48 Hours, page 11
He looked back at her and finally understood what he would do. He told her what thoughts were forming from deep within. She stood up, tearful, and embraced him.
“I love you, Bear, and that is exactly what I was thinking we should do.”
8
DAY TWO
THE WHITE HOUSE · 12:30 A.M. EST
THE White House was turning out to be a disappointment for Richard, ensconced in a communications center several stories beneath ground level. It felt like any government office area. The chairs and desks were standard government issue, slightly faded blue or gold with a leather backrest but at least not government-issue gray. The snack area was well stocked, even with tea, and the small cafeteria had a chef who gave him a perfect omelet. One story farther down, there was a sleeping area and a long corridor; the room assigned to him was utilitarian, six foot by nine, with just enough space for a twin bed, small dresser, and an adjoining private shower and toilet.
The whole thing was making him damn claustrophobic.
Allison, apparently the Secret Service agent assigned to be his guide, had led him straight to the room after he’d left the conference with the president. The pictures on the wall were typical hotel decorations, most of them of a historical scene, and the entire facility was 100 percent nonsmoking. It didn’t matter, because in the rush to bring him here, pipes and tobacco had been left behind at his office in Goddard.
After getting him oriented as to where the cafeteria was located as well as a small conference room where a computer link had already been set up to Goddard, she told him to be in his room, the café, or assigned office since he was now on call when needed. After handing him a White House identification card that he was to wear at all times, she left with the suggestion that he at least try to get a little sleep.
He sat alone in the room for several hours, trying to do just that with no success. Too much was boiling up inside of him. He wanted to be at Goddard, monitoring the situation as it unfolded, not stuck here, his only communication link tethered to a standard office computer. His post should be there, he reasoned bitterly, able to observe on the 8K wide-screen monitors what was shaping up to be the greatest and most frightening event in the history of solar astronomy.
He finally wandered down to the small conference room where he had been assigned a workstation, and there, along with several other staffers, he watched the president’s 7:30 P.M. address. It did surprise him that the president had only revealed a half-truth, a warning, and not the full reality of the situation. He could understand why. The president had decided to put the information out in two packets. The first to give the military and government at least some lead time to prepare before the general populace learned the full reality, when panic most likely would set in. But still, to keep citizens in the dark bothered him. The staffers standing about whispered nervously, for within the White House, the inevitable leaks had quickly sprung, and most knew the full extent of what was coming. Fortunately, no one recognized who he was to then bombard him with anxious questions.
Returning to his room after at least enjoying an omelet in the cafeteria, the first meal he had eaten since early morning, he finally managed to doze off, only to be awakened by an insistent knocking on the door to his room.
“Who is it?” he muttered wearily.
“Agent Minneci, sir. Please open the door.”
“Who?”
“Allison Minneci, sir.”
Groggily, he sat up on the side of the bed. “Just come on in.”
“Sir, I prefer you open the door.”
He sighed, realizing the usual protocols were in place when it came to a member of the opposite sex entering a room, especially someone’s sleeping quarters. He stood up, feeling rumpled, mouth sticky, rubbing his scratchy chin, and cracked the door open.
“Sir, please come with me immediately.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Sir, you’ll find out.”
He awoke more fully. “Has something blown?”
“No, sir. Now would you please come with me?”
He gazed at her intently for a moment. Maybe twenty-five, twenty-eight or so at most. No ring on her finger, about the same age as his daughter-in-law. Brunette hair cut short, just a touch of makeup, trim figure mostly concealed by the “uniform” of business-style blazer and slacks.
An overwhelming thought hit him as he gazed at her. I’ve had a life of just over sixty years; what of yours if this is truly the end?
He realized he had been staring at her, and he felt a flash of concern that she might interpret it the wrong way. “You’re about the same age as my daughter-in-law.”
There was no reply, just a polite nod.
“If we’re going to be working together, it’s Richard. Okay?”
She offered a faint smile. “Sure, Richard, now will you please come with me?”
“Is it okay to call you Allison?”
There was a friendly smile, and she nodded.
“Now, what’s up?”
“It will be apparent in a few minutes, sir.” A pause. “Richard, sir.”
He went to pick up the necktie he had taken off and tossed onto the top of the dresser.
“No need for that, sir.” Another pause. “Richard. Just the blazer will be okay.”
“Can I at least brush my teeth?”
She chuckled softly. “One minute, that’s it.” Then she directed him to put on his ID tag as they finally headed out of the room.
She led him down a labyrinth of corridors, and within a minute, he was totally disoriented and knew he’d need a guide if he wanted to get back to his room. One elevator took them up, stopped, then out of that and down another corridor to a second elevator, which went up just a couple of floors. Out of that and then a final turn to where a Secret Service agent stood watch at a closed door. The agent immediately opened the door, and Allison whispered for Richard to go into the room, the door closing behind him.
