The Hammer of God Read Free Page A

the Cold War architects of Mutually Assured Destruction decided to mix up the deck a little by allowing the creation of the NCA, peopled at the pleasure of the President. Technically, the Chief Executive could appoint any U.S.-born citizen, from the Vice President to a dogcatcher in Duluth to the order of succession to “the button.” Therefore, if the twenty-five people on the list ahead of Bill were to meet their maker as nuked crispy critters, the decision and authority to launch a nuclear war or retaliation would fall to him. Billy Hiccock, the kid from the Bronx, who could throw a football well enough to win a Heisman at Stanford and throw numbers around well enough to earn a Doctor of Scientific Methodology from M.I.T. and become the President’s trusted science advisor, was now in line to destroy the world. Wouldn’t mom be proud! The awesome powers of that responsibility made the number twenty-six seem as daunting as if the number were two.
    Within five minutes, there were fourteen key NCA designees in the room in addition to staff and technicians. Bill knew that six other NCA assets were linked to the room from various “safe locations.” The Vice President called in from his ultimate nuclear-safe perch, Air Force 2, at 35,000 feet above Indianapolis.
    The Chief of Staff entered and took his seat in the chair reserved for the President. He quickly scanned a clipboard, nodded, and then removed his glasses.
    â€œFirst let me tell you that this is a drill. The President is fine and in no danger. Second, our response time is up from the last National Emergency Simulation Exercise. We beat our old mark by a minute and a half with eighteen NCA members secured within four minutes of the emergency action message transmission. For those of you who have been through this a couple times, thank you, and you can return to your duties. For Mr. Hiccock, Mr. Rassing, and Mrs. Chulk, I am going to ask you to stay and let the team familiarize you with what happens when we crash the White House like this.”
    Hiccock breathed easy. The world was safe for now. No attack/counterattack scenarios to wipe out all life as we know it. Just a few more procedures for him to learn and, no doubt, a few more nightmares to have. He spent the next forty-five minutes learning about SIOP, Pave Paws, authenticator codes, and other stuff most people thought went away with the Cold War.
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    Meanwhile, Surgeon General Judy Pearson was studying a report titled The Treatment of Infant Pancreatic Cancer through Genetically Engineered Cell Remanufacture when her deputy barged into her office.
    â€œWhat’s up, Bob?”
    â€œBad news, boss.”
    When her deputy finished giving her the details, Pearson’s immediate instinct was to call the White House. Instead, her eyes fell on her calendar and her impending dinner. She decided she’d prepare for dinner early.
    â€œBob, get me a copy of H.R. 7631 – stat!”
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    It was no ordinary jar of cold cream. The Princess Briana label insured that only the faces of the most well-to-do women would ever feel its deep-cleansing emollients tingle as it beautified, moisturized, and rejuvenated their already too-well-pampered skin.
    Chang Su admired the work of her team. They were specially chosen to make this jar by the commissar of the village who was also the head of the factory. It was an honor to serve the PRC in this fashion. Normally she would copy lesser brands and then the factory would run thousands of cases. In this case, though, her instructions were to make only twenty-four of these. They were perfect replicas of the actual jar in every way except that they were 1/32nd of an inch smaller than the original because they were made from a different material. The label was easier to resize but the unique jar required three attempts to get just right. Capitalism not being embraced in China, she never calculated the cost per unit