The War Cloud Read Free Page B

hand, the back of which still bore an admission stamp from some event. “Look around you. Have you seen this government school? This IS a police state. My Bill of Rights didn’t keep the government from sucking in your tax dollars, nor Ms. Boyle from opening my private locker and going through my diary, or kicking me out of the school dance last Friday.”
    “School dance?” Sachs repeated, looking at Jennifer. “You never told me about a dance. Did you go with—”
    “She was wearing thong underwear,” Boyle declared, cutting her off. “Highly visible underwear, I might add.”
    Sachs stared at her 13-year-old daughter, trying to process this ambush of zingers from Boyle. “You were wearing a thong?”
    “Well, duh.” Jennifer was non-apologetic. “Everybody at the dance could see my thong after Ms. Vice Squad here lifted up my skirt.”
    Sachs stared at Boyle. “You looked under my daughter’s skirt?”
    “Whatever,” said Jennifer. “Can we get going already?”
    “We should move along,” Boyle helpfully agreed, clearly looking to delay the inevitable, ugly parent-teacher conference with Sachs. “Everybody’s in the gymnasium.”
    Sachs looked at both of them, not sure whom she was more furious at. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s not keep them waiting. I’ll deal with you later, ladies. Both of you.”

6

1147 Hours
The White House

    P resident Rhinehart and his military attaché hurried down a long sub-basement corridor beneath the East Wing. At the end of the corridor stood a Marine guarding a steel door. Rhinehart slid a security card through an electronic key slot next to the door. The red light turned off. A green light flashed on. There was a beep and a loud click. The vault opened.
    Inside the bunker, the White House Chief of Staff, National Security Adviser and assorted military aides were arguing around the conference table. They rose in unison when the president entered and looked around.
    Rhinehart said, “Where’s Bald Eagle?”
    “The Central Locator said all eighteen designated presidential successors were due in town for the speech,” said Stan Black, his Chief of Staff. “So I sent the Secretary of Defense to a base inspection in California.”
    As he spoke, the Marine stepped inside and closed the vault door behind him with a definitive thud, sealing them all inside.
    “Lucky for him,” Rhinehart mumbled.
    Jack Natori, his National Security Adviser, said, “We’ve got the Pentagon on speaker, Mr. President.”
    Rhinehart said, “What the hell is going on, Bob?”
    General Sherman’s voice boomed on speaker. “NEST teams picked up trace uranium in the Metro railyards where a security guard was found de this morning by D.C. police,” Sherman said. “It matches the SS-20 core profile. We think the SS-20 or, more likely, its warhead, came into Baltimore on a freighter and then was offloaded to the train to D.C.”
    “Where is it now?”
    “God knows. Probably in some van cruising the streets as we try to get a lock on its location.”
    Rhinehart took a breath. This was real. “What else are we doing about it, Bob?”
    “Everything, including preparing for a detonation,” Sherman said. “Army and Air Force choppers at the Pentagon heliport are airlifting 44 selected personnel. The civilians will go to Mount Weather to establish a new government. The military officers are heading to Raven Rock to conduct the war.”
    “That’ll take thirty minutes,” Rhinehart said. “I thought we only had five.”
    Natori checked his watch. “Four minutes now.”
    Rhinehart said, “The vice president is taking my chopper to Andrews right now.”
    Natori shook his head. “He’ll barely get off the ground before we disappear in a mushroom cloud.”
    The military attaché then placed the football on the table, dialed the combination and removed a binder–Federal Emergency Plan D.
    Rhinehart stared at it for a long, hard moment. He forgot what the D actually stood for, but it