Nine days after the cyjacking, President Wrightman asked the networks for a half hour in prime time to address the nation. I’d heard rumors that this was in the works, but even I—cynic, skeptic, and wiseass that I am—didn’t believe he’d have the guts to do it.

Rather than from the casual setting of the cabin, he spoke from the Oval Office, with a bust of Lincoln and a painting of FDR visible over either shoulder, and instead of a sweater he wore a somber dark suit offset by a blue shirt and a tie speckled with red, white, and blue. “Good evening, my fellow Americans. Tonight I’m going to discuss with you a matter of the greatest importance to all of us…”

“Uh-oh, this is serious,” I said to Jenny. “He’s using his deep I’m-a-serious-guy voice.” We were at Lucille’s Ballroom. The place was completely filled and absolutely silent. Even Tommy O’Neil behind the bar had paused and was watching Wrightman’s reflection in the mirrors on the far wall.

As the Miracle of Flight 342 had proved, the president continued, the ability of our enemies to reach into our lives from vast distances had continued to improve, and unfortunately, our defenses hadn’t kept up with them. Skillfully deflecting responsibility, he continued: “The substantial damage done to our intelligence services by previous administrations has taken a terrible toll, and repairing that has been a priority of mine since the day I took office. But we are still fighting a determined enemy with an undermanned, underfunded, and somewhat inexperienced capability.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on his desk, an action any body language coach would recommend when you want listeners to believe you’re being candid with them. “Let me be completely honest, my friends. As much as it pains me to admit this, and I have sufficient faith in each of you to know that you will understand and appreciate what I’m about to say, unless we make significant changes, we are not going to defeat these people.”

He let that warning sink in. I drained the last drops of my one glass of wine. I was beginning to see where he was going. “Holy shit,” I said to Jenny. “I think he’s really going to do it.”

He went on: “We have seen too many instances in which our enemies have used the very freedoms they have vowed to destroy to protect themselves and hide their hideous plans. Yes, thanks to brave men and women like Steve Sanchez and Mark Stein we’ll stop them most of the time, and we’ll kill a lot of them…” He paused dramatically, looked directly into the camera, and vowed, “We will kill many of them, but variations of what we’ve just experienced are going to continue taking place until this enemy is destroyed. And I’m afraid this puts all of our lives in danger. To prevent that from happening, to provide the safety that we want, I need your support.” He cleared his throat. “And I need your trust.”