DAY 1: October 19
Chapter 1 – Washington, DC
The purples and deep blues of morning twilight were gradually giving way to bands of yellow and orange, and the headlights and taillights of myriad vehicles seemed to flow and pulse along streets and avenues. It was a postcard-perfect autumn day, with a scattering of diffuse clouds hanging in an increasingly dazzling blue sky. A crisp and cool breeze stirred the mix of reds and oranges and yellows of fall leaves, from the flanks of major DC streets to Georgetown and Crystal City. The quiet fireworks of turning trees was like a slow-motion conflagration along the Potomac, up into McLean and parts north and west of the District.
The granite and marble majesty of monuments stood against the brightening sky, and occasional flocks of birds could be seen launching themselves into the great ocean of blue above the stirring capital. The population base of the seat of power for the Free World consisted largely of serious overachievers, many of whom were the very embodiment of the idiom about early birds and worms. Traffic was already starting to accumulate along the routes into the city, and the Washington Beltway, never actually quiet to begin with, was steadily filling up with morning commuters’ cars, delivery and transport trucks, buses, and the inevitable mix of official and government vehicles.
The Washington, DC Metro System was, like some sort of gargantuan circulatory network, largely invisible beneath the streets of the District of Columbia and the edge cities to DC’s west and south. The trains were running with greater and greater frequency as morning travel schedules picked up speed, and legions of office workers, students, service and retail employees, federal bureaucrats, military personnel, and business people crowded into the stations, ready to be shunted into every corner of the extended, sprawling diamond shape that was the District.
Cpt. Drew Callahan checked his Apple Watch and shifted his attache case slightly. He hadn’t slept that well, but had rolled out of bed at the usual “Oh-Dark-Thirty” and shifted into his early morning routine. After returning from his morning run about the city, he shaved and put on his duty uniform. Meanwhile, he streamed CNN on his laptop, perched on the bathroom counter, switching between its morning news summary and the semi-parallel coverage by Fox News, playing on the medium-sized flat-screen in his bedroom. Drew didn’t mess around with breakfast preparations; he was fine with picking something up in the Hill Commissary later in the day. At the very least, he’d make his usual stop at Starbucks, which would, of course, give him the opportunity to see Jasmine. He’d walked the half-mile to the Metro Orange Line station in East Falls Church, drinking in the cool air and enjoying the puffs of his condensing breath. The latest project he was working on had occupied much of his time, both at the office and at home, and he would have been lying if he told anyone that he wasn’t tired. Tired or not, though, he and his team had to wrap up the fundamental planning for the Colonel by the end of the week. He reflected for a few moments on just where he was. 15 months ago, he’d completed an 18-month deployment in Afghanistan and had been posted to the U.S. Army’s Logistics Command. He was due to go before a promotion board in about four months — he was amazed that he might soon be pinning on the oak leaves of a major. His own perfectionism and his desire to streamline the equipment and materials pipeline to CENTCOM forces drove him far more than professional ambition, truth be told. However, he was enough of a pragmatist to understand that challenging himself to bigger things was a large part of a successful career, military or otherwise.
One thing that bugged him about his career was that a lot of his fellow officers had already punched or were soon going to punch the “Marriage” card on that inexorable time clock of life, and he had been basically sitting out the dating scene for a while. His thoughts quickly turned to Jasmine, and, as he skimmed over the first few pages of the A-section of the Washington Post, he pondered why he didn’t just go ahead and ask her out. He’d bought his morning coffee (as well as a cup of joe for Colonel Matthews) from the Starbucks right above Metro Center virtually every working day for over a year, and Jasmine, who was not so much pretty as she was full-blown stunning, had been an uplifting part of most of those transactions. On the relatively rare occasions when there happened to be a lull in morning commuter business, he’d had the opportunity to chat with her.
* * *
The early morning hustle and bustle of getting kids out of the door and into the car for school was not uncommon to Katherine, but once, just once, she would like to get out of the house on time and without screaming. Since her ex had moved out three years ago, the battles with her daughter Sydney had taken on a pre-apocalyptic magnitude. Teenagers. Karma’s ultimate kick in the pants.
