FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  He gently brushed a loose fringe from her face and kissed her forehead.

  “It’s over,” he whispered. “They called it off.”

  Jo didn’t care. Even if nuclear apocalypse was about to engulf the world, at least she would die in her husband’s arms. “I love you,” she told him.

  Lewis felt his heart skip a beat; a feeling he hadn’t had for a long time. Not since -

  -forever . For the first time in years, he felt his eyes moisten. It was a strange feeling.

  “I love you too,” he said. “I never stopped loving you, you know.”

  Through her tears, Jo began laughing hysterically.

  Lewis’s brow furrowed in concern. “What is it, babe?”

  “I was just thinking,” she giggled. “We’re probably going to end up married again, you know that?”

  He slapped his head mockingly. “Oh, damn. Then maybe we’d better stop hugging like this. You know what a grind marriage is.”

  Jo looked into her ex-husband’s eyes and smiled lovingly. “I couldn’t stop holding you even if I wanted to.”

  “Me neither,” he beamed.

  “So what happens now?” she asked him, not sure whether she was referring to their relationship or to the world in general.

  Lewis considered that for a moment. He glanced at the First Lady, who was also looking at him as if he had all the answers. Finally, he shrugged. “I guess we do what people have done in bad times throughout history. We lick our wounds, brush ourselves down and plan our recovery.”

  Jo looked at him quizzically, wondering whether Lewis wasn’t just being hopelessly naïve. But the more she considered it, the more she realized that perhaps it really was that simple. In less than twenty-four hours, The Bomb had outmoded modern ideologies such as political correctness and sexual politics. In a sense, mankind would now have to revert to its base instincts in order to survive. In the aftermath of nuclear war, the world needed leaders with guts and common sense. People who could shed themselves of ideological baggage and focus on the simple solutions that would be needed. People like Lewis, she realized.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Margaret mused. “It’s going to be painful. We’re in uncharted waters here.”

  “Recovery is always painful,” Lewis reminded her, taking Jo’s hand in his own. “Believe me, I know a thing or two about that. But adversity does have a tendency to bring out the best in human nature.”

  “And the worst,” Jo reminded him.

  “Admittedly,” Lewis agreed. “But I think that we’ve already seen the worst and survived it. Now we’ve got a world to rebuild. That requires an element of hope, don’t you think?”

  Jo raised her eyebrows. “Is this optimism I hear? From the same Lewis Stein who’s always been so cynical about human nature? My, how you’ve changed.”

  Despite Jo’s facetious tone, Lewis was deadly serious. He looked at her.

  “Yes I have,” he admitted. “A lot of things have changed. I guess we’ll just have to get used to them.”

  EPILOGUE

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  “The bitterest tears shed over graves are for things left unsaid and deeds left undone.”

  (Harriet Beecher Stowe)

  90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING

  Pearson was breathing heavily against his racing heart. As much as he wanted to escape the steel and concrete tomb that had been his home for the past twelve weeks, he wasn’t sure whether he really wanted to see what was outside. At least in the capsule, he had been protected from the abject horrors of nuclear war’s aftermath.

  It had taken Pearson and Kurato more than two days to dig a route up to the ground-level entrance passage. Neither of them had wanted to, but they hadn’t been left with much choice. Their supplies had all but run out. So now they found themselves in full NBC gear, standing at the massive steel blast door. It was all that separated them from the ravaged world beyond.

  Pearson could see his trepidation mirrored in Kurato’s face, although she would never admit to being afraid. They had both constantly been asking themselves the same questions since the war started three months’ ago. What if they were the only two people left alive? What would become of them? How would they survive? Would they want to?

  “On the count of three,” Kurato said, her voice quivering. Pearson helped her push against the blast door. “One, two…”

  “Three!” The door reluctantly opened a few inches. Daylight poured into the dimly illuminated hallway, causing both of them to squint. It was the first natural light either of them had seen in three months. Pearson’s first reaction was that at least daylight seemed to have proved wrong the theory of nuclear winter. Small graces.

  The door refused to open more than about ten inches, no matter how hard they pushed and grunted against its immense weight.

  “Something must be blocking it on the other side,” Kurato pointed out.

  “No shit. Can you squeeze through there?" Pearson knew he must have put on about fifteen pounds while in the capsule. There was no way he could’ve made it through the narrow gap.

  “I… I think so.” The exertion of heaving against the door had left her breathless. Neither of them had had much conventional exercise down in the capsule.

  She pulled in her chest - which was mercifully small - and squeezed through the ten-inch gap, scraping her head on the steel airlock as she did so.

  “There’s a lump of concrete blocking the door,” she called back from the outside. “I think I can move it.”

  Pearson heard her grunting as she shifted the heavy obstacle. She was sweating profusely inside her NBC suit and couldn’t muster the strength to move it more than a few inches. That would have to do.

  “Okay, you push, I’ll pull.”

  “Count of three?”

  This time the door opened enough to allow Pearson through.

