Several of our people spent the rest of the day and into the night cutting and pasting, finding the common denominators and combining reports from all three attacks into one cohesive story. The lede was obvious: “The United States was simultaneously attacked by terrorists in three regions, as the yet-unidentified attackers proved their ability to strike anywhere in the country. Although casualty reports are still sketchy, this is believed to be the worst attack on the homeland in American history.”

In the safety of the early evening, politicians had begun showing up on television to express their outrage. They became more courageous and defiant as time passed. Senator Lindsey Graham reminded us that once again we had all suffered the terrible loss of innocence. New York State governor Andrew Cuomo was filmed at a recruitment center trying to volunteer. Senator Ron Johnson (R-Wi) sent heartfelt prayers to the victims through a spokesperson, who explained Johnson would have a statement to make in the near future.

I finally got hold of Jenny. “You okay?”

“I guess,” she said, but I could hear the quiver in her voice. As usual, she tried to lighten the load. “Although they canceled an important hearing on milk subsidies.”

I leaned way back into Mighty Chair’s soft cushions, closed my eyes, and took a long relaxing breath. Until then I probably hadn’t realized how deep into the day I had dived. Her voice had brought me back to the surface. I coughed my throat clear and went back to work. “Your guy hearing anything?”

Her “guy” being Congresswoman Martha McDonnell, the powerful chairperson of the House Intelligence Committee.

“On or off?” For attribution or deep sourcing?

“Pick one.”

“Off.”

“There’s a feeling that it’s homegrown. It just feels like there’re too many moving parts for it to be away teams. Somewhere along the line out-of-towners would’ve tripped a wire.”

“Well, that’s not good.” I let the thought run out. Launching three simultaneous attacks required sophisticated planning and meticulous coordination. People had to be in place. They had to have weapons. They needed to be in frequent communication with home plate or their teammates. We’d spent several trillion dollars after 9/11 to prevent a single attack; it looked like we didn’t get our money’s worth. “Any guesses?”

“That’s what Martha has been asking. Nobody wants to make any bad guesses. This is a career killer, and everybody wants to be on the safe side.”

“You hearing anything from the Wrightman people?”

She forced a laugh. “All dressed up and no place to go.”

We didn’t bother pretending to make plans.

I could imagine the panic taking hold inside the White House. There was nothing the administration could do until they were confident the attacks had ended, other than issuing vague statements reassuring the public that everything was being done to protect them, then offering the usual sincere prayers for the victims and their families. The White House did release an official photograph of the president and first lady, Charisma Wrightman, in the Situation Room. In the photo he is lovingly reaching over and wiping a tear from her cheek. It instantly went viral, within minutes achieving the same level of historic symbolism as the image of George W. Bush standing atop smoking rubble with a bullhorn in his hand.