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The boy pointed and Rapp set off in the direction he indicated. After about another twenty-five yards, he heard someone call his name from behind. It wasn’t another anonymous escort, though. When he turned, he saw people scurrying to get out of Joshua Alexander’s way.

  Instead of his customary dark suit, he was wearing a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a Crimson Tide sweatshirt. His normally perfect hair was a little wild, framing a gaunt face and eyes that had seen more than they wanted to in the past week. It was an expression that Rapp was familiar with from decades in combat zones. The man was barely holding himself together.

  “Thanks for coming, Mitch.”

  “Not a problem, sir. Are you all right?”

  The president let out a short laugh and put a hand on Rapp’s back, prompting him forward again. “A few more weeks,” he said. “That’s all I had. Then I was going to hand the keys to the next administration and disappear.”

  A group of kids ran across their path, forcing them to stop for a moment.

  “Electrical engineers?” Rapp said, watching them disappear into the bodies around them.

  “I took your advice. They might not be electrical engineers, but there’s a good chance their parents are. And I’ve told them that their kids are safe here as long as they keep working their asses off eighteen hours a day.”

  “What about the politicians?”

  “I sent them home to their districts with protection and the promise of supplies for them and their families.”

  “And how’s that working out?”

  “Depends on your perspective. I’ve made it clear that when I say jump, the only acceptable response from them is to ask how high. If I get any other response, they’re going to find themselves on their own.”

  They finally reached the back wall and the president ushered him through a nondescript door. What they entered wasn’t the grand replica of the Oval Office Rapp had expected, though. More like a repurposed storage room furnished with a modest desk, a few chairs, and a television propped on a stack of boxes.

  Alexander dropped into the chair behind the desk, obviously registering Rapp’s surprise. “My office was a waste of space. It’s full of bunks now.”

  Rapp nodded. “You said things were working out depending on how you look at it. The way I look at it, you’re getting things under control.”

  “I’m becoming a dictator.”

  “You’re becoming the military commander this country needs.”

  He smiled enigmatically. “Did you hear that the riots in Phoenix have quieted down?”

  The civil unrest plaguing that city had been growing and becoming increasingly organized. With no phones or social media, the rioters had begun communicating through graffiti. The day before, there had been an incident that left hundreds injured and generated enough property damage to leave a few hundred more homeless.

  “I didn’t,” Rapp admitted. In fact, he’d spent the last day and a half crawling around under Scott Coleman’s house trying to figure out why his batteries were draining.

  “Do you want to know how I did it?”

  “The military?”

  Alexander shook his head. “I cut off their water. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? TJ’s been killing himself to keep their water on and then I shut it off. And I made it clear that they were going to go home or they were going to die of thirst.”

  Rapp took a chair. “They didn’t have any demands, sir. And if they did, you don’t have the ability to meet them or you would have already. They were just wasting energy, injuring themselves and others, and sucking up critical resources. Your solution beats the hell out of any alternative I can think of.”

  “I wonder if that’s how the American people will see it when this is all over.”

  “Whether they see it that way or not doesn’t matter. That’s the way it is.”

  “Still, I might need you and Irene to set me up with a little plastic surgery and a new life. You’re good at that, right?”

  Rapp grinned. “We’re great at that. What did you have in mind?”

  “Maybe a little commercial fishing boat in Panama. I’ve always liked the ocean.”

  “We’ll see what we can do. Now I have to ask, sir. Why am I here? Not to talk about fishing.”

  “No. Not to talk about fishing,” he said, sounding a little distant. “Irene finished building her case against the Russians and sent it to them. We have a conference call with President Utkin and the head of the SVR in…” He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes.”

  Rapp nodded. “Are you sure about this, sir? If I’m in that meeting, you’re sending a pretty strong message. I’m not exactly a political advisor. I only do one thing and Utkin knows better than most what it is.”

  Alexander’s face seemed to lose all expression. “I’m sure. And I want you to understand that I’m serious, too. If he decides to play games, I’m not denouncing him at the UN or suing him in the World Court. I’m sending you.”

