“But that’s giving up,” he said. “We have to develop new tactics to defeat the insurgents.”
Murray couldn’t listen to the fool any longer.
“Mister Vice President, you’re not hearing the admiral correctly,” Murray said. “America is too… damn… big. The highway system consists of one hundred and seventeen thousand miles of road. These insurgents you’re talking about were Americans. Many of them grew up in the very places they are attacking. They know the terrain, they know exactly what to hit. Now, would you please stop asking for things that are fucking impossible?”
It was only when Murray finished talking that he realized he’d just yelled at the vice president. He sat still and waited to be thrown out.
But Albertson didn’t seem angry. Instead, he seemed to shrink in his chair.
He’s such a pussy he’ll let me yell at him — not exactly a prime candidate for the most powerful person in the free world.
Now it was Porter who cleared his throat. Murray sensed the man was about to drop something big.
“Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, “at this time, it is the recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that we withdraw all remaining troops from Europe and the Middle East. We need those troops here at home. We also recommend moving all U.S. troops in South America to defend the Panama Canal and to cut off any and all access from that continent into North America.”
Albertson stared. He sniffed once, scratched his nose.
“You want to coordinate with the Panamanians on that?”
Porter shook his head. “Sir, we recommend that our troops seize control of the canal. The Mexican border is too big to cover, but we can create a choke point at the canal. Then, when we start to regain superiority, we only have to contend with clearing out Mexico — South America will have to fend for itself.”
Everyone looked to Albertson. He seemed lost.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Abandoning our allies… seizing the Canal… we need President Blackmon to make those decisions.” He again looked around the room. “I asked someone to get her on the line for me twenty minutes ago. What the hell is wrong with you people?”
André Vogel pinched his ever-present phone between his ear and shoulder.
“We’re still trying,” he said. He put the phone back to his ear.
For the first time, Murray heard Samuel Porter raise his voice.
“Mister Vice President,” the admiral said, demanding the attention of Albertson and everyone in the room. “A decision must be made. We need to withdraw our troops from overseas, and we need to do it now.”
Albertson’s left eye started to twitch. He stared down at the table. “I’m sorry, only the president can make that call.”
Vogel suddenly rose, stood up board-straight as if someone had connected his chair to a car battery. He looked like he might throw up.
“Air Force One… it’s gone down.”
All conversation ceased. The room seemed to dim, to go nearly dark save for a score of spotlights that lit up Vice President Albertson.
He placed his hands on the table. They were shaking.
“I see,” he said. “When did this happen?”
“About fifteen minutes ago,” Vogel said. “The pilot got a message out that there was some kind of commotion on the plane. He thought there was a Converted onboard, someone who dodged a cellulose test, maybe. He reported gunshots. Then fighter escort saw Air Force One go down. No survivors. President Blackmon is dead.”
Those imaginary spotlights picked up in intensity. Their glare burned hot enough to make Albertson break out into a sweat.
Murray sagged back into his chair. He’d believed in Blackmon’s ability to lead the nation out of this. Now she was dead, and with the nation at DEFCON 1, Albertson was the commander in chief.
Admiral Porter broke the silence.
“Mister President,” he said, putting emphasis on the second word, making it clear that the word Vice no longer applied. “From this moment on, you’re in charge, sir. What is your decision about our overseas troops?”
Albertson’s eyes looked hollow. The burden of leadership had fallen to a man who clearly couldn’t handle it. Shaking hands lifted to tired eyes, rubbed them lightly.
“If you say so, Admiral,” he said quietly. “Withdraw the troops.”
Murray stared at Albertson. The man’s very first command of his presidency? A confidence-building if you say so.
Maybe the Converted had already won.
URBAN TERRAIN
Oddly, Clarence thought of Dew Phillips.
Before Dew died, he had been at the tail end of his career. Truth be told, he’d been well past that. In his late sixties, Dew had been forced into intense physical action while managing, protecting — and occasionally even beating the crap out of — one “Scary” Perry Dawsey.
Clarence thought of Dew because five years ago Clarence had been the young buck on the team: fit, well trained and ready to rock. Now, Clarence was the one showing the wear and tear of age. Not that he was ready to retire, not even close, but being surrounded by twenty-five-year-olds in world-class shape made it obvious his best years were behind him.
Of course, the bulky CBRN suit didn’t help at all. It was far less bulky than the full BSL-4 rig he’d worn on the Brashear, granted, but the fully enclosed suit still made it cumbersome to move around wrecked cars and through ankle-deep snow. His face felt hot inside the suit’s built-in gas mask. The lenses over each eye cut off much of his peripheral vision; he found himself turning his head rapidly to make sure the Converted weren’t sneaking up from the sides.
Clarence stayed close to Margaret. Two SEALs — the little one, Ramierez, and a swarthy man named Bogdana — shadowed them every step of the way. They and the other SEALs weren’t wearing the CBRN gear. Speed, silence and agility were as much a part of the SEAL arsenal as their M4 carbines, Mark 23 pistols and Barrett M107 rifles. Margaret had argued with Klimas about it. She wanted everyone in the suits, but the commander had ended the discussion quickly. His support of Margaret only went so far, it seemed, and didn’t include debates regarding his gear and the gear of his men.
Tim was currently twenty or thirty feet back, Klimas and Bosh constantly at his side. As soon as Clarence and Margaret stopped, Tim and Klimas would leapfrog ahead. That was how all the troops moved: one group stayed still, ready to provide covering fire, while another group advanced forward to take up covering positions of their own.
Two Apache helicopters flew high overhead, the roar of their engines echoing off skyscraper walls. On the ground, four SEAL fire teams were way out front, running recon. Behind them, the first Ranger platoon, then the civilians and their SEAL escorts, flanked on either side by the second Ranger platoon. The third Ranger platoon brought up the rear.
If the Rangers had objected to wearing the CBRN gear, they had lost that battle. With their urban-camouflage-pattern suits and hoods, their black rubber gasmasks and their rifles — mostly SCAR-FNs and Mk46s, with a few bulky M240B machine guns thrown in for good measure — the Rangers looked like extras from an apocalypse movie. That meant they fit right in with the surroundings.
Clarence could barely believe this was Chicago. Most of the lights were out, bathing the city in darkness. The place looked… dead. Soot-streaked snow covered the street, the sidewalks, abandoned vehicles and hundreds of frozen bodies. Footprints and well-worn paths through the snow were the only indication that anyone remained.