy old bat” and “Unstable Mabel.”

  But no. It had been in the press: memory linkages at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. And there’d been much speculation about who, if anyone, was linked to President Jerrison.

  The press.

  She thought back to her hotel room at the Watergate, and about what that building was famous for.

  The press. The people who could blow the lid off things—even those things the president of the United States was desperate to keep secret.

  She looked out the window and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. And, at last, she found the strength she needed. She knew what she had to do.

  All those reporters in front of the hospital: they’d doubtless still be there, waiting for any update about the president’s condition. And as soon as she arrived, she’d run up to them, and she’d tell them, with their cameras rolling, that she was linked to President Jerrison, and she’d let them know all about the horrible thing that he was planning to do.

  JAN was sitting on the white couch in Eric’s living room. The ornate wall clock sounded a chime; she’d discovered that it did that every hour on the hour.

  Jan was reading the just-published new edition of Time on his iPad. The cover image showed separate maps of the west and east coasts of the United States, with pillars of black smoke coming up from San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, and, harking back to 9/11, Manhattan. Above that in stark black letters was the text, “Will it ever end?”

  The door to the penthouse opened, and Eric came in. She went over to greet him—and there was an awkward moment during which she wasn’t sure how to greet him. And so she did nothing: no hug, no physical contact at all. But she did ask, “How was the press conference?”

  Eric took off his jacket—which was wet; he must have walked the few blocks back from LT—and hung it on the doorknob so that it would drip on the marble instead of inside the closet. “It was all right, but I hate doing stuff like that. Doctor-patient relations are supposed to be confidential. I know we get VIP patients to sign consent forms, but it still makes me uncomfortable discussing a procedure with anyone who isn’t a colleague.” He stepped into the living room. “I mean, I get that he’s the president and all, but still, it feels wrong.”

  They continued on into the kitchen, and he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of microbrewery beer. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’s like 9-1-1 calls,” he said. “I hate it when you hear one of those go public. I remember a bunch of years ago when William Shatner’s wife drowned; his call to 9-1-1 was all over the news. That’s just wrong.”

  Jan nodded. “Yeah, I agree. I think it makes people reluctant to call.”

  “How was your afternoon?” asked Eric. They headed to the living room, and Eric sat on the leather couch. Jan sat next to him, and she saw on his face that he was pleased by that. She was about to answer his question when he answered it himself. “You had Nikki Van Hausen over.”

  She nodded.

  “How is she?” Eric asked. “She was pretty messed up when I first met her; the memory linkage was freaking her out.”

  Jan knew she didn’t have to answer; Eric now knew what Jan remembered of the afternoon, and—

  And suddenly he was averting his eyes. Ah, of course: he was probably recalling Nikki telling Jan how he felt about her.

  “I had to know,” Jan said gently. “I mean, this is all happening so fast, and, well, I needed to know if you were everything you seemed to be.”

  He did meet her gaze now. “And?”

  She got up, stood in front of him, and reached down to take his hands, pulling him to his feet. “And let’s go give Nikki Van Hausen a memory she’ll never forget.”

  THE Air Force jet landed at Andrews. It was dark, and Bessie couldn’t see much of the surroundings, but she was glad to be getting off the plane. Although the flight had been smooth, it had also been long, and apparently most soldiers didn’t have hemorrhoids; the chairs were uncomfortable. She’d had the window seat, so Darryl had to get out first—and, she realized, it had probably been a pretty uncomfortable flight for him, too, given how long his legs were.

  Darryl took Bessie’s arm as they went down the metal staircase that had been parked at the side of the plane, and she was grateful for it; the last thing she needed was to fall and break her hip.

  Andrews was fifteen miles southeast of Luther Terry, Bessie knew—because Seth knew it. On a Saturday e
vening, it should be an easy drive up Branch Avenue to the Suitland Parkway and then along I-295.

  As they entered one of the buildings, they were met by a man in a green Army uniform. He was six-six and muscular. “Agent Hudkins?” he said. “And Mrs. Stilwell?”

  “Yes,” said Darryl, and “That’s right,” said Bessie.

  “I’m Colonel Barstow,” he said. “I’m an aide to the SecDef.”

  “The what?” asked Bessie, but it came to her from Seth’s memories even before Barstow answered.

  “The secretary of defense, ma’am. The two of you have been placed in my custody.”

  “Custody!” exclaimed Darryl.

  “Yes, sir.” Barstow looked at Bessie. “If I may, ma’am, you might want to visit the ladies’ room before we head out.”

  “I’m fine,” Bessie said. “It’s a short trip.”

  “No, ma’am, it isn’t,” said Barstow.

  Darryl raised his eyebrows. “We’re going back to Luther Terry.”

  “No,” Barstow said, and his hand went to his sidearm. “You’re not.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Sunday

  JAN and Tony Falconi had had blackout curtains in their bedroom; Tony sometimes worked nights and needed to sleep during the day.

  Eric might have had blackout curtains, too, for all Jan knew, but they’d tumbled into bed without having drawn them; no one could look into Eric’s bedroom, which was on the top floor of the condo and looked west over the Potomac. She couldn’t see the sun, which was rising on the other side of the building, but the brightening sky had awoken her.

  It was Sunday morning, and neither of them had to be back at work until Monday. Oh, he was on call in case anything happened to Jerrison, but that’s why God invented the BlackBerry. She lay there, looking at him, his eyes closed, his mouth open a bit, and she listened to the soft sound of his breathing. She felt something she hadn’t felt for a long time. She felt safe.

  And yet—

  And yet, Washington was not a safe place these days. In the last forty-eight hours, there’d been an attempt on the life of the president, and a terrorist bomb had destroyed the White House.