Legacy

A Naptown Tales Sequel by Altimexis

Chapter 43 — Funny Business — Bruce Warren

The sound of the Promenade from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition roused me from what had been a restless sleep. The ringtone was specific to only one person, Bob Jamison, and hearing it first thing in the morning could only mean trouble.

Stumbling around in the twilight haze of the limited sleep I’d gotten, I finally located the source of the offending music. Phones had changed a lot in the thirty plus years since I’d gotten my first one as a kid but, unless one opted for an implanted model, they were still easily mislaid. There were certainly times I’d thought about getting one of the new implantable models, but I wasn’t ready to make my phone a part of my body and, besides, upgrading them was a bitch.

Answering the phone, I said, “Hi Bob. Calling me first thing on a Saturday morning, I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“I wish it were,” he answered. “If you have to ask me, you obviously just got up…”

“Yeah, I got to bed pretty late last night,” I answered, “and besides, it’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

“And what’s with that?” Bob asked. “Weren’t you supposed to arrive here yesterday?”

“Not sure what the hold-up is, Bob,” I replied, “but we’re still stuck here in Philly with no word on when we’ll start moving again. The Governor speculates that Homeland Security is deliberately stalling — hoping to diffuse any terrorist threat before we get to Washington.”

“That is news, Bruce,” Bob replied, “and something tells me Brad Reynolds is making more than an educated guess there. Brad isn’t just David Reynolds’ brother. He’s also the Vice-President’s brother-in-law and a personal friend of half of the President’s Cabinet.

“Which is why I’m calling you, Bruce,” Bob continued. “Something’s going on and the President is nowhere to be found. Check the newsfeeds — something huge is happening in the Mideast. Somewhere in southern Turkey,” he added. “There are reports of a major battle involving Israeli forces and perhaps the Syrians or Hamas.”

“On Turkish soil?” I asked.

“Yeah, and NATO seem to be the only ones who aren’t involved in it,” Bob replied. “There have been explosions and there are reports in the local media of an earthquake and that there may have even been a nuclear detonation.”

“Nuclear!” I practically shouted into the phone. “FUCK!”

“We don’t know for sure, Bruce,” Bob reiterated, “but something big is going down and our government is stonewalling — and like I said, Schroeder is nowhere to be seen.”

“If the conflict’s gone nuclear,” I countered, “then it’s likely he wouldn’t be seen. The President has far more important things to do than entertain the news media.”

“But then why the silence?” Bob countered. “With so much going on, the President has got to know that the media will go into a frenzy, speculating and starting outright rumors, creating a news story if no other information exists. At the very least, you’d expect him to schedule a news conference to give us something to plan around.”

“Schroeder’s probably too stupid to even think that far ahead,” I countered.

“But Cohen isn’t,” Bruce replied, very effectively shutting me up. Lance Cohen was the Press Secretary, a veteran reporter and a close friend of David Reynolds who was one of his first political appointments. Even if Schroeder had no idea what he was doing, Cohen would have had things under control with the media. That was his job. Bob was right — something very strange was going on.

“So where do I fit in?” I asked.

“I’d like you to pump the Governor for all the information you can get out of him,” Bob answered, “and then I’d like you to come down here. You have a personal connection with Brad Reynolds, and with much of the President’s cabinet, for that matter.”

Before I had even a chance to object, “Don’t say it, Bruce. Yes, I know you won’t jeopardize Brad’s trust in you, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. If there were ever a time you might have to stretch things to the limit, or perhaps beyond it, now is the time. I’m not saying you should breach what Reynolds tells you in strictest confidence, but if he tells you anything the public needs to know, you have an obligation to convince him it’s in his best interest to make the information public.”

“And if he won’t budge?” I asked.

“Then we’ll have to find a creative way to break the story, pure and simple,” Bob responded. “We’ll do everything possible to stay on the right side of the ethical divide but, at the end of the day, the public’s right to know trumps everything else.”

“What if I learn something harmful — something that could jeopardize national security?” I asked.

“The ultimate decision will be yours, Bruce,” Bob answered, “but you need to ask yourself whether you’re protecting national security, or protecting your friends. If it’s the former, then of course we may be faced with sitting on the story of our lives. If it’s the latter, however, you’ll have to ask yourself if your friendship is worth giving up your career over.”