Entering the room, he found himself face-to-face with the president.
It was a heart-stopping moment. The day before, the president had been a slightly shadowy entity at the far end of a conference table, nearly the kind of setting in which one would expect to see a president during a high-level and very tense meeting. This was different. Rather than sitting behind a desk, the president stepped forward and extended his hand in greeting.
“Dr. Carrington, how are you? Sorry to roust you out at this hour, but I’d like to go over a few things with you. Did you sleep well, at least get a little rest?”
No sense in lying, he thought. “No, sir. Maybe dozed a bit, but not peacefully.”
A slight smile creased the president’s features. “Same here. Twenty-minute nap and that was it.”
He stood several inches taller than Richard at just under six feet, his pale blue eyes were piercing, and Richard felt as if the man were looking straight into him, searching for something.
“Let’s sit down and chat,” the president said, motioning to an oversized leather chair placed opposite to an identical chair. The room was comfortable—no windows, bookcases lining two walls. Richard glanced at them as he sat down. Mostly history books, several he had read as well. When entering a room like this, Richard had always felt that a quick scan of the bookshelves could reveal a lot about who he was meeting with.
It became apparent that the books were not just decorative touches; more than a few had faded, worn covers. There were quite a few biographies, mostly of political leaders of the past, an interesting span of history, and even some works of literature—mostly American classics. Seeing what the president might read was a positive for Richard.
There was a decidedly masculine feel to the room, the bookshelves laden with serious works, the leather chairs, several historic paintings of the American West—one of them he thought might be an original by Frederic Remington—and several heavy cut-crystal decanters on a side table. Furnishings were along the lines of something designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. As a boy and young man growing up in England, he had seen rooms similar to this in most upper-middle-class and upper-class homes, though usually with antique furnishings, the ubiquitous family portraits dating back several hundred years, and a proper display of old firearms mounted on the wall.
Richard would never admit that he had not supported the candidacy of this man sitting across from him, but there was something to his presence that he liked. Richard had never gone for American citizenship; at heart, he’d always felt that his sojourn in America was temporary, even though he had married an American and raised his family here. Therefore, he had tried not to pay too much attention to American politics and the rise of this man who had come out of nowhere as a moderate compromise candidate in the last election—which, like all the elections of this century, had become fraught with accusations, counteraccusations, investigations, and endless screaming and wrangling. Not that English politics were any better; it was just that up until the last few months, being a solar astronomer was a life relatively free of angst and worries, so why upset that by following politics?
He realized that while he was contemplating these thoughts, the president was sitting in silence, gazing at him, his eyes revealing that he was indeed exhausted.
For several seconds of this silence, the president seemed to be sizing him up, and under his gaze, Richard glanced to a dark walnut side table with several magazines on it, including a Scientific American published several years earlier, in which Richard had coauthored an article about the rapid increase in solar activity ahead of the usual solar maximum cycle of eleven years. His theory was that the sun having several different cycles of energy output, beyond the well-known eleven-year alternating solar maximum and minimum and across several hundred years what was known as the Maunder Cycle and that something beyond those two cycles was approaching. He and his coauthor postulated that a cycle perhaps thousands of years in length was now happening for the first time in recorded history.
Next to the Scientific American rested a paper copy of an internet article speculating that the sudden die-off a large number of species and rapid ending of the Ice Age thirteen thousand years ago might be linked to a solar flare, the same event mentioned by Secretary Van Buren at the afternoon meeting. Though the article was not written by Richard, he was familiar with it.
The president noticed what he was looking at. “Yes, I’ve been doing a lot of studying the last few days. You write clearly and concisely, Dr. Carrington.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Doctor, let’s just relax a bit, okay?” His smooth, well-modulated midwestern voice was appealing. “Would you care for a drink? There are a couple of good scotches available and a well-aged American whiskey.” He nodded to the sideboard.
“I think I’ll pass on that for now, sir. To be honest, if I have a drink at this moment, it will knock me out.”
“Wise decision. I’m refraining, as well. How about something else less dangerous? You name it, they have it in this building.”
“A tea would be nice, sir.”
“Earl Grey, isn’t it? One lump, no cream?”
That startled Richard, and the president chuckled softly. “It always gets some people when they find out how much is researched about them before we even meet. I know it is creepy to some; hope it doesn’t bother you.”
Richard didn’t know how to reply.
The president touched his phone resting on the side table. “Tea for the doctor, coffee for me, please.”
He focused his attention back to Richard. “Dr. Carrington, can we go a little less formal here, sir? How would you like to be addressed?”
“Richard is just fine, sir.” He did not dare to ask if he could call the president by his first name. As a very young man, he had attended a ceremony at Buckingham Palace honoring the director of Greenwich, where his mentor would be honored with a knighthood to be presented by the beloved Queen. Richard had been invited by his elderly friend to stand nearby and would then be presented to Her Majesty as a direct descendant of the first Richard Christopher Carrington.
