“Green Dove and two agents board Black Hawk One,” he ordered. “The rest of the suits, inside Black Hawk Two.”
Before Sachs could protest, Raghav shoved her hard into the eleven-seat chopper, then climbed in after her with five Green Berets so she couldn’t get out. Kyle was the last to board. He signaled the pilot to lift off.
“This is Marine Six to base,” the pilot spoke into his radio. “Green Dove is airborne. Repeat. Green Dove is airborne. En route to DZ.”
As the Black Hawk lifted off, a furious, helpless Sachs could see students and teachers below, noses pressed to the glass wall of the asium, waving good-bye.
“I’m going to have it out with the president when I see him,” Sachs said. “If anything happens to my daughter…”
“Don’t worry,” Colonel Kyle assured her. “We’ll get her.”
17
Jennifer and a thousand other students exploded out the front doors to the pandemonium in the pick-up lanes. An army of Range Rovers, Mercedes and BMWs jammed the snow-plowed street in front of the entrance. Mothers and a few fathers were screaming for their children.
Jennifer slogged across the slushy parking lot as fast as she could. But now two Green Berets in field uniforms and M-16s were gaining on her, and a line of waiting cars stood in her way.
The touch of a hard combat glove on her back prompted her to scream and leap head first across the icy hood of a Mercedes, sliding off into the snow.
She barely had time to look up before she saw a Volvo careening toward her, brakes locked, skidding on the ice. She rolled away seconds before it crashed into the Mercedes.
Getting up, she looked back to see the Marines on the other side of the cars, pointing at her. They split and came at her from both sides, stymied by the panic in the streets.
She turned to run away when a silver minivan braked to a halt in front of her, stopping her cold. Jennifer held her breath as the door slid open automatically and the driver’s window rolled down at the same time.
Behind the wheel was her prom date, Robbie, who had given her the red thong for the dance. “Get in!” he shouted.
“What are you doing, Robbie?” she screamed. “You don’t have a license!”
Robbie looked panic-stricken. “Quick!”
Jennifer glanced back over her shoulder. The Marines had cleared the line of cars and were closing in fast. She opened the driver’s side door.
“Move over!” she ordered, climbing inside. “I’m driving.”
Robbie resisted. “What are you talking about?”
“Your feet barely reach the pedal,” she said. “Move! Now!”
She pushed Robbie into the passenger seat, closed her door, slipped behind the wheel and hit the accelerator.
The minivan lurched backward, knocking the front corner of a sedan and kicking up slush into the windshields of the cars behind it.
“Dang,” she said.
“Dang?!” Robbie repeated, apoplectic.
She checked the rearview mirror and saw one of the Marines aiming his M-16 at them.
“Holy shit!” Robbie shouted. “They’re going to shoot!”
Jennifer shifted into drive and they shot off.
She took the first corner too fast, and they slid across the ice, side-swiping a Jeep before gaining traction. Robbie slammed against the inside of the passenger d
“What the hell did your mom do?” Robbie cried out.
“I don’t know.” Jennifer looked up in her rearview mirror, worried that bullets would shatter the back windshield at any moment. “But I’m not gonna sit around to find out.”
She hit the accelerator again, and they sped off into the straightaway.
18
It wasn’t long before the chopper was skimming the white trees of the Hudson Valley and Sachs could see the hills of White Plains rising ahead. They must be going to the local airport. She thought of Jennifer on the run from the very people sent to help her, and worried that in her haste her daughter would have an accident or hurt herself someway.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
Colonel Kyle of the Green Berets said nothing, but Special Agent Raghav of the Secret Service told her, “Nearest presidential emergency facility.”
“Emergency?” Her brushes in the past with Washington security types had taught her a general rule of thumb: the less the inflection in the monotone voice, the worse the situation. “What kind of emergency?”
“There was an explosion in Washington a few minutes ago.”
Her mind raced through the multiple-choice scenarios: a) an Oklahoma City-style bombing of the Internal Revenue Service headquarters, b) a plane crash into the White House, or c) the Capitol Building. My God, she thought, I was supposed to be there tonight for the State of the Union address.
“Tell me the worst,” she said, and closed her eyes.
“It was nuclear.”
The answer was: d) all of the above. Sachs snapped her eyes open and stared at the deadpan Secret Service agent. “How many casualties?” she heard herself ask hoarsely.
Raghav said, “Less than four thousand.”
Sachs blinked. She could feel her throat catch. “That’s how many died?”
“So far,” Raghav said matter-of-factly. “The National Weather Service hasn’t given us any updates on wind shifts. And fires are still burning. Should have been more than a million dead. But snow kept hundreds of thousands of federal workers home. And the nuke was small and exploded underground. Very clean. Minimal damage to civilians, maximum destruction to the federal government. Total decapitation.”
“Decapitation,” Sachs repeated, unsure what the jargon meant, although she had an idea. She suddenly felt very lightheaded, her heart thumping beyond control. “Terrorists?”
“Nobody’s claimed responsibility,” Raghav said. “We think it’s connected to what’s happening in the Far East.”
“Where’s the president?”
“Dead.”
Sachs took a deep breath. “And the vice president?”
“Nobody survived,” Raghav informed her. “All designated presidential successors are being taken secure facilities.”
Sachs leaned back in her seat and stared out the window. America was at war, its leadership attacked. And Jennifer, her baby, was on the run. Sachs wanted to go back for her. But the hardened faces of the agents and Green Berets told her there was no turning back now.
Sachs asked, “So how many designated successors are there?”
Raghav was evasive. “I can’t say for sure, ma’am.”
“Something like fifteen or sixteen?”
Sachs suddenly felt something cold touch her temple. The barrel of an M-16 came into view. Pointing it at her was a grim Colonel Kyle with hate-filled eyes.
“One too many,” he said.
19
Colonel Kozlowski looked around the empty conference table. The empty chairs were for the president and his staff. The Secretary of Defense. The National Security Adviser. Anybody else that survived, of which there were none.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Koz sat alone at the head of the table and stared at a wall of display screens. The displays showed that American bombers were en route to their positive control points outside the Far East, where they would circle until they received further orders from the president-designate. Other displays showed that American submarine and missile crews were also awaiting executive authorization.