I swallowed hard as I contemplated what Bob was saying. If it were indeed a matter of national security, there was no doubt. I would do the right thing. But what if my friends were somehow involved in a cover-up of some sort? Would I be willing to use information obtained in strictest confidence — information that would be used against them? I would have to do a lot of soul searching in the hours ahead if that were the case.

“Bruce?” Bob repeated when I failed to answer.

“I’ll do what I can, Bob,” I responded. “I’ll talk to the Governor and then I’ll head down to Washington. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“That’s the spirit,” he replied.

“Just don’t expect too much,” I added, and as I did so, the door opened and my son walked into our compartment. “There are things that cannot be said, even off the record — even to a best friend.”

“Nevertheless, I know you’ll do your best,” Bob replied. “Bruce, remember this — I’m counting on you.”

“Gees, thanks for putting me on the spot,” I responded.

“I’m not asking any more of you than you’d ask of anyone on your staff,” he countered, and I realized he probably was right, not that anyone on my staff was the best friend of the Governor and brother-in-law of the assassinated president.

After ending the call, I looked up to see my son grinning at me. “Why the grin?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing really, Dad,” Harry replied. “It just seems like you’re getting a dose of your own medicine. Usually it’s you who’s chewing someone out, you know?”

“I don’t chew anyone out…” I countered, but my son interrupted me.

“I know you don’t mean to, Dad, but I’ve seen it enough times with new, young reporters — and with me.”

I might not agree with Harry, but I was even more distressed by the direction of the conversation and so I changed the subject. “What brings you back here?” I asked. “I thought you were spending the night with Chris Reynolds — again.” Actually, Harry was sharing a compartment with Chris and his brother, Brian, so it wasn’t like my son was getting it on with the Governor’s younger son, but the two boys seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

“They kicked me out!” Harry replied indignantly.

“They what?” I asked.

“They kicked me out,” my son answered. “A bunch of Secret Service guys entered the compartment, woke us all up, told us to get dressed and told me I had to leave. They didn’t even let me have any privacy, either. They didn’t even let me piss. They pulled the covers off us before I’d even lost my morning wood,” he added as he blushed.

“Did they say anything about why they made you leave?” I asked.

“It’s not like I felt like chatting with them while I was standing there naked, Dad,” Harry responded. “I just threw on my clothes as fast as I could and high-tailed it out of there.”

“The two of you were sharing a bed, naked?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why I was surprised. It was just all too easy to fall into ‘dad mode’.

Blushing again, Harry replied, “As long as we were quiet, Brian didn’t mind.”

How naïve I’d been to assume Brian’s presence would keep them from doing anything. Teenagers!

“Dad?” Harry questioned as I continued to stand there, not saying anything.

Shaken from my thoughts, I came to a decision. I was going to get to the bottom of whatever was going on, no matter what the cost.

“Son, I got to go,” I said, perhaps a bit too abruptly.

“Dad?” Harry responded. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

“And you’re gonna find out?” my son asked.

Sighing, I replied, “I’m going to try to find out.”

“If anyone can, Dad, you can,” Harry suggested with a grin on his face, but I wasn’t so sure.

Rather than trying to fight an endless sea of Secret Service agents to gain physical access to the assassinated president’s brother, I took advantage of the years of friendship we shared. I was one of a select few individuals that Brad trusted with his private phone number, and the only journalist. Even in this time of crisis, I seriously doubted that Brad would go anywhere without his phone.

After listening to Brad’s phone ring several times, just as I was sure the phone would bounce to voicemail, I was suddenly confronted with, “Bruce, I can’t talk right now.”

“We have to talk, Brad,” I replied. “I know a lot more about what’s going on than you think.” Sure it was a bluff and, if he called me on it, I was going to have to make some very risky educated guesses on the spot. Still, I saw no alternative. History was being made and it would stop for no one.

“Much as I value our friendship,” Brad responded, “now is not the time for conjecture by the press. A lot is happening and lives are very much at stake. Whatever you know or think you know, Bruce, you need to sit on it.”

Damn! With resolve, I continued, “But history will judge you harshly if you don’t have an impartial witness on your side. Do you really trust the news media to render fair judgement?” I asked. “Some might consider the actions of you and your friends to be treason,” I added, sticking my neck way out there, “and with American Special Forces involved and now that a nuclear device has been detonated by the United States, you’ll be hard-pressed to prove them wrong.”

I wasn’t sure of any of this, but I reasoned that the only way that NATO forces wouldn’t be involved in an action in southern Turkey would be if our special forces were already there. Further, the only country that could pull off a secret nuclear strike was the United States. No one else possessed the technology.

