Casey, now in the rear chamber with me, holding the laptop in her hands, says, “We’ve confirmed that the ‘stop’ command was transmitted throughout the system. The virus is stopped. Everywhere.”
“What about the computers and other devices that are offline right now, without Internet access?” I ask. “They didn’t get the ‘stop’ message.”
“Then they didn’t get the ‘execute’ message, either,” says Devin. “And now they never will. It’s on a permanent ‘stop’ message.”
“But all the same,” says Casey, “I’m not letting this laptop out of my sight. I’m going to watch that screen like a hawk.”
I take one of the deepest breaths I’ve ever taken, sweet, delicious oxygen. “So not a single device will be hurt by this virus?”
“Correct, sir.”
And just to be sure, just on the off chance that the Suliman virus comes back to life, Homeland Security is blasting out the keyword “Sukhumi” through a rapid-response system created by various executive orders signed either by me or my predecessor as part of an enhanced system to combat industrial cyberterrorism. Basically, we can blast out information to a designated recipient, a point person at each company, at any hour of the day or night. Every Internet service provider, every state and local government, every member of every industrial sector—banks, hospitals, insurance companies, manufacturers, as many small businesses as we have persuaded to sign up: within the next few seconds, all of them will receive this keyword.
The keyword will also be blasted out over our Emergency Alert System, hitting every television, coming to every computer and smartphone.
I nod, straighten up, feel unexpected emotion rise within me. I look out the window of Marine One into a sky of rainbow sherbet as the sun sets on Saturday.
We didn’t lose our country.
The financial markets, people’s savings and 401(k)s, insurance records, hospitals, public utilities will be spared. The lights will stay on. Mutual-fund balances and savings accounts will still reflect people’s life savings. Welfare and pension payments will not be interrupted. Escalators and elevators will work. Planes won’t be grounded. Food won’t spoil. Water will remain potable. No major economic depression. No chaos. No looting and rioting.
We’ve avoided Dark Ages.
I walk into the main cabin, where I find Alex.
“Mr. President,” he says, “we’re approaching the White House.”
My phone buzzes. Liz. “Mr. President, they found it in the vice president’s office.”
“The phone,” I say.
“Yes, sir, the companion phone to Nina’s.”
“Thank you, Liz. Meet me at the White House. And Liz?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring your handcuffs,” I say.
Chapter
113
Suliman Cindoruk sits in the small safe house they put him in, at the base of Mount Medvednica, staring at his phone, as if staring at it will make it change.
Virus disabled
First the “virus suspended” message he got, only moments after congratulating himself on decimating the United States while riding in the Jeep. And less than half an hour later, this. He continues to stare at it, as if doing so will prompt it to change once more.
How? The virus was bulletproof. They were sure of it. Augie—Augie was just a hacker in the end. He couldn’t have figured this out.
Nina, he decides. Nina must have done something to sabotage it— A brisk knock on the door, and it opens. One of the soldiers walks in, holding a basket of food—a baguette, cheese, a large bottle of water.
“How long am I here?” Suli asks.
The man looks at him. “I am told four more hours.”
Four more hours. That would equate roughly with midnight, Eastern Standard Time—the moment the virus was timed to go off if the Americans hadn’t prompted an early activation.
They’re waiting for the virus to succeed before they transport him to his destination. He glances at his phone again.
Virus disabled
“There is…problem?” the soldier asks.
“No, no,” he says. “No problem.”
Chapter
114
I take the stairs down from Marine One, saluting the Marine. Holding my salute longer than usual. God bless the Marines.
Carolyn is standing there, awaiting me. “Congratulations, Mr. President,” she says.
“You, too, Carrie. We have a lot to discuss, but I need a minute.”
“Of course, sir.”
I break into a jog, something close to a full sprint, until I reach my destination.
“Dad, oh, my God…”
Lilly springs off her bed, the book in her lap spilling to the floor of her room. She is in my arms before she can finish the sentence.
“You’re okay,” she whispers into my shoulder as I stroke her hair. “I was so worried, Dad. I was so sure that something bad was going to happen. I thought I was going to lose you, too…”
Her body trembles as I hold her, as I tell her, “I’m here, I’m fine,” over and over again, smelling her unique smell, feeling her warmth. I am here, and I’m finer than I’ve been in a very long time. So grateful, so full of love.
Everything else washes away. There is so much more to do, but right this moment, everything else is nothing, blurring into a fog, and all that matters is my beautiful, talented, sweet girl.
“I still miss her,” she whispers. “I miss her more than ever.”
I do, too. So much it feels like I’ll burst. I want her here right now, to celebrate, to hold me close, to crack a joke and knock me down a few pegs before I get too big a head.
“She’s always with us,” I say. “She was with me today.”
I draw back, hold her away from me, wipe a tear from her face. The face looking back at me looks more like Rachel than ever.
“I have to go be president now,” I say.
Chapter
115
I sit, relieved and exhausted, on the couch in the Oval Office. I still can’t believe it’s over.
Of course, it’s not really over. In some ways, the hardest part is yet to come.
Sitting next to me is Danny, who brought me a glass of bourbon—the drink he owes me after he failed the coin check. He’s not saying much, knowing that I need to decelerate from everything. He’s just here to be here.
The vice president is still in the operations center, still inside that room under guard. She doesn’t know why. Nobody’s told her why. She’s probably sweating right now.
That’s okay. Let her sweat.
Sam Haber has been updating me constantly. The adage “no news is good news” has never felt truer. The virus is disabled. No surprises, no dramatic, sudden restarting of the virus. But we have people watching for it, hovering over computers like protective parents.
The cable news networks are talking about nothing but the Suliman virus. They’re all running a banner at the top of the screen saying KEYWORD: SUKHUMI.
“I have some unfinished business,” I say to Danny. “I need to kick you out.”
“Sure.” He pushes himself off the couch. “By the way, I plan to take full credit for all of this. That pep talk I gave you was the difference.”
“No question.”
“That’s how I’m going to remember it, anyway.”
“You do that, Daniel. You do that.”
I let my smile linger as Danny takes his exit. Then I push the button on my phone and tell my secretary, JoAnn, that I’ll see Carolyn.
Carolyn pops in. She looks frazzled, but then again, we all do. Nobody slept last night, and the stress of the last twenty-four hours…all things considered, Carolyn looks better than most of us.
“Director Greenfield’s out there,” she says.
“I know. I asked her to wait. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“All right, sir.”
She walks in and takes a seat in one of the chairs opposite the couch.
“You did it, Carrie,” I say. “You’re the one who solved it.”
“You did this, Mr. President, not me.”
Well, that’s the way this works. The buck stops with the president both ways, for better or worse. If my team scores a victory, it’s the president who gets the credit. But we both know who figured out the keyword.
I blow out air, my nerves still jangled.
“I screwed up, Carrie,” I say. “Picking Kathy Brandt for a running mate.”
She doesn’t rush to disagree. “The politics made sense, sir.”
“That’s why I did it. For political reasons. I shouldn’t have.”