Less than twenty minutes to noon.

  The exterior of Heaton Pavilion is made of exposed concrete and brick. She walks briskly to the lobby, holding Noa’s hand, and scans the interior, finds the lobby desk, where a male Army sergeant and two privates are manning the desk.

  She flashes her ID to the sergeant. “Hannah Abrams, CIA director. I need to see the vice president, Suite 71, immediately.”

  The Army sergeant seems stunned.

  “Ah, may I see your ID again?”

  She practically shoves it under his nose.

  Voice tight, Hannah says, “Sergeant, I need to get to Suite 71. It’s a national emergency. Please don’t hold me up.”

  The sergeant waits, and Hannah says, “Please.”

  He picks up a phone, drops it, says, “Crap. Hey, Tomas! Over here.”

  A uniformed security officer comes from his station, and the sergeant says, “Something’s up. Take these two women up to Suite 71.”

  The officer looks suspicious. “Has this been cleared?”

  Hannah says, “Yes, cleared all the way.”

  “All right,” the officer says. “Follow me.”

  Ninety seconds later, off at the seventh floor after taking a private elevator. A guard station is right outside the doors and she barrels right up, shows her ID, and says, “I need to see the vice president. Immediately. This is a national emergency.”

  One of the two female security officers picks up a phone, speaks low into it, and in a minute an older male physician in a white coat strides down the luxurious hallway, with wood paneling and antique paintings.

  “Captain Callaghan, Walter Reed commander,” he says. “What’s going on here?”

  Minute by minute, slipping by.

  Once more, she shows her ID. “Captain, is the vice president conscious? Able to hear and talk?”

  He frowns. “Well, in a manner of speaking. She’s still quite weak. We just removed an implant—”

  Hannah holds up her hand. “Captain, I’ve just come from the White House. Keegan Barrett has resigned his office. The vice president needs to be sworn in.”

  Callaghan says, “Wait, how come I haven’t heard of this?”

  “Damn it, Captain, it just happened less than a half hour ago,” she yells. “And the damn fool has ordered a cyberattack against China that will knock us back to the nineteenth century! We’ve got to swear in Vice President Hernandez and stop this war. Now, take me there, or I’ll find someone who will.”

  Captain Callaghan seems to grit his teeth.

  “All right, this way.”

  Hannah follows him, going by one door, and another, Noa right beside her, the poor woman’s face pale. They enter a suite that looks like it belongs to a high-end hotel in Manhattan. Two female Secret Service agents stand and seem to recognize both her and the Navy captain.

  Vice President Laura Hernandez is sitting up in her bed, face drawn and pale, sipping through a straw from a plastic cup. Three nurses in brightly colored scrubs are hovering around her bed when Hannah barges right in.

  “Madam Vice President,” Hannah says. “How are you feeling?”

  Her voice is a whisper. “Like…I got run over…by a truck…wait, I know.…you.”

  “I’m CIA Director Hannah Abrams, ma’am, and we’re in the middle of an emerging national emergency,” she says. “President Keegan Barrett has resigned. We need to swear you in.”

  “What…how…how did that happen…?”

  From a large clock in the room, she can see that it’s now 11:51 a.m.

  “Reasons of ill health, ma’am,” she says. “And he’s issued a command to commence war against China at twelve hundred hours. We’ve got to get you sworn in, have you countermand those orders.”

  She blinks and says, “Not dreaming…am I?”

  Hannah shakes her head. “No, Madam Vice President, not a dream. More like a nightmare.”

  Hernandez coughs and coughs. “Okay…if we have to…I…hope this isn’t some…damn joke…”

  Hannah feels the weight of history upon her, knowing that this has to go right, no matter the emergency, the lack of time, and she says, “A Bible! We need a Bible!”

  More than a century ago, upon the death of President Warren G. Harding, his vice president Calvin Coolidge took the oath of office by kerosene lamp in a Vermont farmhouse, administered by his father, a notary public and justice of the peace. As a cabinet member, Hannah is confident this oath-taking will hold up as well.

  One of the nurses ducks out, comes back with a purse, pulls out a small yet thick leather-bound book. With a slight accent, she says, “It’s Spanish, is that okay?”

  “It’ll work,” Hannah says, stepping forward. She hands her phone to Noa and says, “Noa, record this, will you?”

  Noa says, weakly, “Director, I’m hurting something bad. I think I’m gonna faint.”

  Hannah says, “Noa Himel, I’m ordering you not to faint within the next thirty seconds.”

  She takes the vice president’s left hand, with IV tubes running out, and places it on the soft leather cover.

  “Madam Vice President, please lift up your right hand, and repeat after me.”

  A nod.

  “I, Laura Hernandez…”

  “I…Laura…Hernandez…”

  “…solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States…”

  The words are low, halting, and slow, but they gain strength with each word. Hannah fights to keep her voice under control as tears come to her eyes.

  “…and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. So help me God.”

  The words are repeated, and at the “So help me God,” one of the nurses and one of the Secret Service agents give the sign of the cross. Hannah says, “Congratulations, Madam President.”