“Sydney! Are you dressed yet?” Katherine yelled up the stairs for the second time this morning. “Sydney! We have to leave now. Let’s go!”
Sydney came running down the stairs in a state of dress expressly designed to cause her mother anxiety and rage. It worked. The shortness of her skirt, the exposed midriff, the tightness of everything served only to set Katherine’s teeth on edge. She set her bag and coat down on the kitchen table and prepared for battle.
“It’s 50 degrees outside, and you are not a common street harlot. Get upstairs and put some clothes on! NOW!” She pointed up the stairs, a don’t-mess-with-me look on her face. Sydney dropped her backpack on the floor at the foot of the stairs and screamed with exasperation. She stomped up the stairs with a variety of shouted complaints each punctuated by a heavy footfall. Once Sydney was out of sight, Katherine grasped the back of the kitchen chair with her left hand and stretched out the fingers of her right. She took a deep, practiced breath, exhaling slowly. One day she would make it to work on time; today was not that day.
* * *
The early morning rush was finally starting to die down. Rush hour rush would start within the next half hour. This was a good opportunity to restock coffee beans, breakfast sandwiches, and milk carafes. The baristas were wiping counters, restocking cups, and chatting contentedly about the mundane. Jasmine had managed to keep her green apron relatively clean so far today. The 5 a.m. to 1 p.m. shift was crazy, but the hours worked for her afternoon graduate course schedule at Georgetown University. And there was the added perk of seeing Drew every weekday. She paused for a moment envisioning his chiseled cheekbones, close-cropped military cut blonde hair, and the uniform that did little to hide his well-toned muscles. The whir of a blender shocked her out of her reverie, the hint of a blush painting her cheeks. She glanced at her watch; he would be arriving in less than 20 minutes, with military precision.
A flood of foot traffic appeared through the glass storefront; the latest Metro train had deposited its contents to the street. Jasmine was reminded of a school of fish swimming through an aquarium, their shiny freshly pressed suits glinting like fish scales. The occasional salmon, fighting against the current to enter through the glass doors, was beckoned by the wafting aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans.
“Look alive, here comes the next wave,” her manager’s voice interrupted the jovial conversation the baristas were having. As if on cue, the door opened and the deluge of caffeine-deprived businessmen and women, lobbyists, and others in suits and uniforms formed a single file line, waiting for their morning dose. With the precision of a well-oiled machine, orders were taken, caffeinated beverages concocted, orders and names shouted, and, caffeine in hand, patrons left with slightly less dazed expressions than they wore when they had entered.
Standing behind the register, Jasmine keyed in the latest order and noticed the time displayed on the register. Any minute now. Last night she had decided that today was the day. If Drew walked through that door today, he would leave with her number, and the ball would be in his court. She internally rolled her eyes at the cliche. But the months of banter and thinly veiled flirting was starting to give her a complex. True, he was not the only customer to flirt with her, but he was the only one she flirted with.
“Sugar-free vanilla latte, no foam. Did you hear me? No foam,” the annoyed, middle-aged tyrant standing before her barked.
She sighed, forced a smile, and replied, “Yes, ma’am, venti, sugar-free vanilla latte, no foam. Your name?”
The door opened, and Drew entered the line. Jasmine’s heart skipped a beat.
* * *
The traffic meandered slowly across the bridge over the brownish, sluggish Potomac. Katherine squinted as the road veered to the east, and the sun momentarily blinded her before hiding its radiance behind a lone autumn cloud. She punched a button on the car’s stereo, changing from NPR to a local classic rock station.
* * *
Jasmine resisted the urge to look at her phone as she wiped down the counter for the fifth time this morning. The morning rush had dwindled to a steady trickle of customers. She was no longer needed at the register, so she began refreshing the napkins, straws, and various packets of sweeteners. The repetitive nature of the tasks allowed her mind to wander. And of course, they wandered to Drew. She was shocked by her brazenness. It was so very cliche, but whatever. It would be worth it if he called. He would call, right? A modicum of self-doubt crept into her consciousness, stilling her hands from their thoughtless tasks.