  * * *

  The communications room they entered was a little better put together than the president’s improvised office—lots of glass and stainless steel with windows frosted opaque. The ubiquitous monitors hung on the walls, with most running what looked like live webcam feeds of Moscow. Rapp focused for a moment on the hazy lights of Red Square before walking over to Irene Kennedy at the far end of a conference table.

  “How’s Tommy?” he asked, referring to her teenaged son. “The offer still stands. We’d be happy to take him.”

  “Thank you,” she said as they exchanged their customary kiss on the cheek. “But the president has promised he’ll provide for him as long as I remain useful.”

  “Don’t break my balls, Irene,” Alexander said. “I’m about at my limit.”

  And he looked the part. He hadn’t bothered to change into a suit or even comb his hair, and his resigned desperation now seemed to hide a little fear. All indications were that this was going to be an interesting meeting.

  “Let’s do it,” Alexander said simply.

  Kennedy nodded and tapped a few commands into the laptop in front of her. A moment later, one of the monitors faded to black and the image of Moscow was replaced by the words STAND BY. About thirty seconds passed before the office of the Russian president appeared on screen. The difference was striking. Utkin and Kedrov were both perfectly groomed, wearing tailored suits, and surrounded by the over-the-top opulence left over from the czars.

  “We’ve reviewed your communiqué in detail,” Utkin said by way of greeting. “And while I sympathize with your present situation, I won’t tolerate these kinds of dangerous and unfounded accusations.”

  “Good to see you, too,” Alexander said.

  Utkin didn’t seem to hear, instead focusing on Rapp. “What’s he doing in this meeting? Is this some kind of attempt to intimidate me?”

  The fear that had been hinted at in Alexander’s expression only a few moments before had completely disappeared. The consummate politician, his face projected only icy resolve.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, Boris. Shortly after we intercepted chatter about you being approached by someone with plans to take out our grid, you and the people close to you started shifting your money around. Now your investments seem to be positioned in a way designed to specifically protect you from a serious economic crisis.”

  “I can’t help feeling that the stress of your position is unbalancing you, Joshua. And I’m surprised that Dr. Kennedy wasn’t able to reason with you before you sent this file full of nonsense. Your entire case against us is based on an anonymous comment on the Internet that doesn’t even contain a direct indication of Russian involvement.”

  “I don’t need—”

  Utkin kept talking, cutting Alexander off. “And the financial transactions you call evidence? Why wouldn’t I make these changes? The European Union is beginning to shatter. The Middle East is increasingly unstable. The US seems committed to its own destruction and will soon have a new president elected under highly irregula
r circumstances. China’s entire economy is floating on unsustainable, hidden debt…” His voice faded for a moment. “It was frankly irresponsible of me not to make these investment adjustments sooner.”

  Alexander took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking again. “If someone came to you with information about our power grid and you turned them down, fine. But now things have changed. We’ve been attacked, we’re aware of your involvement, and I expect you to come clean.”

  A translator suddenly appeared in the frame and whispered something in Utkin’s ear. The definition of “come clean,” Rapp assumed. While the Russian president’s English was strong, it wasn’t perfect.

  “We have nothing to come clean about,” he responded. “Now let’s put this idiocy aside before things go too far. You’re not in a position to make enemies.”

  Alexander leaned forward and put his elbows on the conference table. “Russia’s managed to inflict a lot of damage on the world without much in the way of resources. I’ll give you that. But keep in mind that my cyberwarfare budget is more than you spend on your entire navy.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds and it was Alexander who looked away first. But not in a gesture of submission. He glanced over at Kennedy and gave her a barely perceptible nod. In response, she tapped a few more commands into her laptop. A moment later all the monitors in the room went dead.

  Or at least that’s what Rapp thought at first. After a few seconds, he realized that car headlights were still visible on the webcam feeds. No streetlights, though. No lit signs or glowing windows. Moscow had gone dark.

