Singh’s patients weren’t the only ones suffering from post-traumatic stress, she thought: the whole damned world had to be experiencing flashbacks today. Still, information about Singh’s technique came to her. “And you were trying to erase those bad memories?”
“Yes.”
“But the…the effect wasn’t well contained, was it?”
“Something happened,” said Singh with an amiable shrug. “I honestly don’t know what. When the electricity came back on, there was an enormous power surge through the equipment. And these—these linkages—are the result.”
“Terrorists blew up the White House,” Susan said. “That’s what caused the electromagnetic pulse I mentioned.”
Singh sagged back in his chair and his bearded jaw dropped. “The White House is…gone?”
It was still almost impossible to contemplate. “Yes,” Susan said softly.
Singh lifted a questioning hand, but it was shaking badly. “A nuke?”
Susan struggled to stay focused, stay in command. “No. Same kind of bomb as in Chicago, SF, and Philly. Non-nuclear and with a very limited EI component to the pulse. They disrupt electronics but don’t do much permanent damage. The pulse is just a side effect; the real destruction is done by the intense heat.”
Singh’s lab had no window, but he was looking in the direction of where the White House had been, as if trying to visualize it. “How…how many died?”
“Fortunately, this time the bomb was discovered in time to evacuate the building.”
“Still,” said Singh. He shook his head. “I’d thought I was starting to get over the shock of what happened in Chicago, but…” He looked up at her, his brown eyes moist. “It never ends, does it?”
“No,” said Susan softly. She gave Singh—and herself—a moment. Then, gently, she said, “It looks like President Jerrison has been affected by your experiment, too. He almost died on the operating table, and he claims someone else’s life flashed before his eyes. He should be briefed about this. Come with me.”
“To see the president?” asked Singh, sounding astonished at the notion.
“Yes.” Singh shakily got to his feet, and they exited his office. Susan would normally take the stairs for a single flight, but Singh was clearly still in shock; at one point, he reached out to steady himself against the wall. They took the elevator down, and, when they came out on the corridor on two, she caught sight of Darryl Hudkins’s shaved head. He was now standing guard outside the president’s door.
“You okay?” Susan asked, once they’d closed the distance. Darryl’s face was slack and his eyes wider than normal.
“I’m—I’m holding up.”
“Who is in there?” she asked, tilting her head toward the nearest door.
“Just Michaelis, the president, and a nurse,” said Darryl. “Dr. Griffin has gone off to deal with the lockdown.”
Susan nodded and went to push the door open, but Darryl held out his arm, blocking Professor Singh.
“Forgive me, sir,” Darryl said, rallying now, “but are you carrying a knife?”
“A kirpan, yes,” Singh replied.
Darryl shook his head. “You can’t take it into the president’s room.”
Susan was mortified—first, that the issue had come up, and, second, because it hadn’t even occurred to her; she’d been about to let an armed man approach the president.
Singh’s voice had regained its steadiness. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Darryl Hudkins.”
“Darryl,” Singh said, “the kirpan is a defensive weapon.” He opened his lab coat and revealed the cloth belt he was wearing; the ceremonial knife was attached to it. “It is an instrument of ahimsa—of nonviolence; a tool to prevent violence from being done to a defenseless person when all other means have failed.” He looked directly at Hudkins. “You’ll forgive me, but given the current circumstances, I rather suspect I could do no worse than the Secret Service already has in protecting the president.”
Susan thought about the kirpan, leafing through Singh’s memories related to the artifact—and it came to her. He would never, ever use it to hurt anyone. “Let him pass,” she said to Darryl.
“If you say so, ma’am,” Darryl replied—but he moved a hand to his holster, just in case.
Seth Jerrison was resting with his eyes closed. He’d insisted that Jasmine—the First Lady—stay in Oregon today. She’d wanted to rush back, but the last time terrorists had attacked Washington, on 9/11, they’d targeted multiple buildings; the current attack might not be over.
Seth opened his eyes when he heard the door to the room swinging inward on its hinges. A white Secret Service agent named Roger Michaelis was in the room already, as was Sheila, a stern-looking Asian nurse. Coming in was the leader of his Secret Service detail, Susan Dawson, and accompanying her was someone Jerrison had never seen before.
“Mr. President,” Susan said, “this is Professor Ranjip Singh. He’s a memory researcher, and, well, he thinks he has an explanation—sort of—for what happened to you.”
“Good,” Seth said weakly. “Because it didn’t end when my near-death experience did. I keep remembering things that couldn’t possibly be my own memories.”
Singh stepped closer. “Forgive me, Mr. President, but if I may: what sort of things?”
“Just now, I was recalling a basketball game.”
“Watching one on TV?” asked Singh. “Or as a spectator in a stadium?”
“No, no.” It took Seth a second to rally the strength to go on. “Playing basketball. Me and three other men.” He paused; his body just wanted to sleep. “But it wasn’t my memory.”
“Then what brought it to mind?” asked Singh, sounding intrigued.
“I don’t know,” Seth replied, still struggling to get each word out. But then he lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, wait. I do know. I’d been thinking about previous times surgery had been performed on a president.”
“Yes?” said Singh.
“Last time was in 2010.” He gathered some strength, then: “Obama got an elbow in the face while playing basketball with friends. Needed twelve stitches on his upper lip.”
Singh frowned. “I don’t remember that.”
Nurse Sheila spoke up. “I do. It was done by the White House Medical Unit, under a local anesthetic.”
Seth nodded ever so slightly. “Yes. Still…”
“Still,” said Singh, “you were thinking of that, and that led you to think of the last time you played basketball. Except that the memory that came wasn’t your own.”
“Exactly,” said Seth. “Explain that.” He’d meant for his voice to have a challenging tone, but he was still too weak to speak in anything much above a whisper.
“I will try,” said Singh. “But—forgive me, Mr. President, I’m…words fail me. I never thought I’d be speaking to the president of the United States!”
“It’s all right,” said Seth.
Singh smiled. “I know, but…again, forgive me. I have to push a little here, and, ah, I’m not comfortable doing that—not with you.”
“It’s fine,” Seth said.
Singh closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, and went on. “Very well. These three men you saw—can you describe them?”
“Twenties. One was fat and bald—shaved bald—and the other two were thin and had short hair.”
“Forgive me, sir, but do you really mean ‘thin’? Or do you just mean they were of normal weight?”
“Sorry. Normal weight.”
“And their hair color?”
“Dark, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“Dark.”
“And eye color?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Singh paused for a moment, then: “So, blue then, like yours?”