Caulfield didn’t dare look at his boss. He just stayed focused on trying to figure out what was wrong, checking the batteries in the remote and playing with the wires in the back of the console to see if any of them were loose. None of them was. It didn’t make sense.
Without warning, six Secret Service agents — including the head of the detail — burst into the room, grabbed the VP, and hauled him out, shouting back for Bobby to join them — fast.
Caulfield grabbed his BlackBerry and raced to catch up, leaving the rest of the staffers with their jaws open, as bewildered as he. But as he ran through the kitchen, he stopped suddenly and turned back.
“Caulfield, let’s go; move!” an agent shouted.
“One minute,” he shouted back.
“No, now!”
Caulfield scanned every counter, the table, the floor. Where was it? It had to be here somewhere. His heart was racing. Then an air raid siren went off and he could hear the sound of Marine Two powering up. He couldn’t leave it behind. Where was it?
He raced back into the living room in a panic, running headlong into the vice president’s executive assistant, her face drained of all color.
“Looking for this?” she asked, holding Caulfield’s briefcase.
“Last chance, Caulfield,” another agent shouted over the roar of the rotors. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”
They were about to close the chopper door and lift off.
“Thanks,” Caulfield told his colleague.
He grabbed the bag, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and bolted out a side door toward the VP’s green and white Lockheed Martin VH-71. Even as he did, Caulfield became more confused. Marine Two was surrounded now by at least thirty or forty heavily armed agents. What in the world was going on? he wondered as he jumped into the helicopter, climbed into the seat behind the vice president, and buckled up as quickly as he could.
Two Black Hawks suddenly roared into view. Caulfield could see two Apache helicopter gunships racing up the coast. Marines toting machine guns were taking up positions around the VP’s compound. Whatever this was, it had to be bad. It couldn’t be a drill. He’d been through several of those, but the Secret Service wouldn’t be stupid enough to hold one in the middle of the president’s speech.
Then Bobby Caulfield heard words that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. As soon as the doors of the chopper slammed shut, the lead pilot said into his radio, “Checkmate is secure. I repeat, Checkmate is secure. All airborne support, move into formation. Marine One is lifting off.”
Caulfield repeated the words in his mind. Had he heard the pilot correctly? Marine One? It had to be a mistake. But Marine pilots didn’t make mistakes. Not that one, at least. So what was going on? Why was everyone acting as though the president were on board?
The vice president took the call on a secure line.
“Sir, this is Lieutenant General Charlie Briggs at NORAD. Can you hear me?”
“I can, General, and you had better have a good explanation for this,” Oaks replied, having no idea why he’d been dragged away from his family, friends, and staff at such a time as this.
“Sir, I don’t exactly know how to say this,” Briggs began.
“I’m in no mood for games or exercises,” Oaks shot back. “The president of the United States is giving a major address, General. I’m not exactly supposed to be missing it. Hear what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir,” Briggs said. “I understand that, sir.”
“Then what in the world is going on here, General?” Oaks insisted.
“Sir, I’m afraid it’s my duty to inform you…” Briggs hesitated again.
Oaks was rapidly losing patience. “What?” he demanded.
“Sir, the United States is under attack.”
“Under attack?” Oaks asked in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
“Sir, in the last few minutes, four American cities have been hit by ballistic missiles — Washington, New York, Los Angeles, and Seattle.”
“My God…,” Oaks gasped.
“Each of those missiles was equipped with a nuclear warhead,” the general continued. “I can’t tell you what kind. I can’t tell you what size. Not yet. But casualties in each city are extensive. Damage in each city is extensive.”
“How extensive?” Oaks pressed as a chill shuddered through his body.
“Sir, the White House and Capitol are gone,” Briggs explained. “The Supreme Court, the FBI building, and all of the Cabinet agencies are gone. The Pentagon is badly damaged. Langley has been completely wiped out as well. The entire city is a hot zone, sir. Nobody’s going to be able to get in there for… well, a long, long time. And… well… I regret to inform you, sir, but USNORTHCOM is operating under the belief that the president is dead.”
Oaks couldn’t say anything.
“Hello?” Briggs asked. “Sir, are you still there?”
Oaks tried to process the magnitude of what he’d just heard. But how could he? How could this actually be happening?
“Tell me this is some kind of drill, General.”
“It’s not, sir.”
“Did you just tell me that the president of the United States is dead?”
“Yes, sir,” Briggs replied. “I’m afraid so. Staples Center received a direct hit. There’s nothing left.”
“Four nuclear attacks?” Oaks repeated, still not able to believe what he’d been told.
“Actually, five, sir,” Briggs corrected. “Washington was hit twice — once downtown and once in northern Virginia. Langley, to be precise.”
“It can’t be,” the vice president said. “It must be some kind of mistake.”
“I wish it were, sir, but it’s not,” Briggs said, his voice now surprisingly calm and professional under the circumstances. “It will take days to assess the damage, sir, but there are a few critical things you need to know right now.”
Oaks loosened his tie. “Start with my family. Is someone getting Marie?”
“We have another chopper picking her up and bringing her to you,” Briggs explained.
“What about my boys?”
“We have agents picking up David and his wife in Phoenix and Tom in Atlanta,” Briggs said. “They’ll both be taken to secure facilities until we figure out exactly what’s happening.”
“You sure they’re okay?”
“I don’t have any word on them yet, but I will get you an update as soon as I can.”
“I want them all brought to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Briggs said. “Now there are a few things I need to go over.”
“Go ahead.”
“First of all, sir, I need to inform you that under the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution, you are now the president of the United States.”
Again Oaks couldn’t think of anything to say. He sat in shocked silence.
“Mr. President, are you there?” Briggs asked. “Sir?”
“No,” Oaks suddenly shot back. “Don’t call me that, General. Not unless you have absolute proof that President MacPherson didn’t survive the initial blast.”
“He couldn’t have, sir,” Briggs replied.
“Why not?” Oaks demanded. “How do you know?”
“No one could have survived that blast,” Briggs explained. “Our initial assessment is that Los Angeles was hit with a warhead between one hundred fifty and two hundred kilotons in size. It will take us time to know for sure. But one thing I can tell you for certain, sir — the casualties will be in the millions, sir, starting with President MacPherson. I know it’s hard to hear, sir, but there’s no question about it. The president is dead, God rest his soul.”