  Alexander leaned back in his chair, staring not at the monitors but at an empty section of frosted glass. The next three minutes of silence in the room seemed like an hour, but then the STAND BY screen came back up on the main monitor. A few more seconds passed before Utkin’s enraged face appeared.

  “This is an act of war!” he shouted. “You can’t—”

  “I can,” Alexander said. “And this isn’t the end of it, Boris. I have five switches. That was just the first of them. I also have more than thirty of our top operators in Russia waiting for my signal to go after your physical power infrastructure. And I can have Mitch in Moscow by this time tomorrow. But his target will be different.”

  “You haven’t shut down our nuclear arsenal,” he said, sounding a bit strangled. “It’s connected to its own power supply.”

  “So is ours,” Alexander said calmly. “Go ahead and launch. Then we’ll do the same. Because I’ve got nothing to lose. But let me be perfectly clear. If my people are going to starve to death in the cold or go up in a bunch of mushroom clouds, you are too.”

  Pavel Kedrov, who had been standing dutifully by his boss’s desk for the entire exchange, was looking increasingly alarmed. Rapp had met him on a number of occasions and while he was a typical Russian son of a bitch, he wasn’t stupid or suicidal.

  “Excuse me, President Utkin. Can I interject? I haven’t had time to brief you, but I received some intelligence just before I walked into this meeting. It might shed some light on the matter.”

  “What luck,” Alexander said wearily. “Let’s hear it.”

  Utkin seemed a little confused, but that didn’t stop his man from continuing. Apparently, a nuclear exchange didn’t fit in with Kedrov’s weekend plans.

  “I spoke with our embassy in Washington to ask if they had any information that might be related to this. One of our more junior people said he sent someone to talk to an American man who claimed he had information on vulnerabilities in the US power grid. However, our agent didn’t find the man credible and that was the end of our communications with him. In the end, the exchange wasn’t given enough importance to merit a report to my office.”

  “What’s his name?” Alexander said, clearly uninterested in playing the normal games.

  “To be clear, he may have had nothing at all to do with this. It could just be a coincidence. As I said, he—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t provide it and we had no reason to ask. He—”

  “Irene,” Alexander said, pointing to her laptop.

  “Wait! I can give you the name and address of the agent who was sent to meet him. At a minimum, she would have a physical description.”

  Alexander glanced at Rapp, who just nodded.

  CHAPTER 28

  NEAR LURAY

  VIRGINIA

  USA

  WE have confirmation from three separate sources that the water has been intentionally cut off in parts of Phoenix. I think it’s time to start believing it’s true…

  John Alton leaned back in his chair, listening to the informal news report and reveling in the sensation of sitting at the helm of a warship. The voice reverberating from his computer’s speakers belonged to some redneck named Jed who was on his way to becoming the most famous man in America. He sounded like he’d barely graduated from second grade, but his growing influence was undeniable. As was the fact that he was probably the most reliable source of information currently on the US airwaves.

  … and I don’t know how to feel about it. I really don’t. I’m as anti-government as they come, but what were those riots supposed to accomplish? To force the military to get involved? They have bigger fish to fry and why would we want to put them in that position? Those soldiers don’t just drop from the sky. They’re our brothers and sisters and kids and parents. They’re the people who’ve protected us and democracy since the early days of this country.

  He went silent and the dead air stretched out long enough that Alton thought for a moment that he’d lost the feed.

  I was awake all last night thinking about what I’m doing in front of this microphone. I’ve been telling you about capturing rainwater and how not to chop your foot off cutting firewood, but I’m not sure it matters. The government says you should stay quiet and in your homes, but that’s about all they’re saying. And about all they’re doing. I can tell you from twenty years of prepping that the government can’t handle this scenario. That’s why they’re not giving you any information. That’s why they’re not telling you that if they can’t get the power back on, you’re screwed. So, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you should be rioting. Go out in a blaze of glory instead of starving in a dark room and ending up with your body frozen to the floor.