The drill beforehand, given to him by a palace advisor, on protocol when meeting the Queen had been extensive and frightening for a twelve-year-old. How to enter the room, where to stand, to speak only if spoken to, how to respond if the Queen or others of her entourage offered a hand. He feared he was going to get sick to his stomach as he entered the room, but when it was all done, he had found her to be kind and charming. She expressed what he felt was a genuine delight that he wanted to follow the same career path as his illustrious ancestor. She had even presented him with a splendid book, an illustrated history of Greenwich, with her noting that an entire chapter was devoted to his forebear.
Now he was sitting with the president of the United States, but it was nothing formal, more like two gentlemen chatting in the lounge of an upscale club.
If I can get through an audience with the Queen at the age of twelve, I surely can get through this next half hour or hour without making a fool of myself.
“I was hoping you would be comfortable with my addressing you as Richard,” the president continued, interrupting Richard’s thoughts. “It does get to me at times all the various titles people expect and how they get fussed up if not addressed that way.”
Even as he spoke, a side door opened. A young man approached, balancing a small tray with two cups, and set it down on the side table without comment or ceremony.
“Thank you, Peter.” The president nodded to the cup of tea, while picking up his own cup, taking a long sip, and setting it back down.
“So I am willing to bet you’re wondering why you’re here and what I want.”
“Well, honestly, sir, yes.”
“Fine, then, let’s get started. I’m getting updates at least every hour, but I want to go over everything again with you, one-on-one, with no one filtering in between us. What is going to happen and when? Start with the CME.”
Richard set his cup of tea down, shifted nervously in his chair, and told himself to ignore the fact that this man was the president; he was just someone who wanted to know the straight answer. Don’t hold back.
“Sir, I have to confess I was napping in my room when I was requested to come here.”
“I’m jealous.” The president sighed. “Every time I try to lie down, there’s another call or meeting. I asked for the job, so I shouldn’t complain.” He shrugged and tried to smile. “When was the last time you looked at your data.”
“Sir, what time is it?” Richard asked.
The president looked at his wristwatch. “12:40 our time.”
Richard hesitated for a second. Was it A.M. or P.M.? He had not passed a window since coming here.
“Just past midnight,” the president added with a smile.
Richard took another sip of tea, needing a caffeine jolt with the realization of the time and the need to be sharp. A blessing of his choice within the field of astronomy was that he worked during the day, rather than sitting up night after night. When doing his graduate work, he had endured many a long night of yawning and downing numerous cups of coffee or tea. That had ended when he had gone full-time into solar work, and therefore, he rarely was awake much after nine in the evening.
He took another sip of his tea, but it had yet to bring him fully awake and into focus. “Sir, last time I looked at the data was shortly after nine in the evening during a review of it via a teleconference with a friend of mine in China. I feel asleep after that. Has anything changed significantly within the last three hours that you are aware of, sir, and I am not up to speed?”
The president shook his head.
“If that is the case, the CME will begin having an effect by approximately eleven tomorrow morning. What hits first is like a bow wave, a disturbance in front of a ship. Full impact follows shortly thereafter, hitting fully by noon tomorrow—approximately thirty-five hours from now.”
“A Carrington-level event,” the president offered with a slight smile, which Richard returned wanly. “You don’t like it being called that, do you, Richard?”
“To be honest, no, sir. Family name linked to such an event.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure we stop calling it that.”
“Thank you, sir, but it is already out there.”
“I know. My press secretary tells me the bloodhounds of the press are already announcing to the world that the president of the United States is huddling with Dr. Carrington, the world’s expert on solar storms, who the CME is named after, and they can’t wait to hear what we’ve talked about.”
“Oh, merciful…” He held back.
“Merciful God, you wanted to say. And yes, it is frustrating. Though this building is one of the securest in the world, it is still a fishbowl, and it nearly drives me crazy at times.” He took a sip of his coffee and forced a smile. “An ant can’t break wind in this place without someone reporting on it, and half the time the story gets so twisted up it’s reported that a small nuclear weapon was detonated.”
The president laughed ruefully at his own joke. Richard found it to be more than a bit surprising but also disarming, which he realized it was meant to be.
“Don’t worry, we are very secure and very private here, though, for your information, the famous Oval Office is not more than a hundred feet from here. When I want to meet someone privately with nobody knowing, I come here to this quiet little room. This room is where Jack Kennedy used to have his midday rendezvous with Marilyn Monroe, and yes, where that other president used to play with his intern. It serves better as a library retreat, don’t you think?”
Richard did not know how to reply. The president lowered his head slightly and shook it, a gesture that made Richard think a devout Baptist was telling an off-color joke and then worrying about what the reaction might be. So this man really was a straight arrow, and Richard now realized that information that was ballyhooed throughout the campaign that he was a man with true personal morals was not just for public display to win votes.