“Jasmine, do you have the spray cleaner?” Sondra asked. Jasmine turned to reply, spray bottle in hand, when she was blinded by a white light.
* * *
Captain Callahan stood a little straighter and stepped a little more confidently as he walked around his office collecting the necessities for the Colonel’s meeting. Today was going to be a great day. He had managed to wait until he made it to the office before entering Jasmine’s number into his phone, not risking a spill or accidental discard. While he wanted desperately to call her, he resisted the urge, not wanting to come off as desperate and needy. Truth be told, he was rather desperate to make contact and needy of a date for their next meeting, but that didn’t mean she had to know that. He had called his mother and left a message informing her of his triumph. His telling of the tale had him boldly asking for her number. Since he was not up for his brother’s good-natured ribbing, he decided to wait until after the first date to inform him.
Arms full of files, he exited the office and met up with the Colonel in the hall. The bank of windows offered a spectacular view of the Washington Mall. The Colonel stood taking in the view, a contemplative expression on his face. Drew had wondered at this view many times during his tenure as the Colonel’s aide. The open common area was often the location of coffee breaks and watercooler gossiping. The Colonel, however, seemed to use it as his personal meditation room. Drew waited quietly for the Colonel to recognize that he was there. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“Good morning, Captain,” the Colonel’s eyes never left the view as he spoke.
“Good morning, sir. I have the briefs and your morning coffee. We should probably head out if we are going to make it to the White House by 10. The traffic is heavy, as usual,” Drew glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Take a moment, Drew. We won’t be late. Just take a moment and enjoy the view.”
Not wanting to defy the Colonel (it might have been an order), Drew took a deep breath and looked at the view. It was at that moment that the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle.
“Colonel?!” Drew half shouted, half croaked. The Colonel remained stoic as the files in Drew’s arms fell to the floor.
* * *
These moments of peace and quiet on her morning commute were some of the most blissful moments of Katherine’s day. She relished the lack of confrontation, the relative quiet, and the modicum of control she had over her environment. Her coworkers complained about the traffic, the congestion of the Beltway; she loved it. Even though she was running late, she didn’t allow her tardiness to shatter the meditative state she entered after dropping her daughter off at school. For the next 45-60 minutes, she controlled the volume, the programming, and even the silence. She merged into traffic, the honking of horns and distant sirens not registering, and felt, for the first time since Friday evening, a sense of peace. The melodic voice of the man reporting the news summary on NPR lulled her into a state of extreme calm while around her fists were shaken, horns blasted, and steering wheels pounded. The announcer’s voice broke through her meditation with a story about the two-year anniversary of the EastAsia flight that disappeared somewhere in the Pacific. 364 people had lost their lives that day with no understanding as to why. What a tragedy, she thought absently as she watched a plane making its final approach into Reagan National Airport.
Katherine took a deep breath and allowed herself to relax before the frenzy of the day. As she crested the top of the 14th Street Bridge at a crawl, the Washington Monument came into view in the distance. It was then that she noticed the plane. It struck her as odd. Since 9/11, planes were rarely seen directly over the capital. She couldn’t quite make sense of what she was seeing. The airliner appeared to be in a nose dive. In fact, it looked as though it were about to crash right into the point of the Washington Monument. And then, everything went white.
* * *
When the Airbus 340 reached an altitude of 2,750 feet above sea level in its near-vertical dive over the Federal Mall, the precision altimeter system wired into the nuclear warhead mounted to a metal framework in the plane’s cargo hold signaled the warhead’s arming, fuzing, and firing system to detonate the weapon. The warhead, purpose-designed with fuzing options for air- or surface-burst, exploded within microseconds of the confirmed firing command.
The Airbus had been in a terminal dive and had attained a true airspeed of just over 600 knots. It was just a handful of degrees off-course from its hypothetical aim-point: The Washington Monument. The nose of the Airbus was at almost 90 degrees’ angle from the ground. The two men in the cockpit had completed their final utterance of “Allah’ akbar” a few seconds before, and braced themselves for a collision which would never come. Their pre-prepared statement had been broadcast over every available open channel within the 60 seconds before that.