  “Thank you…but this war you say is coming…how can I stop it?”

  Hannah is stunned.

  She looks around the suite.

  According to procedure, a backup football with a military officer should be at the vice president’s side, containing the important codes that authorize her to issue orders as president.

  But they aren’t here.

  CHAPTER 145

  IN THE REAR of his armored Tahoe, General Tucker Wyman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, is running through his mind what he’s going to say and how he’s going to say it to the president when he roars up to the White House.

  In front of him his driver and security officer are murmuring back and forth, even radioing ahead to the lead police cars. Tucker ignores them.

  What will he do?

  Suppose President Barrett won’t see him?

  Can he break into his upstairs office? Or the Oval Office, if he’s there? And will the Secret Service put up resistance? They are sworn to protect the president, but damn it, he’s got to see him, convince him to reverse the order that will set off a chain of worldwide disasters.

  There’s a sudden braking, a swerve to the left, and the police cruisers up ahead have made a similar turn. Tucker slaps the driver on his right shoulder.

  “What the hell is going on? You’re going the wrong way! This isn’t the way to the White House!”

  His security officer turns to him. “Yes, sir, we know. But you want to see the president. The president isn’t at the White House. The president is at Walter Reed.”

  “Is he—”

  “No, sir,” the security officer replies. “It’s she. President Barrett has resigned. Vice President Hernandez has been sworn in.”

  Tucker sits back, relief coming to him, but checking his watch, he wonders if he’ll get there in time.

  Like they were sensing his mood, the police cruisers and Tahoe increase their speed, heading north to avert global disaster.

  CHAPTER 146

  NOA HIMEL KNOWS she should be paying close attention to what’s happening in front of her in the Presidential Suite, because in future histories to be written, this room and its participants will be remembered as much as the crowded cabin on Air Force One in Dallas on November 22, 1963, and in the East Wing of the White House on August 9, 1974.

  But she hurts too much to care about history.

  Her wrist and side are throbbing something awful, and she feels faint and like throwing up on this nice clean floor.

  Noa looks to the clock.

  It’s 11:54 a.m.

  Just six minutes left.

  In her haze she hears her boss yell, “Where in hell is the goddamn officer with the football?”

  One of the nurses says something about how since the vice president was in a coma, orders from the White House came to remove the football and the accompanying officer.

  Noa has a sense of who was behind that move.

  What now?

  No football.

  No communications.

  War will break out shortly.

  Her fault. If she hadn’t been so wound up in getting revenge for her dead cousin, blown to pieces in Beirut, with only bits of bloody clothing, bone, and flesh remaining.

  Clothing.

  Shouts from outside the room and an Army general and his assistant rush in, the assistant carrying a heavy black satchel, the older general she now recognizes as Tucker Wyman, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Doug, get the comm set up, get a link to Cybercommand in Fort Meade,” he says. “Madam President, we don’t have much time.”

  In her weak voice, she says, “I know…war…about to break out…”

  The general says, “Your authorization card? Where is it?”

  President Hernandez coughs. “I just woke up an hour ago. How in hell should I know?”

  More loud words, the assistant saying, “General Wyman, I’ve got a secure line.”

  Her boss says, “But that’s worth shit without the biscuit.”

  It comes to her.

  Noa calls out, “Clothing.”

  The president says, “Can’t…we…stop…without it?”

  “No,” General Wyman says. “We need the codes. We can’t do anything without them. Cybercommand has received a duly authorized order from the National Command Authority. They won’t step down without the proper codes.”

  Noa yells, “Clothing, people!”

  The room is silent. Everyone swivels to her.

  Noa coughs again, her eyesight graying out. “When Reagan was shot in 1981, his authorization code card was missing…it was found in his clothing after they stripped him in the ER and took him to surgery…”

  She closes her eyes.

  More yells.

  A nurse’s voice says, “I know where they are!”

  Movement, voices, someone uttering a prayer.

  Noa forces her eyes open, weakened hands clutching the side of her chair.

  A nurse comes back with a large white plastic bag. Her boss and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff work to tear it open, piling up shoes, slacks, underwear, blouse—

  “Here,” Hannah says, holding up something.

  “No,” says General Wyman. “The red one is for the nuclear launch codes. We need the blue one.”

  Noa spares a glance to the clock.

  The black hour and minute hands are too close together.

  “Here it is!” someone yells out, and Noa starts to slip.

  She hears bits and pieces of what is said next.

  “This is General Tucker Wyman, my authorization code is charlie lima five one…”

  Another voice, and he says, “Shut the fuck up. The next voice you hear is the National Command Authority, President Hernandez, canceling the offensive cyberattack scheduled for twelve hundred hours.”

  The new president starts talking into the phone handset that the general is holding. Hannah is holding the sheet of cardboard in front of her.

  The woman’s voice is stronger and again, Noa just hears bits of her words.

  “This is the president. Authorization delta yankee foxtrot three niner…”

  Noa’s eyes flutter shut.

  She’s so thirsty, so damn cold.

