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On the big TV screen there were half a dozen windows showing various views of General Zetter’s efforts to clean up Stebbins County. Gunships filled the rainy skies. Armored personnel carriers were laden with guns of kinds he couldn’t name, some of which he’d never seen. The president was a lawyer and career politician and had never served. Not that it mattered, because many of his predecessors hadn’t either. Not everyone could be JFK.
He tried to understand the military, though, and felt he had a good grasp of its philosophies. He knew the big-budget technology, of course, the drones and missile programs, the fleets and the last jet fighters. All of those were big-ticket items that were constantly in the press. As he watched a line of soldiers in hazmat suits deploy from the back of a troop transport, he made a mental note to become more familiar with their gear, with the things they had to carry into fights like this.
He took another drag, wishing for a moment that he was back in college and hitting a blunt instead. That was a long time ago, and he hadn’t gotten high since junior year.
Now seemed like a good time.
Maybe it would take the edge off.
Or maybe not. He remembered the paranoia that sometimes accompanied the high, and he sure as hell didn’t need any more of that.
As he lifted the cigarette to his lips again he studied his hand. It was shaking.
Had it done that during the meeting?
He wasn’t sure.
Was it relief that the crisis was over—at least everything except the spin control—or was it something else?
Was Scott Blair right? Were the generals right? Except for Zetter they all agreed with Blair.
So what did that mean?
The president punched a button on the table.
“Yes, Mr. President?” asked his secretary.
“Doris, get General Zetter on the line. Private call.”
“Right away, Mr. President.”
It was just that. In less than a minute Zetter was on the line.
“General,” said the president curtly, “are you alone and is this a secure line?”
“Yes to both, sir,” said Zetter. The connection was still weak and static-filled because of the high-intensity jammers.
“Good. I’m alone as well, Simeon, so this is just the two of us. What I want is the bottom line. No politicizing, no padding or fluff. I want to know the absolute truth about where we stand in Stebbins County.”
There was a very small pause at the other end of the call. “We’re in good shape, Mr. President,” said Zetter. “However, with the storm strengthening we could use more men.”
“Have there been any fresh sightings?”
Another pause, a little longer this time. “There are scattered sightings, sir, but each encounter has been satisfactorily resolved.”
“How’s the line holding?”
“We’re confident that the Q-zone is absolutely solid,” Zetter said . “There have been no incidents at any of the checkpoints, and we have satellite and helicopter surveillance as well as roaming patrols and spotter planes. A mouse with a head cold couldn’t get out of Stebbins.”
“Simeon,” said the president, “I need you to be absolutely sure about this.”
“I am, sir.” Another hesitation. “However, we could really use the extra troops. National Guard, Reservists, or regular Army. Any or all. The more boots we have on the ground the tighter the lock and the quicker we can put a button on this whole matter.”
“Very well. Send your requests to Sylvia Ruddy and I’ll sign the order and make the necessary calls right away.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Of course. And Simeon—?”