The thermonuclear explosion’s core fireball utterly consumed the plane and inflated to nearly 3,000 feet in diameter in an instant. Everything inside this zone essentially disappeared, including all of the Washington Monument except for a melted and scorched stump. The thermal pulse charred the skin of exposed human and other animal life out to over three miles’ distance and ignited most flammable materials inside a similar radius. The blast overpressure, around 20 pounds-per-square-inch, shattered buildings large and small from the periphery of the Federal Mall and outward — out to Rosslyn and Crystal City, across the Potomac to the south and southwest, out beyond the Jefferson Memorial to the south and out beyond the Washington Navy Yard in Anacostia. To the immediate north, the White House, the Old Executive Office Building, the Reagan Building, and other multi-story edifices along Constitution Avenue were pulverized. Dupont Circle and Embassy Row were devastated within seconds by heat and blast, as were Foggy Bottom and Georgetown.
To the east, the U.S. Capitol Building’s basic structure rode out the initial event, but secondary effects — mostly additional blast and heat — rendered the building a flaming, smoking, debris-filled place of chaos and panic. All along the eastern segments of Constitution Avenue and Pennsylvania Avenue, New York Avenue and Rhode Island Avenue and Massachusetts Avenue and Maryland Avenue, buildings sturdy enough to endure the prompt destructive power of the warhead were severely compromised, most of them actively burning. Geysers from ruptured water mains and fire hydrants painted shimmering arcs over wrecked cars and across shattered storefronts.
Whole sections of tunnels for the Metro collapsed as streets and buildings above buckled and broke and tumbled. Trains were crushed and buried. The Smithsonian Center and Federal Triangle Blue, Orange, and Silver Line stations were destroyed, as were the L’Enfant Plaza and Navy Memorial Green and Yellow Line terminals. High-velocity winds generated by the firestorms out along the outer perimeter of the detonation blew flames and debris everywhere. In the space of seconds, much of downtown Washington, DC was converted into a twisted, burning, smoldering mass grave.
A circle nearly three-and-a-half miles in radius was in flames. A tidal wave of human panic was beginning in the adjacent segments of Northern Virginia and Maryland, as secondary fires ignited, power failed, and cars collided at major and minor intersections. The fluctuating, writhing stem of a mushroom cloud, initially aglow from the fireball and its immediate after-effects but now darkening as it grew, extended up and up over the holocaust below. That stuff of nightmares, that swelling, tumescent mushroom, began to flower outward. Soon an enormous area was under its shadow.
Fires raged throughout the terminals of Ronald Reagan National Airport. The tires on some directly-exposed aircraft and airport service vehicles had melted. Aircraft fuel lines had ruptured and jet fuel had ignited in dozens of places. The thermal pulse had blistered paint, flash-burned skin, and set fire to curtains and drapes, tablecloths, carpet, clothing. To the northwest, the Pentagon had been similarly ravaged by blast and heat. The massive, robust structure had, like the U.S. Capitol, basically withstood the onslaught, but was horrendously damaged and disfigured. Many of the thousands throughout the building’s five structural rings were dead or dying.
The office and retail complex of Pentagon City was a blasted, twisted inferno. Several of the taller structures had buckled from the relentless overpressure, and a junkyard of vehicles lay scattered about, interspersed with fallen structural beams, sections of internal and external building walls, office furnishings, and the mangled sacks which had formerly been human beings. Much of Arlington National Cemetery was on fire.
To observers out in Dumfries, Virginia, or all the way up the business corridor to Annapolis, or out east across the Chesapeake on Kent Island or Easton or Chestertown, the event might have been some sort of surreal illusion or special effect. The beyond-incandescent flash washed out daylight, fading rapidly as the fireball rose above the DC Metro region. Within seconds the fireball, cooling and roiling, rose into an otherwise sharp and crisp blue sky, atop a telescoping stem of smoke and debris. As the terrifying cloak of the mushroom cloud began to expand, there could be no doubt that man-made horror had just been unleashed on the nation’s capital.