After more than a minute of silence, Brad responded with, “I don’t know where you got your information, Bruce, but you need to carefully weigh the consequences of any of this becoming public. Of course I can neither confirm nor deny any of what you said but, regardless of its accuracy, releasing any of it would lead to a firestorm of a scandal and allegations of a coverup. America cannot afford such a scandal right now, and it’s almost certain that it would provide those who murdered David with the political cover to get away with it.”

“That’s precisely why you need me, Brad,” I replied. “You need someone you can trust — an independent observer — to tell the world the truth.”

After what seemed to be an interminable wait, Brad answered, “If I were to let you come with me, you would have to agree to terms that would be hard for anyone to swallow. You would have to let the Secret Service take your phone and any other potential communication device you have. The contents of any tablet or other tool you use would be subject to review before you would be allowed to take any of it with you. You would have to leave your family and colleagues behind — essentially to go under cover for an indefinite period without the ability to communicate with them. And as you noted, there is a risk you could be charged with treason if you become involved with us.”

Swallowing hard, I asked, “Are you suggesting you would censor anything I write?”

“If what you write puts American lives in danger, then yes, Bruce, I would have no choice,” Brad responded. “However, you have my word that I would never use my authority, nor would anyone else in the administration, to save our own skins.”

“With what you just told me,” I replied, “I know I can trust you. I will agree to your terms, but I need to see to Harry…”

“Don’t worry about Harry,” Brad answered. “I’ll make sure Kayla looks after him in our absence. He can continue to bunk with Chris and, should it become necessary to secure my family, he will be kept with them in safety.”

Brad then concluded the call with, “I’ll send someone to get you.”

“What is it, Dad?” Harry asked with evident concern on his face after I ended the call. “Are we at war?”

“Oh no, son — it’s nothing like that,” I tried to assure him. “There are some things going on in the Middle East, but we’re not at war. Not even close.”

“But you said Special Forces are involved, and that it’s gone nuclear!” he replied. Why did he have to be so sharp?

Sighing, I responded, “Actually, I have no idea what’s going on in the Middle East, but if we were involved in some sort of shooting war, believe me, we’d know about it by now. I just made some good guesses to make The Governor think I know more than I do. I had to do something to get him to listen to me.”

“Those must have been some very good guesses to get him to take you with him.” Harry replied.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, but a lot’s happening and I need to go with Brad Reynolds if I’m going to report on it.”

“Anyone could report on it, Dad, but Governor Reynolds invited you to be there when it all happens. He trusts you…”

“And I’ve earned that trust,” I pointed out, “and I intend to keep that trust no matter what the know-nothings at Corporate may say. Unfortunately, I have to go alone,” I added.

“I know,” my young son responded. Then he threw his arms around me and spoke into my ear. “I love you, Dad.”

Hugging him back, I replied, “You too, Harry, more than anyone besides Mom and your sister.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

“Stay close to Chris and you’ll be well-protected, and his mom will look after you in my absence,” I told my young son as I released him from my grasp. “Promise me you’ll look after yourself.”

“And you promise me you’ll come back to us, Dad.”

“I promise I’ll do everything I can to see that I do,” I assured my boy, and then I turned and opened the door. Standing outside our compartment were a man and a woman in business attire who were obviously Secret Service.

“Harry, I'm Samantha,” the woman said as she bypassed me and spoke directly to my son. “I’ll be looking after you and your boyfriend while your Dad’s away.”

“Boyfriend?” I couldn’t help but ask. “I thought Chris Reynolds already had a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and now he has two,” Harry answered. “He and I have talked with Gary and Gary’s cool with it. We’re all gonna get together when we get home and see how it goes.”

I guess I must have just stood there, staring at my son, as he started to laugh and then added, “Dad, it’s different with guys. I know some gay guys get married and all, but I’m way too young for all that. If Chris and I like each other, and Chris and Gary like each other, and if it turns out that Gary and I like each other, then why can’t the three of us all be boyfriends?”

I was just having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of my thirteen-year-old son being sexually active in the first place, but the vision that came to me just then was something I most definitely didn’t want to think about. “Harry, I don’t even want to think of you having that kind of fun with one guy, let alone two.”

Harry turned red as a beet as he said, “No comment.” I was about to say something else about thirteen being too young to have sex, when the male agent said, “Mr. Warren, the Governor is waiting.”

