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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
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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.
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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.
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