Jackson shoots him a pointed look. I don’t know how long he’s been standing just around the corner, but he’s obviously heard plenty.
“These kids you’re talking about could make for good soldiers if we provide them with strong leadership,” he says. “Not Melanie, of course. She’ll stay hidden away for security reasons. But if there’s an army of brand-new superheroes out there, we’ll want them fighting on our side. The faster you can get a leash on them, the better things will be in the long run.”
“They aren’t dogs, General,” I say, turning to him. If he tries to put a leash on my son, I’ll remind him that I don’t have to have superpowers to fight.
“Of course not. Sounds like they’re weapons. Isn’t that what you’re getting at?”
“They’re kids,” I say. “Probably scared out of their minds.”
“Welcome to war, Mr. Goode.” Lawson sneers.
“Doctor,” I say, a petty correction I haven’t made in over a decade. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my temples.
Lawson’s nostrils flare a little. “Everyone’s terrified, Doctor. That’s something we can use.”
I turn my back to him. “Mr. President, I know this is all a lot to process, both as a father and as a leader. But just remember: whatever’s happening, your daughter is wrapped up in this now. She may not be Loric, but she may as well be one of the Garde. Remember that as you make your decisions. You can’t give them up. The Garde are not our enemy. The Mogadorians are.”
Jackson holds my gaze, nodding slightly, before turning to Lawson.
“If these . . . human Garde are going to start appearing in America wanting to fight, our job will be to make sure they don’t do anything foolish, but not to subdue them. We can’t fight a war on two fronts. General, call everyone back to the war room in thirty minutes. I want to firm up our plan of action. Our primary threat right now is the race of aliens that has warships parked over our cities. We’ve still got over forty hours of ‘peace’ to come up with a plan.” His lips purse a little bit. “And I want to talk to John Smith myself.”
“Yes, sir,” General Lawson says, disappearing around a corner.
“And Dr. Goode, I want you there as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on my daughter.”
He goes into the suite, leaving me alone in the hallway.
Back at my own room, Briggs is shifting his weight on his crutch outside my door.
“There was, ah . . . ,” he says. “It sounded like there was maybe something buzzing in there earlier.”
I don’t respond. All I know is that I have to get to the phone. Sure enough, I have a string of missed calls from the number Sam reached me from earlier. I press all the wrong buttons trying frantically to redial, not even bothering to hide from any bugs or recording devices. Finally, it connects.
“Dad?” Sam’s voice is frantic, shaking. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I hear him speak, and the air rushes from my lungs in relief.
“Sam, thank God, what is it?” I ask. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Oh, shit,” he says. “I thought something had happened to you too. I . . .”
Too?
“I’m fine, Dad, but . . .” In the background I can hear shouting, pained and animal. “Something terrible’s happened. Could you . . . Dad, we need you back.”
I don’t hesitate to answer. I know that elsewhere in this bunker the leaders of the nation are gathering again. There’s a seat for me at their table now.
But my son needs me. And it’s not like I can’t advise the president from afar.
“Of course, Sam,” I say, motioning for Gamera to follow me. “Just tell me where to go. I’m already on my way.”
“I . . .” He pauses. When he talks again, it sounds like he’s holding the phone away from his ear. “John, wait, where are you . . . ?” Hushed voices I can’t understand, and then “Dad, let me call you back in five, okay?”
He’s hung up before I can ask any of the dozens of questions I need answered, chiefly What the hell happened?
Still, I’ve got five minutes to figure out how to escape from a secret bunker. I think back to Richards telling me that I could leave whenever I wanted but that he’d have men escort me out, making sure I couldn’t lead anyone else back to the bunker. At the time it had seemed like a thinly veiled threat, but I don’t think the president would actually let Richards kill me—especially not now. Still, it would definitely be faster and easier for me to get out of here unnoticed.
The trouble is, I’m not even sure where I am. Maybe sixty miles outside of DC if the train ride was an hour? Farther? And what do I even do for transportation?
In the hallway Briggs must be able to tell something’s wrong—and that I’m bolting.
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner,” I say.
He doesn’t have an immediate answer for me.
“It’s my son,” I say. “I have to go.”