  His first sight of the post-nuclear world was nothing less than he had expected. Nothing remained of Warren. A crater more than a hundred feet wide and fifty feet deep started about twenty yards away from the capsule entrance, and covered the territory where a complex of buildings and hangars had once stood. Scorched rubble provided the only indication that the area had ever been anything less than a radioactive desert. Violent black-gray clouds rolled low in a crimson sky. Suddenly, Pearson was overwhelmed by a sense of solitude. Was all of America like this?

  “How many warheads hit us, do you think?” Kurato asked vaguely, her eyes sweeping the wasteland for any sign of life.

  “Does it matter?”

  Pearson briefly wondered how his fellow launch officers in Warren’s other capsules had fared. The prospect that he and Kurato might be Warren’s sole survivors only served to accentuate his sense of loss. Maybe the others had already left their posts. Maybe they had been buried alive. As he looked incredulously at the crater, he came to the conclusion that their corpses were most likely decomposing beneath his feet. That thought occasioned an involuntary shudder.

  “Come on,” Kurato said. “Let’s get out of this graveyard.”

  They began to head south, for that seemed as good a direction as any. Neither of them said a word to each other as they took in their surroundings - or lack thereof. The bombs had left absolutely nothing of any recognizable value. No highways, no telephone poles. Not even a goddamn tree. They had terraformed Wyoming into a bleak wilderness.

  For two hours, they walked in a straight line away from the crater. Kurato periodically checked her Geiger counter in the vain hope that it would be safe enough to remove her helmet. She was perspiring heavily in the mid-afternoon sun. Well, at least they hadn’t destroyed that, she thought. Nevertheless, the counter barely dipped below seventy rads; still far too high for unprotected exposure.

  Both of them knew that the time would come when they would have to remove their protective clothing. And then their fates would be at the mercy of the Gods. Pearson badly needed to urinate, but he distracted himself with abstract thoughts rather tha
n face the dilemma of whether to remove his suit or piss in it. Neither prospect seemed particularly attractive.

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that both of them were damned. They had been damned to live in a world of the damned. If there was anybody left out there, they wouldn’t be so…

  “There!” Kurato cried, her voice charged with enthusiasm. “Look.”

  Pearson followed her pointed finger to the western horizon, squinting against the sun. He could make out a series of moving shapes about a mile away. They might have been people, except for -

  - the glint of sun on metal.

  “It’s a goddamn convoy,” he yelled. “That’s life out there, Kurato.” He leaped into the air and whooped. Kurato threw her arms around him in relief. For a moment, they hugged each other and allowed themselves to forget the reason they were so excited.

  “Come on,” Kurato said. “Let’s check it out.”

  They jogged across the barren land towards the convoy, their ebullience charging them with enough energy to cover the distance in relatively little time. It still seemed like an eternity to them, however, before they were in sight of the vehicles, which were moving at a forty-five degree angle towards them.

  By now, Pearson could make out the distinctive shapes of APCs and jeeps. The colors confirmed his initial suspicion that they were military vehicles. He wondered whether it was an apparition. But how could it be? Kurato saw it too.

  The convoy slowed to a halt.

  “They’ve seen us,” Kurato panted. “They’re stopping for us.”

  A figure in white NBC gear identical to their own climbed out of one of the jeeps and began to stride purposefully towards them. By the time they reached him, both were out of breath, but that owed as much to excitement as it did to exhaustion.

  “I’m Colonel Daniel McDermott, U.S. Army,” the man announced. He had the deep, confident tone of a man accustomed to command. “Who the hell are you?”

  Pearson was keen to answer. “Captains Nick Pearson and Holly Kurato, U.S. Air Force. And it’s damn good to see you, sir.”

  McDermott paused. “Air Force? What the dickens are you doing out here, son?”

  “We’ve just come from Warren, sir,” Kurato told him, stuttering as she attempted to regain her breath.

  “Warren? You mean there are people still alive out there? We’re just on our way there now to conduct a damage assessment.”

  “I wouldn’t bother, sir,” Pearson told him. “Ain’t nothing left there ‘cept for a big smokin’ hole. Must’ve got hit pretty bad. You’re the first person we’ve seen in three months.”

  “Hold on, what are you talking about? Three months? I think you’d better start at the beginning, son.”

  He clearly didn’t get it, Pearson thought. “We’re ICBM launch officers, sir. We’ve been underground since it happened. I don’t know if any of the other crews made it, but we’re alive. We’re here.”

  “Jesus fuck-a-duck,” McDermott could be heard to mutter behind his protective mask. “You kids must’ve gone through hell, not knowing what’s been going on an’ all.”

  “That’s for sure,” Kurato snorted, thankful that the Colonel couldn’t see her disdainful expression.

  “Is it over?” Pearson asked him, before his partner had the chance. “Did we win?”

  “It’s over,” McDermott nodded. “As for who won… well, America’s still alive. It ain’t as bad as you probably think it is. Most of the cities escaped unharmed. Hell, half the country has still got cable. I think we’d better take you kids in for debriefing. You’ll have all your questions answered soon enough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McDermott ordered one of the jeeps in the convoy to take Pearson and Kurato to the nearest functional Air Force facility. And that was the last they ever saw of him. It was also the last time either of them wore an Air Force uniform. After debriefing, both of them took up the offer of extended leave. But neither Kurato nor Pearson had any intention of ever returning to duty. After six months, they resigned their commissions and moved to Florida.

