President Mark Mailer, sleeves rolled up, is sweating profusely, despite the heavy air-conditioning. Situated along one wall of his soundproof office is a series of video-communicators linking the Command Center directly to STRATCOM command. Mailer looks away from the image of General Doroshow as he finishes reciting his nuclear launch codes to the commander, yielding his screen to his secretary of defense.

The president moves out from behind his desk and collapses onto the leather sofa, staring at the overhead monitor, watching helplessly as the computer graphic ticks down the final, historical minutes of the United States of America.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. God, please let me wake up in bed next to my wife …

Mailer presses the intercom for the ninth time in the last six minutes. “Borgia?”

“Sir, I’m still trying. Grozny’s aides swear they’ve put the call through, but the president refuses to speak with you.”

“Keep trying.”

An ashen-faced Dick Pryzstas turns away from the video monitor. “Well, sir, our birds are in the air. Maybe that will bring Grozny to the phone.”

“How soon?”

“Our SLBMs will hit Moscow and Beijing two minutes after the coalition missiles strike.”

“You mean, two minutes after every major city on the east and west coasts of the United States is wiped off the face of the map.” Mailer leans forward, his upper body trembling. “All our preparation, all our treaties, all our technology … what the fuck happened? Where did we go wrong?”

“Mark, we didn’t push the button, they did.”

“Chaney was right, this is madness!” Mailer stands, his ulcer on fire. “God dammit, Borgia, where the fuck is Grozny?”

General Joseph Fecondo joins them, his tanned complexion now a sickly olive. “The commanders in chiefs report all sorties are airborne. You’ll excuse me, Mr.President. I’m going to remain in the command center. My oldest boy is stationed at Elmendorf. They’re … they said they’d bring him to the video-comm.”

A female staff member pushes past Fecondo and hands a telefax to the president. “Sir, the British and French have agreed not to launch any of their missiles.”

Dick Przystas’s eyes widen. “The French! Maybe they’re more ambitious than we think. They secretly develop pure fusion, detonate the devices in Russia and China, then take over what’s left of the world after the big three annihilate one another.”

Borgia looks up at Mailer. “It’s possible.”

“Sons of bitches!” Mailer kicks his desk.

Another aide enters. “Mr.President, the vice president’s on VC-4. He says it’s urgent.”

Mailer powers on the video monitor. “Speak quickly, Ennis.”

“Mr.President, the three fusion detonations—we can prove they originated within the alien vessel.”

“Christ, Ennis, I don’t have time for this—”

The image of Captain Loos appears on the communicator. “Mr.President, it’s true. We’re downloading footage taken earlier from one of our Predators.”