  A bullet wound and practically a knife wound to her wrist.

  Just another glamorous day in the CIA.

  “That is correct,” President Hernandez says. “Cancel the attack order at once. What? You heard me. At once.”

  Noa looks to the clock again.

  It’s five minutes past twelve o’clock.

  Too late.

  Noa closes her eyes and slips into darkness.

  CHAPTER 147

  AIR FORCE GENERAL Yvonne Knight of the US Cybercommand is at her desk in the command’s operations center at Fort Meade, Maryland, not liking what she’s seeing and hearing. She’s the duty officer today and with the command staff out in DC or in Las Vegas or San Jose, she is it, she’s the one in charge, and that’s the problem.

  For the past couple of hours she and her staff, grouped around workstations and desks clustered together in this secure basement bunker, have been seeing China deploy both physical and cyber assets this morning, prepping for war.

  Sitting next to her is Army Colonel Patrick Coulson, the deputy duty officer today. He’s staring at her with anticipation. Less than an hour ago she had received a verified order from the National Command Authority to launch a cyberattack on the People’s Republic of China—Case Shanghai—and now it’s two minutes away from 1200 hours, the time she is ordered to issue the go code.

  Her fingers trace across the keyboard.

  The planned commands and dialogue boxes are up on her computer screen.

  Just a few taps of the keyboard and the lawful orders from the National Command Authority—President Barrett Keegan—will be issued.

  She waits.

  “Ma’am,” Colonel Coulson says. “We’re one minute away.”

  “Got it.”

  For her past year at Cybercommand, she’s been working low-level operations that didn’t require presidential approval, called “persistent engagement.” Poking in and around adversarial computer systems, installing surveillance and malware software where possible, and occasionally kicking a cyber opponent in the balls to let them know the United States isn’t a passive victim.

  Thirty seconds left.

  But this…this is an incredible escalation.

  Like going from a little border incident involving one or two rifle shots to a full nuclear conflict.

  “Ma’am,” Colonel Coulson says. “It’s twelve hundred hours.”

  She waits, looking at all the display screens and terminals, and, one by one, the staff here turn their heads to her, to see what’s going on.

  “Ma’am, we have a lawful order to follow.”

  Yvonne recalls a time as a child when she took apart the family’s laptop and installed extra memory, and Dad’s anger was quickly dispersed when he saw how fast and efficient their old computer now was.

  That’s what Yvonne loves about computers and associated systems.

  Enhancing, not destroying.

  “General Knight, is there a problem?” her deputy asks. “It’s one minute past the go time.”

  She says, “Get on the horn. I want confirmation.”

  “Ma’am, you know that’s not allowed. That’s not procedure. You have to—”

  Yvonne snaps, “Screw procedure. I’m not about to incinerate most of the world’s internet without additional confirmation. Make the call, Colonel. It’s on me. You’re just following orders.”

  His jaw is set and he’s about to pick up the phone when it suddenly starts ringing.

  “It’s coming in for you, General,” he says.

  Career over, court martial coming, jail time in her future, but so what.

  At least she would sleep tonight.

  “Answer it,” she says.

  CHAPTER 148

  CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams is sitting at a round wooden table, covered by a crisp white tablecloth, her hand shaking as she brings up a tumbler of ice water to her mouth.

  Across from her is General Tucker Wyman. They are both in the dining room adjacent to President Hernandez’s bed. She is back asleep, and Hannah wishes her well, for the press is gathering like a flash mob outside of Walter Reed. It’s only going to get worse as the news spreads wider.

  The general looks like he’s just run a marathon. He’s slumped back against his chair, uniform tie undone, face sweaty. Over the years Hannah has had some classified dealings with Tucker, and she’s found him to be a rarity, a military officer who hadn’t forgotten his roots in the mud and the field with bullets whistling overhead.

  “Close,” she says. “Very, very close.”

  Tucker picks up his drink, also a glass of ice water, and says, “That’s what Wellington said, right after Waterloo. ‘The nearest-run thing you ever saw in your life.’ Yeah, the duke knew what he was talking about. Makes you think what he would feel about something like this, a worldwide collapse barely avoided.”

  “How much time to spare?”

  “Maybe seventy, ninety seconds.”

  “But the clock in the room—”

  Tucker sips again. “The duty general in Cybercommand wanted a confirmation before pushing the buttons that would turn the world black. Thank God. Something like that happened back in 1995. Russian military saw an incoming missile that looked like it was heading to Moscow for a decapitation strike. Yeltsin had his nuclear football up and running and was about to issue orders for a nuclear retaliation before the Russians realized the missile was a Norwegian weather rocket. Jesus.”

  Hannah just sits and refuses to think for a bit, but Tucker interrupts her silence and says, “How’s your officer? Himel?”

  “Somewhere in here being treated. A tough young lady indeed. She was with me for the past hour, not complaining, with a torn-up wrist and bullet wound in her side.”

  Tucker says, “Those are the kind of people who save us, aren’t they? The ones who go above and beyond. Or ask questions, like that Cybercommand general.”