Triggers

The man who had tried to escape the hospital turned out to be a lawyer named Orrin Gillett. Susan Dawson took him to a room on the third floor. There was a TV in the room, and she put it on and turned to CNN. She’d hoped for an update on the attempted assassination, but the current story was about the destruction of the White House. Susan watched, mesmerized, horrified; she’d spent most of the last three years in that historic building.

The camera was panning left and right. The mansion reduced to rubble. The two wings gutted by fire. Billowing smoke.

Susan fought back tears. Gillett looked on in shock, too, his jaw hanging loosely open. The voice-over was talking about echoes of 9/11, and Susan flashed back to how stunned and terrified she’d felt when the Twin Towers had collapsed. Back then, she hadn’t yet ever held a gun, hadn’t yet ever fired a shot, hadn’t yet been trained to be cool and calm during a crisis. But she felt no better able to handle this now than she had in 2001; it was just as overwhelming, just as heartbreaking.

At last, the ruins of the White House disappeared, replaced by the lined face of a news anchor, himself looking as devastated as Susan felt. She forced herself back to the here and now, back to her duty. She got a security guard to lock Gillett in the room, then she half walked, half staggered down the hall to see Professor Singh in his office. “Your research subjects,” she said as she entered, more of Singh’s memories bubbling up in her consciousness, “suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Singh was seated in his roller chair. “That’s right. They have terrible flashbacks, mostly related to events from whatever war they were in.”

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 E1 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.”