“Daddy,” Marty whimpered.
“Shut up, goddammit,” Arthur shrieked, and then he grabbed his wife’s arm with his left hand and reached for Marty in the rear seat with his right. He shook them firmly, repeating over and over again, “Don’t ever forget this. If we survive, don’t you ever, ever forget this.”
“What happened, Art?” Francine asked, trying to keep calm. Marty was screaming now, and Arthur closed his eyes in grief and sorrow, the anger turned inward because he had lost control. He listened to a few of the voices on the network, trying to piece things together.
“Seattle’s gone,” he said. Trevor Hicks, all the others.
“Where’s Gauge, Dad?” Marty asked through his tears. “Is Gauge alive?”
“I think so,” Arthur said, shaking violently. The enormity. “They’re trying to destroy our escape ships, the arks. They want to make sure there are no humans left.”
“What? Why?” Francine asked.
“Remember,” he repeated. “Just remember this, if we make it.”
It took him almost twenty minutes to become calm enough to pull back into the slow lane. San Francisco and the Bay Area had been adequately protected. Suddenly, and without reservation — without any persuasion whatsoever — he loved the Bosses and the network and all the forces arrayed to protect and save them. His love was fierce and primal. This is what a partisan feels like, watching his countryside get pillaged.
“They bombed Seattle?” she asked. “The…aliens, or the Russians?”
“Not the Russians. The planet-eaters. They tried to bomb San Francisco, too.” And Cleveland, which had survived, and Shanghai, which had not, and who knows how many other ark sites? A fresh shiver worked down from his shoulders to his sacrum. “Christ. What will the Russians do? What will we do?”
The car’s steering wheel vibrated. Above the engine noise, they heard and felt a shuddering groan. The rock-borne vibrations of Seattle’s death passed under them.
63
At two in the morning, Washington, D.C., time, Irwin Schwartz reached out for the urgently beeping phone from his office cot and punched the speaker button. “Yes?” Only then did he hear the powerful whuff-whuff of helicopter blades and the screaming roar of jet turbines.
It was the late night White House military staff duty officer. “Mr. Schwartz, Mr. Crockerman is being evacuated. He wishes you to join him on the helicopter.”
Schwartz had duly noted the officer’s reluctance to call Crockerman “President.” He was now strictly “Mr. Crockerman.” If you don’t act the office, you don’t get the title. “What sort of emergency?”
“There have been strikes on Seattle and some kind of action over Cleveland, Charleston, and San Francisco.”
“Jesus. Russian?”
“Don’t know, sir. Sir, you should get out on the lawn as soon as possible.”
“Right.” Schwartz did not even grab his coat.
On the White House lawn, dressed in the undershirt and pants he had worn as he slept, Schwartz ducked instinctively under the high, massive rotor blades and ran up the ladder, his bald head unprotected against the chill downdraft of spring night air. A Secret Service agent stood by until the hatch was closed, and then watched the helicopter lift away to take them all to Grissom Air Force Base in Indiana.
The staff officer and a Marine guard hugged Crocker-man’s sides, the Marine carrying the “football” and the staff officer carrying a mobile data and command center — MODACC for short — hooked up to the helicopter’s communications system.
There were three Secret Service agents aboard the craft, as well as Nancy Congdon, the President’s personal secretary. Had Mrs. Crockerman been in the White House, she would have been evacuated as well.
“Mr. President,” the staff officer began, “the Secretary of Defense is in Colorado. State is in Miami at a governors’ meeting. The Vice President is in Chicago. I believe the Speaker of the House is being airlifted from his home. I have some information regarding what our satellites and other sensors have already told us.” He spoke louder than he needed to over the engine noise; the cabin was well insulated.
The President and all the others aboard listened closely.
“Seattle is gone, and Charleston is a ruin — the strike appeared to be centered at twenty klicks out in the ocean there. But our satellites show no missile launches from the Soviet Union or any fish at sea. No missiles at all were detected coming from the Earth. And apparently some sort of defensive system came into play over San Francisco and Cleveland, perhaps elsewhere as well…”
“We don’t have that kind of defense,” Crockerman said hoarsely, barely audible. He fixed his eyes on Schwartz. Schwartz thought he looked two days dead at least, eyes pale and lifeless. The vote to impeach had taken the last bit of starch from him. Tomorrow would be — would have been — the beginning of the Senate trial on whether he would stay in office or be removed.
“Correct, sir.”
“It’s not the Russians,” observed one of the Secret Service agents, a tall black Kentuckian of middle years.
“Not the Russians,” Crockerman repeated, his face taking on some color now. “Who, then?”
“The planet-eaters,” Schwartz said.
“It’s begun?” the young Marine lieutenant asked, gripping the briefcase as if to keep it from flying away.
“God only knows,” Schwartz said, shaking his head.
The MODACC beeped and the staff officer listened intently over his sound-insulated headphones. “Mr. President, it’s Premier Arbatov in Moscow.”
Crockerman stared once again at Schwartz for a long moment before reaching for the mike and headphones. Schwartz knew what the stare meant. He’s still the Man, damn us all to hell.
64
Arthur drove the car into the driveway of Grant and Danielle’s hillside home in Richmond just before midnight. He was still shaken; the memory of the network’s pain and loss lingered like a bizarre, bitter-sharp taste on the tongue. He sat with hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the rough wood garage door, and then turned to Francine.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I think so.” He glanced over the seat at Marty. The boy sprawled on the back seat, eyes closed, his head lolling slightly over the edge, mouth open.
“Thank God he’s asleep,” Francine said. “You gave us both a scare.”
“I gave you a scare?” Arthur asked, his weariness breaking down before a sudden upwelling of anger. “Jesus, if you could have felt what I felt—”
“Please,” Francine said, face deadly grim. “We’re here. There’s Grant now.”
She opened the car door and stepped out. Arthur stayed in the seat, confused, then closed his eyes for a moment, tentatively searching for the network, trying to learn what had happened. There had been little on the radio beyond repeated reports of some unknown disaster in-Seattle; it had been less than an hour.
He half expected the superpowers to stumble into nuclear war; perhaps members of the network were preventing that even now. But he had to go on faith. For the moment, he was cut loose from the circuit of network communications.
Arthur took a murmuring Marty into his arms. Grant showed them to a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a folding cot. Danielle — now asleep, Grant said — had made up the beds and laid out towels for them, as well as putting a late night snack of fruit and soup on the kitchen counter. Francine tucked Marty into the cot and joined Grant and Arthur in the kitchen.
“Have you heard what happened?” she asked Grant.
“No…” Grant’s shirt and slacks were wrinkled and his silver-gray hair was tousled; he had apparently nodded off on the couch, getting up as he heard their car approach.
“We saw a flash to the north,” Arthur said.
“Arthur thinks it was Seattle,” Francine said. Her look was almost a challenge: Go ahead, tell us you know. Tell us how you know.