Triggers

Normally, an E-4 was simply used as a “looking glass”—mirroring operations at the primary command site on the ground, in case that site was destroyed. But given the successful terrorist attack on the White House, Secretary Muilenburg had chosen Pteranodon—the call sign being used today for this plane—as his primary base for overseeing Operation Counterpunch.

The E-4 was built on a modified 747 airframe. Muilenburg stuck his head into the cockpit on the upper deck and said a few words to the commander—who was a friend of his—as well as the copilot, navigator, and flight engineer. Their flight plan would take them clear across the continental United States and out over the Pacific.

Muilenburg then headed down to the middle deck and walked to the conference room, which was in the center of the fuselage, with wide aisles on either side. The room’s walls were covered with monitors showing maps of Pakistan and the surrounding countries, as well as the positioning of the aircraft carriers, flight telemetry from the B-52s, satellite views of specific cities, and spreadsheets and charts detailing equipment-deployment status. Muilenburg’s operations staff was already on board, seated in swivel seats at the long worktable. He took his position, strapped in, and gave a thumbs-up to one of the crew.

The giant plane began to roll down the runway.

Eric Redekop and Janis Falconi were back in his luxurious condo, watching the president’s speech on Eric’s wall-mounted TV. They’d both been stunned that Jerrison was standing up; after the sort of surgery he’d had, he should still have been in bed. When Jerrison first started to falter, Eric declared, “See!” as if he’d been vindicated. But then, moments later, Eric became unsteady himself as he was overwhelmed by vivid memories from Jan’s life, as well as memories of his own past coming back with stunning clarity.

Jan had been leaning her head against his shoulder as they sat on the white leather couch; it took a few moments for Eric to realize that she had slumped against him. But despite feeling physically weak, mentally he felt something he never had before: an exhilarating sense that he was larger than he’d ever been. For a moment, he thought he was recalling one of Jan’s memories of being high, but it wasn’t that—this wasn’t a memory. Rather, it was how he felt—how they felt—right now, right here.

Jan spoke, her voice small. “It’s expanding,” she said. And then, “We’re expanding.”

“But why?” Eric managed to ask. “Why so fast now, so easily?”

“Why does a boulder roll downhill faster than a pebble?” Jan replied, and he knew what she meant: so many were affected now—and more were joining in each moment. The pressure, the force, the strength was increasing exponentially.

Eric leaned back into the couch—or maybe, he thought, he was pushed back into it by the headlong rush.

Seth Jerrison imagined that the Secret Service director expected to lose his job: after all, his agency had manifestly failed in its mission to protect the president, and, indeed, two Secret Service agents had been involved in the attempt on Seth’s life.

Seth had had Leon Hexley sequestered in a cottage here at Camp David. They were all named after trees, and it had amused the president to assign Hexley to the one called Hemlock. They’d sent one of the Marines who had been in the press-room audience to get Hexley, and—

Ah, and here he was. Hexley entered the infirmary, but instantly stopped in his tracks; the accompanying Marine stopped, too.

“Agent Dawson!” Hexley exclaimed. Seth was sure that Hexley, like any good Secret Service man, must have immediately taken in everything about the scene, including that Susan Dawson, sitting in a wheelchair, had a gun aimed at the vice president’s chest. “What the hell is going on?”

Seth spoke before Susan could answer. He looked at the Marine with the blond crew cut. “You, there. What’s your name?”

“Collins, sir.”

“Collins, arrest Director Hexley. Agent Dawson has handcuffs. Take them from her and put them on him.”

The young Marine instantly drew his sidearm. Susan, still in the spare wheelchair, let him take her handcuffs, and he quickly snapped them onto Hexley’s wrists, trapping his arms behind his back.

“What the hell is going on?” Hexley asked again. He was forty-seven, with hair like Reed Richards: brown except for silver-gray at the temples. As always, he was wearing a blue suit and a conservative tie, and he had on horn-rim glasses and a fancy Swiss wristwatch.

Seth wondered how best to accomplish what he wanted. He could simply take hold of one of Hexley’s hands—even if they were now cuffed. But although as a politician he’d shaken the hands of a lot of people he didn’t like, having to touch the man who had presumably organized the attempt on his life was more than he could bear.

Or, he thought, he could try to sock the bastard in the jaw. But he doubted he was currently strong enough to manage it.