him think of “Doomsday.” He had reached this point in emergency drills only twice before as president. As seriously as he had taken the drills, neither experience had prepared him for what he was feeling now.
“Guess we should call FEMA and go through the presidential succession bullshit,” he finally said. “Which button am I supposed to push?”
A fresh-faced Army colonel showed him on a console. “This one, Mr. President.”
7
Sachs could hear the noise of the gymnasium from a distance as she walked with Jennifer down the long, dim hallway. It did feel like a prison, dammit. Jennifer quickened her pace so that Sachs had to catch up with her. Boyle fell a few, safe steps behind.
“So you gonna kick Doctor Boyle’s ass?” Jennifer asked her.
“Later,” Sachs said. “But it’s your ass that started all this.”
Jennifer seemed even more sullen. “So that’s why you came?”
“Of course not,” Sachs said. “You think I’d miss a chance to—”
“Give a speech?”
“See my daughter.” said nothing. Their footsteps echoed loudly down the empty corridor. Judge Jennifer had found her mother guilty and would condemn her for her sins for the rest of her life.
Sachs tried again. “So how’s Aunt Dina treating you?”
“She took off for the Bahamas with her French racing boyfriend,” Jennifer said. “I’m alone at the house with old Carla her housekeeper.”
“What?” Sachs said, feeling she was arriving just in time to save her daughter.
“Dad was much cooler,” Jennifer said. “You sure she’s his sister?”
Sachs said, “Well, you won’t have to stay with her much longer.”
“I heard. You’re getting canned. Hope that doesn’t mean I have to put up with The Wuss.”
The Wuss was Raleigh Westcott, a man Sachs briefly dated after her husband and Jennifer’s father Richard had died in the 9/11 attacks. All Sachs could say was, “You know they don’t make them like your Daddy.”
“Well, I’m not waiting for Superman anymore,” Jennifer said. “Why can’t you hook up with someone like Brad Marshall?”
Brad Marshall? thought Sachs. Where did that come from? Sachs knew Marshall, like most Americans did, from TV. The general’s six-foot-four-inch frame, short blond hair, blue eyes and telegenic face generated trust and fan mail. His cool, reassuring voice instilled confidence. He was the legend who personally destroyed four of Saddam Hussein’s palaces in a renegade attempt to assassinate the Iraqi leader. He was the only man on earth the President of the United States feared to face in the coming elections.
Sachs said, “You mean the Great American Pretender?”
“Defender, Mom. The Great American Defender.”
“If that’s what you call lying to Congress about secretly reviving the Star Wars anti-ballistic missile system.”
“At least someone is concerned about my welfare,” Jennifer said.
Sachs said nothing. Marshall’s “America First” views no doubt pressured the White House into firing her. He was a dangerous man politically because he was so personally charming. Sachs wasn’t surprised at her daughter’s blatant hero worship. But she was disappointed. She hoped Jennifer was only trying to get a rise out of her.
Jennifer reached around her neck and removed her school computer flashdrive and handed it to her. “I just finished a class report on him. Check him out. He’s a total stud, and he’s going to be the next president. Ms. Cooper my big lib Constitution teacher can’t handle it, and that’s why she failed me.”
Sachs took the USB drive and sighed. It was shaped like an action figure—”Fembot Fiona”—from Jennifer’s favorite hyper-violent and ultra-realistic videogame, the War Cloud. She knew her daughter played it to be cool with the boys on “group hangouts,” because she didn’t let Jennifer go on dates and because kids don’t go out to the movies anymore. Fembot Fiona’s head came off to reveal the USB plug-in.
Sachs said, “What are you, my eHarmony.com matchmaking service?”
“It doesn’t take a village to raise a daughter. Just a mom and dad.”
“Right,” Sachs said and put it around her neck to show Jennifer she valued anything her daughter had done. “Me and Brad Marshall. I can picture it now. The Second American Civil War.”
They turned the corner, and the noise of the rowdy assembly grew louder. Jennifer halted outside the gymnasium, packed with students. Her peers. Her social life.
“Just don’t embarrass me.”
“I’ll try my best, sweetie.”
Sachs watched Jennifer bravely walk inside first and was about to follow when the government-issued BlackBerry in her purse vibrated with its distinctive “Death March” tone.
Dang, she thought, feeling as if she had been caught by a parole officer. Determined to silence it, she reached into her purse to pull out her phone. It was probably the President, ready to blow a purple vein in his red neck as he screamed at her for standing him up.
Sure enough, the voice on the other end seemed to confirm it. “White House. Please hold.”
The cold, impersonal voice on the other end said, “This is the White House signals operator for the Federal Emergency Management Agency. I have an emergency message for Secretary Sachs.”
“Speaking,” said Sachs.
The FEMA operator said, “Please authenticate.”
“Look,” said Sachs, her body temperature heating up, “if the President wants to fire me, he can tell me himself.”
“Authenticate.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “Hold on.”
She rummaged through her purse and fished out an authentication card for the correct response.
“I authenticate,” said Sachs, reading the card. “Code-name: GREEN DOVE. Password: JENNIFER.”
“Where are you?” asked the FEMA operator.
“The Westchester Middle School in Bedford, New York,” Sachs replied. As if they didn’t know from her phone’s GPS signal.
“An alert warning has been declared,” the FEMA operator said. “Repeat. An alert warning has been declared. Please acknowledge.”
“Sure, I acknowledge,” said Sachs, hanging up. She turned off the ringer, plopped the BlackBerry into her purse, and walked into the gymnasium of students.
8
Inside the emergency conference room of the National Military Command Center, battle staff officers seated
