John Barnes - Directive 51

“Maybe he was. I haven’t heard there’s a time limit or a legal waiting period on that.”

“Yeah.”

“Love does weird things that don’t always fit in with our self-interest. That was one reason why I told students I’d advise them about everything else, but never their love lives.”

“Probably sensible of you.”

“Or cold-hearted. Take your pick.”

From the crest of the ridge, the evergreen forest in front of them was shrouded in fog; beyond, the few lights in the dark and still town dimly illuminated long tendrils of rising woodsmoke. A distant creak-and-squeak told them the cable-car rig was beginning to run for the day. It was dark from the overcast, and when distant lightning flashed, Heather said, “Maybe we should head back; that looks like it could storm.” They turned and headed back the way they had come. After a couple of minutes, she said, “It might be a while before I know what to do with myself.”

“If you don’t have any use for yourself, your country does,” Weisbrod pointed out, “and eventually you—what’s that?”

Heather knew the way a native Angeleno does. “Earthquake.” There was a second shock moments later. “I didn’t know we even had those around here.”

“I don’t know,” Graham said, “maybe the New Madrid Fault? That’s actually supposed to be the biggest one in the country but it’s up in Missouri or Tennessee, I remember, so if we’re feeling that here, St. Louis must be rubble. We’d better hurry back.”

The lecture hall was packed to the walls. Senior personnel like Heather and Arnie were wedged in uncomfortably down front; Sherry and the other “gofers-general,” as Allie had dubbed them, were jammed shoulder to shoulder up in the back rows.

Not at all like his usual entrance, in which he’d stop to talk with or encourage a few people along the way, Cam strode in swiftly, surrounded by uniforms, straight to the podium.

He nodded at Graham and gestured for him to come down and join him.

The room had fallen terribly silent.

“I must begin by confirming some very bad news,” Cam began. “About an hour and a half ago, nuclear weapons of unprecedented power destroyed Washington, DC, and Chicago. Spectrographic data and some airborne sampling have now confirmed that these were pure fusion devices, as first identified by Jim Browder, who many of you knew as a friend and colleague.

“I am making inquiries into the possible location of anyone in the chain of succession who may have been outside Washington, but I do not think it is likely that I will find anyone; all evidence is that the President and the entire line of succession, except for Dr. Weisbrod, have perished in the attack.”

Heather sat stunned; maybe I’ve cried so much lately that I don’t have any more in me now. Around her, she could hear small gasps and sobs.

“Satellite photos, seismographs, and other reconnaissance,” Cameron added, “show similar detonations have occurred in the North Sea, near Shanghai, and in Israel. A so-far unverified military shortwave message, purporting to be from the Argentine Navy, claims that there was an abortive attack on Buenos Aires as well, but it sounds as if either the bomb fizzled or it was a different type of weapon.

“The weapons are estimated at between 225 and 400 megatons. There is no experience with anything remotely that size, so we must expect very large, surprising effects about which at the moment we know nothing. A reporter for KP-1 in Pittsburgh has reached us via a ham operator’s backup rig, for example, and reported that when KP-1 was knocked off the air, its main antenna literally vaporized; overhead wires all over Pittsburgh are burning or melting; and in some cases water pipes, railings, and railroad tracks became hot enough to burn unprotected flesh. Dr. Solomon, our specialist for nuclear weapons physics, says she thinks it may be that a burst of that size, even at surface level, either puts out enough X-rays to reach the ionosphere and cause an EMP, or that possibly the fireball is so hot, and so long-lasting, that it is still emitting X-rays or gamma rays even as it rises to altitudes of fifty miles or more.

“Observers everywhere are also reporting an apparent meteor shower, dwarfing anything ever seen before, in broad daylight, which we are guessing is a hitherto-unknown form of space-transiting fallout.

“Most of you will already have urgent business on your desks; the rest of you can expect to have something vital to do within a short time. I only ask that you show even more of the dedication you have shown as we cope with this latest enemy attack; I don’t for a minute believe we will go down, but if we must, let us go down fighting. Better yet, let us win.”

Graham Weisbrod and Cameron Nguyen-Peters had become not so much close friends as close comrades, and Weisbrod knew something was up from Cam’s careful politeness. He didn’t know General McIntyre or General Phat well, but one way or another, I guess I am going to.

After they had gathered in a small room, and Cameron had offered them all water and coffee, Graham Weisbrod said, “Cameron, you have thoughts you haven’t shared with me. There’s some reason you didn’t just rush into swearing me in and getting the NCCC monkey off your back. Is there a Cabinet officer out there who might be alive?”

The younger man looked down at the floor, and then up into Graham’s eyes. “We sort of established, during the whole horrible Shaunsen Acting Presidency, that the NCCC is not only responsible for locating the presidential successor and getting him sworn in, but also sort of for… well, the quality of the successor.”

“I’m not mad or brain-damaged, I haven’t been kidnapped, and no one is holding any of my loved ones hostage.”

“But you’re the very last in line; there is no legitimate successor after you, at least not till you appoint a Vice President, and a new Congress—which there is no provision for creating—confirms him. So I need to think; if we swear you in, you’re the President, period, from then on, with no ability to take it back.” Cameron sighed. “Shaunsen was a bad precedent.”

“Cam, plainly you think that I’m not fully competent to be President. I’m liberal and you’re conservative, but that isn’t the reason, unless you’re much more petty-political than I’ve always taken you for. Look, pretend we’re just having a beer and talking pure theory. So… why should I not be president?”

Cameron looked straight into Weisbrod’s eyes. “I made a terrible mistake before when I made Shaunsen president. And a more terrible mistake in not removing him promptly. And you would be the President, not the Acting President, so I could not Constitutionally remove you. I know you’re not Peter Shaunsen, and you would not turn the whole thing into a corrupt bonanza.”

“I understand that. When the President of the United States died in my arms, it made an impression. That’s not the answer to my question. I understand that if I am a terrible mistake, you will have no way to undo it, and that makes you hesitate. But you still haven’t told me why you think that making me President might be a terrible mistake.”

“Because as far as I can see, we are in a war—a war for national survival—and I must have a president who will seriously prosecute that war, all the way to victory.”

Weisbrod considered. “General McIntyre, General Phat, I’m assuming you are here as witnesses?”

“Actually,” Phat said, “I wasn’t told why we’d be gathering, and I’m not altogether sure that the Army should be playing a role in choosing the commander in chief. It feels too much like Bolivia.”