The soldier stares at him with cold gray eyes and says, “You don’t remember me, do you, Doc?”
The woman fought the Secret Service agent, only to be tossed like a doll at the desperate crowd screaming into the powerful wash of the rotors. Sitting on the helicopter sobbing into his hands, Travis looked up and met Fielding’s glare with his own.
That’s right, I did it, he thought. And I’d do it again. I’m alive.
Fielding nodded slightly as Travis turned away to regard the city they were abandoning. Without its government, Washington seemed drained of its power, an empty shell.
There is no right or wrong anymore, he thought. There is only living and dead.
The flashback dissipates, leaving Travis feeling exhausted.
“Fielding,” he says. “You’re Fielding. So you’re a soldier now?”
“Something like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Most of the Secret Service was lost during the evacuation. The President, the Cabinet, the Supreme Court, the Congress; everyone wants a security detail. I’m ex-military. I was recruited.”
“So the government has a paramilitary organization now.”
“We’re more like the Praetorian Guard, Doc.”
The secretaries pointedly ignore the exchange, sensing the tension between the men. Travis hears one of them typing randomly.
“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” he wonders aloud. Who will guard us from the guards?
Fielding laughs. “Who indeed?”
Travis is already tired of the sparring. A few weeks ago, he would have been terrified of a man like Fielding, and in fact was at their first meeting. Now Travis has real problems that make Fielding seem like small fish.
“So why are you here?”
“I’m here for you.”
“Let’s go into my office, then. Do you want some coffee?”
Fielding gets off the desk and stands erect, an imposing figure. “No time, Doc,” he says. “Do you still have your suit? The one you wore the day you came here?”
The suit is neatly folded in Travis’s locker. It still smells like fear.
“What’s this about?”
“Doc,” Fielding says, grinning, “you’re going to meet the President of the United States.”
♦
Travis remembers the first time he entered the White House. He tingled as he presented his credentials. A young, attractive aide led him to where he would be working. He glanced into private offices as he followed the woman down the hall and was surprised to see average people hunched over computers in tiny offices, hacking away at keyboards. Phones chirped discordantly, the sound muffled by the carpeted floor. File cabinets bulged with yellowing paper. If he didn’t know where he was, he would have guessed he was in some kind of old, regal, shabby hotel converted into offices for law clerks paid to make deals. And yet that breathless 9/11 feeling permeated the building; the White House was a massive zeitgeist generator. Travis felt connected to mighty levers that turned the world. Even on days the President was traveling and not much was happening, each day felt like the cusp of history.
Travis never met the President, however. Not for two years. The closest he came was when the White House needed some warm bodies for a press photo.
Now, it seems, President Andrew Walker wants to meet him.
He remembers how strange it was. Often one meets a famous actor and later remarks at how much smaller he is in real life than he appears to be in his films. But the President seemed even larger to Travis. He is a giant of a man, making everyone around him appear insubstantial.
Fielding studies him with an expression of subtle amusement. The secretaries stare. One takes off her glasses and squints as if trying to see something in Travis she hadn’t seen before, something she’d missed.
“I don’t understand,” Travis says.
Fielding acknowledges the women with a nod and gestures toward the door.
“Let’s get a move on, Doc.”
Outside in the corridor, Fielding walks a step behind Travis, his eyes never leaving him.
“Am I under arrest or something?”
“No,” Fielding tells him. “You would know if you were.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m under arrest?”
“I’ve seen you in action, Doc. You’re a slippery one. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”
“Slippery,” Travis says, the word bitter on his tongue. It’s not my fault she got left behind, he wants to scream. There wasn’t enough transport for everyone. The agent pushed her off. It wasn’t me. “If you’re the good guy, what are you doing down here? Why aren’t you out there saving the world?”
“That’s what Roberts did—remember him? Stayed behind to look for his wife. Haven’t seen him since. There’s plenty of work around here for a guy like me, Doc.”
“The fact is that the only person who’s going to save the world is someone like me.”
“God help us, then.”
“I’m not joking. You know the military is in Washington. But do you know how many buildings there are in the city? How many people lived there who became infected? We’re throwing what’s left of our military into a meat grinder. There aren’t enough bullets, Fielding. There aren’t enough soldiers. We’re going to lose.”
Fielding says nothing, regarding Travis with narrowed eyes.
“Bullets can’t fix this,” Travis says. “Only science can. We just have to figure it out.”
“All right, Doc,” Fielding says, ending the conversation.
They enter the mass transit station, Travis glancing at the spot where the girl mouthed Save me before dissipating in the path of the train. Fielding sees him shudder but says nothing. They board an outgoing monorail, which drops them off near the dormitories. Travis’s dorm is a large open space packed with cots on which men sleep in the dull glow of a few red light bulbs and exit signs hanging from the ceiling. So few cots are available that people use them in shifts. In four hours, according to the clock set to military time, Travis will be able to use his cot again for sleep, first brushing the other man’s dandruff off the pillow they share.
In the locker room, Travis changes into his suit, shirt and tie, still wrinkled and smelling a bit gamey. It will have to do. One does not visit the President of the United States wearing an orange coverall like a penitentiary inmate.
“Very presentable, Doc,” Fielding says, inspecting his nails.
Travis unravels his tie and tries again, eyeing his reflection in a small mirror. Women often told him he was good looking, even though his social awkwardness and general lack of interest otherwise kept them at bay. Now he appears downright frightening. His stubbled face is pale and his eyes look dead.
“Can you at least tell me what this is about?” he asks.
Fielding shrugs. “Don’t know, actually. Policy is your field. But I would suspect it’s not a social call. Whatever you’re working on regarding Wildfire, the Boss thinks it’s important.”
Travis experiences a sudden flash of panic. Does the President expect me to make a presentation on my research now? Why didn’t the Director tell me about this?
Outside the dormitory, the two men walk east along the crowded sidewalks framing a main road leading into the heart of Area B. People come here to stroll because of the high ceiling and extra lighting. Travis wonders if he should take the President’s interest as a good sign. His theories are controversial and have not been accepted by what passes for the scientific establishment down here. Maybe they’re ready to hear him out and give him some real resources.