  Another silence, this one not quite as long.

  My wife just walked in and is giving me the shut-the-hell-up hand signal. You guys out there know the one. And she’s right. I’m just talking shit. Don’t listen to me. I’m going to play some music. Something upbeat…

  Alton shut off the feed and then leaned back again. A little more than a week. That’s all it had taken for America to crumble. And it was a process that would do nothing but accelerate. The battle for survival would soon start in earnest. The weak would die off and only the most brutal and ruthless would be left.

  He heard footsteps and spun his chair toward them. Through the open door, he could see Feisal Ibrahim making his way along the dim corridor. His companions—the two ISIS soldiers—weren’t in view but they were back there somewhere. Sequestered in the shadows. Breathing his air. Eating his food. Shitting in his toilet.

  He’d packed away enough food for two years, but with four of them, the supply was cut to around six months. Just as bad, they creeped him out. Staring at him all the time. Talking among themselves in Arabic. They understood the heart rate monitors he wore and that everything would unravel if he died. Was that the only thing keeping them from killing him? The answer was almost certainly yes. And that was something that would have to be dealt with. Sooner rather than later, probably.

  In fact, he was starting to think he’d made a mistake bringing them there. That he’d panicked when he’d started feeling the government breathing down his neck. Correcting that mistake wouldn’t be all that complicated, though. There were various cleaning products available that coul
d be used as poisons, but it was unlikely they’d be necessary. These men wanted to die. In all likelihood, he’d be able to just send them out into the world with a bullshit list of substation targets and let them get their wish.

  But for now, they were keeping their distance and the bunker was holding up. Power generation was poor, but that was to be expected. He had solar panels strewn all over the property, but he’d been forced to prioritize camouflage over optimal placement. Combined with the intermittent cloud cover over the past week, he was paying the price.

  In the end, though, it didn’t matter. The bunker’s position underground kept it at a reasonable temperature. The water pump was driven by a bicycle—a conscious decision designed to force him to exercise. A few LEDs were sufficient for lighting. Computers and communications—the biggest power draws—weren’t really even necessary anymore. Once set into motion, his plan generated its own gravity and momentum. The monitoring of it was really just entertainment at this point.

  “Is there any news?” Ibrahim asked, stopping in the threshold.

  “No,” Alton replied. He waved a hand back toward the equipment on his desk. “Based on what I’m seeing, none of your people have carried out a successful attack in more than seventy-two hours.”

  “I imagine it is getting hard to travel. That would slow them.”

  “Yeah. Or they may all be dead.”

  “We could try to contact them.”

  “All risk, no reward, Feisal. They have their orders and detailed instructions on how to carry them out. You told me they’re reliable and I’m taking you at your word. Besides. It’s done. It worked. Everything they’re doing now is just gravy.”

  “How many American casualties?” the Arab asked.

  “Believe me, that’s not something the government is talking about. For sure in the tens of thousands. Keep in mind, though, that we’re still in the culling-of-the-herd phase. Old people, cripples, people with existing medical conditions. But the worm’s about to turn and the mortality rate will start to follow a geometric progression. Every day, twice as many strong, healthy people will die as the day before. One today. Two tomorrow. Then four, eight, sixteen… It’s kind of a fascinating quirk of math. If it works out that way—and it won’t be far off—do you know how many people will be dying every day a month from now? Millions. Congratulations, Feisal. By backing me up, you’ve helped do what no one’s ever gotten even close to. You’ve defeated the United States of America. And not quickly and painlessly. This isn’t some massive nuclear strike that lets everyone off the hook by killing them over the course of a few seconds. Try to imagine what’s happening out there. What’s going to happen. The violence. The desperation. I bet you ten worthless US dollars that people will turn cannibal before all this is over. When those nacho-inhaling fat asses get hungry for real, it’ll be Fido first. And then they’ll be throwing the local Little League team on the grill. Like the Donner Party. Tastes like chicken, right?”