Never by Ken Follett
When I was doing the research for Fall of Giants, I was shocked to realize that the First World War was a war that nobody wanted. No European leader on either side intended for it to happen. But the emperors and prime ministers, one by one, made decisions – logical, moderate decisions – each of which took us a small step closer to the most terrible conflict the world had ever known. I came to believe that it was all a tragic accident.
And I wondered: Could that happen again?
Two tigers cannot share the same mountain.
Chinese proverb
MUNCHKIN COUNTRY
PROLOGUE
For many years James Madison held the title of the shortest-ever United States president, at five feet four inches. Then President Green broke his record. Pauline Green was four feet eleven inches. She liked to point out that Madison had defeated DeWitt Clinton, who was six feet three.
She had twice postponed her visit to Munchkin Country. It had been scheduled once every year she had been in office, but there was always something more important to do. This time she felt she had to go. It was a mild September morning in the third year of her presidency.
This exercise was a Rehearsal of Concept Drill, used to familiarize senior government figures with what they had to do in an emergency. Pretending that the United States was under attack, she walked rapidly out of the Oval Office to the South Lawn of the White House.
Hurrying behind her were a handful of key people who were rarely far from her side: her National Security Advisor, her senior secretary, two Secret Service bodyguards and a young army captain carrying a leather-covered briefcase called the atomic football, which contained everything she needed to start a nuclear war.
Her helicopter was part of a fleet, and whichever one she was aboard was called Marine One. As always, a marine in blue dress uniform stood at attention as the president approached and ran lightly up the steps.
The first time Pauline had flown in a helicopter, something like twenty-five years ago, it had been an uncomfortable experience, she recalled, with hard metal seats in a cramped interior, and so noisy it was impossible to talk. This was different. The inside of the aircraft was like a private jet, with comfortable seats upholstered in pale-tan leather, air-conditioning and a small bathroom.
The National Security Advisor, Gus Blake, sat next to her. A retired general, he was a big man, African American, with short grey hair. He exuded an air of reassuring strength. At fifty-five he was five years older than Pauline. He had been a key member of her team in the presidential election campaign, and now he was her closest colleague.
‘Thank you for doing this,’ he said as they took off. ‘I know you didn’t want to.’
He was right. She resented the distraction and felt impatient to get it over with. ‘One of those chores that just has to be done,’ she said.
It was a short journey. As the helicopter descended she checked her appearance in a hand mirror. Her short blonde bob was tidy, her make-up light. She had nice hazel eyes that showed the compassion she often felt, although her lips could set in a straight line that made her look remorselessly determined. She closed the mirror with a snap.
They landed at a warehouse complex in a suburb in Maryland. Its official name was US Government Archive Overflow Storage Facility No. 2, but those few people who knew its real function called it Munchkin Country, after the place where Dorothy went during the tornado in The Wizard of Oz.
Munchkin Country was a secret. Everyone knew about the Raven Rock Complex in Colorado, the underground nuclear bunker where military leaders planned to shelter during a nuclear war. That was a real facility that would be important, but it was not where the president would go. A lot of people also knew that underneath the East Wing of the White House was the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, used in crises such as 9/11. However, that was not designed for long-term post-apocalypse use.
Munchkin Country would keep a hundred people alive for a year.
President Green was met by General Whitfield. In his late fifties, he was round-faced and plump, with an amiable manner and a marked lack of military aggression. Pauline felt quite sure he was not in the least interested in killing enemies – which was, after all, what soldiers were for. His lack of bellicosity would be why he had ended up in this job.
It was a genuine storage facility, and signs directed deliveries to a loading dock. Whitfield led the party through a small side door, and that was where the atmosphere changed.
They were confronted by a massive double door that would have looked appropriate at the entrance to a maximum-security prison.
The room it led to felt suffocating. It had a low ceiling, and its walls seemed nearer, as if they were several feet thick. The air had a bottled taste.
‘This blast-proof room exists mainly to protect the elevators,’ Whitfield said.
As they entered the elevator, Pauline quickly lost the impatient sense that she was engaged in an exercise that was barely necessary. This began to feel portentous.
Whitfield said: ‘With your permission, Madam President, we’ll go all the way down and work our way back up.’
‘That will be fine, thank you, general.’
As the elevator descended, he said proudly: ‘Ma’am, this facility offers you one hundred per cent protection if the United States should suffer any of the following: a pandemic or plague; a natural disaster such as a large meteorite hitting the Earth; riot and major civil disorder; a successful invasion by conventional military forces; cyberattack; or nuclear war.’
If this list of potential catastrophes was meant to reassure Pauline, it failed. It reminded her that the end of civilization was possible and she might have to shelter in this hole in the ground so that she could try to save a remnant of the human race.
She thought she might prefer to die on the surface.
The elevator was falling fast and seemed to go a long way down before slowing. When at last it stopped, Whitfield said: ‘In case of elevator trouble, there is a staircase.’
It was a witticism, and the younger members of the party laughed, thinking about how many steps there might be; but Pauline remembered how long it had taken people to descend the stairs in the burning World Trade Center, and she did not crack a smile. Nor did Gus, she noticed.
The walls were painted restful green, soothing creamy-white and relaxing pale pink, but it was still an underground bunker. The creepy feeling remained with her as she was shown the Presidential Suite, the barracks with lines of cots, the hospital, gym, cafeteria and supermarket.
The Situation Room was a replica of the one in the basement of the White House, with a long table down the centre and chairs at the sides for aides. There were large screens on the walls. ‘We can provide all the visual data you get at the White House, and just as fast,’ Whitfield said. ‘We can look at any city in the world by hacking into traffic cameras and security surveillance. We get military radar in real time. Satellite photos take a couple of hours to reach the Earth, as you know, but we get them at the same time as the Pentagon. We can pick up any television station, which can be useful on those rare occasions when CNN or Al-Jazeera get a story before the security services. And we will have a team of linguists to provide instant subtitles for news programmes in foreign languages.’