* * *
“This is not Lethal Weapon. Do not cut the red wire. If at all possible, do not cut any wires. Call the professionals to come in and take care of it. That’s why we get paid the big bucks. That being said, if all else fails, and it’s just you standing between the device and the lives of civilians, today’s class should provide you with the basics you will need to defuse the homemade contraptions you will most likely encounter in the field. Again, your first choice is always to call the bomb squad, but if you have to cut a wire, make sure it’s the correct wire,” Jack looked at the faces before him and sincerely hoped none of these nitwits ever saw an IED because they would totally cut the red wire. They all seemed a little too eager to get their hands on cutters. He stood at the front of the class with an array of Improvised Explosive Devices on the table before him. Quantico had asked the Navy to provide an Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician to come out and expose their latest group of trainees to the very real, and increasingly popular, danger of IEDs. Jack was currently not deployed and had volunteered.
Movement at the window of the classroom door caught his well-trained eye. Running. There was never running within a training facility like this unless there was a clear and present danger. Without a word, he moved swiftly to the door. He peered through the window, his hand instinctively reaching for his missing sidearm. He was naked and exposed. Looking around for something to use as a weapon, he moved toward the table with the mock-ups of IEDs. The class of New Agent Trainees (NATs) watched his every move, waiting to learn which wire was the correct wire. That lesson would have to wait for another day. Just as Jack reached the table to find a way to make the pipe bomb into a one-shot pistol, the door opened.
“Sir! You need to come outside. D.C….it’s…they’re saying…we can’t…oh God!” The young man’s ashen face conveyed the horror even though his words could not. Chair legs screeched on the linoleum floor as 25 NATs all attempted to exit the room at once. Jack cut through them easily, his 6 foot 4 frame commanding authority and respect. Without running, Jack made his way swiftly to the closest exit. Men and women around him ran through the door, clearly anxious. Once through the door, most stopped dead in their tracks, not even bothering to get out of the way of others, their eyes on the distant horizon. Jack steadied himself before walking through the door to the north parking lot. He stood among the chaos and watched as the mushroom cloud climbed above the horizon in stark contrast to the beauty of the autumn day. The vibrant reds and oranges of the trees, the stillness of the air, all rejected the horror rising above them. None of his training had prepared him for this. This was not something he could fix or defuse. This was exactly what he had spent his entire career trying to prevent. SEAL training, EOD training, multiple tours and missions, everything he had done his entire adult life had been to protect and serve his country. And now this?
Jack looked around at the young men and women; all appeared to be in various states of shock and disbelief. Men and women in NAT uniforms pointed, gasped, murmured to each other. None of them seemed certain of what they were seeing. These were trainees; they were not prepared to handle this. He shook himself and stood a little taller. “Get inside, NOW!” His deep voice cut through the stunned silence, but just. He pointed to the most senior looking man in the parking lot, catching him off guard, “You, who’s in command here?” The stunned man, clearly an intelligence analysis trainee, pointed to a woman standing on the top step in front of the doors, mid-forties, wearing a crisp grey suit, black high heels, her hair in a tight bun. Jack walked up to her and in an urgent tone commanded, “You need to get these agents inside now. We need to contact command and determine how to proceed. But no one should be outside right now.”
She looked at him with a slightly glazed expression, clearly on the verge of tears. “Ma’am,” Jack’s voice held only the slightest hint of compassion. She nodded, straightened, and started giving commands. NATs began to file into the entrance much more slowly than they had exited. Jack reached for his cell phone and called his commanding officer. Clearly, their leave was canceled, and it was time to get back to work.
* * *
Samantha Chang sat in a corner booth of the hotel’s restaurant. She had ordered a tea and a bagel with cream cheese, much to the chagrin of the waitress who expected high dollar tabs from conference-goers. Sam, as she preferred to be called, earbuds in place, and laptop and tablet open, worked on the keynote speech she was expected to deliver in three days’ time. How had she allowed herself to get roped into this again? Khaleel, she blamed Khaleel. He was the one who suggested to Mark that she would make an excellent keynote speaker. Yep, she blamed Mark too.
