An end of things.
Transformation.
Then, a beginning of things.
When the eyes opened again, they burned like two small supernovae in the vile brightness, the hellish face contorted into a grimace of extreme pain. What had been a police officer a few minutes earlier quickly hobbled on newly restructured legs into the shadows of the hallway, long clawed hands shielding its yellow eyes from the light. The ratlike killing machines parted as it walked among them, like an army breaking ranks for a passing general. With the others, it waited in the darkness. Soon, night would fall… the time to hunt. To run. To feed.
CHAPTER 5
A little over a thousand miles to the east of Kansas City, the day had begun as countless others before it, the events unfolding in the Show-Me State not yet realized by those scurrying through the halls of government in Washington, DC, as the nation’s bureaucracy began to churn through another day of obliquely serving the citizenry.
For one man, it was the start of another seemingly interminable day in the Big Chair.
He tossed his morning briefing papers to the corner of the Resolute Desk and turned his chair to face the thick windows that framed the back of his office, taking a brief moment to turn his mind away from the heavy load he was already feeling. Outside, a shifting patchwork of moisture-laden clouds hung low in the sky, the heavy slabs of mist quickly gathering together to conceal what little blue sky had been visible earlier, teasing him with the chance of a bright, sunny day. Sighing, he peered through the trees as a lone ray of sunlight faded away from behind the top of the distant Washington Monument, the slate-gray sky now completely matching his mood.
All the great men who’d sat in this office — made decisions that changed the course of history, sent thousands of people to their deaths, or provided a helping hand to those in need during times of strife — always seemed larger than life to him. And yet, here he was, sitting in their office.
His office, now.
Andrew Smith had never viewed politics as a worthwhile profession, but after his retirement from the United States Navy, he found he wanted — no, needed — to serve his country in another capacity. After all, old habits die hard. His name was familiar enough; the pictures in Time magazine of a bloodstained admiral dragging the dead and injured from a burning building after a massive terrorist attack, himself badly injured from burns and shrapnel, had made him an instant hero in the eyes of most Americans.
Hero—a word he hated having associated with his name, but it hadn’t hurt at all on the campaign trail. People knew who he was, and more importantly, knew what he was. He had character. He was brave. On top of that, although he’d never admit it himself, he had the looks for it; he struck a commanding pose, standing a little over six foot four, his broad shoulders and lean waist indicative of a steadfast attention to physical fitness during his years in the naval service. He was never one to succumb to the excessive vanity suffered by most politicians, and his silver-gray hair celebrated his age, which created an almost grandfatherly persona, making him a wise, comforting figure the American people could trust. Most notable, however, were his intense steel-blue eyes, full of clear purpose and sincerity. A majority of voters had decided he was the right man for a wrong time, and they’d placed him here in the White House to make a difference. To save the Republic from the ash heap of history.
To win a war.
For years, Andrew Smith had watched thousands of his fellow citizens slaughtered around the globe, for no other reason than they were Americans. The economy had faltered horribly, struck here and there by well-planned terrorist strikes that’d had more effect than a stadium full of economic experts could’ve possibly predicted in their worst business school nightmares. The nation had been struck overseas, struck at home, on American soil, in big cities and small towns. Recession and inflation were once again household terms, spoken more often than anyone cared to hear, and unemployment was at near-record levels. The big D word—depression—was lurking just around the corner. All this now sat squarely in his lap.
At first, he’d been elected a state governor. Then, after time, appointed secretary of state. And now, after what seemed like a wild roller coaster ride of campaigns, fund-raising, and heartache, Andrew Smith was president of the United States.
During the normal course of his day, he rarely had moments to himself. Government agencies needed him; foreign dignitaries, lobbyists, representatives, and senators needed him; state governors, local county governments, and the party needed him; the people needed him. Sometimes, it felt as if hundreds of steel cables were hooked into his skin, each pulling in a different direction, with no way for him to know which cables were pulling toward something worthwhile, and which cables would just tear out and leave nasty scars if their pull was resisted long enough.
In ten minutes, his first meeting of the day was scheduled to start. Ten short minutes to savor, to watch the first drops of rain begin to fall, and to be alone with his thoughts. Time to ponder where he’d been, where he wanted to go — where he wanted the nation to go — and time to wish that somehow things had turned out differently so he didn’t have to do it alone.
His moment of peace was shattered as Jessica Hruska, the national security advisor, and Marshall Stone, the secretary of defense, rushed into the Oval Office, with the secretary of Homeland Security, Hugo McIntyre, in tow. This was far from normal protocol for Andrew Smith’s Oval Office. No one ever burst in unannounced, and if they did, they’d better have a damned good reason.
When Jessie Hruska spoke, her voice steeled with purpose and her eyes shining with immediacy, Andrew knew her reason would be more than sufficient.
“Mr. President,” she said, “we have a situation. It’s Kansas City.”
Ten minutes later, alone again in the Oval Office, Andrew tried to digest what he’d just been told. It wasn’t easy.
He’d given the necessary orders his advisors needed to get the ball rolling: investigate… find out exactly what was happening, control public panic, mobilize whatever elements of state and federal forces needed to be activated to bring him options in the next hour for the best manner to proceed. At this point, he knew that’s all he could do. Although it was frustrating, he had to sit back and let the massive apparatus that was the United Sates government spin up to handle the situation, let other people do the jobs they were trained to do. In another hour, he hoped the situation would have enough clarity for action. Correct action. And then, he would do his job. Set a course of action and lead.
As he stared across the office at a favorite portrait of Harry Truman, the situation he’d been presented with continued to tumble through his mind: a whole city, with possibly hundreds, if not thousands dead and missing! How could it possibly be true? Could it be some sort of terrorist attack? Could someone have been able to dream up a weapon that would do this? Was it a weapon, or something else?
Give ’Em Hell Harry just stared right back. Make the right call, Mr. President, Truman seemed to say from the canvas. And don’t ever forget the buck stops with you.
The directors of the Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the National Guard Bureau, and the Red Cross all received calls within fifteen minutes.