A Time for Patriots

“So this is what I’m charging all Americans to do right now and well after the terrorists are captured: be vigilant, be safe, be wary, be suspicious. We possibly could have caught the terrorists if I had released the info on the theft sooner, so don’t make the same mistake I did. Call the police or the FBI if you suspect something — don’t be afraid of bias, discrimination, or paranoia. That’s all for now. Vice President Page and Director Fuller will take a few questions, but I have plenty of work for both of them as well, so it’ll be short. Thank you.” And the president left the dais and headed for the Oval Office.

Because of all the cutbacks in every level of government following the severe double-dip recession of 2012, the West Wing of the White House was a much quieter place these days than it was during the Martindale and Gardner administrations under which Phoenix previously served: no staffers constantly running in and out of the Oval Office, no ringing telephones, no queue of cabinet officials waiting for yet another meeting. The Oval Office was actually a haven again. Ken Phoenix took off his jacket, hung it up on the stand behind the door to his private study, poured himself a mug of coffee, and turned on the four hidden Oval Office high-def wall monitors — no one around to do all those little things for him anymore.

One satellite news channel was showing Vice President Page’s and FBI director Fuller’s press briefing — it looked to the president as if Ann was winding it up quickly, as they agreed to do beforehand — but another monitor was showing more coverage of the search for survivors in the wreckage of the Thompson Federal Building in Reno by the two Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robots. The president winced when he saw the video of the plane crashing to the ground with the one robot clinging to the front of it, and he breathed a sigh of relief — he had seen the replay a half-dozen times now, but he always had the same reaction — when he saw the second robot pull the first out, and they walked away apparently unharmed.

Minutes later there was a knock on the door to the Oval Office, and a moment after that Ann and Justin walked in. “I know you’d be willing to do a longer press conference, Director,” Ann was saying as they came in, “but believe me, less is more. Save the longer briefings for when you have something good to report.”

“I agree with her, Justin,” Phoenix said as he watched his monitors.

“And may I suggest, Mr. President,” Ann said, “that you not be quite so anxious to apologize for any executive decision you make. You made a tactical decision not to release any information about the FBI operation or stolen materials, and you had no way of knowing that the materials stolen would be used so soon after being stolen, or if public observation and reporting, however accurate or timely, could have helped stop the attack. You have nothing to apologize for, and you end up writing your critics’ copy for them.”

“I believe the American people want honesty and sincerity from their leaders in times like this,” Phoenix said. “My critics don’t seem to have any problem writing copy about me, with or without my help.” Nonetheless, he nodded to Ann that he understood her recommendations, which she silently acknowledged, then motioned to his monitors. “Man, I never get tired of watching that video of those robots in action,” he said. “Wish we could afford an entire brigade full of them.”

“What video is that, sir?” the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Justin Fuller, asked. Fuller was a twenty-five-year veteran of the FBI, with a very similar background to Phoenix’s: former U.S. Marine and law degree before joining the FBI. He looked at the flat-panel TV, which was normally hidden behind a painting on the Oval Office wall. “Oh, the CID robot units. Yes, sir, amazing technology.”

“They all but succeeded in stopping the Turks in Iraq, and just two of them destroyed that Russian base in Yemen,” Phoenix said. “But I think those two in Reno are the only ones left.” He stood and shook hands with Fuller. The FBI director was a few years older but looked considerably younger than the president. Phoenix motioned Fuller to a seat, muted the monitors, then took his place at the head of the conversation area, where Ann was already seated. “Okay, Justin, what’s the latest on the investigation of the attack in Reno?”

“Another HRT officer has died of his wounds,” Fuller replied somberly. “Fifteen-year FBI veteran. Father of two.”

“My God,” Vice President Page breathed. Ann Page was in her early sixties, a physicist and engineer, former two-term California senator, and a veteran astronaut; in the trimmed-down Phoenix White House, she acted as chief of staff and national security adviser as well as performing her duties as vice president. “What an incredibly brazen and violent attack. Any suspects, Director?”