Triggers

“You’re in good hands, I’m sure,” said Jerrison. “We always try to look after our boys in uniform.”

The comment seemed sincere, and although Kadeem indeed hadn’t voted for Jerrison—he hadn’t voted for anyone—he again had second thoughts about what he intended to do. No one should have to go through this.

But he had; Kadeem had. Hundreds of times now. And if the pleas of service moms hadn’t succeeded, if the sight of flag-covered coffins hadn’t done it, if the bleak news reports out of Baghdad hadn’t been enough, maybe, just maybe, this would be.

“Thank you, sir,” Kadeem said. The president was hooked up to a vital-signs monitor like the one Kadeem had been connected to before; it was showing seventy-two heartbeats per minute. Kadeem imagined his own pulse rate was much higher. The president of the United States! Kalil and Lamarr would never believe this. But then Kalil and Lamarr had stayed in South Central; they probably didn’t really believe—or, at least, didn’t fully appreciate—the stories Kadeem had brought back from Iraq.

But the president could be made to believe.

To appreciate.

To feel.

“Mr. President, I have to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My mamma, sir, she’ll be amazed.”

The president gestured toward the photographer, who quickly snapped three more shots. “We’ll send her pictures, of course.” And then the president’s eyebrows went up. “Your mamma—she’s a nice lady, isn’t she?”

“She’s the best, sir.”

He nodded. “This is so strange. Tanisha, isn’t it? I see you love her very much.”

“I do, sir. She done her best by me.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. And—oh!—it’s her birthday next week, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Won’t you give her my regards?”

Kadeem nodded. “She’d be thrilled, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Dawson looking at her watch. He doubtless didn’t have much time left, and—

And even the mere thought of what he was going to do set his stomach to churning, and he could feel perspiration breaking out on his brow.

“Well,” Kadeem said, “I’m sure you’ve got matters of state”—a phrase he never thought he’d utter in his whole life—“to attend to.” He stood up, and the chair’s four legs made a scraping sound against the tiled floor as he pushed it back a bit. He took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to calm himself, then, finally, he blurted it out: “But I hope you’ll think about babies after I leave, sir.”

The president looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together. “Babies?”

“Yes, sir. Crying babies.” Kadeem felt his own pulse racing, and he reached out to steady himself by holding on to the angled part of the president’s bed, which caused Agent Dawson to surge forward. “Crying babies,” Kadeem repeated, “and the smell of smashed concrete.”

The president made a sharp intake of breath, and although the volume on his vital-signs monitor was turned almost all the way down, Kadeem could hear the heartbeat pings accelerating.

It happened with astonishing quickness: footfalls outside the door, then a woman came in—black, elegant—ah, one of Sue’s memories: it was Alyssa Snow, Jerrison’s private physician. “Mr. President, are you okay?” she asked.

All the eyes—the photographer’s, Agent Dawson’s, Kadeem’s, the nurse’s, and Dr. Snow’s—were on Seth Jerrison. There were whites visible all around his irises, as if he were seeing something horrific.

And he was. Kadeem had no doubt. Yes, just because they were linked didn’t mean their recollections were in synch, but the flashback trigger would have had the same effect on the president as it was having on him. They might be experiencing different parts of it just now—Kadeem was seeing the half-track rolling over a corpse; the president might be seeing another wall shattering under mortar fire. But they were both there, Kadeem for the thousandth time, and Seth Jerrison for the very first.

“Mr. President?” asked Dr. Snow, desperately. “Are you okay, sir?”

The president was shaking his head slowly left and right, a small arc of what looked liked disbelief, and his mouth had dropped open. Dr. Snow was now standing on the opposite side of the bed from Kadeem and using two fingers to check the president’s pulse.

Kadeem staggered backward and ended up leaning against the wall for support.

Fire.

Smoke.

Screams.

He could barely see the real world, the hospital room, the president, but he turned his head and tried to make out the great man’s expression. His face showed not shock and awe, but shock and horror. The doctor was moving now to wipe the president’s brow.

Explosions.

Babies crying.

Gunfire.

“Mr. President?” Snow said. “Sir, for God’s sake!”

Agent Dawson moved in, too, and also said, “Mr. President?”

Kadeem knew, of course, that neither of them noticed, or, if they did notice, that neither of them cared that he was in distress, too. That was normal here in Washington, the way it had been not just since the start of this war but going right back to Korea.