Extinction Machine

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-eight

The Situation Room

The White House

Monday, October 21, 8:54 a.m.

The white dot—so puny and absurd a representation of what it was—crossed over into Chinese airspace.

Bill Collins got up from his seat and walked down the row of generals and officials until he stood in front of the screen. His face was a mask of shock.

He had been president for just over twenty-four hours.

If there was a country left after this was all over, he would be remembered as the president who could not stop an unwinnable war from killing millions. He would be reviled. The captain of the ship always takes the blame.

Distantly, vaguely, he wondered how this all might have played out if he hadn’t done everything he could to remove the DMS and cripple their power. Even now reports were coming in from a terrible firefight in Pennsylvania. Collins had reluctantly agreed—in light of Shelton’s confession—to send air support to Ledger’s assault on VanMeer Castle. A second, small screen showed the impact of missiles from six fighters. It was too soon to tell if any more of the T-craft had escaped.

“The message about the Black Book,” he said, “was it sent?”

The question was not directed to anyone in particular.

A second white dot appeared on the screen. Collins knew from Mr. Church’s intelligence that this was probably China’s T-craft, scrambled to confront the enemy. The Chinese craft was on the far side of the country, though. It could never intercept Shelton’s craft in time.

On the screen the white dot was one second away from Beijing.

“God help us all,” Collins said, but for a moment he thought he saw a third white dot. One that blipped in out of nowhere right beside Shelton’s craft.

Then there was a huge white burst on the screen. Intensely white, too bright to look at.

Collins shielded his eyes with his hand for a moment. He cried out like a terrified child.

Silence.

When Collins dared to open his eyes he saw that only one white dot was still there. The other one—or perhaps two—were gone. The last dot had stopped, though, and it hovered directly over Beijing.

And, against all sense, Beijing itself was still there.

Then the dot began moving. It headed out to sea. And then the altimeter began rolling madly, insisting that the craft was moving upward.

Upward.

Upward.

Until it passed within miles of the satellite tracking it and passed beyond its observational range.

Everyone at the table stared in total, stunned silence.

Then a voice behind him said, “The message was sent and received, Bill.”

Collins whirled around. Everyone turned.

A man sat at the head of the table. In Collins’s seat. In the seat reserved for the president.

Collins’s mouth worked and worked.

And then he screamed.

The man at the head of the table leaned forward wearily. He looked worn and thin. His color was bad. But he smiled.

“Gentlemen, the message was received,” said the president of the United States.