“You were just on the cover of Wired. Everyone wants to hear what you have to say. No one knows cyber security like you do,” Mark pleaded. “Think of the contacts you will make there.”
Sam had groaned and agreed, knowing that Mark would not relent since his reputation as the event’s organizer was on the line. She hated public speaking and cursed the day she had agreed to be featured in that god-forsaken article. She was not what most people would consider interesting. Most days, she could be found with her head buried in code. Her cybersecurity program had been purchased by several big-name companies publicly and by several government agencies in a much less public manner. Government contractors vied for her attention and offered her exorbitant sums of money to consult with their tech departments. Her small stature and appearance often put the executives off guard. When they heard Sam Chang was arriving, they expected a bespectacled Asian man in his middle years. What they got was the 5 foot 6 inch, 33-year-old, Chinese beauty, who looked more likely to grace the cover of Vogue than Wired. What was even more striking was her apparent obliviousness to her beauty.
Sam reread the paragraph she had just written and began erasing it for the third time. Finding the right balance between confident, successful entrepreneur and bitch was a delicate procedure, one she often struggled to find. A confident woman, who knew her worth, was often perceived by the men in her industry as a bitch. She shrugged and rewrote the section deciding to forgo the bitch filter she usually put her written work communications through. She had not become the success she was by filtering; in fact, her mother was often her first and best filter. Wang Jing Chang was forever advising her daughter to consider how she was perceived by others. Wang Jing, “quiet” in Mandarin, was anything but. She pushed Sam to be the best version of herself while maintaining face. Outwardly, Wang Jing was the perfect wife and mother, never contradicting her husband in public; in private, it was Wang Jing who ruled the house. Her father, an absent-minded professor type, never made a move without consulting with his wife. Sam drew her strength from her mother and her dedication and focus from her father.
An alert flashed across Sam’s tablet, but she ignored it. It was quickly followed by another, which also went unread. There was movement in the restaurant. People were gathering around the bar watching the television. Sam barely noticed as she continued to click away on her laptop. Her phone rang in her earbuds, the “Imperial March” from Star Wars alerting her to her mother’s incoming call. She snickered internally as she remembered her mother’s excitement over her assigned ringtone. “Ha, that’s right. I rule the galaxy and don’t forget,” she had commented in her barely broken English.
Sam touched her headphones to answer the call, “Hey, Ma. I’m a little busy; can I call you later?”
“No. You watching? Where are you? You safe? How this happen? Sam, how this happen?” Her mother’s English often became fragmented when she was upset, but Sam had not heard this level of fragmentation in years.
“What are you talking about? What’s happened?” Sam finally looked up from her laptop and noticed the stricken faces watching the television above the bar. “I’ll call you back. I’m fine, Ma. I promise.” She hung up the phone, removed her earbuds, and stood up. What she saw on the screen made her stomach drop. The mushroom cloud and fireball above D.C. were surely the work of some Hollywood special effects team, and yet she knew they were not. The voice of the newscaster was barely audible over her shock.
“Again, this is amateur video footage we have just received from hikers at Great Falls. While it is impossible to know the extent of the damage, it is clear that this is an attack of epic proportions. We have tried to reach out to our colleagues in our D.C. office but have been unable to reach anyone. For those of you just tuning in, we are watching amateur video of what appears to be a mushroom cloud over the Washington, D.C. area. We have no reports of casualties, but we can assume that the casualties will be very high. Again, Washington, D.C. has been attacked using what appears to be a nuclear explosion.” The anchorman’s hand went to his right ear, a look of confusion crossing his face. “We are now receiving reports of a similar explosion in Los Angeles. The Port of Los Angeles to be more precise. Again, we have just received unconfirmed reports of an attack on the Port of Los Angeles.” His voice faltered. “We can only assume that hundreds of thousands have died in what can only be described as an act of war.” The anchor fell silent, clearly shaken by what he was learning. The screen returned to the amateur footage.
Sam picked up her cell phone and opened a new text to her mother. “Get Dad and leave the city now. Don’t argue; just leave. I will be in touch as soon as I can.” She hit send and sat at her laptop. How had this happened? She was about to find out.