The door opened again and the Secretaries of Defense and State entered to the same scrutiny that Bill received, despite their internationally known visages. In front of Bill was a booklet entitled “Crisis Team Management.” He noticed it had been updated a week earlier and below the date read, “#26 William Hiccock.” The number related to his ordinal ranking in the echelon of succession to the President in terms of the National Command Authority. Despite the constitutional order of succession for actually being President, the Cold War architects of Mutually Assured Destruction decided to mix up the deck a little by allowing the creation of the NCA, peopled at the pleasure of the President. Technically, the Chief Executive could appoint any U.S.-born citizen, from the Vice President to a dogcatcher in Duluth to the order of succession to “the button.” Therefore, if the twenty-five people on the list ahead of Bill were to meet their maker as nuked crispy critters, the decision and authority to launch a nuclear war or retaliation would fall to him. Billy Hiccock, the kid from the Bronx, who could throw a football well enough to win a Heisman at Stanford and throw numbers around well enough to earn a Doctor of Scientific Methodology from M.I.T. and become the President’s trusted science advisor, was now in line to destroy the world. Wouldn’t mom be proud! The awesome powers of that responsibility made the number twenty-six seem as daunting as if the number were two.
Within five minutes, there were fourteen key NCA designees in the room in addition to staff and technicians. Bill knew that six other NCA assets were linked to the room from various “safe locations.” The Vice President called in from his ultimate nuclear-safe perch, Air Force 2, at 35,000 feet above Indianapolis.
The Chief of Staff entered and took his seat in the chair reserved for the President. He quickly scanned a clipboard, nodded, and then removed his glasses.
“First let me tell you that this is a drill. The President is fine and in no danger. Second, our response time is up from the last National Emergency Simulation Exercise. We beat our old mark by a minute and a half with eighteen NCA members secured within four minutes of the emergency action message transmission. For those of you who have been through this a couple times, thank you, and you can return to your duties. For Mr. Hiccock, Mr. Rassing, and Mrs. Chulk, I am going to ask you to stay and let the team familiarize you with what happens when we crash the White House like this.”
Hiccock breathed easy. The world was safe for now. No attack/counterattack scenarios to wipe out all life as we know it. Just a few more procedures for him to learn and, no doubt, a few more nightmares to have. He spent the next forty-five minutes learning about SIOP, Pave Paws, authenticator codes, and other stuff most people thought went away with the Cold War.
?§?
Meanwhile, Surgeon General Judy Pearson was studying a report titled
“What’s up, Bob?”
“Bad news, boss.”
When her deputy finished giving her the details, Pearson’s immediate instinct was to call the White House. Instead, her eyes fell on her calendar and her impending dinner. She decided she’d prepare for dinner early.
“Bob, get me a copy of H.R. 7631 — stat!”
It was no ordinary jar of cold cream. The Princess Briana label insured that only the faces of the most well- to-do women would ever feel its deep-cleansing emollients tingle as it beautified, moisturized, and rejuvenated their already too-well-pampered skin.
Chang Su admired the work of her team. They were specially chosen to make this jar by the commissar of the village who was also the head of the factory. It was an honor to serve the PRC in this fashion. Normally she would copy lesser brands and then the factory would run thousands of cases. In this case, though, her instructions were to make only twenty-four of these. They were perfect replicas of the actual jar in every way except that they were 1/32nd of an inch smaller than the original because they were made from a different material. The label was easier to resize but the unique jar required three attempts to get just right. Capitalism not being embraced in China, she never calculated the cost per unit benefit of such an intense effort to derive so few jars. The intended customer however, was glad to pay as much for two dozen jars as others paid for a whole truckload of the knockoffs that had become the stock in trade of the new Chinese economy. The amber colored jars were packed for shipment and tomorrow would be driven by truck four hundred miles to the provincial capital where they would then be sent by airplane to Beijing.
Another job well done.
CHAPTER THREE
For Bill, dinner that night was pleasant but uneventful. How can a mere dinner compete with a call to the Situation Room to possibly save or end the world? Their guests were the Surgeon General, Judy Pearson, and her husband, Rod, a thoracic genius and head of surgery at George Washington University Hospital. Janice had recently joined the staff there, so to Bill’s way of thinking, this was a four-point connect with Judy and Bill working for the current President and Janice and Rod working in a hospital named after the first.
After dinner, Bill found Rod in the living room, pursuing the artifacts in the “shrine:” what Janice and he called the wall of built-in bookcases that held the mementos of Bill’s illustrious college football career.
“I saw that game!”
Bill looked to see what Rod was talking about. He was looking at a game ball and a picture of his team. “I got knocked out in the first half, sat out two quarters until the team doc pronounced that I only had my bell rung, no concussion.”
“Yeah, and you came back with a vengeance. Two touchdown passes in the last four minutes!”
Rod swooned as he turned to Bill’s Heisman Trophy. “How great must it be to have one of these?”
“I was offered two million for it by some oil tycoon,” Bill said matter-of-factly as he got “the look” from Janice, who was chatting up Judy on the sectional. “I guess they were all out of them on E-bay,” Bill added.
“How can you put a price on something like this,” Rod said, marveling at the trophy even more.
“You know, if you like it that much, you can borrow it and put it over the fireplace.”
Out of the corner of his eye Bill saw “the look” again. He knew it was because Janice wanted them over by the new couch. Mostly because she liked the way, from the new seating area, the living room windows looked out upon the sun setting on the lake at this time of day.
“Judy, would never let me do that, unless you can convince her somehow that it’s Chinese modern.”
That little man-to-man admission made Bill wonder if a surgeon being married to the Surgeon General caused a problem. Could Judy pull rank and order her husband around? And was he duty bound to follow her directives?
“Bill, will you get the cognac and the glasses from the cabinet?” came the order from Bill’s “general.”
As Bill poured the cognac into the decanter, Judy couldn’t help but comment, “Janice, I have to know, did you use a decorator? I love the way this room just flows. That chair is perfect, and situating this area to take full advantage of this breathtaking view… all of it, really comfortable, yet beautifully done.”
Janice was beaming and gave the slightest of looks to Bill when Judy mentioned “her view.” “I am so glad you like it. I pretty much just start with some ideas that I get from magazines and then add a few touches.”
After several minutes discussing home decorating, remodeling and Chinese modern motif, Judy opened a new conversation. “There could be a shortage of flu vaccine this season.”
“How could something like that happen?”
“How all bad things happen, Bill — politics.”
