The Seventh Angel

was their profession, their sworn duty, and the central tenet of their entire way of life. Reminding them to consider his family’s safety was entirely unnecessary, and probably insulting.

He checked his head shake and turned it into a nod. “Fair enough,” he said. Then the father-husband instinct made a last quick attempt to override logic. “Don’t let anything … I mean, if there’s any doubt about their safety …”

The agent nodded. “You have my solemn word, Mr. President. If there’s any doubt at all, we won’t waste a second in moving your family.”

President Chandler pulled the belt of his robe tight and took one more look at the sleeping form of his wife. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Three levels below the East Wing of the White House was a tube-shaped citadel known officially as the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, or PEOC. Unofficially, the shelter was called the bunker, a nickname that had emerged during the Reagan administration when nuclear war with the Soviet Union had seemed like a very real possibility. Protected by a forty foot blast shield of high-tensile ferroconcrete, Kevlar, and armored steel plating, the bunker housed office facilities, sleeping quarters, computer systems, communications equipment, and a command center that duplicated the functions of the West Wing’s Situation Room.

According to popular rumor, the bunker was designed to survive a direct nuclear blast. But despite its extraordinarily reinforced architecture and multiply-redundant life support systems, no engineer familiar with the physics of nuclear warfare had ever made such a claim. In the evaluation of most experts, the bunker could provide a high-degree of survivability against a near-miss. Where nuclear weapons were concerned, that was as good as things got. Even the massively protected NORAD facility, tunneled deep into the hard Colorado rock of Cheyenne Mountain, was only estimated to have a 70 percent probability of surviving a multiple-megaton nuclear strike. Against high-yield nuclear warheads, words like ‘bomb proof’ and ‘impenetrable’ lost all meaning.

Conspiracy buffs had long conjectured that the bunker contained enough food, water, and bottled air to last three years. In reality, the size of the facility limited the provision stockpiles to months, not years. Despite the claims of the supermarket tabloids, there were no secret preparations to keep the president, his family, friends, and cabinet members alive for decades following the nuclear annihilation of the American people. In the event of a full scale nuclear attack, it was hoped that the bunker and similar emergency preparations would keep the president alive long enough to coordinate retaliatory strikes and the last ditch defense of the country. But if America died — the president, his family, and all of his friends and political allies — died right along with it.

When President Chandler walked through the heavy blast doors, he bypassed the entrance to the operations room, detouring to his emergency sleeping quarters for just long enough to throw on some clothes. He chose simply: khaki trousers, a pullover shirt embroidered with the University of Iowa logo, and loafers. He didn’t want to waste time on a suit and tie, but neither was he willing to preside over an emerging nuclear crisis in his bathrobe and slippers. He dressed quickly, and was sliding into his chair at the head of the conference table within two minutes.

A tall dark-haired woman in a white U.S. Navy uniform came to attention until he was well seated. “Good morning, Mr. President. I’m Commander Kathryn Giamatti, the Deputy Situation Room Watch Officer. Lieutenant Colonel Briggs is engaged in a secure conference call with the Secretaries of State, Defense, Treasury, and Homeland Security, so I’ll be handling your initial briefing, sir.”

The president nodded. “Thank you, Commander. Has the national security advisor been notified?”

The commander nodded. “Affirmative, sir. Mr. Brenthoven is on his way to the White House. We’re expecting him any time now.”

“Correction,” said a voice from the other side of the room. “Mr. Brenthoven has arrived.”

National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven stood in the doorway. His suit was rumpled and there were dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze was focused and alert. He nodded toward the president. “Good morning, sir. Sorry I’m late. I was in Foggy Bottom when I got the call.”

“No problem, Greg,” the president said. “Are you planning to take over this briefing?”

“Not unless you want me to, sir,” Brenthoven said. “I got the basics over secure phone during the drive in, but I’m sure the commander here is more up to speed than I am. With your permission, Mr. President, I’d rather sit in and maybe ask a few questions.”

“Of course,” the president said. “Pull up a chair.”

The national security advisor did so, retrieving a small leather-bound notebook from the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

The president turned back to Commander Giamatti. “Proceed.”

The commander pointed a remote toward a large flat screen display built into the wall opposite the president’s chair. The Presidential Seal appeared, set against a blue background. “Sir, this will be a preliminary briefing. With your approval, we’d like to schedule a full meeting of the National Security Council for nine AM.”

The president nodded.

Commander Giamatti thumbed a button on the remote, and the Presidential Seal was replaced on the screen by a map of southeastern Siberia and the Kamchatka peninsula. Another click of the remote, and a window popped up, displaying a fairly high-resolution satellite image of a city.

“About two hours ago,” the commander said, “major fighting broke out in the Kamchatkan capital city of Petropavlovsk. Our most current satellite imagery of Petropavlovsk is more than ten hours old, well before the apparent onset of hostilities, and we don’t have any airborne surveillance assets in position for an immediate look. One of our destroyers, USS Albert D. Kaplan, is equipped with Sea Shrike unmanned reconnaissance drones, but they’ll have to violate Russian airspace to get close enough to see anything. The Air Force has already initiated orbital burns on two surveillance satellites to maneuver their footprints to cover Kamchatka. For the moment, we’re relying on HUMINT reports, and feedback from the Russian government. And frankly, Mr. President, there’s not a lot of either at the moment.”

HUMINT was the military acronym for Human Intelligence: information gathered and reported by people, rather than surveillance hardware.

“Understood,” the president said impatiently. “We can’t see anything; we don’t know anything, and we’re reduced to reading tea leaves and staring at the entrails of goats. I’ve got that. But somebody woke up half the government for a reason. I’d like to know what the damned tea leaves say.”

Commander Giamatti’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, sir.” She swallowed before continuing. “Mr. President, we have indications that the Russian military is ramping up to an advanced state of combat readiness. Intelligence sources in Moscow and Vladivostok confirm that Russian nuclear forces have been ordered to an increased alert status. Analysis of Russian Command and Control message traffic is consistent with a rapid escalation of nuclear and conventional readiness. We haven’t seen this level of activity since the worst days of the Cold War. Almost half of the Russian Pacific Fleet is putting out to sea.”

“Why half?” the president asked.

The commander paused. “Pardon me, sir?”

“Why half?” the president asked again. “If the Russians are gearing up as heavily as we think they are, why are they only putting half of their Pacific Fleet to sea?”

Brenthoven looked up from his notebook. “That’s probably the best they can manage, Mr. President. The Russian Federal Navy is in bad shape. I’ll be surprised if they actually manage to get half their units to sea in any sort of realistic fighting condition.”

The president waved a hand. “Continue.”

“Initial indications from Petropavlovsk suggest that the fighting there is military in nature, rather than insurgent,” Commander Giamatti said. “A rough assessment of the scale indicates major combat operations. There’s some fighting scattered through the city itself, but most of the activity appears to be concentrated in the vicinity of Rybachiy naval station.”

President Chandler pursed his lips. “I haven’t memorized the name of every Russian military base, but we’re sitting in the bunker, the Russians are peeing their pants, and the National Military Command Center wants to