Kipper shook his head. "Nope. I'm not getting on the chopper until the Secret Service can assure me that all of the seriously wounded have been evacuated to a secure federal facility. You can start moving them out on my helicopter. It's equipped for this sort of thing, and I'm perfectly healthy, so I don't need it."

Agent Shinoda attempted to demur. "But Mister President…"

"Forget it. This isn't a debate. I'm going to have it my way. Now Jed, you go find me whoever is in charge on the military side around here and make sure he knows what I want done. Agent Shinoda, I will stay down here if it makes your job easier, or I can relocate somewhere more secure. I'll leave that choice to you. But I don't leave Manhattan until the wounded are out, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Shinoda said with visible reluctance.

"Where do you have the wounded now?"

"We established triage upstairs, Mister President, inside the old gift shop."

"Fine." Kipper nodded to himself. "That sounds safe, so take me there. Right now."

Shinoda looked as though he was going to argue, but a raised eyebrow from Kipper was enough to subdue any resistance. "Did you see any pirates, Daddy? They were on the news, but Mom wouldn't let me see it even though you were on with the pirates, too."

Kipper smiled as he held the handpiece to his ear and imagined his daughter back home, fed and bathed and ready for bed-safe and warm and thousands of miles away from this dead city full of murderous crazy fuckers and blood and horror and madness. Her room was next to Barb's and his on the second floor of Dearborn House, and Kipper knew she would be sitting on the thick shag pile rug at the foot of her bed, surrounded by her closest advisers: Tigger, Barbie, and a white teddy bear dressed as a cheerleader that sang, "Oh Mickey you're so fine you're so fine you blow my mind…" at the merest bump or provocation. It was a hell of a lot nicer to think of than his current surroundings, in the back of an armored car somewhere in Lower Manhattan listening to Suzie's voice through a connection of static and beeps.

"No, darling, I didn't see any pirates," Kipper said. "They were on another island. Now, have you brushed your teeth and said your prayers?"

The military radio beeped, indicating that Suzie was going to speak again. It really annoyed Kipper no end.

"Yes," she said suspiciously.

"Well, then it's bedtime, sweetheart. So climb under the covers and let Daddy speak to Mommy."

The radio beeped again.

"Okay, night night, Daddy."

Oh Mickey you're so fine you're so fine you blow my mind. Hey Mickey!

"Good night, Suzie," he called out, but she was already gone. The next beep of the radio heralded the less pleasant segment of this call home.

"Kip, is that you? Are you okay? They said you were fine, but my God, some of the pictures on the news. All those people. I told you not to go out there. I told you. The Secret Service told you. Jed told-"

Barb had gone from relief at hearing his voice, to anxiety, to building rage all in the space of a few seconds. He had to cut her off before she lost it. Hunching over the blinking lights of the control panels in the back of the armored vehicle, cupping his hands over the mouthpiece, he tried to keep his voice down. The two army technicians in there with him did their best to pretend they couldn't hear a word of his developing domestic argument. A bit of static washed over the transmission, cutting Barbara off and giving Kip his chance.

"Whoa, honey," Kip said. "Just settle down. I'm fine. I am perfectly fine. Hardly a scratch. And I'm surrounded by a whole army of… army guys."

The two army techs surreptitiously rolled their eyes at each other. Another beep of the radio signaled Barb's biting retort.

"What do you mean, you're surrounded by army guys? You're supposed to be on a flight back home by now. Where are you?"

Kipper flinched at her tone of voice. This wasn't going to be much fun.

"Well, thing is, I'm in New York…"

"What the hell are you still doing in New York City, James Everett Kipper? I swear to fucking God that you are dumb as a sack of hammers."

The techs shrank at their posts and removed their headsets. The president reined in his temper before it got the better of him. "Two things," he said quickly. "One, the airport we came in through wasn't safe anymore." He didn't explain why. "And two, those people you saw on the news, the ones who were hurt, I put them on my chopper to get them out of here and back to KC for treatment. They'd have died, all of them, if we'd waited."

There was a momentary pause while Barb digested that. Kipper peered out the slits in the heavy steel doors on the back of the… the… damn, he didn't even know what kind of tank or armored car he was in. This military stuff just was not his thing. Outside on the street he could just make out figures in uniform flitting about and other vehicles moving around, some like his and some Humvees-at least he knew what a Humvee looked like.

"Well, when are you getting out of there, Kip?" his wife asked. "It's not safe."

He resisted the urge to tell her that was exactly why he had to come out to the East Coast, as a first step to making it safe again, but he knew Barb wouldn't be impressed by that sort of BS.

"You know I can't give you exact details of my movements, honey," he said. "Just know I am safe and I will be home soon."

Her reply was lost in static, but it didn't sound very encouraging. Kipper thought he saw one of the techs fiddling with some of the cables on the radio.

"I'm sorry, Barb, what was that?"

"… back… sorry…"

The connection dropped out, and one of the soldiers began stabbing at buttons and muttering an apology.

Kipper reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, son. I think you just saved your commander in chief from some world-class ass whuppage."

Swindon, England A man from the Home Office was waiting for her at Swindon's Great Western Hospital, a cream-colored modernist structure on the southwestern edge of the town. The man was an unremarkable type, medium build with light brown hair cut short and a well-made but not too expensive gray suit. Caitlin picked him out as her handler, or minder as they said here, as soon as she hurried in through the automatic doors to the reception area. He favored her with a half-raised eyebrow and came gliding over, juggling a document wallet from one side to the other, allowing him to extend a hand in greeting. He smelled of aftershave and pipe tobacco. She noted that although he looked every inch the gray bureaucrat, his grip was strong and his hand was hardened by the same sort of calluses that scarred her own.

"Ms. Monroe, my name is Dalby," he said. "The office sent me from London to help out with your spot of bother."

Still jittery with the adrenaline backwash, Caitlin could not help herself.

"Spot of bother? They tried to kill my fucking family," she snapped back.

"Indeed. I am sorry," Dalby said. "Sometimes understatement gets the better of me."

His speaking manner was an odd mix, a rough-working class accent bundled up in a very polished and, she thought, practiced form of expression. Caitlin made a conscious effort to calm herself and brushed off his apology, "I'm sorry. Please excuse me, Mister Dalby. It's been a hell of a morning. I just want to see my family, if that's okay."

"Of course," he said. "If you'll follow me."

The hospital seemed quiet even for a midweek morning, with only a few people in the waiting area for accident and emergency and no sense of the barely controlled mayhem that characterized most public health facilities in her experience. Caitlin had half expected some sort of delay at the front desk, but Dalby handed her a clip-on badge and indicated that she should follow him by pointing toward a pair of heavy plastic swinging doors that led into the building's interior. None of the staff questioned them or tried to interfere, and she could only surmise that the Home Office man had already established his credentials as somebody not to be fucked with. Not that anyone fucked with the Home Office these days.