The secret cabal had been having a heated debate for the last few minutes. It was all about damage control and what national secrets Franks might be able to sell . . . Like Franks cared about money. Stricken had sat the argument out. They were idiots. They didn’t get the big picture. Dwayne Myers had been a fixture in these meetings. Though he and Stricken came to very different conclusions about how to deal with the threats, at least Myers had a clue . . . which was exactly why Stricken had made sure he’d been replaced.

“He’ll be joining us in one minute,” said one of the . . . hell . . . Stricken wasn’t sure what to call them. Secretaries? Scribes? Minor teat-sucking hangers-on? He wasn’t sure. The debate died off. Everyone knew who the pencil pusher was talking about. Mr. The Buck Stops Here Unless I Can Blame It On Somebody Else. They turned the lights up a bit. Stricken made sure his tie was straight.

The conference room was relatively dark, not because of any sort of attempt at nefarious secrecy, because it wasn’t like the members of the Subcommittee didn’t all know each other already—they all went to the same cocktail parties—but rather because the congressional liaison to the MCB had been using a projector for his Power Point presentation about the makeup of the manhunt’s resources. They were in the middle of a national fucking catastrophe but of course some government functionary had taken the time to make a fucking slideshow about their response . . . You people are like a bad stereotype . . . The presentation had been helpful though. He’d learned that the MCB investigation had turned up some inconsistencies, mostly because Franks had managed to shoot his Japanese Spider Demon, which had then squirted forensic evidence everywhere. But that hardly cleared Franks, and most of the Subcommittee interpreted that to mean Franks had brought in some unknown form of help.

The TV on the wall was a live shot of a desk. It wasn’t the normal fancy desk, so Stricken hoped the President was enjoying his bunker. It might not have all the comforts of home, but if it could survive World War III it was probably Franks proof . . . Well, at least Franks resistant. The last whispered conversations died off as the President took a seat. He was wearing a golf shirt and a Nike hat. “Is this thing on?”

“We’re here, Mr. President,” said one of the congressmen.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. The President was scanning his own monitor. “Alexander, give it to me straight.”