Triggers

Bessie shook her head. “That’s not good enough, young man. I want you to take it to him—you personally. Call for someone else to stand here, but you deliver it yourself, do you understand?”

“I—that’s not how it’s normally done, ma’am.”

Bessie rallied all her strength. “These aren’t normal times, are they? Surely you understand that the president brought me here for a reason. You wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for him not getting an important message from me in time, now, would you?”

He seemed to consider this, then: “No, ma’am.”

“So you’ll personally see that he gets it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take it directly to the residence.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bessie smiled. “Thank you.” She closed the door and turned around just in time to see Darryl Hudkins emerging from his room. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday, although Bessie’s luggage had been waiting for her when she’d arrived here; someone had fetched her things from the Watergate.

“Good morning, Mrs. Stilwell,” he said. “Sorry I slept in so long.”

“Nothing else to do,” Bessie said.

“True. Did you sleep all right?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Have you called for breakfast yet?” They’d been told whatever they needed would be brought to them.

“No,” Bessie said. “I’m usually not hungry when I get up.” She thought for a moment, made a decision, then pointed to the living area. “Won’t you sit down? There’s something I need to tell you.”

She imagined his eyebrows went up, but, from this distance, she really couldn’t see. He went to the sink, got himself a glass of water, asked her if she wanted one, then went and took a seat on the ornately upholstered couch facing a giant window.

“We have to talk, Darryl. Or, well, maybe we don’t. I’m still getting used to how this all works, but…”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She paused, again having second thoughts. After all, Darryl was one of Jerrison’s trusted associates; the president had chosen him to go with her to California. She searched Jerrison’s memories for any indication that he’d taken Darryl into his confidence about Counterpunch.

Nothing.

Of course, Darryl might still be in on it; Bessie doubted the president briefed members of his protective detail personally. And so, she decided, she’d find out the old-fashioned way: she’d ask. “Darryl, does the name Counterpunch mean anything special to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It didn’t to me either, until yesterday, but…God, I don’t even know where to begin. Can you—can you pluck it from my mind?”

There was a pause, then: “I’m not finding anything, ma’am.”

“Counterpunch? Are you sure? I know all about it.”

“Nothing is coming to me. Where did you hear about it?”

“Well, I didn’t, actually. It’s something I learned about from the president’s memories.”

“Oh,” said Darryl. “Well, if I understand what Dr. Singh said, ma’am, the linking of minds is what he called ‘first-order.’ You can read the president’s memories, and I can read your memories, but I can’t read through you to his memories.”

“Oh, I see,” said Bessie. “Then I guess I just have to tell you.”

“That’d be simplest, ma’am.”

She took a deep breath. “Operation Counterpunch is what they’re planning to do,” she said.

“Who?”

“The president. The military.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And, ma’am, what is it they’re planning?”

“To destroy Pakistan.”

“I—what?”

“To destroy Pakistan,” she said again, and this time she did clearly see Darryl’s eyebrows go up. “To wipe all hundred and seventy million people there off the face of the Earth.”

“God,” he said, although it was more breath than voice. “Why?”

“I—I don’t know how to put this.”

“Was it Jerrison’s idea?”

“No. No, it was presented to him two months ago, by um…” She had trouble with the name; she’d recalled it repeatedly now, but wasn’t quite sure how to make the initial sounds for it. “Um, Mr. Muilenburg. He’s the, um—”

“The secretary of defense,” said Darryl. “Go on.”

“That’s right. He came to see the president, and laid it all out for him. Their conversation went something like this…”

Silver-haired Peter Muilenburg sat on one of the short couches in the Oval Office, and Seth Jerrison sat on the other one, facing him, the presidential seal on the carpet between them.

“And so,” Muilenburg said, “our recommendation is simply this: we wipe Pakistan off the map.”

Seth’s mouth dropped open a bit. “You can’t do that.”

“Of course we can, sir,” replied Muilenburg. “The question is whether we should.”

“No,” said Seth. “I mean, you can’t. Nuclear weapons are dirty; if you take out Pakistan, you’re bound to send fallout into the surrounding countries. Iran and Afghanistan to the west, China to the north, India to the east.”

Muilenburg nodded. “That would be true if we were proposing using nukes. But the new Magma-class bombs don’t give off any appreciable radiation, and the electromagnetic pulse they produce is much less devastating than that generated by a nuke.”

“It sounds like those terrorist bombs,” Seth said.