Джейсон Росс: The Last Air Force One

Whereas the Oval Office in the White House had been packed with economic and diplomatic advisors, the front section of Air Force One bristled with military men. Secretary of Defense Sam Greaney sat on Dutch’s couch and uniformed servicemen hustled past on their way to the communications center on the second floor of the aircraft.

The use of nuclear weapons would typically have that effect, Dutch reasoned. Still, even as a Republican, he had developed the habit of leaning away when the war hawks appeared. Almost from day one as president, Dutch found himself choking back on the military, as though it were a pit bull straining on its leash.

It made Dutch think of one of his father’s favorite truisms: to a hammer, everything’s a nail.

“I would love an update,” President Dutch McAdams requested as he settled behind his desk. The plane hadn’t taken to the air yet, but he had just spent twenty-five minutes in a helicopter without any news.

SecDef Sam Greaney would have the latest information, given that the military undoubtedly had aircraft circling over Los Angeles and maybe even troops on the ground by now. The secretary of defense would probably become Dutch’s best source for hard data from this point forward, no matter how much Dutch would’ve preferred to use domestic resources.

“Mister President, F-35s out of Miramar are currently over-flying Los Angeles harbor, and we have zero indication of a follow-on threat as of this time,” Sam reported. “Uncorroborated initial sit reps indicate that the device detonated four kilometers out to sea and that damage to Los Angeles proper was collateral overpressure and not the primary detonation.”

Dutch understood the words, but Sam Greaney had gotten into the habit of over-using military jargon since his posting to secretary of defense. Sam had served briefly as an Air Force officer three decades back, primarily working in intelligence and then working for the CIA. After that, he had moved into the private sector. Dutch had hoped that over twenty years in business would have made Sam a bridge between the military and civilian worlds, but during the last two years as SecDef, Sam had become something of a “fan boy” of the generals, officers and special forces soldiers that reported to him as secretary of defense. Perhaps Sam’s time in the military hadn’t been enough to answer that burning question inside most men: am I a warrior or am I not?

“Thank you, Sam. Could you please say that again, maybe in a way we’re all sure to understand?”

Sam Greaney blinked back the veiled criticism and ran his hands through his cropped gray hair as he gathered his thoughts. He tucked his dress shirt into his belt, tidying up the fabric around his trim waist. In the last two years, he had picked up the military officer habit of maintaining his fitness, despite being over sixty-years-old.

“Well, in civilian terms, I would say that the bomb seems to have been a small one. Maybe even a backpack nuke. We have no idea why, but it exploded three miles offshore from Los Angeles. We’re still trying to figure out why it didn’t hit L.A. directly. We have hearsay reports of L.A.P.D. intercepting a small sea craft right before detonation. There are no hostile warships in the area, and we have no reason to believe that enemy forces are in theater. But it’s hard to say for sure because from the sky, L.A. appears to be in total chaos.”

The airplane rumbled as it taxied on the runway, causing a short a pause in the briefing.

“Chaos?” Zach Jackson asked. As per Dutch’s request, both his SecDef and attorney general had made it onto the plane in time for takeoff.

Dutch had the same question: how had the bomb affected the rioting that was already going on in southern California. Los Angeles had been in a crisis even before the nuclear attack. More accurately, Orange County, California had been experiencing blackouts and brownouts over the previous two days, and the power problems had spread to the margins of L.A. as had rioting and civil disorder.

Dutch had never been entirely clear on the difference between Los Angeles and Orange County. They both seemed to be part of the same, sprawling mass of strip malls, commercial buildings and tract homes, stretching from Camp Pendleton in the south to Ventura in the north. Orange County had been experiencing rioting as had some parts of Los Angeles due to several days of power outages. Dutch and his staff were just working on a federal response to the rioting when they were interrupted by news of the nuclear attack.

Like Zach Johnson, the president wanted to know if the attack had stopped the rioting. They were both probably thinking of 9/11, when America quickly unified in the face of an attack on one of their great cities.

“Well,” Sam Greaney explained, “We’re talking about F-35 pilots looking down from several thousand feet going point-seven-five mach. It’s not like they can see the expression on peoples’ faces. They’re telling us that a mass exodus is underway, worse than before, if that’s even possible. I have troops rolling from El Segundo to give us eyes on the ground. I expect a report any minute.” He looked down, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and thumbing the screen, scrolling through messages, probably looking for a report from L.A..

“Is that a report from L.A., Sam?” the President prodded the secretary of defense, who had become engrossed in something on his cell phone. “Yes sir. Sorry, sir. I’m trying to find out more.” Sam Greaney sat down on the couch between Robbie Leforth, Chief of Staff, and Janice Brown, the president’s personal secretary.

“I’ll let you know more when I know more,” Sam Greaney said before getting lost in the data stream.

Everyone had been cleared out of the Oval Office by the flight attendant for takeoff. The president could buckle into his office chair, but everyone else had to take their assigned seats until they reached cruising altitude.

Dutch pondered the irony of the moment. California might be spiraling out of control, caught in a grab bag of disasters, but the pinnacle decision-makers, upon whom millions of people relied for leadership, were being herded to their seats by a flight attendant just to make absolutely sure nobody bumped their head during takeoff.

Dutch smiled despite the tension grinding in his gut. How had the world come to this: diminutive safety concerns and ponderous policy outweighing common sense? Nine-tenths of the straightforward actions he wanted to take as president had been stymied by political exigency, social sensitivity, and good, old fashioned inertia. Doing the smart thing had never been more difficult in politics, even with mind-boggling technology at their fingertips.

For the thousandth time, he compared his presidency to Abraham Lincoln’s. Oh how Dutch would’ve loved to lead the country back when a president could turn the rudder and the ship would follow.

He closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the deluge of information he faced since waking up that morning. What had started out as a terrorist attack in the Middle East had become an energy crisis which had transformed into a stock market problem. Then a bomb exploded off the California coast. Dutch failed to grasp the connection. It felt like a tangle of string and he couldn’t find the end.

This happened a lot as POTUS. He faced so many data points, factors and question marks that it became impossible to get them all on the same map inside his head. Having done this job for two years now, Dutch had a lot more sympathy for the guy he replaced. Doing the “smart thing,” even with more information than anyone on the planet, still involved a ton of guesswork.

He sat back in his chair and inventoried the events of the last few days, stripping them of drama as best he could.