“Very well,” he said. “Mr. Johnson, thank you. We won’t be needing a Bible or a backdrop anytime soon. Please leave the rostrum.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Nope. It’s still Mr. Speaker for a while. When I address the nation, it will be as Speaker, not as president.”

Strasky stepped forward to argue, but Penn shooed him away. “Not now, Arlen. You need to leave the rostrum as well. You’re welcome to stay in the chamber, but remember your place.”

Penn took his seat and rapped on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are sailing uncharted waters in a raging sea. Leader Fortnight has raised a valid point. Americans beyond our bunker are going insane trying simply to stay alive. If they don’t hear from us for a while, I don’t imagine it will do much harm. And, frankly, I’m not sure what we know to tell them.”

He scanned the faces in the room. All he saw was fear and sadness. All he felt was fear and sadness.

“The fact of the matter,” Penn continued, “is that we don’t know what we don’t know. We don’t know why things went so terribly wrong, and we don’t know how bad conditions really are. We don’t know who needs our help, or what help they need. We don’t know what resources are available to share. We don’t know what is left of our armed forces, or of those of our enemies. Come to think of it, I don’t think we’re one hundred percent sure we even know who our enemy is.”

He let his words hang for a few seconds as he continued to observe his colleagues in the chamber. He wanted to remember every detail of this awful day.

“So,” he said, gently rapping his table, “if anyone has any ideas, I’m open to listening to them.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

THEY HADN’T HEARD AN EXPLOSION IN OVER AN HOUR. MCCREA didn’t know how long the bombing had lasted but it was a good long time. Given the magnitude of the weaponry, he figured that hearing them did not equate necessarily to them being close. Back in the days of open testing in the Nevada desert, people heard those detonations over a hundred miles away. The last few tonight had been more felt than heard, little more than vibrations through the rock.

He’d led the family deep into the mine—he estimated it to be one hundred yards, give or take, and with each increment of forward progress, the passage had become smaller. He’d stopped when further progress would mean either walking with their backs bent like an L or crawling on hands and knees. This was a shelter, not an exploration. He’d brought them to a halt.