Hugging my son yet again, I said, “Be careful, will you?”

“You too, Dad,” Harry replied, and then we left, each with our respective agent leading the way.

<> <> <>

“How long has the President been missing?” I asked as I sipped on my coffee. It had been an hour since I’d arrived in Washington and settled into my temporary quarters in the Underground White House. After leaving the train, Brad and I had been whisked away by a contingent of Secret Service. Led through a series of underground tunnels from the Thirtieth Street Station to the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, we’d taken a private elevator to a rooftop helipad, where we boarded a helicopter bound for the White House. Now I found myself in a small conference room with Jeremy Kimball, Trevor Austin, Kurt DeWitt, Debbie McLaughlin and of course Brad Reynolds.

At first they’d all been reluctant to share information with me, but Brad convinced the rest of them of the value of having an impartial witness to history in the making. Far better to have someone they could trust as an accurate custodian of the public record than to allow the news media to go wild with unsubstantiated speculation in the end. Even if they all ended up being hanged for treason, at least their side of the story would be told. And what a story it was turning out to be!

Who the fuck was I kidding? I’d hang right along with them.

“The last time he was seen by anyone,” Trevor answered, “was yesterday at the news conference in which he announced Altaf El Tahari’s abduction. That came less than an hour after the Cabinet meeting in which a vote was taken to remove him from office. After the Cabinet meeting, he met with Lance Cohen, his press secretary, over lunch in the Presidential dining room. We know the President used his private bathroom after lunch and he was out of sight for thirteen minutes, and then Lance took him directly to the pressroom. After the press conference, he just — disappeared.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “Security down here is incredible. With all the cameras and security checkpoints with their retina scans, there’s no way he could have gone anywhere without there being a record of it.”

“That’s certainly true for mere mortals like ourselves,” Debbie McLaughlin sheepishly admitted, “but presidents have long enjoyed special status when it comes to White House security. How else could President Kennedy have enjoyed liaisons with Marilyn Monroe without there being any record of her having been to the White House? All visitors are supposed to be logged, but Presidential mistresses have come and gone all the time.”

“But we’re not talking about logging visitors, here,” I pointed out. “We’re talking about automated security checkpoints and video holographic surveillance. How could anyone, even the President, hope to evade being recorded on camera?”

“How do photographers take pounds off their subjects, or remove unwanted ex-husbands?” Trevor asked. “With enough technology and expertise, believe me, there is absolutely nothing that can’t be faked in a video record. I should know — I’ve done it, many times…”

“And my wife developed some of the algorithms that we use for this,” Debbie added, “including top secret algorithms available only to the NSA and the CIA.”

“Ever since the Watergate scandal in the Nixon White House,” Trevor continued, “Presidents have asked for the means to erase entire events from the recorded media of the day, and to do so seamlessly. You may have read about the missing gap in one of Nixon’s tapes — his secretary had supposedly ‘accidentally’ erased it. In reality it had nothing to do with his secretary and it wasn’t an accident. It was a botched attempt to tamper with the evidence — to overwrite a recorded conversation that would have tied Nixon directly to the break-in and not just the cover-up. Unfortunately for Nixon, the attempt was crude at best and the substituted conversation that was recorded on top of the old one was obviously a fake, forcing the White House to replace it with noise. Better to have the appearance of impropriety, after all, than proof of it. With modern technology, we were able to recover both conversations.”

“The technology for covering up unwanted data has come a long way since then,” Debbie took over, “and methods for eliminating individuals from video and even holographic recordings are commonplace. There are a number of commercial products designed specifically for this purpose, some of them developed by my wife and her co-workers at Andrews Optoelectronics. All of them, however, leave tell-tale traces of tampering. This has always been the Achilles heel of these methods.

“The products she developed for the Government, however, are flawless. When the President directs that a person or an event be eliminated from the White House record, not even the NSA can detect that there has been an alteration…”

“I can!” Trevor interrupted.

“Reliably?” Debbie asked.

“Almost,” Trevor replied. “I’m very, very close to breaking Cathy’s latest algorithm — and we don’t really need reliability. We just need to determine which recordings have been altered to find clues to where the President may have gone.”

“That’s a very good point,” Debbie admitted.

“So you’re saying that the President has the authority to block or remove himself from recordings made by White House security cameras?” I asked.

“Basically, yeah,” Trevor replied.

