Barb bit down on her irritation. She had grown used to the ways of the Service and knew they would explain all that they could once she and Suzie were safely out of harm's way. A few people in the crowd noticed that the First Lady was cutting short her regular shopping trip, and there was a momentary surge in the background buzz, but when nobody pulled any guns or started bellowing instructions to her protection detail, the small surge in the crowd's excitement level quickly abated. Just as the city had grown used to the First Family walking and living among them, they had become accustomed to Kipper and Barb occasionally disappearing without notice at the behest of their bodyguards. Three years after the Wave had simply vanished, the world remained a dangerous and unpredictable place. It was always a wonder to Barb that people seemed to have adapted so quickly to the arbitrary and hazardous nature of life in the new world.

"Does this mean we don't have to have vegetables for dinner?" Suzie asked with the eternal hopefulness of childhood as she hauled herself up into the rear seat of the Suburban in the center of the little convoy.

Barb smiled nervously at her daughter. It was a little sad how quickly Suzie had also adapted to an unsettled and uncertain existence. She had been whisked away into hiding so many times in Kip's first year as president that she took it as a natural state of being.

"Seat belt on, darling," Barbara said, as she strained to lock in on some vital piece of intelligence from the chatter of the agents, surrounding the vehicle, fingers to their earpieces, listening to whatever information there was to be had. At times like this, Barb wished she had one of those earpieces.

"I have my belt on, Mom, but you didn't answer my question. Are we having vegetables? Potatoes are okay, especially the crispy ones that Chef Mikey does. Is the chef cooking dinner tonight, or are you, Mommy? If we have visitors, don't you think Chef Mikey should do the crispy potatoes?"

"Suzie, just quiet down for a moment and let Mommy get strapped in, would you?"

The agents were moving with some haste but not scrambling madly the way they had on the day Kip had ordered those Chinese planes shot down over Alaska. That day remained her yardstick for judging when the brown stuff had really hit the fan. The Suburban's engine roared into life, and they accelerated away sharply enough to press her back into the seat. She pushed herself forward with some effort, leaning over to speak to the Secret Service man riding shotgun in the front seat.

"So what's happening, Peter?" she asked. "Is it Kip? Is he okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," the agent replied tersely as they sped up the hill and across First Avenue.

"Yes what?" Barb asked with a flash of irritation.

"Yes, ma'am. It's your husband," he said, but without elaborating.

"Mommy," a small voice asked from beside her. "Is Daddy okay?" "I'm afraid he's dead," the agent informed him.

"Damn," Jed muttered.

"But I was standing just a few feet away," Kip protested. "I didn't get a scratch. How did he get hit?"

"Mister Koppel was struck by shrapnel, sir," the detail chief, Agent Shinoda, replied. "It was bad luck. He died on the scene while two of my people attempted to stabilize him. One of them was wounded in doing so. Critically."

"I'm sorry," Kipper said. "What was his name?"

"She, sir. Agent Rachael Lonergan. She lost the lower half of her left arm. She's supposed to be on case-vac to Kennedy, but I, uh, need to discuss that with you, Mister President. We don't control that evac point at the moment."

Kipper shook his head in confusion. The three men were huddled in a small subterranean room in Castle Clinton. The rocket attack had been suppressed nearly a quarter of an hour ago, and Kipper could hear only sporadic and muffled gunfire from above them. The end of the battle on Ellis Island, they told him. With no power to provide lighting, they spoke underlit by the white glow of a battery camp light that gave their faces a shadowed, haunted look.

"What do you mean you don't control Kennedy?" the president asked.

His detail chief shook his head.

"I'm sorry, sir. Poor choice of words. We control the secured area of the airport that we came in through this morning, but it is being attacked by irregular forces."

"Pirates?"

"Pirates, mercenary forces, irregulars," said Shinoda. "They're uncoordinated, but there's a lot of them, in four, maybe five elements, an alliance of convenience most likely, cobbled together for the duration of your time in New York. We've seen them ally against each other at times. It would make sense for them to combine against us. Mister President, we cannot take you out of the city via Kennedy."

"Do you think you'll lose control of the secured area?" Kip asked.

"No, sir. A battalion from the First Cavalry Division is there along with an additional battalion of Governor Schimmel's militia and a hundred special operators from Sandline who were on their way out after completing clearance operations in Lower Manhattan. Combined with our firebases, we have more than enough firepower to hold the position, sir. The problem is that it's simply not safe to take you out through that facility, Mister President."

Kip folded his arms and dropped his chin down onto his chest, the universally recognized symbol of an unhappy President Kipper. His ears were still ringing, and he had a monster headache that was refusing to disappear even after a couple of painkillers.

"Well, Agent Shinoda, I'm sure you have any number of fallback plans and alternate routes out."

Shinoda nodded. "Yes, Mister President. We can evac you by Marine One to-"

"However," Kip interrupted, "we have, what, fifteen serious casualties from the rocket attack and about twice that again in walking wounded?"

Jed Culver closed his eyes and started shaking his head.

Shinoda nodded. "Mister President-"

Culver tried to interrupt, but Kipper cut him off.

"Not a word, Jed. Agent Shinoda, what arrangements do you have for getting the really badly wounded people out? I assume they would have gone out on some sort of medical flights from Kennedy."

Shinoda looked grim-faced as he nodded. "We'd evac them to the federal health center in North Kansas City. They'll have to wait until we can secure the landing strip, sir."

"That fight could go on for days," said Kip. "Your own briefings said there were a minimum of eight or nine thousand freebooters in New York alone. And plenty more up and down the coast. They picked this fight on purpose. What makes you think they won't just keep pouring men in to keep it going?"

"Mister President, that's not really my area of concern. You'd need to talk to your military-"

Kip waved his hand to cut Shinoda off. "Well, at this very minute it is your concern, Agent Shinoda, because I'm making it so. Are you certain we're not going to lose all of those wounded people while we wait for the fight at the airport to die down?"

Shinoda looked deeply uncomfortable but did his best to answer, raising his voice to be heard over the growing clatter of a helicopter that sounded as though it was setting down inside the castle's walls.

"The irregular forces are very loosely coordinated, Mister President. In fact, calling them coordinated at all is probably an exaggeration. Maintaining a siege of the airport against superior firepower, especially with the air-to-ground assets currently servicing them, well, it's just not feasible sir, not in the long run."

"But our people don't have long, do they? Our wounded, I mean. They need to get out now."

Another Secret Service agent, this one dressed in black coveralls, appeared at the doors. "Excuse me, sirs, but Marine One just set down topside."

"Mister President," Jed said. "Perhaps if we could continue this on the chopper."