Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Susan’s voice was gentle. “Sir, the White House is gone.”

“Yes, I know. It’s—yes.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I know. But the country needs to see that it has a leader, and…”

He trailed off, and after a while Susan prodded him with, “Sir?”

He considered how much to tell her. It was Saturday, and Counterpunch was scheduled to commence Tuesday morning Washington time. “There’s something big coming up, Susan, and I need to be available for it. I can’t lead from here.”

“Nothing is more important than your health, sir.”

“This is.”

She nodded. “All right. Where would you like to go?”

“Camp David.”

Camp David was located sixty miles north-northwest of DC, in Frederick County, Maryland. Following in the footsteps of George W. Bush and Barack Obama, Seth had named the camp’s Evergreen Chapel as his primary place of worship—neatly sidestepping the need to be seen at a public church each week. The site of the historic peace talks between Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin, and of numerous meetings between Bill Clinton and Tony Blair, Camp David was one of the most secure facilities in the nation, guarded by an elite unit of Marines.

“What if something goes wrong?” asked Susan. “What if you need medical attention?”

“It’s a military facility,” Seth said. “It’s got an excellent infirmary, and Dr. Snow and the rest of the White House medical team will relocate there. And the First Lady is on her way there now to get things set up for me; she’s flying in from Oregon.”

“What about Mount Weather?” Susan asked. “Isn’t that where most of the White House staff are now?”

Seth really wanted to take a long pause before he went on, but that was hardly the way to demonstrate that he was fit to be moved. “Camp David is the designated fallback location for the Executive Office of the President under the Continuity of Operations plan. And that’s where I want to lead from.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

“I want Singh and his equipment relocated there, too. Both he and it are far too valuable to be anywhere but a secure installation.”

“Very well, sir. Will do.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Seth said. “Make sure that Leon Hexley is moved there, as well.”

Susan frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise, sir, given his contact with Gordo Danbury?”

“One of the foremost lessons of history, Agent Dawson: keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”

Bessie Stilwell was exhausted. She wished her son had taken better care of his health, wished that he’d had a less stressful job, wished that he’d stayed in Mississippi.

But Mike had done none of those things, and so she’d been pulled into all this craziness. Linked minds! Meeting the president! A trip to Los Angeles! Visiting a TV studio! And now a flight back to Washington on a military jet. It was all much too much.

Darryl Hudkins had dozed for most of the return flight so far—and that had let Bessie relax. At least when he was unconscious, he presumably wasn’t riffling through her memories.

Memories. Of a life that was almost over, a life nearing its end, and—

And that was something, she realized. Mike had bugged her for years to write her memoirs, commit her recollections to paper, set down what it had been like to go work in a factory during World War II, to lose a son—Mike’s elder brother, in Vietnam—to watch the first man go into space.

Eighty-seven years of life.

She’d seen endless footage of the Lincoln Memorial on TV these last couple of days, and, of course, she knew the words of Lincoln’s most famous address, even though it was an artifact of the War of Northern Aggression.

Fourscore and seven years…

A lifetime. Her lifetime.

The world will little note nor long remember…

Her.

And it was true.

Her husband was gone.

Her elder son Robert was gone.

Yes, Mike had survived this heart attack, but he had his father’s genes; he’d be—it was tragic to think it, but she was a realist, she always had been—he’d be gone soon, too.

But Darryl was—well, he’d never said, and she had little experience judging the age of colored men—but he couldn’t be more than thirty-one or thirty-two.

More than half a century younger than her. And he’d told her, earlier in the long flight back, that one of the linked people had been killed but the person he was linked to—a nurse—had retained his memories.

That man was gone.

But not forgotten.

And if that’s the way these things worked, she decided she was pleased: a half century from now or more—and maybe, what with all the things medical science was doing, much, much more— someone would remember her life, someone would recall what it had been like to be her.

The Gettysburg Address had been a eulogy: from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…

She’d heard dozens of eulogies over the years, for family, for friends, for neighbors. And they all had said some version of what Lincoln had observed, although rarely as eloquently. They’re not really dead—so long as we remember them.

In that sense, at least, the events of the last two days had given her a new lease on life. Darryl Hudkins would remember her. He shifted a bit in his seat next to her, and Bessie smiled at him.

A short while later, the military jet started its nighttime approach toward Andrews Air Force Base. Bessie was grateful for the darkness; she’d rather not see the ruins of the White House off in the distance.

But she did see one building that she recognized—indeed, that she imagined everyone recognized, although its form could really only be appreciated from the air.

The Pentagon.

It sat there like a monstrous snowflake. And on the other side of South Washington Boulevard from it was a vast black area, and she knew, because he knew, what it was: Arlington National Cemetery, where 30,000 souls were trying to rest in peace.

The site of the Pentagon focused her attention, bringing back memories of…

Peter Muilenburg, the secretary of defense, meeting with President Jerrison and first proposing Counterpunch.

And, to his credit, Seth reacting with horror, and outrage and shock.

Yes, Seth had said, they’d attacked Philadelphia, destroying the Liberty Bell, and so much more.

Yes, they’d bombed San Francisco, taking out the Golden Gate Bridge.

And, yes, the tallest tower in Chicago had been brought tumbling down.

But this couldn’t be contemplated, this was unthinkable, this was un-American.

But Muilenburg had continued to make his case, to outline his plan, to show how it could be done with negligible American casualties, to show that it would work …

And, at last, Seth Jerrison, the history professor turned president, had said, “Do it.”

Bessie could feel the air pressure changing as the plane descended. She took out her hearing aid to help things equalize.

She was in a tizzy, still not clear what she should do. Should she tell Darryl about Counterpunch? Ah, but he worked for President Jerrison and—it came to her: he was one of two Secret Service agents that Seth still trusted.

Besides, even if she told people, would anyone believe her? Back in Pascagoula, she’d seen how folks looked at Mabel Simmons, laughing at her stories of seeing aliens and ghosts, calling her “that crazy old bat” and “Unstable Mabel.”

But no. It had been in the press: memory linkages at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. And there’d been much speculation about who, if anyone, was linked to President Jerrison.