“But wouldn’t he need help in doing so?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” Debbie answered. “Ever since Clinton’s impeachment, presidents have asked for the ability to remove themselves from White House recordings without relying on intermediaries who might later be called upon to testify. However, it has only been in recent times that the technology has existed to make that a reality. All Schroeder would have had to have done was to enter an access code and specify a time period from which to make himself disappear from all recordings. Although he did not do so, he could have even specified an alternative destination or series of destinations and the system would have dutifully made it appear that he had gone to each of those places.”

“Shit, the President could be anywhere,” I said in stunned disbelief, “Even outside the White House perimeter.”

“Or he could be right under our noses, waiting to spring a trap,” Kurt added.

“Didn’t you guys consider that when you neutered him?” I asked.

“Our gravest concern was that the President would start a real war so he could hold on to power,” Jeremy explained. “To that end, we took the ‘football’ from him and removed his nuclear access codes from the military database, and we informed the Joint Chiefs that Schroeder was no longer the Commander in Chief. We couldn’t do more than that without tipping our hand; however we did lock him out of military communications so that even if he tried to issue orders to subordinate military leaders, he had no secure way to reach them. Of course the military is prohibited from acting on orders not received through a secure channel.”

“We did intend to lock the President out of White House security,” Trevor added. “There just wasn't time before the press conference. Locking down the military came first.”

“Doesn’t the President have an implanted tracking device?” I asked.

“Schroeder declined the implant,” Trevor reported with a sigh.

“Do you think maybe Schroeder had something to do with the events in the Middle East this morning?” I asked.

Trevor and Jeremy looked at each other, and then Jeremy nodded and Trevor turned back toward me and started to speak. “I’m not sure how much you really know about the situation in the Middle East or where you got your information. Unless you’re willing to share your sources with us, we can only assume you put a lot of it together yourself from what limited information you have. If you do know more than you’re letting on, however, you really need to consider your loyalties. Freedom of the press is one of the most cherished tenets of American Democracy, but it will mean very little if it sows the seeds of our destruction.

“Unfortunately, there is so little information out there, and much of it has been compromised. I myself didn’t know of Dr. El Tahari and Lieutenant Manning’s whereabouts until yesterday. Obviously, there are rogue elements in the governments of Israel and Palestine as well as in a number of other world powers — and in our own. The fact that we could have been involved with the abduction of our own Secretary of State without the National Security Advisor being aware of it is disturbing.”

My jaw must have dropped open, as Jeremy chuckled as he answered, “That’s right, we were responsible for Dr. El Tahari’s abduction. That’s how it was possible to break into his armored limousine so easily. We abducted our own Secretary of State for his own protection, only no one in the administration was aware of it.”

“The information I provide the President is no better than the information I have at hand,” Trevor continued. “When elements of the CIA and the military conspire to keep the Administration in the dark, the risk to national security becomes immeasurable. There is also the risk it could lead to an accidental war — a war that easily could escalate to the point of our annihilation.”

“How was this possible?” I asked.

“It seems there was a contingency plan drawn up during the third Bush administration,” Trevor answered. “I don’t need to tell you that all three Bush presidents had their troubles with the Middle East. International kidnappings were at an all-time high in the late twenties, which made travel by visiting U.S. officials particularly perilous. Severe travel restrictions were implemented and, at the same time, President Bush asked for contingency plans for dealing with a potential threat. One of the Secretary of State’s subordinates conceived the idea of a preemptive kidnapping. In other words, if the risk of abduction is unacceptably high, we kidnap first to protect our officials from harm. That way we can still send our officials on diplomatic missions without the appearance of ducking our tails between our legs and running. To that end, policies and procedures were put in place and the President signed off on it.”

“Why didn’t the policy expire with the end of the Bush presidency?” I asked.

“That’s a very good question,” Trevor explained with a half laugh, “and one we ourselves will be trying to answer once this crisis is finally over. Best guess is it fell off everyone’s radar except for those responsible for implementing it. Altaf’s trip was the first to meet all the criteria. Apparently Schroeder gave the go-ahead, perhaps not even realizing what he gave the go-ahead for.”

“How did the Prime Minister and Paul Manning get involved?” I asked.

“After the second attack on his life, the Prime Minister asked his contact within the CIA for protective asylum,” Jeremy explained. “He brought Manning with him. Once again the President was informed, but chose not to share that information with anyone — not even his VP or his National Security Advisor. He even went as far as to deny knowledge when confronted with the evidence presented at a Cabinet meeting.”

