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“About fifteen minutes ago,” Vogel said. “The pilot got a message out that there was some kind of commotion on the plane. He thought there was a Converted onboard, someone who dodged a cellulose test, maybe. He reported gunshots. Then fighter escort saw Air Force One go down. No survivors. President Blackmon is dead.”

Those imaginary spotlights picked up in intensity. Their glare burned hot enough to make Albertson break out into a sweat.

Murray sagged back into his chair. He’d believed in Blackmon’s ability to lead the nation out of this. Now she was dead, and with the nation at DEFCON 1, Albertson was the commander in chief.

Admiral Porter broke the silence.

“Mister President,” he said, putting emphasis on the second word, making it clear that the word Vice no longer applied. “From this moment on, you’re in charge, sir. What is your decision about our overseas troops?”

Albertson’s eyes looked hollow. The burden of leaders.h.i.+p had fallen to a man who clearly couldn’t handle it. Shaking hands lifted to tired eyes, rubbed them lightly.

“If you say so, Admiral,” he said quietly. “Withdraw the troops.”

Murray stared at Albertson. The man’s very first command of his presidency? A confidence-building if you say so.

Maybe the Converted had already won.

URBAN TERRAIN

Oddly, Clarence thought of Dew Phillips.

Before Dew died, he had been at the tail end of his career. Truth be told, he’d been well past that. In his late sixties, Dew had been forced into intense physical action while managing, protecting — and occasionally even beating the c.r.a.p out of — one “Scary” Perry Dawsey.

Clarence thought of Dew because five years ago Clarence had been the young buck on the team: fit, well trained and ready to rock. Now, Clarence was the one showing the wear and tear of age. Not that he was ready to retire, not even close, but being surrounded by twenty-five-year-olds in world-cla.s.s shape made it obvious his best years were behind him.

Of course, the bulky CBRN suit didn’t help at all. It was far less bulky than the full BSL-4 rig he’d worn on the Brashear, granted, but the fully enclosed suit still made it c.u.mbersome to move around wrecked cars and through ankle-deep snow. His face felt hot inside the suit’s built-in gas mask. The lenses over each eye cut off much of his peripheral vision; he found himself turning his head rapidly to make sure the Converted weren’t sneaking up from the sides.

Clarence stayed close to Margaret. Two SEALs — the little one, Ramierez, and a swarthy man named Bogdana — shadowed them every step of the way. They and the other SEALs weren’t wearing the CBRN gear. Speed, silence and agility were as much a part of the SEAL a.r.s.enal as their M4 carbines, Mark 23 pistols and Barrett M107 rifles. Margaret had argued with Klimas about it. She wanted everyone in the suits, but the commander had ended the discussion quickly. His support of Margaret only went so far, it seemed, and didn’t include debates regarding his gear and the gear of his men.

Tim was currently twenty or thirty feet back, Klimas and Bosh constantly at his side. As soon as Clarence and Margaret stopped, Tim and Klimas would leapfrog ahead. That was how all the troops moved: one group stayed still, ready to provide covering fire, while another group advanced forward to take up covering positions of their own.