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All around the table, eyebrows raised at her use of the president’s first name. She didn’t seem to notice. Neither did Gutierrez.

“I just don’t know what choice we have,” he said.

“We have the choice of telling the truth and trusting the people,” Vanessa said.

General Cooper laughed at her. “Ma’am, with all due respect, where did you learn about the world, from a game of Candy Land? We’re talking aliens and intergalactic gates, caused by an infection that starts as a G.o.dd.a.m.n skin rash. We tell the people about this and the country will disentegrate in total chaos.”

“I disagree,” Vanessa said. “The people will come together for this.”

Cooper laughed again and started to say something back, but Murray interrupted.

“We need a decision,” he said. The screen behind the president changed from a static picture of the gate to a high-alt.i.tude c.o.c.kpit-cam shot. The cool blacks and blues of a frozen Wisconsin forest raced by. A few spots glowed white as the plane pa.s.sed over houses.

“The Strike Eagles will commence their bomb run in two minutes, Mister President,” Murray said. “If you want to call this off, you have to say so right now.”

Gutierrez sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. He let out a heavy sigh and looked at the ceiling. Murray could sympathize. Carrying out an executive order that could result in civilian deaths was one thing; being the guy to give that order, that was another.

The main flat-panel monitor flared with a new light—the construct had just started to glow.

“d.a.m.n,” Gutierrez said. “How long do we have, Murray?”

“Based on Wahjamega, maybe fifteen minutes. We’re just not sure, Mister President.”

Gutierrez nodded. “If we drop these bombs, how many people do you think could die? Off the record. Just give it to me straight.”

Murray shrugged. “If we’re lucky, none that aren’t already infected. It’s a very remote area, so if we’re unlucky, ten at the very most.”

Gutierrez nodded. “Proceed with the bombing. Get Tom a briefing paper that covers the high points of your cover story. Call a press conference for eight A.M. Donald, General Barnes, you’ll be with me for that conference.” He turned in his chair to watch the bomb run.

Vanessa wasn’t watching the screens. She was watching Murray. All the values Gutierrez had espoused while running for office had just taken a backseat to reality. In her idealistic mind, she probably blamed Murray for that. Too bad, so sad—the president was making the right choice for the country, and she’d just have to deal with it.

Within seconds the screen’s cool blacks and blues revealed a white dot. That dot quickly grew in size. It was a little shaky, a little grainy, but there was no mistaking the construct’s definitive fishbone shape.

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