“Unbelievable,” I responded. “Sounds like your suspicions of his complicity in David’s death are well-founded.”

“Oh, by the way,” Trevor interjected, “that comment about the Palestinian Prime Minister having contact with a CIA operative is strictly off the record for obvious reasons. If you say or write anything about it, rest assured that the Administration will categorically deny it.”

“Speaking of which, who exactly is the administration right now?” I asked.

“With the president’s whereabouts undetermined,” Jeremy responded, “I automatically assumed the duties of President as specified in the Constitution. However I’ve taken the added precaution of revoking all of his security clearances. Should he attempt to access a Federal facility, he’ll be flagged as an imposter.”

“Do you really have the authority to do that?” I asked. “President Schroeder’s alleged misdeeds not withstanding, some might see this as a coup d'état.”

“Keeping Schroeder from leading the country off a cliff is the absolute first priority, even if it means I’ll hang for it,” Jeremy replied. “Besides which, we do still have the vote of the Cabinet on record. All we have to do is submit it to the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tempore of the Senate.

“However, I’d rather not go there just yet. Doubtful though it seems, it’s still possible those responsible for David’s death don’t know we’re onto them yet. Also, for history’s sake, I’d much rather let Schroeder do something to hang himself. His impeachment would be a much cleaner, more permanent and legitimate way to remove him from office.”

“You know the media is involved in a frenzy wondering what has happened to the President?”

“Better to let the media speculate,” Kurt chimed in, “than to create mass hysteria by confirming he’s MIA.”

“An interesting idea,” I thought to myself aloud.

“Anyway,” Trevor continued, “the U.S. has long had strategically placed safe houses throughout the world, some of them with attached underground bunkers that can be used in case of a direct attack on the facility. Paul Manning and the Palestinian Prime Minister were taken to one of the most heavily fortified safe houses we have — one located in the southernmost portion of Turkey, near the Lebanese and Syrian borders. When we abducted Altaf, he was taken to the same facility under the guise of being protected by the Palestinian Authority.”

After a few minutes of silence, I suddenly remembered a small detail that was probably relevant. “You know there are unconfirmed reports that a nuclear device was detonated in southern Turkey…”

“And they will remain unsubstantiated,” Jeremy interrupted

“Does that mean the safe house was destroyed?” I asked with trepidation. “Were the Secretary, the Prime Minister and Lieutenant Manning killed?”

“The facility was destroyed, when it came under attack by Israeli forces and operatives of Hamas. American special forces held them off as long as they could. The facility was destroyed only after our protectees were safely in the associated bunker, a kilometer-and-a-half under ground,” Jeremy answered.

“Israel was involved — and Hamas?” I asked.

“There is a lot of information to be sorted out,” Trevor answered. “That’s my job,” he added with a smile.

“Off the record, was a nuclear weapon detonated?” I asked.

“Unofficially, yes, an experimental tactical weapon was deployed and detonated,” Jeremy responded.

“Doesn’t that require Presidential authorization?” I asked, “and wasn’t the ‘football’ taken away from the President?”

“The President’s authorization as well as that of a high-ranking Cabinet member is required to detonate a nuclear weapon,” Kurt clarified. “But this particular weapon is considered non-lethal. Yes, it’s nuclear, but it’s designed to emit minimal radiation. As with the neutron bomb, conventional explosives are used to implode a fusion core. However, rather than emitting a lethal shower of neutrons, it emits a directed intense magnetic shockwave.”

“It’s an EMP device!” I exclaimed.

“Yes but again this administration will categorically deny its existence.”

“So it doesn’t require Presidential authorization?” I asked.

Sighing, Trevor answered, “Although non-lethal, it is a nuclear device. It still requires Presidential authorization, but the authorization of the President alone is sufficient to allow its deployment in the field.

“Now this is where it really gets weird. The device uses its own unique access codes, which is why locking the President out of access to the nuclear arsenal didn’t keep him from activating the EMP device. However there is no record of Schroeder ever being briefed on this weapon, or of him being given the access codes. There just wasn't time. Somehow he must have gotten them, though.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because the only other person who could have possibly activated the weapon or ordered its deployment was David Reynolds, and he’s dead.”

As I took in what Trevor was telling me, I couldn’t help but note that he wasn’t making eye contact with me. Oh, he was looking at me all right, but his eyes were looking just slightly to the side. It was evident there was something he wasn’t telling me. There was something he didn’t want me to know, but why?