  After seven, they were married.

  PRESIDENT’S OFFICE, PHILADELPHIA

  It wasn’t quite the Oval Office, but it was as good a place as any from which to organize the recovery of a nation. In fact, President Mitchell preferred his new residence to the White House. It seemed somewhat less formal, and certainly not as claustrophobic. That would change, he imagined, as soon as the machinery of America’s government began to creak into action again.

  But, until then, he had almost unprecedented freedom from the normal grind of politics to concentrate on rebuilding his country. That was no easy task. The logistics were a nightmare, and would have been complicated even more were the nation not still under a State of Emergency. Martial Law wasn’t a concept with which Mitchell felt comfortable, but it was a necessary evil for the time being.

  Offers of aid had been pouring in from other friendly nations, including the new German government, which had now devolved from the European Union. The French were another matter. For the moment, they seemed quite happy to skulk in shame. That would have to change, Mitchell knew. He would speak to Winterburn about how to encourage them back into the international community again.

  The knock on his door prompted him to check his watch. Jesus, is it that time already? How time flies when you’re busy… That was another notable difference from the White House. In Washington, he would have had an army of aides and advisors to organize every aspect of his life; from ensuring that he visited the toilet regularly to ensuring he was meticulously prepared for every meeting in his diary. In Philadelphia, however, the President’s visitors could just knock on his office door irrespective of anything so pedantic as a schedule. That was not to say that security was any less tight - indeed, the Secret Service were more protective than ever - just that the machinery around him was less regimented.

  He straightened his tie and stood up, folding his hands behind his back.

  “Come in.”

  As soon as Lewis entered the room, Mitchell noticed that he had lost a good ten pounds since last they met. With his formerly lank hair cut into a functional crew, he looked at least ten years younger. His face wore a tight grin, but there was no intensity in the eyes any more. Just a fierce intelligence. For the first time since the President had known him, Lewis looked at ease with himself. Mitchell wondered what kind of man could go through such extreme transitions of mood without losing his sanity.

  “Lewis, you’re looking great. It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too, sir. You’re looking pretty good yourself.” They shook hands.

  Mitchell gestured him into a seat. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow at that.

  “I’m dry, sir. Have been for three months.”

  “Congratulations. I imagine that Jo has had some influence there.”

  Lewis chuckled. “Actually, sir, it was my decision. But you’re quite correct. She’d crucify me if she smelled alcohol on my breath again.”

  The President fetched him a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, and a can of Diet Coke for himself. He slumped into his chair opposite Lewis.

  “So, howis Jo?”

  “She’s good, sir. Actually, she’s great. Funny how it took a nuclear war to reconcile us,” he added thoughtfully. After a pause: “She asked me to remind you to take it easy. You know…” Lewis patted the left side of his chest. “That was a near miss you had, sir. I’m surprised you’ve returned to a full time schedule so quickly.”

  Mitchell huffed his cheeks. He’d had this lecture several times from Margaret. “I have responsibilities, Lewis. To hell with my ticker.” He gestured at the window behind him. “There are people out there suffering far worse injuries than a heart problem and they don’t get a break, do they? I have a commitment to them. Who else is going to do it? My Veep is dead, Halligan’
s busy reconstituting the Executive Branch, and Nielsen will never hold public office again. Besides, I’ll be okay so long as I have good doctors checking up on me every day and the love of a good woman to keep me strong.”

  “I know that one, sir,” Lewis said. “It makes a difference to have someone like that behind you. Sometimes I wonder how I ever blew it with Jo the first time around.” He shrugged. That was ancient history now, wasn’t it? Like a lot of things. “I’ll tell you something though. I’m never letting go of her again.”

  “You’d better not,” the President warned jokingly, “otherwise I’ll set Margaret onto you.”

  “Now that’s a threat I don’t relish,” Lewis chuckled.

  “You’ve probably got some idea why I invited you here today.” Business.

  Lewis knew exactly why he’d been invited, but rocked his head in a noncommittal fashion, not wanting to appear too presumptuous.

  Mitchell sipped from the can of Coke and placed it on his desk. “We may have survived the war, but there are some tough times ahead of us. Some tough challenges. There will be individuals and nations seeking to take advantage of a weakened America. People who have awaited such an opportunity for years.”

  Lewis nodded in agreement. “I could think of a few suspects, sir, yes.”

  “Well, it’s no secret that foreign affairs have never been my forte. I need a good National Security Advisor to help me identify and deal with those who wish to further damage our country. I need somebody who is above politics, somebody with integrity who will serve the nation’s best interests. Let’s just say that your name was at the top of an extremely short list, and that you passed your probationary period with flying colors. So. There it is. The job’s yours if you want it.”

  Lewis’s instant response didn’t surprise Mitchell. “Sir, that is the most flattering offer anybody’s ever made to me. But I hope you won’t be offended if I decline. I’m afraid I’ve already committed to another job.”