After America Read Free Page A

stint in New York about eight years back. Worked in-house with Arthur Andersen. But never on the Street, no.”
    The president craned his head upward, looking for the Marine Corps sniper teams that had slotted themselves into the buildings above his intended route. He couldn’t see them and had to suppress a shiver. There was just something wrong about this place. Vegetation had come back much more quickly than anyone had imagined, probably helped by the flooding and storms of the last few years, and the entire city reminded him of a weed-choked cemetery—a cemetery that was also a battleground.
    It had taken one of the U.S. Army’s remaining brigade combat teams, augmented by militia units, to clear just the southern end of the island for his visit. And even that clearance was less than perfect, leaving porous gaps through which everyone and anyone could slip. It took an additional force of marines, special forces, and private contractors to secure a solid wedge from the World Trade Center down to Battery Park and across to the ferry terminal for his visit—and once secured, a battalion of Governor Schimmel’s Manhattan Militia irregulars threw up a cordon none could pass without lethal consequences.
    Karen Milliner stepped up to his elbow and spoke quietly.
    “The media are on site, Mister President. We’d best a get a move on.”
    He wasn’t sure why she felt the need to keep her voice down. He had specifically said he wanted to make this part of his inspection alone, just himself and his chief of staff. Karen came along simply because of the media events that bracketed his stroll through the dead city.
    Kip turned away from the NYSE only to pause and stare at the grand Doric columns of Federal Hall. Washington’s statue still stood on a plinth in front of the building, which had gotten through the last few years in much better shape than some of the larger, more modern buildings around it. A cleanup crew had swept away any debris and vegetation from the stone staircase, and the first president’s statue gleamed as though freshly scrubbed.
    “Just gimme a minute,” he said.
    Kipper crossed the street, prompting his security cordon to follow him, with Culver huffing and puffing to keep up. At the steps of the building he gazed into the upturned eyes of George Washington before reading the inscription at the base of the statue.
ON THIS SITE IN FEDERAL HALL

APRIL 30, 1789

GEORGE WASHINGTON
TOOK THE OATH AS THE FIRST PRESIDENT
OF THE UNITED STATES
OF AMERICA
    “Mister President?” Culver tugged at his arm.
    Kipper frowned at his chief of staff. He’d labored manfully to get Culver to call him Kip or even Jimmy—ordered him to more than once, in fact—but the former attorney insisted on the formalities. Kip suspected he enjoyed them. Jed’s considerable bulk was constrained in a dark blue three-piece suit, which must have been a terrible inconvenience; the president wore jeans, tan Carhartt work boots, and a ballistic vest over an old L.L. Bean shirt. Even that modest outfit was uncomfortable in the heat and humidity. The damn weather, it was still all over the goddamn place.
    “Just one more minute, Jed.”
    Looking at the statue, Kipper wondered what truly had gone through Washington’s mind on that day. He was the leader of a newborn nation on the brink of a vast wilderness surrounded by both real and potential enemies. He had given up command of the army against the advice of many officers who’d argued against the move. Faith in the system he was helping to establish—that was the lesson Kipper took from Washington.
    Reading presidential biographies was a self-imposed requirement for a job he felt poorly qualified to do, yet they never truly got to the heart of the men who were his predecessors. Of them all, Kipper really identified only with Truman, who felt as if the barn had fallen in on him when Roosevelt died.
    At least he knew it was coming, Kipper thought ruefully. He marveled at the path